Pavel occupies the biggest of the three bedrooms. The room has a sensational view across the estuary, with access to a balcony on sunny days, and there’s plenty of space for Carrie to work around the hundreds of jobs, big and small, that come with looking after someone in Pavel’s state.
Preparing the room for his arrival, I devoted lots of thought to trying to get it exactly right. He can’t see, of course, and now he has no sensation in his fingertips, but I raided his house in Chiswick for a couple of his favourite oils, thickly rendered seascapes by his favourite artiste, in the belief that they might impart a slightly Zen sense of peace. Deep down I think this was more for my sake than his, a reminder of the old Pavel from the days when we were lovers, but the truth is that paralysis is no friend when it comes to home comforts. The room smells like a hospital ward – excretory notes laced with disinfectant – and always will.
Pavel has already sensed my arrival. He’s middle-aged now, and it shows. He has a long, bony face, freshly shaved. His receding hair is beginning to grey and there are scabby marks of sun damage high on his temples. His thin arms lie inert on the whiteness of the sheet, his nails perfectly manicured, and as I step closer his head turns slowly on the pillow as if to inspect me.
‘Carrie?’ he whispers.
‘Everything’s fine.’
‘You say.’
‘I say.’
A tiny movement of his head invites me to sit down. The bed, which was probably the best investment of all, stirs a mix of envy and gratitude from its occupant. It has a special mattress and motors underneath that help ward off the dreaded bed sores and it has more life in it, more movement, than Pavel can ever hope for. In the middle of the night, when I stay over in the spare bedroom, you can hear it softly grumbling to itself. It must be like sleeping with an out-of-sorts insomniac.
I sometimes wonder what conversations with Pavel would be like if he was sighted, if I could see his eyes behind the tinted glasses, if I could feel watched. The fact that it wouldn’t make the slightest difference is a tribute to his acuity, and to the way his other senses have managed to penetrate the darkness in which he lives.
Just now his head is tipped at a certain angle on the pillow. This means he’s about to challenge me.
‘She’s dead.’ The observation carries no hint of drama, or even regret. He simply wants a yes or no.
‘She’s not.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Felip talked to her just hours ago. She’s upset for some reason.’
‘And that’s why you’re here?’
‘Yes.’
‘You drove down specially?’
‘Of course.’ I pause, then ask how Carrie has been these last few days. She appears every day, except for most weekends, in line with the contract H negotiated. When I asked him whether any carer was really worth the money he was paying her, H told me a decent plasterer on a daily rate in my neck of the woods would trouser nearly as much. She’s brightened him up, he grunted. And that’s a fucking talent.
H is right. Carrie is beyond price, but Pavel still owes me an answer. Dependence isn’t a word he has much time for but the fit between them has – to my delight – been near perfect.
‘Felip is right,’ he whispers gravely. ‘She’s been troubled.’
‘About what?’
His head has moved again on the pillow. A tiny frown ghosts across his face. With such a meagre repertoire of gesture left to him, I recognize this for what it is. A plea for help.
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘But thank Christ you’re here.’
TWO
I’ve never been to Carrie’s place. Felip gives me directions to an address about a mile away. Isca Terrace turns out to be a neat row of houses that climbs a hill off one of the town’s main roads. The terrace is interesting, well kept. Handsome bay windows. Bright paintwork. A cat or two, sprawled in the sunshine. These are the kind of properties that would earn top billing in the window of any estate agency. Nice.
Carrie lives at number seven. The basement, Felip told me with a cautionary look, not the whole house. Wooden steps lead down to a front door glazed in squares of pebbled glass. Unlike the rest of the terrace, it needs a little TLC. When I ring the bell, nothing happens. Carrie could, of course, be out, but Felip thought this would be unlikely and when I asked why, he simply shrugged, muttering something about bad things happening.
Bad things? I ring the bell again and this time I hear movement inside. Then comes a voice, low, wary, unsure of itself.
‘Who is it?’
I recognize the voice at once but this isn’t my Carrie, Pavel’s Carrie, the thirty-something miracle-worker with brilliant references and a smile to match. Felip’s right. Something very bad must have happened.
I tell her it’s me. A shape appears behind the pebbled glass. The door opens an inch or two, just to make sure.
‘It’s me, Carrie. Can I come in?’
‘Why?’
This isn’t Carrie at all. While I’ve always been careful not to intrude in her private life, Carrie and I have always been easy with each other. Her sheer competence has never been an issue – she’s been a trained nurse for more than ten years – but what I’ve always loved is her openness, her easy candour, and the sheer warmth of the spell she seems to cast, especially on the likes of Pavel. Pavel is world class at spotting life’s fakes. And Carrie will never be one of those.
The door is open now and Carrie is already retreating down the hall. She’s very good looking, not a curve out of place, and she’s always held herself with that kind of effortless confidence you often find in Continental women. Nothing haughty. Nothing arrogant. Just a glad acknowledgement that her genes have been kind to her. Now, though, something has definitely changed. She’s wearing a tatty old dressing gown several sizes too big, and she seems to have developed a slight stoop. One of life’s bigger waves has taken her by surprise and it shows.
The basement flat is dark and cluttered. There are cardboard boxes everywhere, most of them half full. I’ve taken off my plimsolls at the front door and the hall carpet feels tacky beneath my bare feet.
Carrie is waiting for me in the kitchen diner at the back of the property. She perches herself on a stool beside the work surface and in the throw of light from the back window her face looks pale. Her eyes, a striking shade of green, are hidden behind a big pair of Ray-Bans.
‘So, how’s it going?’
‘How’s what going?’
‘The windsurfing.’ I gesture at the board propped against the brick wall in the back garden. ‘Still putting all the guys to shame?’
My little jest fails to spark a smile. Windsurfing is big in Exmouth and the news that Carrie had been doing it for years explained – at least to me – a great deal about our new hire. H and I once spotted her out in the estuary when we were walking on the beach. In a stiffish wind, she had perfect balance, her body nearly horizontal as she carved a path through the slower mortals, urging yet more speed out of the huge sail before pirouetting at the end of the run and setting off again in a blur of effortless movement. A goddess, I remember thinking at the time, totally undaunted.
Just now, she’s trying to avoid my gaze. Her head is down and she’s picking at a nail. Would I like tea? Coffee? Something stronger? Is it too early to break open the Stolichnaya? Anything to defer a serious conversation. I take a long look at her. Never once, I remind myself, has she abandoned Pavel. Until now.
‘So, what’s happened?’
She shakes her head. She doesn’t want to say. I ask the question again, tell her we’re all worried, especially Pavel. At the mention of his name she says she’s sorry, really sorry. She’ll be back as soon as she can, probably tomorrow, in fact definitely tomorrow. The last person she wants to put out is Pavel.
‘How is he?’ At last she’s looking at me.
‘He’s fine … but, like I say, he’s worried. I know it’s hard, Carrie, but maybe we can help here.’
‘No
.’ Another shake of the head, more emphatic. ‘This is down to me. I’ll sort it. I promise.’
‘Sort what?’ I’m tempted to reach for her hand, give it a squeeze, but I don’t.
‘Nothing. It’s nothing. I’m being silly.’
‘About what? Are you ill?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. That would be simple. I’m a nurse, remember.’
‘So, what is it? Some kind of bad news? Some kind of shock? Stuff you don’t want to talk about? Only I have to know, Carrie. It’s important for all of us, especially Pavel.’
‘Is that some kind of threat?’ Her expression hardens.
‘Not at all.’ I shake my head at once and this time my hand closes over hers. ‘We think the world of you, Carrie. That’s why I’m here. I think maybe you need help.’
‘And you’re the one to give it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So how would that work?’
‘Easy. I listen. I try to understand. If it’s a question of money …’
‘It’s not money,’ she says hotly. ‘That’s the last thing it is.’
‘So, tell me. Trust me. Something’s happened. Let’s start there.’ I give her hand a squeeze. ‘Can you live with that?’
Behind the Ray-Bans, I sense that her eyes have closed. Her whole body has slumped on the stool and the dressing gown has come loose but she makes no effort to withdraw her hand to hide her nakedness. At length, she nods.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘But you have to make me a promise.’
‘Of course.’
‘None of this goes any further. You don’t tell a soul. Not H, not Pavel, not the police, no one. Yeah?’
I say yes to everything. Mention of the police has triggered a tiny alarm deep in my brain. There may be dimensions here I hadn’t imagined.
‘So, what happened?’
At last she takes the Ray-Bans off. Her eyes are open now, searching mine, wanting that final reassurance.
‘You promise?’
‘I do.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’ She nods again. ‘I was in bed.’
‘When?’
‘Last night. It was late, really late, half two in the morning. I keep the curtains closed at night. The room’s very dark and normally I like that …’ She pauses, suddenly uncertain.
‘And?’
‘This isn’t pretty. In fact, it’s horrible.’
‘Go on.’
‘I must have heard a noise. That’s what woke me up.’
‘Noise?’
‘Someone in the room. A presence. A feeling. Someone there.’ Her eyes are closed again. She’s rocking gently on the stool, her arms folded, the way you might cradle a baby. ‘There’s a light beside the bed. I turned it on. He was young. That was the first thing I thought. So young. Curly hair. Chubby. Fat. A puppy. No chin. And eyes you wouldn’t believe. Just staring down at me.’
‘Age?’
‘Young, like I said. Sixteen? I’m guessing but that’s probably close.’
‘What was he wearing?’ I’m beginning to sound like a detective.
‘Trackie bottoms, silver grey. Football top, blue. I’m clueless when it comes to teams, but I think there were two words on the front: King and Power.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Nothing. Not at first. That was the really creepy thing. The boy just stood there. No sign of movement. Not a flicker. He wasn’t embarrassed. He wasn’t aggressive. Nothing. Just that look. Those empty eyes.’
‘So, what did you say? Do?’
‘I told him to get out of my house. I told him he had no right to be there.’
‘And?’
‘He didn’t say a word.’
‘Were you frightened?’
‘Of course. Maybe more shocked than frightened. Then I started wondering.’
‘About what?’
‘How he’d got in.’
‘You asked him?’
‘Of course.’
‘And?’
‘That’s when it got really weird. He said he could get through any door. He said he could get into anyone’s house, anyone’s head. He didn’t need a key. Doors. People. They were all the same. They just opened to him. Weird stuff, totally surreal. He had a slight lisp, too, which somehow made it worse. Then I asked his name and he just laughed. Braces on his teeth. Maybe younger than sixteen. I just don’t know.’
‘Had you seen him before?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In the street, maybe? Following you around?’
‘You mean stalking me?’
‘Yes. There has to be some reason he chose you.’
‘Chose?’ This appears to be a new thought. Then Carrie shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I’d never seen him before.’
‘So, what did he want?’
There’s a long silence. The wind has got up and I can hear something metallic flapping in the back garden. Bang … bang … bang. Finally, Carrie stirs.
‘I didn’t know what he was after,’ she says. ‘Not to begin with. Then he got much closer to the bed, little tiny steps the way some people get into the water when they go swimming, and he dropped his pants. He said he wanted me to stroke it. He said he wanted to show me what he could do with it. I got angry then. I shouted. I told him to fuck off. I told him I’d call the police.’
‘So he left?’
‘No. He tried to masturbate, tried to get an erection, but nothing happened. I told him to put it away and get out of my house, but he refused. Then I made a big mistake.’
‘Like what?’
‘I laughed at him.’
‘And?’
‘He stopped playing around with himself. All the time he was just staring down at me, literally a couple of feet away. You know when you meet someone who’s not all there? How this sixth sense tells you they’re crazy? Out of tune? Off the radar? That’s him. That’s the way it was.’
‘You think he was drunk?’
‘No.’
‘On something else?’
‘I don’t think so. He was just …’ She shook her head. ‘Different, absent, gone.’
Gone. The word lay between us for a second or two. Then Carrie seemed to gather herself on the stool. For a moment I thought the incident was over, but I was wrong.
‘I got out of bed and asked him to leave again. Not asked, told. He didn’t respond. His hand went back to his dick and this time he got a response.’
‘Were you naked?’ I nodded at the dressing gown.
‘Yes.’
‘Was that wise? Given the circumstances?’
‘I don’t know. Probably not. But I always sleep naked. By then I was really angry. Not scared, angry. My fucking flat. My fucking bedroom. He had no rights here, none. I wanted him out. I wanted him gone. I never wanted to see his pathetic little dick ever again.’
‘You told him that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘He seemed to get the message – seemed, at any rate, to understand. I think I must have been playing the nurse by now. When I told him to pull his trackie bottoms back up, he did just that.’
‘And he left?’
‘No. And that’s when he did frighten me. He was fully dressed then. As far as I could see he wasn’t carrying any kind of weapon. Like I said, he wasn’t pissed and he wasn’t out of his head on anything else so I don’t think he was going to hurt me, not physically. He took a step towards the door but then he stopped and turned around. He said he had something to tell me, something important, something he’d told the others.’
‘Others?’
‘Others. He said I was never to say anything about him to anyone else, ever. They were his exact words. Anyone else, ever.’
‘Or?’
‘Or he’d come back and kill me. Just like he’d killed the others.’
‘Killed how?’
‘With a knife.’ She gesture
s vaguely towards her lap. ‘The words he used were “rip you apart”.’
‘Shit.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And you believed him? Believe him?’
‘I do. Of course, I do. Why? Because it fits in with everything else. And because I can’t afford not to. I’ve told you already. The boy’s off the planet. He’s crazy. And crazy people can do anything. To anyone.’
THREE
It’s nearly six o’clock. I’ve tried to tempt Carrie out for a drink but without success. I left her as I found her, draped in an oversized dressing gown and, judging by the expression on her face when we said our goodbyes, I suspect she was already regretting our conversation. Once again, when pressed, I said I’d respect her confidence. And once again, unprompted, she confirmed she’d be back on duty the following morning. ‘Give my best to Pavel. Tell him I’ve had a touch of summer flu.’
Summer flu, or any other excuse, doesn’t begin to cut it. Already, on the five-minute stroll to H’s favourite seafront pub, I’ve started to examine passing strangers with new eyes. Are any of these people the right age? Are they wearing grey trackie bottoms? Do they have braces on their teeth? Are they lifelong fans of a leading football club in the East Midlands? The latter discovery took me exactly thirty-seven seconds on my mobile phone, searching the words King and Power. Might this be some kind of clue?
The pub has an upstairs balcony with views of the sea. A large gin and tonic has cleaned me out of small change but I’m grateful for the way it’s begun to soften my worst fears. On the way out of Carrie’s basement flat, I’d paused to take a good look at the door and sure enough the wood had been splintered around the frame where the tongue of the lock slips across. Carrie had seen it too, as if for the first time, but watching her carefully I suspect this was a small deception for my benefit. In her situation, once the boy had left, I’d be at the front door within seconds to check for damage and then double bolt it top and bottom. As it was, we agreed on a change of locks and remedial attention to the frame. Beware of madness, I said gently. Once frightened, twice shy.
Madness? The word itself is clue enough. It speaks of an entire life out of kilter, of volatility, of the unpredictable, and perhaps of serious violence. Anyone who can stand beside the bed of a complete stranger, having broken into their world uninvited and unannounced, is probably capable of anything. What the boy did was bad enough. What he may be capable of, and what he may have done already, is worth a serious conversation. But with whom?
Off Script Page 2
