by Simon Brown
“Wow, that is kind of mind blowing.”
“Perhaps even more extraordinary is that we also absorb photons from the sun and from distant stars. If we can see a distant star some of its energy will be inside us.”
“That is amazing.”
Henrique smiled in a shy, boyish way. It was the first time I had seen that expression on his large face.
“What if the water and air entering your body brought with it some kind of imprint of the places it had been? Could connecting with the particles washing through us allow us to pick up on those imprints? Is it possible that photons from the sun and stars can provide us with information from the inside that is light years away?”
I made a mental note to go out at night and be receptive to those photons finding their way to our planet. I thought about Dorothy’s suggestion that Mathew had left his imprints inside me. Then I had a thought of my own.
“If the universe is moving through us, is anything really ours? Where is this self we get so upset about?”
My head felt like it was expanding, reaching out into the universe. Then another thought appeared.
“Perhaps it is only when we are really still that we begin to hear some of these imprints.”
Henrique nodded and then spoke.
“The challenge we have is to go beyond dualism, rather than be limited to a thinking that may represent a tiny view of everything there is to understand. Ultimately it suggests being open, curious and not judging.”
“Yes, and when we experience moments of knowing from within, we may have to accept they may be beyond language,” I added excitedly.
After we parted, I walked along Oxford Street with my head spinning with ideas and then caught a bus home. I sat at the front on the upper deck, looking out onto the London streets. Henrique’s extraordinary ideas were deeper than anything my father or Mathew had said and yet I had not felt in awe of him or wanted to be in a relationship with him. Something had changed.
I was excited to tell Dorothy everything when I sat down with her in the living room. Dorothy listened attentively.
“I agree, and yet in all this let us consider that all these ideas are flashes of inspiration that will come and go, be proved and then disproved, and one day become obsolete. They serve us well for our own reflection and to inspire us to delve deeper into our self-discoveries, as long as we do not get distracted from this, by the theories themselves.
Dorothy spoke more about the mystery of Mathew’s murder over dinner.
“I have let your idea drift around my head, and the idea of Claudia killing Mathew does not feel right. It works and would certainly make a good storyline for a film, and yet it feels a little too contrived. I think there is a huge outpouring of emotion in the killing of your husband, the notes and your attack in Covent Garden.”
“So what do you think?”
“Who would be that emotional about Mathew? Veronica possibly, but she is incapacitated, and I doubt she could transfer that emotional intensity to Claudia.”
“Who then?”
“It would have to be someone who is so emotionally entangled in the things Mathew has done to be willing to wreak this level of emotional havoc on himself. Remember how you described the attack in Covent Garden. He really hated you. The letters are full of hate.”
I shivered at the memory. Dorothy continued.
“I’ve been looking at the letters again. I think we are looking for his son, someone young who can barely speak English. When I look at the wording there is an immaturity, his actions are reckless and he seems inconsistent. You have not heard anything since Venice.”
I nodded.
“Don’t worry, Amanda, we will resolve this. I feel we are much closer.”
CHAPTER 26
I arranged to stay a few days with a friend and colleague from school, for a change of scene, but after the third day her mother was taken ill, and she left for Manchester. I took the train back to London.
As I approached Dorothy’s building, my mind turned to a cup of mint and lemon tea. A plastic shopping bag had blown up against the steps. I picked it up and put it in the bin. I climbed the steps and fumbled through my bag for keys. I pushed the door open hearing the familiar sound of the draft strip brushing across the stone tiles.
The post was scattered across the black and white hall floor. I put my case by the stairs and squatted down to scoop up the assortment of envelopes. I started to sort them out. Dorothy had several letters. They looked like junk and bills.
I looked round at the sound of footsteps. I saw a young man bound up the stairs. I thought he was from one of the other flats and stood to the side to let him through. Then I noticed he had a nasty cut on his lower lip, black eye and graze across his forehead. The blood looked fresh.
“Are you alright?” I said.
He did not reply. Instead he walked up to me, grabbed my arm and violently twisted it behind my back. I felt a sharp pain in my wrist and shoulder. I felt him kick out at the front door and heard it slam shut. The youth pushed me forward, towards the stairs. I tried to resist but he gave my arm an aggressive jerk, sending a shrieking pain into my shoulder. I screamed out. I became paralysed with fear.
“No, please, let me go, please.”
“Be quiet.”
As he said this, he pushed the barrel of a gun against my neck and twisted it so it burnt my skin.
My body was wracked with adrenalin and fear.
“We go to your flat,” he said in a Spanish accent.
I smelt whiskey. A memory from being pinned to the floor in Covent Garden hit my conscious mind. He relaxed his grip slightly as we walked up stairs. My terror hit a new peak as I thought of Dorothy, innocently knitting in the living room.
“Please, my aunt will be here. Can we talk somewhere else?”
“Open door.”
For emphasis he twisted my arm so a new spike of pain drilled through my limb. I found my keys with one hand, but I was trembling so much I dropped them. The man hit me across the back of my head. He relaxed his grip so I could pick them up, before snatching them from my hand and turning the lock. He kicked the door so it flung open and pushed me hard, so I stumbled and crashed into the wall opposite. I heard the door shut. I turned and stood up. He motioned me into the living room with the barrel of his pistol. My eyes locked onto the weapon. Was this to be the instrument of my death?
I walked into the empty living room and stood at the far side facing him.
“Do you know who I am?” His voice sounded shaky.
“I think so. You are Mathew’s son. I mean, Ramon’s son.”
“You very clever. You know why I here?”
“No, no I don’t”
“I want to see the woman that Ramon left my mother for.”
A drop of blood ran down his chin and he wiped it off with the back of his hand.
“Do you want me to help you with those cuts?”
He ignored my question.
“Now I see you, you are nothing.”
He spat on the floor. I tried to calm myself with a conscious breath. I felt the cool air in my nose. I felt my heart and the inner me. I felt the nerve below my eye tighten.
“My mother was a princess, a beauty. Had more love in her finger than you will taste in a lifetime. Why? Why would he leave her for someone like you?”
“He had a few relationships before he met me,” I blurted out, hoping it would absolve me. I was in the external world.
His eyes glazed over. Then a new thought seemed to excite him.
“Take your clothes off!”
A new shot of adrenaline kicked in. Fear tightened around my heart.
“What? No! Please!”
“I want to see. Maybe you are so beautiful he could not resist.”
“But there were others before.”
I used the pause before his response to feel a breath. I looked at the beauty of the daffodils in the vase on the table. I felt a slight softening inside.
“He c
ould have come back. My mother waited every day, every hour for him to return. But instead he was with a whore like you.”
He swiped his hand across the table top next to him, sending the vase of daffodils smashing to the floor. He looked up violently, searching for something else to vent his rage on. Then his eyes focussed on me. He pointed the gun at my head. I felt nauseous. The tide of calm I had been slowly cultivating drained away, like a wave receding back to the sea. I was left with a feeling of naked fear. My muscles trembled, my skin tightened and felt the blood drain from my face.
“Take off, now.”
I unbuttoned my red coat. I slid it off my shoulders and draped it on the end of the sofa next to me. I bent down and unlaced my black boots. I sat down to pull them off. Mathew’s son appeared a little calmer. I tried to feel every detail, the laces, the soft leather, the eyelets.
“And socks.”
I felt the skin of my feet as I rolled my socks over the white of my heels. I felt the calloused skin to the side of my heel and the soft skin in the arch of my foot. My breathing slowed and I felt a breath. The outside receded and I was back with my internal self. I felt calmer and safer. I started to trust that I would know what to do.
“Please, let’s talk about this. Perhaps I can help.”
“Get up,” he shouted. The anger was returning.
A wave of fear washed back up my body. My legs shook and I used the sofa to help myself up. My eye was twitching badly.
He looked round and picked up a tall glass with white chrysanthemums. A surge of frustration flooded his face. He tipped the flowers and water onto the floor and then threw the glass at my face. It glanced my ear and smashed against the wall behind me.
“Take off!”
I pulled my knitted sweater over my head and laid it on my coat. I wore a cream vest. The son pointed his gun at my legs.
“Desnudate.”
I unhooked my belt and unbuttoned my jeans. I slowly wriggled out of them. They clung to my thighs. I fought to get back into the moment. I let my trousers fall to the floor and stepped out of them.
“Ugly. You not close to my mother. Why?”
I didn’t know what to say. I felt anything I could say would inflame him further. For a moment I felt myself connect with the inner me again. I sensed my heartbeat and breathing. Some of the anxiety dissolved into an emerging pool of peace. Then the external silence became unbearable.
“I’m very sorry,” I stammered.
He lowered his gun and I saw his shoulders drop. Then he shook his head. A drop of blood fell from his eyebrow. He raised his gun again and glared at me.
“Take off,” he said quietly this time. He motioned his gun towards my breasts. I lifted my vest over my head and gently laid it over my sweater. I felt exposed and highly vulnerable in my underwear. I felt very aware of my hips. I was back in my bedroom getting undressed, aware of Mathew’s critical stare. Now his son had the same expression. I thought about my choice of underwear. My bra was cream, and apart from lacing along the top of the cups it was quite plain. My pink knickers were large and only decorated with white lace. Both were thankfully modest. My eyes settled on his. I tried to see into them.
“I’m sure your mother was much more beautiful than I am. Please, can I dress now?”
“No, turn.”
He flicked the barrel of his gun at me. He seemed resigned. The anger had evaporated. Panic seeped back inside me. This is the end, I thought. He’s going to shoot me in the back of my head.
“Please, let me talk to you. I think I can explain everything.”
His face contorted into dry cracks and creases. Blood dribbled from his lip.
“Turn!” he bellowed.
I turned my back to him. I thought he would ask me to kneel next. I had seen footage of kidnap victims being executed by terrorists. I remembered that Mathew had been shot kneeling. I summoned all my energy to take a conscious breath. I felt the dry carpet under my bare feet. I remembered my dream in Venice. I tried to recapture that feeling that death held no fear for me.
“Take off.”
“What?”
“Todo. Everything!”
I reached behind, pulled my bra strap down a little and unhooked the clasp. I leant forward slightly and slid the straps down my arms. I put my bra on my vest. Then I slid my knickers down my upper legs and let them fall to my feet.
“Turn.”
I turned to face him. Instinctively I put my right arm across my breasts and left hand over my pubic bone. I could feel my skin crawl with goose bumps. My breasts felt soft and fluid against my arm. All my muscles seemed to be shaking.
“Why? I not understand. You nothing.”
My eyes watered and I felt a tear slip down my cheek. I willed another conscious breath to wash over me, but I couldn’t focus. I felt lost.
“Oh, you cry now, but where were you all those years I heard my mother cry herself to sleep? She died because of you.” He spat out those last words, with a deep anguish. “I want to smash you. Why should my mother die poor and you have everything? Why do you have his love and my mother nothing? Because you are a whore.”
“He was leaving me and tried to take all our money,” I shouted in desperation.
Mathew’s son looked at the ground shaking his head. I thought he had heard me this time. I looked into his eyes, I focussed on another breath and tried to return to that ocean of love inside me. I was rocking from one foot to another, like a boat rolling on a stormy sea. Then I took control of myself. I steadied myself and centred myself between my feet. I spread my toes and gripped the carpet, I bent my knees slightly. I began to immerse myself in a warm, pool of light. I could feel strength float up from the depths of my pelvis. The trust returned.
“You are a whore. I treat you like a whore. Lie down.”
Mathew’s son walked over to me quickly and hit me hard across the side of my face with an open hand. I nearly fell but managed to regain my balance. The side of my face felt numb.
My heart missed a beat. More tears traced the wet streams on my face. My lips quivered. I tried to plead with him but I could not mouth the words. I cried out in my mind, Lord, why have you forsaken me?
I felt myself slip emotionally and sobbed as a sense of hopelessness enveloped me. He slapped me on my bottom. I felt the sting. Then he put his hand round my neck. His face screwed up into an insane expression of wrath. I saw him look down at my breasts. Then he pulled me off balance towards him. I thought his face was going to hit mine, but he pushed me back violently sending me sprawling to the floor next to the sofa. I tried to catch my breath. My skin felt wet and clammy.
The man put his gun in his mouth and held it there with his teeth as he released his belt and unzipped his trousers. I tried a desperate lunge at him, hoping to snatch the gun from his mouth. He caught my arm and bent my wrist so I arched in pain. I let my arm go limp and he released it.
I struggled to get back to my right brain. I became aware of the soft, dry carpet under my back and bottom. I moved my fingers gently across the tufts of wool feeling the direction of the pile.
I looked at the ceiling. My eyes focussed on the ceiling rose. I tried to examine every detail of the petal pattern in the moulding. A very slow and faint feeling of warmth soaked up into my heart, like water to a sponge.
The realisation came that whatever I said he could not hear it, he was too attached to his mother’s suffering.
I felt him lift my left leg and I looked down. He was kneeling by my feet. He had taken his top off. His trousers and boxers were pulled down. I noticed two large bruises across his ribs. There was a graze across his arm. Then I felt him lying on top of me. His legs were between mine. He rested on his right elbow, leaning against the sofa. My husband’s son kept the barrel of his gun against my neck. I could feel him stimulate himself with his other hand. If anyone ever asked me what my worst nightmare was, it was this, being raped.
A feeling of complete resignation flooded over me. My muscles felt li
mp and heavy. I was drowning in despair, sinking into the depths of hopelessness. Deep inside me was a growing sensation of nothingness, a kind of deep, black void. I felt compelled to the emptiness. Its stillness invited me to embrace it. As the stillness spread I felt empty. The fighting, the resistance, the hope that I could somehow talk him out of it, had dissolved into a sea of acceptance.
Without realising it I had put my hand on my son-in-law’s heart. I moved my hand in almost imperceptible circles. I then I reached up and put my other hand behind his head. I tried to feel every short black hair. I felt him enter me with an aggressive thrust.
A tiny spark of light appeared somewhere close to my heart. It grew, shimmering its rays through the blackness that had consumed me, like the sun shining through to the depths of the ocean.
“This is not how you make love,” I was surprised to hear the whisper of my own voice. I stroked the back of his head gently. I looked into his watery eyes. Our eyes met. We connected, glimpsing each other’s soul. His body became still.
Then he lent down and pressed his lips against mine, forcing his tongue into my mouth, as though he was trying get back to the aggression and violence. I tasted his blood and smelt alcohol. He lifted his head and looked down at my naked body. “This is not making love,” I repeated softly.
He tried moving again. I felt him slip out of me. He reached down.
“This is not how you feel love.”
Mathew’s child looked into my eyes again. I felt the soft skin of his back with my fingers. My palms felt very hot. I saw tears well up in his eyes and then felt drops splashing on my face. He let go of the gun, brought his hand up and laid it on my breast. Then, the man with so much sadness in his eyes, crumpled and rested his head between my breasts. I held him. I felt connected to myself and to Mathew’s little boy. I felt him quietly sobbing. I felt the tears streak across my chest and down the sides of my neck. I felt tears from my own eyes run across my temples.
Between sobs he kept repeating “Madre, perdóname por favor.”
