Possession

  Alex smiled. ‘I thought Carrie was very nice; pretty girl.’

  The woman shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know, wouldn’t know what she looks like these days; had some photographs of her once, dunno what I done with ’em.’

  There was a rasp from the doorbell and an urgent pounding on the front door.

  ‘Who is it?’ she shouted sharply.

  It rang again twice and there was more urgent knocking.

  ‘All right, all right!’ She stood up, coughing, and shuffled out.

  Alex went over to the mantelpiece and looked at the postcard. In small white print at the bottom were the words: ‘John Hancock Tower’. There were several more cards stacked up beside it. Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Cambridge, Mass. Newport, Rhode Island. Vermont, New Hampshire. She heard the click of the door opening, heard laughter and footsteps, looked around nervously and slipped the card from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology into her handbag.

  ‘Bugger off! You fuckers!’ she heard Mrs Needham yell; there was a crash as the door slammed shut, and Mrs Needham shuffled back into her room, holding a beer bottle, her face flushed with rage. ‘Buggers, the kids round here. Buggers.’ She prised the top off the bottle, took a swig, and offered it to Alex.

  She shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

  The woman wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Get ’em all the time. The Council say they can’t do nothing.’ She took another swig from her bottle. ‘How did you say your son was?’

  Alex looked at her, horrified, as she realized that the woman was drunk and had been all along.

  ‘He’s dead, Mrs Needham,’ she said, as calmly as she could, feeling pity and anger fighting their way up her throat. ‘Dead.’

  ‘Yeah, well, gets us all,’ said Mrs Needham.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Alex drove down the King’s Road, glad to be out of Mrs Needham’s flat and away from the claustrophobic desolation of the estate.

  She felt anger rising in her, anger at the woman for living like that, for not caring that Fabian was dead; anger at her being so pathetic, anger that anywhere as ghastly as that place could even exist. Then she thought of the view, that stunning view from the window, and it seemed absurd that the only thing of beauty about the whole place should be the view of somewhere else.

  The house was peaceful; she picked the Sunday papers off the doormat and took them through to the kitchen. She heard the whirr of the kitchen clock, the soft breathing of the boiler. Everything felt normal, smelt normal, sounded normal. The house hummed, sighed, creaked, like the old friend it had always been. She felt comfortable, safe. Home.

  The phone rang; it was David. ‘Alex, are you O.K.?’

  His voice sounded clumsy, intruded on her peace, and she felt instantly annoyed with him; then she remembered how she had treated him and felt sorry. ‘Hallo, David,’ she said, making an effort to sound pleased to hear him. ‘I’m fine – look – I’m sorry about last night – I don’t know what happened –’

  ‘It must have been the strain, darling. We’ve both been under terrible strain; the shock of the whole thing.’

  Swear at me, for Christ’s sake, be firm with me, don’t be so bloody nice to me all the time; call me a bitch, shout at me; make me afraid of you, she thought, but could not say it. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said, flatly. ‘I ran after you last night, shouting at you, waving – everyone must have thought I was bonkers.’

  He laughed. ‘Why?’

  ‘I wanted to apologize.’

  ‘I rang you when I got back; there was no answer; I was worried sick.’

  ‘I went to the office.’

  ‘The office?’

  ‘I thought I’d try and do some work; I ended up sleeping there.’

  ‘I think it’s good to work hard at the moment, take your mind off – you know – but don’t overdo it – you must try and rest.’

  She watched her reflection in the toaster, saw her eyes and looked away, unable to face them. It was a lousy feeling, lying when you knew you were being believed, she thought; it was like cheating against yourself. ‘I went to see Carrie’s mother today.’

  ‘Carrie? Did she know?’

  ‘No. Nothing. She hardly ever sees Carrie, apparently. She’s in the States somewhere at the moment.’

  ‘She was a sweet little thing.’ His voice tailed off. ‘How about some dinner one night this week?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘How’s your diary?’

  ‘I’ve left it in the office. Let’s talk tomorrow.’

  She sighed as she hung up, thinking for a moment of the times they had been together, when they had been happy; or had it all been a pretence then? All just a larger lie? She made a sandwich, then went through into the drawing room, lit the fire, put on a cassette of Don Giovanni and curled up on the sofa.

  It was late afternoon when she woke up with a start out of a heavy dream. She felt confused and hot; she had been driving somewhere with Fabian; he had made a joke about something and they had been laughing; he seemed so real in the dream, so incredibly real, it took her several seconds to remember … that they would never drive anywhere, never laugh together again. She felt sad and cheated, cheated by the dream and cheated by life, and stood up with a heavy heart, walked to the window and drew the curtains against the darkening light.

  She wished her mother was still alive, that there was someone older and wiser in whom she could confide; someone who had been through it all before. There were things about being an adult she had never got used to; sometimes it seemed she had become a parent without ever having ceased to be a child.

  She opened her handbag and took out the postcard she had taken from Carrie’s mother: it was a wide riverside panorama, showing an avenue of grand university buildings. She turned it over. ‘Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Boston, Mass.’ was printed on the bottom. Boston, she thought; Boston, Boston, Boston. She looked at the handwriting, large neat upright letters:

  ‘Hi Mum, This is a really friendly place, lots of things happening, met some great people. Will write again soon. Love C.’

  There was one half-hearted ‘X’ after the initial. She carried the card upstairs and went into Fabian’s room.

  His trunk sat on the bed, like a coffin, she thought, shuddering. F.M.R. Hightower was stencilled in faded white letters amid the scratches and dents on the lid. She opened the first catch, which sprang back sharply and caught her finger a painful blow, and opened the second more cautiously. She raised the lid, rummaged through the clothing, and pulled out Fabian’s diary. She opened it up and pulled out the blank postcards she had found in his desk at Cambridge, and compared them with the one she had in her hand from Carrie; although the pictures were different, the printed layout on all of them was exactly the same. She frowned, puzzled, looked around the room, caught Fabian’s eye staring down from the portrait and looked away, guiltily, embarrassed about what she was doing.

  There was a zipped pocket at the back of the diary, which she opened; inside was some pink notepaper, with handwriting that looked like Carrie’s, and it was dated January 5th. The address, in Cambridge, was also handwritten:

  ‘Dear Fabian,

  Please stop these persistent phone calls which are annoying and distressing for everyone. I have told you I do not want to see you again, and there is nothing that is going to change my mind. There is no one else, as you seem to insist, I just cannot cope with your weird habits any more. So please leave me alone. With love. C.’

  The same curly ‘C’ and the same style of handwriting as on the postcard, but something struck Alex as being different about it, and she could not work out what. She read the letter again. Weird habits. Weird habits, she thought, puzzled, conscious that she was beginning to feel cold again in the room, cold and uncomfortable. The doorbell rang. She looked at her watch: it was six-fifteen. She slipped everything back inside the diary, laid it on top of the trunk, and went downstairs.

  She
opened the front door and felt immediately unsettled by the large woman with the peroxided hair who stood there.

  ‘Hallo, Mrs Hightower.’

  Alex stared at her neat black pill-box hat, her leather gloves and her immaculately pressed white blouse.

  ‘Iris Tremayne; I popped round last week.’

  Alex watched her tiny rosebud lips parting as she spoke, like a secret door in the soft folds of her face. There was a determination in the woman’s eyes, a determination that this time she would not be sent away. ‘Come in,’ she said, unable for a moment to think of anything else to say.

  ‘You need me, dear, I can tell,’ the woman said, stepping possessively into the house.

  Alex still had the words of the letter going round in her mind. Weird; weird; the glare of the portrait, the sudden chill in the room. Surely it was Morgan Ford she was seeing, and that was tomorrow? ‘I think there’s a mistake –’ she began.

  Iris Tremayne stared imperiously around the hallway, then followed Alex into the drawing room. ‘You’re being troubled dear, aren’t you?’ There was a gentleness that just stopped her voice short of being bossy.

  ‘I’ve been a bit jumpy, that’s all.’

  ‘I should think you would be, with what’s been happening.’

  Alex stared at her warily. ‘What do you mean – with what’s been happening?’

  ‘You’re being troubled dear, aren’t you? I could sense it when I came round before, you were going to be troubled; tell me, I’m right, aren’t I dear?’

  Alex glared at her, annoyed suddenly for the intrusion into her privacy. She had the appointment for tomorrow; she did not need to speak to anyone now. She wondered if Morgan Ford and Iris Tremayne were connected, whether he had tracked her down through the Olivetti service number she had given him and sent Iris Tremayne round? Ridiculous. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh no dear, thank you.’

  She looked around her again. ‘This is a very nice house dear.’ A painting on the wall caught her attention and she walked over towards it, then pointed her finger. ‘Is that a Stubbs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s the only painter of horses that I know.’

  ‘It’s one of my husband’s.’

  ‘He’s a painter is he?’

  Alex looked at her coldly. ‘No, the horse; he used to own it. One of his hobbies.’

  ‘Not a betting person myself; suppose I should be … with my sensitivity … but it never seems to work for us sensitives, dear, I never knew anyone who could predict winners for themselves. Restful, aren’t they, pictures of horses.’

  ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’ Alex stared at her impatiently. ‘What did you mean just now, when you said I was being troubled?’

  ‘His spirit is restless, isn’t it dear? He wants some help.’ She lowered herself carefully into an armchair, like a crate being lowered into a hold, thought Alex. The woman closed her eyes tightly, inclined her body forward and, keeping her gloves on, held her right wrist in her left hand. She opened her eyes and looked up and Alex detected, for the first time, a flicker of doubt in the woman’s positive manner.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear.’ The lips parted, stretched into a nervous smile, then shrank back, as if they had a life of their own. ‘There’s no charge, no charge at all. Of course, you can give a donation to charity if you wish, but that’s optional, quite optional.’ She raised her large false eyelashes up to the ceiling, frowned, as if detecting a flaw in the paintwork, then smiled again uncertainly. ‘Coping are you, dear?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex coldly. ‘I’m coping.’

  ‘He’s around, isn’t he dear?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Iris Tremayne shook her head and breathed in sharply; her shoulders suddenly contracted, then relaxed again. She closed her eyes and sat very still. Alex watched her curiously, and felt a sudden deep sense of dread.

  The woman began to twitch, almost imperceptibly. Then suddenly she stopped and stood up straight, opening her eyes. ‘I’m sorry dear,’ she said, ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake. I shouldn’t have come.’ Her voice had changed, it was icy cold now; the calm had gone from her face and she looked almost as if she was frightened. ‘No, I shouldn’t have come at all. A terrible mistake.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’d better go now dear,’ she said abruptly, picking up her handbag.

  Alex felt afraid suddenly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’ll be much better if I go, dear; it’s not what I thought at all.’

  Alex stared at the round whiteness of her eyeballs, the dark pupils scanning the room, darting about, the furrows of the frown lines in her fleshy forehead. ‘Can’t you at least tell me what you mean?’

  Iris Tremayne sat down for a moment, rummaged in her handbag and took out her powder compact. She opened it with a loud click and stared at the mirror. ‘I look a sight,’ she said, dabbing her nose with some powder.

  Alex felt her anger rising. ‘Please tell me what this is all about.’

  The woman looked at her, then snapped shut the compact. She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘You must believe me dear, it’s better if I go, best not to talk about it, forget it dear, forget I came. You were right, you were quite right last time.’ She stood up again and edged towards the door. She stopped, tried to give Alex a kindly smile, but she was trembling too much. ‘I really think I’d better go; leave it all alone, I think that would be best. Don’t worry about my payment.’

  ‘Look, I want an explanation. Please?’

  There was a dull crash from upstairs; Alex wondered for a moment if she had imagined it, but she saw the woman’s nervous glance.

  ‘He’s troubled dear.’

  ‘I’ll just go and see what that was.’

  ‘No dear, I wouldn’t; I’ve disturbed him, you see,’ she said, hesitantly. ‘He’s not pleased about my coming, not pleased at all.’ The woman shook her head. ‘Leave it dear, take my advice – I’ve never had – never known – not like this, you must leave it alone, leave him alone; ignore him.’ She suddenly took a step towards Alex and gripped her hand firmly. Alex felt the cold leather of the glove. ‘You must dear.’ She turned and marched out into the hallway. There was a click of the door and she was gone.

  Alex stared around the room, her head spinning, and walked to the window; she parted the curtains and stared out. She could see Iris Tremayne walking down the street, in short duck-like steps, each one growing faster, more determined, almost as if she was trying to run but wasn’t quite able to.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alex released the curtains and stared around the room. What had Iris Tremayne seen, she wondered? Was she a loony, or –? She lit a cigarette and took a deep drag; it had a foul, unfamiliar taste, like burned rubber. Fabian hated her smoking and she had always tried not to when she was with him; she felt suddenly as if she was cheating on him now, took another drag, almost surreptitiously, and stubbed it out, screwing her nose up at the stench.

  She went through to the kitchen, trying to ignore the crash from upstairs. Just another trick of her mind, she told herself, but she could still see Iris Tremayne’s face, the fearful glance upwards. Probably just the boiler again. She opened the freezer door, and rummaged through the frozen packs, wondering what to cook for Philip, then closed the door again, restlessly. She looked at her watch, seven o’clock; he would be here soon. He could decide and she’d bung it in the microwave.

  She looked up at the ceiling and listened. Everything was quiet. What the hell had she meant, that damned woman? She walked down the passageway, climbed the stairs, stood on the landing and listened again. She felt nervous suddenly, uncomfortable, wished for a moment she was not alone. In the distance she heard the siren of an ambulance. She opened her bedroom door and turned on the light; everything was normal. She checked the bathroom; nothing wrong there either. She went down the corridor, stood outside Fabian’s room, and listened aga
in. She pushed open his door, turned on the light, and felt the blood drain out of her.

  The trunk was lying upside down on the floor, the contents spewed out all around it.

  She felt herself reeling and clutched the wall for support; it seemed to slide away from her and she stumbled, grabbed the side of his armchair. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, opened them again, looked around, bewildered for a moment, then went out of the room, down the corridor and into his bathroom. Had there been someone in here? No, impossible; the windows were all closed, secure. Could it have fallen by itself – had she left it balanced on the edge of the bed? No, that was not possible. So how? How?

  She went back into the room, stared at the jumble of belongings on the floor, clothes, books, his diary, his battered straw boater, then up at his portrait. How?

  The doorbell rang. She turned off the light, closed the door and went downstairs.

  ‘Sit!’ she heard, followed by an angry snarl. ‘Sit!’

  Shaking, she opened the door and saw Philip Main standing there in a battered cord jacket, holding a crumpled paper bag under one arm and Black’s lead, with some difficulty, in the other.

  ‘Black, sit!’ Main looked at her. ‘Sorry if I’m a bit early, couldn’t remember what time.’ He turned back to the dog. ‘Sit!’

  ‘I don’t think I said a time.’

  He thrust the paper bag at her. ‘Didn’t know what we were eating, so I bought red and white.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She took the bag.

  Main was physically jerked backwards. ‘Black, sit!’

  The dog let out a slow rumbling growl, like a powerful motorbike idling. ‘Come in.’

  Main jerked the dog’s lead hard and Black gave a surprised choking cough. ‘He’s – er – not best pleased – hasn’t had much of a walk today.’ The dog dug its toes into the concrete step and slid, reluctantly, a few inches under Main’s determined pull. ‘Black!’ The dog looked up, sensing defeat, and reluctantly followed its master into the house, then stopped inside the hallway and sat down.