Others

by James Herbert

  I came across no pedestrians along these lanes and, although tempted to knock at one of the houses to ask directions, I decided against it: it was sometimes a shock for people to find me unforewarned on their doorstep, an embarrassment I tried to avoid whenever I could. I’d try one more lane at least before I took that risk.

  Fortunately, I had at last found the right one. It was a long, narrow lane of hardened mud, with a few twists and turns and mostly fields and hedges on either side. It was difficult to believe it might lead to the kind of establishment I was looking for, but I knew PERFECT REST had to be somewhere in the area, so I persisted. I passed very few houses and these were mainly gathered near the lane’s beginning, although I did eventually come to one that appeared deserted, its lower windows boarded up, front door heavily padlocked. The further I travelled down the winding lane, the more I had the feeling of being miles from anywhere, of venturing into a remote part of the countryside, even though I was aware that the city itself was no more than thirty or forty minutes away. Even the steady stream of air traffic high above failed to convince me I wasn’t in some distant hinterland.

  Soon, however, and just when I was considering turning back, I spied rooftops and chimney stacks rising above the trees ahead. Judging from what I could see, it was a large, tall building, at least three storeys high, its roof and gables topped with aged, red slates, a multitude of television aerials attached to the chimneys. Relieved, I drove on and soon came to a wide entrance, its large iron gates closed. The sign on one of the stone pillars on either side of the entrance was discreet and in faded gold script on a deep brown background declared:

  PERFECT REST

  Residential & Nursing

  Home for the Elderly

  Dir: Leonard K. Wisbeech, MD, FRCS, FRCOG, FRCP, DCH

  I’d had to press a button and speak into an intercom mounted below the sign on the pillar to get someone to open the gates for me, and as I drove through I noted my surroundings, a mental exercise I invariably performed in my role of private investigator. In this case it wasn’t necessary, it wouldn’t answer any questions, but it was a habit that was hard to break. The lawns on either side of the lengthy driveway were scorched brown by the summer’s sun, the grass itself cut too short for middle season, and flowerbeds strived to cheer the approach to the house, although their colours had passed their best and were not varied enough anyway to raise the spirits. To my left, almost by the gate itself, was another drive, this one overshadowed by trees so that it looked more like a tunnel than a roadway. I gave it scarce attention, for the home itself loomed up soon after I was through the entrance, a big white building, beyond it the great wide River Thames, swift-flowing and muddy-brown. Across the water and through the trees there, I glimpsed fast-moving traffic, and I assumed this was the main Windsor road that I’d noticed in the map book. The broad river formed a natural moat, the trees on the opposite bank a partial screen that afforded the home all the privacy and peacefulness it could desire as well as a barrier against a busy world that had little time for the elderly; on this side, the long twisting lane through fields and woodland provided another buffer against the outside intrusion, and I wondered if this was the purpose of PERFECT REST’s location. It certainly seemed to be the perfect half-way-house towards oblivion.

  The building had projecting wings on either side, hence the gables, and was, as I’d guessed, comprised of three storeys, the windows on the ground floor high and elegantly framed. The white stonework was cracked in places and a fresh coat of paint would not have been amiss, yet it was still a grand structure and it was easy to imagine its former glory. At one time, perhaps in another century, it had obviously belonged to a wealthy landowner or nobleman, a private mansion house now given over to commerce, and it occurred to me that present residency in such a place would come expensive, too expensive, I would have thought, for an ex-NHS midwife. Maybe she had a rich family back there in Germany, relatives who could afford to pay for her care here. But then why wouldn’t they take her home again, so that she could be close to them? And George Wilkins hadn’t mentioned any rich relatives. I shrugged my shoulders. What did it matter? The case I was working on concerned a missing baby, not the financial affairs of an ailing elderly ex-midwife.

  I pulled up outside the main entrance, an incongruously modern addition to the original structure with its plate-glass doors and side windows, framed in mahogany, seemingly ‘stuck on’ to the main building itself as if the architect or builder had no concept of architectural harmony. A gentle wheelchair ramp led up to the doorway and inside potted plants brushed against the glass on either side. Craning my neck to get a better view I saw that beyond this conservatory-type vestibule was a long, wide hallway stretching towards the back of the building, a screened receptionist’s desk positioned a little way along its length.

  Climbing awkwardly from the car, I made my way up the ramp and pushed open one side of the clear doors. A head popped up from behind the white panel screen and I felt myself scrutinized as I hobbled towards the desk. The pale cream walls were hung with wonderfully reproduced gilt-framed prints, the glorious works of Ingres, Reynolds, Renoir, Cassatt, all depicting beautiful women, perhaps chosen to cheer the home’s elderly residents (although I would have thought such reminders of youthful loveliness might depress the more age-sensitive among them). A particular favourite of mine, although scorned by many present-day élitist critics for its elegance and ideality (which made it, of course, too ‘populist’ for them), caught my eye: it was Alma-Tadema’s painting of women bathers in a Pompeiian bathhouse, and it wasn’t just the incredible feel for texture and surfaces that got to me – no, it was also the understanding the artist had for the human form, its grace, its vulnerability. Its perfection.

  Even though my pocket would only allow me to indulge my love of art through galleries and artbooks (even my reproductions were minimal), art stirred the imagination – my God, it allowed the imagination! – in a way that reality rarely does. Through art I could yearn without bitterness, fantasize beyond restraint, the picture itself was the dream and my own mind the observer, the visionary; my thoughts could go anywhere without hindrance from truth. The brushstrokes here proclaimed the natural symmetry between the figures and their environment, shape and substance extolling a harmony that would always elude me because of my own dissymmetry (unless, of course, I were to stand amidst clamour and distortion); yet rather than be reminded of my flaws, I was persuaded to become part of this fabulous insight (those piss-poor critics might label it ‘visual fallacy’) and this kind of escape never ceased to please me. I had paused in front of the print, momentarily captured by its delicate power, and the receptionist’s voice rudely reclaimed me.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Her screened desk was positioned on the other side of a junction, narrower corridors leading off from the main hallway, left and right, and I crossed over to it, avoiding a white-haired, crook-backed gentleman in pyjamas and dressing-gown and supported by a Zimmer frame shuffling by as I did so. I noticed a Titian print on the wall to the receptionist’s left, the print depicting a naked woman reclining while a dark figure seated before her showered her with gold dust. Again, the nude’s form was beautifully defined, the colours rich and adding to the sexual lustre.

  ‘My name’s Dismas. I rang earlier – about visiting Hildegarde Vogel?’ Resting my elbows on the screen’s shelf, I watched her smile adjust to my closeness. It withered slowly. A visitors’ book lay open by my left arm and I noticed there were very few sign-ins for that particular day. Only one, in fact.

  ‘Sorry, your name again . . . ?’

  Her smile was almost rictus by now. The name-tag pinned to her cream buttoned-to-the-neck blouse declared her to be ‘Hazel’.

  ‘Nicholas Dismas.’

  The receptionist was plump and on the other side of forty, the circles of her mottled-blue-framed spectacles almost usurping her face, so big and statement-intended were they. She tapped my name into a compu
ter hidden beneath the screen’s shelf, stopped to consult her wristwatch, then continued tapping. Bare details registered, she returned her attention to me.

  ‘You spoke to Ms Bell, didn’t you?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I spoke to someone about Hildegarde.’ My use of the ex-midwife’s Christian name might indicate familiarity.

  ‘Yes, I put you through to Constance. Just one moment, I’ll see if I can contact her for you.’

  ‘I only need to see Hildegarde Vogel,’ I insisted.

  Her voice became frosty. ‘Just one moment . . .’ She picked up the receiver of a grey telephone next to her computer and with an imperious gesture of her other hand she indicated a row of brown-fabric armchairs against a wall back towards the entrance vestibule, a low, blond-wood magazine table in front of them. ‘If you’ll just sign the visitors’ book, then take a seat . . .’

  Picking up the pen that was attached by a thin ball-chain to a black base fixed to the shelf, I scribbled my name, but where it said ‘Address or company’, I put in the agency address without its title. At this delicate stage I wanted neither to reveal my profession, nor to give away my flat’s location (I was always reluctant to divulge my home address in case anyone with a grudge decided to pay me a visit at home – some debtors or errant members of the public I’d had dealings with seemed to regard me as their personal persecutor). That was why I carried two calling cards with me, one with both addresses (for clients only), the other with only the agency’s (for witnesses, informants, debtors, anyone who had no real cause to contact me at home). I replaced the pen and as I retreated to the visitors’ chairs by the vestibule I heard the receptionist tapping again, this time digits on the telephone base. As I sank into a seat, my eye immediately going to the two prints opposite, the Cassatt and the Ingres (the latter another exquisite female nude), I heard her say: ‘Constance? I have a Mr Dismas here to see Hildegarde Vogel. You said you’d want to have a word first? Right. I’ll ask him to wait.’ She replaced the receiver and once more those owlish eyes regarded me over the top of the screen. ‘Ms Bell will be along shortly,’ she informed me before lowering her head again so that all I saw was a grey-streaked bush apparently resting on the shelf.

  Constance Bell, I mused. A nice name to go with the beautiful voice I had heard over my mobile. My expectations rose.

  An ambivalent odour of staleness and sterility pervaded the air, my nasal passages, with their keen sense of smell, irritated by the mixture. Distant noises came to me – a clank of metal, the squeaky wheels of a trolley, a soft crash somewhere, followed by a muted burst of laughter – none harsh enough to disturb the general serenity of the place. The elderly man who had crossed my path minutes before escorted his Zimmer frame back across the reception area again, looking neither left nor right, or even ahead, his attention exclusively concentrated on the marble floor two feet in front of him. His breath seemed to rattle as it escaped his lungs. I heard the almost entirely invisible receptionist shuffling papers on her desk, then all became still and quiet again.

  Ignoring the back-dated yet still gleamingly new-looking copies of Punch, House & Garden, Tatler and the like spread over the squat table before me, I studied the paintings on the wall opposite once more, wondering at the choice for such a place as PERFECT REST.

  The sound of footsteps approaching along one of the corridors, a clatter on marble that oddly was without a regular rhythm, drew me from my musing, and I looked towards the open area where the hallways met. The person was still out of my sight as the receptionist, her position allowing a good view of all approaches, glanced up and said, ‘Hello, Constance,’ before nodding in my direction.

  The footsteps grew louder and I straightened my body as much as I was able (not much, unfortunately), surprised by my own growing expectancy. The sound of her lovely voice, heard only over the phone, was still fresh in my mind.

  Oh my God, I said silently as Constance Bell came into view.

  14

  Her face was beautiful. Her face was perfect. With those deep brown, liquid eyes, that slightly tilted nose and chin so softly drawn, her face was exquisite. Her medium-brown hair was pulled back from her face revealing the elegant curves of her cheeks and neck, and her gentle smile was as perfect as a smile could be.

  But Constance Bell’s body was like mine. Only in some ways it was worse.

  It was twisted and small – not dwarfish by any means, but little (had it been normal, it would have been described as petite). Her body had been deformed by spina bifida, her limbs twisted, her spine misshapen by the sac it carried, her walk, assisted by metal elbow-crutches, ungainly. But even so she was beautiful and I wanted to weep for her.

  She hesitated when she saw me, her clumsy steps faltering for a moment; her expression – her so-sweet expression – was a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and something more, something I could not define. It was as though a veil were drawn across her innermost thoughts, the hint of darkness around her eyes the subtle manifestation of sleepless nights, a secret kept. Still, her smile did not vanish completely.

  ‘Mr Dismas?’ She had quickly recovered her composure and was walking towards me again.

  ‘Yes . . .’ My response was almost as hesitant as her own initial reaction.

  ‘I’m Constance Bell. I’m a care-supervisor at PERFECT REST.’ She held out a small, delicate hand, the crutch on that side perfectly balanced by her elbow, and I felt a shiver run through me, not one of aversion – God forbid that I should feel such an emotion – but a kind of frisson that seemed to run between us. I’m perhaps ashamed that I also took pleasure in being able to look down into a woman’s eyes, an all too infrequent occasion for one of my stature.

  ‘I spoke to you earlier . . .’ I said for the sake of saying something. ‘On the phone.’

  The fullness of her smile returned and again I was lost in her beauty. ‘Of course,’ she replied and it occurred to me that she might misinterpret my unease. I rushed my words.

  ‘Uh, Hildegarde Vogel. I asked you if it would be all right. To see her, I mean. I’m a friend . . . I know her. Used to know her.’

  ‘Yes, I checked on Hildegarde after your call.’ Her eyes were serious, searching mine, looking for . . . ? Looking for what? Dishonesty, subterfuge? No, I didn’t think so: her gaze was too sincere, too gentle. Perhaps she was just wondering how I’d acquired the bruises and swelling on my face. ‘It’s one of her relatively good days,’ she went on, ‘so I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you, even if she doesn’t recognize you at first. I’m afraid it will have to be a brief visit though – Hildegarde tires very quickly.’

  Her voice was as alluring as it had been over the phone, a voice that matched her face but held no alliance with the irregularities of her body. I let its sound sink into me, just as I allowed her gaze to search mine.

  I pulled myself together, remembering something Constance Bell had hinted at during our telephone conversation. ‘You said Hildegarde had another problem as well as emphysema . . . ?’

  ‘You weren’t aware? Mr Wilkins didn’t mention it?’

  I shook my head and hoped those penetrating eyes wouldn’t detect my guile.

  ‘Well, I suppose it has been a few years since Mrs Wilkins’ last visit, and Hildegarde’s decline into senile dementia has been more rapid recently.’

  ‘Senile dementia?’ I could feel my hopes sinking.

  ‘I’m afraid so. Hildegarde rarely even remembers her own name now, although recently she’s been referring to herself as “Sparrow”.’

  ‘That was her nickname.’

  ‘I know. We learned that even before she arrived here.’

  It was something else I let go for the moment, this time distracted by the closeness to Constance Bell herself. I remained unsettled by the sight of her, my inner thoughts in a strangely pleasant turmoil, my emotions turning cartwheels. I’d never been quite so captivated by anyone in this way before. She wore a pale blue, short-sleeved tunic with lapels, a buttoned front and a plas
tic name tag above her left breast, the home’s nursing uniform, I guessed, which had obviously been tailored to her awkward shape. I noticed that her hair was tied into a neat little tail at the back, unusual for a girl who appeared to be in her mid-twenties, but all the more beguiling for it.

  ‘Now if you’ll come along with me, we’ll see how she is,’ the cause of my distraction was saying. ‘I can’t let you stay too long though, Mr Dismas – Hildegarde is very frail these days and, as I said, tires easily. I’m afraid conversation with her might be difficult because of her deteriorated mental condition anyway – unfortunately brain atrophy isn’t something that can be reversed. Just lately we’ve found her wandering the corridors late at night as if searching for someone. When we question her she can never remember who.’

  Constance Bell led me past the reception desk towards a broad staircase further along the hallway and I realized, as Hazel, the frosty receptionist, twisted in her chair to watch, we must have made an odd sight, both of us hobbling along, in some ways twinned by our appearance. I noticed more superbly reproduced prints of old masterpieces adorning the walls on the way, but these were subtly changed. They still portrayed beautiful women – a Klimt to my right, a Mucha to my left – but they were more stylized, less realistic, impressions of beauty rather than exact representations, and they were both incorporated into symbolic or swirling designs. There was also another aspect to them that might have been considered out of place in an old people’s home: both bore suggestions of eroticism. As we drew nearer to the staircase and further into the innards of the home itself, the artwork appeared to take on yet another aspect. These reproductions were by the likes of Cézanne and Munch, the themes as before, but now ill-drawn, as if the artist cared little for the qualities of the physical form but chose to describe them – in my view, at least – in more exaggerated and sinister terms. Perhaps the fault lay with me; perhaps because of my own physical distortions I idealized the perceived perfection too much and felt only disdain for its corruption. Foolish, maybe, philistine to some, no doubt; but there it was. Possibly a shrink could convince me to lighten up, not to take these things so personally.