Borderliners (13 page)

Since the onset of my illness so many years ago, a fresh start has been my holy grail. I remember it so clearly that sometimes I experience it again, in one of my waking dreams: the lecture theatre at Oxford, the sheen of student heads bobbing up and down in the cascading rows below, the hush as our professor walked in, his pointer raised to signal the silence he required. As I sat there wondering why the notes of my fellow students seemed to jump out from their splayed notebooks on the next bench down it seemed their handwritten letters started to speak. It was a chorus, at first melodic and comprising voices of many different tenors which caressed my ears, but which soon turned into a cacophony which rose not only from the notebooks but seeped from the walls

I thought of my father, his intransigence and stiff upper lip evaporating in the face of my plight. Of all people, he was the one who helped me the most, the one who marched me to the doctor and then to all the experts after that. So many long waits, heavily sedated. I remember it as a blur, a kind of living purgatory. Now, the thought of taking my father’s money to give me a new lease of life seems apt. But somehow I wonder if he would approve. Doubt nags at me.

Still, Julia is difficult to argue with. She is charming and icy, all at once, sending out slivers of something indefinable which threaten to cut me up into little pieces. I am afraid to cross her. I am afraid of my old life. I can still hear those voices, but they are melodious and kind to me, only switching back when I don’t do as she says. If I cross her, they will come back. I know they will.

She is right, now is my time to move on, to take a leap of faith.

A knock at the door reminded me of my appointment with Julia’s prayer group. The light was already failing outside as I shut my laptop with a snap and went to the hall, sensing a dark shape behind the glass of the front door. The shadow cast into my entrance hall seemed to me to be tall, elegant and aware. It both fascinated and repelled me as I stood watching it for a minute. Through the toughened glass, I could make out a hooded poncho, intense purple in colour and flowing around its owner’s tall, graceful frame. I could just imagine the material hanging down into luxurious dark folds and the hood, so deep and wide it would be large enough to completely hide the face of its owner.

The image entranced me until I’d waited so long, I knew I couldn’t go through with it. Going to a Charismatic prayer group was going one step too far, no matter how good the reason. I decided to take a different course of action.

After a long pause I heard footsteps tap away from the threshold, giving me my cue to slip out through the back. I shoved on a pair of trainers in order to follow her without being heard and after short pause, sneaked out. Seeing the tail of her poncho floating around the corner of our road, I jogged along the side of the pavement nearest the houses, noting how the neighbourhood was covered by falling dusk and the onset of yet more rain, which glinted in the dim light of the miserable afternoon. Silver threads were visible against the roadside lampposts and houses beyond.

The prayer group met in a high-ceilinged room at the back of a local hall which used to belong to the Methodists. I watched from a safe distance as people flowed into the building, and when I was sure nobody else was coming, I slipped in through the entrance and stood in the shadows of the hall for a minute. A few steps opposite was an interior door to the meeting room behind which I could hear the scraping of chairs. Once the noise had died down, I tip-toed to the door and peered in through the gap by its hinges.

Women of all ages were seated around a large oval table with Julia at the centre, directly beneath the apex of the pitched roof. A few early slithers of moonlight strained through the windows to caress the waiting group as they focused on her dark, straight backed form. Obediently, they waited as she looked from one woman to another inviting them to summarise their week: their actions, what they were grateful for and how they had prayed. After one of them described her fight with breast cancer, Julia was the first to speak, stating her intention to lead a prayer of thanksgiving. Face up and eyes closed she linked hands with the women on either side, chanting slowly in her deep, lilting voice which lulled the room into a hypnotic and electric sense of otherworldliness. Their world was governed by gestures, glances, lowered eyelashes and folded or outstretched arms which belied the thoughts of their owners.

A hush surrounded the proceedings, amplifying Julia’s voice so that it touched and joined those who listened.

‘We pray for those who lose their way, that their souls may be saved,’ Julia chanted.

I narrowed my eyes, trying not to breath as the room fell silent. I noticed a few of the women crying. Others seemed quiet and tense whilst others still seemed completely mesmerised by the figure of Julia at the centre. A dangerous atmosphere of communal disclosure followed, and I was gripped by the feeling that I would rather not be there.

Julia’s eyes flickered and she held up her arms once more, interrupting a middle aged woman who was telling the group about a time when she had been abused as a child. ‘Let those who do not follow us be dealt with!’ she cried, opening her eyes to look straight at the door, behind which I was hiding. I flinched but did not move.

For a little while longer women took it in turns to speak up about negative experiences. Then the atmosphere in the room shifted until one by one, everybody fell silent. Julia stood up again, clearly enjoying the new electricity in the air. Taking the hands of those on either side of her she began a chain reaction which saw every woman in the room link to her neighbour on either side.

'Now ladies,' she said. 'It is time for us to start preparing ourselves for our special event.'

My ears pricked up and I peered through the crack at the women’s faces. Most people had re-opened their eyes and were staring intently at their leader. Some appeared apprehensive, even worried, whereas others looked excited. My skin prickled and I felt hot, even though it was a cool evening, and I, too, fixed my eyes on Julia, who continued.

'We all need to look into our hearts to ensure we have not been indulging in forbidden activities.'

A sharp intake of breath hissed around the room.

'I shouldn't need to explain what these are. As part of our special community you all know your responsibilities…'

A woman on the other side of the table put up her hand and spoke. 'Will the usual be happening? The
cleansing?
'

Julia cut in, flashing a warning look at the other woman before shutting her eyes and sitting in silence for few moments until the collective rustling, which had accompanied the last question, settled down. Then, drawing a breath to speak, she stood up and declared, ‘For those of you who don’t know, we are now going to end our meeting by speaking in tongues. Those of us who are blessed and pure can just let the Spirit run through our bodies.'

I stared as the room filled with incomprehensible babbling. This continued for some minutes before Julia said a closing prayer. Then she stood up, transformed back into her everyday persona, to offer everyone tea, coffee and biscuits.

Sensing I was about to be discovered, I rushed back to the exit. On my way out I noticed a small wicker basket by the front entrance I hadn’t noticed before. Decked in tiny fake flowers, its outer appearance was friendlier than the small taffeta bags inside it which reminded me of dark furry gremlins. I reached into the basket and took one, ignoring a handwritten notice requesting a donation. As I left the building with one of the little bags in my pocket, a rush of air grasped my face and hands, mimicking the cold feeling which squeezed at my insides. Unease sat just below the surface as I considered the power Julia had over the assembled women inside the hall.

Once home, I fished the talisman out of my pocket and turned it over in my hand. It was a small silver sword on a fine chain. Skeletal hands on either side of the sword linked it to the chain. In the bottom of the taffeta bag was a small, folded note in the spidery hand I had encountered before. I unfolded it on my kitchen table and scanned it quickly.

Remember the end is almost upon us. Fight with the sword of our eternal soul and die for us.

I’d not been sitting down long when the phone rang. Still holding the note, I cradled the phone against my ear.

It was the police. ‘Dr Lewis, would you be able to go over your statement again?’

I talked them through the events of the evening of Joan’s death. When I finished there was a brief silence before the officer on the other end of the phone said, ‘Thank you Ma’am. Now do you have another five minutes to spare? DI Brown would like a quick word.’

I agreed, and they put the Detective Inspector on. ‘Good afternoon, Dr Lewis.’ His voice was gruff with a sharp, streetwise undertone. ‘I just wanted to talk to you about your statement, if that’s ok?’

‘That’s fine.’

‘You say the deceased had been on your consulting list. Can you divulge any more about why she was seeing you?’

‘Nothing much more than what I’ve already told your colleagues,’ I replied. ‘She was suffering from mild depression and had been referred to me for some talking therapy, but she wasn’t a suicide risk. That’s why this turn of events took me by surprise. Having said that, this can happen sometimes. People can take a turn for the worse. Something may have changed in a personal relationship, or she may have been suffering from stress – something she hadn’t divulged to me, that kind of thing. I can only make a diagnosis based on what my patients tell me. I am a psychotherapist, not a mind reader.’

‘But in your professional estimation, you didn’t have reason to believe she was likely to commit suicide?’ DI Brown pressed.

‘No, she wasn’t.’

There was a cagey silence.

‘You want to know more about Joan?’ I asked.

‘So you definitely think it was suicide?’

‘Yes, that’s right. She had taken an overdose of sleeping pills prior to coming into the surgery. You know all of this: I was sitting in my consulting room when one of the practice nurses called me over to reception to deal with an emergency. It was Joan, who was going into arrest, as you know. We - myself and the GPs - tried to resuscitate her but we got there too late.’

‘Do you think it’s odd that there have been several similar events of this nature in a short period of time?’ DI Brown asked.

‘Well, in theory, no,’ I heard myself mimicking Dan’s sensible viewpoint. ‘Suicides happen all the time and the incidence of suicide and attempted suicide goes up at this time of year. It’s a well-known fact within the medical profession. It’s sad but it happens.’

I stared through the window into my garden where the first birds of the winter season had started to appear intermittently on the grass, flitting above the fallen leaves and against the grey sky which stretched between the bare branches of the trees which lined the end of the lawn some fifty metres away.

DI Brown made an odd snorting noise, but said nothing more. The silence elongated.

‘Look,' I said finally. 'I do have several concerns about things which are going on in this village, Inspector.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘Like you, Inspector, I’m concerned about the circumstances in which my patients have died. They all looked like suicides, but I’m not convinced.’ There was a pause before I continued. ‘I’m concerned that there may be a link between the vulnerable people in the area and the Charismatic Community.’

DI Brown let out a deep sigh. ‘You know you can’t just make woolly allegations like this. Got any hard evidence?’

‘Well, not exactly.’ I felt like an idiot. ‘But Joan, for example, seemed afraid of the people who run the community.’

‘Those would be your neighbours?’

‘Yes, that’s right.'

‘We can’t get involved in neighbourly feuds, you know.’

I flushed as a swift dose of anger and humiliation coursed through my veins. ‘OK. There’s other stuff, too.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’ve been threatened in a roundabout way.’

‘Threatened? So you want to make a complaint?’

‘I don’t know who is threatening me.’

‘But you have your suspicions, don’t you?’

I shifted in my chair and put my elbows on the table as I described the notes and warnings.

DI Brown gave me the answer I’d expected. ‘I’d like to help you, but I can’t do anything about any of this without hard evidence, Dr Lewis. You’re an intelligent woman, you must be able to see that. Unless a crime is committed, there’s very little I can do except remind you to be vigilant.’

I bid him goodnight and sat back in my chair, turning the note over in my hands. I read it again.
Remember the end is almost upon us
.
Fight with the sword of our eternal soul and die for us.
I shuddered. Die for us? For whom? And why? A long time ago I’d learnt how to use a sword as part of my martial arts training. One thing I knew? Fighting with swords was a serious business, dying likewise. Whatever these people were about, I was sure it wasn’t eternal souls. It was about death. And it was about power.

I lay awake for a long period last night contemplating my medication, concluding nothing. Finally I fell asleep. I dreamt of people, too many people. Lost in time, maybe, but I’m sure time is an illusion. Then I dreamt of the other things again and I noted them down, hopeful I will be able to make sense of it all soon. All the while my tinnitus sound-shifted through my sleep, changing shape many times as it did so.

I woke to find that my grandfather’s ring, which I keep on my left index finger, was playing tricks on me. It fell off as I dreamt and I awoke, heart beating loudly, drowning in the droning, throbbing panic inside me. I found myself grasping my hand for the ring, which should never be taken off, never. On finding the ring was still there, if a little loose, I calmed.

Often, as I wake, I find the past, present and future of my existence hovering about like strands. They are loose strings in my brain or perhaps somewhere beyond it, floating outside the bonds of the physical. Sometimes I even see them as lines, or strings of a guitar, which have escaped their binding. It normally takes but a split second for me to understand I am back in the real world before the time strands are snapped back into a linear format. I consider the time line, remember where I am, and then I wake up.