Even Stranger

by Marilyn Messik

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  I think it was probably about five or six weeks later that I finally reached the end of my tether, as I once again jerked fearfully awake, legs tangled uncomfortably in the sheets. Kat leapt up from the floor – my mother had fought a brief, unsuccessful battle over that, giving in gracelessly after a couple of nights of crying from the kitchen – so there were two of us quivering.

  As my heart thumped and sweat dried uncomfortably on my skin, I struggled to recapture what it was I’d seen, even as it began to slip away from me. My mouth felt dry and gravelly, and I honestly didn’t think I had much hope of getting back to sleep for a bit. I dragged myself downstairs, for a recuperative cup of tea, Kat padding nervously behind me. I stubbed my toe painfully on a chair, as I made my way across the kitchen, cursed in a thoroughly unladylike manner and, waiting for the kettle to boil, came to a decision.

  Enough was enough. My instruction from Boris had been unequivocal. Keep a record of everything I could remember, under no circumstances engage in any way, simply pass any detail along to him and he’d pass it along to Cornwall, to see if it linked with any current case. That was it. That was all. That was as much as we could do. I was simply a receiver, nothing more, nothing less.

  Well screw that for a lark. I’d had a basinful of ill-defined, murky, muddy dreams which now, when they came, drenched my sleeping mind with an overwhelmingly unpleasant, feral scent. Reluctant as I was to stick my neck out, or my nose in, I needed to track down this connection and sever it in some way. If I didn’t do that and soon, I’d be packing my bags for the funny farm and a comfortably padded cell. As you know well by now, I’m nothing if not risk averse – but I reasoned, if I took action, I could probably sort out this whole stupid, mess myself, whilst still keeping a reasonable distance and without taking chances. And even if I did, at any point, need to get up close and personal, I was more than well equipped to take care of myself. After all, I managed perfectly well on my own, most of the time. I toyed briefly with the idea of letting Boris know what I planned, but dismissed that immediately. I knew what he’d say and I didn’t want to listen.

  Simply having made the decision to initiate immediate action, made me feel a lot better, although I was, at first, at a bit of loss as to what exactly to initiate. I did know though, that instead of shutting out as much as I could, I needed to change the habits of a lifetime and open up, but to do that, I had to be somewhere I could focus quietly, without interruption and this was more easily envisaged than achieved. The office was always a mad house and even closeted in my inner sanctum, I never knew when the door would burst open, with a query or a client. Home was little better. The solution seemed to be the car.

  So, parked near Golders Hill Park, mid-day sun on the windscreen, children’s voices rising and falling in a nearby playground, and Kat’s even breathing and occasional snore from the back seat, I tuned in. I first opened up a little and then a lot, letting my mind range further and further. A load of stuff hit hard, swirling round and through me, a cacophony of sound, thought, motion and emotion. I jerked back with the impact, my head smacked painfully onto the head-rest and Kat whined softly. I hurriedly slammed the shutters down again. Obviously this search and locate business wasn’t going to work well that way – impossible to deal with such an overload of input, looking for the single one that resonated, it was like burrowing for a needle in several hundred haystacks. I re-grouped.

  This time round, I focused on the second-hand dreams I’d been experiencing and, most importantly the mind behind them. It wasn’t a pleasant thing to do, feverishly angry as they were. I’d always wanted them out of my head, not further in. It was, however, an interesting exercise. I was convinced I’d given Boris all I could, when it came to information, but as it turned out, there were things I’d missed. And, after a while, in the increasing heat of the car, I came to reluctantly understood, this connection I’d never wanted, between me and the other, was strong enough to have created something almost tangible. In my head, was the concept of two cans, linked over a distance by a piece of string, and I nodded slowly, yes, that was it, much as I might dislike the idea, there was an energy line connecting us. I just had to follow the string.

  I wound the window down further, to try and get some air in, although the Indian summer heat, was as thick and cloying outside, as it was in. I started the car, with no clear idea where I was headed, I had to trust my instinct and as I drove, I could feel my mind was acting like a kind of Geiger counter, the closer I was getting, to the source of what I was after, the stronger the reaction I was feeling.

  I won’t lie to you. There was an incredibly strong urge to stop the car, shut off the Geiger counter and make for home. Indeed, I did slow down and almost pulled over to turn around, but having taken it this far and established just how strong the wretched link was, I’d have been letting myself down by giving up. There was a possibility, of course, this whole dream business might end as suddenly and unexpectedly as it arrived, but what if it didn’t? I’d carry on sharing nightmares that were nothing to do with me. We all have our own demons, who needs anyone else’s? I had to dig deeper.

  Just under forty minutes, took me to a leafy, residential area, not far past St. Albans. It was somewhere I’d never been before, but I pulled up, with complete certainty, just down the road from a large, set-back from the street, detached house, fronted by a well-mown lawn and shut off behind tall, ornately scrolled, wrought iron gates. He was in there.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  I’d imagined there’d be far more clarity in his waking mind, than in the confusion of the dreams I’d been getting. But this didn’t seem to be true at all. His thoughts were repetitively obsessive, circulating hectically in his mind and intensified by the level of concentration on the intricacy of what he was doing.

  He was painting, directly on to a cream-coloured wall and what he’d created, was amazing. A detailed depiction, some five foot high, three foot wide. White-framed, French windows, opening up on to a lushly planted garden, multi-hued and dappled in afternoon sunlight. His garden was divided by a slim, crazy-paved path, winding lazily between lawns and borders and through a rose-smothered, wicker arch to a small working fountain. The colours were glorious, detail and perspective perfect. It was a trompe l’oeil – to deceive the eye. I’d seen them before, usually in alcoves in Italian restaurants, but nothing so impeccably executed as this. He was kneeling at an awkward angle, I could feel the crick in his back. He was working on the bottom left of the painting, maybe signing it.

  He looked up and around for a moment, arching as he stretched, taking in the wide, marble-floored, square hall, warmed with scattered rugs. The several glass-paned doors, around the hall, were flooding it with natural daylight and a light-wood, balustraded staircase, rose from one side, to the upper floor. It was a lovely, luxurious space, but didn’t feel in any way like a showcase, just very lived-in. Differently coloured, variously sized, well-used wellingtons were piled under a coat rack, adjacent to the front door. A couple of dog leads hung nearby and there were muddy paw-prints, leading to a door at the end of the hall which was half open. A tall, circular oak table at the hall’s centre, midway between front door and stairs, held key-rings, letters and the kind of leaflets that always rain through the letterbox. They shared the table-top with a red-rose packed vase. The flowers had been stuck in haphazardly, but nevertheless blazed a welcome. On the dustsheet, spread below the painting to prevent any mess hitting the floor, there was a radio playing softly.

  A dungareed woman, mid-forties, thick dark blonde hair swinging to her shoulders, emerged from the half-open kitchen door, wiping one floury hand on an apron and balancing a mug and plate of biscuits in the other. Through her eyes, I saw a neatly made young man. Not tall, thin and wiry, jockey-build. Young, younger than I’d somehow expected, maybe late twenties, early thirties, with a pleasant, blunt featured, square-jawed face, faintly laced with scars of p
reviously aggressive acne. Already thinning, light brown hair was brushed forward and sideways, over a disproportionately high forehead, which would only get higher with the years if that hair continued to beat a retreat. He jumped courteously to his feet as the woman appeared, to thank her and take drink and plate. She handed them over, her eyes on the painting as she stepped back again, to better take the whole thing in. She laughed in delight, swinging round to him and putting both hands on his arm, in her enthusiasm.

  “Jamie, you are pure magic. I don’t know what to say, it’s better than wonderful.” She had a strong, vowels clipped and angled, South African accent. He ducked his head modestly.

  “Gideon won’t be back until next week,” she said, “But I’m so dying for him to see it. We never, ever dreamt it would look this fabulous. You’re brilliant, I hope you know that?”

  “Honestly it’s not hard, not when you know how to go about it, Mrs de Freyt,” He said quietly “And I enjoy doing these very much.” He was soft voiced, well spoken.

  “Well, you’ve certainly gone way, way, way beyond my expectations. I’m so delighted we found you. You’ll do Isabelle’s one next, won’t you? She’s been driving me crazy, she can’t wait.” He nodded,

  “Should be ready to start that for her tomorrow, I’m very nearly done with this, just a few finishing touches.”

  “Well, Jamie Richman,” she said, “If you weren’t so damn painty right now, I’d give you the biggest hug you’ve ever had in your whole life!” He grinned back at her,

  “If I wasn’t so damn painty, I might like that.” They both laughed, comfortably. She was thinking, what a sweet boy, so well mannered. Shy and a bit gauche, but a pleasure to have someone like that in the house – and what a talent. How lucky was she, to have followed up his ad? He was thinking, he’d like to take her artfully highlighted head and smash it hard and repeatedly against the wall he was working on. He could anticipate the impact, the crack of bone, the blood and the satisfying weight of her body as he let her slowly slide down the wall, to the floor – smug, patronising cow!

  In the car, outside the house, I shivered deeply, despite the heat. I was no stranger to what went on in the minds of people, a great deal of which was unbelievable, unpleasant and unexpected. I’d spent a lifetime, taking it in and shutting it out, and there wasn’t a lot that could shock me. But I was disturbed by the depths of his anger, his aching for violence and his anticipation. People fantasise all the time and human nature being what it is, sex and violence are an ongoing theme. Few take it further than that. But something felt different and alarming here. The contrast between what was in his head and the complete ignorance of the woman, delighted to have him in her home, was awful.

  I’d been getting a taste of his mind for a good few months now and hadn’t found it pleasant. I had hoped though, the violence in the nightmares was just the normal voiding of frustration and other stuff that accumulates during the day, a shucking off of the inhibitions that bind and control us. Now I wasn’t so sure I had it right, I suspected the anger and inherent violence was a constant. I’d located him to find a way of severing the wretched connection, even though not altogether clear how I was going to do that. But now, I didn’t know whether I should even try. I certainly wanted to, it was just my conscience was prickling, in uncomfortably familiar fashion.

  Kat had been patient all this while and she rarely barked, but now she gave one of her small whuffling noises, like someone clearing their throat, which was her way of reminding me she was still there. I put on her lead, which embarrassed me considerably, whenever we went out. It was black, pink and diamond studded, and I don’t think she liked it much either. But Doreen had chosen and loved it, and I hadn’t been able to bring myself to throw it out and replace, with something less statement-making. We strolled up one side of the residential road and back down the other. Each one of the houses was individual and completely different from its neighbour, but I wasn’t in any mood to appreciate architecture, and Kat was equally preoccupied with her own business.

  On our way back to the car, we passed a couple of schoolgirls, twelve or thirteen years old, struggling under the weight of disproportionately large school bags that looked to weigh a ton. They were giggling together, busily unfolding the waists of their uniform skirts, lowering them back to semi-respectable length, before getting home. They stopped to admire and pet Kat, as did most people. Kat tolerated this with her usual, slightly bored air of a star dealing with the public, before one of the girls said goodbye and pressed the key pad next to the black wrought iron gates, which swung open to let her in and closed smoothly behind her, leaving the other girl to continue further down the road. I understood this was the Isabelle, who was going to be blessed with a piece of painted art on her own wall.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Back in the car, I put the key firmly in the ignition and turned it. Then I turned it, equally firmly, back again. Up till now, I’d only dipped a metaphorical toe in the water, but if I was going to try and extricate myself from this mess, that was giving me nothing but aggro, I really did need to find out more, and then make some decisions. I took a deep breath and dived in.

  Usually, when in you go deep into somebody’s head, it’s pretty overwhelming, but you do get an immediate sense of the whole person, who and what they are. Jamie was more complicated to make out. I could see his night-time horrors were an extension of all that plagued him during the day. It was this part of his mind that was doing the rat-in-a-maze racing, bouncing wildly and repeatedly off envisioned acts of violence. There was another part of his mind that was more self-contained and focused on putting the finishing touches to the painting. But the level of his concentration on that, was only intensifying the frantic skittering of the other. You didn’t have to know about dance, to recognise what Fred Astaire could do and you didn’t have to know about art, to recognise Jamie’s exceptional talent. You also didn’t have to be a psychiatrist, to know there was something very wrong indeed here.

  I could see what it was he’d been working on, at the base of the picture, partially and cleverly hidden in one of the painted, reflective glass panes, of the French window. It wasn’t his signature, it was two eyes. That was how he authenticated his work, a symbol, instead of the more usual signature. The eyes, with a few clever strokes, had been finalised to near photographic realism, and whilst they blended easily into the painting, once you’d spotted them, their gaze seemed to follow and it was difficult to look away.

  He was tidying up, getting ready to finish for the day, sorting the brushes, dipping them in turps, the smell strong, cleaning them gently and thoroughly with a soft cloth. But he’d stopped looking at and thinking about what he was doing, his focus had changed. He was watching Isabelle head up the stairs. Boris had pointed out to me, more than once, under our present justice system, you can’t arrest someone for what they’re thinking. As far as I was concerned, that was a major flaw, at least it was, if you were hearing and seeing what I was.

  What was happening now, his obsession with Isabelle, had happened before. Had, in fact, happened several times before, with other girls, and had brought him a load of trouble. He wanted, needed, to watch and listen, hear and understand, learn and comprehend. What harm was there in that? It didn’t hurt anyone, did it? But whereas he’d only always wanted to watch before, now he wasn’t sure that would be enough.

  As I went in deeper I saw – as far back as we could remember, we’d been on the side-lines, just missing the point, not getting the joke; whole worlds of communication, flying high over our head even whilst we were reaching up to try and understand. Parents; older brother and younger sister; school mates; teachers; art-college peers then employers and work colleagues, all of them, singing from a song sheet, we didn’t seem to have, and however we tried to catch the tunes, the notes just kept slipping through our fingers. We tried, we tried so hard, but with this sort of thing, you can try and t
ry and try again, but you can’t pretend.

  People know. They know that you laugh a few seconds behind everyone else, that the art of irony escapes you, that the unspoken which is heard and comprehended so crystal clearly by everyone else, isn’t seen or understood by you. They know you’re different. What they probably don’t know, can’t know, is how badly that hurts. How every slight isn’t just a one-off, but a continuation of others. How every time we laugh late, we know they’ve already moved on and left us behind. We have no control over any of these things, so we’re forced to find areas where we do have control. First flowers; then insects; small birds; mice; a hedgehog; two kittens. Studying them, understanding how they’re made, how they function, able to destroy them, when we’ve learned all we can and they’re no longer any use to us.

  And if there’s no easy understanding and communication with the rest of the world, there’s even less with the voices in our own head, Voices; calling, crying, chuckling, muttering and whispering. All during the day, every hour through the night. We’ve learned, when we concentrate and focus on the intricacies of the paintings, the voices soften. But of course, they can’t disappear, won’t disappear, because they’re not outside, they’re inside, they are, each and every one, a part of us a very wrong, very terrible part of us.

  No, Isabelle isn’t the first and she won’t be the last. Like the others before her, she is special, although she doesn’t truly know it yet. But we’re patient, we have time to let her know, although obviously not endless time. But we’re satisfied with what we’ve done at this point. We’ve sorted the watching. We have eyes now, here in this house. But we dislike it when other people divert attention from where it should be, people like the de Freyt woman, with her endless gushing. The anger and violence, we feel towards her is shocking, even to us, but it’s understandable, forgivable, because people like her screw things up, get in our way, up our nose. We have pride though in our self-taught, self-control. The violence is the one thing we do have control over. We decide if, when, where or how. Oh yes, we can hold our head high on that one.