It seem Al had changed his mind about Simon. Now, he was almost as bad as Tara, sucking up to the insufferable jerk as if he was Apollo incarnate. Heaven forbid, he’d even been reading some of Simon’s work, which certainly put one over on Tara, who hadn’t been offered the privilege. ‘And is he a genius, Al?’ she asked.
Al shrugged. ‘I’m not an expert.’ He smiled into his wine. ‘But I can honestly say it doesn’t make me cringe.’
‘What more splendid praise could an artist hope for?’ Simon cried, throwing arms all over the place.
Tara giggled, batting her eyelashes like the rollers on a car wash.
‘Simon is going to be famous one day,’ Dominic told me in mock serious tone.
‘Don’t be such a Philistine, Dom,’ Simon said smoothly. He looked at me, which didn’t happen very often. ‘This boy reads nothing but comics. Sometimes I worry about him, although I have it on good authority it’s merely part of his image.’
‘You talk to me about image?’ Dom cried, but I could tell there was never any real bad blood between these two.
Becky made an odd, grumbling noise and stood up to gather the plates, which were still half full of food. Seeing as nobody else was going to offer, I helped her carry the remains out to the kitchen and junked it into the bin. Even Becky’s cat didn’t stir itself to come and investigate. Becky looked tired so I asked her if she was OK, a perfunctory query. Personally, I’d found her moodiness rather tedious. ‘I’m not a cook,’ she said.
‘Oh hell, Beck!’ I exclaimed. ‘Don’t take it to heart! Since when have you or Al been able to finish one of our efforts anyway?’
‘But I wanted it to be a good evening. It all looked so nice, didn’t it?’
An alcoholic, emotional surge took me over. It happens. Poor, forlorn little thing, I thought. What could be bugging her? She was normally such a frothy girl. ‘It has been good, you idiot!’ I said and, overwhelmed by this brief wave of sympathy, not to mention several glasses of wine, I went and put my arm around her.
She started to cry. ‘Why, when I try so hard do things go wrong?’ she asked.
I was stumped for an answer. I had no idea Becky thought that way, or that deeply, come to think of it. ‘Oh, come on, who’s complaining?’ I said, shaking her a bit. ‘We’ve had a laugh, a performance from dear Simon, and plenty of good wine. Cheer up, love, it’s not that important.’
‘No, I don’t suppose it is,’ she answered and wriggled away from me, slamming plates into the sink.
And that was the beginning of Rebecca Jane Olson’s decline. Her personality changed so dramatically that, to begin with, we wondered whether she was putting it on. She became unapproachable, no longer dropping into our flat all the time for a gossip, and once even avoided me in the street. Tara caught her hanging about on the landing one night and she almost jumped a mile when Tara asked what she was doing. There was some excuse about hearing noises on the stairs, but Tara was unconvinced. Al, on the other hand, seemed unaware of Becky’s afflictions. We had to admit we’d rarely seen him so cheerful.
After several sessions of deep discussion of the matter, and because Tara and I are artistic, imaginative people, it didn’t take long for us to confess a mutual suspicion. Could Becky’s marked change in behaviour be something to do with the imposing, shiny mass of the Rutticker table? It became quite an obsession with us really, as Becky’s sunny personality sank progressively deeper into an irritable moodiness. Some nights we could hear her whining at Al, and his exasperated responses. We concluded that the main problem was an increasing decline in self-confidence on her part; introspections that the dizzy Becky of old wouldn’t have had time for.
After only a week, Tara told me she thought we should tell Al what we suspected and that he should get rid of the table. ‘It must be that,’ she said.
I couldn’t imagine being greeted with a favourable response coming out with such an idea, however, so Tara suggested that we mention it to Simon and Dom first to see what they thought.
‘Not Dominic!’ I said quickly, because I cared enough about my friendship with him not to want to look stupid in his eyes. Maybe he hadn’t come anywhere near declaring his raging lust for me, and OK, we’d never even touched each other, but I was growing to like him and despite his penchant for fantasy comics, he didn’t strike me as an impressionable sort. On the other hand, I felt sure the poetically inclined Simon would love our theory, even if it did sound like something out of one of Al’s tacky horror books.
Tara bounded up the stairs straight away (any excuse) dragging a rather bewildered Simon back down with her to hear our suspicions.
‘What’s all this cloak and dagger stuff?’ he asked. ‘What can’t you tell Dominic?’
‘Just listen!’ Tara told him, pushing him into a chair.
He brushed that glorious, gold hair off his face with a gesture that seemed almost nervous. Tara began to explain in great detail what Mrs. Cryer had said but he interrupted her story-telling with, ‘So who’s haunting the table then? This Celia person?’
To be fair, he didn’t sound utterly sceptical or even that amused, but there was a light in his eyes that showed a certain amount of reserve. He was sounding us out.
‘Seems likely, doesn’t it?’ Tara replied, who’d concocted romantic theories about the socially spurned Celia Rutticker cutting her wrists over the table or something.
‘Perhaps you’d better find out a little more about these people first,’ Simon said. ‘For all you know they might have gutted a local child on that table.’ He snickered at his own joke.
Tara pulled a face. ‘OK, don’t take it seriously, but you have to agree Becky has changed dramatically for the worse and it started happening since she got that table.’
‘Do things like that happen in real life, though?’ Simon asked.
Something about his posture was irritating me like mad; a certain smugness, his awful tolerance. It reminded me of a teacher I used to have. I wondered again why Tara found him so attractive. OK, he was positively beautiful, but also undeniably furtive and calculating. I took a swig of wine. Perhaps I too was being affected by the vibes in the house.
That night I dreamed of Becky, duster in hand, leaning over her beloved table and polishing and polishing. Her movements were sinuous, her face creased into a frown of despair. I woke up thinking, That table has got to go, terrified things could get worse.
I intended to start investigating seriously. The situation had gone beyond the analytical discussion point. We had a huge order on that week, so really neither Tara nor I had the time to drop work, but I couldn’t let the matter rest. I scraped a breakfast together and went to telephone Mrs. Cryer. She sounded overjoyed to hear from me and began to relate a tale concerning her neighbour’s teenage son. Carefully, I wheedled my way in to her monologue and asked if she’d mind popping round that day. There was a silence. Never, in the two years or so that we’d lived there, had we ever asked our landlady round before. She smelled trouble and began to fire questions at me. No, we hadn’t had a fire. No, the windows were fine. I managed to calm her. ‘Look, Becky’s not too well and I really need to talk to you,’ I said. She said she’d pop in around lunchtime.
I went across the hall and knocked on Becky’s door but there was no answer. She must have gone to work, although she’d had a lot of time off recently. I’d tried talking to her several times, but she hadn’t wanted to know. Each time I’d asked her how she was, she’d flown off hysterically at a tangent, as if desperate to avoid talking about herself. I’d said to Al, ‘Becky’s not looking too grand, is she?’ and he’d shrugged.
‘She’s going through a phase,’ he’d said. ‘Tough time at work, you know? Personality clashes or something. She’ll work it out. She always does.’
I’d sensed a brush-off and had backed off, bowing. Why couldn’t they confide in us? Wasn’t that what friends were for? I’d been a bit put out, and Tara had said they obviously thought I was just being nosy.
&nb
sp; ‘They know I’m not like that,’ I’d said, all wounded dignity.
‘Oh, come on, everybody’s like that to a degree,’ Tara had replied.
Mrs. Cryer arrived just as Tara and I were taking a break, which was good timing. We offered the usual coffee and settling down talk and I said, ‘Mrs. C., would you tell us about the Ruttickers, please? It’s very important.’
She gave a little laugh. ‘You look so earnest, Joanna. Have they come back from the dead to sit around their table or something?’ Whether that was intuition or coincidence, we’ll never know.
‘Mrs. C., we think there’s something... not quite right about that table. Becky’s not been the same since she got it.’
. Becky’s not been the same since she got it.’
‘So we were wondering whether there’s anything we ought to know about the previous owners,’ Tara put in, ‘to help us work out what might be bugging her.’
Mrs. Cryer gave a little shrug. ‘I think it’ll disappoint you, but there’s not that much to tell, really. The Ruttickers were an ill-bred bunch, rather coarse, though they pretended to airs and graces. I think the parents were disappointed that they were never accepted around here. They must have moved in, hoping to become acquainted with their influential neighbours. That was how they were, you see; social climbers.’ She sneered delicately. ‘They moved out when the father bought a country estate further north. Happy as pigs in muck then, of course! I really can’t see them leaving any... psychic mark on their furniture. They weren’t those type of people; totally insensitive. Anyway, the table might have belonged to someone who rented the property off them after they left.’
‘Does the family still own it?’ Tara asked.
Mrs. Cryer took a sip of coffee. ‘As far as I know. They’ve let the place run down, which is sinful and probably deliberate. Ruttickers have cold business heads on their shoulders. They’d know that land would be worth a fortune for development one day and must just have been waiting until they needed the money for something else to sell it. That would be just like them!’
Tara leaned back against the sofa, sighing. ‘Well, it wouldn’t seem as if the spirit of a despairing Celia Rutticker is haunting the table, would it?’
Mrs. Cryer spluttered. ‘I should think not! She married very well in the north and as far as I know, now has grandchildren training to be nuclear physicists and God knows what else, and a successful dress-shop chain of her own. She’s not even dead!’
‘No, but her youth is,’ Tara said, which made me shiver.
‘Do you know who lived in Lamp House after the Ruttickers, Mrs. C.?’ I asked quickly, thinking Tara’s remark might have offended her. She was no virgin girl herself, after all.
‘Can’t remember, I’m afraid,’ she answered. ‘Nobody memorable.’ She frowned. ‘I have a feeling the son stayed on for a while.’ She shook her head. ‘No, he was a bad sort. Ended up in jail, which caused an awful stink for a while. I’ll wager the old man turned purple over that!’ She laughed with delight at the image.
‘Aha!’ Tara said, raising a finger. ‘So there was scandal!’
I clapped my hands with pleasure. ‘Mrs. C., do tell!’
She shook her head, smiling in a strange manner. ‘No, what happened wasn’t anything to cause a haunting, and it’s over now. An ugly business at the time, but pe’ Another head shake, strangely regretful. ‘...times have changed girls. People look at things differently now.’ She came back into the present. ‘Now, if you want to know about who lived there after the Ruttickers, you might try Capt. Lonsdale who lives at no. 6, supposing you can get any sense out of him. I believe he’s rather... past it, now.’
Tara and I exchange a glance. Capt. Lonsdale was a local character, completely batty, who sometimes walked the streets with his flies undone. He lived on the ground floor of his old house and rented the rest of it to students. He was a typical old-timer, who liked to talk to everyone he met and tell them about the war and things. He was also a filthy old goat who stared at your tits and your arse and occasionally was brave enough to invite you in for tea. Nobody ever accepted.
After Mrs. Cryer had gone – we’d had to assure her it would be no help if she had a word with Becky herself– Tara paced the room, tapping her lips with a pencil and frowning.
‘Are we going to beard the ancient perv in his den, then?’ I asked.
‘I still think it’s something to do with the Ruttickers,’ Tara replied.
‘Really? Why? You heard what Mrs. C. said.’
‘She’s biased, Jo. Remember the social gulf. I still think poor old Celia with her less than blue blood sat at that table sometimes, wondering what the hell she’d done wrong and why nobody wanted to know her. It makes sense. That’s what Becky’s like now. She feels totally inadequate. People don’t have to be dead to leave feelings around, especially if they were strong feelings. Maybe Celia’s parents tried to make her think it was her own fault she had no friends around here. Perhaps she ended up blaming herself.’
‘Well, it didn’t appear to leave an indelible scar!’ I said. ‘She’s a successful woman now.’
‘We don’t know her,’ Tara insisted. ‘How can we tell what she’s like? I don’t trust Mrs. Cryer’s judgement for a start. No, Celia’s the answer, I can feel it.’
‘What about that business with the brother? Shouldn’t we investigate that? I wonder what it was.’
Tara wrinkled her nose, unwilling to let anything sway us away from her convictions. ‘Oh, it was probably some financial shenanigans. That’s generally the sort of thing that offends people like Mrs. C. She did say it was nothing that could have caused a haunting, didn’t she?’
It seemed plausible. ‘So what do we do?’
‘Tell Becky, of course. Make her see what’s happening. She’ll have to fight it.’
I had to laugh. ‘Tell Becky? Are you serious? She’ll think we’re mad! She hasn’t an imaginative bone in her body!’
‘So what do you suggest, smart arse?’
I shrugged. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’
‘Shall we tell the boys?’
‘Do we have to?’
‘Faint heart!’ Tara sneered. ‘I like people thinking I’m weird!’
That evening, before Simon and Dominic came down to see us, there was a commotion across the hall. Tara and I leapt to our feet and struggled through the door at the same time. Outside, Becky was crouched against the banisters, screaming, really screaming. Her nose was bleeding.
‘Becky! What the fuck’s happened? Becky!’ Tara’s voice was high with panic.
Simon and Dominic came belting down the stairs.
Becky wriggled round and yelled at them, ‘Hate it! Hate it!’ She tried to get away from Tara, stumbling, hitting out, making for the stairs. She had no shoes on, no coat, her hair was wet with blood and tears. When the boys tried to help us calm her, restrain her, she went wild.
‘Where’s Al?’ I cried, to no one in particular, running into Becky’s flat. It was empty. He wasn’t home.
Tara managed to drag Becky into our flat and the boys lingered on the landing. Their presence clearly made Becky worse. I thought she’d flipped completely.
‘We have to find Al,’ I said. ‘This is going too far.’
‘She’s nuts!’ Simon said.
‘Yeah?’ His smug voice made me so angry I couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘So call a doctor, Joanna. Get involved if you want to.’ Simon went back upstairs.
‘Perhaps I should,’ I said. ‘But we still have to find Al.’
Dominic was hovering. I was bored with the pair of them and turned to go. ‘He’s upstairs,’ Dominic said, just as I was about to shut the door on him. ‘Al’s upstairs.’
I wondered what profound meaning he was trying to inject into those words, hopping around on my threshold. ‘Do you know something, Dom?’ I asked, not meaning to sound quite so sarcastic.
Dominic closed up like a fist. He shrugged. ‘I think Al’s h
ad enough of that relationship, that’s all. He’s had enough.’
Had enough? I was dumbstruck. His girlfriend was having a complete breakdown on the stairs and poor old Al’s had enough! So much for responsibility. I went to tell Tara. She would probably be up to going up and bawling the spineless cretin out. I couldn’t face it.
Tara had forced a glass of vodka down Becky. Neither of us was sure whether that was a good idea, but we were desperate to calm her somehow. I was afraid that Al had beaten her up or something, but she burbled out something about falling over. Neither Tara nor I could really see Al being violent, anyway. We left Becky lying limply on our sofa, weeping softly to herself and went into the kitchen for a conflab.
‘That’s it,’ Tara said vehemently, ‘we have to do something. I’d rather take that wretched table outside myself, chop it up and risk not having Becky speak to me again than let this crazy stuff continue.’
I told her about Al.
‘He’s a pussycat, Jo,’ Tara said. ‘We know that. He can’t handle this, so we must. Let’s try and talk some sense into Becky and then we’ll get Simon and Dom to help us lug that table downstairs.’
Becky was sitting up on the sofa when we went back in to her; hunched up, hair hanging in strings, looking thin and pathetic. She wasn’t crying anymore and had tried to rub the blood from her face. Tara sat down next to her with a circling arm. ‘OK honey, tell us about it,’ she said in a professionally kind voice.
Becky looked at her with mistrust.
‘Look, we’ve an idea what’s going on,’ I said.
Shock wiped the misery from Becky’s face for an instant. ‘Do you?’ she said, truly surprised. I was relieved to see how well she’d pulled herself together. Or appeared to have done.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘It’s the table,’ Tara said.
‘The table?’ Becky’s voice was bewildered. She obviously didn’t know what we were talking about.
‘Yes, we’ve done a little research,’ Tara said, and told her what we knew.
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