A Memory of Demons

by Ambrose, David

  ‘I’ve done that,’ he said, and realized that his own words were spoken in the same flat tone. Was he too hypnotized? Or was he dreaming? Hunt’s words about pinching himself crossed his mind, but he didn’t try it; the gesture in the face of that grave, unblinking presence would have been too absurd.

  ‘I know you have,’ she said. ‘Go on doing it. Go with the shrink. You’ll get out of this.’

  He watched her reflection as it turned and walked out of the room. ‘Wait!’ He spun around and started after her, his hand already out to seize her by the shoulder and pull her about to face him. He did not know what good it would do, and some part of him said that it would be dangerously akin to waking a sleep-walker.

  But it was not his doubts that made him hesitate. It was the ringing of his cellphone on the bedside table. Automatically, and relieved to have his action dictated by reflex and not choice, he picked it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m not waking you, I hope.’ It was Brendan Hunt.

  ‘No. I slept a while – three hours, more.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Not too bad. Better.’

  ‘That’s good. Sleep was what you needed. Listen, Tom, you and I need to talk. I take it you’ve said nothing to Clare – about what we discussed.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think we should meet in the morning. I see that Julia has a session at eleven thirty. Why don’t you bring her in yourself? I don’t need more than ten minutes with her, we’re practically through. We can send her back to school in a cab, which will leave you and me some time together. I have more to tell you than I could this afternoon.’

  ‘OK,’ Tom said, and wondered whether to tell Hunt what had happened only seconds earlier with Julia. Could it be merely coincidence that Hunt’s call had followed on so swiftly? Surely not.

  Something, he told himself, was taking its course. But what?

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ll be there. Eleven thirty.’

  When he went downstairs ten minutes later, Julia was on the phone, talking perfectly normally to a friend, planning some outing for the weekend. Clare was starting to put supper together in the kitchen. ‘Brendan Hunt just called,’ Tom said, managing, though he did not know how, to sound casual. ‘He suggested I take Julia in for her session tomorrow – so we can talk.’

  ‘Fine,’ was all Clare said, then added: ‘You’ll be able to take her back to school afterwards, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll call her a cab.’

  Clare continued preparing supper. Tom hesitated, feeling a little strange about what he was about to say next; then he felt stupid for feeling strange.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I think I should go to a meeting.’

  The meeting in question was, of course, an AA meeting. Alcoholics Anonymous. He hadn’t attended regularly for several years. Perhaps he had become overconfident: if so, he was now having to face the fact of how brittle his self-discipline had been. Recovery, even after one slip, is an uphill road.

  Clare took the announcement in her stride. ‘OK, we’ll eat when you get back.’ They kissed, with a tenderness that reflected the memory of what had happened upstairs.

  ‘I love you,’ Tom whispered in her ear. They held each other in silence for a while. Then without another word, he turned and left the house.

  43

  He had made a call to check out where the nearest meeting was at that hour. It was only a half-dozen blocks or so; he remembered the location well. He set out on foot – partly because he felt like the exercise, but also because he was afraid there might still be enough alcohol in his system to make driving a bad idea.

  The meeting was in part of a school building. He hadn’t been there for at least four years, but as he approached he saw at once that nothing had changed: through the iron gate and into the empty playground, towards two large lighted windows through which he would see fifteen or twenty men and women already gathered in the incongruous surroundings of bookshelves and brightly coloured children’s drawings, desks pushed aside to make room for several rows of folding chairs. Mugs of poisonously well-stewed coffee were, as always, being dispensed to everyone. He felt like a traveller returning home after a long absence, to find everything unchanged and instantly absorbing him as though he had never been away.

  As he stood there, outside looking in, he felt an overwhelming urge to turn his back and walk away. What he really needed was a drink, not an hour or more of ‘I’m Bob – Frank – Joan – George, and I’m an alcoholic.’ Not those bland slogans he could see stuck up on the walls: ‘One Day at a Time’; ‘Take it Easy’.

  ‘Hi, Tom! Good to see you.’

  He turned in the direction of the voice – a man in his fifties, tall, well-built, with thick white hair. He remembered him well, but not his name. The man offered his hand, Tom shook it automatically.

  ‘John,’ he said. The name had come back to him from some dark recess of memory.

  ‘Are you coming in?’

  ‘Sure,’ Tom said. They walked in together.

  There was a guest speaker that night, a woman called Joyce, who opened the meeting by telling her own story. She was thirtysomething, attractive and well dressed, who described how, only a few years ago, she had wound up sleeping on the streets and stealing bottles of Listerine for its alcohol content. She made the room laugh at the madness of the things an alcoholic will do for a drink, and wince in recognition of the lies they all told themselves about their problem.

  When she finished, the meeting was thrown open to the floor. There were, as always, a couple of good performers exorcizing their demons with practised skill and wit – as entertaining as any stand-up comic. As always, there were others who had trouble finding the right words, but whose need to speak out was palpable, and who were thanked as warmly for their contribution to the meeting as the best of speakers had been, perhaps even more so.

  Suddenly Tom realized how badly he needed to speak himself: how desperately he wanted to tell those people in that room the reason he’d got drunk last night. But to what end? His was more than a story of alcohol addiction. It was a story he had no right to make this group, or anyone, share with him.

  He was not just two people in the way that they all were – the drinking and non-drinking versions of themselves. In him there was a far more terrible division: between the man who loved his wife and child and lived a happy, decent life; and the murderous madman whose brain had been so ruined by alcohol that he no longer had knowledge or control or memory of who or what he was, or of what unspeakable things he might have done. His was a hell without forgiveness or respite.

  Slowly he became aware of a curious pain in his hands, and realized that his fists were balled so tight that the nails were digging into the palms. He opened them up and saw he had drawn blood in two places. He took out a handkerchief and crumpled it between his hands. Except for the fear of calling unwanted attention to himself, he would have got up and left right then.

  But to go where? The nearest bar? He realized with a shiver of alarm how much he still wanted a drink. The floodgates had been opened, and were not about to shut again without a struggle. It was going to be his struggle, and he would have to fight it alone. Ironically, this place he had come to for help in that fight had only reinforced his sense of hopeless isolation.

  It took an effort of will to sit through the rest of the meeting. The different voices with their oft-told stories and their well-worn jokes echoed meaninglessly in his head. He was on the edge of panic. He felt beads of perspiration forming on his forehead and upper lip, and used his handkerchief to wipe them discreetly away. No one paid attention. No one looked twice. He was dealing with his own personal hell, as they all were with theirs.

  At the end, he left quickly, avoiding conversation or even eye contact with anyone, and started walking briskly home. Clare would have supper ready, Julia would be waiting for him to go up and say goodnight. He was a lucky man to have that welcome waiting for him.
He kept on telling himself how lucky.

  Without being aware of it, he found he’d stopped on a corner. Straight ahead lay home. To his left was a road leading towards a collection of neighbourhood shops and restaurants – and bars. He could see one as he stood there, its illuminated sign so clear and vibrant that he could almost hear the electricity buzzing through the neon. He could hear too, or at least imagined that he could, the sound of ice clinking in a glass, and the warming taste of the liquid that would work its magic and stop the screaming in his skull that he didn’t know how to stop any other way.

  Just one, perhaps? Just one drink to fend off the horrors? Just one, and then home?

  He stood where he was, looking one way, then the other. He knew it was more than a question of simply making a decision. That was already made someplace in his head that he did not have access to. All he was waiting for now was to find out what it was.

  All he was waiting for was to find out what he was going to do – by doing it.

  He started for home.

  44

  They arrived a little before eleven thirty the following morning, but Hunt was ready for them.

  ‘I hope you parked in my garage, Tom, like I told you,’ he said.

  ‘Sure. That’s a big help.’

  Both Tom and Clare had suffered parking problems in the past, whether bringing Julia to her sessions or picking her up after them. Clare had arrived flustered and apologetic one day after taking an age to park. After that, Hunt had given her the code to his private garage, which had room for two cars.

  ‘Julia,’ Hunt said, ‘why don’t you go talk to Sally for a moment while I have a word with your father.’

  The child headed off happily to the office of Hunt’s receptionist, whom she liked. Hunt steered Tom into the waiting room.

  ‘So how are you feeling this morning?’ he asked. ‘You certainly look better.’

  Tom gave a thin smile of acknowledgement. ‘I went to an AA meeting last night. I managed to get home without stopping for a drink.’ He gave a quick self-deprecating laugh. ‘I’d forgotten how bad it could be.’

  ‘You made it, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘I wouldn’t quite say all,’ Tom said. ‘I mean, where exactly are we now? What is it you said you have to tell me?’

  ‘Just give me ten minutes with Julia, that’s all I need. Then I’ll have Sally get her back to school. After that, I’ll be right with you.’

  Tom took a chair and picked up a newspaper. He was too distracted to read with any concentration, but it was something to do. Hunt closed the waiting-room door and started down the corridor to where he could already hear Julia chattering happily with Sally Young.

  ‘Hello, Julia. How are you today?’

  Big smile. ‘I’m fine, Dr Hunt, thank you.’

  He told Sally to go over to the hospital and check out some records he wanted, and then go straight to lunch.

  ‘Okay Dr Hunt,’ she said, happy to have an extra hour to herself. ‘I’ll see you this afternoon. ’Bye, Julia.’

  ‘’Bye, Sally.’

  Hunt held open the door to his private office. ‘Come on in, Julia,’ he said. As always, she walked ahead of him and settled in her usual place, then turned to look up at him brightly, ready to begin. And, as always, it was only when the door closed, with the muted click of its latch, that the transformation took place. The voice changed, along with the whole posture of her body. The innocent nine-year-old was instantly replaced by the precocious, foul-mouthed and foul-minded adolescent of fourteen.

  ‘OK, big boy, what’s it gonna be? Blow-job? Ass-fuck? Whatever does it for you.’

  ‘Stop it, Melanie,’ he said wearily, as he so often had. ‘You know nothing like that is going to happen here. How could it?’

  She smiled knowingly, enjoying the power she was so sure she wielded over him.

  ‘You’re gonna have to kill her in the end,’ she said. ‘That’s the only way you’re ever going to silence me, you know. You’re going to have to kill the brat. That fucking Julia.’

  PART TWO

  ‘CONFESSION’

  45

  Nature or nurture? Are we born hard-wired, or are we manufactured by experience?

  It is not enough to say something of both. That is an evasion, not an answer. It does nothing to explain how the balance works, or the real difference between them.

  Introspection is no help. It can tell us something about what we are, but not why. I remember well the day I discovered what I am, but despite a lifetime’s asking myself why, I am no nearer.

  The discovery happened in Colorado. It had been my father’s idea. White-water rafting: an adventure for all the family, the brochure said. I don’t remember much of it in detail. It’s all something of a blur. Except for what happened to my sister.

  Cassie, at fourteen, was four years older than me. She had brought her best friend Naomi along. In fairness, our parents had given me the chance of also bringing somebody along, but I had chosen not to. The fact was, I didn’t have many friends. Certainly no one close enough to invite along on a vacation. I also knew that I would take so much razzing from the girls that I preferred to endure my humiliation with no witness of my own age and sex.

  As it turned out, however, things didn’t go as badly as they might have done: the girls had each other’s company to take their mind off me, and anyway there was a limit to the tricks they could get up to in front of my parents.

  I enjoyed the rafting. We had a guide, of course, and although he promised us we were all perfectly safe so long as we followed the rules, it was exciting – like a fairground ride, where you know you’re securely strapped into your seat but still feel you might be smashed into oblivion any second.

  And, of course, accidents can happen.

  What happened to Cassie was an accident. Well, basically. There was a certain amount of stupidity involved. And other things. It didn’t happen on the water. It was one morning, after we’d camped overnight in the two tents that came as part of the trip. They were incredibly comfortable, with inflatable beds and even a heater if you needed it. We had food in tins, along with fruit and vegetables in special coolers. All the comforts of home in the wilds of nature.

  All the same, that’s where we were: the wilds of nature. And you needed to take care. Normally our parents, or Charlie, our guide, kept a close eye on the girls and me wherever we were. But on this particular morning they must not have been paying as much attention as usual, because suddenly as we were packing up and getting ready to move on, my mother looked around and said, ‘Where are the girls?’

  Everybody started looking around, and we realized there was no sign of them. There was no immediate panic: somehow, I had always noticed, grown-ups worried less about two or more kids disappearing or getting into trouble than they did about one. Safety in numbers, my mother said. We called their names for a while, but it was only after a couple of minutes with no response that my parents started to look concerned. At first they were angry, thinking it was just some stupid prank, or simply thoughtlessness. I confess I was looking forward to the prospect of my sister getting the kind of ass-chewing that was normally reserved for me, but as we all fanned out and started looking for them, calling their names, I began to sense that something was definitely wrong.

  The terrain we were on, aside from the level patch by the water’s edge where we had spent the night, was wooded and rocky. Wherever you went you were either climbing up or slithering down a steep slope. I was following my father down into some trees, but he turned and ordered me back to the camp. ‘Wait there in case they show up,’ he said, ‘then call us. Remember that emergency whistle Charlie showed us on the life-jackets? Use that – we’ll hear you.’

  I felt a little aggrieved to be left out of the search party, but when you’re ten years old you spend a lot of time feeling aggrieved – especially if you have a sister like Cassie who has friends like Naomi. I sat on a small canvas stool and waited, keeping my eyes and m
y ears peeled. The calls of my parents and Charlie quickly faded into the distance, though occasionally a voice reached me faintly, like an echo. For a moment I was frightened by the thought that they might all disappear, spirited away by some strange evil force in this mysterious landscape – or simply get lost, eventually falling to their deaths in deep crevasses and swirling torrents. Night would come and I would find myself alone, with no chance of ever getting out of there. In time they would send out search parties and helicopters, but I would be dead by then. Or half-starved and insane. I had read about such things, seen them on television.

  In fact I didn’t sit there for much more than ten minutes by my watch before I heard Naomi’s voice from a totally unexpected direction. It seemed to be coming from along the river bank, where neither of my parents nor Charlie had been headed. And she sounded distressed.

  I sprang to my feet and started running. She stumbled towards me through some dense and prickly undergrowth, oblivious to the scratches on her hands and face. ‘It’s Cassie,’ she said as soon as she saw me. ‘She fell. I think she’s hurt.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Naomi pointed back the way she had come. ‘We walked along the river, then climbed up a track. Cassie went first, and when she got to the top she stopped and turned to take a shot of me climbing up after her. I don’t know what happened – something gave way beneath her feet. A piece of rock must have come loose. She just screamed and disappeared down the other side. When I got to where she’d been standing, I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear her shouting, “Help me! Get help!”’

  She looked around, as though realizing only now that she was talking to me alone, and asked desperately, ‘Where are your parents? Where’s Charlie?’

  ‘They’re looking for both of you,’ I said. ‘They went off in that direction.’ I pointed. ‘Charlie went over there.’