Inheritance

by Thomas Wymark

A tall man with neat black hair.

  He wore smart glasses, a blue sweater and brown corduroy trousers. His slippers were burgundy. I guessed his age to be about forty-six, but possibly as much as fifty. He was about the same height as Neil.

  ‘Mrs Marsden?’ he said, looking first at me, then up at the darkened sky.

  I nodded and forced the best smile my nerves would allow.

  ‘My name is Colin,’ he said, soft Irish accent glowing. ‘Colin Connell.’

  I mumbled that my name was Christine and kicked the “wannabe hypnotist” thing into touch.

  He motioned for me to come in and I entered a small hallway. My mouth felt dry and I managed a deep breath. Sweetness on the air hit my tongue. I smelled spices. Cinnamon and nutmeg. Hot-Cross-Buns. And coffee too. Fresh. The aromas and tastes were lovely. I wanted to stop, shut my eyes and savour it. I didn’t.

  As we walked through the hallway into the house I noticed a white bust on a small, semicircular half-table against the hallway wall. At the front it read “The Human Mind”. The head was sectioned with black lines, each section named within it. Presumably the different parts of the brain. I wondered which section had brought me there.

  ‘It’s a phrenology head,’ Colin said.

  He was ahead of me in the hallway and he hadn’t turned around. He wouldn’t have seen me look at the bust.

  ‘It’s pretty much regarded as a pseudo-science now of course,’ he said. ‘But fascinating nonetheless.’

  I guessed all his clients looked at it as they came into the house. It was practically the only thing in an otherwise quite bland, but lovely hallway. A couple of wooden shelves lined the wall, empty and clean. And a beautiful wooden staircase led to the upstairs of the house.

  ‘Your house is lovely,’ I said. ‘Is it very old?’

  He stopped at the end of the hallway between two doors and turned to face me. The door now behind him was open and through it I saw dark marble worktops and a cream coloured Aga. The doorway to his left was closed.

  ‘It’s nearly one hundred years old,’ he said. ‘Or so I’m led to believe. ‘About the time of the first world war. It’s not the oldest house in the village though.’

  He turned the brass knob on the closed door, pushed it open and signalled me inside.

  My immediate thought was that it was like a film-set front-room — out of a Second World War movie. I half expected to see an airman with a black Labrador sitting on a chair. It looked like a comfortable study with a small wooden desk by a window that overlooked the garden. A silver photo frame stood on the desk. I couldn’t see the photograph in it as it faced the window. On the other side of the desk was a letter tray and between the two, a closed laptop. One wall was covered by bookshelves almost to the ceiling. The shelves were full. More books perched on a low coffee table in the middle of the room and still more on the three small armchairs positioned around it. An old clock hung on the wall opposite. Below that was a fireplace. I noticed a large, dusty cobweb strung across the grille. The clock hands pointed at 11:05. There was a strong smell of freshly sawed wood, or new sawdust. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, but was quite at odds with the decor of the room.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he said, although he didn’t indicate which one.

  I wondered if this was some sort of test. If I chose one seat over another would it mean that I was more bonkers than if I had chosen another one? Should I consider the wooden backed chair behind the desk by the window? Did he expect me to remove the books from the armchair for him?

  ‘Any one is fine,’ he said. ‘Just throw the books on the floor. Can I get you a drink? Coffee, tea?’

  ‘I’d like some water please, if you have it?’

  He laughed. ‘I think we can do water,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a coffee, I’ve just made some?’

  ‘Just water please. Thank you.’

  ‘How about a hot-cross-bun,’ he said.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. I ate just before I came out.’

  I would have loved one really, of course, they smelled so good, but I didn’t want to be munching my way through a bun whilst telling a stranger about my problems.

  He nodded and disappeared. I heard him clattering about in the kitchen.

  I chose one of the two armchairs that had their backs to the window. I didn’t want to be distracted by the garden. And it also meant I had a full view of the door. I wasn’t sure why that was important to me — but it was. I carefully picked the books off the chair and placed them in a pile on the floor next to it. Then straightened the pile a little. The floor was dark wood with a green patterned rug taking up a large part of it. The coffee table was on the rug. It struck me how new the rug looked. Its newness looked out of place in such an old-fashioned feeling room. I wondered why Colin had had to buy a new rug. Had he murdered a client on the old one? Got rid of it because it was soaked in blood? Would I be his next victim? What the hell was I doing there?

  I jumped as he came back through the door. He smiled and handed me a glass of water. He plonked his coffee on the table.

  He picked the books off the armchair opposite mine, across the coffee table, and put them underneath it.

  ‘What’s phrenology?’ I asked.

  ‘The study of bumps,’ he said.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I went for the “Neil Classic” and raised my eyebrows.

  ‘Specifically the bumps and contours of the head,’ he said. ‘For some time it was thought that you could tell someone’s personality and character traits by feeling the bumps on their head. Raised bumps behind the ears meant a pickpocket, small bumps just here,’ he rubbed a small part of the top of his head with his finger, ‘signifies vanity and arrogance.’

  He smiled as he did it.

  ‘But it is mostly dismissed nowadays as a pseudo-science, akin to say — palmistry or astrology.’

  ‘Hypnotism?’ I said

  He nodded, slowly. ‘Hypnotism,’ he said. ‘That too.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ I said.

  He sat back in his chair. I hadn’t realised he had been leaning forward. Had he been examining me?

  ‘Please relax,’ he said.

  I thought I was.

  ‘The purpose of this,’ he waved his hand to indicate the two of us, ‘is to see whether we get along. If I’m going to try and help you it is essential that you feel comfortable here. And that you feel happy talking about things. This isn’t right for everyone.’

  I was about to point out that I didn’t think it was right for me. But I thought about Michael and Rose. And Neil.

  ‘I understand,’ I said.

  ‘You said on the phone that you were attacked.’

  I nodded. I didn’t really know where to start.

  ‘Would you mind just telling me a little bit about yourself,’ he said. ‘Background, upbringing, what you do for a living, married, family — all that sort of thing.’

  He smiled again.

  I felt nervous. Like at one of those gatherings where everyone in the room has to introduce themselves and no one wants to be the one to go first.

  I didn’t want to go first either.

  21

  I told Colin as much as I could about myself. That I was thirty-six years old, married to Neil (he was thirty-nine), had Michael (eleven) and Rose (eight).

  ‘I’m a teacher at a primary school in Bath,’ I said.

  He just nodded.

  To be honest I didn’t feel much like a teacher anymore. Having not been into school for the past month, and having a dark harbouring penchant for hurting girls, made me feel like a fraud when I said I was a teacher.

  I felt like a fraud as a wife and mother too.

  ‘Are you married?’ I asked him. ‘Kids?’

  ‘I have a daughter at University in Glasgow,’ he said. ‘I was married.’

  Aha. A divorcee. I noticed he still wore a wedding ring.

  Perhaps he needed some counselling himself.

  ‘Divorc
ed?’ I said.

  ‘My wife died in an accident just over six months ago,’ he said.

  My eyes involuntarily looked down at the new rug. I forced them up again.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘She never regained consciousness. She died three days later.’ His eyes sort of glazed over.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I went for the safe option — again.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.

  He shook his head and brought his eyes back into focus. Time to move on.

  He asked me about my upbringing. Schooling, parents and friends. I was amazed at how much of my life I had already packed away. Not forgotten about, exactly, but certainly packed in boxes and archived somewhere in my brain. Away from the dark bit.

  Talking to him helped me to re-visit myself. Assess where I had been and what I had done.

  ‘I went on a climbing trip to The Andes,’ I said. ‘Before I met Neil. I went with my previous boyfriend.’

  It had been the most exhilarating thing I had done up to then. It was tough, cold, hard and fantastic. In fact that had been what convinced me that I had what it took to be a teacher. To be anything I wanted to be.

  It also convinced me that I didn’t want to be with my boyfriend. I think he understood.

  ‘I met Neil about three months later. I had already gone into teacher training and he had just started at a bank.’

  Talking to Colin made me feel like I was fifteen years younger, talking about my trip and about how Neil and I had met. All my current issues disappeared. Eventually I finished speaking.

  ‘Thank you, Christine,’ Colin said. ‘And now can you tell me what has brought you here today.’

  All my current issues re-appeared.

  I told him about the skateboard attack. About my sense of smell going haywire. And I told him about the dreams. In fact, I told him all the things I had promised myself on the way over that I wouldn’t tell him. I think he was surprised. Perhaps he might want to feel the bumps on my head to see if I was insane. When I told him that it had even crossed my mind that they might be premonitions he smiled, but did me the courtesy of trying to cover it with his hand. It made me not want to say what I had been going to say next.

  I said it anyway.

  ‘To be totally honest, I’m really scared that the bangs on the head have damaged something inside my brain. That maybe they have triggered something. I’m really scared that I am losing my mind. That I’m going mad.’

  He didn’t smile this time. In fact he looked quite serious.

  ‘Severe trauma to the head can cause brain damage,’ he said. ‘Sometimes permanent, very often temporary — with swellings etcetera. But it would have been picked up at the hospital and you would have been told about that as a possibility. Were you told that there was damage?’

  ‘No, but it could have been missed. The bangs to my head might have weakened something in my brain that has subsequently snapped or broken or whatever it does. The dreams seem real to me. More than just dreams really. More like real life. It’s very scary.’

  ‘Dreams are not unusual after a traumatic incident,’ he said. ‘In fact most people have them. But they usually relate to the incident itself. Your dreams seem to be about something unrelated. Something shocking and traumatic in its own right, but still apparently disconnected from the original incident.’

  He stood up and walked behind me to the desk. I didn’t like not being able to see him, so I turned around. From a drawer he pulled a small pad and a pencil. It reminded me of school.

  He came and sat back down again.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said. ‘Would you like us to take this further?’

  ‘Do you think you can help me get my mind back again?’ I said. ‘Get a handle on these dreams?’

  ‘I think we can make inroads. I’m not sure if I can stop these dreams entirely. But we might be able to gain some understanding that will help to diminish them. At least diminish the impact they have on you.’

  ‘Then I would like to take it further… are you OK with that?’

  He smiled. ‘Of course. I think it would be very beneficial.’

  I assumed he meant for me.

  ‘I have to ask, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Have you been referred or will you be paying privately?’

  My face grew suddenly hot. I hadn’t even considered money. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen, but I hadn’t taken into account that I would probably have to pay for counselling. I didn’t know what to say.

  He read the confusion on my face.

  ‘I can call Dr Jones for you if you like,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask him what he thinks about your case.’

  I managed to construct a sentence — of sorts.

  ‘What would be the cost?’ I said.

  ‘If he feels you should be referred, then the cost is covered by the NHS. At least for a certain period anyway. If you come as a private patient my normal charges are £45 per hour. Each session is an hour.’

  Now I let him read the shock on my face.

  ‘We couldn’t afford £45 an hour,’ I said.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Because this is a PTS incident, a post-traumatic-stress case, I would reduce the charge to £30 a session. Would that be more manageable?’

  ‘A bit,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s see what Trevor Jones has to say about you first, shall we? Then we’ll take it from there.’

  He wrote down my mobile number, home number and email.

  ‘The mobile is the best one to get me on,’ I said.

  As we stood up I looked at the clock. It was 11:55am. I couldn’t believe that 50 minutes had gone so quickly. Or that I had opened up so much about such a lot of my life. I guessed it was probably a good thing.

  On the way out, I paused at the bust.

  ‘Pseudo-science?’ I said.

  ‘Almost certainly,’ he said. He smiled again.

  I heard a bump. It came from upstairs.

  “My daughter is at University. My wife died recently”.

  I looked up at the ceiling in the direction of the noise.

  ‘Mathilda,’ he said. She’s probably knocked something over again. She’s my cat.’

  ‘Lovely,’ I said.

  I hated cats. I was surprised I hadn’t sniffed her out when I first came into the house. Odd, I thought.

  Colin opened the front door for me. The rain had finally got its way and was pouring from grumpy looking clouds. The wind was still horribly strong and it beat the raindrops hard against the side of the house.

  ‘How far is your car?’ he asked.

  ‘Literally just on the other side of the hedge. I’ll be fine.’

  Colin reached out his hand. I shook it.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Christine,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve spoken to Doctor Jones.’

  ‘You too,’ I said. ‘Please call me Chris.’

  The rain slammed against the windscreen as I drove away from Colin’s house. I put the car lights on, even though it was only lunchtime. The sky was almost black in places. Birds flew high, they looked like they were being blown along on the wind. Hundreds of them, as though they knew it would be safer for them on the wing than in the trees (or wherever else they rested). I could almost smell the electricity in the air. The few pedestrians that had ventured out, or been caught out, didn’t bother with umbrellas. It was too windy. Their heads down, coats wrapped around them, they moved as quickly as they could to wherever it was they were going.

  I didn’t want to go home. Even after just under an hour with Colin I had loads going on inside my head. It had taken me back. Back to nice places. I wasn’t stupid. I knew that everything could seem better when you looked back on it.

  But it had calmed me. Given me a warm feeling, a secure feeling.

  I decided to go and see Mum and Dad.

  22