King of the World (10 page)

It
has
happened. To
me.

With a surge of revulsion, Norah slammed the
wardrobe
door shut, blotted out the unnatural creature in
the mirror and flung her selfback onto the bed to sob the night away.

Or some of it, anyway. One always goes to sleep in the end. This, at least, was one thing she had learned.

Bridget heard the wardrobe door slam shut. Indeed, it had shaken the whole flat, as well as the table on which she was working, but it had not occurred to her to go and find out if anything was wrong. She was busy, making notes on an article on the Polish gas industry which she was going to have to translate from the French tomorrow. She needed to be familiar with the relevant technical terms in both languages before going into the Conference hall tomorrow, and so the banging of the door was no more than an annoying interruption.

It
was
annoying, though; and it
had
interrupted her. It had made her feel irritable, all over again, about this tiresome new flatmate of theirs. Her original objections to giving house-room to this unhappy lady had been, she felt, amply vindicated. Further and further complications seemed to be accumulating round the bothersome little creature, and this was affecting everyone. Already, Bridget and Diana had been lured into spending an entire Saturday afternoon on Norah’s problems. Well, no, that wasn’t quite fair. It hadn’t been Norah’s urging that had made them accompany her on the expedition, it was Diana who had been so keen – not to say hell-bent – on exploiting Norah’s
traumatic
situation for the “Heart to Heart” programmes.

There was nothing wrong with that, in itself. It was her job, after all, to track down photogenic disasters, especially in family situations. “Exploiting” wasn’t quite fair either, because Norah had seemed greatly relieved at the prospect of having company on a distinctly
frightening
expedition. After all, the oppressive husband
might
have been there, and it had been Diana who had undertaken, quite inventively, to eliminate that risk.

But now, it seemed, a repeat performance was planned for tomorrow. They would be driving down there again, this time in Diana’s car, and Diana would once again be interviewing the crazy boy presumably in greater detail this time, and with a heavy slant towards action-bites. “We want to avoid talking heads as much as we possibly can,” she’d explained recently, and so she would be setting Christopher up to do – well, what? What
did
you get a schizophrenic to do which would illustrate his schizophrenia to a sufficiently titillating degree, without offending against the increasingly
complex
and panicky rules about invasion of privacy which, according to Diana, were proliferating in her trade to a frustrating degree.

And how – why – had Bridget allowed herself to be drawn into this second adventure? This was the really annoying thing, and it was this, really, that had made that slamming door as annoying as it was.

The worst part of it was that Bridget had only herself to blame. She could have said “No”. Even more galling was the fact that her Sunday was still empty of engagements. So there was no way she could say, “Sorry, I’ve got to do so-and-so”. Everyone knew that the cancelled visit to her parents had left her day totally and uncharacteristically free.

So she had said “Yes” when she ought to have said “No”. Actually, Diana had been very pressing: she was nervous about the trip, that was obvious. Twice she had asked Norah, in a studiedly offhand manner, whether there was any risk of Christopher turning violent. She had clearly been rendered uneasy by Norah’s slightly evasive assurances. So she welcomed the idea of an extended body-guard on the premises. Diana was good at her job, with a knack for establishing an intimate rapport with her subjects; but even for her the initial approach must sometimes present difficulties. Sheer brazen cheek was sometimes required to initiate these exchanges; to surmount that fraught moment of getting across to a total stranger the idea that their personal disaster was going to be fun to watch. Not in those words, of course; and, as Diana often pointed out, some victims liked it. Some found that it lifted them up and out of their miseries like a powerful euphoric drug.

But some didn’t. And if it turned out tomorrow that Christopher was one of these, what might he not do, unbalanced as he was. The fact that yesterday he’d liked the idea of being on television was no guarantee that he’d like it again tomorrow.

Bridget could have kicked herself for being so feeble, for letting herself get involved. But she secretly knew that she’d have kicked herself even harder if she’d kept aloof from it all, and had missed out on the whole adventure.

The drive down to Medfield, with Diana at the wheel, was a good deal pleasanter than the previous day’s. The weather was pleasanter, too. The wind had dropped, the rain-clouds had been blown away, leaving one of those winter skies of magical blueness, out of which the low sun sent a slanting light across the stubble fields and newly-ploughed furrows. They were passing now through that meagre stretch of real country that lay between London and their destination, and Bridget found herself able to enjoy the scene, in a mild way, now that it was not overlaid by the tensions inseparable from Alistair’s show-off driving style. Perhaps the whole afternoon was going to prove mildly enjoyable after all? She was beginning to be quite glad she had come.

Norah had a key, of course, so when Christopher did not answer her ring on the bell, she opened the door and ushered her companions into the hall. The fact that he hadn’t answered the bell was beginning to twang at her nerves, already taut with apprehension. What was he doing? Was he so obsessively absorbed in something that he hadn’t heard the bell? Or had he chosen not to answer it?

Tremulously, from the foot of the stairs, Norah called her son’s name. “Christopher!” she quavered, almost
sotto
voce,
as if she didn’t really want him to hear her; and then, visibly pulling herself together, she called again, a lot louder, her voice almost a scream: “Christopher! Where are you? We’re here! Come on down!” and already, as the echoes rose and died away round the bend of the stairs, she knew he wasn’t there. The others knew it too. There is something unmistakable about an absence. Everyone is aware of it, always.

This did not, of course, prevent them (it never does) from thoroughly exploring the place, opening every door. They even tried the door of Mervyn’s study, but of course it was locked, as it always was when he was not there.

Back in the entrance hall, the three looked at each other.

“It’s not that we’re too early,” Diana volunteered, looking at her watch. “Three o’clock was the time he specially asked me to come, and it’s a quarter past already.”

She, and Bridget likewise, now looked at Norah. The next move was up to her. This was her home. Her son.

“He – he must have gone out,” she murmured – a remark so obvious, so inane, that she was not surprised that it drew upon her one of Bridget’s impatient
put-downs
. “Really? And what else can we deduce from the fact that he’s not in?” she enquired drily; but added, almost immediately, and remorsefully: “I’m sorry, Norah, I do see that you must be worried …”

Worried, yes indeed. Though of course Bridget couldn’t have known about the thoughts that were darting like silver-fish through Norah’s over-active
mind: “He’s
out
! He’s out
by
himself
! What is he up to? Is he upsetting the neighbours? What have his voices told him to do – and to whom?” Or had he, perhaps – and despite her fears, this quite commonly happened – had he gone off on some perfectly sensible errand? Shopping, perhaps? or to call on a friend?

Except, of course, that he hadn’t any friends. An acquaintance, then? He might, just possibly, be next door at Louise’s. Once, long ago, it had been almost a second home to him, when he and Louise’s Peter, as small boys, had been in and out of each
other
’s houses quite a lot. Was it possible that,
magically
, this old closeness had somehow been revived? It was a wild hypothesis, considering the rift which had developed between the two families in recent years. Still, there could be no harm in asking. She and Louise were still on speaking terms, though the old intimacy had long cooled into mere politeness. However, on this occasion mere politeness would be enough. “Yes” or “No” would be all that Louise needed to say.

“I think I’ll just pop in next door,” she explained to her companions, “They may know …” and before she had decided how to finish the sentence she was out through the front door.

Louise was surprised to see her, naturally – well, they’d hardly spoken for weeks. She even seemed cautiously pleased. When all else has failed in a
relationship
, curiosity can still keep it going after a fashion, and Louise was clearly curious to know what had been happening to her neighbour all this time; in particular, she was curious to hear the reason for Norah’s recent
disappearance. Had her marriage finally broken up, like so many in the street?

But Norah, anxious and in a hurry, was not very forthcoming: which was a pity, because this was a moment when the old friendship might have been restored. She refused Louise’s invitation to come in for a cup of tea, and instead stood hovering on the doorstep, radiating unease. She’d only dropped in for a moment, she explained, to ask if Louise had any idea where Christopher might be this afternoon?

But Louise, disappointed at this rebuff to her
tentative
overtures, knew nothing.

“We haven’t seen anything of any of you, for weeks,” she pointed out, not unreasonably. “No, I haven’t the faintest idea what Christopher is doing. How would I? He never comes in here any more. He and Peter don’t hit it off any more, do they?” Distant. Aggrieved. The moment for rapprochement was over, and Norah retreated, apologising as she went.

Her companions had by now succeeded in making themselves cups of tea in the unfamiliar kitchen, and were now seated in the sitting-room, heads together, talking. About
her,
Norah found herself instantly suspecting; but instantly rejected the thought. It wouldn’t do for
her
to become paranoic as well, now would it?

Four o’clock now. A full hour after the appointed time, and still no Christopher.

“Well, I suppose we might as well be going,” Diana was beginning, her usually up-beat tone flat with
disappointment
. “I do think though, after coming all this way …”

What she had thought was never to be revealed, for at that moment the front door opened. They all heard it:
they all felt the quiver of outside air passing through the house before the door was slammed shut and footsteps sounded in the hall.

“Christopher!” Diana exclaimed. “He’s back!” She sounded alert, relieved, once more on the job.

But it wasn’t Christopher. The tall and strikingly handsome man who now strode confidently into his own sitting-room was middle-aged and with greying hair still thick and abundant. His clean-cut features were not only outstandingly regular, they betokened a firmness of purpose, an unassailable self-confidence, that were somewhat intimidating to – outsiders, that is, reflected Bridget. To his patients, with their tremulous, mismanaged egos, he might well have come across as a tower of strength, a bulwark against unmanageable fear. His likeness to his son was minimal, Bridget noted, during those moments of embarrassed silence which succeeded his unexpected entrance. His complexion was dark where Christopher’s was fair, his build sturdy and muscular where Christopher was slender and
willowy
. All the same, there
was
a likeness: something indefinable about the eyes. Although the father’s eyes were grey and those of the son a clear and lucent blue, they both gleamed with the same sharp and wary intelligence. Yes, intelligence: however distorted it might be in the boy, it was still there behind the scenes, inextinguishable.

The silence stretched intolerably as the seconds mounted. Dr Payne was the first to speak.

“Well, my dear,” he said, addressing his wife, “So you have decided to return home. How very
sensible
! Aren’t you going to introduce your friends to me …?” – and then, when his wife remained paralysed
– by shock? – alarm? – embarrassment? – guilt? – whatever it was – he gave an apologetic little bow first to Diana and then to Bridget as they
introduced
themselves. Then Mervyn turned back, with a sort of controlled menace, towards his wife. Well, of course he was angry with her. What husband wouldn’t be?

“Is this just a visit, my dear?” he asked her drily, “Or are you thinking of taking up residence here once more? It’s entirely up to you. I’m not pressing you, I’m not even advising you. As you know, I never give advice to my patients, that’s not my role. I just listen. So here I am, my dear. I am ready to listen. What have you to say?”

As he spoke he slowly, and somehow threateningly, lowered himself into one of the over-large, over-stuffed chairs. Once there, he placed the tips of his fingers together, and over this little parapet of knuckles and carefully-manicured nails, he watched his wife’s face. Was this his usual pose when treating a patient, Bridget wondered? And did it, in their case, encourage them to talk? Or did it, as in Norah’s case, make their faces twitch and grimace, and their words choke in their throats?

“Well, my dear,” he prompted, after nearly a minute. “I’m waiting to hear what you have to say. You have been away now for the best part of a fortnight, putting your family to great inconvenience, and indeed to some anxiety. Out of consideration for your state of mind, I have so far refrained from contacting the police; although your behaviour has been such as to arouse legitimate concern for your safety. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Norah by now seemed to have recovered the power of speech.

“I’m sorry,” was all she could think of at first; and then, as her husband’s enquiring gaze did not flicker, she went on: “I’m sorry, Mervyn, but I couldn’t bear it any more.”

“You couldn’t bear it any more,” he repeated
consideringly
– and Bridget remembered having read some where that this was part of the psychiatric technique – to repeat what the patient has just said. And indeed it seemed to work: “You couldn’t bear it any more?”

“No, I couldn’t!” Norah was speaking confidently now. “It’s Christopher, Mervyn! You know it is! The awful things he keeps doing. And he’s getting worse. I just can’t cope …”

“You just can’t cope,” Mervyn repeated, but the technique didn’t work this time. Sometimes it doesn’t. And so after a few seconds he was forced to go on: “What is it that you can’t cope with?”

Here he turned apologetically to the two visitors: “I’m sorry to be letting you in for this purely domestic discussion, but as you see, there is an important issue that has to be resolved between me and my wife. I hope you will forgive us.” Then, focussing once again upon Norah, he asked “
What
is it you can’t cope with?”

“I’ve told you! It’s Christopher! All these mad
delusions
and obsessions! Dead spiders in the fridge! Sewing free-range eggs together with a darning needle! That sort of thing. I can’t bear it. No one could bear it. Where is it going to end? Where is he right now? – He’s up to something awful, I know he is …”

She paused, and for a moment buried her face in her hands. Then, looking up once more: “Oh, Mervyn,
where
is
he? Is he
all
right
? We’ve been her since three o’clock and there’s been no sign of him. Where
is
he?”

It seemed to Bridget that the expression on Dr Payne’s face resembled nothing so much as that of a committed bridge-player who finds himself with such a hand of winning cards as exceeds all the laws of probability. He turned to the two visitors with an air of almost uncontrollable triumph.

“You see?” he exclaimed. “You see what’s going on in this family! A lad of
eighteen
, for God’s sake, and he can’t leave the house for as much as a couple of hours without his mother going into hysterics! This is mother-love gone mad! This is
smother
-love …” Then, turning to his wife:

“Well, never mind. Let’s leave it for now. We mustn’t inflict this sort of thing on our visitors. We’ve been through it all before, anyway, many, many times.”

He waited a moment; but when his wife said
nothing
, he continued; “Listen, my dear, you still haven’t answered my question: What have you come home
for
? And how long are you planning to stay? It would be convenient if I knew something of your plans.”

“I
haven’t
any plans. I
don’t
know
what I’m going to do. I’ve come back this weekend just to see if Christopher’s all right … I mean, without me here …”

Dr Payne smiled; and this time the cat with the cream would perhaps be a more apt simile.

“My dear Norah! ‘
All
right
’, without you here! That’s the under-statement of the year. Of course he’s all right without you. He’s more than all right. When you’re not here he gets a chance to be his real self – all
those quirks of behaviour, which you provoke, they completely disappear, and he behaves exactly like any other normal boy of his age. He comes and goes on his own. He goes about with his friends. I suppose I’d better tell you, since you’re interested, that he set off this morning on a camping trip with a couple of pals …”

“Where to? Which pals?” The words exploded from Norah’s lips uncontrollably, though she must have known what their effect would be.

“See what I mean?” her husband remarked drily, addressing himself to the visitors “A lad of eighteen, going off on a camping trip with friends, and his mother goes into paroxysms of alarm about him! What sort of a life is that for a boy on the verge of manhood? Hard though I know it must be for you, Norah dear, you really have to face the fact that … Oh, by the way, he left a note for you. Did you find it? I think I saw it on the hall table, but maybe … Excuse me …” He was out of the room and back again in seconds with a closely-written sheet of foolscap. Hand-written, the writing so small and so cramped as to be quite difficult to read.

Norah took the note with shaking hands, and peered at it, bewildered. Then, setting it aside for a moment, she scrabbled briefly in her handbag.

“Oh dear!” she exclaimed, “My reading glasses!” she delved again in the bag, and continued: “I wonder if I left them in the car? You remember, Diana, I was looking at the map for you just after we turned off the motorway. And we left the car right at the top of the road, didn’t we … Oh dear …”

She was scared, Bridget could tell, of walking alone
up the dark road to the corner by the park; and though, in general, Bridget despised such timidity, she felt pity as much as scorn for Norah. The poor woman was having a dreadful time, no doubt about it.