by Thomas Brown
Mrs Tray. The woman with a face like deteriorating fruit. The woman who silenced them all with the door. The woman with no reason for attending the reading, according to those who were meant to know Daniel. Yet clearly, they had been standing much further from him than they realised.
All night, Thom dreamt of falling through an endless white hole. Not the standard black hole dream, but a white hole. Obviously, the blank walls of Daniel’s room were taunting him. The walls that have been painted recently, without anyone being aware. They are hiding Daniel’s secrets. His room is a huge void, only filled now with Thom’s blood and the smashed glass.
And now here Thom is, trying to get the woman with a face plagued with holes to fill his own. Perhaps she, as no one else has so far, will turn the whiteness of his mind some other colour. Even pearl would be something.
Mrs Tray lives in a cluster of flats designed for the elderly. It’s a small community with a well-kept green in the middle that the flats surround. There is nothing remarkable about her front door. It is painted green but the green is like her skin, cracked and faded past its original state. He finds her name on the bell and presses it several times.
It’s only now that Thom ponders about Mrs Tray. Is she a friend of Daniel’s? If so, how did they meet? Perhaps she is a relative of one of Daniel’s friends or girlfriends (though Thom isn’t aware of many). Perhaps they met accidentally and formed a friendship. Or perhaps they had been having a sordid and, frankly, creepy affair. Thom relishes this idea for a moment but he fails to laugh. Whatever the details, there has to be something helpful he can find out here.
Thom hasn’t noticed the door skulking open and he jolts slightly when Mrs Tray’s cratered face floats ahead of him. She is smaller than he remembers and this time, she props herself up with a wooden walking stick, the texture as knotted as her hand that appears to have shrunk around the top of it permanently.
“Mrs Tray…” he says. It’s the beginning of a sentence but he has no idea how to complete it. He hopes she will rescue him or ask him who the hell he is or invite him in without a word, yet she only stares. Her eyes are the colour of faded bark and they examine him closely, as though she is waiting for him to pounce.
“I’m Thom”, he tells her finally. He wants to slap himself across the face. His stupid name means nothing to her! Perhaps he shouldn’t have come. Maybe the answers he seeks so hard are also the thing he wants to run away from.
“You were at the reading of the will”, she says. Thom feels like she has thrown him a piece of driftwood in the sea. Her voice is much softer than he would have anticipated and, even more surprising, is the gentle Irish twang to it. Her raspy face has given him false impressions. He should know better than to trust his own judgements at the moment, he keeps getting tripped up whenever he does.
“Yes. That’s why I’m here!” Thom exclaims, too excitedly for the subject matter. He composes himself and holds his hand out. “Thom Mansen. Sorry”. Her hand moves upwards in slow motion and Thom finally grasps it. In situations like this, people often say ‘pleased to meet you’ but Thom isn’t sure he is and doesn’t want to lie to the woman.
“You’d better come in”, she says, neither pleased nor displeased. It’s all very lukewarm. Thom shrugs to himself and lets himself in. She directs him to a lit doorway down the darkened hall and ushers him ahead of her, the slow thump of her walking stick pursuing him.
“Sit anywhere”, she shouts ahead and Thom sits himself in an armchair near the door. He digs his fingernails into the fabric and waits for the unknown to catch up with him. He closes his eyes, his blood thumping inside his head, the rhythm smashed by the door. Once again, her work is decisive and unquestionable.
“I wondered if anyone would come”, she sings without trying and lowers herself, with some effort, into a chair facing him. He tries to look as disinterested as she does, hoping that it will have the strange effect of drawing truth from her. Thom has found this sometimes works with people (especially those who were trying to make fraudulent claims) who, so desperate for some clarification, end up spilling their secrets.
On the table he sees a pack of cards set up for solitaire. She is playing three-card draw and Thom instantly respects her a little more. What is the point of playing one-card draw? It is one of his pet hates.
“You took longer than I expected actually”, Mrs Tray says and folds her arms. If anyone saw her now, they’d say she looks like any harmless elderly woman, yet Thom believes she is hiding something. Her face is full of nooks and crannies where she can conceal things.
“I’ve had a lot to do”, Thom claims. When he really thinks about his words he wants to laugh. What has he actually achieved? He’s failed to get out of bed, sat around in the darkness, invited a strange woman into his home, and sliced his hands open. It isn’t exactly the traditional definition of ‘progress’.
“I imagine so. Do you play by the way?” She gestures to her cards. Thom nods and leans forward.
“The seven of spades can go over there”. He wonders if he should’ve said it but she nods gratefully and performs the action.
“Sometimes all it takes is a fresh eye”. She smiles but Thom gets caught up in her words, a wind stuck in a pipe, rattling and whistling. A fresh eye? Perhaps that is all he needs.
“Do you live alone?”
“I’m alone”, she answers. The two words are small and quiet, yet they seem to pull at Thom’s lips and like a puppet, he mouths them a few times: “I’m alone”.
“Did you enjoy your inheritance gift?”
“Why would you call it a ‘gift’?” Thom cocks his head, like a detective in a film.
He wants her to know he mistrusts her, but even he has no idea why. Some detective…
“Well, didn’t your friend, Daniel, call it a ‘gift’ in his will?” Thom is disappointed that the explanation is so simple and picks up on the fact that Mrs Tray referred to Daniel as his ‘friend’.
“He was my cousin”, Thom tells her. She nods quietly, perhaps having suspected it and folds her hands in her lap. She gives Thom none of the usual ‘I’m sorry’ and merely waits.
“How did you know him?” Thom asks finally.
“I didn’t”, she says, “not really”. The words are simple but Thom feels like his eardrums are pressured for a moment and he doesn’t believe he really heard them. I didn’t – what does that mean?
“I’m sorry?” he asks, using the phrase he expected from her.
“I didn’t really know Daniel”, she repeats, more forcefully. Thom watches her lips move and churns the sentence around in his chaotic brain, filled with all the things Daniel left behind.
“But why were you there? At the reading?” Thom splutters.
“He looked after my husband. In the hospital”, she explains.
The hospital! Finally, something Thom knows about! For several years, Daniel worked full-time at a hospital for those with mental health problems. He’d only taken a job as an administrator at first but later worked as a mentor for several patients. He hadn’t spoken too much about it to Thom but Aunty Val often passed on stories. Thom often wonders how Daniel found contentment in the job, as he seemed to have limited empathy for others and preferred to be alone. Yet, Daniel spent around three years there and Thom heard of no complaints throughout that time. Why he left, Thom isn’t sure. Yet it wasn’t long before he died, perhaps six or eight months at the most.
“Your husband was a patient then?”
“Yes. He spent several years at the hospital but before Daniel arrived, he was making very little progress”. Mrs Tray stops for a moment and smiles to herself. The gesture and its relation to Daniel seem foreign to Thom.
“Daniel helped my husband greatly. I think he finally felt like someone was listening and even that helped a little. But like I said, I didn’t really know Daniel. I heard a lot from my husband, when he felt able, and met Daniel only a few times myself”, she pauses. “He seemed like a lovely lad though. He was quiet
, shy, but he helped my husband so much. I think my gratitude embarrassed him”.
“He helped your husband?” Thom is asking himself to believe it, rather than asking her to clarify. How could someone who hardly said a word to his own family help a mentally ill man?
“Yes. So when he sent the letter, I had no reservations agreeing to his request”.
“His request?” Thom repeats. Thom can’t construct his own words; merely regurgitates those of others instead.
“He sent me a letter several months ago. He asked me to attend a meeting”.
“The reading of his will?” Thom surges forward with his words.
“As it turns out – yes”, Mrs Tray verifies. Thom sags backwards, his body jolting and struggling to function normally. Just breathe, just beat, just swallow.
“Did Daniel commit suicide?” she asks. Thom stares at her for a moment, wondering if she is really asking him a question. He thought she might have the answers but here he is, on the spot, as it were.
“I don’t know”, Thom says, “I’ve wondered...” His throat is getting smaller. He starts to cough like a cat trying to retrieve a hairball. Mrs Tray pours him a glass of water from a jug he hasn’t noticed and he gratefully gulps it down. His hand shakes so much that he spills it down his shirt. “Sorry”, he gargles as he slams the glass down on the table. “Do you still have the letter?”
Mrs Tray leaves the room and returns a few minutes later with a perfectly crisp envelope. It has been torn open with an old-fashioned letter opener, judging by the perfectly straight tear across the top of it. Thom looks up and Mrs Tray nods her approval. He plucks the letter from inside and places the envelope neatly on the table beside him. He unfolds it and Daniel’s handwriting instantly drowns him.
Dear Mrs Tray,
I realised it’s been a few months since I contacted you. I hope you are coping with the loss of your husband, a great man whom I have missed greatly since I left the hospital. Thank you for inviting me to the funeral, I was happy I was able to see him off properly.
I would have come to see you but it’s just not possible right now. So I’m afraid I have to ask you a favour by letter. I know it’s not polite to ask something of you, especially as my friendship was solely with your husband. Yet I have no choice and as you’re related to someone I trusted, I feel like I could ask you and perhaps you would find it in yourself to help me.
It’s a simple request. I need you to attend a meeting that will probably occur within the next month. The address is enclosed on a business card. You will probably be called nearer the time. I just wanted to ask you personally. Please be there.
Yours, Daniel
“He invited you to his will reading in advance?” Thom asks, holding the letter away from him as though it’s diseased. All Daniel’s paper trail seems to be offending him.
“I know. I don’t understand it either”, she says. Silent for a moment, she finally adds, “I guess he must’ve known one way or another he was going to die”. The statement is the next obvious step but it knocks all sound from the room. It winds the situation and, for a few seconds, nothing and no one moves or breathes or comprehends.
“I found a note too”, Thom reveals finally. He hasn’t told Emma, Aunty Val, or anyone else since he found it. It has burnt its every curve and line into his brain, but he hasn’t said it out loud. Until now...
“What did it say?” She is just as intrigued as he is about hers.
“It had the time and place of his death”. Thom winces. He doesn’t know what effect the revelation will have. He’s been dreading it since he found it.
“Oh goodness”. She shakes her head.
“So he knew”, Thom vocalises their thoughts. “He either jumped in front of a train or he was pushed by someone he knew”.
Thom feels an inappropriate waterfall of relief beating down on his shoulders and back. He wants to close his eyes and let it beat him unconscious. “I thought I was going crazy”. Thom wants to scream and smash everything in the room apart. He wants to punch his way through the wall and draw blood again. He thought he felt confused but all he feels surging through him like a current is anger. Anger pumps into his heart and gets stuck, inflating it until it buzzes like a threatened beehive.
“It sounds like you have a lot to find out”, Mrs Tray tells him. He has to clasp onto the chair in order to stop himself from hitting her or throwing something at her. Obviously he has a lot to find out, stupid bitch. That fucking bitch comes along with her sob story and one letter and starts telling him what to do. What does she know?
“I’m sorry about Daniel. I was so sad to hear about his death and now, it all seems so… sinister”, she adds and puts her hand on his knee. Thom stares at it, wishing it would burst into flames.
“Can I have this?” Thom asks abruptly, snatching at the letter. Mrs Tray withdraws her hand quickly and nods.
“Please do”. She heaves herself out of the chair and walks towards the door. “It was nice to meet you, Thom”. Thom realises he has overstayed his welcome and probably frightened the woman. He would usually apologise but all he wants to do is lash out so he keeps his mouth closed, for fear of bees flying out of him and stinging her to death.
On his way out, he merely nods at her and crumples up Daniel’s second letter until the creases mark the inside of his hand like a tattoo.
24 The Stranger
Thom dives into a parking spot just outside the house and turns the engine off. He lets his body flop. After all the adrenaline that has been surging through him the last hour, his muscles haven’t relaxed once. He wouldn’t mind now if a huge spaceship fell out of space and crushed him. It would save on a lot of emotional turmoil, and he wouldn’t have to tell Aunty Val that her son was either murdered or planned his own death. All the questions she would ask him – why? What happened? What made him do it? How could he leave us all to deal with this? Thom has no idea, not one, to share with Aunty Val.
Mrs Tray had seemed an unimportant character. Yet she has really opened the can of worms, as such. She confirmed that Daniel had premature knowledge of his death. Either suicide, planned murder or even some psychic sense – Daniel knew. And now Thom knows. Thom knows and his heart feels like a steam engine in his chest, wheezing and coughing itself onwards. If he closes his eyes, he isn’t certain he will open them again for hours or perhaps days. Yet when he does close them, it is alarmingly white so he is forced to open them again.
There are still things that make no sense. The notebook for one. Had he written that or had Daniel? And the lock up. What did the effort of doing that and the objects inside reveal? And the emptied room. Why would Daniel empty it and how did he do it without his family’s knowledge? Aunty Val clearly hasn’t noticed yet, as she hasn’t mentioned it.
Thom jumps at a knock on the window. At first he thinks he imagined it but when he notices the shadow over his lap and the steering wheel, he lifts his head and sees a man standing there. This isn’t a yellow line and he isn’t blocking a driveway so the man’s intentions are unknown to him. Thom unwinds his window.
“Yes?”
“Do you live in that house...” the man interrupts himself with a glance over his shoulder, “that house over there?” Thom pulls himself up and looks at where the man is pointing. Yes, that is his house. He can’t see anything wrong with it – no fire, no broken windows, nothing visible from the outside. Is there something wrong? In the same vein, this man doesn’t look like a fireman or a policeman, unless he is plain clothed.
“Yeah”, Thom answers casually. He doesn’t want this stranger to know he is alarmed and confused. The man keeps looking around. It seems he expects to be caught out by someone or he is about to reveal a secret to Thom.
“I’ve seen you going in and out of there”, the man says. He is bending over to speak to Thom. Thom can see a defined bend in the bridge of his nose. His hair is a black lump of frizz and something about it seems familiar to Thom. Familiar hair? What is Thom thinking?
“I’ve seen you together”, the man mumbles whilst he continues to struggle. Finally he pulls out a folded piece of paper. He opens it up. It is a photo. He hands it to Thom. “Do you”, he pauses deliberately, “know her?”
The man looks excited, almost manic. Thom looks at the photo carefully. Of course he knows her. She is much younger in this picture. Her hair is shorter but her intricate curls still wind around his attention. She looks happier. Now, he always senses sadness in her. But he could hardly judge her for that; he hasn’t been a barrel of laughs lately...
“Why are you asking this?” Thom pushes the photo back at him, reluctant to give in so easily. The man helplessly takes it back, but glances at it before placing it back in his pocket.
“I need to find her”, he answers briefly. No explanations, no hints that he knows her well or is concerned about her. What does this man want with Sarah?
“Look, I don’t know her that well. We only met once”, Thom tells the man and makes a move to exit the car. The man pushes the door shut again and Thom wonders then what this man might do.
“She’s been in your house…” he fumbles. “I know she has?” The man persists with a question, although Thom isn’t sure it’s not just the tone of his voice. His voice is bordering on a whine.
Thom opens his door again and this time, the man doesn’t block him. Thom locks the door and turns back to the man. “If you know, then why are you asking me anything?”
“She’ll just run if she sees me”, he confesses, sagging against the car.
