Claustrophobia

by Tracy Ryan

  There were sales clerks and businesspeople rushing in every direction, punctuated only by slow clusters of teenagers, buskers with dogs, and every so often a young couple smooching on a wooden seat, that awkward display that screamed Look at me while feigning utter indifference to the rest of the world. Pen thought of a song on one of Derrick’s CDs – Brassens, it was – about how lovers one day realise that

  in the random streets

  on one of these fine benches

  they've already lived the best part of their love

  The best part. How it could only be downhill, domestic and confined, from then on.

  ‘Is it all behind me? The best part of our love.’ She and Derrick had never made a show of things in public – always discreet, muted, sensible.

  She stared at the couples unashamedly as she passed. There was always one who looked back at her, as if to make sure they were being watched.

  ‘Already dishonest,’ she thought, ‘from the very beginning.’ They pretended to be lost in each other, in their embrace, but it was always with an eye to something else …

  She only just made it into the foreign-language bookshop; the sales assistant was clearly getting ready to go home. Pen apologised profusely and paid for Derrick’s order. As she let the door clatter behind her, she saw in the window cabinet Dimanche by Georges Simenon, and all at once the day’s nausea rushed back upon her.

  Of course it wasn’t that coincidental – the man had written hundreds of books, and you’d find him, even in English, in any respectable bookstore. And probably a few not so respectable, she thought. But it was hard, just the same, not to feel that things were closing in on her. As if a big eye in the sky were watching and connecting all the dots, reading her thoughts. As if little bits of Kathleen were planted everywhere, come to stay, never to leave her alone.

  She will never go away and leave me alone …

  Pen jogged all the way back to the car, put Derrick’s books inside, and on an impulse, ignoring the unsavoury loiterers, went down the threadbare staircase into the internet café. Her head was pounding.

  It was true the written word was treacherous. But only when you could trace it to a source. Pen paid her three dollars, logged in to a PC, and went straight to Hotmail to set up an anonymous address.

  7

  Having sent the message, of course, Pen was left with the problem of not knowing. She’d thought there would be satisfaction simply in saying it, in sending it off into the ether. But as days went by, it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop … Twice on her way home from work she called in to an internet kiosk, nowhere near the campus, to see if there was any reply.

  No reply.

  She couldn’t even really be sure if it had arrived. So she sent another message, a simple variation on the first:

  You may think people are disposable, but the past never goes away. You can’t get off scot-free. Who do you think you are?

  It was stilted, telegraphic, unsatisfying. But too much more would be a giveaway of some sort – she couldn’t write anything that would link the message to Derrick, to any specific event. And the strange thing was, as she sat there in the grip of her compulsion, the image of Kathleen insisted its way into her head, the real Kathleen, not this ugly chimera Pen raged at by email, but the warm, scented, friendly form of her, leaning back against the café bench, smiling and inviting her out into the sunshine.

  ‘If I rang Kathleen and made a time to meet,’ Pen thought, shaking herself, ‘I could see for myself if the emails have made a dent in that – that calm exterior.’

  So on her very next night shift, during the evening break, she went to a payphone off campus, hanging up twice before finally letting the call connect.

  ‘Why don’t you drop round here tonight?’ Kathleen said. ‘I could do with some company, and I don’t feel like going out anywhere.’

  It was all Pen could do not to gasp. ‘Um, okay. I’ll be finished at eight, I can come over then.’ Her brain was racing at this sudden turn. ‘Are you sure tonight is a good time? Is there anything I should bring?’

  ‘Have you eaten already?’

  Pen had.

  ‘Then just your good self. Let me give you directions …’

  When Pen rang Derrick, he was glum.

  ‘What a shame – there’s a French movie on SBS tonight, I thought we could watch it together.’

  Pen winced. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but everyone’s going, and I can’t really get out of it without giving offence. I’ll only stay a little while, anyway, just to do the right thing. They’ll all be getting smashed – it’s not my cup of tea. Maybe you can tape the movie?’

  ‘Of course.’ He paused. Pen could just see his expression resigning itself, ever accommodating. His mind a million miles from divining the truth. ‘You have fun, and drive carefully. Don’t be too late.’

  In fact, Kathleen’s house was only a short drive away, nestled low on a block a few streets back from the university. The front and carport were overhung with something like ivy or Virginia creeper, so that you couldn’t see much of the house from the road. Pen pulled the Volvo in neatly behind the familiar silver Corolla. Bizarre to think she had ever contemplated following that car, and now here she was, on the doorstep, invited.

  Why was the woman so keen? Was she a bit too keen? It hadn’t crossed Pen’s mind till now. After all, the affair with Derrick – why would she be interested in women? And she didn’t look like a lesbian. Not that you could really say what they looked like …

  It couldn’t be that she suspected Pen of anything – she had sounded relaxed and normal, and besides, there was no reason for her to link Pen to the stolen batch of essays, or the anonymous emails. Pen flushed a moment at the thought of them, then rallied. She had come this far, whatever else happened. She rang the doorbell.

  At first there was no answer, so she rang again. This time there came a yell.

  ‘Come in. Just come in.’

  The hallway was dark but led through to a bright, open-plan dining area. Kathleen was on the phone in a corner of the kitchen, her hair slightly damp as if from the shower, her face a little puffy. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, okay?’

  Pen stood still, moved back a little, embarrassed.

  ‘No, I’ve got to go. See you.’

  Kathleen hung up, and turned to Pen, smiling weakly. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  Pen shook her head. ‘I can come back some other time.’

  ‘No, no, please, sit down. It’s just … it’s just my ex, one of those horrible stories you don’t need to hear.’ (‘As if there were lots of them,’ Pen thought. ‘And Derrick was one of them.’)

  ‘I don’t even know why these things happen,’ Kathleen said, ‘it’s ancient history, but you’ve caught me on the hop. Murphy’s law, isn’t it – that someone like that will call when you’re expecting company? I do apologise.’

  Pen thought, ‘She’s surely not one of those women who will launch into all their personal details when they hardly know you.’ Where it started with exes, and ran rapidly downhill to menstrual problems. Kathleen just didn’t seem that kind. Aloud, Pen said, ‘Well, I brought some chocolate, if that helps.’

  Kathleen laughed and took the box. ‘I’m sure it will. As long as you eat some too, otherwise I’ll scoff the lot … Look, you go into the lounge, and I’ll make some coffee. I meant to have it ready, before I got interrupted.’

  Pen wandered through into a dark, high-ceilinged room with lovely old mismatched armchairs and a coffee table loaded with books and papers. The walls were bare but for a single painting, portrait-shaped but semi-abstract, which suggested a woman sitting on a swing. It was sombre, at odds with its subject matter, the woman’s figure nothing more than a few deft, black curves carved or stamped tensely into the thick background texture. It looked like a Franz Marc, or Chagall maybe, but it was an original, not a print.

  ‘My mother painted that,’ Kathleen said, carrying in the tray and nudging the pile of papers
to place it on the table. ‘Pardon the mess. I’m too busy to do much housework, and it seems kind of decadent to pay anyone else to do it. This place is functional, I’m afraid, not fancy. My mother would turn in her grave!’

  ‘She’s passed away,’ Pen said, stupidly.

  ‘Cancer, a few years ago. I’m the only one left now.’

  ‘She was a talented artist,’ Pen said. ‘At least, so far as I can judge.’

  Kathleen smiled. ‘Well, others have vindicated your judgement – she had a little following, you know, and sold quite a few pictures. But it was harder then. For women, I mean. No career if you were married, and a bloody hard row to hoe if you weren’t. Mum did it hard – my father moved out when I was still young.’

  ‘So did mine,’ Pen said involuntarily. Then burned and flushed again – she had not meant to reveal anything about herself, let alone such a private detail.

  ‘Ah. Well, you know how it is, then.’ Kathleen plunged and poured the coffee, and offered Pen a small white jug of cream. ‘What about you, are you in a relationship?’

  Pen hesitated. ‘No.’ There was no way she could let the talk steer to Derrick – she could lie outright but she could not dissemble, make up some other identity for him, string along. ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Sorry, that was a personal question, I shouldn’t be so abrupt. I just … I’ve had a bad couple of days. But I won’t bore you with the details.’

  Pen thought, ‘It’s the emails, of course, they have unnerved her.’

  It was a hollow thought, unsatisfying, and she wished now she could undo them.

  ‘I’m not bored,’ she said, to compensate. ‘It’s wonderful being here.’

  Kathleen looked surprised at her vehemence, but then smiled again. ‘Can you stay for a while? We could talk about Simenon … Or there’s a movie on SBS.’

  ‘A French movie,’ Pen nodded, inspecting herself for traces of guilt towards Derrick and finding none. She felt oddly light, as if the inside of her had been emptied out. Maybe it was the strong coffee, this late at night.

  The movie was called Swimming Pool, and turned out to be mostly in English. It was a shocker: slow, corny, and with the kind of dumb twist that makes you feel cheated. An incoherent plot that was just an excuse to pit an older woman against a younger woman, who never seemed to be wearing a shirt. At the end, they looked at each other and laughed.

  ‘I don’t know why I watched that one all the way through,’ Kathleen said. ‘Must have been the company! If I had been by myself at the cinema, I’d have walked out.’

  ‘Me too. But sometimes you just keep on with things, don’t you, thinking they’ve got to get better? Even though you know they won’t.’

  Kathleen laughed. ‘Sounds just like life with my ex. Sorry, seems to be the theme of the evening. I’m over it, really.’

  ‘Were you married?’ Pen said.

  Kathleen cocked her head sideways. ‘No,’ she said, with a curious expression. ‘No, I’ve never been married. You?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Pen stood up and yawned. She looked around her again: amazing to think Kathleen had achieved all this by herself, a single woman. And no silver-spoon beginnings, either – though her mother must have been cultured, which would help … ‘I should probably get going. I’ve got to work tomorrow.’

  The disturbing thing was, Pen didn’t really want to leave at all, but every minute she waited would make it that much harder to conceal things from Derrick. Already he’d be out of his mind with worry, but she wouldn’t be able to ring him until she was well away from Kathleen’s house.

  ‘We should do it again. Give me a ring – or do you have a mobile?’

  ‘Actually, no,’ Pen lied. ‘Hideous things.’

  Kathleen grimaced. ‘A necessary evil, I guess. What’s the best number to get you on, then?’

  ‘Get me,’ Pen thought, feeling dizzy, but Kathleen’s smile melted her fear somehow, and she said, ‘Just at work. I’m not often home.’

  Derrick picked up after only one ring.

  ‘I’m just past the city now. I’m sorry, one of the girls had car trouble and I had to run her home.’

  Simple was best, Pen had decided. It wasn’t so much that she liked lying, as that one lie entailed another, in a kind of chain of necessity. She hadn’t realised how you had to think ahead – once you’d given a false plan, your choices were restricted to the shape of what you’d said. Next time she must leave it more open-ended.

  Next time. What made her even think there would be a next time? Pen’s heart was beating so loudly she feared Derrick could hear it down the phone. A truck whizzed by, too fast and too close to her car.

  ‘You could have rung sooner.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, darling – there just wasn’t a good time. I couldn’t pull over …’

  ‘But you’ve pulled over now, you’re not talking while you drive, I hope?’

  ‘No.’ She almost snapped at him. She’d never realised before how nannyish Derrick could sound. ‘Look, I’ll be home soon. The sooner I get off the phone, in fact.’

  And then only the hours of night to get through, and then work in the morning for them both.

  As she drove up to the house in the general darkness, Pen saw that Derrick had left the kitchen light on – maybe because the outside light would suggest no one home. But approaching the steps, gravel crunching too loudly, she was caught in the sudden glare of the porch light as it flicked on. Derrick was at the screen door already.

  ‘Quickly – we don’t want to let in mosquitoes,’ he said, avoiding her eyes.

  Pen dumped her bag on the kitchen table. ‘I didn’t think you would still be awake,’ she said. ‘You know you don’t have to wait up, what with work tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’ve got a late start. Curriculum stuff in the city. I thought we might drive down together.’ He was looking at her carefully now. Pen folded her arms. ‘Even have lunch together or something. I could meet you on campus.’

  She tilted her head warily. ‘Sure … but it might be tricky. It takes longer than you think, to get across the city in the lunch hour.’

  Derrick swallowed, tense. ‘If you don’t want to, that’s fine.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just that I’d probably have a later finish. How would you get back?’

  ‘I could get a lift home with one of the others. But you wouldn’t be this late again.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Pen eyed him sidelong. ‘I’m sorry about the lateness. These things happen.’ She yawned. ‘We should get to bed.’

  ‘You weren’t … you weren’t drinking, were you?’

  Pen was indignant. ‘Do I look like I’ve been drinking?’

  ‘No. It’s just – that time way back, at the farewell do. I was surprised at you, with the wine, you know.’

  ‘One glass!’ Pen rolled her eyes. ‘I just got tired of the wowserish image. The way people judge you, as if you’re a freak. It was my last day, for heaven’s sake. More a joke than anything else.’

  ‘And you haven’t touched it since.’

  Pen gasped. ‘What is this, Derrick? Some kind of interrogation? I feel like I’m fifteen years old. You’re not my father, you know.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He was rubbing his beard now, an anxious habit. Normally Pen didn’t mind; now the crisp chafing sound got on her nerves, already overstimulated. ‘You’re just very tetchy.’

  This was the point where she would usually reach over and kiss his cheek, or squeeze his shoulder – a wordless apology. Instead, she said, ‘So are you,’ and began peeling off her clothes, getting ready for sleep.

  Derrick followed her into the bedroom. Pen kicked off her shoes, letting each one fall with a thud.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I spoke to your colleague Maureen …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Earlier, this afternoon. I phoned looking for you, to tell you about the
in-service thing, but you were off somewhere in the library. Maureen never mentioned anything about a function tonight.’

  Pen let out a big sigh. ‘Why would she? It was a last-minute thing, and in any case, she probably wasn’t asked.’

  ‘You said everyone was going.’

  ‘Well, they were,’ Pen laughed. ‘Maybe just not Maureen. Darling, you’re getting paranoid. And I’ve said it before, it’s not great to ring me on the work phone.’

  ‘But your mobile just rang out.’

  ‘Okay, fair enough.’ She smiled. Now was the time for the little kiss on the cheek, the sisterly hug.

  Derrick sat down on the bed at last and began to undo his shirt. He looked wistful, a small boy. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry, Pen. I guess I’m just not used to evenings without you, and I’m thinking, there must be other men there too, and they’re all drinking, and things can run away …’

  ‘Nothing’s running away,’ Pen interrupted. ‘And I’m not interested in any other men. You should know that by now, sweetheart.’ Appalled, she saw that his eyes were faintly teary.

  Derrick smiled wanly. ‘Okay. I know. Trust is the thing. I’m sorry, Pen.’

  ‘You don’t need to be.’

  ‘But I am.’

  She tousled his springy hair, and held one hand to the bedside lamp switch, until at last he eased in beside her.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, wrapping one arm tightly around her waist, ‘we’ll do lunch tomorrow, and I’ll make it up to you. We haven’t had lunch together in ages. It’ll be good for us.’

  And before Pen could think of an objection, he was breathing roughly, and asleep.

  The main thing was to keep him off the campus. Not that she expected Kathleen to cross their path exactly – just that it was better not to be seen with Derrick. You never knew who was watching, or who spoke to whom. Pen grinned wryly to herself: hiding her husband, as some people hid their lovers. Now that she had two worlds, she didn’t want to mix them.

  So on the long drive down she said, ‘Let’s meet in West Perth, get some sandwiches, and walk across to Kings Park.’