The Midnight Side

by Natasha Mostert

  ‘Oh yes. She envied you.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘Why do you find it surprising?’

  Isa shrugged. ‘I have nothing she could have wanted.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. “Isabelle never plays games,” Alette used to say. “She doesn’t need to.”’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  She tried to move away from him, but he stepped gently to the side, blocking her. It was done so carelessly, she wasn’t sure if it was on purpose.

  He spoke again. ‘If you had to sum up your relationship with Alette in one sentence, what would it be?’

  ‘Alette wanted what was best for me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He spoke quietly, his eyes never leaving her face.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Alette was interested in one kind of relationship only: a relationship based on control.’

  ‘What a deeply stupid thing to say.’ She could hear the anger in her words.

  ‘Think, Isa. Think back on the kind of relationships Alette sustained in her life. They were all relationships in which she manipulated and enticed. She seduced the people in her life to become psychologically dependent on her, while she tried to keep her autonomy absolutely. Every relationship became a game of power chess. And she couldn’t bear to lose. She couldn’t bear it. The goal to have the upper hand at all times consumed her.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Oh, yes it is. And you know it, too. She was relentless. And she insisted that those who loved her constantly proved their feelings, their undying affection.’ He looked past her, his eyes blank. ‘Tests. She’d set me tests to prove my devotion.’

  In the hollow beneath his eye was a pale blue vein. It stretched all the way to his outer eyelid. ‘You remember that ring I took from the house? The “poesy ring”?’

  She nodded. Her throat felt dry.

  ‘My mother gave me that ring. I should give it to my daughter one day, she said. My mother is not a particularly demonstrative person, so this ring was special to me. Alette insisted I get rid of it. It’s as though she needed me to prove how much I cared for her. When I refused, she nagged at me till I gave it to her as a gift. She never wore it, but after the divorce she refused to give it back.’

  He returned his gaze to her face. ‘But you’re the same, aren’t you, Isa? Isabelle? You and your Eric. Let me guess: his absence was as important to you as his presence. You welcomed it, because you knew it ensured that every time he saw you he looked at you with fresh eyes.’

  His hand suddenly on her arm, fingers gripping tightly. ‘Did you like it? Did you like it that he constantly schemed to be with you and rushed to your side with all the hungry excitement of a brand-new lover? Year after year coming to you with the same breathless passion?’

  As if mesmerized she watched his mouth: his lips, the way they moved. A tiny speck of saliva clung to the lower lip. His fingertips were hot through the thin fabric of her blouse. So close, he seemed overwhelmingly vital and alive: his energy a tangible thing. A flush was creeping down her body, slowly, very slowly. She suddenly felt like weeping. Her throat was tight, her eyes starting to prick.

  She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  She placed her one hand against his chest and pushed. Hard.

  He looked surprised, gave a step backward. She balled both her fists and struck him with all her strength in the hollow between his collarbone and his shoulder. He gave a grunt of pain.

  ‘Get out of my way.’ Her voice shook. She swung around and grabbed at her coat. ‘Get out of my way.’

  At the door she looked back. He was standing where she had left him, arms crossed over his chest. She couldn’t read the expression in his eyes.

  She slammed the door behind her and started to walk down the long empty hallway towards the lift. She tried to moderate her stride, but she was walking so quickly now that at times she was almost skipping. The heels of her shoes clicked loudly against the tiles: a silly, fluttering, frightened sound.

  • • •

  BY THE TIME she reached the house she was calmer, even though her hand was still unsteady as she tried to fit the key to the lock. But for the first time in a very, very long time, the blood was flowing strongly through her veins and all her senses were alive, as though they had been forcefully rubbed the wrong way. The insidious sense of lethargy and the brooding unease that had become her constant companions since Eric’s death were gone. Along with simple, outright fear, she had found the situation with Justin tonight exciting … tantalizing even. What the hell was wrong with her?

  ‘Isa.’

  She turned around with a small scream.

  ‘Hey, it’s only me.’ Michael bent over to pick up the keys she had dropped.

  The sight of his bulky figure was a relief. She tried to speak, but the tension of the evening was suddenly too much.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He placed his arm gently around her shoulder. All of his gestures were always gentle, she thought. Almost hesitant, not wanting to hurt. In her mind, unbidden, came the memory of strong fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her underarm. Did you like it? Year after year… the same breathless passion?

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I’m okay now, thanks.’

  ‘How did things go with Temple? Did you get the stuff?’

  Isa thought of the cardboard box on the walnut table. So much for that. There was absolutely no way she was going to return to his place.

  She made a slight, negative motion with her head. ‘There wasn’t really anything I wanted after all.’

  ‘Good. So you won’t be seeing him again.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That makes me feel a whole lot better.’ He smiled. ‘The reason I came over is to let you know that I’ll be away for the next few days. I’m spending the holidays with my family and I don’t really need to go back to work before the second week in January. But I want you to promise me you’ll call me if you need me.’ He took out a scrap of paper from his pocket. ‘This is the telephone number.’

  ‘Thanks, Michael.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, really. Don’t worry so much.’ Although, she realized with slight surprise she did suddenly feel just a little abandoned. She’d better get a grip. She couldn’t depend on Michael to always hold her hand for her. ‘I’m fine,’ she stated again firmly.

  ‘I have a great idea. Why don’t you spend Christmas with us? It won’t be a big party: only my mum and my sister. And my brat of a nephew. Last year he threw up all over us, but if you come I’ll make sure he behaves.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of intruding. Christmas is for family.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be intruding. We’d love to have you. And my sister’s a spectacular cook.’

  She shook her head. ‘But thanks very much anyway.’

  ‘Well, then,’ he said reluctantly, ‘promise me that if you get nervous about anything—anything at all—that you’ll call me.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said just as he was about to turn away from her. ‘I almost forgot. This is for you. Merry Christmas.’

  From his carry-all he took a cardboard tube and handed it to her.

  She looked at him. ‘May I?’

  ‘Please.’

  Opening the plastic top, she withdrew a white, rolled-up piece of rag paper.

  It was a pen-and-charcoal sketch of herself. He had signed his name to it. She supposed it was a flattering likeness—the bones of her face delicately drawn—but did she really look so sad? Were her eyes really that shadowed?

  He was watching her anxiously, one large hand brushing through the tow-coloured hair with a nervous gesture. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Thank you. I shall cherish it.’

  He grinned, relieved. ‘It’s looking for trouble, drawing a picture of a woman. You can either be accused of insincere flattery or otherwise the likeness isn’t fl
attering enough. But you have such an interesting face, I couldn’t resist.’

  She felt herself blushing. ‘Oh … well, thank you.’

  ‘Now, are you sure you’re going to be okay?’

  ‘Positive, thanks.’

  ‘All right then. But if you need me, you call me. Promise?’

  She held up her hand, palm turned outward. ‘Promise.’

  THIRTEEN

  We can dye by it, if not live by love.

  The Canonization

  John Donne (1572–1631)

  SHE WAS DEAD. Why, then, did he feel as though she was still around, watching him, her eyes crinkling with amusement? Why did he feel as though she was dogging his footsteps? He heard her voice in the echo of every other woman’s voice; her silvery laughter reached his ear as he walked down the street. Only yesterday he had sat behind a woman on the train, a woman with upswept hair and a lovely neck. She was reading a paperback, her head bowed. Almost he had reached out and touched her. There was something of Alette in the unconscious grace of her posture. It made him long to draw his finger down the nape of her neck, right there where a few strands of hair had escaped from bondage. Silky skin; the sense of her blood pulsing just beneath the pad of his finger: the idea of it had left him short of breath. But then she had turned her head and glanced at him, and he saw that her face was common and coarse and no light shone from her eyes.

  He couldn’t understand what was happening. After Alette’s death he had felt newly invigorated. But now his brain felt heavy in his skull, his arms and legs were stone.

  He missed her; of course he missed her—it was only to be expected. His demon angel. She was solace. She was pain. Joy and humiliation. She inspired a sick fidelity, a strange devotion.

  Tired, so tired. His thoughts were murky, as though the blood pumping through his brain was foul and oxygen-deprived.

  How was he going to cope?

  THIRD ENVELOPE

  FOURTEEN

  Riddles lie here; or in a word,

  Here lies Blood; and let it lie.

  Epitaph on the Earl of Strafford

  John Cleveland (1613–1658)

  JUSTIN WAS COPING. The stock was rallying: up another fifty-five pence. He had embarked on serious damage control and there was every indication that his salvage mission might well be successful.

  He had gained the support of Donne Asset Management, the single biggest shareholder in his company. He had issued a twenty-two page rebuttal of allegations that investors were misled by not being informed earlier of a potential sourcing problem. The circular, crucially, also set out in great detail a plan on how to cope with this problem. The financial pages and City analysts had been virtually unanimous in their approval.

  This morning Isa had switched on the television set and had watched a solemn-faced analyst with a flamboyant tie discuss with great seriousness, and not even a hint of levity, the steps Temple Sullivan was taking to ensure an adequate supply of lemur droppings. It seemed the company had made arrangements with a number of zoos worldwide to feed palm seeds to their paradise lemurs and to collect the precious manure afterwards for processing. The company had also managed to work out a deal with the authorities in Madagascar to sponsor the development of two new lemur sanctuaries, as well as special measures to bolster the breeding of paradise lemurs in the existing national park of Perinet. All these measures, investors were assured, had already been in the pipeline; but up till now the authorities in Madagascar had baulked at the idea of taking land away from the Sakalava people on the island of Nosy Be. Fear that the drug might have to be rationed, however, had caused world-wide pressure and concern, forcing the authorities to give way. Temple Sullivan had also agreed to sweeten the deal by assisting the government with land recompensation claims and investing heavily in adult education programmes on the island.

  Justin was managing. He was riding the tiger. Isa couldn’t deny feeling some relief, but she also felt flat, let down.

  Cheated.

  • • •

  THE AISLES IN SAINSBURY’S were crowded with last-minute Christmas shoppers: pensioners looking for bargains; irritable mothers and their hyperactive toddlers, fathers who looked as though they were praying for deliverance. A rap version of ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ pulsed from hidden speakers and Isa could feel the onset of a headache.

  With difficulty she steered her trolley past a display of reduced Christmas crackers and party hats and parked it next to the cat-food section. She needed to get milk but it would be easier to cut through the crowd at the refrigerated compartment without the trolley.

  As she returned from her quest, two milk cartons clutched in her hands, she immediately noticed the tall man standing next to her trolley. A tall man in a dark suit, a tan raincoat draped over one arm. Lionel Darling.

  He was staring at the contents in her trolley as though they held some special significance. When she came up to him, he turned slowly towards her and smiled, unsurprised. ‘Well, hello.’

  Somehow his presence in that over-bright shop seemed unreal. Compared with the desperate faces of the shoppers around him, he seemed cool and unencumbered. In his hand he held a single red rose wrapped in transparent plastic with a gold ribbon tied at the end.

  ‘This is unexpected.’ She placed the cartons in the trolley and turned to face him.

  He gestured to the flower in his hand. ‘Last-minute shopping.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She stared at the rose and wondered why someone would brave a store filled with manic shoppers in order to buy a single flower.

  ‘Well.’ She smiled at him and gently started pushing her trolley away. ‘It was nice seeing you.’

  ‘And you.’ But he didn’t leave her side, instead falling in behind her as she entered the line at the checkout counter, pushing her trolley behind that of a large, red-faced man who coughed wetly.

  She glanced at Lionel Darling. ‘You’re welcome to go ahead of me.’

  ‘That’s quite all right. I’m in no hurry.’

  ‘Do you live around here?’

  ‘Not too far away.’ His gaze took in the frenzied scene around him. ‘Tis the season to be jolly.’

  ‘You don’t like Christmas?’

  ‘I never have, come to think of it.’

  ‘Not even as a child?’

  He lifted a lazy eyebrow. ‘My parents are of the fire-and-brimstone generation. They never believed in jingle bells, jingle bells. They saw this time of the year as the perfect opportunity to impress on me the more fundamental aspects of heaven and hell.’ With an abruptness that was startling, he suddenly dropped his voice to a stagy whisper: ‘“Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.” 1 Peter 5:8,’ he added in a normal voice.

  She stared at him, slightly taken aback. Before she could think of how to respond, he continued, and now the mocking tone had left his voice. ‘My parents have a very simple perception of the world. Evil breathes fire on the one side of the divide, the virtuous cower together on the other side. And ne’er the twain shall meet. Grey areas do not exist.’

  Exchanging views on matters of theology in a checkout line. Somehow the environment of canned foods and frozen turkeys made the discussion feel even more surreal.

  ‘I suppose it could be comforting to a child to have the lines drawn so clearly?’ She was becoming a little alarmed by the grimness of his expression.

  But then he flashed a smile at her and the bantering tone returned to his voice. ‘Well, you know what Samuel Butler said when he offered an apology for the devil: “… it must be remembered that we have only heard one side of the case. God has written all the books.”’

  She returned his smile, relieved at the change in tone. ‘And Mark Twain said that even if it would be indiscreet to pay Satan reverence, we can at least respect his talents.’

  ‘Just so.’ He looked at her approvingly and then glanced at his watch. ‘You know, I may take you up on your
offer after all. Would you mind if I slip in ahead of you?’ He placed the rose delicately on the conveyor belt and took a beautifully tooled leather wallet from inside his pocket. As he removed from it a ten-pound note, he noticed her eyes on the wallet.

  ‘From your native country, actually.’ He tapped his finger against the tiny bumps on the leather surface that are so typical of ostrich skin.

  ‘I thought it might be. Did you buy it here?’

  ‘It was a gift.’ He didn’t elaborate, instead busying himself with paying the weary-looking woman behind the till. Carefully picking up his rose, he turned around and held out his hand. ‘I enjoyed our conversation.’ He smiled charmingly and squeezed her hand. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

  Soon? There was only one envelope left and he had said he would courier it to her. But before she could ask him what he meant, he had moved away from her.

  With one final, airy wave, he turned around and walked with long, sure strides towards the exit. He held the rose in front of him like a symbol. His fair hair shone like a halo underneath the bright lights.

  • • •

  CHRISTMAS DAY. Quiet streets and the sound of church bells in the air. The sky overcast with the promise of snow. Isa stood by the window and looked out to where the stained-glass panels of the church sparkled darkly.

  She had come to associate Christmas with loneliness and longing. She never saw Eric over Christmas. This was family time: going to church with his wife and children, entertaining parents and in-laws. Presents under the tree and Santa.

  But there had always been the knowledge that come the New Year, there would be a knock on the door and he’d be waiting to grab her into his arms, holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe: holding on to her as though he would never again let her go. And they’d make love and talk and share with each other their resolutions for the New Year.

  She turned away from the window. No resolutions this year.

  She descended the staircase and entered the kitchen. She had, foolishly, bought an enormous turkey yesterday, which she would now have to prepare and eat all by herself.