by Naomi Kryske
Red roses, she thought. Colin had known that red was her favorite color. “But all roses have thorns.”
“Yes, that’s the negative, but the flowers have greater importance. It is possible to enjoy them without being pierced.”
“Then when will this grief end? It has been a year. Shouldn’t I be doing better?”
“‘Should’ is not a word I like to use,” he said. “Your grief experience is unique to you, and grief never ends completely.”
“Are you going to tell me that grief is a journey? I hate that metaphor! I may be weighed down with ‘baggage,’ but in the real world other people are traveling, too. And when the trip ends, everyone gets to go home.”
“Where is home for you now, Jenny?”
“It used to be the flat, because Colin was there. Now – ” she thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”
Knowles nodded. “You’ve lost your sense of belonging. That’s a normal response.”
“I always thought normal was supposed to be good!” she objected, letting her frustration show.
“Normal is neither good nor bad. But an important step in dealing with grief is to identify its components. Grief is a bigger word than it seems. It’s more than just sadness; it’s loss and can be a type of trauma. Many of the symptoms you experienced after previous traumas may return, because a new trauma can revive an old one.”
“Or get mixed up, I think, because sometimes I dream about the man who raped me, but instead of attacking me, he has Colin’s blood on his hands.”
Knowles nodded. “Has your appetite been affected?”
“Why do you care about what I eat?” she asked, still feeling flustered.
Knowles smiled slightly, recognising her irritability as a symptom of her situation. “Because loss of appetite could cause you to confuse physical depression with emotional depression.”
“I think I had both kinds of depression, until Nick Howard showed up. He’s a firearms officer who filled in sometimes when I was in witness protection. One morning he arrived at my door with breakfast and made me eat. And later he took me to an animal center and arranged for me to adopt a dog.”
“That’s a very positive step,” Knowles agreed. “Often grief causes us to subsume our social needs at a time when the friendship and acceptance of others is most important. Had you stopped eating?”
“Not consciously. I just didn’t care about it one way or the other.”
“Have your sleep habits been disturbed?”
“I had nightmares for a while.” The dreams had stayed with her when she woke, stabbing her like shards from a broken wineglass. “After that passed, I couldn’t get enough sleep. But now that I have Bear, I’m up and out at regular intervals.”
“Do you feel personally secure in your flat, now that you are living there alone?”
She nodded. “Colin had an alarm system installed.”
“Are financial considerations a source of insecurity?”
“No,” she smiled. “I can even afford you. For a while, at least.”
“Are there any other concerns you’d like to share?”
“After Colin’s death, I withdrew for a while. Of course, the first few weeks, when I was in shock, people were with me, and there were things that had to be done. Since then, the reality of his death has hit me. I’ve felt overwhelmed. Grief hurts in so many ways.”
“Grief doesn’t always occur in a logical sequence, Jenny. Grief stages are often repeated. What are you feeling today?”
“Sad. Empty. I’ve lost my identity, my femininity. After I was raped, it took me a long time to trust a man’s touch and even longer to love it. Colin was wonderful to me.”
“You miss physical intimacy.”
“Yes. Desiring someone and having someone desire me. That part of my life is dead now.”
“Perhaps we could agree that your sexuality is in abeyance,” Knowles suggested. “When a loved one dies, our lives go on, at first in part and later in full.”
She shook her head. “No. Just tell me how to get through this. I want it to become history, for the horror and grief to fade and only the facts remain, like a chapter in a book I can set down and close. Not like a book that is still being written.”
Knowles smiled at her impatience. It had been a positive as well as a negative in her previous therapy. “‘How poor are they who have not patience! / What wound did ever heal but by degrees?’”
“Othello, Act Two,” she answered, a little surprised by his literary quote. Shakespeare had written more comedies than tragedies, but she had spent more time studying the tragedies and so-called histories than his lighter works.
“Acceptance is the first step,” he continued, “acceptance of Colin’s death and the feelings you are experiencing as a result, even acceptance of the time it will take for healing. I’d like you to pamper yourself a bit, for example, by indulging in a favourite food. And add some beauty to your environment, perhaps by purchasing a bouquet of flowers.”
“But Colin should be doing that!” she exclaimed.
“No ‘shoulds,’” he reminded her. “Simply tell yourself that he’s not here, but he would want you to enjoy your life. I always recommend exercise, and your new pet will keep you moving. Also, occupying your time will help you. Find new activities you can enjoy, either by yourself or with others, particularly at the weekend or during holiday periods. Establish a routine. I want you to find ways to distract yourself from your grief so that you’re not feeling it all the time. That will allow other emotions to come into play that may have been dormant.”
A new list. She should have been writing all his suggestions down. “You want me to stay busy.”
“Jenny, I’d rather you not focus solely on your loss. I wish I could take the pain away, but I can’t. There are no easy answers here. Grief can’t be hurried, but over time your feelings will become less intense. In the meantime I want you to know that I’ll work with you for as long as you need.”
No quick fix. That was right out of Simon’s instruction manual.
CHAPTER 16
Alcina purchased several copies of the papers, clipping the picture of her target from each one. She taped them to the refrigerator, the mirror in the bathroom, and the back of the front door. She had long conversations with the snaps, sometimes laughing at the sad expression on her target’s face and not at all disturbed that her subject did not answer her. She would have preferred colour photographs, however, and it occurred to her that if she purchased a camera – not in Hampstead, of course, where it would be too expensive – she could shoot pictures herself, of her target, her street, the building where she lived. The idea energised her, and she clapped her hands at her ingenuity.
The camera idea was only one of many. Her mind had become increasingly fertile, teeming with ideas which spawned more ideas. She had access to her target’s porch and letter-box. What fun it would be to leave surprises there for her target to find, surprises that would shock and distress rather than delight. She began to scribble her ideas on bits of paper and then examined each one, trying to decide which would be most productive, attempting to put them in some sort of order. Some showed such promise that she could use them more than once.
None of her ideas, however, addressed the issue of the dog. Her target might leave the flat without the dog, but Alcina could not predict how frequently that might occur. The dog would never be out without her; hence Alcina could not attack the dog directly. An indirect method of removing the animal permanently would have to be found.
“My terror campaign is about to begin,” she said, her teeth bared, to the picture on the refrigerator. “I work in the suburb where you live. I am there six days each week. Many, many opportunities lie ahead of me.” She stabbed one photo with a stiff finger. “One day I will catch you. I will have dealt with the dog, and it will not be able to protect you.”
CHAPTER 17
The morning raid had ended earlier than expected, and Simon Casey’s team were re
turning their kit to their lockers when a group of ARV (Armed Response Vehicle) officers entered to collect theirs.
“Beth’s been dead worried about Jenny,” Davies told Casey. “She hasn’t seen her at school lately. Have you seen her?”
“She’s not herself. Still sad-on most of the time,” Casey answered. “Planning to see the shrink.”
“Is that the bird whose snap was in the paper?” Abbott, one of the ARV drivers, asked in a loud voice. “Lovely.”
Casey turned to look at him but said nothing.
“That’s none of yours,” Davies cautioned.
“Just needs a good poke, I’d say,” Abbott continued. “Best cure for depression I know. All she has to do is drop her knickers and I’ll set her straight.”
Two swift, fluid steps, one well-placed thrust, and Abbott found himself on his knees, gasping for breath. “You bloody bastard,” he hissed through his teeth, rage overcoming his surprise. “Can’t take a joke!” When he got to his feet, Davies’ arm across his chest restrained him.
Casey stepped back. The other members of his team stood beside him, curious and alert, none of them blocking his path. He waited, impassive, his arms loose at his sides.
“The calm before the storm, mate,” Davies warned Abbott. “Leave it.”
Abbott shrugged off Davies’ arm and opened his locker. Casey closed his, very deliberately, and departed.
Later Casey berated himself. He shouldn’t have let Abbott’s remarks about Jenny get to him. He had been unprofessional. Couldn’t he control himself? If a bloke commented inappropriately about Marcia, would he react in the same manner? Their fun times had been less frequent of late, both of them overworked, but he cared about her. Unlike Jenny, Marcia was on an even keel.
He had told Marcia about finding the sickly child in the closet. The team had raided an address where intel had thought drug dealing was taking place. They had found only a deceased female on the premises. They then heard scratching from the bedroom closet. He had never seen such hollow, sunken eyes or tiny wrists. The child wore stale and soiled clothes, but when he coughed, his breath carried a distinct fruity odor.
“Ketoacidosis,” Marcia had said. “Symptom of starvation.” She hadn’t seemed troubled, and he had been puzzled by her matter-of-fact response. She hadn’t asked what had happened to the child, but he had told her anyway. “We rang for an ambulance and Child Protection. Their officers sorted it.”
Still no questions from Marcia. Perhaps she carried her professional objectivity a bit too far, but she couldn’t do her job if she let every case affect her. Some insulation from the tragedies she encountered was necessary.
He had not spoken with her of his desire to have children, and he was a bit surprised that she had not raised the subject. He felt they were still in the early days of their relationship but knew she felt differently. Strange that she wanted a commitment before they had addressed this issue.
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Marcia saw the articles in the papers about the memorial service and asked Simon if he had attended. “I worked for him awhile back,” he said. “Special assignment.” He was always short on chat, only mentioning police incidents once or twice. She wondered occasionally if her muted responses increased his reticence, but off the job she preferred to focus on the lighter side of life. Keeping the conversation going almost by herself was no bother, as long as it led to laughter or lovemaking.
She knew that Simon believed that actions were a truer reflection of a man’s intentions than anything he said. She agreed but missed the endearments Adrian used to whisper in bed. She had to admit, however, that in some ways Simon was more attentive to her needs than Adrian had been. Adrian’s desertion of her still rankled; it coloured everything she had done since. Really, she should join AA: Actors Anonymous, for those who couldn’t detach completely from their relationships with actors. Since he had left her, she’d had a tendency to hold onto things more tightly, although she tried to disguise it when she was with Simon, fearing it would cause friction between them. Holding back wasn’t easy, but she felt she had to make their relationship work to prove that she was worthy of love.
Silly Adrian! He always wanted to be the centre of attention, even thought he was destined for greatness. “I was born with a stage name,” he had crowed. “What could look better in lights than Adrian Hall?” She missed the night life; it was such a change from what she did during the day. Her work with patients – seeing the love some of them received from their families – made her long even more for that sort of connection in her own life.
Simon was more serious than Adrian had been, but she had been able to make him laugh. Adrian’s unpredictability had been exciting. His work as an actor hadn’t always been regular, and he tended to spend what he earned as soon as he had it, so she’d had to pitch in. She hadn’t minded at the time, but she appreciated Simon, because he never expected it of her. When they went out, or on holiday, he paid for everything, which made her feel loved, whether he said so or not. Their best times, in fact, were when they were on holiday. It was the only time she had his full attention.
Simon’s work was dangerous and required intense focus. She was a workaholic, and her high standards made her frustrated with a system that sometimes kept patients waiting and treated the physical disease with little regard for a patient’s fears. Over the years she had developed a thicker skin, but some of the things she saw were so heartbreaking they still affected her. She and Simon were well matched; he had high standards also, although he handled the responsibility of life or death decisions better than she did. The autocratic nature of the A&E didn’t bother her, because she was glad to leave those judgements to someone else.
They had been at each other lately. She had been busier than usual, and so had he, even at the weekends. Some weeks he worked eighteen-hour shifts. His leave didn’t always coincide with hers. Perhaps a holiday would help, even a short one. And she needed to stop thinking about Adrian. She hadn’t had as much as a postcard from him since he left for fame and fortune in New York, nor had he given her a forwarding address. Consequently she had had to decide, alone, to terminate the pregnancy.
CHAPTER 18
Alcina carried out most of her reconnaissance early in the morning, before first light. Each day on her way to the bakery she researched the neighbourhood of her target and on many occasions left evidence of her presence for her target to find. Although she rarely saw anyone during those hours, she didn’t want to attract any attention so she didn’t move quickly through the streets. She imagined herself not walking but gliding, and she was glad that she was alone. She laughed to herself. No one would suspect a lone woman. She was stronger alone. She was also less noticeable thin than she would have been had she been well fed. A shadow of her former self, she thought with a bitter smile.
She was a shadow, moving among shadows, hidden in shadows. The partial darkness camouflaged her as did her clothing, the charcoal greys and taupes she now wore almost as a uniform.
She considered the various meanings in her mind. A shadow, a cloud. Yes, she was a cloud, a dark spot looming over her target’s life. She wanted to be as close as her target’s shadow. She was also a shadow of potential violence, because one day she would shadow her and then strike. Contemplating that gave her a fierce joy.
Would her target get away? No, no one could escape a shadow. And when Alcina stepped out of the darkness, her attack would be so sudden that her target would be unprepared, defenceless. All the power rested with Alcina, skia, the shadow. Alcina, skotos, the darkness.
CHAPTER 19
Jenny opened the front door to collect her newspaper and nearly stepped into a black mess on her front porch, ashes which the rain had turned into sludge. She was puzzled. To her knowledge, none of the other occupants of the building smoked, and they had their own entrance, so they couldn’t have spilled their garbage by her door. Hoping it wouldn’t hurt the flowers in the beds on each sid
e, she hosed it into them.
The rain subsided enough for her to walk with Bear, but the streets were still wet, so she dried his paws before they reentered the flat. She prepared his dinner and then hers. Then she found the journal Simon had given her and sat down at the roll-top desk that had belonged to Colin’s father. He had rarely used it, but she knew he had valued it because he had repaired and refinished it. She started a list: Ways to Keep Busy.
1.Read Colin’s books. Could she learn to like science fiction? Maybe she should read C.S. Lewis’ book on grief first.
2.Listen to Colin’s CDs.
3.Make his favorite recipes. Roast beef and mashed potatoes. She had given up on Yorkshire pudding; hers was invariably as dense as a hockey puck and tough too.
4.Walk Bear. Really, he walked her.
5.Walk with Simon. He was so tired these days, sleeping at the base some nights because there were so many armed operations. It worried her.
6.Visit tourist sites. Alone? Yes.
Smiling, she added:
7.Make more lists? Adopt more pets?
She was spending less and less time at Beth’s school and the Hollisters’ bookstore. She had enjoyed her work at both places before Colin was killed, but his death had reshaped her. She needed a new direction, something that would occupy her time in a meaningful way. Simon would say she needed a mission. When Neil Goodwyn visited the next afternoon, she put the question to him. “What am I meant to do with my life?”
“That question indicates that a good deal of healing has taken place in you,” he said. “You may be past what I call ‘hard grief,’ the initial shock and anger that accompanies the sudden death of a loved one. In the Army we called sudden death the ‘short good-bye.’ We couldn’t make heavy weather of it because there was often no time for sorrow.”
