Mystical Circles

by S. C. Skillman

  “Who?” she said. “Theo?”

  “No. Craig.”

  “What are you getting at, Don?”

  “I’m sure you like him. And the feeling’s returned.” He broke off.

  She sat upright in her chair. She’d need to stamp on this, fast. “Look, Don. Even if I weren’t here to do interviews… He’s charismatic. No one denies that. But if you’re suggesting…” She looked up. Craig stood there. Her eyes met his. She could have kicked herself.

  Craig moved to the armchair opposite, and occupied it.

  She sat up straight. The honest approach was best. “You’ll have overheard our last few remarks, Craig. So perhaps you can put your father right on this?”

  “No, Juliet, I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  She struggled to settle her inner turmoil. But, instead, whilst groping towards some kind of exit from the fog gathering around her, she slipped further in. Now she felt a curious instability, as if she was on a jetliner that had flown into an air pocket. In the next moment she received the impression that Craig’s features had melted and realigned themselves.

  Instead of looking at him, she believed she faced someone infinitely old and wizened, and Peruvian in appearance. The image of an ancient carved face on a rock in an Inca city, presented itself to her. It shifted again, and a new face emerged, that of a shabby, travel-stained New Age traveller.

  With a desperate effort of the will, she regained her awareness of Don beside her. But he was set into a freeze-frame. His hand had risen, perhaps to admonish Craig, but had then been arrested in mid-air. He wore a glazed expression.

  Craig smiled, and as he did so the spell, or whatever it was, lifted. All returned to normal. Don’s hand dropped to his side.

  Juliet realised she’d held her breath for several moments. She gasped the air back into her lungs. Her heart was pounding. Craig had done it again. Changed appearance. What was it with him? How did he do it? It frightened her. Her eyes were fixed upon his face. She hardly cared if he thought her rude to stare at him.

  Then Don spoke. “Well, Craig? What’s your answer?” It was as if nothing had happened. Hadn’t Don noticed? She was astounded.

  Craig interlocked his fingers, and laid them lightly upon his knee. “I believe we must learn to live at a high level of uncertainty,” he said.

  Juliet continued to search his face, but he offered no further explanation. Turning back again, she caught a glimpse of Don’s expression, a fine blend of expectancy and frustration.

  Struggling to regain her composure, she took a slow deep breath. But her heart was still beating wildly. As she exhaled, her mind went into overdrive again. What lay behind Don’s words as Craig entered the room? Surely he didn’t want to throw her and Craig together. That was ridiculous! The very last thing she could ever possibly want to happen.

  So thinking, she jumped up and headed for the door. Pausing in the open doorway, she caught the looks on both their faces: Don edgy, Craig calm and unruffled, yet still somehow mentally reaching out to her. Both men now were on their feet, moving forward, perhaps in an attempt to stop her.

  “No, Don. And you, too, Craig. Get one thing clear. I will not be used by either of you.”

  With these words, she fled the room.

  Juliet hurried across the hallway, and unlatched and opened the sitting room door. As she entered the room and shut the door behind her, the thrilling sounds of a rich bass voice assailed her ears. She stopped short. She recognised this music. It was the final scene from Mozart’s opera Don Giovanni.

  She knew this to be Rory’s taste in music. Was he in here? Yes. Those shiny shoes appeared over the end of the nearest sofa.

  Her mouth went dry. Rory had assaulted Oleg. He was unpredictable. There was some kind of psychological problem with him, which Craig wouldn’t be open about. Capricious mood swings turned him to violence. He could be dangerous. Had she escaped the scene with Don and Craig, only to find herself at far greater risk, alone with Rory?

  Not quite alone, she saw. Groucho, the parrot, sat on his perch, head on one side, listening intently. Rory had draped himself over the sofa, a crystal goblet of water on the occasional table beside him. His face wore a devout expression. She knew enough about him not to trust this. And somehow, from this angle, his legs looked longer than she’d ever seen them before. He was dressed in black from head to toe. He reminded her of a giant spider.

  As she stood poised, wondering whether to flee the room, he saw her. Swinging his feet neatly down onto the carpet again, he sat up and patted the newly created space beside him. “Juliet, do join me.”

  No way. But if he did try something, maybe Groucho would come to her aid? His sharp beak, surely, would provide some kind of defence. But all things considered, the possibility seemed thin.

  Right now, it would hardly look good to run back out. She chose the armchair opposite, setting her carrying case containing her audio equipment down on the floor. “I’d sooner sit here. Thanks all the same.”

  Since she’d arrived in the community, she’d found Rory nothing but courteous towards her. And yet Oleg’s tale rang warning bells in her mind. Not to mention his odd words out there in the forecourt, when he’d been raking the gravel. About knowing too much. And Craig being afraid he’d talk. Already her fingers had chilled, and were beginning to tremble.

  He acknowledged her decision with a gracious wave. “The opera, as you’re no doubt aware, is rising to its magnificent climax. Don Giovanni is about to be dragged down into the fires and everlasting torment of hell, as a punishment for his sexual excesses.”

  She didn’t like the way he said this. Anxiety stirred in her stomach. His eye lingered upon her in a curious manner. She fought to disguise her ill-ease. “When the music’s finished, may I ask you a few questions?”

  “But of course.” He picked up the remote control from the arm of his chair, and immediately silence cut in.

  “There was no need for that. You were perfectly free to listen till the end.”

  “Not at all, not at all. I’ll save it for later, when I’m alone again.” He licked his lips, as his eyes slid across her.

  All her senses were razor-sharp. She was ready for anything. But she’d got herself into this situation. She must calmly prepare to interview him. She set up her Nagra, plugged in the mike, and switched on. Then she held the mike close to his mouth.

  “Rory, what did you hope for when you first came here?” she asked.

  A secretive flicker passed across his face. “As you might expect, to try Craig out and see if I like what he offers,” he replied.

  “And you’ve been here a year, so you must know more fully than anyone else what that entails.”

  His eyes hardened. She mentally pulled up. Take care. Don’t provoke him. Ask any innocuous question. As long as it doesn’t offend him.

  “You’re sure you’re not here to sit in judgement upon us?” said Rory.

  Yes. Here it was. An abrupt switch to a hostile tone. Groucho rummaged in the nut bowl beside him, withdrew a pistachio, and began to crack it. “Of course,” said Juliet. “I told you before, Rory. I mean to be fair and accurate.”

  “Very well.” He fell to studying her once more. His pointed, elongated features accentuated his insect-like quality. He held his hands, palms uppermost, in a gesture of transparency.

  “So, then, Juliet. What he offers, first of all, is work on breaking down our defences.”

  “Your defence of yourself, against other people?”

  “Yes.”

  “That must be challenging for you. How does this affect the way you all get on together? Do Craig’s promises apply to your relationships with each other… you and Oleg for instance?”

  She held her breath. Why did she say that? Fool. If she angered him, she was lost. And yet, what a perfect opportunity to perhaps win a few admissions from Craig’s most unstable follower.

  He bristled, like a hunting dog about to spring. She watche
d him warily. He leaned forward and placed his hand over hers, with a light but menacing touch. “You’re treading on dangerous ground there, Juliet.”

  She was well aware of that. She withdrew her hand quickly. “I’m sorry. I was hoping you might be willing to tell me what happened from your own viewpoint.”

  He scuttled his long fingers over the arm of the sofa, in a cockroach-like motion that made her shudder.

  “Don’t do that, Rory,” she said.

  “Don’t you like it?” he asked.

  “No.” She saw and felt how tense he was. Perhaps she could defuse him. “I’m giving you the chance to justify your actions, if that’s what you’d like to do.”

  Groucho flew off his perch, and back into his cage for a drink of water. Rory stared at her, his expression increasingly unfriendly.

  She felt perspiration prickle her forehead. She’d miscalculated. Pull back. Now. Before it’s too late. “If you’d prefer not to, I quite understand,” she said. “Perhaps later instead. What about your plans for the future? You do seem to be looking to Craig for freedom and peace. Do you believe you’ll find it? Will he succeed in pulling out that thorn from your flesh?”

  Oh God, no. She’d done it now. Even as the words left her lips, she knew it. She’d pushed her luck too far. But she still didn’t expect what followed.

  After a fractional hesitation, he sprang from the sofa, knocking the mike from her hand. Groucho erupted into the air with a screech. In one bound, Rory was onto her, his hands around her throat.

  She gagged. Tried to scream. Fell from the sofa. Rory on top of her. As he increased the pressure on her neck, she kicked out. He recoiled in pain. The Nagra fell to the floor and the microphone rolled across to the fireplace. But Rory held on.

  Groucho circled the room, letting out a series of squawks. Rory increased his grip. Squeezing. Squeezing the life out of her. He was choking her. Panic clawed its way up from her stomach. He’d kill her. He was mad. She was going to die. Here in this beautiful room. Her hands flailed. Her legs were pinned to the floor by his weight.

  Chaotic images followed. Body on the floor. Bulging eyes. Purple tongue.

  Who’d find Juliet? Zoe. How would she react? What would she feel? And Craig... Juliet couldn’t bear to think of him. Too late now. Was her life flashing past her? When did she last say the Lord’s Prayer? No. No. No...

  Suddenly Rory let go. He jerked back. She coughed violently, fighting to swallow. Then she scrambled to her feet.

  Now he crouched in the far corner of the room, eyes glittering, his chest heaving. Something had broken into his mind. He’d decided to stop. If he hadn’t, she’d be dead. He’d tried to strangle her.

  She flew to the door. Chest heaving. Exploring her burning throat with her fingers. Desperate for life and sanity. She pulled the door open and sprang through the doorway, into the arms of Craig.

  “Juliet! What’s happening?” He held her for several moments, steadying her, then released her, his eyes on her throat. “Have you upset Rory?”

  “Craig!” she burst out before she had time to process this extraordinary remark. She could barely speak, but mustered what was left of her energy. “Thank God,” she croaked. “Call the police. Rory tried to kill me.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” His eyes had widened. He spoke the words as if he thought her reaction over-the-top.

  Patrick appeared from the library, Edgar close behind him. Both men stopped short, and gaped at her.

  “Holy Mary and Jesus! Have you been provoking Rory?” asked Patrick, delicately touching her neck. She flinched. Her heart was pounding.

  His words appalled her. She turned to indicate the sitting room. “Rory’s still in there,” she gasped. “He’s lethal.”

  Craig moved closer again, and gently inspected the raised weals on her throat. Meanwhile, the Irishman scuttled back into the library – to collect, she was to learn in a few moments, the first-aid box. Edgar, left behind, became absorbed in scribbling something on a sheet of paper on his clipboard.

  “I’m very sorry, Juliet,” said Craig. “This is quite inexcusable. I shall have words with Rory about it.”

  Juliet’s mouth had fallen open. Was that all he meant to do? “Words, Craig? Nothing else?”

  Patrick emerged from the library with the first-aid box. Setting it upon the hall table, he opened it up and produced a tube of Savlon. Seeing this, Juliet’s sense of unreality increased. They had a homicidal maniac in the sitting room, and all they could do was produce antiseptic cream and pathetic remarks.

  “Now, calm down, Juliet. Let’s think clearly about what’s happened.” Craig laid his hand on her arm as he said this.

  “But, Craig,” she whispered. “He needs to be locked up.”

  “Juliet, please be patient. I do care about what’s happened to you. But I’ve learned that when Rory’s done something like this, it’s best to leave him alone for a while to calm down.”

  “You’re protecting him. Why?”

  Patrick dabbed Savlon on her injured throat. “There. That’ll help.”

  “I can’t explain right now,” continued Craig. “Just believe me. In most cases he’s perfectly harmless.”

  “Most cases? What does that mean?”

  Patrick interjected before Craig could answer. “Juliet, we all have to protect Rory. I agree, he can be too physical; but that makes him no more guilty than you or I, for, as the Good Book says, what a man thinks in his heart…”

  Craig silenced him with a severe look.

  “Have I heard you right, Craig?” asked Juliet. “You mean – all he’ll get from you is a tongue-lashing? Shall I call the police myself?”

  Craig regarded her sympathetically. “Do you really think that would be a good idea?”

  As she held his gaze, she felt a change. Her breathing calmed. Her mind cleared. She started to relax again.

  “You don’t want to jeopardise your documentary,” he said softly. He took her hand.

  “No,” she agreed hesitantly.

  “That’s right,” Craig said. “Now listen. I told you a few days ago, didn’t I, that nothing here is what it seems? Well, that’s probably truer of Rory than of anybody else. I’m very sorry this happened. I’ll go straight in there to speak to him.” He squeezed Juliet’s hand lightly, and released it.

  She looked at him. He turned, and went towards the sitting room door. She couldn’t bear to wait and watch or listen. Instead she went up the staircase, intending to retreat to her bedroom.

  For a few moments she studied herself in the mirror, fighting back tears at the sight of her neck. It looked terrible. Fiery. Red. Soon to be swollen and bruised. How dare Rory? How dare Craig? She felt like screaming.

  But no sooner had she sunk onto her bed than there came a knock on her door. Not Craig again so soon, surely. “Who’s that?”

  “Don.” She felt enormously relieved. “What timing.” She opened the door.

  He entered. “Just a quick word before I drive Theo to the station…” He stopped, and studied her throat in horror.

  “Your neck. What happened to it?”

  “Rory tried to throttle me.”

  “What?” he exclaimed, his face flooding with colour.

  “He did it in the sitting room a few minutes ago. I got away from him, and met Craig just outside in the hall. But I couldn’t believe his reaction. He said he’d speak to Rory about it. That was all he planned to do.”

  Don was dumbfounded.

  “How many times has he done this before?” she asked. “Craig mentioned something about in most cases – what did that mean?”

  Raising his hand to stop her questions, Don moved forward, and examined her throat. “Looks nasty. Patrick has the first-aid box.”

  “I know that,” she said. “I’ve already had the benefit of it.”

  Don nodded. “He’s well-trained. Small comfort to you, of course. What happened?”

  “I was interviewing Rory. Asked him about his thorn in t
he flesh.”

  Don tutted. “No good. No good at all,” he said. “Did you record the attack?”

  “God, I had no time to think about that. Possibly.”

  “Good. Evidence,” he said.

  “Well, yes, but what use would I make of it? Craig advised me against calling the police. And, I hate to say, I came round to his way of thinking. I realised it could backfire on me. Wreck my documentary for a start.”

  Don sank heavily into the chair by the window. “A mess, isn’t it,” he said.

  She didn’t reply.

  “You even keener now to rescue your sister?” he asked.

  For the first time since the attack, she laughed, though her neck still burned ferociously. “Yes.”

  A few moments passed. “How do you feel about Craig now?” asked Don.

  “Angry. I know I should really leave at once. Grab Zoe and go.”

  “No point. Forget about sorting Zoe out. That’s my advice,” he said.

  “Why?” She felt a flame of fury at his interference. She couldn’t believe he’d spoken those last words. How hypocritical of him. Was he criticising her now for her attitude to Zoe? Wasn’t he at least equally guilty himself of trying to organise someone else’s life for them: Craig’s?

  “Goodbye, Don.” She couldn’t trust herself to continue with the subject.

  He got up, touched her shoulder, and walked out of the room.

  She sat for a few moments, breathing deeply, unsure what to do next. Then, on inspiration, she jumped to her feet. Go and find Zoe. That was it. She’d be shocked at what had happened to Juliet. She might want to leave straight away. But first, Juliet pulled a blue Liberty scarf out of her drawer, and loosely knotted it around her sore neck. Somehow the gentle warmth it created was comforting. It would also cover the redness and the bruises she expected to appear soon. Hurrying out of her room, she nearly collided with Theo heading down the passageway, travelbag slung over his shoulder.

  Instinctively she put her hand to her throat, but the silk covered the evidence of Rory’s aggression. She felt she’d had quite enough conversations about that subject for the time being. She surveyed Theo. She could understand the initial attraction between him and Zoe. Her sister was pretty and charming; and Theo gentle, considerate, caring – and not at all bad-looking himself, in a neat, blond kind of way.