‘What now?’ I said, shaking my head.
‘The effect of this can be – quite striking? – I’ve found.’ She smiled to herself, drew a little nearer. ‘I know you think you have nobody, Steven. But perhaps you never did.’
I believe I would have laughed aloud had her presumption struck me sooner. I wanted to be very clear, word for word, and yet my voice still sounded to me like someone else’s. ‘If this is— an attempt at seduction? I can’t tell you how deluded you are. I mean, mad.’
She paused, tilted her head again – grim ‘Little me?’ coquetry – then peeled the dress from her shoulders, unclasped her brassiere, inserted a hand like a scoop and cupped the bell of her left breast. Its milk-softness seemed to slip between her fingers, as if she were weighing a mere bag of jellified matter, a useless, grotesque appendage.
‘I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders,’ she murmured. ‘Who will free me from the body of this death?’
The situation was insufferable, as was the strange heat. I touched my brow, found it clammy. She walked past me, toward the arch leading to the bedroom.
‘Think before you answer,’ she said with clarity. ‘It will be done as you decide.’
Then she disappeared. I stood for some moments waiting to recover my breath, my resolve. Then I followed her. And so put an end to it, to all hopes, such as they were.
She had lain down, made herself ready. The sight of her … In my head I saw monkshood, oleander, lathyrus cicera. I had been lured, tugged in by a thread, and I felt myself the injured party – yet, there were moments, our faces so close, her eyes opaque, mouth all hurt, when it seemed she had surrendered whatever power she’d exercised, and I wondered if in fact I was guilty of ravishment, committing some awful act. There is a power in doing anything for the last time. But even before we were done I could feel myself fogged by remorse, a poison-cloud of the world’s worst intentions. Beneath me she was plainly disturbed – softly crying, softly laughing, I couldn’t tell. But was she whispering to me or was the voice in my head, or did it come through the walls? It seemed for the longest time that I couldn’t hear it clearly – or hadn’t heard it properly.
‘Look close. Do you not know me?’
Yes. Hell is here. I know it, I’m buried in it. Close the lid now, shut out the light.
21
Olivia’s Correspondence
Lost in the dark
To Tessa Hartford
October 2nd
Dear Tessa:
I wanted to write and tell you that our conversation today affected me deeply, also to say again that you and your boys are so much in our thoughts at this time. Forgive me for reiterating – these are the moments in life when one wishes suddenly one had said more before, more and sooner. I dearly hope we’ll talk again soon, and often, and that you will always regard Grey and I as trusted friends to you and the twins. We have all of us in our own ways been harrowed lately, it’s as if some ungodly pall fell over our ‘circle’ these last six weeks, to the utter exclusion of the light. But Steven’s taking his own life is by far the worst of all.
Let me say quickly that we totally sympathise with your wish to be rid of the Dungeness cottage as swiftly as possible in the wake of this tragedy. It’s an onerous business, we know, and if I can be of any practical assistance then please don’t hesitate to call on me.
Similarly the funeral arrangements. I hope you haven’t spent one more moment worrying over whether you should attend. Everybody there will want to see you and the boys, for all the sorrow. Whatever your fears I really don’t believe Julian or Jacob will ever hold you to blame for their father’s suicide – I am sure of it – nor will anyone else. You are a strong person, Tessa, your boys have the benefit of that and will continue to. I saw Steven in his decline, as did others, and while I wish to God we could have done more to arrest it, he was in the grip of something that moved him past the reaches of our care.
The unhappy roles of Divorcee and Widow have been foisted on you, Tessa. But you must allow yourself the right to grieve too. Ever since I put down the phone I have been thinking about what you told me, how the pain was worse than it would have been had you and Steven stayed together. I think you have been grieving – for the loss of him, the man he used to be, the marriage you wanted it to be. And it would only be human if you had been thinking more than usual about the happier times. But we know the breach was real – that anger, that sadness. Steven was changed by this Byzantine business that has dogged Robert’s disappearance. We have all been changed. As I said, Grey holds himself responsible, for not seeing sooner, acting sooner – and nothing you or I could say would assuage him, because he’s always been a man who wants to act as if our fate is in our hands – fights the idea that some things are beyond our control.
He does truly appreciate your kind concern for his health, and be assured I do too. I fear that at the funeral you’ll see all too clearly what this ordeal has done to him, the appalling stress. With his usual steadfastness he’s set about the prescribed rehabilitation: a sort of speed-walk three times weekly (which he hates, is drained by), the regimen of half-a-dozen bottles of pills … But if I am honest, Tessa – after the tumult of events, I see a sort of dead-calmness in him, a sense of futility I never thought I’d see, as if his core faith in life had been blasted away. I get tearful, I worry over his silences, wish he would talk. ‘What can I say?’ he tells me. I suppose it is depression – or more simply, heartache. (He wouldn’t accept the first label.) Of course he assures me, ‘I’ll buck myself up …’ I have told him he must, must abandon any further thoughts of Robert and that ‘investigation’, since no good comes of it, and the conclusion must be that Robert, if not dead and gone, is ‘lost’. He accepts this, I believe – knows he’s been living a forlorn obsession. But now I think he has a new matter to fixate on – the fear he’ll have another coronary. There’s no medical reason to expect it, but then Grey is not quite in a medical frame of mind any more. It’s as if he’s begun superstitiously to fear something living in the shadows. And no medicine, no plan of exercise will ward that away.
But just as I have instructed him, I must myself not dwell on it – and I wish for you too, Tessa, that you will start to find some peace, see some light, in the days, weeks, months ahead. We are here for you.
With much love to you and the boys,
Livy
To Malena Absalonsen
October 3rd
Dear Malena:
Thank you so much for your call and kind concern. I’m only sorry we weren’t around to pick up. I must tell you Grey’s mobile is ‘confiscated’ for the time being. You did hear correctly, alas – he suffered a cardiac episode and will have to take some time in recuperation. I have been put in the improbable job of managing his affairs for however long will be his extended leave from work. A falling-off for ‘the big man’, as you can imagine. But he takes it seriously, as do I. He sends to you his fondest regards as always.
Malena, I do want you to know that, while I’m aware you and I have never been so close as you are to my husband, perhaps even to my son, I do admire you and consider you a friend. So I hope this finds you well and in some peace after what you were subjected to, and that you are keeping comfortable and looking forward (with whatever trepidation!) to the great adventure ahead. Forgive me for over-sentiment, but I really feel your pregnancy has been the one hopeful, uplifting occurrence among ‘our circle’ of late, while we have been subjected to some kind of cosmic vendetta. I’m certain you will have a fine boy, a commingling of the best of the two of you. I know nothing can obviate the sadness of what befell his father, but clearly the conception was a product of your love for one another, your shared wish. There’s no reason the child’s life should be overshadowed by what then followed.
Will you forgive me if I turn again to some matters of great sadness? I have very bad news to relate. Steven Hartford took his own life two days ago, an overdose of antidepressants. He and Tessa had decided to
separate, he’d taken himself off to their cottage out at Dungeness, had been there a week or so, and that’s where he was found, by a cleaning firm he’d hired to come in. That’s the saddest thing: he had planned to return to London, and to leave a property ready to be put on the market. Yet overnight he evidently made a fateful decision. There’s evidence he had some dalliance with a local woman in his last days, but nothing to suggest he met his end by any hand but his own. It is a dreadful loss for all of us, I know you will feel it too.
My second piece of news concerns Robert. You will understand I am sorry to be the bearer, but Grey has asked me to make you aware of a new and unwelcome development in what has been a fitful investigation. It was relayed to us by Hagen, the detective, who called to our house late this afternoon. I admit I wasn’t sure Grey was ‘up to’ this visit, I kept a proprietor-like grip on his arm, insisted whatever was said got said before myself and Cal too. Thus Hagen told us the clothes Robert was believed to have worn at the time of his disappearance – a black suit, white shirt, red tie, all with the Armani label – have been found draped around a scarecrow on an allotment in north London. The owner called the police: Robert’s wallet was in the coat, albeit stripped of cash and cards. As evidence the materials are hopelessly compromised after all this time and weather. But Grey took this news heavily, believes it is confirmation that Robert is dead. Hagen seems to agree. Calder, too, was very cut up, as of course was I, and I appreciate it will come as upsetting news to you above all.
I wish I could tell you more clearly what is the police view, Malena, but this Hagen’s manner was perplexing. Grey had certain questions, concerning Steven, and a woman he believes Robert was associating with before he disappeared. Hagen seemed to shrug all this aside, make out as if Grey has a screw loose, ‘chasing shadows’. His language was inappropriate, insensitive, as if he didn’t mind causing upset, which he certainly did. Grey was angered too, and baffled, for he’d formed a better opinion of this man. I must say, he even seemed almost amused by Grey’s obvious ill health. ‘You need a rest from your labours,’ he said, ‘a new lease on life.’ Grey assured him, between gritted teeth, that he intended to take every conceivable care and then return to his work, to which Hagen replied – somehow coldly, I thought – ‘Of course, Doctor Lochran, it will be done as you decide …’ Most odd.
Cal was really bridling on his father’s behalf, and after Hagen was gone he was most zealous to impress on Grey that his Uncle Rab couldn’t be given up for dead just on this evidence. But I was very struck by Grey’s reply, which issued very heavily from him. ‘I just wonder now,’ he said, ‘did I really know your uncle? He seems more like a stranger to me. If he were to reappear now? I’m not sure I wouldn’t bar the door.’ I have to say, Malena, that Grey’s perception of Robert has shifted somewhat of late, in a way that you would no doubt recognise, though Cal very much retains a godson’s faith in the man he knew.
You will be gratified to know that Cal has shown a huge maturity throughout these trying recent weeks. We know you have always followed his progress with interest, and he sends you his regards. Grey and I feel we owe him our closest attention and care right now. He has been through some curious stages, as befits his time of life, but we’ve been reminded of his true character, and we’re doubly mindful of this important year ahead for him and his future plans.
Please keep in touch, write and tell me how you are feeling and coping. We will want to know, and send our best wishes. You are in our thoughts.
Yours ever,
Olivia
To Tessa Hartford
October 5th
Dear Tessa:
I am so sorry your calls have gone unanswered, Grey and I have been in a terrible way for the last forty-eight hours. A catastrophe has been averted, but we have gone through hell and had no rest since. Two nights ago Calder tried to take his own life while Grey and I slept, attempted to hang himself, in his bedroom, with a belt round his neck. By some heaven-sent stroke Grey woke up and managed to intervene, undoubtedly saving Cal’s life. The wait for emergency services was an agony, and we had further panic in the intensive therapy unit – the painful-looking intubation and ventilation, fears about cardiac arrest, about brain damage. But Cal has now stabilised.
Yesterday morning I saw the spots of colour amid his pallor, the slow rise of heart and pulse. By the afternoon he’d regained an imperfect sort of consciousness, very drowsy, mentally sluggish, with a few clearly confused notions in his head. With a thick tongue he complained of pains all over. His short-term memory is impaired, for how long I don’t know. We know he will require psychiatric consultation.
Now, though, we are just living with the despair, asking ourselves how it could have happened, how our boy sank so low and we failed to see it. The growing-pain troubles we’ve had with him in the past just seem as nothing now – yes he has been feckless, at times introspective, but lately he had responded with maturity to our troubles. Now this.
We have been replaying and replaying the events of the last few days, weeks, looking for some clue, some explanation. In truth, he had seemed sombre. We wonder if he was especially upset by Steven’s funeral. Of course they were never especially close, not as Cal was to Robert, say, but there was an affection, for sure, and the funeral was a deeply mournful occasion. Cal was visibly moved as we all were by Grey’s eulogy, knowing it was a deeply felt observance on his father’s port, and having some share in the sense of what we have lost both in Steven and, so it sadly seems, Robert. That added, I think, to the gloom around us, certainly around Cal.
There was also an episode, a disagreement, the night before, which we obviously regret. Cal ‘relapsed’ to a habit with which we’d become worryingly familiar: going AWOL, leaving the house without announcement and being gone for most of the night, no answer from his phone. Grey drove out to some spots he believed possible, forlornly. He got back, quite beside himself, and we were down in the kitchen talking seriously about contacting the police, when I looked to the back porch and saw Cal’s unmistakable shadow through the door’s opaque glass. Once he was in, though, he seemed glazed, dull, lethargic. He told us he’d been by the canal, Grey refused to believe him, after having driven there, Cal only shrugged. Grey wanted to talk, nearly wanted to shake him, I think, just because we’ve been through this before – told him he was putting us through needless worry, ‘being a bastard’.
‘I’m much, much worse,’ he said. ‘You should have barred the door.’ This a reference to something Grey had said the other day in relation to Robert. I found it strange, unsettling, this identification with Robert. But evidence of the inner turmoil he’s carried.
The night it happened – we’d all retired unhappily to our bedrooms. God help us, we might never have known until it was too late. But Grey has suffered from disturbing dreams lately, and he awoke from another in the startled manner I’ve become familiar with. This time, though, he surged out of the bedcovers, ran from the room and I was so alarmed I followed. He was beating on Cal’s locked door, getting no answer, he ran and fetched a club hammer and just smashed the latch. We were met by the most dreadful sight I have ever seen, Cal up by his neck from a belt he’d fastened round the beam, chair kicked away under him. I froze in the horror of it, but I heard a sound from Grey as if he’d been gored, then he lunged into action, frantic, tearful, getting the chair up, freeing Cal, hefting his weight down to the floor, cradling his head and neck. All I could see were Cal’s eyes, prominent, glassy, pupils wide and fixed, his lips so livid, skin so ashen, a depression like an oblique slash on his neck. I screamed then, but Grey told me to just hurry and get the ambulance, because there was a pulse. Then he started breathing into Cal’s mouth, I did as I was told. The next minutes were hellish, but the ambulance was very fast – Grey was dealing with the paramedic questions, I felt he had control and somehow the worst of all worlds was receding. As we rode together to the hospital he told me the ‘drop’ had been short, and Cal couldn’t have been suspend
ed long. Our real salvation was the nightmare that woke Grey. He told me it had involved his old friend Edmond Warner, who died some years back.
We are thankful, so thankful – because for an agonising stretch I know we had both been thinking the same – what would we do, what would Grey and I be, without our boy? Keep us in your good thoughts.
With all our love,
Livy
To Malena Absalonsen
October 8th
Dear Malena:
We are distraught. Two days ago, at some point unbeknownst to us, Calder slipped out of the house and he has yet to return. We discovered in due course that he had packed a bag, gone on to withdraw money from a bank, acted, in other words, with intent. But given the condition he’s in both physically and mentally we didn’t hesitate to call the police.
Malena, if by any chance he should make any sort of contact with you, if anything should reach you from him or concerning him – please, please pick up the phone to us straight away. I know you’ll understand the despair we are in. All the worst feelings are rushing back. The small positives we had to hold onto are gone. We are in fear all the time – Grey is heartbroken, heartbroken. Neither of us can understand why Cal would do this unless he was in the gravest confusion, why he would put us through it. My worst fear is for his mental state, the chance he might come to harm.
After we brought him home from hospital, still very subdued and unwell, confused and struggling with memory, yet responsive to us – I was so hopeful, felt we’d had a blessing. We began to rebuild brick by brick, as we were advised. But then there was a deterioration. That first night back at home I’d left him sleeping, but I heard him sobbing, went to him, he was inconsolable, desolate. I asked him, ‘Are you remembering things, Cal? Have you remembered why you tried to hurt yourself?’
The Possessions of Doctor Forrest Page 24
