‘I see,’ I said again.
Except I didn’t see – I didn’t see at all.
Pausing from my inspection of the meter, I turned to look at her and, for the first time, took in the basement as well. What had initially seemed like shadowy junk slid into focus beneath the penumbra cast from the light bulb; some sort of bizarre office, hidden away at the bottom of the house. There were boxes stacked haphazardly against the only remaining wall, flyers and papers overflowing in bundles and loose folders - newspaper articles, reports, photographs clearly going back months, maybe even years... Across from me, mounted on another wall, was a huge notice board – like the ones in police dramas on TV – only this one seemed possessed of a far more sinister purpose in the shifty cellar of the Adams’ home.
It was covered with a home-drawn map of the neighbourhood; around each house depicted were photographs, stalker-snapshots of couples kissing, a man walking a dog, two children dropping a sweet wrapper into the gutter... Circles, crosses, red markings dotted these and other clippings surrounding the map – worse still were the photos beneath, laid out neatly in a row: headshots of desperate looking men and women, all with a date below... A strange suburban collection of increasingly horrifying menace.
For a long, elastic moment I fought against the beads of perspiration dewing across my forehead - this had to be a joke. I had heard of such practical pranks being played by oddities in the general public before, on some fellow unsuspecting colleagues. Surely this was one of them?
Just one big laugh at the expense of the "staff", the working stiff... Right?
Hindsight is a terrible, terrible thing.
Swallowing, waiting for the raucous laughter - perhaps even the hidden camera - I slowly refocused my attention on Mrs Adams, who was watching me with the same placid smile, the same long-nailed finger tap-tap-tapping away at her peals. As I phrased my next question, I will never forget the look on her face as she received it, nor the one that immediately followed as she answered.
‘So... you are like a neighbourhood watch group? You mean that you... revoke inconsiderate residents' privileges, stop their free parking or involvement in community matters; things like that?’
Her pealing laugh sounded again, her face both grotesquely shadowed and illuminated by halves in the muted light of the maniacally littered basement. A gleam of hungry, self-righteous belief flickered in her greying eyes.
‘Oh no, dear: the more serious the crime, the more serious the punishment - and we make sure to update our methods regularly, to keep our standards at the absolute highest level. Last week, Mrs Chalters was found to be sleeping with the local butcher – very disagreeable that was, a complete scandal. That sort of impropriety and blatant adultery cannot go unnoticed, you know, it would have been a disgrace to our established, caring neighbourhood. They’ve both been dealt with now though, of course.’
‘Really?’ I managed to faintly reply. The sheer absurdity and ruthlessness of it clings to the back of my conscious mind constantly – the vision of the basement, the dawning horror of the charred, fleshy smell and those scraping nail marks.... The only way to evade their scarring, clawing grip on my dreams, on my nightmares, was to run away and never spoke these words out loud. To think of the insanity that lurks in some people, the complete monstrosity that can be brought out by one trivial little circumstance is a thought that cannot be suppressed, once the realisation has dawned. People simply won’t believe it – until they have to. I sure as hell didn’t want to believe it myself.
‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Adams eagerly continued. ‘Mr Chalters was most pleased with the speed and professionalism with which we reached a verdict. We actually have another case today, right at this very moment, with the jury all assembled to hear the final motion.’
‘Jury?’ I was quite breathless by this point, dizzy with all the ghastly scenarios being placed before me. I had, through no fault of my own, stumbled into a nest of madmen.
‘Yes, yes – judge, jury… and the executioner, of course.’
I felt my blood curdle and my stomach drop heavily. I was frozen to the spot, still desperate for this to be some cruel prank, a joke at my expense to entertain the family - even the entire nation, I wouldn't have cared at that point, abject humiliation or not...
Anything was better than that terrible, yawning truth.
‘Ex-executioner?’
‘Of course. The Lorrimers are under a very serious charge; their dog has been befouling the driveways and gardens of this neighbourhood for months and months now. But they never did a thing to stop the little brute running free and acting as it chooses, despite our numerous warnings. But the jury’s out now – they should have listened sooner.’
‘But… I mean, how can you possibly execu–’ As though some ironic twist of fate had heard the prefix to my stammering question, a hideous scream sounded from the attic, a fearful, hair-raising, spine-tingling, absolutely pain-filled human scream, one that made my flesh crawl and to this day haunts my every waking nightmare, catching me when I am most off my guard. I clearly recall how rapidly the light above my head flickered and hummed, blinking on and off every millisecond.
Then, shockingly abrupt, the scream died to a sharp halt, silence ensuing. The light wavered once more and then pinged back to its usual life, illuminating both Mrs Adams and myself with a new clarity, both of us gazing at the ceiling, an expression of satisfaction lining her face and one, I have no doubt, of complete terror on mine. In that startlingly hushed moment, the meaning of her previous words rang out to me as clear as a bell tolling.
Confirmation of the origins of that hideous smell soon followed, seeping into my brain with a clarity so intense that I thought I might vomit.
Clapping her hands, she settled herself in my direction once more, businesslike.
‘Well, the motion was carried!’ My eyes slowly fell on her calm, fulfilled countenance, utterly horrified beyond words. I feel, in these long-growing days of my later life, that that woman will forever be a spectre looming over me, the embodiment of the ills of society that I see and hear about every day. ‘I do so like to see good justice carried out swiftly and fittingly. I should have been there to see the motion through myself, you know, but as this was the only day your company could ‘slot us in’, we felt it would be necessary to take the appointment – beneficial, in the long run, too.’
I was numb with the terrible vileness of it all, shocked to the very core. I felt as though I could barely breathe; a visceral heaviness seemed to have descended upon me, preventing me from movement, from feeling, from everything except that terrible comprehension. The scream rang in my ears and my stomach heaved. Mrs Adams watched me expectantly, her hands folded in front of her. Finally, after what felt like a long, dreadful age had passed, I managed to murmur indistinctly, ‘what do you mean, beneficial?’
‘Well,’ she replied, looking somewhat surprised. ‘We called you out so that we could obtain some advice. -- We’re looking to keep our bill down.’
Jessica’s Wise and Future Self
I finished packing the last box – filled to the brim with yellowing books, annuals and old records that might serve well in a charity shop window.
I’d had the option, of course, to keep whatever I wanted of Granddad’s things – but aside from the bizarre Austrian cuckoo clock that had familiarly hung over the fireplace for so many years, I’d decided against it; too many memories.
I folded the box flaps in on themselves - fitting them together like a jigsaw – and wiped a stray tear from my eye. I straightened up and regarded the house around me, realising for the first time that this was it, that the house would truly remain empty; at least while it waited to go up for auction.
It still smelled like Granddad, though.
The once full-of-life kitchen had been reduced to empty units; counters once graced with sweets and cakes of equally fattening shapes and sizes stood quiet and white, severely lacking the comp
anionship of a full tea pot. I remembered, with a heart that both clenched and soared, that when I was smaller, Granddad would let me put extra sprinkles on the cakes, or pick the mugs I liked best for the next round of tea. I had felt so important – reaching up on tiptoes, pointing to the brightest colours I could, and in most cases, the floweriest of the patterns.
The last time I had done that had been the year before. Now fully grown – a woman with my own home – Granddad had prompted me to add sprinkles to the Victoria Sponge, and I had done so with glee, before pulling down the flowery mugs myself with a giggle.
I released a sigh and gathered the heavy box in both arms, heading back out to meet my waiting mother. My shoes thudded loudly on the bare wooden floor – reminding me boisterously of the emptiness. My attention was drawn to the curtain-less windows, like eyes without lids… The vacant book shelves, hungry cabinets and lonely chairs waiting to be removed by professionals in the coming week.
The house’s personality had been snatched, and a lump formed itself in my throat as I shoved the box on the back seat of the car, and slid into the driver’s seat beside mum.
The engine revved over her question of ‘are you alright?’ and my crisp lie unfurled as we reversed out of the drive.
‘I’m fine.’
*
Of course, it wouldn’t be incorrect to assume that I was not at all fine.
Granddad’s cuckoo clock watched me with amusement from its place above the fireplace, but I mostly ignored it as I trailed back and forth, impatiently taking part in a phone call with my sister.
‘It’s all packed up. I’m fine about it,’ I insisted, crossing the small lounge of the flat, passing the window sill and its proud display of photo frames - many of which featured Granddad. Birthday after birthday, graduation, walks in the sun, holidays… He had always been there.
Perhaps that was the worst part.
‘The more you tell people you’re fine, the more they think the opposite.’ Eva replied, and I rolled my eyes and prodded the corpse of a fallen sock with my toe.
‘Well, that’s a silly view to have, isn’t it?’ Came my curt reply, and an exasperated growl was her answer.
‘Don’t tell me you’re still hanging about on your own, Jess.’
‘No,’ I lied, again, and I gestured to the flat, though the act was pointless, as there was no-one to see it - no-one aside from my cat Bosley, who watched lazily from the arm of the sofa. ‘I’ve got plenty of company.’
‘Your cat doesn’t count,’ said Eva, and my hand clenched over her phone. ‘Look, it’s been months. Come out with me and the girls tonight. We’ll have cocktails, go for a dance…’
My gaze roamed, trying to focus on anything that would distract me, and it only fixated on the stack of Granddad’s old letters I’d been sorting through. Again, my heart gave an unhealthy clench – another attempt to tear itself apart with grief – and I bit down on my lip to stifle a sob.
‘Okay,’ I managed, in an effort to finish the conversation before the tears really began to pour, ‘text me.’
I hung up abruptly and, once again, anguish overwhelmed me. It sealed all other emotions away and overran my mind, forcing me onto the sofa and into a heap of juddering sobs. I had been hoping, as each day woke me, that it would get easier. That time would fix me. It hadn’t. If anything, it had only become harder.
What did Eva understand? She had never been half as interested in Granddad as I had. She had never understood our wonderful companionship, and she never would.
I remembered one Autumn morning in October, during the school holidays. Reminiscing on his RAF days, Granddad had suggested we go together to watch the planes fly out from the airport. He had always enjoyed the modernised metal monsters, and despite being a little girl who adored all manner of typically feminine things – horses with wild, beautiful manes, all shades of pink, perfumes – I had leapt at the chance to watch the planes with Granddad.
I’d have leapt at the chance to go anywhere with him. All the while, however, Eva had sat by us with her arms folded, sulkily declaring that it was ‘boring’.
She had never understood.
Still, she had a point, annoyingly. I had become something of a recluse, deciding I much preferred the company of the television, and Bosley, so as a result, those were the two things that always greeted me when I arrived home. No long term boyfriend, no chatty phone call. Just emptiness.
Grief wasn’t attractive on me.
That much was proven, several hours later, when I got a good look at myself in the bathroom mirror, ready to smother my face in all manner of makeup for my first night out in a long time. The tantalising hazel of my eyes had become pastel – cold and sad. They were the most obvious sign of my hurt, amongst black curls on caramel skin. I’d have to work above and beyond to fix this.
I just couldn't believe how others coped with the cruel reality of death; the constant of absence... the jabbing reminder that you really, truly were not going to get that person back. It was terribly unfair, and it seemed almost impossible that the hole would remain gaping; that it would never close.
How was death so common, so...accepted?
Perhaps anyone's first experience of death was like this, I reasoned as I stared at the outfit I had laid out for the evening. I thought about just how much I didn't want to go out, and resented the clothes for it. Things would have to get easier at some point.
I just wished it would happen sooner.
*
The night out with Eva and her friends was a veritable nightmare. In an effort to avoid the elephant in the room, pitchers of cocktails had been ordered in, which were drunk from straws while I was questioned relentlessly about ‘men on the scene’. It was as though there was nothing else to question in my life, as if the lack of a significant other was the height of interest. I had answered as best as I could, but there wasn’t much to say.
How could I say that I lacked the motivation to do anything? That the washing up was a teetering tower and social invitations had become so few and far between that the comedy channels were more acquainted with me?
While I was aware of how different I had become to my normal, eager self, I didn't feel ready to change. Not yet.
I had told myself this every day since Granddad had died - convinced myself it was temporary when it was looking less so by the day.
I considered all of this as I slipped off my heeled shoes and massaged my aching feet. It was only 10pm - hardly a night out, but then again, I had been no fun anyway.
I slumped on the edge of the unmade bed - I never seemed to find the time to make it anymore. Life had become monotonous as I tried to understand and cope with my loss. I was daytime television - repeating myself day in, day out. A lifestyle once smattered with lunch dates, weekends away and days in the city had dimmed to lonely routine. Wake up, grieve. Work, grieve. Eat, grieve. Bed, grieve. Grieve, grieve, grieve.
Except for today.
Today, something went 'thump'.
Tears trembled down my cheeks - I shed so many now I barely noticed the beginning, anymore - and I wiped them away absently as I searched for the source of the noise.
It had been a whisper of a sound - something hitting something so softly it could have been placed down with human hands. Bemused, I looked around, and almost immediately my gaze settled on the bedside table... and the passport resting lazily atop it.
Considering I hadn't been out of the country in at least two years, this struck me as odd, and taking into account that the only thing on said bedside table as of late had been the final Harry Potter book - which the passport now sat upon - it struck me as absolutely one hundred per cent Twilight-Zone odd.
I took it in hand, noting how battered it was – slightly bent and tatty, but evidently used and loved. Last time I had seen it, my own passport had looked nothing like that. I flipped to the back page to get a look at my thoroughly unattractive passport photo, and uncovered my slightly chubby twenty ye
ar old self staring back at me with eyes of one severely hung over.
The next thing I found made my heart double in pace.
Well before the hard plastic back page, my fingers paused in their rapid flicking of the pages so that I could focus on the middle spread.
Two stamps, one on each page – side by side like frames on a wall – proudly declared themselves as entry and exit to Bangladesh. I scratched my head. I had certainly never been to Bangladesh. I had never even left the EU. My brain rattled around in confusion, until it noticed the next bizarre revelation.
The dates.
I had apparently arrived in Bangladesh on February 14th 2015. Over a year on from now. The second stamp informed me of my leaving, three weeks after that.
My eyes desperately searched for more information, while my mind reeled through explanations like negative camera film.
Was this a joke? I couldn’t imagine Eva, or any one of my estranged friends playing a joke on me in my current emotional state. Ironically, it was something Granddad would have done. The twang of hurt at the thought was almost instantly stifled with curiosity. If this was a carefully choreographed joke, it didn’t explain how the passport had gently thudded into existence on my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
Apart from the well-used state of the passport, it was certainly mine. It even boasted the same smudge of nail varnish I had spilt on its burgundy cover the night before a university trip to France. I flipped to the front. I had been to Australia, apparently. Two months were spent there… Or were going to be, in the spring of 2014.
My fingers became a quivering blur – scraping through page after page – the next two years of my life mapped out and displayed in stamp form, like a bizarre collector’s book. Thailand to China, China to Bangladesh, Bangladesh to Egypt, to Morocco, to Russia, to Canada, to America…