by Sarah Till
Lynus still laughed slightly through his words.
“I was just calling to check on how your day was. I understand you attended the funeral yesterday and were out of the office today. Just checking you were OK?”
I launched into an exercise of business preservation, well-rehearsed from my hungover days of yore.
“Oh, yes, yes, I have been out of office. I took some leave today as well, you know. But don’t worry, I’ll be up to speed on the project by lunchtime on Monday.”
There was a short silence on the line and I wondered if he was still there. I'd detected a breath and eventually he spoke.
“Actually, Jinny, I was calling to check that you were OK. Not the work. That can wait. I saw that you were upset on Wednesday, completely understandable, and I just wanted to offer my support.”
My usual line between business and friendship was blurring into a fuzzy blob, as I held the phone next to my ear, not quite sure what to say next.
“Thanks.” I managed this only weakly. Lynus coughed.
“I understand that there has been some further progress with the police. Someone came to see our organisation about your role there and I guess it has something to do with the investigation into your mother’s demise.”
I gulped as I saw my job canoeing down some white-water rapids and disappearing into the chasm of too many emotional problems at once.
“Oh, yes. They have some kind of theory about two people who were on the tube following me, having something to do with her murder. Actually, they seemed pretty convinced, even though it all sounded tenuous. They probably know more than they are letting on.”
I picked at the chair as I spoke and Lynus was laughing again.
“Maybe, maybe they do. What do you think?”
“Me? I’m more concerned about my family. Something is nagging at the back of my mind, something not right about all this. People don’t change so quickly. They don’t just become reformed characters overnight. In fact, they haven’t. No. They’ve not changed at all! Shiralee had the rings before she was willed them. John is angry and aggressive. Swiss Steve is still obsessed with drama, himself and sex, and Jupiter is still rude. They’re just saying that they are different. Just saying it. To make a point. To look like they are good people. But why would they do that?”
Lynus sighed on the end of the line.
“Maybe they think that looking good is enough to get them saved. Or maybe it’s greed. If they look like they are campaigning for a good cause, appearing plausible, then they will benefit financially. Then it’s up to them how honest they are. But none of it is authentic.”
The word hit me like a bolt of lightning. Authentic. It was as if Kevin Jakowski had entered my consciousness and giggled his way into my brain. Tickled my own authenticity.
“Hmm. Look Lynus, can we meet? Perhaps on Monday? I’ll call you on Monday morning. There’s something I need to ask you.”
“Can you ask me now?” he suggested gently.
“No. I need to think. In the meantime, have a good weekend.”
It was my cue to end the call and I needed to get him off the line. Something was fizzing in my head, something ready to ripen into a realisation and I wanted to be able to savour the fullness of it. He took the cue and bade me farewell.
“OK, Jinny. I’ll call you. And you have a good weekend. And be careful.”
The phone clicked off and I sat in the dark lounge alone once more. I considered phoning Ellis to warn him of my unease but decided that the poor man had put up with enough. He was probably sitting in some deserted bar nursing a scotch and soda just to get away from me. I sniggered as I imagined him counting down the minutes to last orders with a dread of returning to psychosis central. Was this finally the depression that I had expected to fall on me, that everyone else had so readily anticipated through the past week's events? I had become aware of various sets of eyes resting on me, trying to penetrate my deepest emotions, willing me to break. I could not. Still sitting here in the dark, nothing but anger and frustration would surface. My mind, though, moved in mysterious ways. Somehow my synapses had slowly, slowly traced the schema that mirrored recent happenings and had thrown a shape that had formed a mystical connection. Doing the dance of the slightly insane, staggering their way towards their only slightly known goal, my axons had fastened to the dreaded idea that seemed a little bit strange: in this case it was the slightly crazy notion that Lynus was actually Kevin Jakowski reincarnated.
There, I had said it to myself. It had hovered around my clouded imagination like an inky blot, making me less concerned about other issues. Was it really possible? In my hurry to reconcile myself with my grief, I had moved this notion around my mouth and tasted it. Needing a diversion from my dysfunctional family, I had sucked on the idea slightly behind my consciousness until it was a small but solid ball of plasma, fluid and flexible enough to fit the tiny hole of madness through which my random thoughts exploded from time to time.
Usually plugged, at this time of indescribable stress, the hole was easily passed and I felt the warm, comfortable trickle of something familiar permeate my soul. My rational mind worried at the concept and we wrestled together until finally, in a graceful moon dance, insanity won. I mused over the fact that maybe it wasn't insanity, rather reality bites. Or sucks. I couldn't make my mind up. In any case, here it was. A strange metaphysical surge of something I was particularly unused to. I couldn't compute it or find the logistics. There were no ergonomics to conclude to, no places for it to rest. The spirituality of my intense interest in the cosmic connection between Lynus and Kevin defied any real knowing. I laid my head back on the chair and wondered where my future lay. Could it be that this worrying development was only the start of a long string of fantasies that I am bringing to life in my head? I couldn't bear it if my slightly warped sense of reality invaded my workspace, my business sense. Would I start hanging cardboard angels from my computer monitor, or finding a proverb for every action of a colleague? Would the mysticism dull my edges until I was a fluffy bunny of a woman, moanopause-tastic, hoping to find a subject to ramble about at length to people who would rather eat their own eyes than listen to my paranormal twaddle?
Conveniently, I started to think about the church and John Baxter and how all this fitted into the emergent puzzle fix. Lynus had led me along the train of thought that John Baxter was an impostor, along with Swiss Steve, Jupiter and Shiralee. I gladly got off at that station and ate at the buffet car of their vulture-like longings for a life of small effort for huge gain. They had all just received a small fortune, one way or another, two of them for sleeping with my mother and two of them for being my children. The charade of the church with all its modern-day trappings was merely to convince everyone that two aging failures could hide behind a facade of sanctimonious bullshit in order to make a scant living from being holy. It had certainly come up trumps for them now that my mother had died. I idly wondered what financial state Swiss Steve had been in before today. And what the church was making per annum unsupported by my mother's wealth. Of course, I knew she had grown her fortune partly through the farm left to her by her parents and partly through my well-insured father's death, and a shrewd business sense had honed the resulting funds to a fine point. Even I couldn't fault her business acumen and I doubted that a penny went by without mother having accounted for it. If she wanted to kit the local church out like the Royal Albert Hall, then that was her business, and there was certainly enough money left to go around. But the enduring question was, why? Why would this bloody harlot of a woman suddenly turn to religion? The answer completely eluded me, despite John Baxter’s attempts to persuade me it was guilt, shame or duty. I knew my mother's lip service too well. Briskly trotting from one good idea to another, she would never settle for more than six months. She had tried every flavour of spirituality and deemed it tosh. So, why now?
No point dwelling on it. I was so tired from all this mind shifting that I dragged myself to my bedroom and
got into bed fully dressed. Ellis wouldn’t mind; he wouldn’t even bat an eyelid at this. I had fallen into bed many nights too drunk to get undressed and he would just see it as part of my recovery process. He would never know that I had completely exhausted myself mentally.
I had slept soundly and been aware of Ellis in bed with me at some point. I had felt him kiss my forehead lightly before tiptoeing across the room and pulling the door closed. Ten half-sleep minutes later he closed the front door and I drifted back off to oblivion. When I woke, it was nine-thirty. I jumped out of bed and pulled on my clothes. I was due at the cottage and it would take me two hours to get there. I had set this day in my mind as the last time I would have to ever go there, a milestone where I would say goodbye to my past forever, and I anticipated it. I brushed my hair and pulled on some track shoes. Everything I needed was in my bag from the previous day, so I just grabbed that and an empty suitcase. I wasn’t exactly sure what would be left since Shiralee had obviously been to the cottage and retrieved anything of value. Perhaps just some clothes, and ornaments. I had no idea what I would do with them. The furniture could be sold with the house. It was then that the dark cloud of doubt descended. I remembered how incompliant John had been over the house sale and wondered if I should let him stay. Dismissing this as silly, I wondered for longer if I should sell the house to him. My heart and head both screamed not to, that I would in some way still be tied to them if I kept the cottage in the family. Swiss Steve and John Baxter would have the house and farm my mother’s parents spent so much time building up. It struck me that all that rubbish about the cottage being part of the farm was just that; a fabrication. I remembered when I was a small child, that Granny and Granddad would live in the small cottage on the farmland. True, it wasn’t as chocolate box picturesque as Cherry Tree Cottage, but it was certainly big enough for Swiss Steve and John Baxter to live in. Another thought occurred to me. What was stopping them building another cottage or farmhouse on the farm? Why did they want Cherry Tree Cottage so much? I huffed and puffed my way around our house and made a firm decision. I would go to the house today, collect mother’s things and sell it. No U-turns on this one. The lady’s not for turning. No. I would definitely sell it. It was and should be the end of an era. I would undoubtedly feel better tomorrow.
I was ready now. Phone, keys, money, travel cards, all accounted for. I left and slammed the door hard. I pulled my case behind me and approached the station, suddenly feeling a little bit apprehensive. This was the first time I had been in the station since the police had told me about the boy and girl on the tube. I still didn’t fully believe what they said, several key pieces seemed to be missing to make it a convincing story. But I was actually feeling a little bit scared. My father used to tell me that there was no smoke without fire, and I knew what he meant now. I seriously doubted that the police would be able to fabricate a story like the one they told me. They certainly wouldn’t be able to deploy the armed police and helicopters without good reason. Maybe there was something in it. Maybe someone was following me now. I reached the steps to descend into the tube station. I had never really been scared before, even directly after the bombs went off in the trains several years ago. I felt desperately sorry for those who were injured and those who had lost loved ones, and for the emergency services, but I seriously doubted that it would happen again. Not with the level of security following it. I reached the bottom of the steps and looked around. Not much security now. In fact, no security. It was true that there was a ticket clerk on the turnstiles. For all anyone knew, I could be carrying a large bomb in my suitcase. I hardly met the profile for a bomber though– I could just imagine the headlines:
Middle-aged white woman accused of carrying bomb on tube.
No one would believe that even if it was true. Had I been male and black, everyone would have believed it even if it wasn’t true. Like the couple who were arrested. The boy fitted the profile and they had ammonia. Surely they couldn’t have based the whole fiasco around that? Predictably, I passed through the turnstile without any questions and began my journey downwards.
Fear
Today was an exception. I had no time to hang around in the tube station shuffling my thoughts like a new pack of cards. I stood close to the track and felt the pressure of the heavy air in my lungs. Everyone around me looked nervous. Perhaps some of them were nervous about job interviews or meetings. Perhaps some of them were like me, scared shitless that their mode of transport would explode them into tiny fragments.
It was hard to explain the mood of people on the tube following the July bombings. I had expected there to be travellers, for more of them to take the longer bus ride. If anything, there were more. Each examining the other with narrow eyes, panicking if the train paused mid-journey, trembling at any loud thud or bang, and running for the doors at their earliest opportunity. They were split into two camps: the ‘I’ll never go on the tube again’ brigade and the ‘it’s made no difference to me’ faithful. I was acutely aware of the paranoia in the carriages, suspicious eyes on anyone male of Asian ancestry. My colleague Sanjay told me that he had stopped travelling by tube and bus. He had bought a bicycle. His journey by tube had been taking an extra hour per day as he was searched at both ends of the journey and questioned about his destination, sometimes by the same security officer on consecutive days. I didn’t want to offend Sanjay, but I secretly thought that it was necessary if we were to be kept secure as a nation. My nationalistic thoughts had shocked me, as Britannia raised her pure white head and nodded in agreement.
Now, I had reluctantly entered the territory of the terrorist for the first time. What would this person look like, the anonymous assassin who killed my mother and was now in my wake? Whoever it was, they had gone to great lengths to make sure that my mother was dead. Poisoning then stabbed? The devil’s advocate in me whispered that it didn’t sound like terrorism, surely they would have shot her? It all sounded a bit Miss Marple or Cluedo. John Baxter in the living room with a knife. Swiss Steve in the bedroom with hemlock. But what did I know? I was just an ordinary person in extraordinary circumstances.
The train rattled on and my brain rattled faster. I admitted that I didn’t feel as relaxed as I usually did, I felt like my tube-train solitude had been smashed by someone looking over my shoulder. I looked around the carriage for someone who looked like a policeman. How would I identify them? Short hair? Someone who keeps looking slyly at me? Someone talking to their sleeve? Someone with a tiny camera attached to their tie? Now I was getting carried away. I was nearly at the station now and nothing had happened. I quickly moved to the doors and watched for who moved behind me. Two women and a man alighted, and I tried to guess who was following me all the way to the steps. I decided to try to fool them by waiting at the bottom, because surely whoever it was would be hanging around in the station above?
I waited a full five minutes then got onto the escalator. I peered around the corner into the busy station but couldn’t see any of the three people I had seen get off the train. I walked quickly to the area where I would catch my train to the village and waited.
Chapter Eight
Once on the train, I felt tired and slept half the way there. My patience with my spying game had run out in the tube station and I was destined for a place that would take all my reserves of strength and tolerance. I drowsily decided that I really didn’t like John Baxter. He seemed like someone who would do almost anything to get his own way. Rather like a peevish child, he blustered his way through my mother’s death, insisting and pointing out and declaring and claiming. In the end, he’d got what he wanted: an income. I was beginning to wonder if that’s what he married her for. It was true that he had made it look like he could not benefit from the will, dressed it all up in martyrdom, dripping with tears of grief. At the end of the day, he’d gained his reward. The income from the farm would be enough to keep him in the style he was accustomed to forever. The way they had all been looking at each other in Henry’s office
made me think they had further plans for the farm, probably something to do with the church, something my mother had undoubtedly approved before she died.
It occurred to me now how opportune it was that she had died so suddenly. Whoever killed her had thought this through. First, she had been poisoned. It might have looked like suicide – what then? I had no real idea of the time between her being poisoned and then stabbed, but presumably the person who did this would have had to stay to watch her die, then stab her. My heart began to beat fast as I ran through these dreaded events. The ones I had been avoiding like the plague. I needed to think about it now, in a rational way. I needed to put aside all the instinctive spiritual half-knowns and focus now on what was trying to emerge.
Suicide equals no insurance pay-out. Suicide is a sin against morality. Even criminal. It certainly looked like someone had killed her, thought better of it then killed her again. Why would a terrorist care? The only people who would be likely to care about that are those who would benefit from it in some way. John Baxter and Swiss Steve both had a lot to gain from this, but both of them had alibis. I laughed at my own thoughts. I was beginning to sound like Inspector Pierrot, even to myself. heard my mother’s voice say to my rampant imagination, ‘Such speculation is futile.’ The voice laced with honey and sex, shocked me to the core. I knew that I had merely remembered something she had said to me many times in the past, but it was as if she was warning me off thinking too much about this. I was beginning to see this as I approached the village.
I was completely used to this journey. I had done it so many times it was akin to making a cup of tea or cooking spag bol. Automatic. My feet trod the well-worn path up the lane and past the church. The village was deserted and I could hear the autumn leaves rustle in the background. I reached the cottage and stood outside the gate. It looked exactly the same as the last time I had been here, all those years ago. The garden was manicured to within an inch of its life, and little touches such as a hedgehog foot scraper and a huddle of comical gnomes hid the grizzly recent happening with humour. I walked up the path and wondered if I should knock or use my key. A small voice in my mind warned me that the locks would have been changed. I knocked.
