by John Nicholl
‘You may have noticed that all of the houses on this side of the street have basements. Nothing unusual in residences of this style and period, of course. They were used as coal holes or servants’ living quarters in times gone by.’
‘I hadn’t given it any thought, to be honest.’ Why talk about the basement?
‘That’s a good thing. It’s vitally important that you keep it that way. The cellar is my personal domain, somewhere I store various confidential files pertinent to my work. I keep the access door locked at all times. Please don’t be tempted to try to open it. That’s the one thing I couldn’t tolerate. A deal breaker, as the modern parlance goes. Am I understood?’
I nodded, taken aback by his words and unsmiling demeanour. ‘I don’t think it needed saying. I’ve no interest in your precious cellar.’
‘So you’ll stay clear.’
‘Yes, a thousand times, yes. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear. I won’t go anywhere near your cellar.’ I was beginning to wonder if returning to university was such a good idea after all.
21
Emma’s back in the same hospital she so recently left, but not by her own hand this time. Not a great surprise, as I previously suggested. I think it was inevitable at some stage or other given the realities of her life here. I’m told she was targeted by a group of prison world’s more vindictive residents, and violently attacked when attempting to take an early morning shower, whilst other prisoners and previously attendant guards ignored her calls for help and looked or walked away. That same needy guard I’ve mentioned more than once, has been trumpeting the gory details of the enthusiastic mob-handed assault to anyone and everyone who’s willing to cock an eager ear: broken teeth, a fractured nose with the white bone breaking the skin, multiple tufts of hair torn from her bloody scalp, and a deep ten-inch gash in her right buttock from coccyx to thigh, courtesy of a razor-sharp blade of indeterminate type. They’ll search for it half-heartedly, of course, but these things are rarely found in such circumstances. All in all, she’s in quite a mess apparently. Terrible really. I hope she enjoys the resulting medical attention, because from what I’m told, it’s going to be a rather long stay this time.
I don’t mean to sound callous, I really don’t. I don’t bear her any ill-will as I may have mentioned before, but I’m not going to pretend her predicament has lost me any sleep. Not because I don’t care, not because I’m an unsympathetic person by nature. I’m just not responsible for her victimisation. That’s one thing I’m clear on. I took no part in the attack, and warning her of its inevitability would have served little, if any, purpose. Being ignored and having her food repeatedly spat in should have told her what she needed to know. She could have protested, she could have pleaded her case with prisoners and staff, she could have watched her back a little more carefully than usual, but it would have happened anyway. It was just a matter of when and how. I’m going to put her troubles to the back of my mind and forget her as best I can, for as long as I can. I think that’s best, and before you judge, it’s practicality rather than selfishness. I just don’t want to become distracted when I’m making such good progress with my storytelling. I’ll be faced with her return soon enough anyway. I’ll think about it then, when I have no choice in the matter. Why waste my energy on her prior to that inevitable day?
22
I was initially glad of some time to myself after the unpleasantness prior to the doctor’s departure, but anyone who’s lived alone will know that an empty home can be a very lonely place, particularly when you’re not familiar with such circumstances. I’d just about given up on my expected housemates turning up when early on the Monday morning I was hurrying down the hall in the direction of the front door, clutching my textbooks tightly in both hands, when I heard what sounded like a boy yelling incoherently in the flat directly above mine, followed by a resounding thud, as if an item of furniture had crashed to the floor. I stopped and listened to the subsequent silence, weighing up the possibilities. Someone was moving in. They’d finally arrived. That seemed blatantly obvious.
I placed my books on the bottom step of the staircase, pushed up my coat sleeve, checked my watch, decided I had just about enough time to say a quick hello before making my way to my first lecture, and urgently ascended the stairs two or three at a time, just as the door at the top began to slowly open.
I stopped on the landing and stared, searching for a response, as the doctor stepped out of the flat and closed the door behind him. He was sweating, panting hard, his tie tugged loose. He looked agitated, and his emerging smile was less than convincing, to say the least.
I shook my head. ‘Doctor, I wasn’t expecting… I thought…’
His smile evaporated as quickly as it appeared. ‘Shouldn’t you have left for university before now?’
‘I just wanted to say hello. I thought…’
‘You thought, is that really such a good idea?’
‘I just…’
He took a deep breath and calmed his breathing. ‘It’s all perfectly straightforward. No more questions. Now off to university with you, and meet me in the Golden Lion’s lounge bar at one fifteen. All will become clear.’
‘But, I was planning to…’
‘You don’t want to be late, my dear. Steven wouldn’t want that. I’ll see you at one fifteen precisely.’
He played the S card often in those days, when it suited him, when he wanted to influence me in a particular direction. And it worked. Hugely frustratingly, it almost always worked. ‘I’ll see you then.’
The swirling tobacco smoke stung my eyes as I entered the Golden Lion public house at about 1:10 p.m., and I paused momentarily, allowing my eyes to adapt to the dim interior. I looked around the room and spotted Galbraith sitting alone at a table in a quiet corner of the room, directly below a wall-mounted jukebox with a handwritten ‘out of order’ sign pasted to its glass front. He looked up and raised a hand in acknowledgement as I approached him. ‘Take a seat, my dear. How about a drink to help us relax? What do you say? I was about to have another.’
‘Just a sparkling water for me please.’
‘Really? Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’
I sat opposite him and frowned. ‘I’ve got a lecture in a little over an hour, water will be fine, thank you.’
‘Very wise, my dear, very wise. How about a bite to eat?’
‘I ate a pasty on my way here.’
He stood, approached the bar and returned a minute or two later with a glass of water for me and a double brandy with ice for himself. ‘Right, listen carefully, and I’ll explain the change of plans.’
Change of plans. What change of plans? I sat in apprehensive silence, waiting for him to speak again.
‘I won’t be renting the first- and second-floor flats for the foreseeable future despite my earlier plans. I’ve asked the university to arrange alternative accommodation for the relevant students. I’ll send on their belongings in due course.’
Should I say anything? Yes, why not? ‘But I could swear I heard someone call out this morning. I thought it sounded like a young boy.’
He laughed, head back, throat taut, virtually manic. ‘Just the radio, my dear. I was listening to a rather engrossing play on Radio 4 whilst moving some heavy furniture from one room to another. It’s about time I sorted the place out.’
Okay, I guess that made sense, even if it did sound so real at the time. ‘So you’re leaving the flats empty. Why would you do that?’
‘Your studies are progressing reasonably well overall, as we’ve discussed more than once. But there’s absolutely no room for complacency. The last thing you need is unfortunate distractions.’
I wondered why on earth he hadn’t talked to me before making a decision that directly affected me. ‘But I’d enjoy having other people in the house. It can feel very empty sometimes.’
‘The decision is made. You’re going to have to get used to it, I’m afraid.’
And that was it. The flats remained empty for a
s long as I lived there.
Nothing of any great significance happened in the subsequent weeks. I worked hard at my studies, kept socialising to a bare minimum, repeatedly put off visits home on the doctor’s recommendation, and met with him each and every Wednesday afternoon, as agreed, to discuss my progress, inevitably followed by a meal for two at the flat or one local restaurant or another. I didn’t find our meetings particularly arduous, but I always hoped we would eat out, rather than cook and eat in. His culinary standards were insurmountably high, as it seemed they were in all things, and I began to suspect he suffered OCD to some degree, which caused some unpleasantness on occasions. Everything had to be immaculate, everything had to be ordered and in its precise place. Even the items of food in the larder fridge and various kitchen cupboards had to be stored in order of size and type, with any labels facing outwards for easy scrutiny. He tried to make a joke of it when insisting I put right any discrepancies, but his facial muscles tightened and betrayed his true feelings. There’d be an unequivocal tension in the air that I felt it was my task to diffuse. He even licked a finger on one occasion and ran it across the top of a picture frame before holding it out in front of him and loudly proclaiming, ‘Dust! A myriad tiny particles of waste matter. You really should be more careful, my dear. I have a white glove somewhere. It would be ideal for the purpose.’
I recall turning and walking away in the direction of the lounge, but he fetched a damp cloth from the sink, hurried after me and handed it to me insistently. ‘I think it’s best if you wipe it clean immediately, my dear. Steven wouldn’t want you to be slovenly, now would he?’
I was quietly seething, but softened again at the mention of Steven’s name. ‘I suppose not.’
‘There’s no suppose about it. Now get it done.’
And that’s how it went, week by week, month by month, the same predictable pattern right up to the 10th of April, when everything changed. He was particularly complimentary of my work that afternoon, praising my efforts, expounding my virtues, with none of the usual morale-sapping criticisms with which I’d become so familiar.
We finished working at just after 5:00 p.m. that afternoon, and sat together in the lounge, listening to Stravinsky and enjoying a glass of his favourite French claret for the next couple of hours. There was something different about him that evening. He was more relaxed, warmer, more convivial, just as he’d been at the Indian restaurant in Tenby that first time, and I found myself enjoying his company.
We went out at about 8:00 p.m., walked off the strains of the day, and enjoyed an excellent meal at our favoured Italian restaurant. He took the lead in our conversation, as was the norm, but instead of academia and my need to focus on my work, he talked of his travels and his love of Rome. ‘It’s a wonderful city, Cynthia. An education, a living museum with an architectural treasure to behold and ponder at every turn.’
‘I’d love to go there one day.’
‘And you will, my dear, you will. And I shall be your guide.’
The evening continued in that vein, with promises to expand my education from psychology to art, to opera, to poetry and travel to distant lands. ‘You’ve earned it, Cynthia. You’ve worked hard, you’ve kept your side of our agreement. Now it’s my turn; you deserve your reward.’
When we arrived back at the flat shortly before midnight, he took my coat, suggested I choose a suitably relaxing classical album to bring the evening to a close, and poured us both a generous tot of fine brandy, whilst I made a brief toilet visit to powder my nose and check my makeup.
I returned to the lounge, sat in one of the two wonderfully comfortable leather armchairs, accepted the drink gratefully and sipped at it, grimacing slightly as the strong spirit burned my throat.
‘Down the hatch, my dear. Down the hatch.’
I lifted the crystal brandy glass to my mouth and took a generous gulp.
‘That’s it, my dear, that’s it. Now just sit back, relax and let the music work its magic.’
And that’s the last thing I remember. I’ve experienced drunken memory loss more than once, but this time was different. I recall getting lost in the sweeping orchestral melody. I recall downing the brandy with his encouragement ringing in my ears, and then nothing, absolutely nothing, as if I stopped existing at that precise moment.
I woke up in bed the next morning with a pounding headache and a painful back that made me wince when I moved even slightly. I peered around the room and saw that my clothes were neatly folded on a bedside cabinet, but I couldn’t remember undressing. Why would I do that? It just wasn’t like me to get paralytic with alcohol.
When I eventually dragged my naked body out of bed on shaky legs, about half an hour later, I noticed blood on the sheets. I thought for a second or two that my period had started unexpectedly, but I quickly dismissed the idea almost as soon as I thought it. I massaged my head ever so gently, opened the curtains slightly to let in the subtle morning light, stood with my back facing the full-length mirror on the back of the wardrobe door, and began to cry silent tears that welled in my eyes, ran down my face and fell to the carpet in a steady unremitting stream. There were multiple deep bloody scratches on either side of my spine, just above my reddened and bruised buttocks. What on earth had happened to me? I had difficulty computing the injuries and their significance. Steven was a gentle and attentive lover, my first. This was new territory, alien to my experience. I felt lost, confused, very close to panic, and my head pounded as if a jackhammer were operating inside my skull. Why couldn’t I remember? It made little sense as I began filling in the gaps. Surely not, surely not? Did I really drink that much? Was I really that legless? Did the doctor cause my injuries? It seemed unlikely, but what other explanation was there?
I flinched and urgently grabbed a large damp bath towel from the heated towel rail in the small en suite bathroom, as Dr Galbraith knocked on the bedroom door and opened it without waiting to be invited in. ‘Ah, I thought I heard you up and about. I’m afraid you’re running rather late, my dear, but not to worry. I’ve already been in touch with the university on your behalf and told them you won’t be in this morning. A severe migraine, in case anyone asks later in the day. It seemed best. No need to thank me.’
I took a step or two backwards and clutched the towel tightly to my body. ‘What happened last night?’
‘I must be on my way, my dear. I’ve no time to talk now. Pressure of work and all that. You have a good deal of free time before this afternoon’s lectures. I suggest you use it wisely to tidy this place up after last night’s revelries. It’s in a shocking state, as I’m sure you’ll agree. I will see you again next Wednesday as per usual.’ And then he winked once before turning and walking away. ‘I didn’t realise you were such a passionate girl. Perhaps it would be wise not to drink quite so much next time.’
23
I’m beginning to regret falling out with Needy Guard despite my deep loathing for every aspect of her unfortunate personality. She visited my cell early this morning, held up a large brown envelope in full view, and taunted me with it for a full five minutes or more before finally handing it over. She held it out, withdrew it, and repeated the process time and time again, like a self-indulgent playground bully or a cat playing with a mouse. I could have screamed, I could have hit out, I could have lost control completely, but instead I played her game in the interests of an easy life, pleading, indulging her mindless cruelty, until I finally lost patience and sat on my bunk without moving or speaking, in a silent Gandhi-like passive protest intended to diffuse her inhumanity. And it worked, it really worked. She lost interest a lot quicker than I’d anticipated, and tossed the envelope onto the mattress just out of my reach. One final barb driving home her dominance. ‘There’s no need to be like that, Cynthia. I was just having a bit of fun. Have you heard the latest on Emma?’
Every part of my being wanted to yell a stream of angry profanities and obliterate her sneering grin, but instead I forced a smile and said, ‘No, I hop
e she’s making progress.’
And then that repugnant sneer again. ‘You’re too soft for your own good. The bitch will be back with you soon enough. See how you feel then. I wouldn’t be too friendly, if I were you. It wouldn’t go down well with the rest of the girls, if you know what I’m saying.’
‘We don’t choose our cellmates.’
‘Why would you? You’re nothing special. You’re in prison, not some posh boarding school.’
I moved sideways along the mattress, inch by inch, inch by subtle inch, and reached out, determinedly clutching the envelope tightly in my right hand. ‘Can I have some time alone to read my letter, please? It may be from my solicitor.’
She laughed humourlessly. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, girl, that’s never a good idea in this place. Keep your head down, do your time, and pray it passes quickly. That’s the best you can hope for. You should have learnt that by now. You must be a slow learner.’
‘Can I have some time to read the letter in privacy now, please?’
And then a mocking curtsy. The cow, the mocking, patronising cow! ‘Whatever madam requires. But, you’ll mark my words, if you know what’s good for you.’
‘Thank you, I will. I’m sorry if I upset you.’
A final hoarse smoker’s laugh and she left without further comment. I watched her walk away, waddling like an over-plump land-bound duck, before saying a silent prayer of thanks for small mercies and tearing open the envelope, taking out my angst and frustration on the stiff brown paper.
The style of envelope had mislead me. The communication wasn’t from my lawyer. There were no legal papers, no contrived formal language. Instead I discovered a single-page letter from Jack in his barely decipherable scribbled handwriting with his address and telephone number, and three six-by-eight-inch glossy photos of his Californian wedding ceremony in Monterey, an attractive coastal town with wonderful views of the Pacific Ocean, about one hundred and twenty miles south of San Francisco.
