A Memory of Demons

by Ambrose, David

  Hunt was silent a moment, then said, ‘And the door down into the cellar? Where was that?’

  ‘It wasn’t really a cellar. You would have had to go down to it from the house, but from this side, it was ground level. The door was where that garage is now.’

  Again Hunt was silent, as he thought about what he was hearing. All right – so what’s your own interpretation of all this? I assume you have one.’

  Tom was a little taken aback, but he answered the question as best he could. ‘Obviously I remember the place because of something that happened here. Something I’ve been suppressing from conscious memory but recalling in the dream. It’s hard to get away from that, isn’t it?’

  ‘And what is it exactly that you’ve been recalling in this dream?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about,’ Tom said, impatient with what he took as Hunt’s evasiveness. ‘I’m talking about killing that girl!’

  Another pause. Hunt looked down to where his hands rested in his lap beneath the steering wheel. ‘Cases of people doing what you’re talking about – committing murder, then forgetting all about it – are extremely rare.’ He turned to look at Tom, making sure that his words were sinking in. ‘I’m inclined to seek some other explanation before accepting something as unlikely as that.’

  ‘But it’s possible, isn’t it? I mean, there have been cases.’

  ‘I don’t deny it. I’m just saying such cases are rare.’

  Now it was Tom’s turn to fall silent, frustrated by Hunt’s refusal to see things his way – the only possible way, however painful. ‘I’m going to have to get this house opened up somehow,’ he said suddenly. ‘I have to find out who owns it, and get permission to dig up that cellar.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to let you do that on the basis of a dream, Tom.’

  ‘It’s more than a dream,’ Tom exploded. ‘The house exists. It’s in front of you – look at it!’

  Hunt remained calm, his voice quiet and professionally reassuring. ‘I can see the house. And I grant you it looks very like the house you described – but I have only your word that it really is the same house.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, this is the corner where I was found that night – River Drive and Pike Way. The reason I dreamed about this house and recognize it now is because I saw it that night. I was running away from what I’d done, and I got hit by some truck . . .’

  Hunt opened his hands in a gesture that suggested an attempt to appeal to reason and common sense. ‘Tom, wait, listen to me. All right, let’s say you saw the house that night. That was probably the worst night of your life. Not necessarily because you went crazy and killed somebody, but because you nearly killed yourself. After that night you pulled yourself together, you became the man you’ve been for the last ten years. That night, when you saw this house through whatever miasma of drink and drugs you were in, maybe it was the last thing you saw before you were knocked down, so of course you remember it. It symbolizes something – because that night was the dividing line between your old life and your new. Remember what I told you, a dream about committing murder can actually be signifying change or growth. In reality, it was yourself that you murdered that night – your old self. You finally killed that old self off and started a new life.’

  Tom felt angry and even insulted by Hunt’s rationalizations. This was not what he had wanted from him. He needed someone to validate his guilt, to give him a good reason for feeling as bad as he did. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! You just won’t face up to what’s under your nose!’

  Hunt ignored his outburst. ‘Tom, the most obvious explanation – of anything – is very rarely the right one. Try to remember that. For Clare’s sake as much as your own. And Julia’s.’

  41

  They drove most of the way in silence. When they turned into the street where Tom and Clare lived, Hunt pulled over just short of the house and stopped the engine. Tom reached for the door handle, but Hunt laid a gently restraining hand on his arm.

  ‘Tom, before you go, just one thing’ As though he had been reflecting for some time, he said, ‘I think it’s important you say nothing about this for the time being. To anyone.’

  Tom looked at him. ‘You mean Schenk? Or Oliver Lewis?’

  ‘Anyone,’ Hunt repeated, with a quiet emphasis that made Tom realize he meant more.

  ‘Not even Clare?’ His voice echoed the surprise he felt.

  ‘I think it’s better. For now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For all the reasons we’ve been discussing. Why frighten her with something you can’t be sure of yet?’

  ‘But I am sure.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You can’t be. Remember what I told you – this may be a long way from what you think.’

  Tom sighed and leant back in his seat, unsure whether he felt more frustrated or relieved by this advice. Hunt watched him, knowing what must be going through his mind.

  ‘At least sleep on it,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk again before you do anything you can’t undo.’

  ‘That might have been good advice ten years ago,’ Tom said, with the gloomy resignation of a man who had already accepted defeat.

  ‘It’s good advice now, Tom. Please take it.’

  ‘So what do I tell her happened?’

  ‘Tell her the truth. You got drunk, you got mugged, and you woke up in a pile of garbage. Just leave out the bit about the house.’

  Tom looked uneasy. ‘I’m not sure I can do that.’

  ‘Because you’re afraid you’d be lying to her?’

  ‘I’ve been open with her so far. How can I stop now?’

  Hunt was silent, weighing Tom’s objection against the advice he was trying to give him. He went on in the tone of a man who found himself obliged to say more than he had intended. ‘Tom, telling her about the house could be more of a lie than saying nothing.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What d’you mean?’

  Hunt looked momentarily uneasy. It was not a response Tom was accustomed to seeing in him; the effect was both unsettling and oddly compelling. He awaited the answer to his question with suddenly sharpened attention.

  ‘I suppose what I’m saying,’ Hunt began, picking his words with very deliberate care, ‘is that I feel there’s something just so wrong here, that we are a long, long way from understanding what’s really going on.’

  ‘Wrong? In what way?’

  Again, Hunt thought before answering. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. It is, if you like, a gut feeling. I need to think about it some more. But from what I know about you, from what I know about this whole set-up . . .’ He shrugged. ‘There’s something wrong, Tom. It’s too obvious, it’s too . . . tidy. There’s more behind it than meets the eye.’

  Tom digested what he was hearing. ‘Set-up? Do you mean I’m being set up? I don’t see how that can be, it doesn’t make sense. How could anyone possibly . . . ?’

  Hunt raised his hand. ‘As I say, I need to think about it some more. For the moment there’s something I’m missing. I suspect it’s just under my nose, though I can’t see it. Why don’t you go home and get some rest? I’ll call you later.’

  Tom wanted to know more, much more. And he wanted to know it right then. But he was too tired to argue, and his head was starting to spin all over again. All right,’ he said, ‘if that’s what you think, OK. I’ll wait for your call.’

  He got out of the car and walked the remaining few yards to his house. Clare had the door open before he was halfway up the path. They faced each other without speaking, as though neither of them could find the right words for this moment in their lives. Then, perhaps because there were none, Tom was seized by such a confusion of emotions – remorse, love, fear, and a painful sense of loss – that he began to weep like a child. Clare gathered him into her arms and brought him inside, pushing the door shut behind him, locking out the world.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about . . . about . . .’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, holding h
im, ‘it’s all right, you’re home now.’

  They stood like that for some moments, he trying to sob out some kind of broken apology, she calming and soothing him and telling him there was no need.

  ‘But . . . you know . . . what I . . . what I wanted,’ he said, gasping for air between the words.

  ‘Shhh . . . it’s all right . . .’

  ‘I was . . . trying to . . . remember . . . that was why I started drinking . . . to remember . . .’

  She stepped back a little and her eyes searched his face.

  ‘And did you?’

  He returned her gaze, wiping his eyes with one hand while fumbling for a handkerchief with the other. He was acutely aware that this was the moment when he had to choose between keeping his promise to Hunt or confessing everything to Clare. But Hunt’s words were reverberating strongly in his mind. They had opened up possibilities he neither understood nor, so far, dared to believe in. They had both confused him and given him hope, a combination he did not know how to describe. Hunt had left him in the end, with no choice but to say nothing. He shook his head, and was grateful when she did not press the question further.

  ‘Why don’t you take a shower,’ she said, ‘get some rest? I’ll bring you something to eat.’

  He was exhausted, and the prospect of oblivion in the comfort of his bed was appealing, though he was far from sure he could sleep in his present state of mind. Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the shower and began towelling himself down. Through the door into the bedroom he saw Clare appear with a tray of sandwiches and one of the herbal teas she was always urging him to drink. He pulled on a robe and went through. She caught his fleeting look of distrust as he sniffed the clear green liquid.

  ‘It’ll help you sleep,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want to sleep.’

  ‘All right – but come and lie on the bed with me.’

  She put down the tray and punched up some pillows for him. He stretched out and leaned back. Clare climbed up alongside him, curling her legs up beneath her.

  ‘Try the tea.’

  Obediently, he reached for the cup and drank. Like all herbal teas in his experience, it tasted odd but not unpleasant. The sandwiches were chicken and grilled peppers, a combination she knew he loved. It was only when he bit into one that he realized how hungry he was. Clare stroked his face with the backs of her fingers as he ate.

  ‘I thought about it while you were out,’ she said. ‘In fact I thought about it all night . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled thickly. ‘I should have called, I tried—’

  ‘It’s all right, really. Don’t talk about it any more. I’m just trying to tell you that I thought about it, and I simply don’t believe that you’ve ever harmed anybody, or ever would. I just don’t believe it. I can’t.’

  He wanted to tell her about the house. But he wanted even more to believe that Hunt was right, and that there would finally be some other explanation. ‘I know,’ was all he said. He looked up at her. ‘I love you.’

  She slid her arm around his shoulders and rested her head on top of his. ‘I love you too.’

  Again they fell silent. Suddenly he didn’t feel like eating the second half of his sandwich. He told himself that he was clinging to a hope that might be nonexistent. And if that was so, then this moment might prove to be the last good one of their lives together – his and Clare’s.

  And Julia’s.

  And . . . ?

  And that other disembodied life that had taken sinister possession of her? A life that had returned literally from beyond the grave to smash their futures? Because of him? Of what he’d done? In, if only metaphorically, another life?

  ‘We’re going to be all right,’ Clare said softly, and her words startled him because they sounded like an answer to his thoughts. But he knew that she was simply offering him her strength. Her belief in him. Enough to bolster up his own.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he murmured in response. ‘Of course we are.’

  42

  He had fallen asleep without knowing it. When he awoke, he saw that the curtains were partially drawn to shield him from the sun and there was a late afternoon light falling across the room. Also, he was in the bed now, not just on it. Clare had somehow got his robe off and arranged everything without disturbing him.

  Suddenly he sensed an extra presence close by, and turned sharply. Julia was standing in the door, watching him with solemn concentration. He sat up, recoiling as he did so from the terrible sensation of reacting to the sight of his own child with fear.

  But was this his child? Or the other one, come back to haunt him?

  ‘Sorry Daddy, I didn’t mean to wake you.’

  The voice was Julia’s. He realized he had been holding his breath. He swallowed.

  ‘You didn’t. Come in, darling.’

  ‘Mommy said I wasn’t to. She said you were very tired.’

  ‘That’s all right – I’m fine.’

  Tom pushed himself up in the bed and made room on the edge for her. She hopped on it, put her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss. Then she looked up at him, frowning from the weight of some preoccupation on her mind.

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘What is it, darling?’

  ‘Where did you go last night?’

  He hoped she didn’t see his hesitation. ‘Didn’t Mommy tell you?’

  ‘She said you had to go and see somebody. Who did you have to see?’

  ‘Oh, nobody very interesting. Just somebody I might be working with and who had to . . . had to catch a plane.’

  ‘Somebody for one of your films?’

  ‘Yes. So . . . how was school today?’

  ‘It was OK, I guess.’

  ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

  ‘Mrs Simmons is sick, and I don’t like Mr Dawber who took us for English instead.’

  ‘What don’t you like about him?’

  She screwed up her face. ‘He gets real crabby over nothing, just some little mistake. And kind of sarcastic.’

  ‘Oh dear, that doesn’t sound too good.’

  ‘No.’

  They chatted on for a while, until Clare called up to say that Sarah had arrived for Julia’s piano lesson. She had been learning on and off for the past two years: off when she briefly decided she might prefer the clarinet, and on again when she decided it was the piano for her after all. She gave her daddy a hug and went on down.

  Tom went back into the bathroom and contemplated his reflection in the mirror. He needed a shave, but decided he could leave it for today. Then, on second thoughts, he decided to take care of it. He smeared foam, ran a basin of hot water, and reached for his razor. As he did so, the sound of halting and repeated piano chords began to float up from downstairs. His eyes clouded abruptly with tears. The contrast between the quiet house, broken only by those innocent sounds from downstairs, and the horror that still lurked in his mind, was too much to bear. Suddenly he needed a drink so badly that he was almost sick from the thought of having to fight the craving.

  But then, he told himself, what did it matter? Why shouldn’t he stay drunk till this whole thing was over? Who would blame him?

  Or just the occasional drink, to get him through it. The occasional drink is quite possible, even for the problem drinker. You may drink within reason for weeks before going off the deep end again. Maybe weeks would be enough time before . . . what?

  What indeed? He had no idea. All he knew was how much he wanted a drink. He had to fight it, and he was going to need help.

  He saw in the mirror that Clare had come into the bedroom and was watching him. She stood perfectly still, her eyes on the reflection of his own, following the struggle he was having with himself. He spoke to her without turning.

  ‘It’s going to be all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll get on top of it. Whatever happens, I swear to you I’ll deal with this thing sober.’

  She came up behind him, slipped her arms around his chest and hooked her hands back o
ver his shoulders. ‘We have forty minutes till that music lesson ends.’

  Sexual desire, even if it had crossed his mind, would have been the last thing he would have thought himself capable of. But now, with her soft warmth pressed against his back, he wanted nothing more than to lose himself in the flesh of their two bodies, to repay her love with his need of it. He turned to kiss her, but she laughed and held him off, reaching for a towel to wipe the white foam from his face.

  Later, lying in each other’s arms, they listened to the broken chords and simple tunes come to a sudden halt downstairs. Clare said, ‘Whoops! Better get this show back on the road.’

  She swung her feet to the carpet and quickly pulled on her clothes. He watched her with a mix of wonder, disbelief, and sated but rapidly reviving lust. ‘You know something?’ he said. ‘The way you’re handling all this, you must be as crazy as I am.’

  ‘I hope so,’ she said, flashing him a sidelong grin. ‘If it turns out we’re incompatible after all these years, I’m going to be really pissed.’ She planted a quick kiss on the tip of his nose, and disappeared downstairs.

  Tom ran a hand over his chin and reminded himself that he still hadn’t finished shaving. He pushed himself up from the bed and headed for the bathroom. This time he finished the job before he once again became aware of a figure in the mirror watching him. But it was Julia this time, not Clare.

  ‘Hi, darling,’ he said, drying off his face and addressing her reflection. ‘That sounded like a pretty good music lesson. You’ve been making real progress with—’

  He stopped as her eyes held his, with a strangely adult confidence, in the glass. He knew at once, just as he had the previous night, that this was not his daughter.

  ‘OK,’ she said, ‘now you’ve found the place, what are you going to do about it?’

  He didn’t move. He didn’t trust himself to turn and face her. Whether from fear of her, or of what he might do to her, he did not know.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked, his voice catching in his suddenly dry throat.

  ‘Do what the shrink says,’ she said in a flat, metallic tone – almost like a robot, he thought, and for a moment wondered whether she’d been hypnotized.