The Mission

by Naomi Kryske

  “Simon – did you?”

  He nodded. “And Sullivan thought you could rise from the ashes, so we agreed on it.”

  “Then yes. That’s the one I want,” she said. “And it’s already matted and framed, so we can hang it immediately.” She peered at the tag. “Not too expensive, either.”

  The gallery owner was glad to process her credit card and wrap the painting for them. Simon carried it for her, and together they surveyed the walls of the flat to determine the best spot, both agreeing that it was striking enough to occupy the space over the fireplace. “Thanks for being so patient with the shopping,” she said. “I promise I won’t take you shopping every time we’re together.”

  The shopping hadn’t been a bother. She had been so serious in her quest that he’d been able to focus on her without her being aware of it. He’d liked the exercise and the way her hand found his while they walked. He was happy for any sign of affection on her part.

  They ate in the sitting room, Jenny having declared the dining room table too big for just two people and wanting to sit somewhere with a good view of the new painting. “Is it a dove, Simon? Doves mate for life, I think.”

  “What if their mate dies?” he asked. “Birds don’t have long lives, do they?”

  “Several years, maybe. But since the desire for reproduction is strong in wild creatures, they try to find another mate.”

  “Are you a wild creature, Jenny?”

  She laughed. “No, I’m domestic.”

  “Are you looking for another mate?”

  His earnestness surprised and flustered her, but at least he hadn’t asked about her desire for reproduction. “I don’t want to be alone the rest of my life,” she said slowly. “I miss – I miss everything that goes with loving someone, the tangible and the intangible. I miss being loved, knowing a man is coming home to me, having him beside me at night. I miss feeling safe.” She sighed. “There’s a rapist in the Hampstead/Highgate area. I felt safe last night, when you were here. Thanks for not leaving.”

  His face tightened. “Tell me.”

  “PC Dugger doesn’t think he’s my stalker. And Dr. Knowles told me to be cautious but didn’t seem concerned. I’m still nervous, however.”

  “Jenny, I’ll stop the night with you again if you want me to do.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that without – ”

  “No strings,” he said firmly.

  She was quiet for a long time, but she couldn’t seem to keep her hands still until he grasped one. “I’m confused,” she said finally, looking at how neatly her small hand fit into his palm. “About how I feel, I mean. I don’t want to slip into a relationship with you because you’re around and it’s convenient. I want to make a conscious choice. And I want to prove to you, and to myself, that I’m strong enough to handle things when you’re not here. So you won’t worry about me when you’re working.”

  “Tomorrow then.” He leant forward to kiss her and was encouraged when one kiss turned into two, and then three, because she didn’t pull away.

  “Come for brunch,” she said.

  CHAPTER 17

  On Sunday Jenny realized that despite their time apart, she and Simon weren’t starting completely over. Their awkwardness behind them, they had reestablished their easy rapport. He seemed increasingly relaxed and more than amenable to whatever she wanted to do. For brunch she made pancakes with maple syrup and fresh fruit, and he laughed at her attempts to flip the pancakes and catch them in the pan. After their meal, she gave Simon the leash, and they took Bear for a long walk.

  On their way back, they stopped to watch other couples go by, some calling out to their unleashed dogs, others with children in hand or in a stroller. Jenny surveyed the expanse of green but didn’t spot Jack or his grandparents. Joggers passed by, heading toward Parliament Hill and the oval track beyond. Just seeing them made Jenny feel tired. She sat down under one of the plane trees and leaned against its knobly trunk. Simon joined her, as did Bear, his head resting on her knee.

  “In spite of its plainness, I always liked Colin’s flat,” she said, “because it was his. A man’s flat – no frills – but comfortable. Its similarity to the protection flat made it seem safe. His stamp was everywhere: the photographs, books, all a reflection of him, a record of where he’d been and what he’d done. Gradually I made my presence felt, but after he died, he was everywhere in the flat. I was the one who ceased to exist; the flat shouted that he was there, which really hurt, because, of course, he wasn’t. Now, it just holds memories, the way postcards do, and the memories don’t hurt. In a way they keep me connected to him. But I think it’s a good thing that I’m ready to make changes, don’t you?”

  The breeze was ruffling her hair, and he wanted to press his lips against it. For starters. “It’s a step forward, love, and I’m glad to be a part of it.”

  She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Me, too, Simon. I’m glad you’re here. Next time we walk, let’s take the Frisbee. Maybe we can teach Bear to catch it. Or at least retrieve it.” She smiled suddenly. “If not, I will.”

  When the sun began its retreat, they brushed the grass from their clothes and headed back to feed Bear and reheat the leftover stew for themselves. Jenny knew he would leave after supper, and she found herself dreading the moment. “I don’t want you to go. I’ll miss you,” she murmured.

  He went to her, put his arms around her as she sat, and kissed her. “It’ll not be for as long this time,” he said. “I’ll ring you each night if I can.”

  She lifted her face for another kiss and then rose to lock the door after him. She cleaned up their dishes and poured a glass of wine for herself to settle her nervousness about whether the door was really locked. She took it into the sitting room where she could see the new painting.

  Emily Dickinson had written a poem entitled, “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers.” How did the lines go? “That perches in the soul / And sings the tune without the words…” She couldn’t recall any more, but maybe it was enough.

  Hope, Dickinson evidently believed, lived inside us. Jenny thought that her hope had died with Colin, but perhaps it had been present all along. A sleeping bird would give no sign of its presence, but when Simon kissed her, she felt the flutter of its wings, so maybe hope was awakening, just as the bird in her painting was rising in the night sky. Gravity notwithstanding, birds didn’t just rise; they soared. They sang. Could she rise above the gravity of grief? Could hope lift her?

  Carl Sandburg had also written a poem about a bird, a little white bird that you could hear – and feel in your heart – but not see; a little white bird that caused you to pray, to feel safe, to feel strong. He had called the little white bird, love.

  Hope and love. These weren’t equivalent, but they were connected. She looked at the painting and thought about Simon for a long time.

  CHAPTER 18

  Monday and Tuesday passed quietly, but the sight that greeted Jenny when she left the flat Wednesday morning stunned her. Spatters of red paint like a Jackson Pollock painting contrasted sharply with her blue front door, and florid script proclaimed, Liar! She sank to her knees, her arms around Bear’s neck, and tried to slow the racing of her heart. When she was able to stand, she brought Bear inside with her and called PC Dugger. “It’s a personal attack,” she told him after describing it, “and I don’t know why. I’m not frightened, though. I’m not.”

  Dugger was on the scene within the hour. “Paint’s dry,” he observed. “Mrs. Sinclair, I can no longer consider this a case of criminal damage. It’s malicious. I’ll be ringing detectives to speak with you. They may want to photograph this, so I’ll have to ask you not to remove it just yet.” Before he left, he made certain her doors and windows were securely fastened and locked.

  Jenny sat down on the floor next to Bear and waited. She still hadn’t resumed regular delivery of the Telegraph, so she couldn’t use its headlines to distract her. She didn’t have the concentration for anything more
, even checking her e-mail or using the internet. Music? Mozart would be soothing, but she felt too heavy to stand up. She wished Simon were with her. He would know what to do; and even if there were nothing to do, she would feel safer, but Beth had warned her that she needed to handle things without him. When Bear whined at the door, she let him out briefly in the back. Lunchtime came and went. She was not hungry. Just before tea-time, PC Dugger called.

  “Two detectives from West Hampstead are on their way to see you,” he reported. “I’ve met with them and given them your case history. DS Wyrick and DC Mackeson. They’ll identify themselves when they arrive.”

  When Jenny answered the bell, she saw two men in suits with their warrant cards open for her. “Detective Sergeant Stephen Wyrick,” the taller man said. “My colleague, Detective Constable Graeme Mackeson. May we come in?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll make tea.”

  DC Mackeson accompanied her to the kitchen. “May I be of any assistance?” he asked.

  Mackeson’s five o’clock shadow nearly obscured the cleft in his chin. He was a burly man with thick dark hair and brows, and she didn’t think china cups would be safe in his grip. She nodded toward the cabinet which held the mugs. He selected the Union Jack mug and one covered with Flanders poppies. “I’m not familiar with this flag,” he said, holding a third mug.

  “That’s the Texas flag. I’m from the Lone Star state.”

  DS Wyrick had stepped into the sitting room and was quietly inspecting his surroundings. “You have an upstairs as well?” he asked when they joined him, Mackeson carrying the tray.

  “Yes,” she answered, wondering why that was relevant. While Mackeson resembled a good rugby player, DS Wyrick looked like he needed the tea cakes she served with the tea. His hair would have been gray if he’d had any, and his gaunt frame exacerbated the lines in his face.

  “May we have a look round? To rule you out, you understand.”

  “That’s insulting!” she objected. She watched Mackeson set the tray on the coffee table. Wyrick nodded at him, and in three strides he closed the distance to the guest bath and entered. Wyrick mounted the steps. “Bear, come,” she called and wrapped her fingers in his fur.

  Mackeson returned first. “What’s down?” he asked.

  “Guest rooms, and below those, the garage.”

  He stepped away, light on his feet for a heavy man.

  She could hear Wyrick’s footsteps moving upstairs.

  “Do you live here alone?” he asked when he reentered the sitting room.

  “Didn’t your search answer that?” she retorted. “When you see empty rooms, can’t you connect the dots?”

  “Large flat for one person,” he commented.

  “Do I have to talk to you?” she asked, trying to keep her outrage under control. She had been married to a policeman. Didn’t they know? How could they possibly suspect her of anything?

  “It’s in your best interest.”

  “If you thought I might be making this up, why did you bother coming?”

  “It is our duty to respond to each complaint,” Wyrick answered in a near monotone.

  When Mackeson came back, she picked up the teapot and then replaced it, realizing that its weight would not still the trembling in her hand. “You’ll have to pour,” she told him.

  “Having tea’s the best part of this job, no mistake,” Mackeson said, filling their mugs and biting into one of the tea cakes. He seemed oblivious to her distress.

  Wyrick sipped slowly. “A police officer by the name of Sinclair was killed just over a year ago. Were you acquainted with him?”

  Jenny squeezed her hands together in her lap. “He was my husband.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” He gestured to Mackeson, who downed his tea quickly and opened his notebook.

  “He wouldn’t have appreciated your approach,” she said, still angry. They were sitting in her flat, drinking her tea, with what she considered a marked lack of concern. Was this case not important enough for them? Did they think her safety was a waste of time?

  “Perhaps not,” Wyrick answered, “but he would have understood it.” He cocked his head slightly at the DC.

  Mackeson reviewed the incidents of vandalism one by one, but she had nothing to add to the details he covered. “Do you know what time of day these occurred?”

  “I saw them when I left the flat in the morning. There were no new ones when I walked in the afternoon.”

  “Some time during the night or early in the morning,” Mackeson said, making a note in his book. “And you have no idea who could be behind this?”

  She shook her head. “I’m a low-profile kind of person.”

  Wyrick sat very still, seemingly detached, his face neutral but his eyes watchful.

  “Have you noticed anyone in the neighbourhood hanging about? Who looked as if he didn’t belong? Or noticed anyone staring at or following you?” The pen appeared small in Mackeson’s mitt.

  “No.”

  “Do the other residents of this block have any reason to be unhappy with you?”

  “Not that I know of. Their rent hasn’t increased.”

  “You’re the owner of this block of flats then?”

  “Yes.”

  Wyrick stirred. “The person who painted your door considered you a liar.”

  She pressed her lips together and did not reply.

  “When have you lied, Mrs. Sinclair?” His voice was gentle, the way a knife appears to be gentle when it cuts through soft butter.

  She looked at her clasped hands, angry with herself because she couldn’t keep them from shaking. “When I told PC Dugger I wasn’t afraid,” she whispered. “Because the stalker’s behavior is escalating, and a rapist is out there. They could be one and the same.”

  Mackeson’s eyes widened. “We’ll take that under consideration,” he said. “Mrs. Sinclair, I’d urge caution on your part. You’ll want to lock up after us.” He pocketed his notebook and pen.

  She stood slowly, still angry and not reassured by his police language. She’d heard the word “caution” before. What did it mean exactly? Did they all have a limited vocabulary? And did they really think she wouldn’t lock the door? She wanted to lock them out.

  “A photographer will call by in the morning,” Wyrick added. “He’ll not disturb you. And we’ll send some uniformed officers to search for the paint can. Mackeson and I may have a few more questions for you tomorrow.”

  After they left, she clipped Bear’s leash to his collar. There was time for a short walk before dark, and she let him set the pace as they headed toward the Heath. She regretted the destination. The Heath was no longer a haven. She had to pass wooded areas to reach the open spaces, and she felt exposed and vulnerable. She remembered Simon telling her once that the barrage of heavy artillery which preceded the Battle of the Somme in France in World War I could be heard on Hampstead Heath. Now, however, the danger was not across the English Channel but in Hampstead itself. Even if she and Bear stuck to residential streets for a while, that would not guarantee safety. Would she know when the threat came? Even with peripheral vision, she didn’t think she could see enough of her surroundings. What she could see nearby – the details of grass and leaves – appeared to be safe, but who could say what lay in the distance? The Heath was no longer a landscape of refuge and renewal.

  On the way back she purchased a large pizza to take with her. With tonight and tomorrow’s dinners provided for, she wouldn’t have to shop for groceries. She rummaged in the garage for something to tape over the accusing word on her door, finally locating some butcher paper and masking tape. Then she called Neil Goodwyn and asked if he could be with her when the detectives returned. “Two against one doesn’t feel fair,” she said. “I know they’re supposed to be on my side, but they have such a terrible bedside manner that it’s frightening. I just want to even the odds a little.”

  When Simon called, very late, she could hear the exhaustion in his voice, so she minimi
zed the events of her day and asked about his. When she hung up, the flat seemed unnaturally quiet. Maybe she’d feel less alone if there were other voices around her. She found Colin’s radio and turned the dial to a twenty-four hour station.

  CHAPTER 19

  It was like conducting a symphony, Alcina thought. When she raised her hands, the paint splashed, and she heard the clash of the cymbals, marking the end of a musical movement.

  Overnight, an interlude, deceptively quiet, but not a rest. She rarely rested completely. She worked late at Kosta’s and rose early to slip through the Hampstead streets on her way to the bakery.

  The next morning a dissonant horn sounded in her ears as she rent the paper covering her message, announcing that her statement could not be sabotaged nor silenced. The knife had felt good in her hand, strong and pure. Knives were good for all sorts of things. This one had gone deep, scarring the door beneath, like plunging it deep enough to strike bone. A short movement but a powerful one, its theme clear.

  She needed to be strong, and she needed a success because she had failed with the dog. After eating the food with rat poison, it had lost its appetite. She had been unable to tempt it to eat again. She had waited to see symptoms of physical distress, but for several days it had simply been lethargic. Finally one morning before she left for the bakery, she had noticed some slight muscle tremors and heard a weak cough. When she had returned after the night shift at Kosta’s, its breathing was rapid and then stopped altogether. She had thought she would feel some sense of victory, but the entire episode had been anticlimactic. And there had been no blood.

  Perhaps this method would have failed with her target’s dog as well. It was well fed, which made it hard to be certain it would have eaten what she left for it.

  She thought idly about using the knife on the carcass, but she didn’t want to touch it. She wrapped it in a towel and disposed of it. As she did, she repeated her mantra of success to herself, first softly and then with more strength and purpose. Yes, I am strong. I am confident. I am determined.