In Her Image

by Adam Croft

I jam my finger against the buzzer again, pressing it and pressing it repeatedly, harder and harder.

  I give up.

  I close my eyes and lean back against the outside wall.

  I hear a click.

  ‘Can I help you?’ says a voice — female, croaky. Old.

  I spin around and look back at the door and see a short woman, probably in her seventies, peering out from behind the main door to 86b. She’s wearing a dark pink blouse with a blue tabard over the top of it.

  ‘Uh, yes. I’m looking for Gavin Armitage. The photographer from upstairs?’

  The woman shakes her head and goes to close the door again. ‘Sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name.’

  ‘No, you might not,’ I say, stepping forward and putting my foot in the doorway so she can’t close the door. ‘He uses different names. But he’s the guy who runs the photographic studio.’

  She studies me for a few seconds. ‘Are you a police officer?’

  ‘I’m investigating him,’ I say. ‘Is he in?’

  ‘There’s nobody in, I’m afraid. The company downstairs only work Monday to Fridays, but they don’t do anything to do with photography. They’re architects. I’m just the cleaner for the building.’

  ‘And what about upstairs?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing.’

  I blink. ‘What do you mean nothing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ the woman repeats, as if this explains everything. ‘There isn’t anyone upstairs. There hasn’t been for months.’

  ‘No, I mean upstairs here. Those stairs,’ I say, pointing. ‘The photographic studio. I was here last week and it was there then.’

  The woman curls her bottom lip over and shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so, love. There’s nothing up there.’

  I feel my heart hammering in my chest. ‘Uh, can I take a look?’ I ask, stepping inside the doorway as I say this, giving the woman no option.

  ‘If you like. But I’ll need to come up with you,’ she replies, as if she’s going to provide the necessary security muscle needed.

  I take the stairs two at a time. When I get to the top, I can’t quite believe what I see.

  There’s nothing there.

  17

  You’re going to be trouble. I know it. In truth, I’ve known for a little while, but I hoped I wouldn’t need to resort to anything extreme.

  Why couldn’t you just play along? It didn’t need to be difficult. A small tweak to the way you think. A slight alteration of the mind. All you needed to do was get outside your box and embrace the possibilities.

  She would’ve done. She would have been the first one to open her mind. And that’s the litmus test, you see. This is how I know if you’re worthy. And you’re very quickly starting to prove that you’re not.

  Going to the police was a very, very bad idea. Did you think I wouldn’t know? Did you really imagine that even though I could find out everything about you, permeate every cell of your life, I wouldn’t know you’d made a phone call? That PC Jason Day had visited your house on Tuesday afternoon? You must think I’m stupid.

  No. You must think you’re clever.

  Because that’s what happens on TV and in the films, isn’t it? You go to the police, they catch the bad guy, everyone lives happily ever after. They’re there to help you, aren’t they? Except sometimes there isn’t anything they can do. Sometimes, the police don’t hold the power. Sometimes, there is only one person who can help you.

  I could have helped you. I still can, if you’ll let me. Will you let me?

  I can show you how things should be. I can provide enlightenment. There’s a spark that can’t be left to die. A soft orange glow that stayed long after the flame had been so cruelly extinguished.

  It won’t need much. Some tinder, a bit of oxygen and a lot of determination.

  I’m prepared to give you another chance. I know you won’t let me down. I know it’s you. I know it’s you.

  You’re the closest anyone has come. You’re going to need more work, but it’s the sort of work that only you can do. I can guide that horse to water, but I can’t make it drink. You need to see it. And I need to keep showing you.

  I don’t want to do anything drastic. I’m not like that. But everyone has their limits. Mine are a lot further along the line than most people’s. She taught me that.

  That’s what I remember most about her: her compassion. So forgiving. Even when people did the most horrible, unspeakable things, she’d always find a way to hold no malice. She’d try to understand, try to reason as to why people might feel compelled to do these things. She apportioned no blame. She was a fucking modern day Jesus. And you know what? I see that in you too. You have a peaceful soul. But you hang on to too much. You don’t even realise it.

  We used to go dancing in the meadow. Yes, it’s exactly as it sounds. We’d go down late on summers’ afternoons and she’d take me by the hand and we’d dance among the daisies and the buttercups. She’d hum an imaginary tune. Sometimes she’d sing it. And I’d sing along too. And we’d have the time of our lives. Sometimes a group of boys would be watching. Sometimes we’d get looks and stares from people who just didn’t understand. But she never once had a bad word to say about them. ‘They can’t feel it,’ she’d say. ‘One day, I hope they will.’

  One day, I hope you’ll feel it too. Because that’s all I want for you. I want you to feel the love, the peace, the tranquility flowing through you. To take yourself to a higher plane, above all the poison this world has to offer. That world isn’t for you, Alice. You’re better than that. You’re destined for better things.

  You can do what she couldn’t. There’s a legacy there to be had, and the sad thing is you don’t even know what it means. I’m a realist; I know you’ll never truly understand. How could you? You never knew her. But as long as you understand what it means to me, and as long as that understanding fills you with a fire in your belly and a love in your heart, I know I’ll have done my job properly. I’ll have fulfilled my promise. I’ll have done my bit.

  I just have to make you realise. I have to show you. And to do that, I’m going to need a slight change of plan. I didn’t want to have to do it this way, but you haven’t left me with much choice.

  I know you’ll forgive me in the end.

  I know you’ll realise I’m doing this for you.

  I know you won’t let me down.

  18

  I don’t even know how I got home. I must have wandered the streets in a daze. It’s not the first memory blank I’ve had. Sometimes, when I go through stressful situations, my mind tends to try to protect me. At least that’s the way Maisie put it when I first saw her.

  I’m still struggling to make sense of exactly what it all means. The fact that Gavin Armitage’s studio is no longer there is worrying enough. That he could clear everything out inside a few days and disappear is unlikely, but still possible. What worried me the most is what the cleaner said.

  There isn’t anyone upstairs. There hasn’t been for months.

  Except I know for a fact there was someone there last week. Gavin was there last week. And he hadn’t just moved in that morning, either. The whole place was kitted out as a full photography studio. He would’ve needed days to set it up and days to take it all down. There was no way the cleaner could’ve not known about it.

  Unless.

  Unless.

  The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. And it’s not possible. There’s no way on earth I could have imagined the whole thing, invented it in my mind. There’s no way at all. I was there. I spoke to him. I told Mandy about it. I recognised the inside of the building when I went back there. How could I do that if I’d never been there, if I’d imagined the whole thing?

  By midday, I’d managed to regain enough mental control to realise that I needed some help. I’ve felt like this before — the crushing realisation that I can’t even help myself, that I need something extra. My local GP surgery isn’t open at weekends, so I spent the rest of Sat
urday and the whole of Sunday at home, mostly in bed, with my phone switched off and the TV on in the background to try and block out the thoughts.

  I didn’t expect to be able to get an appointment when I phoned up this morning, but I figured it was worth trying. Mondays are the worst days to try and get an appointment. I don’t know if the receptionist had access to my medical notes or whether she sensed something in my voice, but when she came back from putting me on hold for a minute or two she’d miraculously found an appointment for me to see Dr Onoko within the hour.

  I’ve seen Dr Onoko before. He’s the only doctor who seemed to understand, who wasn’t just interested in getting me out the door and getting the next patient in. He’s not a major fan of meds; in fact, he was the first person to suggest I go and see Maisie. I owe him a lot. And now I need his help again.

  Behind his beaming smile, I sense a slight undercurrent of worry, as if he wasn’t expecting to see me again. I guess all doctors hope you’re not going to come back with the same recurring problem, as it indicates a level of failure on their part.

  I tell him all about the way I feel right now, which isn’t easy as I’m not really sure myself. He looks at me with his head cocked slightly, nodding as I speak. I don’t tell him any details about the last week or so — at least not about the photos, anyway. I don’t see that it’s relevant, and I don’t want to sound mad — as ridiculous as that might sound, having come to the doctor to effectively tell him I think I’m going mad.

  He listens with great interest as I try to describe my feelings after the relationship breakup with Kieran. I’m quick to tell him that I don’t want to get back with Kieran, that it was my decision, and that the overriding feeling is probably that of guilt. I briefly mention that I think I’ve been having blackouts and hallucinations, and, unsurprisingly, this is what he picks up on.

  ‘Can you describe it to me?’ he asks.

  I think for a moment. I need his help, but at the same time I don’t want to overdramatise it. I’m fairly sure my worries and anxieties are coming from within myself as opposed to anything else. I just need to learn how to control them.

  ‘Well, there was one two days ago. Saturday morning. I was faced with a situation that didn’t make any sense. I don’t want to go into the details, but it was something that challenged everything I believed. Something that made me question my own sanity. And instead of reasoning, I just kind of shut down. I don’t even remember getting home.’

  ‘And what about the hallucinations?’

  ‘That’s the bit I don’t really know about. I feel silly even saying the word, but I don’t know what else to describe it as. There have been a few times where I’ve thought things were the case but they weren’t.’

  Dr Onoko picks up on my verbal hedging and tries to elicit more details. ‘Are we talking visual hallucinations? Auditory ones?’

  I shake my head. ‘I know it sounds stupid, but I really don’t know. Neither I guess, sometimes both. I think it’s more my brain inventing situations to try and make sense of things. I really don’t know how to describe it. All I know is sometimes I get confused. My mind runs away with me. And when I can’t make sense of the world I panic and everything goes blank.’

  ‘And what do you think causes it?’ he asks. His tone is friendly. I think he can sense that I might have my own theories.

  ‘I don’t know, but I wondered if it might be the medication. I know that sometimes some meds can do weird things. Either way, I’m not in a great place right now. They aren’t working. I think I need to change them.’

  He nods. ‘I’ll be honest with you. Hallucinations and blackouts aren’t really known side effects of fluoxetine. That said, everyone reacts in different ways so it’s possible. If you don’t feel you’re improving or that the medication is working, we can look at changing it. That might well help with your symptoms, too. The only slight problem is that you can’t just stop taking the fluoxetine. We need to gradually reduce your dosage, as otherwise the side effects could be much worse. Some of them can be quite severe.’

  ‘And what about the new medication?’ I ask. ‘Can we introduce that at the same time?’

  ‘It depends what it is. Sometimes, yes. But I think considering your circumstances we need to have a careful look at what’s out there and what’ll be best for you. You can’t take any MAOIs at the same time as fluoxetine, though. They’re monoamine oxidase inhibitors. They react really badly with SSRIs like fluoxetine.’

  I remember the acronym from when I was first prescribed it. A selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor.

  ‘It could be that your body has got used to the fluoxetine, and that it’s not effective any more. Besides which, the potential side effects you’re experiencing mean it’s definitely worth reviewing. We could try another SSRI, like sertraline.’

  ‘Isn’t that the same class of drug?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. It works in a similar way. But crucially it’s a different drug. In terms of side effects, anything involving anxiety tends to be lower. You should find you have fewer panic attacks and spikes of anxiety.’

  Right now, I’ll take anything. ‘Okay. We can give it a go.’

  I leave the surgery feeling a little more hopeful. Dr Onoko didn’t give me any magic cure, but then I guess he can’t. The sooner this all goes away, the better. If I had the money I’d book a last-minute holiday. Recharge the batteries. But I don’t. So I’m just going to have to keep on fighting.

  Fighting against myself. Fighting against the possibility that my mind is playing tricks on me, that I’m imagining the whole thing with Gavin. But it isn’t possible. I keep going back to that same key point: that there’s no way I could have recognised his studio again this Saturday if I hadn’t been there the week before. How else would I have known what it looked like? And then...

  Yes. That’s it. There is something. Something I can use to prove — if only to myself — that I’m not imagining this. I start to walk more quickly as I pull my mobile from my pocket and call the police.

  19

  Fortunately, PC Day is at work and they’re able to put me through to him. I don’t have my crime reference number to hand and I don’t much fancy recounting the whole of the last week’s events to someone new. I need PC Day, and I’m lucky to get him.

  ‘I’m on my way home now,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got the original business card that he gave me last week. That has his name, his phone number, the address — everything. There might be something you can use,’ I say. I don’t know what, but it’s got to be worth a shot. His mobile phone number must be registered in his real name, for a start. Or maybe there’s some fingerprints they can get off the card. Can you get fingerprints off paper? I don’t know.

  ‘Business card? You didn’t mention a business card the other day,’ he says.

  I try to think back. Did I mention it or not? I can’t see why I wouldn’t have done, but I can’t be sure.

  ‘Oh. Sorry, I forgot,’ I say, immediately realising how feeble this sounds.

  ‘The information on the card, this is all information we already have isn’t it?’ PC Day asks.

  ‘I dunno. Possibly. But it’s in black and white. It’s the actual card he gave me. You might be able to get fingerprints or DNA or something. Or see if he gave one to anyone else. I don’t know. All I know is it’s the only physical item I have from him.’ I’ve started to realise that his method of emailing me the photos was probably quite clever. No physical printing, no DNA, no fingerprints. So why would he take a risk with a business card? ‘Did you get anything from the emails?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing that we can use, according to the notes. Says here the Gmail address is anonymous. We could get onto Google for IP addresses, but that might only narrow it down to the general area. And anyway, these companies are notoriously strict when it comes to things like that. Unless we’re talking serious crime, they’re unlikely to give us anything. There’s a note that says the IT forensics people looked at something called the
EXIF data?’ PC Day says, making it sound more like a question than a statement. ‘Says here that the footprints had been scrubbed. I guess that’s tech speak for removing all the evidence.’

  I sigh. I vaguely recall hearing something about EXIF data at some point. As far as I know, it’s the digital meta data encoded within an image, which can tell you the camera it was taken with and possible even the GPS coordinates of the original image.

  ‘But the business card could help, right?’

  ‘It certainly wouldn’t hurt,’ he replies. I detect a note of optimism and hope in his voice. ‘All I’d say is don’t touch it, though. Just in case they can do anything with it forensics-wise. I’ll see if we can get someone out who can retrieve it properly for you. Can I call you back on your mobile?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I reply. I can feel the lactic acid building up in my legs as I power-walk up the high street in the direction of my house. ‘I’ll be home in a few minutes.’

  I say goodbye to PC Day and end the phone call, just as I turn right at the Chinese takeaway into Pearl Street. As I round the corner, a large figure appears in front of me. All I see is the big black Puffa jacket with the scarf tucked inside it as I scream and feel the pain of the adrenaline shooting through my chest.

  The arms grab me, and an icy blast surges through me. Every fibre in every muscle is yelling for me to run, to get out of there, but I can’t.

  ‘Woah, easy there. You alright, love?’ the man says. I look up at him through my foggy eyes, my heartbeat hammering in my eardrums.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, unable to find any other words. ‘Sorry. I was just...’

  ‘No problem. Didn’t mean to startle you.’

  I swallow, sweep a stray lock of hair back behind my ear and carry on up Pearl Street, feeling the eyes of the man in the Puffa jacket looking at me, thinking I must be some sort of mad woman.

  But now I know I’m not mad. And now I know I can prove it.