“I wouldn’t like to tell you what I called that man. I told her if he thought he could do my job he could come in here any day. I told her to send him anyway, if he dared come; and if he didn’t, to stop listening to his drivel. I honestly believe I got through to her for once. When she left she actually looked happy.”
George’s attention was wandering. This story couldn’t be the vital link he’d hoped for. The doctor seemed so relieved to talk that he was rambling. George glanced about, mentally tidying the office. Prescription forms lolled from a pigeonhole; he restrained himself from pushing them in.
“The next time she came,” the doctor said, “she was completely terrified.”
His voice was harsh; his eyes gleamed like glass, held still by memory. “You see, it wasn’t her husband who’d told her originally what would happen to her baby. It was another man, who had power over her and her husband. Those were her words: had power. And he hadn’t just said the baby would be born a monster. He’d said he would make it born that way.
“I didn’t lose my temper with her, not even when she wouldn’t tell me his name. I’d have arranged for the police to call on him, I can tell you. She did tell me how she’d heard of him. She’d seen his notice in a shop window, among the other postcards—wouldn’t tell me where. It promised youth, new vigour, perfect health, the meaning of life, the usual nonsense. She told me the slogan: The Way of Absolute Power.
“So she went to the address on the card.” The doctor gazed at a memory, as if glimpsing something from the corner of his eye. “She would never describe him, that man, even when I asked her. It was as if I’d asked what God looked like, or the Devil. That kind of pure terror. That was part of what he did to her.
“She said he asked her first of all why she’d come. He was finding out how gullible she was. Then he said he was going to model her. And he made a model of her, in some kind of clay. She had to sit absolutely still for an hour. If she so much as moved a finger he would look at her, and she’d feel as if she’d committed the worst sin in the world.
“That was her first taste of his power. He was a witch-doctor, even if he was an Englishman. That’s what they do—show their victims they’ve been cursed, to make the curse work on their minds. But this swine was an Englishman.
“She said the model looked exactly like her. Not very like—exactly. As if she were lying there in his hands, gone grey and shrivelled up. He said that was what she was like, but he was going to change it.
“She said he made her younger, just by smoothing out the clay a tiny fraction. Everyone told her she looked years younger. Well, she always looked older than her age, because of the worry. But you know, it seemed to me she’d looked younger the day she came back here after vanishing for months. I couldn’t be sure, though, because I’d been looking at how worried she was.
“The next thing was, he made her healthier. He dipped the model in some herbs. And of course she hadn’t come to me for medicine for months. You could see why she believed in him.
“Then she roped her husband in, because the witch-doctor asked her to. Now, he didn’t need miracles. He wasn’t bright, but he’d never needed me in his life. I should have realized there was something wrong; he wasn’t the kind to get mixed up in that sort of thing, but I thought he must be doing it to please her. Well, she said he felt like a new man. So they both began going to the meetings.
“She wouldn’t tell me much about the meetings—or at least, I knew there was a lot she wasn’t telling. They met in the basement under the witch-doctor’s house, about a dozen of his victims. And he made them do things.
“Even the things she told me, she didn’t understand. He made them stand in a ring and he’d stand in the center with all the models. He moved the models as if they were dancing, and everyone danced round him.
“She said one odd thing, and she wouldn’t look at me—she said she didn’t like to dance so slowly, but that was the way he was moving the models.
“She showed me how they danced. She said she didn’t mind it, but I’m not so sure. They lifted their feet as high as they could and strutted about with their legs wide open. But slowly, very slowly. I didn’t like it; there was something very nasty about watching this pregnant woman dancing like that, here in front of me—something degrading. He said it was to help his power, some such rubbish. But I think he was showing the contempt he felt for them.
“I could tell she didn’t like the meetings. She went to as few as she dared, I think. She didn’t like some of the things he did with the models. He gave one woman an abortion without even touching her—well, that was probably a pseudocyesis, a hysterical pregnancy.
“I think she’d have refused to go to the meetings if he hadn’t had that model of her. She didn’t like some of the things he made them all do. He made her think things about herself, or about the others. He made her do things so that he could watch. But she couldn’t stop herself; she said she didn’t want to. It was only afterward she was disturbed.
“The last meeting she went to, he made one of the others do something. Whatever it was, it decided her never to go again. But she’d just decided that when he told her she was pregnant.”
The doctor leaned forward; his chair creaked sharply. The sounds of the room flooded back around George. The curtains shifted, half awake. “What scared her was she hadn’t known she was pregnant herself. Yet he did, as if he could look inside her. He told her that if she found she wasn’t, she need never come to another meeting. So when she found she was, that scared her into going back.
“Then he said she must promise the child to him.”
“But what about her husband?” George demanded. “What the devil was he doing?”
“Keeping quiet. You see, he hadn’t believed the witch-doctor at first; he’d had to have the power proved to him. So she said. And after that he didn’t dare open his mouth, whatever the proof had been.
“Well, she still wouldn’t promise the child. The witch-doctor didn’t argue. All he said was that if she didn’t give it to him she would bear a monster.
“Well, she didn’t know what to do. If she went back she would have to promise; if she didn’t she was making her baby be born a monster. I’ll be honest, I didn’t know what to believe. And she didn’t help by going on about the things he could do, how old he’d told her he was, the things he knew that no one else did. And, oh yes, how he could sing without words in a terrible deep voice and make her feel something behind her, coming out of the earth or the basement wall or some such nonsense. I mean to say. Would you have believed her?”
“I don’t know,” George said, for the story had disturbed him, here amid the smell of antiseptic. At once he saw that the doctor had hoped he would say No.
“I’ve seen pregnant women as good as mad,” Dr. Miller said, a little defensively. “I thought there was a bit too much of her story, what with black magic and her husband plotting against her. But I felt there was more wrong than just her mind. So I told her to go home, and I’d talk to her husband.
“She didn’t like that idea, but she hadn’t any others. I went to her house next evening. She must have told him I was coming. I don’t know what else she’d said, but she had a bruise on her face as big as your fist.
“Well, I asked him what this voodoo nonsense was about. And he said she’d made most of it up. He hadn’t told her the baby would be a monster, he’d just said he couldn’t be sure. Oh, there’d been a faith-healer all right; she’d even asked him once for an abortion. But all the rest was her imagination. Even so, he didn’t like the effect the man had been having on her mind, so he said. She wasn’t to go near him again. In fact, they were planning to move out of town.
“I believed him, because he was saying what I’d thought. The only odd thing was, he kept shouting. I remember thinking he didn’t need to shout to convince me. I think he was shouting himself down. He didn’t want to believe they were still in the witch-doctor’s power. I think that was why he hit her, for sayi
ng what he wanted to forget.
“She didn’t say a word, and I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. So I told him to look after her, treat her kindly—I didn’t want her having any more bruises, and he knew that was what I meant. I tried to get him to tell me the witch-doctor’s name, but he wouldn’t. Said the man was giving up his mumbojumbo. He was lying, of course.
“I must say I felt quite pleased with myself. When I didn’t see her again I thought he’d begun looking after her properly. I should have looked in on them, I know, but I hadn’t the time,” he said harshly. “She had a midwife, if they hadn’t left town before the baby was due—I’d told him to try to get her moved before then. Of course she didn’t trust hospitals.
“Then her next-door neighbour ran in here one evening to tell me the baby was coming.”
Though the room was thick with dusk, the doctor made no move to switch on the light. He seemed glad of the dimness, glad to be able to gaze without seeing. Outside the window, flowers nodded, bulbous on thin necks; the curtains scraped the floorboards softly, restlessly. George watched darkness fill the doctor’s face.
“The midwife was out on a call. The woman wanted me to go; no one else would do. Her neighbour pleaded with me to go. She said her friend was terrified, no telling what she might do.
“I only had a couple of patients waiting. I dealt with them as quickly as I could and hurried round there. She was lying on the bed. I could see the baby was due at any moment. She was gasping, but she managed to say she could feel the baby. She could feel how it was moving, she screamed that. She could feel it was a monster.
“That was all she had time to say. And all I could do was give her husband his instructions and begin the delivery.”
He had no face now, only talking darkness. “It wasn’t a difficult delivery,” he said. “I remember I was hearing children in the street, I could hear a football hitting the wall of the house. There was a bit of a breeze; it was an evening like the one we had today. I brought that out of her on an evening like this. Actually, the head looked almost normal.”
George stared at the darkness, which had fallen silent. The only sound in the room was the faint oily creaking of the plastic curtains. The darkness was rushing at him, exploding behind his eyes. “Was it dead,” he blurted, “the baby?” It was the nearest he could come to voicing his unease.
“It couldn’t have lived,” the doctor said. George heard shame, self-righteousness, the memory of disbelief.
The desk light glared down its cone. Dr. Miller’s face was expressionless; perhaps he had prepared that in the dark. “Was it—” George said, startled by the light, and wished he hadn’t begun the question. Incomplete, it sounded as if he’d repeated his previous question, like a relentless interviewer. He had to say, “Was it as bad as she’d feared?”
“Yes,” the doctor said. “Yes, it was.”
His eyes were blank, as if he refused to allow them to fill. George tried to look away. But the doctor took his gaze to be a question. “This is all I’ll tell you,” he said, and George felt he hoped it would leave him in the telling. “It was nearly three feet long.”
George glanced away, at the glossy lamplit patch of yellow wall, smooth as jelly, at the greasy-looking flowers that swayed on the plastic curtains, at anything.
“She never saw it. I took it away,” Dr. Miller said rapidly, anxious to finish. “But a couple of weeks later her husband came for tranquillizers, for her. She’d already known the baby was a monster, you see. He couldn’t persuade her different. And she was convinced the baby was still moving.
“Not alive. Moving. She said the witch-doctor could make that happen, with his model. She said it would crawl out of wherever it was and come back to her. She’d been dreaming she’d found it writhing along the hall, covered with earth. Her husband didn’t dare ask her what it looked like.” He said violently into his own silence: “I gave him the tranquillizers. They moved to another house shortly after. I never saw them again.”
The dim flowers peered in the window, tapping. “What’s all that got to do with Kelly?” George demanded, furious with the enclosing darkness beyond the lamp.
The doctor mused, frowning. At last he said, “The woman I’ve told you about didn’t promise her child. Christopher’s mother did.”
“Do you mean that worried her so much it made him what he is?”
“Perhaps,” the doctor said, gazing at him as if he hadn’t paid attention.
“Did you deliver him?”
For a moment the doctor’s hidden emotion flickered clearly: horror, dismay. “No,” he said, and it was gone. “It was nothing to do with me. There was a doctor in Wales, but he’s dead. I should have liked to talk to him. Christopher’s grandmother did.” The dismay peered out again. “But I’m sure she exaggerates.”
“Why, what happened?”
“No. I’m sorry.” The doctor sat up sharply, determined. “I gave her my word. We agreed to forget the past. I thought she was making too much of it, anyway. I thought that to harp on it would only make the boy worse. He might have been all right if he’d been left alone. The witch-doctor was dead,” he said defiantly. “That was partly why I promised.”
“I don’t understand,” George said, hoping that might make a difference. “What happened to the boy’s mother?”
“She died. She’s dead. No more. I’ve said too much already.” He tapped piles of forms together impatiently, rolled the desktop down.
George stood up. “Well, thank you for your help,” he said. He found his legs were trembling.
“Of course,” the doctor said, half to himself, “the boy’s grandmother could tell you the rest.”
George gazed down at the bald head. “Would you tell me her address?” he said, more in incredulity than in hope.
“Would you expect me to?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Neither would she,” the doctor mused. “Neither would anyone else. Still, I don’t think I’ve long to run now. And if you told anyone who gave you the address I’ve only to say that I didn’t. But I think it’s time she was reminded what she’s responsible for. She lives at 2a Mozart Street. Her name is Mary Kelly.”
At the door into the hall, George looked back. Dr. Miller was still sitting amid the island of light, a small figure perched on a swivel chair. He looked relieved, yet unsure. Unsure whether he’d done the right thing? At once George was certain the doctor had been pondering what to do since he’d read the report of the inquest. Perhaps he had been waiting apprehensively for some such report for years. Down the hall, his receptionist, no doubt his wife, was cooking dinner. George hurried out and halted, shocked by the urban purring of the night.
Wednesday,
September 17
As they turned from Lodge Lane into Mozart Street, Edmund said, “Let me do the talking. Just to be confronted with you three might make her say things she wouldn’t say otherwise. It’s a gamble, but I’ve a feeling it’ll work.”
So that was why he’d let them come. Clare was sure he would have preferred them not to. If she hadn’t rung George yesterday to discuss a school visit to the Newsham, she wouldn’t even have been aware that they knew the grandmother’s address. She’d rung Edmund at once. This woman knew why Rob had been killed; she might even be partly responsible. And Chris should meet her too; she’d shouted down the start of his protests. And George.
Each side of Mozart Street was an unbroken two-storey terrace; the front doors opened onto the pavement. A few of the houses were painted chocolate, to set them apart from the line. On some, the bricks that formed an arch around the front door and framed the windows were painted blue or moss-green. Snatches of television leaked from windows, some of which were new, with louvres. Several windows were filled with paler brick or boards; through a jagged upstairs sash Clare saw a doorway onto a dark landing. Beneath her feet the gravel of the roadway slithered, crunching.
Number 2a was the furthest from Lodge Lane. At the end of the
street, large shallow steps led down to an alley; the twilight of the street was darker there. A shouting man played football among the parked cars; he and the children with him glanced at Edmund’s party. Edmund reached for the knocker on a front door that looked like part of a dead tree, mossed with paint. He halted, listening.
Inside the house, beyond the swollen, jammed sash of the grimy window, they could hear a woman’s voice. “Through my fault,” it said, “through my fault.” A television, Clare thought, turned up loud enough to be heard through the glass. But as she gazed, a figure took shape in the grime as in fog, flickering with firelight: a woman sitting forward in a chair, dim hands clasped, blurred face confronting an open doorway. “Through my most grievous fault,” she shouted, punching her breast so that her whole body shook. She was praying.
Clare saw her start when Edmund knocked. She rose and walked toward the doorway, so slowly that the grime of the window might have been thick around her. Clare gazed at the dim empty room, the colourless fat chairs. At last she heard the front door open.
The woman was in her seventies. Her thin sharp face, pinched toward the pointed chin as if between finger and thumb, peered forward on a neck whose wrinkles sagged. Her large pale-blue eyes frowned warily; her lips were gripped thinly together. Her hands, spotted like old food, clamped themselves on the doorframe, barring the way; a worn handbag hung from one arm. Her grey uneven hair stood up in spikes. She looked like a guard defending her post among her fallen comrades, or a martyr.
“Mrs. Mary Kelly?” Edmund said.
“Yes?”
He was lagging. Clare could see why; he was fascinated by the way Mrs. Kelly was dressed—green cardigan, faded purple skirt, striped yellow-and-black socks, pink fluffy slippers. “We’d like to talk to you about your grandson,” he said.
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