Pendulum

by Adam Hamdy

  He climbed the single step and pressed the buzzer for flat number five. He stared at the camera and smiled when a voice answered, ‘Hello?’

  Bailey held his warrant card up to the camera and replied, ‘Miss Stiles, it’s DS Bailey. We spoke on the phone.’

  The catch on the door buzzed and Bailey pushed it open. He crossed the wood-panelled hall and checked himself in the large, gilt-framed mirrors that flanked him either side. Hundreds of reflected images stared back at him: a strong, confident, young black man with looks that merited his ego. Bailey was pleased by what he saw. He passed the door to the Wilsons’ flat and hurried up the carpeted stairs, taking them two at a time. The thick green pile muffled the sound of his steps. If someone was able to break into the building, it wouldn’t be difficult to move around without being heard. As he walked along the first-floor landing, he saw the light change in the Levines’ peephole. The door opened a moment later, and Mrs Levine, a sweet, crinkled old lady with a loose perm, smiled at him.

  ‘Hello, Detective Bailey,’ she said. ‘Any news on John? We’re worried about him.’

  ‘The doctors think he’ll be OK,’ Bailey replied. ‘Just needs a little more time. If you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘You’ll let us know if there’s news, won’t you?’ Mrs Levine called after Bailey, who had already moved on.

  As he rounded the next flight of stairs, Bailey looked back to see the old lady shut the door and heard her double-lock it. She claimed to have always been security conscious, even before the incident. She had plenty of time to read the newspaper and knew what happened to people who didn’t look out for themselves. Mrs Levine had been home the night of the suicide – murder – attempted killing, was the phrase Bailey had finally settled on. Mrs Levine said she’d heard loud music and some banging about, but nothing unusual until the beam collapsed. The awful racket had convinced her that the building was coming down. After the sound of shattering glass, Mrs Levine had looked out of the window to see John Wallace, half-naked, scuttling down Abercorn Place. She’d not been aware of any visitors, nor heard anything that would have led her to believe John Wallace wasn’t alone.

  As Bailey continued up the stairs, Wallace’s front door came into view. It was secured by a temporary padlock and a caution notice warned any unauthorised visitors. Bailey had called Maybury Hospital to check on Wallace. The doctor he spoke to, Taylor, refused to divulge any information on Wallace’s condition, but said that Bailey was welcome to visit. Bailey couldn’t bring himself to talk to the guy just yet. Not until he’d figured out for certain whether he was a genuine victim or a deluded liar. He continued up the stairs until he reached the top floor of the converted church where the roof began to gently slope towards its high apex.

  He crossed the third-floor landing and found Leona Stiles’ front door ajar. The smell of sweet incense drifted through the gap. Bailey knocked. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Come in,’ came a soft voice.

  He opened the door and stepped into a bright hallway. Light came through a couple of open doorways. The one on his right led into a kitchen with a wooden floor and low units. The other door was directly ahead of him. Another wooden floor, but this one covered by a rug. The layout seemed to be a duplicate of Wallace’s, but the decor couldn’t have been more different. A photograph of two nude women locked in an intimate embrace dominated the hallway. Bailey wasn’t sure how to describe the style, but the black-and-white image was overexposed so that one only caught the most pronounced features, an effect that accentuated the mystery of the subjects’ embrace. A dozen smaller, framed black-and-white photographs of a woman in a variety of outlandish outfits filled what space remained on the bright red walls. The woman’s face was covered with rich make-up that masked her true identity. Bailey couldn’t help but marvel at the intricacy of the costumes and face-paint. A burlesque peacock in one, a seductive deviless in another, the images could never be described as erotic, but Bailey found them strangely alluring.

  ‘In here.’ The voice came from the living room.

  Bailey entered to find the large space dominated by a tailor’s mannequin adorned in what looked like a bridal gown. A long white train flowed from the dress and wound round much of the room until it finished bunched in the hands of a strange young woman. Strange because one side of her head was shaved and tattooed, while the other sported lustrous wavy auburn hair. Leona Stiles was probably a natural beauty, but her dichotomous appearance rendered traditional concepts of beauty useless. Bailey settled for fascinating. Leona stood and carefully deposited the end of the bridal train on the old leather chair that she’d been sitting on. She wore a floral tea dress that was split at her midriff, revealing part of her torso. Bailey tried not to look too closely but couldn’t help seeing that a garland of roses tattooed the space between Leona’s breasts. She crossed one of the largest Persian rugs Bailey had ever seen and offered her hand.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Detective,’ she said. ‘I’m Leona Stiles.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ Bailey floundered for his cool as he shook Leona’s hand. Her grip was delicate, but gave a hint of the strength that lay beyond it.

  ‘Sorry it’s such a mess in here. I’d offer you a seat, but I had to take them all out to work.’

  Bailey looked at the gown. ‘Someone’s big day,’ he observed.

  Leona looked puzzled for a moment before realisation dawned. ‘Not quite,’ she responded with a smile. ‘I’m making it for a performance. I do all my own costumes.’

  ‘Mrs Levine said you’re a trapeze artist,’ Bailey remarked.

  ‘Trapeze, high wire, fire breathing, anything that might kill me,’ Leona replied dryly. ‘This one’s for a music video. They’re going for a Miss Haversham vibe. The entire dress catches fire, liberating me to be an independent woman. Or liberating me of my clothes; I can never keep track of all the creative reasons why I find myself in my underwear so often.’

  Bailey was smitten. Dangerous, funny and smart. The living room walls were pure white, but were covered in brightly framed photographs and paintings of circus folk through the ages. As wild as it was, it was clear to Bailey that Leona revered her work.

  ‘How’s John?’ Leona broke the extended silence.

  ‘John?’ Bailey snapped out of a romantic daydream in which he and Leona had married and sired a handful of circus performing kids.

  ‘My neighbour? I assume that’s what you’re here to talk about?’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry. John Wallace, that’s right,’ Bailey replied. Got to be smoother than that, he told himself. ‘Were you home the night of the incident?’

  Leona nodded. ‘It was a couple of days before I flew out to Dubai. I was working on my costume.’

  ‘Underwear?’ Bailey joked.

  Leona smiled and shook her head. ‘Not in Dubai. Modesty is the watchword.’

  No more attempted jokes, Bailey chastised himself; this girl is as cool as anyone you’ve ever met. ‘How well did you know Mr Wallace?’

  ‘Quite well. We’ve been out for drinks. I’ve posed for him a couple of times.’

  ‘He seems to have a bit of a name,’ Bailey observed.

  ‘He does. He photographed war until it got to him. Now he mainly does unit photography. Films. Big TV shows.’

  ‘You think it was suicide?’ Bailey asked bluntly.

  ‘No,’ Leona countered swiftly.

  ‘Maybe the war—’ Bailey began.

  ‘What he saw in Afghanistan troubled him,’ Leona interrupted. ‘The Inquiry really got to him, but he’d moved on.’

  ‘Did you see or hear anything unusual that night?’

  Leona shook her head. The tattoo on the right side of her scalp depicted an eagle carrying a rose in its talons. ‘There was loud music a few minutes before it happened, but I didn’t think anything of it.’

  ‘Was he normally anti-social?’ Bailey asked.

  ‘Hardly. John keeps to himself mostly,’ Leona smiled. ‘But every now and again he blasts a track to g
et him in the mood.’

  Bailey waited to be illuminated.

  ‘In the mood for a project,’ Leona explained. ‘I assumed he was preparing for his next gig. He says the right music helps inspire him.’

  ‘You didn’t see anyone?’

  ‘Only John. After I heard the crash, I went to the window and saw him running towards the main road. I think he was naked.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ Bailey asked.

  ‘Four years. My father bought the flat for my twenty-first birthday.’

  Although physiologically impossible, Bailey now wanted to have her babies. Fascinating and rich – jackpot.

  As he stood there studying her, Bailey was aware of a subtle change in her expression. He could only describe it as familiarity. Here was a woman who was used to being watched. More likely than not she was aware of how she captivated men. She had recognised the signs in Bailey, and while there was no obvious, outward reaction, the balance of power had shifted in her favour. Way to play it cool, idiot, he yelled inwardly.

  ‘Sorry I can’t be of more help,’ she said as she moved slowly towards the door.

  ‘No need to apologise. You’ve cleared a lot of things up for me,’ Bailey responded, following her. He cast around, searching for an excuse to ask her out, or at the very least return for a follow-up visit. He dried up, and his arid, rough tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Damn! This girl was the real deal.

  Bailey swallowed.

  ‘Listen,’ he tried.

  ‘I love this photo,’ Leona cut him off as she gently caressed the frame of the giant picture in the hallway. ‘John took it. It really captures who I am.’

  Bailey looked at it again. This time, through the burning, overexposed light, he saw that one of the women seemed to have something on the side of her head. A bird, perhaps? An eagle clasping a rose, he realised with the encroaching numbness of defeat. The photograph captured a powerfully intimate moment of true tenderness between two lovers.

  ‘It’s really something,’ he observed. He never stood a chance. ‘Thanks for your help, Miss Stiles.’

  ‘If there’s anything else I can do,’ Leona left the offer hanging.

  ‘I think I’ve got everything I need,’ Bailey said as he opened the front door. ‘Thanks again.’

  He stepped into the carpeted corridor and didn’t look back until he heard the door shut behind him. He gave a wry smile as he considered how close he’d come to making a total fool of himself and consoled himself with the thought that it was good to know there were still women out there who could have that kind of effect on him. With that minor consideration working to slowly extinguish the flames of embarrassment, Bailey started down the stairs.

  5

  The day began with a familiar burning behind the eyes. Wallace’s head felt tight, as though someone was shrink-wrapping his brain. The meds pounded him with the murky pain of a punishing hangover. He rubbed his eyes. Five weeks. He couldn’t believe it had been that long – he thought he’d kept better track of the days. Maybe it was Taylor’s way of testing him, challenging him to prove his sanity by correcting the temporal deceit. No, the doctor’s thinking was too prosaic for such subtle tests. Wallace had to face the fact that he might be losing his mind.

  He rolled into a seated position and sat on the edge of his bunk. Everything around him was designed to be as safe as possible. From his benign sky-blue pyjamas to his urine-proof laminated mattress, the Maybury Hospital offered the safest, blandest of all possible existences so as not to provoke the discordant mind, but, without life’s sharper edges, there was nothing to give the inmates purchase. The languid haze of medication made it all too easy to drift through time. He rose from the fibreglass plinth that supported his bunk – no planks or nails to fashion a weapon that could be used for a violent exit during the night. He pressed his palms flat against the wall and looked out of the window as he tried to stretch his shoulders. The blinds rolled open at seven thirty. They were built into the window, resting between two thick panes of glass that distorted the view of the gardens beyond. The glass made the bare tree branches seem even more crooked, and people walking through the gardens wobbled and warped like reflections in a carnival mirror.

  Wallace caught sight of his echo in the window. It wasn’t a proper reflection, more like the shadow of one. He could make out his scraggly beard and unkempt dark hair. His piercing blue eyes only registered as black hollows on the thick glass, but his prominent cheekbones seemed even more pronounced than usual. He stood upright and ran his hands over his torso. His ribs danced under his fingertips and Wallace realised that he’d lost quite a bit of weight. Normally lean and muscular, standing at just over six feet, in his current condition Wallace was in danger of being considered gangly. He looked down at his toes and realised they were starting to look like Heather’s, the skin pulled in tight relief against the narrow bones. Perhaps this was what the Maybury did; deconstruct a person until only a skeletal outline remained, one that could be refilled and recoloured in Doctor Taylor’s image. Wallace made a mental note to eat more. He did not need to be reconstructed. He needed to get out. He needed to find the man who tried to kill him.

  He relieved himself in the fibreglass toilet and then washed his hands and face in the adjacent basin. He sat on his bunk and waited for the daily routine to begin. At seven forty-five an orderly would open the door and escort inmates to the showers, where strong iodine-coloured soap ensured cleanliness. Day clothes were provided in the changing area. Clothes were usually the inmate’s own, but in Wallace’s case a pair of jogging bottoms, T-shirt and Crocs had to suffice in light of his refusal to share his true identity. Breakfast in the canteen and morning medication. All done and ready for nine. Nine until one was activity time. Inmates were encouraged to participate in something that developed and reinforced constructive behaviour. There were walks around the garden, reading groups, card games, jigsaw puzzles, table tennis, backgammon, chess, talks, discussions and counselling sessions. Wallace tended to stay in the television room and watch daytime programming. Safe, bland, tedious shows that kept him comfortably distracted until lunch, when he would eat another outsourced, reheated meal in the canteen. Two until five was therapy time. Either as a group, which happened twice a week, or individually as required. Five until seven was free time, when Wallace went back to the television room and watched equally dull early evening programming. They weren’t allowed the news lest the horrors of the world trigger adverse reactions in some of the more fragile inmates. At seven they had their evening meal, followed by evening meds; little pills to keep the big nightmares at bay. From eight until ten was movie time – usually family fare with nothing overtly violent or stimulating. Half an hour back in their rooms to decompress from the mayhem of the day by reading or masturbating. Lights out at ten thirty to give them plenty of time with their nightmares. This was the programme the bright stars of mental health hoped would prepare the inmates for the rest of their lives.

  Wallace heard the familiar sound of the buzzer, and moments later, Keith, his section orderly, poked his head round the door.

  ‘Morning, John. How are you feeling?’ Keith asked, his paunchy moon face curling up in a jovial smile.

  ‘Like I don’t belong here,’ Wallace replied honestly.

  ‘I think we’d all rather be somewhere else,’ Keith chuckled. ‘Come on. Up and at ’em. It’s wash time.’

  Wallace shuffled to the showers. He lathered up with the blood-red, hospital strength shower gel before rinsing himself and then shuffling to the changing room to put on his dosser’s uniform. He shuffled to breakfast and opted for the congealed Full English. Pills popped, he shuffled into the television room and settled into the armchair closest to the TV. Most of the other inmates were eager to be cured, so apart from a couple of lost causes Wallace knew only as Fat Bob and Button, he was the only one to waste his morning in front of the television when there were delicious, sanity-restoring activities taking place in other p
arts of the hospital. Fat Bob and Button sat on opposite sides of the large room. Fat Bob had the remote. Fat Bob always had the remote. Button watched the screen, but Wallace doubted anything ever registered because all he did was endlessly repeat the words, ‘Push the button.’ Sometimes he said them under his breath like a quiet prayer. At other times they were sung like a Gregorian chant. Occasionally the words would be spat out at full volume, full of vitriol. As far as Wallace knew, Button had never said anything else.

  ‘Fat Bob. Button,’ Wallace greeted the men. ‘What you watching?’

  ‘Push the button!’ Button yelled.

  ‘Stuff. Buying stuff. Selling stuff,’ Fat Bob babbled enthusiastically. ‘They have this thing. Plays music in the shower. Why can’t we have music in the shower, huh? They never let us have anything. We need more stuff!’

  If Fat Bob was talking about stuff, that meant they were watching OVC, and, sure enough, there on the screen was a bright-toothed, permatan presenter selling a waterproof radio.

  ‘Push the button,’ Button said quietly, as Wallace slid into a seat in the middle of the room.

  A few moments later, just as he had done every single day since Wallace’s arrival, Fat Bob came and sat next to him. Wallace got the feeling that Fat Bob liked him, but outside of an initial daily greeting, the two men never spoke. They just sat and watched whatever Fat Bob decided the screen should throw at them. Wallace was just getting into the hypnotic rhythm of the presenter’s patter when he noticed Keith enter.