I leant back, head against the hall wall and listened, wondering what concert he was listening to. The solo player sounded beautiful. After a few minutes, the music stopped, and as I was about to go back inside, my door slammed shut in my face. I remembered I had opened the kitchen window, and there must have been a draught. A few seconds later, Tim poked his head out from around his own entrance.
Embarrassed, I smiled. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I couldn’t help hearing…”
“I’m sorry. Did I disturb you? I thought I heard a sound out here. I’ll make sure I keep the noise down in future.”
“No, I was enjoying it. What channel are you listening to?”
He seemed to hesitate before replying and then jerked a thumb inside his doorway. “If you’re not busy come and see.”
Slightly mystified, I followed him into the lounge. I noticed his laptop lying on the table, but very few other personal items about the place. At first, I assumed he had turned off whatever he was listening to, but then I noticed a case lying on the floor. Inside, lying flat, I saw a large stringed instrument. In awe, I stared enquiringly across to Tim.
“You play? Oh! I thought it was the radio. Um. What is it? I feel I ought to know.”
“A cello. Yes, I do play, but I’m a bit rusty. Would you like to hear some more?” Tim’s smile was cautious. I nodded and sat down in an armchair near to the gas imitation-coal fire. Different from mine but it looked remarkably like the real thing. Tim took a seat in a straight-backed chair placed in front of the sofa. He picked up the cello and positioned it between his legs. Up until then, I hadn’t realised how large an instrument it was. He then bent down and retrieved the bow from the case and held it in his right hand.
The wooden surface of the cello looked beautiful, burnished and gleaming. I guessed it was pretty old. Before he fitted the bow across the strings, Tim raised his head and smiled gently across at me and then dipped the bow, drawing it slowly across the cello neck. A low, rich, mellow sound filled the room. Soon, I closed my eyes and laid my head back against the chair. The tone was wonderful, soothing and mellifluous. It seemed as if the old wood was speaking of what it had seen over the years, and the bow responded by singing. All too soon, the last strains died away, and I came out of my captivated state.
I shook my head in wonder. “That was beautiful. I had no idea so wonderful a sound could come from just one instrument. It must be lovely to have such a skill.”
Tim nodded, lost in the moment and played something livelier and shorter. When he finished, I gave him a clap.
“Bravo! Is the cello old? It certainly looks it.”
Tim laid the instrument down lovingly in its case. “Yes. It is very old and belonged to my grandfather and his father before him. It was made in Poland.” I almost caught my breath. So it seemed it was true, then. Tim’s ancestry originated in Poland. I felt ashamed to have allowed doubt to creep into my mind a few days earlier.
“Now you’re here, would you like a drink? How about a vodka tonic?”
I agreed and watched him as he measured the alcohol and tonic into two tall glasses. I knew I shouldn’t have been there…should have been keeping my distance, but what harm was there in sharing a drink? Besides, I needed him to confirm he was who he said he was. I certainly wasn’t a pushover when it came to men, bearing in mind my track record.
“So how do you say ‘cheers’ in Polish?” Surely he would know that?
Tim handed me a glass and lifted his in response. “We say, na zdrowie! Which translates as to your good health.”
“Then na zdrowie it is.”
I took a sip and settled back in my chair, crossing my feet. “Have you always been a writer?”
Tim glanced away and stared across the room. He took so long to answer, I wondered whether he had heard me. Eventually, he stood up, crossed to the window and pulled both curtains across. With the warmth from the fire and the night sky hidden, the room felt more cosy and snug.
Tim turned away from the window and sat down opposite me. He placed his glass on a table between us and leant forward, resting one elbow on one knee, his chin cradled in his hand. “No. Originally I trained as a psychiatrist.”
“Oh? Really? I see.” I paused, aware of my raised eyebrows. I didn’t see at all; his words astonished me at first. But then, thinking about it, was I really surprised? He asked lots of questions, and as I pondered, I realised the profession suited him. My curiosity got the better of me and triumphed over my usual shyness. “Why did you change and become a writer?”
“I think psychiatry changed me.” A ghost of a smile hovered around his mouth.
I was intrigued, but didn’t know how to respond. Instead, I asked a conventional question. “So if you were a psychiatrist, you must have trained as a doctor. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“But why psychiatry?”
Tim leaned back in his chair and picked up his glass. He studied the clear liquid for a second before taking a mouthful. “I really wanted to be involved with people at the time. Healing them seemed a good thing to do. Help relieve their pain, but once I qualified as a doctor and worked with patients, I realised later I didn’t want to deal with death anymore. I’d…I’d seen and experienced some things which upset me more than I could cope with. People don’t ever get over their grief completely. Losing a loved one places a huge burden on those left behind.”
Without a word, I nodded. I hadn’t lost anyone close myself, but working in hospitals, I witnessed all levels of grief and despair, and I thought I understood his meaning.
He shot me a look and stood up abruptly. “You understand? People carry their grief around with them until it becomes part of them. They get to the point where they can’t make a sensible decision. It grows inside them until there’s no room for anything else…love dies.” He glanced away, and I wondered who or what had made his life become such torture, for he surely had to be talking about himself or someone very close.
Eventually, I ventured another question.
“Is that why you gave it up? The grief all around you?”
He swung his face back to me, eyes wide and staring. And in those dark sad pools I saw a deep pain before his eyes clouded. “Yes. I felt I could no longer help. I studied and trained for all those years, adding numerous letters after my name, but as more years passed, I realised how much more I still needed to learn and would never learn. I was in chaos, and it didn’t seem right to have patients come to me with their problems when I had my own to deal with. It was arrogant to think so.”
“Physician heal thyself,” I whispered. I wanted to ask so badly about what had happened. What terrible thing he kept to himself. Had he been married or lost someone special, after all? But as he didn’t say any more to enlighten me, I knew I couldn’t trespass into his own hell just to satisfy my curiosity.
“If you like. Yes, exactly that. I tried and failed. But writing is an anti-depressant for me. I get to travel and write about the nice places in the world. But you know, I see the appalling things, the poor, the poverty, famine…my job is to write about the good things. Maybe it’s wrong to think like that, but at the moment, it pays me well.”
We finished our drinks in contemplative silence, and I decided it was time to leave. I stood up and thanked Tim for the music and vodka, and although he smiled politely, I sensed from his vagueness he didn’t really see me and wanted to be alone. He had returned to a private world where nobody except him and his dark thoughts existed. As I turned at his door to wish him goodnight, my gaze flicked past him to the wall behind. I blinked. The wall was completely blank. For some reason, Tim had removed the entire collection of photographs my mother had hung on the wall. I looked round the hall, but they were nowhere to be seen.
I said nothing, as the timing wasn’t right, and slipped across the hallway to my door, suddenly remembering I had locked myself out and needed to borrow a key from Mum and Dad. As I jogged down the stairs, I did wonder why—when he had been so
interested in the photographs—he had removed them. It didn’t make sense. Nothing did.
Chapter Eighteen - Christian
He had to be on his guard from now on. The parting that evening had been quick, if a little tense. He thought back and wondered if he had said too much at the time, let something vital slip. He thought not. He chose his words with care and had given nothing away. He had to remember that, however great the temptation to talk, it was never going to be worth it. He always steered clear of any deep and meaningful relationships, and he meant to keep it that way. Flirtation was fine, as it led to sex, but he wanted nothing more. No woman would understand. How could she?
Ella, unlike a lot of young women he met, was intelligent and sensitive. But he was glad he hadn’t pursued the relationship further. When they first met, he wondered if she would be the one to really understand, listen, but he doubted it. They said they did, but all women turned out like all the others, and there was still a lot to be covered…much work to do. More women to be…cleansed. He had already chosen his next subject.
Chapter Nineteen - Christian
The audience left the small theatre as soon as the play was over. The subject matter wasn’t his choice; he disliked farce, finding it mostly contrived, but the juvenile female lead was enchanting to watch as she moved across the tight stage. She might have been young, early twenties at most, he thought, but she knew how to shimmy her sexy little body as she delivered her lines like an older and more experienced woman.
Following his usual pattern, as he covered the county of Surrey seeking out his next victim, he found it was easy checking out various theatre establishments. He had no preference for large or small theatres, professional or amateur. His only criterion was to make sure that within the cast there was a young, pretty, unknown and preferably unattached female actor. After all, the original girl had been just that. Wanton bitch.
So far, his victims in Surrey had come from the Barn Theatre in Oxted, The Courtyard in Chipstead, Horley’s Archway, the Nomad in East Horsley and his latest, the largest by far, the Yvonne Arnaud in Guildford. He had taken a chance with Guildford, it being the county town, but he had been feeling a strong pull as if a noose was drawing him in. He had no doubt he would be back there to find the ultimate prey. But for the time being, he settled on other venues as he slaked his lust.
His eye had fallen on Cranleigh Arts Centre. Cranleigh was quite a famous place; it had the self-proclaimed status of being the biggest village in England and home to the expensive Cranleigh public school. He had explored much of the surrounding land and knew the roads in and out of the place.
He invented a new identity, Christian Hart, at the beginning, for when he was on the prowl. He enjoyed playing the travelling medical representative, and the name he gave himself sounded classy in his ears. Posing as a medical rep gave him a valid reason for acting as a newcomer to the area if anyone asked awkward questions. So far, he had experienced no difficulties; no one questioned the unassuming man who seemed to merge into the background with a pint and a newspaper or book. He favoured the bigger pubs and restaurants, blending in with everyone else. After scouring the Surrey What’s On and selecting which plays to see, he usually chose a seat at the back of the darkened hall; he arrived just as the first act began and left before the final curtain. He paid little attention to the play on stage apart from singling out the actress who caught his eye.
She had to be just right: young—early twenties to early thirties. Slim, dark-haired and exceptionally pretty. So far, he had exceeded his own expectations, but the need was strong and he wanted a taste of more. Much more. He had got to know the habits of that night’s girl in question. After the group had finished rehearsals during the week before, a few, including the girl, had gone over to the Three Horseshoes to unwind and invariably chat about the play. It was easy to blend into the background, listen and make a plan.
That night was the night. While the audience filtered away gradually, Christian sat in his car in an unlit corner of the small car park and watched their car lights disappearing along the village roads. A hardy few walked home while others wandered over to the pub opposite for a drink before calling it a night. A noise caught his attention, voices calling out to one another. He recognised members of the cast and backstage workers. Their good mood and friendly banter carried across the short distance, and he knew they would converge on the pub to celebrate their last night of the play.
***
Christian sat at a small table in the main bar, a pint in front of him and his Kindle in his hand. He remembered to tap the screen now and again to show he was engrossed in his novel, but he heard everything the theatre group said. The majority were calling it a night and drifted out of the door. There were just three left: two men and the girl.
Christian couldn’t help lifting his head once or twice and allowing his gaze to stray over her. She knew she had caught his attention, as she stared his way, a knowing smile playing around her mouth as she leant back in her seat and ran a hand through her hair, accentuating her bust as she did so. She was on her third cider; the alcohol loosened her tongue, and she laughed loudly as an older man told yet another filthy joke before he got up and ordered another round of drinks. As she threw back her head, Christian could see she looked completely desirable and, from the come-hither looks his way, easy game. Her eyes were huge, and he guessed she was still wearing her stage eye make-up. It gave her an added elfin look. She was perfect.
She crossed her long legs, her tight black mini skirt riding up, and the man next to her took the liberty of placing one meaty paw on her thigh. Startled, she stopped mid laughter and brushed his hand away. Minutes later, when he stroked her knee, she slapped him on the arm and shifted in her seat, out of his reach. Christian could see the anger in her face, but he knew she was up for it. All little bitches were such actresses, feigning indignation.
She glanced round the room, catching his eye, and he gave her a deep look of sympathy and a gentle smile of support. He made a slight move as if to go to her aid, but she shook her head and turned back to her companion.
“Pack it in, Jack! You know I’m not bloody interested. I said bugger off!”
Jack put his head near hers and whispered something into her ear. The girl pulled away, but Christian saw how Jack responded by grabbing her by the wrist, twisting it so she yelped.
Christian decided to make his move. Trusting his instincts, he knew the girl would get out of the pub as soon as she could. He stood up, throwing a meaningful glance her way. He felt a thrill of satisfaction run through him as they locked eyes for one brief moment, and then he moved in the direction of the door. If he was correct, she would be right behind him.
As he drew level with the bar, the older man returned to his seat, slopping beer over Jack, who reared back in his chair with a curse. “What the fuck! Watch it, mate. Waste of good beer! I need a piss.” He stood up, swaying slightly, before staggering over to the gents’ toilets.
Christian continued to gazing straight ahead and slipped out into the night. Sure enough, barely thirty seconds later, he heard a pair of high heels clattering across the pub’s forecourt. He didn’t slow or turn around but kept going until he was across the road and safely in the darkened overhang from the trees in the churchyard adjacent to the Art Centre. Only then did he stop and turn.
“Are you okay? I saw what happened and wanted to help but didn’t know if I should intervene between you and your boyfriend. Are you all right, love?” he asked in a calm and gentle voice.
The girl drew level; he could see she was nervous and shaken. “Jack? He’s not my boyfriend. We were an item once, but I got shot of him, or at least I hoped I had.” She glanced behind her.
“It’s okay. You’re safe and no one’s following you.”
“No, but I’m afraid he will. It’s my fault. I should have left with the others when I had the chance, but Leo tells such funny jokes, and up until then, Jack hadn’t been a nuisance.” She peeked over he
r shoulder a second time.
“Look, maybe this is silly, but I hate to think of you being frightened. I’d like to help. Can I offer you a lift somewhere? I promise to behave, only it’s getting late, and I have no idea about bus times.”
She pulled back her jacket cuff and peeked at her watch. “Damn, it’s too dark. I can’t see what the time is.”
Christian pretended he could see his. “I have a light on my sports watch. It’s just gone half past eleven.”
“Bugger! I’m sure to have missed the last bus by now. Dad will be furious if I ring him up for a lift. He has to start work early in the morning, and I don’t want to go home with either of them two. Leo’s too drunk, and you’ve seen how Jack behaves.” Her voice wavered as she weighed up her alternatives.
Christian smiled in the dim light. Had he misread her? Was she a nicer person than he first thought, or was she playing him? Egging him on? “Relax. Really, I don’t mind helping you out at all. It will give me a chance to get to know you. You must have seen me look your way in the pub, and I must say I loved your performance in the play this evening.”
“You saw it?”
He nodded. “I did and you stole the show, Carly. See, I remembered your name from the programme. Actually, I’ll go so far as to say you held it all together. Are you a professional actress by any chance? If not then you should be, as you’ve certainly got the looks and skills. You near blew me away.”
She giggled, and he caught the gleam of her teeth in the light. “No, I only took it up this year because I was bored. Are you sure it’s okay—the lift, I mean. It’s really nice of you, and yes, I did see you staring.”
The Green Room Page 8
