Possession

  He came out of the room, with his head bowed and the colour gone from his cheeks, and she immediately felt angry with herself now for her feelings, angry at being so blind to his own grief. The child had meant so much to both of them, after the endless visits to the specialists, the ectopic pregnancy that had to be terminated and then finally, the last hope; and her secret.

  They walked slowly down the stairs and stopped on the landing. She felt David’s arm around her, squeezing her, and she leaned into him. It was cold once more suddenly and she wanted to go down and close the window. Grief crept up around her, the cold empty room, the trunk on the bed that Fabian would never again unpack. She felt the warmth of her husband, felt his strong powerful frame, the squeeze of his large hand. She nestled into the soft brush of his face and kissed his cheek. She felt his face stir and his moist lips on her own cheek and she found herself being manoeuvred, slowly, step by step in through her bedroom door; she felt his kisses becoming passionate, moving down her neck.

  ‘No, David.’

  He kissed her chin, then pushed his lips on to hers. She broke her face away. ‘No, David.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, we must.’

  It was Fabian’s voice; she opened her eyes and saw Fabian’s face. ‘No,’ she said, pushing him away. ‘No, get out!’ He came back towards her. ‘Get out!’ she screamed. ‘Get out!’

  Fabian stared at her, frozen for an instant in shock, then became David again, and then Fabian, until she could not tell who it was.

  ‘Get out, get out!’

  ‘Alex, darling, calm down!’

  She kicked him hard, straight up between the legs, saw the wince of pain, the shock in his face, then pummelled him in the chest. She felt hands grasping her. ‘Calm down,’ she heard. ‘Alex, calm down!’

  ‘I’m calm!’ she yelled back. ‘For Chrissake, I’m completely calm. Just get out!’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to – ’

  She stared at him, wide-eyed, filled with an inexplicable sudden hatred for him. ‘Go,’ she shouted, in a voice she scarcely recognized as hers. ‘Go, go, I can’t stand you being here.’ She saw the shock in his face, saw his hands crossed between his legs. ‘Please, David,’ she said. ‘Please go.’

  ‘What about dinner?’ he said, bewildered.

  ‘I want to be on my own. I can’t explain it; I just need to be on my own. I’m sorry, it was a mistake asking you to come.’ She stared at him, fearful that at any moment he would turn back again into Fabian. ‘I’m just not ready at the moment, not ready for anything; I’ve got to come to terms with this myself.’

  She followed him down the stairs. ‘Will you be all right – to drive home?’

  David looked at her and shrugged. ‘I drove up here.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Do you want me to call you when I get home?’

  ‘Call?’ she said, weakly. ‘Sure, if you like.’

  She closed the door, went into the drawing room and sank down in a chair. Outside, a short way off, she heard the Land Rover’s engine rattle into life and the crunch of the gears.

  And then the guilt hit her.

  ‘David!’ She ran to the front door. ‘David. Wait!’ She fumbled with the catch, pulled the door open, tripped out, down the steps, on to the pavement. The tail lights were disappearing down the road. She ran after them. ‘David! Darling! Stop, please stop! I didn’t mean to. Please stop, oh please stop.’

  She saw the amber flashing indicator getting closer as she sprinted down the road. Then it pulled away from her and vanished around the corner.

  ‘David!’

  She ran on after it down the King’s Road. Don’t get those lights; please don’t get those lights!

  But they turned green and he was gone.

  She collapsed, sobbing, against a lamp post. ‘David, darling. I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.’

  Slowly, she turned, and walked back to the house. The front door was still open. She closed it behind her, then went through into the drawing room, completely drained, weeping. She lay down on the sofa and lapsed into a doze.

  She wasn’t sure what woke her, whether it was the chill air in the room again, or the smell of cooking, the tantalizing smell of a fry-up.

  In spite of the cold she felt better, more peaceful. Had David really come, she wondered, or had it all been part of a terrible dream? She sniffed the rich heady smell of the frying and thought of Fabian’s passion for fried eggs; sunny side up, always; there were times, as a child, when he had his moods, he would refuse to eat anything except fried eggs for days.

  It was an unusual smell for a Saturday night in Chelsea, in the heart of foodie land; she looked at her watch. Ten o’clock; the smell was growing stronger and she realized she was feeling hungry; she’d eaten nothing since the apple and a piece of toast for breakfast. She wondered which of her neighbours it was, and walked to the window. To her surprise, it was shut. She stood still, trying to work out how the smell could be so strong, and then she heard a hissing and crackling, close, so close it sounded like her own kitchen.

  She walked out into the hallway and saw the kitchen light on.

  The hissing and the crackling were coming from there.

  She sprinted the twenty feet and stood, staring at the empty hob. The smell of fried eggs was overpowering. She opened the window and leaned out, but there was nothing: the familiar night odours of the neighbourhood, of dustbins, wet grass, diesel fumes and a faint hint of curry. She closed the window.

  The smell was in here.

  She saw the vapour of her breath again, smelt the smell even more intensely, felt terror surging through her. She walked out of the kitchen, closed the door, went through into the drawing room and picked up the telephone directory.

  Mankletow. Manly. Main. Her finger was shaking uncontrollably. There were seventeen P Mains listed. She knew the road he lived in, Chalcot Road, but there was none there. She dialled Directory Enquiries, conscious of her strained, high-pitched voice. The operator was kindly, as helpful as she could be. ‘Sorry, dear,’ she said, ‘he’s ex-directory.’

  ‘Could you phone him and ask him to call me?’

  ‘Can’t do that, I’m sorry. He’s down as “no connection”. I don’t even have his number myself.’

  Alex walked back into the hallway, stared fearfully at the kitchen door, felt the ice-cold air. She pulled her coat down from the rack, grabbed her keys off the table, went outside and locked the front door behind her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A drunken gaggle of businessmen wandered past Alex; in town for a conference, she judged, by the name tags some of them had forgotten to remove from their lapels.

  ‘Here’s a bit of crumpet, Jimmy,’ said a Scottish accent.

  She let herself into the office, and as she locked the door behind her, there was a roar of laughter in the street, probably at her expense, she thought.

  It was quiet inside, unnaturally quiet; the room was dark, the random streaks of harsh white light from the massage parlour across the road flickered on the walls and furniture, giving a strange chiaroscuro effect.

  She stared at the intense blackness of the staircase, pressed the light switch, and instantly it was banished and she was in her own familiar surroundings, with the soft greys of the walls and carpets, the crimson lamps and banister rail and the framed dust jackets lining the walls.

  She walked past the receptionist’s dark silent switchboard and began to climb the stairs. She saw the shadow on the floor above, and for a moment was reluctant to climb further; it seemed the shadow was moving. She hesitated, but knew she had to get to the landing, to the next switch. She watched the shadow; when she moved, it moved; when she stopped, it stopped.

  Stupid, she thought, suddenly realizing it was her own shadow.

  She walked up into the dark, found the switch, pressed it with a quick nervous stab of her finger and jumped as the light came on, then walked up the next flight
and on to the landing. Julie’s office door was open and the room was pitch dark. She stared at it nervously, reached in and switched on the light, and again felt relieved by the normality. She stared, irritated for a moment, at the black Olivetti sitting there without its cover. Julie was always leaving it off. Why did she do that? The grey plastic cover was screwed up behind the filing tray. She straightened it out, put it on carefully, then the manuscript on the desk caught her eye. ‘Lives Foreseen – My Power and Others’ ’, with a bookmark halfway through it. She had told Julie to send it back, she thought, annoyed, picking it up and carrying it through into her office. She’d speak to her about it on Monday.

  Down in the street below, the drunks were bunched up around the doorway of the massage parlour, peering at the blanked-off windows. She let go of the blinds, walked away from the window, shivering from the cold, switched on the heater, then pulled out her address file. She dialled his number and waited, knowing that he always took a long time to answer. Relieved, she heard the click of the receiver being picked up, and was about to speak, when she realized that the phone was still ringing.

  Someone in her own building had picked up an extension.

  She stood, frozen for a moment, paralysed with fear.

  Who, she thought, who? The cleaner? No, impossible. One of her partners? No. She listened for a sound, for breathing, a cough; the phone rang on. She could feel the presence, feel the person waiting, listening. Who? Who? Who? She was shaking now, heard her own heart thumping, louder than the ringing. She felt a pain below her ear; she was banging her cheekbone with the receiver. It rang on, unanswered. Fearfully, she turned around, looked through her open doorway at the passage. The ringing echoed around her office. Something moved, at the end of the passage, or had she imagined it? Lock the door, she said to herself. Lock the door! The key was on the outside.

  Carefully, gently, she laid the receiver down on her blotter, and tiptoed over to the door. The ringing continued. She tried to pull the key out silently, but she was shaking too much, it scraped, clanked, then fell to the floor, bounced and clattered against the skirting board, with a noise like two trains colliding. ‘No,’ she said aloud, ‘no, no.’ She dived on to her knees and scrabbled her hands across the carpet after it. She closed her fingers around it, turned and stared fearfully again down the passage at the stairwell, heard the ringing continue, then flung herself back into her office, slammed the door and leaned against it. She tried to get the key in, fumbled, dropped it again. ‘No,’ she said. She picked it up, pushed it in, and tried to turn it. It would not move.

  She turned it so hard she could feel it bending. ‘Please lock, please lock.’ She pushed it in further, and suddenly it turned easily, without pressure, and the lock clicked home almost silently.

  Alex rested her head against the door, relief swimming through her, her heart beating so hard it was like a fist punching her chest. She was sweating, gulping for air.

  ‘Hallo? Hallo?’ The voice sounded tinny, as if a radio had been left on. ‘Hallo? Hallo?’

  She fell on to the receiver, as if it was the first piece of food she had seen for a week. ‘Hallo?’

  She heard the familiar hiss of air and tobacco smoke.

  ‘Alex?’ said Philip Main’s voice, whispering, almost incredulous.

  Suddenly, she was conscious again of the presence and did not want to speak, did not want to give herself away. ‘Yes,’ she found herself whispering back, softly, almost hissing.

  ‘Hallo?’

  ‘Help me,’ she hissed, louder, suddenly beginning to feel vulnerable again; the door was strong, but it would not hold someone determined.

  ‘Is that you, Alex?’

  ‘Yes.’ The sound came out, a strange, high-pitched squawk from deep inside her that she scarcely recognized.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He sounded gentle, concerned.

  She didn’t want to say it, did not want the other person listening to know she was afraid. Normal. Sound normal. For God’s sake sound normal. ‘I want to see a medium. I wondered if you knew anyone?’ She was conscious that her voice had changed again, into a flat monotone automaton; it sounded like the voice of a complete stranger.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’

  Christ, don’t start querying things; for God’s sake don’t. Not now.

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘Yes I am sure,’ said the automaton.

  ‘You sound a little strange.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said the automaton.

  ‘I don’t know about mediums. You ought to think about it very carefully.’

  ‘Please, Philip. I have to.’

  ‘I don’t know. I think we should talk about it.’

  ‘Please, Philip, do you know any?’

  She listened, agitated, to the silence.

  ‘Not personally, no; good Lord, no.’ He paused. ‘You told me that a friend of yours had suggested this – doesn’t she know any?’

  ‘She sent one round. She was horrible.’

  Silence again.

  ‘You must know someone, Philip.’

  ‘You could try the Yellow Pages.’

  ‘Please, Philip, be serious.’

  There was another silence; Alex listened hard, trying to hear something, anything. She looked around at the door, stared at the handle. It was moving, turning.

  She screamed; a dreadful, piercing scream, then stopped, as abruptly as she had started; it wasn’t moving at all; it was the blinds that were moving in the air of the heater, sending shadows across the handle.

  ‘Alex? What’s the matter?’

  ‘There’s someone here, in the office, listening to this phone call. Please call the police; I think I’m about to be attacked.’

  She put down the phone, saw the light on the panel go out. Light. She breathed gulps of air; light; there was only one light, wasn’t there? If there had been someone else listening, then another light would have come on on the panel; wouldn’t it? She stared around at the door, then at the window, at the restless blinds, then something caught her eye on her desk: the calendar; she stared at it and was filled instantly with a sensation that felt like ice cold water flushing through her, filling every blood vessel in her body.

  The date on the calendar read Thu May 4th.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘Don’t let me be mad; please don’t let me be mad.’ She stared again at the letters, the digits, checked the date on her Rolex. April 22nd. She looked around the room, expecting to see something, a phantom, a spectre – a – she hesitated, thinking about the smell of eggs, the rose in the windscreen. Fearfully she looked to her right, at the VDU screen that was under its cover; she wanted to lift the cover, stare at the blank screen. Then, suddenly, she felt angry. She wanted to get up, throw open the door and shout out: ‘Here I am. Take me. Do what you want.’ Instead she found herself pulling out the Yellow Pages.

  She heaved a wadge of pages over. Mediums. Mediums. Nothing under Mediums. What else? Psychics? She turned more pages. Again nothing. Then she tried Clairvoyants. Something, there was something. ‘See Palmists and Clairvoyants.’

  The list was short. There was an Indian-sounding name, repeated twice, and only one other. She hesitated; the names didn’t feel right. She stared at Stanley Hill’s manuscript, ‘Lives Foreseen – My Power and Others’ ’. Reluctantly she opened it and flipped through the pages. The manuscript seemed comfortable suddenly. She was on familiar territory.

  Then she realized the words were blurred; she couldn’t read them. She saw her hands shaking wildly, and put the manuscript down on the desk.

  A name caught her eye. Morgan Ford. She saw it again, a couple of pages later, and then again, her eyes drawn to it as if by a magnet. ‘Modest trance medium Morgan Ford would strenuously deny that he frequently arranges sittings for royalty in his Cornwall Gardens flat.’

  ‘Modest.’ She liked that word. She pulled out the directory from the shelf behind her, and leafed through the pages.

  She picked up the re
ceiver and listened to the harsh crackle, then the rasping hum; she waited for the click of the extension again, watching the panel for the tell-tale light, but nothing happened; the line was private now. She punched the number and waited.

  The tone of the man’s voice surprised her. For some reason she had expected it to be kindly, warm, welcoming; instead it was cold, irritated, the Welsh accent further alienating him. She had expected him to say, ‘Yes, Alex, I’ve been expecting you. I knew you would call, the spirits told me.’ Instead he said, ‘Morgan Ford, who is speaking?’

  Name. Don’t give him your name. Think of a false name. ‘I hope you don’t mind my calling you at this hour,’ she said nervously, unsure how to react, and listening, all the time listening, for the sound of the receiver being picked up below her. ‘It’s just – so terribly urgent.’

  ‘Who are you, please?’

  ‘I need help. I need to see a medium. I’m sorry, are you a medium?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, as if she was mad.

  ‘Is it possible to come and see you?’

  ‘You’d like a sitting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have a cancellation on Monday, 10 am, if that’s any good?’

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ he sounded indignant. ‘Absolutely not, I’m afraid. Monday – or – otherwise it won’t be until May, I’m afraid. Let me see. May 4th, I could do.’

  May 4th. She stared at the calendar again. What was it? What the hell was it?

  ‘No, Monday, please.’ She was conscious of the sound of a car approaching fast and pulling up outside. She heard a door slam, the bark of a dog.

  ‘May I have your name, please?’

  ‘It’s–’ she hesitated. What name? What name? ‘Shoona Johnson,’ she said, wildly. She thought she could detect cynicism in his voice as he repeated it, as though he could tell somehow that she was lying, and she felt embarrassed.