Even Stranger

by Marilyn Messik

  Jamie knew exactly where he was going, following a roadway that had at one stage been asphalted, but now boasted some fairly hefty potholes, which he swerved neatly to avoid. As we drove, I could see smaller lanes winding off into wooded areas where, in clearings, were set chalet-style, log-constructed houses, some bungalow-like on one level, others taller with two floors. Most of them looked in need of some TLC.

  I understood, we were in the middle of what had once been a flourishing business venture, a shining dream that hadn’t panned out, but gone down the pan. It had bankrupted Jamie’s father, cost him his health, his marriage and eventually his life, when he succumbed to a stress-induced heart attack. Jamie had spent much of his late childhood and teenage years here and, as with so much else, his feelings about the place were sharply divided. It held some of his happiest memories as well as some of the most depressing.

  It was still where he felt most at home, although he certainly had no right to be here anymore, his father had been as bad at choosing legal and business advisers, as he had about every other vital decision. The estate was the subject of interminable legal arguments, with knots of complexity over original ownership, still being untangled. Until they were, the development lay untouched and gradually deteriorating.

  The house, in front of which we finally drew up, was one of the larger ones and in contrast to the others, immaculately maintained, with sparkling white-painted sills and shutters. Both the logs, that comprised its walls, and the planking of the veranda, appeared freshly varnished. It looked oddly and pristinely Alpine, lacking only Julie Andrews, being jolly in a dirndl. I sensed Jamie’s pride of possession. He officially lived in a rented room not that far away, but he’d been using this as well, for the several years since his father’s death, with nobody ever seeming to notice. When he turned off the engine, just for a moment, apart from the ticking as it cooled down, the full silence of the place hit us. It was the sort of quiet, where the absence of noise is in itself a pressure on the ears. And then, the screaming started.

  “Blimey,” Kitty was scared, but blowed if she was going to show it. “Somebody’s not happy to be here.” She said. Jamie shook his head, regretfully,

  “Stupid,” he said, “I told her there was no-one for miles around. No-one would hear.” Kitty, smiled grimly,

  “Well, you were way out there, weren’t you? We’re hearing, aren’t we? We’re hearing, loud and clear.” I could see she was getting over her initial shock, which was a good thing, although meant a lot of her natural stroppiness was re-surfacing, which might not be ideal – I could see his see-saw temper was rapidly on the rise again.

  “We getting out, or are we just going to sit here?” I asked. He nodded, he’d picked up the Stanley knife from the dashboard and waved it under, and dangerously close to, Kitty’s nose.

  “No funny business, understand?” He said.

  “Funny business? Do I look like Coco the Clown?” she grumbled “And watch where you’re putting that knife, that’s how accidents happen.”

  “Trust me,” he muttered, “Anything happens, it’ll be no accident.” She ignored him and I reached back to help her down from the van, although with Kat sticking as close as she could to my legs, any kind of movement was tricky. Jamie had taken the car keys and attached them to a keyring on his belt. We walked up the few stairs to the front door, which had a new, shiny, no-nonsense lock. He noticed me looking and smiled smugly. I thought how swiftly Ed would deal with a lock like that, and smiled back. He utilised another key from his keyring, and we all moved forward.

  It might have been all Sound of Music outside, inside was something else altogether and I think Kitty and I might both have reeled back a little. Kat whined softly, taking her reaction from ours. The front door opened into a surprisingly spacious, rectangular living area, with a galley kitchen leading off at right angles. Comfortably furnished, it had a grey tweed, two seater sofa and a matching armchair on either side of a small chimney breast and alcove. Within the alcove, was a wood-burning stove, in which flames were still glowing. So far, so ordinary. The walls were something else altogether.

  Despite the log construction, the interior was fully plastered, broken up only by a window each side of the front door, so there was a lot of wall-space. From every inch of that space, floor to ceiling, meticulously executed and vividly coloured, leered violence and pain.

  His eye for perspective hadn’t let him down in any way, and you couldn’t help but admire the depth and dimension of everything he’d done. There was study after study, sometimes the same thing over and over, from different angles, a single throttling hand round a throat, a stabbing knife re-entering a bloodied chest, an eviscerated fox, a screaming child, a fleeing woman, a burning man. And everywhere, eyes – old, young, manic, absent, calculating, terrified – watching.

  He was watching us too, both elated and ashamed at what we were seeing. These were his nightmares, they’d come to him, day and night, all his life, from the sewers of other people’s minds. He’d never had a chance of protecting himself, because he hadn’t for one moment, known them for what they were. And the dreadful truth was, they chimed with something already in him, even as he tried to pretend they didn’t. The violence in his head was constantly at war with the creativity, but the overall effect of what he’d painted here, maybe an attempt at some sort of exorcism, was unspeakable – death, despair and depravity in unflinching, near photographic detail.

  Equally unsettling, was the girl, lying awkwardly half on and half off the sofa, hands and feet securely bound with multiple layers of duct tape, face dirty and tear-streaked. She didn’t remember me from our brief encounter outside her house, but she did remember Kat and her eyes widened, as she tried to put everything together and make sense of what was going on. I wished her luck with that.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  In those first few seconds, as we entered the room and saw Isabelle, I realised I didn’t have a choice, I had to act now, before things escalated beyond the rather desperate point they’d already reached. I needed to knock him out immediately, and get us all the hell out of there. I went into his head with intent and as I did, he hit me twice. First he smashed the full weight of the back of his right hand against my right cheekbone and then, equally painfully, he bashed me mentally. It was a double whammy and I hit the floor without a sound, Kitty and Isabelle both screamed and Kat gave a rare bark.

  “I said, don’t try anything, didn’t I?” he muttered. He’d mashed my cheek hard against my teeth and my mouth filled instantly with blood, hot and coppery. For a moment, I couldn’t understand what had happened – not the back-hander – that was clear enough, it was the mental blow that shocked me. I replayed it in my mind and understood that what he’d done had been purely reflexive. He’d felt me come in and had instantly blocked and deflected. He was quick, strong, and all the more dangerous, because he had no idea what he was doing. He had no concept of what I could do to him or he to me. He’d reacted purely instinctively and seemed as surprised as I was, by that.

  Kitty didn’t hang about, she surged forward, brought her right knee up sharply, you had to admire the flexibility at that age, and kicked him where she knew it would have most effect.

  “Taste of your own medicine, you little bugger.” She said. It was his turn to go down, although he made a lot more noise than I had. He was doing a fair old bit of rolling around and clasping the injured area. Things were rapidly sliding from pretty dreadful to a lot worse and, as it was getting a bit crowded on the floor, I felt I ought to make the effort to get up. I was reading him loud and clear, what with the pain, the anger and the humiliation, he was broadcasting for Britain and I could see that sane, softly spoken, ‘Bringing the Outdoors In.’ Artist, Jamie, was all too swiftly morphing into not-so-sane-at-all Jamie. My decision to take things into my own hands had back-fired, a bit of organisational flair and re-grouping was called for. If I didn’t try to at
tack him again, I wouldn’t set off his highly developed defence mechanism, which I sensed could be lethal. So, change of tack.

  I reached down, caught him by the arm and hauled him roughly upright, I floated him a bit but he was too far gone to notice. I dumped him unceremoniously into the armchair. Then I picked up the knife, dropped when Kitty took his mind off things, and swiftly cut the tape round Isabelle’s hands and feet. I didn’t need the knife to do it, but didn’t want him to know that. She sat back with a sob.

  “Those,” I said to him firmly “Were ridiculously tight, what the hell were you playing at, you could have given her gangrene.” I wasn’t too sure of the medical accuracy, but felt the admonitory tone was right. “Kitty,” I said, “This is Isabelle. Isabelle, I’m Stella and this is Kitty.” Everyone nodded at each other politely, good manners are never out of place.

  “You were there, weren’t you?” Isabelle said, “Outside my house, the other day, I recognise the dog. But… ” I nodded and interrupted her, no time for updating at this point.

  “I’m assuming there’s a bathroom here?” I said firmly. We all looked at Jamie who nodded, he didn’t seem to have much breath for anything else, Kitty obviously packed quite a kick. He jerked his head towards a door, leading off the living room. “Kitty,” I said “Why don’t you and Isabelle go and have a wash, get freshened up a bit?”

  I looked around, if you ignored the walls, and trust me, they took some ignoring, the place had a well-used feel. I understood this had been the house Jamie’s family used as a holiday home, when the whole estate was still a going concern. “I assume there’s a medicine cabinet in there,” I continued, “Maybe you’ll find something to clean up those cuts?” We looked at Jamie again, and he nodded reluctantly. “And then,” I added, “Perhaps the two of you could take a look in the kitchen, see if there’s any chance of us getting a cup of tea and a sandwich of some sort?”

  “Hang on. What the hell d’you think you’re doing?” Jamie was regaining breath and belligerence. “This is my… . ”

  “What?” I interrupted, sharply, “Your house, your party, your clever kidnap scheme?” It might not have been the best approach to take, but if any of us were going to get out of this crazy situation intact, it was going to be by not giving into the crazy. I was aware of what a risk it was, challenging him, probably more aware than he was, of what a hair trigger he was on, but time wasn’t on our side.

  I gently shoved Kitty and Isabelle in the direction of the bathroom and ignored him, while I took myself into the kitchen, located a glass on the draining board and took my time, rinsing out my battered mouth. When I’d done that, I returned to the sofa and the offensive.

  “Look,” I said, “I’ve no idea how all this is going to pan out.” I wasn’t surprised to see, he hadn’t either. What he’d had in mind, hadn’t really gone much beyond the thought of taking Isabelle and interrogating me. “But, for starters,” I pointed out, “You don’t need to tie anyone up again, do you? That’s really stupid, where on earth did you think she was going to go? We’re miles from anywhere.” He shrugged moodily,

  “Better safe than sorry and that old bitch didn’t have to kick me.” He said. “Bloody lethal she is. Anyone needs tying up and tying down, it’s her.”

  “Oh don’t be daft, and mind your manners.” I said, “She’s eighty-three years old, she couldn’t have done that much damage and she only kicked you, because you hit me.”

  “Only hit you, because you tried to do something to me.” He sulked. I nodded agreement,

  “I did and I won’t do it again.” He nodded slowly, didn’t totally believe me – as indeed, he shouldn’t. I could feel him trying everything he could, to crawl into my head, force his way in, it wasn’t pleasant and luckily he didn’t really know what he was doing. But I honestly still thought, at that point, I could handle him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Kat had stayed near the front door. With people falling down all over the place, she’d obviously thought it best to keep well clear, but now she moved forward a little into the room and diverted Jamie’s attention from me for a moment. He curled his lip,

  “Hate dogs,” he muttered.

  “That’s OK,” I said, “She’s not that keen on people.” I called her over and she folded herself down by my feet. He was indeed nervous around her and she certainly didn’t trust him. Every few minutes, she emitted the very softest of growls, they couldn’t really even be heard, I only knew, because she was leaning against me and I could feel the vibrations.

  “You’re not struck on birds either, are you?” I said. “What was all that nasty, dead bird, business?

  “Letting you know, I knew who you were and where I could find you. It was a message.”

  “Great, thanks a bunch. For future reference, a note or a phone call – just as good.” I was finding it increasingly and disconcertingly difficult, to keep my eyes away from the walls. Anywhere my glance landed, was more disturbing than the last thing I’d looked at. I could feel the effect, the surroundings of his own making were having on Jamie. They were pushing him further and further into a place I’d rather he didn’t go.

  “Are there lights in here?” I asked, getting up hurriedly. Dusk was fast descending and if the room was creepy in the day, I didn’t even want to think how it might feel at any other time. He nodded towards a switch on the wall.

  “They never got around to disconnecting the power, for some reason,” he said, “Still on in most of the properties, gas too in some of them.”

  Kitty and Isabelle had come back in and, following my instruction, quietly headed for the kitchen, Isabelle casting an apprehensive glance at Jamie as she passed. She was more or less in a state of shock, which was just as well, it was probably only that, holding her together at the moment, poor kid. When she’d seen his unmistakeable van draw up outside school and he’d waved at her, she’d happily gone over. She’d no reason to disbelieve him when he said, her mother had asked him to give her a lift home. In any case, the rule was don’t talk to strangers, which he wasn’t, so she knew she wasn’t doing anything silly. That was, until he’d stopped the van, to turn and slap a white towel over her face. There was something chemical-smelling on the towel and he’d held her, with unsuspected strength, until she passed out.

  When she’d come round, retching and sobbing, she was tied up on the sofa and well down the road to hysteria. And that was before she’d even had a chance to take in what was painted on the walls around her. But she wasn’t a stupid girl by any means and knew, hyperventilating never got anybody anywhere, so she’d pulled herself together. She’d had a fair amount of time to think about how all this might end and had come to some grim conclusions. Since our arrival, she’d been even more confused and she hadn’t got any real information out of Kitty, who didn’t know much more than she did. In fact, having witnessed Kitty’s somewhat alarming kick-boxing performance, Isabelle wasn’t sure whether us being there made things better or worse, although she was grateful for the company. She still thought the outlook was bleak, the only difference being it was now bleaker for more of us. She was terrified of it getting dark again. It took me a moment to sort out her thoughts on that, but when I did, it made sense. At night he was crazy Jamie – of course he was. It was at night he was picking up the worst of everything – nightmares, fantasies, other people’s inhibitions loosened by drink or sleep and feeding his own. Night-time and madness, it was the stuff his paintings were made of.

  By the time Kitty and Isabelle had emerged from the kitchen, with mugs of tea on a tray and a plateful of cheese sandwiches – which I suspected were more down to Kitty than Isabelle – I’d made a quick trip to the bathroom myself. Here, a trawl through the medicine cabinet, revealed a nearly full bottle of sleeping pills. I wasn’t sure I could risk using them, I didn’t think they’d knock him out quickly enough, but you never know when something might come in hand
y, so I decanted a fair few and tucked them in a pocket, for possible future dispensation.

  It was an awkward, understandably constrained group that sat down to partake of refreshments. Isabelle, Kitty and I together on the sofa, Kat at our feet and Jamie in the armchair. The dull light thrown off by a single table lamp and a small, central pendant, was doing nothing to improve the oppressiveness of the room. I’d found the right side of my face had swollen up in a most unflattering manner, and wasn’t working as normal, so I had to take little hamster bites and chew on the other side.

  Whilst I still felt confident I could sort this out, one way or another, it would be nice to know that Rachael, Ruth or one of the others had heard, and reinforcements of some kind were on the way. I thought this might be a good time to revisit the strap which sat, still intact in my head. I put some power behind it and threw it out again. Jamie looked up at me suspiciously and I feigned a yawn.

  The scenario, he’d rather naively visualised, was he and Isabelle spending some quality time together, without her ruddy mother sticking her nose in. He’d assumed Isabelle liked him and would be much more amenable to this, than she turned out to be. He’d also thought he and I would have a huge amount to talk about, he hadn’t counted on me having an aggressive octogenarian in tow. The bottom line was, he hadn’t had a minute with Isabelle when she wasn’t screaming, and hadn’t got a scrap of the information he wanted out of me. His mood was darkening dangerously, but then, I suppose, none of us was particularly cheerful.