Transgressions

  In her head she faded down the volume. Good old Sally. What would she do? Send Patrick downstairs to wait by the door with a cricket bat? Well, if she was right, time would tell. If someone did indeed have a key, this time they would find it didn’t fit the lock. All she had to do was wait till she heard the rattling and call the police.

  In the bedroom the central-heating pipes groaned softly under the floorboards, relaxing after a hard day’s work. Interesting how when you start to listen there’s no such thing as silence. She thought of all the other nights since Tom had gone, nights when Millie would start up from the end of the bed, instantly on the alert, registering some bird wing on the rooftop or a mouse scrabbling in the wainscot two houses away. Or maybe it hadn’t been the call of the wild after all. Maybe she had been hearing something less appetizing.

  Certainly Millie’s behavior had changed, too. She no longer spent time in the kitchen, despite the proximity of the food bowl. Of course she had an enemy of her own down there. One with claws and teeth. What is it they used to say about black cats? Witches, familiars? A cat flap needs no key. Any little body with a will and an appetite can squeeze their way through there. . . . But not even a smart cat can pry its way into CD boxes or carry a perfect stack of them across the room.

  The absurdity of the thought collided with the terror and she tried to make herself think of something else. But her world seemed to have shrunk, and all roads led back into the dark.

  In the search for somewhere where she felt in control she moved to fiction. Yet even there she found scant comfort. Jake Biderman may be better at things that go bump in the night, but he was about to enter his own spiraling nightmare. A few pages on would see the next delivery of mail—a plastic trash bag, left at night in a warehouse where he was on a stakeout, with his name on a label tied around the top. His name and a note: “Now you’ve got the complete set, Jake. Congratulations.”

  Even before he opened it and saw the mangled remains, the smell had made his stomach turn, as had the knowledge that someone out there was playing games with him, knowing more about what he was doing than he did himself. And enjoying his discomfort.

  Poor old Biderman, she thought. Maybe you should get the locks on your apartment changed, too, just in case. But, then, she knew more than he did, knew what was in store for a man who still loved his wife but didn’t know how to save her.

  So much for the reassuring power of fiction. She curled herself up under the duvet trying to shut out the image of the body in the bag, trying not to imagine the burn marks and the slashes. Mutilated female torsos. How was it that so many roads led to the same misogynist nightmare? When did it start, this obsession with sexual violence? Did the legends of the past all go for the vagina and the womb or was it a more modern twist of the imagination? Maybe you could date it back to Jack the Ripper, and the curdling of gynecology into terror. Was it coincidence that such violence took place around the same time that women started asking for more?

  The feeble shot of feminism faded, neither triumphant nor fierce enough to cast out the demons. She lay in bed, listening to Millie’s quiet breathing. And what else? A noise from downstairs, a click, or maybe a rumble. Real or imaginary?

  It hardly mattered. Once heard there was no stopping her. What if it—whatever it/they was—was back, rattling the front door only to find it newly locked? What if, enraged by the rebuttal, they were even now chiseling their way in through the kitchen window?

  Absurd. Don’t even think about it.

  But suddenly it was impossible not to. Her ears strained in the silence and located something else: a scraping noise from somewhere below. Her imagination made it flesh. She saw a figure moving across the kitchen floor, this time ignoring the CDs in search of bigger prey, going for the door, silently picking the lock, then climbing slowly upward to the floors above. She could make him out more clearly now: a silhouette darker than the darkness, the features of his face mashed flat by the pull of a stocking, no character, no feeling, just a cold madness intent on violence. He was so familiar he hardly needed imagining. The pathology of the psychopath: sexual pleasure rising with the terror of the victim. It had become so familiar, so grotesque, that you might almost expect it to be easier to handle, easier to mock. Only it wasn’t. Fear spread like an ink stain across her mind. The more she tried to control it the more certain she was that it was actually happening, the more clearly she could distinguish the individual choreography of sounds: the click of the lock, the scraping open of the door, even the telltale creak of his tread on the wooden stairs. The panic wrapped itself around her, making it hard to breathe. By the time he got as far as the landing she was drowning in the echo of her heartbeat as it pumped the blood around inside her head.

  But at the same time as she went under, something flew free. A part of her sat above on the bedstead looking down, impatient, scornful. “Just look at you,” it said fiercely. “Scaring yourself stupid. There’s absolutely nothing there. You know that. You’re just making it up. Making yourself sick with fear. Stop. If you stop, so will it.”

  Against the odds the voice got through. With what seemed like a superhuman effort of will she pulled off the covers, got up from the bed, walked over to the door, and pulled it open.

  The lights from the hall flooded in.

  Nothing. The staircase both above and below was quite empty. There was no one there. No madman, no steps, no sound. She pushed herself farther, willing herself down the stairs toward the front door, then, when she found it locked, down again toward the kitchen. She waited by the door, listening. Then she turned the key and went in, snapping the light switch as she did so. The place was empty, the night at the windows silent. No intruders inside or out.

  “Whoever or whatever you are, I’m not afraid of you, do you hear?” She waited for an answer, a flying CD or a scrape of furniture, but there was nothing. That’s because there’s nothing here, she thought. If there was I would feel it.

  She stood for a moment longer, then went back upstairs. Millie stirred, lifting her head to check what all the fuss was about. She picked up the warm little body and moved it farther up the bed, offering it usually forbidden territory. The cat nestled in against the warmth of her body and almost instantly fell back asleep.

  She lay feeling the rhythm of its breathing against her chest. She felt calmer. Drowsy. After a while she, too, fell asleep.

  Once again she slept soundly and long. And when she woke to a bright early morning and the sound of a milk truck halfway down the road, she felt as if she had won a battle, had proved herself in some quiet way that she didn’t completely understand.

  Millie was already up and hungry. They went downstairs together, the cat weaving its way in and out of her ankles, eager for breakfast.

  It had already been prepared.

  As she opened up the locked room, the sight that met her eyes was extraordinary in its ordinariness. The table was laid for two with plates, cups, and saucers, a jar of marmalade, and a box of cornflakes. While in the kitchen area half a dozen saucepans sat in the middle of the floor, a handful of cat pellets in each of them.

  It was then she decided that what she really needed was a priest.

  eight

  It wasn’t exactly the kind of service you found in the Yellow Pages. She didn’t even know for sure where her nearest church was. There was a Victorian mausoleum a few streets away, but from what she remembered God had vacated it some time ago, leaving it to the tender mercies of property speculators. Still, there had to be a working priest somewhere in the area. She had a vague memory of a flyer being pushed through the door last Christmas with details of family services. At the time, she had already been in the process of losing what little family she had, and the exhortations to joy and celebration had left a bitter taste in the mouth, ensuring that the pamphlet went swiftly into the garbage.

  Even now the thought of their cloying sympathy and understanding sent another kind of shiver down her spine. As she dressed hurriedly she
toyed with the alternatives. Like going back to the police. But you could see how, from their point of view, breaking and entering a set of kitchen cupboards would be no more criminal than the transportation of CDs across a kitchen—or any less crazy. For them she was already a woman in pain after the end of a long love affair, and, as such, could be relied upon to find all manner of strange ways to draw attention to herself. She could almost read the police report.

  That left Tom or Sally. But ex-lovers are not the people to ask for help when you’re trying to stand on your own two feet, and the price of Sally’s friendship, caring though it might be, would be the news of her advanced looniness all around the grapevine by nightfall.

  There were, of course, other numbers she could have called, just as there had once been other friends. But looking down at the list in her address book made her realize how far into retreat the last nine months had taken her. Some of them she hadn’t even spoken to since the separation. This was neither the way nor the time.

  Her isolation drove her into the arms of the Church. Once on the streets it wasn’t hard to find. It had been built on the grounds behind the old one, its modern façade facing another street. Thirty years ago its glass and concrete had probably been seen as daring, but now, like most sixties buildings, it carried its architectural origins as stigma rather than triumph. Was God more of a Gothic man? she wondered, then slapped down the thought sharply. This wasn’t going to work unless she took it seriously.

  The front doors of the church were locked. Through a long colored window in the side she made out a large open space with a flat altar at the front and a gaunt wooden figure suspended on a crucifix above it, the light catching the flank of the body, the crisscross of ribs running along the grain of the wood.

  Next door there was a house, modern, fake Georgian, with a winter climbing rose around the front door. Altogether too quaint for London. She looked at her watch. It was just after nine o’clock. Ah, well, priests must be like doctors: ready at all times. She rang the bell. It took a while, then a slim woman with graying hair and a strong-cut face answered. She was wearing trousers and a sweatshirt, the clothes reading somewhat younger than her years.

  “Hello, I need to see the priest . . . er . . . I mean, the vicar.”

  The woman nodded, then gave a little smile. “Well, you’d better come in.”

  She showed her into a small room, halfway between someone’s study and a dentist’s waiting room. “If you could wait one minute.”

  Who’d be a cleric’s wife? she thought. Always cutting up those loaves and fish for someone else to perform the miracles. She looked around. On the table was a set of pamphlets with pictures of Jesus surrounded by a rainbow-colored collection of little children, and to the side in the corner there was a big box of well-used toys. Maybe pastoral duties had now taken over from social services. What am I doing here? she thought, suddenly panicky. I must be out of my mind. Well, yes, that was one suggestion.

  The woman came back in, closing the door behind her and sitting down on the chair opposite. She had changed her clothes; a skirt and sweater with a quiet but distinct sense of style. But the subtlety of the outfit was somewhat undermined by the dog collar, which stood out like a neck brace.

  The sight of it took her completely aback. But, then, its wearer was obviously used to that. She smiled broadly and put out her hand. “I’m sorry. I should have made it clear earlier. I am the vicar. Reverend Catherine Baker. And you are . . ?”

  “Er . . . Elizabeth Skvorecky. I’m sorry. I had—”

  “Don’t be. It happens all the time. And in my experience the women always feel worse about it than the men. A doctor friend of mine tells me it still happens to her, even after twenty years. So I have a long way to go. Anyway, I can assure you I am fully qualified and ordained. So, how can I help you?”

  It was possible, she thought later, that being so thrown off guard was no bad thing. In her head she had rehearsed the story as she walked the streets, making it more manageable, less disturbed. But here in the heat of her confusion it came out differently, more like it felt.

  The woman listened in silence, her face giving away nothing, not even the expected softening of sympathy. “Well,” she said at last after it was over. “What a remarkable story. I’m surprised you’re not scared out of your wits.”

  “You should have seen me an hour ago.” She laughed sourly. “I’m not sure I’ve got any wits left to be scared out of.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” the woman said quietly. Then, after a pause, “But you say that despite all this the house doesn’t feel bad?”

  “Er . . . no. I mean not unless I let it.”

  “Of course.” She nodded understandingly, as if remembering some similar moment of panic in her own life. Surely not, thought Elizabeth. Surely nothing has ever happened to you? Doesn’t God protect his own from fear of the devil? Or is the real comfort to be had from surviving the test of temptation? “So tell me, has anything like this ever happened to you before? In another house, when you were younger perhaps?”

  “No. No, never.”

  She nodded, silent for a moment. Then: “Well, I’m not sure I know what to say. Certainly on the evidence of what you’ve told me, it might seem that your locksmith is right. And that you probably do have some sort of psychic disturbance going on.”

  “Psychic? You mean a spirit?”

  “No, not entirely,” she said slowly, a woman obviously concerned to pick the right words. “And before we go any further there’s one thing you should be absolutely clear about. Whatever is happening in your house—and clearly some very strange things are—we’re not talking about any kind of evil. This has nothing to do with . . . I don’t know, the devil or Satan or anything like that.”

  “Just as well, really, because I don’t believe in him,” she replied, aware of just how tartly the remark came out.

  The woman smiled slightly, taking in what she had been told. “So, though I’m sure you do feel scared, it’s very important for you to understand that there is nothing to be scared of. The Church deals with a number of these kinds of disturbances. They’re more common than you might think. And in most cases they can be sorted out.”

  There was a moment’s silence. The two women sat eyeing each other. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, thought Eliza-beth. Despite what she says, she’s obviously never come across anything like this before, and she’s playing for time, trying to work out how disturbed I am.

  She suddenly wanted to be out of there, to get up and leave. Except where would she go but back to the house? And now that she was away from it, it was, she realized, the last place on earth she wanted to be.

  “Are you saying you think it’s me? That I’m causing it?”

  The woman frowned, opening a comfortable furrow across her brow. “To be honest, at this moment I have no idea what’s causing it. What I do know is that in some cases these poltergeist-type phenomena can be related to the emotional condition of someone in the house: their anger, their pain, not even necessarily negative emotions, just things that haven’t been resolved. And that understanding or acknowledging that connection can help it to go away. But that’s only an observation. To get any further I’d need to come ’round and look at the place, talk some more. But that, of course, would be up to you.”

  It had been at least two decades since she had given any serious consideration to God, an early teenage flirtation with religion driven out by a local charismatic vicar without charisma. On the odd occasion since, when she had met believers, she had found them almost offensive, their certainty exhibiting itself as a form of complacency, like membership to a club she didn’t want to join. But this woman didn’t feel like that. Maybe that had something to do with being kept out of the club so long herself.

  Oh, well, she thought. What do I have to lose?

  “When would you like to come?”

  They decided on five o’clock that afternoon. A clever time: the hour of long shadows and
the collapsing of the day into dark, a perfect invitation to ghosts and ghouls, not to mention those with overvivid imaginations.

  The question was, what should she do till then? She left the vicarage and walked the streets for a while, but the wind was too cold to make it comfortable. She made her way to the High Street, where a fancy new coffee shop had opened up since she was last there, a blackboard outside chalked with special offers. She went in and ordered a cappuccino and a sweet croissant and sat in the window seat watching the world go by.

  The shop across the road was putting up its Christmas decorations. A young shop assistant perched inside the main window with a spray can, desperately trying to work out how to write “Happy Xmas to All Our Customers” backward. They were late. The rest of the street was already decked out, the usual collection of chemical snow on fake mullion windows and reused plastic Santas with bulging bellies and sacks. Christmas. She had been so busy she hadn’t noticed how close it was. Who would she spend it with this year? No doubt Sally and Patrick would feel they had to offer, unless of course they’d already invited Tom. Either way she could do without it. Maybe she should stay at home and have it with the poltergeist. If she could train it perhaps it would do the washing up as well as laying the table.

  What words had the vicar used? “It’s usually related to the emotional condition of someone in the house”? Who else if not her? Unless it was Millie that was causing it, her fury at having her space usurped. That would at least explain the cat pellets.

  But that wasn’t what the vicar thought. The vicar thought it was her, acting like some overgrown teenager, burying an excess of emotion in an orgy of kinetic tricks. But if that was the case, and this was all some manifestation of her psyche, then what a miserably tame affair it must be; all it could rise to was laying the table and rattling a few pots and pans. If she was really repressing that much pain wouldn’t there at least be a few cracked windows or exploding electrical gadgets to reflect the depth of her despair?