King of the World (14 page)

It must have been in the early hours of the morning when Norah came back into her body and found she had recovered the power to feel. It was almost a physical sensation: it rushed through her veins like a blood-transfusion, like an intravenous drip, and she realised for the first time that her son actually was dead. She had known it, of course, for a good many hours, but now she realised it as well, and the grief that had been quietly waiting for her all this time surged over her, taking her breath away.

Grief for what? For whom? For the broken, damaged travesty of a person that Christopher had become? Or for the bright, precocious little boy, so full of quaint ideas, so passionate for facts, any sort of facts, about anything? A lovely little boy, so strong and handsome and eager, a constant joy to his parents.

A little boy long vanished, and the grief at his loss dissipated, bit by bit, over the long dark years that had followed.

What was left? Staring into the darkness, Norah found herself face to face with the nature of grief itself: not just the strange, ambivalent kind of grief that she herself was experiencing, but any grief, anywhere, for anyone.

Grief, she mused, is like a dark room, intermittently lit by a torch turned this way and that, lighting up one by one all the things that now you need not worry about any more. That long-dreaded telephone call? It has come, it is over, it will never come again. You know the worst now. Never again will you have to lift the receiver, sick with dread lest just this very thing may have happened. It
has
happened. It can’t happen again. That sudden cry of terror from out in the street? It can’t be
your
child. Not this time. Not ever again. That shriek of brakes as a lorry thunders by? Nothing to do with you. Not this time.

Christopher not home yet? No longer that nail-biting anxiety – Where is he? – What is he up to? Of course he’s not home yet, how could he be? He’s dead. And then that terrifying article in some medical journal about burnt-out schizophrenics in their forties and fifties; you can forget about that now, for Christopher will never be forty or fifty: never be a burnt-out schizophrenic with no one left to look after him.

No more worries at all. No more fears. No more kidding myself he’s getting better while watching him get worse.

The simultaneous lifting of all these burdens, so vast, so intractable, beyond all counting, was overwhelming. The sensation of weightlessness, for which astronauts undergo months of training, was upon her suddenly, effortlessly, after no training whatsoever, and no
relevant
skills.

Beyond the heavy folds of the curtains a streaky yellowish dawn was breaking, but Norah did not see it. The distant roar of the awakening city was gathering strength, but Norah did not hear it. She was standing
on a high hill, with a confused and distant landscape spread at her feet and a warm wind pulsing in her ears; and at her side stood Christopher. Which Christopher? The eager, promising, lovable little boy? Or the tall and handsome youth with the ruined mind and the sly, too-brilliant eyes?

Somehow, he was both. Tall and handsome,
certainly
, and yet calling her “Mummy”, as he hadn’t done for years and years and years.

“Look, Mummy! Look! I’m King of the World!” he cried, and with his arms stretched out in triumph and with his fair hair blown by the wind across his forehead, that was exactly what he looked like – King of the World.

She must have slept for several hours, because when she woke it was bright day, the low winter sun almost at its zenith, and the flat was empty.

Well, it would be. The others both had jobs to go to, and though their hours were irregular, they were both usually out for most of the day.

Norah was glad. She didn’t want to face either of them at the moment. Conversation with Diana would be awkward and embarrassing because Diana didn’t know that Christopher was dead. With Bridget it would be embarrassing because she did.

It had been embarrassing already, in fact. When,
yesterday
, Norah had blurted out the tragic fact, hitherto known only to herself, Bridget had been visibly at a loss. “Oh, God!” you could see her thinking, “What on earth does one say to a bereaved mother? You can’t just say you’re sorry, and walk away … probably the right thing to do is to put your arms around her …” Norah could actually
feel
the revulsion that
had shuddered through her companion at the thought, and she had understood it well. An exchange of
duty-hugging
between people who aren’t particularly fond of each other can be excruciating. It was awful; and who knew to what heights the embarrassment might have escalated, had not the telephone mercifully
intervened
.

It didn’t matter who the call was for, or who answered it, for while one was doing so, the other could escape, and so bring the painful session to an end.

An end to the embarrassment, perhaps; but now, looking back on the episode, it dawned on Norah that something more than embarrassment might have been at stake, and she felt stirrings of a new uneasiness.

Why – why – had she been so imprudent as to tell Bridget anything at all of what she knew? She hadn’t planned to do so – hadn’t planned, at that stage, anything at all. In her numbed state she had been acting – when capable of acting at all – entirely on impulse, and the impulse to speak the words “Christopher is dead” had been overwhelmingly strong.

Why so strong? What was it that had provoked so rash and unnecessary a revelation?

Partly, it was Bridget herself who had been the
provocation
; so self-assured, so well-informed, so jarringly rational in the midst of chaos. She was like a juggernaut, flattening in her path every non-rational consideration, utterly unaware of how they were all leaping back into life behind her as soon as she had passed …

And Bridget’s voice, too. Norah remembered how that voice had gone on, and on, and on, sensible, rational, irrefutable, emphasising key syllables until they rang like hammer-blows through the big, quiet
room … on and on and on, uninterrupted, as if she was delivering a lecture; as if this pleasant room with its easy-chairs was a lecture-hall, and Norah herself a whole class of students sitting on benches and hanging on the lecturer’s words of wisdom.

Words of wisdom. Unquestioned Tightness. This was what had provoked Norah, finally, into her
ill-considered
revelation. For the whole of Bridget’s thesis, so carefully worked out, so clearly presented, so meticulously based on the data so far available – had been completely and ludicrously wrong. The one single bit of data known to Norah but not to Bridget made nonsense of it all, from the first sentence to the last, and the childish impulse to put Bridget in the wrong had been momentarily overwhelming: to put Bridget in the wrong, and at the same time to prove the innocence of her dead son.

All this she had achieved; and it was not until this morning, alone in the silent flat, that she began to realise the implications of what she had done.

The short winter day was passing. The sky above the roofs opposite was no longer a dazzling midday blue, but hazed over with a silvery greyness; and still Norah sat on, staring through the big windows and in the grip of a curious inertia that was nothing to do with peace or relaxation. Rather, it was the paralysis of one awaiting some ordeal which cannot be averted but whose nature is still unclear.

Now and then, she tried to rouse herself from this unnatural lethargy, to pull herself together. More than once, she would find herself making a cup of coffee; and then, minutes later, there it would still be, nearly cold, and with skin forming on the surface.

It was unnerving. The passage of time seemed
distorted
in some way. Her initial sensation of relief at finding she had the flat to herself was dissolving, to be replaced by a panicky sensation of being in solitary confinement, cut off from all human aid.

What sort of aid? What actually was she afraid of? In the very process of asking herself the question, she already knew the answer perfectly well – had known it all along.

She was afraid of her husband; and she knew, now, exactly why she was afraid.

Crucial to Mervyn’s own safety was that the body found on the Common should never be identified. The whole thing depended absolutely on no one but Mervyn knowing that Christopher was dead.

But one other person did know. Norah knew. Was it possible that by now Mervyn knew that she knew? Might Bridget have told him? Already? Or – almost as bad – might she, with her exaggerated sense of civic duty, have told the police?

Had she? Hadn’t she? Did Mervyn know? Didn’t he? With these questions going round and round in her head, unanswered, unanswerable, Norah drifted into a sort of uneasy sleep; and when she awoke, it was already dark. Her back, her shoulders, were stiff and aching, for she seemed to have slumped sideways against the wooden arm of the sofa when she fell asleep, and it had been sticking into her spine all this time. Edging herself painfully into a more comfortable position, she peered at her watch. Already she was hardly able to see the hands, but she just managed to make out that it was ten minutes to five.

Ten to five. Another two hours, before either of the others could be expected back, and in the meantime she was alone in the flat. The muzziness of her daytime sleep was receding, and memories of the past few hours came flooding back with a new and painful vividness. With the memories came the uneasy feeling that
something
had woken her. A slamming door? A noise in the street? At once Norah’s nerves, temporarily dulled by sleep, were sharply on edge once more.

Had Mervyn tracked her down?
Could
he have done so? Certainly she herself hadn’t given him the address – had indeed been at pains not to do so. The last thing
she’d wanted in seeking this desperate place of refuge was any contact with her husband.

Could he, though, have discovered her whereabouts in some other way? Well, yes, he could. Might not Diana, in the course of that apparently successful
interview
with Christopher, have given the boy her address, or at least her phone number? (“So co-operative”, she’d described him, and “So excited at the prospect of being on T.V.”) What could be more likely than that she’d have encouraged this prospective interviewee by urging him to keep in touch? “Here’s my card, do ring me if you have any questions”, she might have said. Probably had said.

And Christopher would have left the card about, and Mervyn would have found it. Or, indeed, Christopher might actually have shown it to his father during one of his intermittentl, euphoric moods. “Look, I’m going to be on television!”, he might have boasted brandishing the card: and Mervyn, whatever his thoughts at that moment might have been, would certainly have taken note of the address. And the telephone number.

By now, it was almost totally dark, but Norah somehow could not exert herself to switch on the lamp or to draw the curtains.

Could not exert herself to do so? Or was it that she did not dare to? Did not dare to reveal to the outside world that the flat was not empty after all? That someone was at home, and perhaps alone?

For Mervyn was after her – she was becoming more and more sure of it, and now her imagination leaped and swooped among the possibilities of what might happen next.
Anything
might happen –
anything
. Even while her mind was seeking a foothold in this featureless
disaster area – at this very juncture, the telephone rang again.

Yes, again. The moment the sound began, she knew at once that this was the same sound that had roused her from sleep some minutes ago. For several seconds she simply could not move.

Of course, it might
not
be Mervyn. Indeed, it almost certainly wasn’t. Both Bridget and Diana were
constantly
getting calls – not to mention Alistair, who was becoming such a fixture at this address.

But, on the other hand, it
might
be Mervyn; indeed, every single time the phone went, from now on, it
might
be him, and would therefore set her heart racing like this; would dry the saliva from her mouth, would make her knees shake and her stomach to contract with fear.

It stopped, of course, at last, but by this time she knew that if it went again she wouldn’t be able to stand it. Not like this, all by herself, with the others all out. Before it went again, she must be out of the flat, out of the house, not to return until – by the lighted windows, the drawn curtains, and perhaps by the sound of the radio – she should know that her friends had returned, and she would no longer be alone.

Racing against time, against the temporarily
quiescent
phone whose next onslaught might come at any second, Norah snatched up her handbag, crammed on her coat and boots, and raced down the two long flights of stairs. As she neared the bottom she
fancied
she could hear the phone starting up again; but maybe she couldn’t. Maybe it was in one of the other flats. Reaching the front door, and wrestling with the various burglar-proof gadgets which, in a
multi-occupied building, one or other of the tenants always insists on, and always succeeds in obtaining, Norah finally wrenched the door open and burst into the cold and welcoming outdoors. She gasped with relief, and with the sudden rush of cold air into her lungs. She slammed the door shut behind her, and already felt her fear subsiding. Even if the telephone did go again, she wouldn’t be able to hear it from here.

What next? There remained the best part of two hours to be filled in before either of her flatmates were likely to be back, and she couldn’t just stand here on the steps for all that time. Norah looked up and down the road, seeking inspiration.

There were plenty of people about, scurrying
purposefully
this way and that. It was the rush hour, of course; they were all hurrying to get here or there by this time or that. She realized she must be just about the only one who was seeking to kill time rather than to beat it in the race to some destination.

Plenty of cars, too, several of them cruising along looking for somewhere to park. The houses here, once the dwellings of gentlefolk with large families and plenty of servants, were tall and spacious – almost grand, in a way – but virtually all of them had been sub-divided into flats, maisonettes and bed-sitters, the inhabitants of which, almost to a man, owned cars, and naturally enough, each sought to park his vehicle right outside his own front door. This meant, of course, an eternal tight-lipped competition for each four or five yards of frontage. Both Diana and Alistair complained constantly about this state of affairs, and were wont to argue, idly and inconclusively, about what “
They
”
should do about it. Norah herself, not being a
car-owner
, never got involved in these discussions, though she’d noticed that Bridget – likewise a non-car-owner – would join in with gusto. Bridget was like that, which was one of the many reasons why Norah found her so intimidating.

For a minute or more, she stood still, half-way down the steps, gazing uncertainly this way and that. It was too early to expect either Diana’s or Alistair’s car to be joining the melée, but all the same Norah found herself half looking out for one or other of them – especially for Diana’s buttercup-yellow Ford Escort, so easy to spot among the crowds
This
would be the direction Diana would be coming from, Norah mused, beginning to stroll, rather slowly, in the direction of the main road. She still hadn’t decided where she was going, or how she was going to fill the next hour or so; but there was no doubt that she was beginning to feel better, out here in the cool air, and with familiar traffic noises all around. It was good, too, to be in the company of all these anonymous people from whom she had nothing to fear. They neither knew nor cared anything about her. They did not know that her son had just died, or that he’d been a schizophrenic, or anything at all.

It made her feel very safe.

“Well, well, my dear! Aren’t you walking in the wrong direction?”

The voice came from behind her, and even before she had whirled round to face him, Norah could tell that her husband was smiling: that brilliant smile that he put on to reassure patients – or was it to intimidate them? In all these years she had never finally decided which.

It was a smile that revealed his fine set of teeth,
anyway, if that was any clue. She knew, too, what the teeth were going to look like under this sort of street lighting so white as to be almost greenish, and somehow more numerous than you would have expected in that narrow, tight-lipped mouth. Not that she had ever actually counted, of course: probably the patients hadn’t either.

It couldn’t have been more than a second before she turned round to face him, though it seemed much longer. And when she did, “Oh – Mervyn!” was all she could think of to say, while she waited for terror to engulf her.

For some reason, it hadn’t so far. It was like stubbing your bare toe against a rock and waiting for the pain to reach your brain; often, it took a second or more. Ironic, too, that it had been to escape Mervyn that she’d rushed out of the flat into the safety of the street; and all the time it was in the street that he’d been waiting. Wasn’t there something like this in the Bible? Someone fleeing to Samara to escape his appointment with Death in his home town, only to find that Death was right there in Samara, waiting for him?

“Come along,” he was saying, taking her gently but firmly by the arm and steering her back in the direction from which she had come; “Come along, I want to talk to you” – and then, as she tried ineffectually to pull away from him, he went on: “What’s the matter, my dear? What are you afraid of? It’s
good
news I’ve got for you – very good news.”

By now they had reached the front steps of Norah’s current dwelling. He seemed to recognise it at once, and drew her to a standstill.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he inquired.
“There is a lot we have to talk about. About Christopher. I know how worried you’ve been about him lately, and I’ve come specially to reassure you about him. He’s
all
right
. He’s more than all right, he’s really getting to grips with his life and making sensible plans for the future. He’s really happy, Norah. I had a letter this morning from the campsite he’s staying at and he’s having a great time. I’ll show it to you when we get inside, you’re going to be really pleased. He’s not only having a good time now with his friends, but – Look, Norah, do let’s get inside. How can I show you a letter out here in the dark? It’s addressed to both of us, by the way; it starts off ‘Dear Mum and Dad …”

But Christopher is dead … She almost had to bite her tongue not to say the words aloud; and the very effort of keeping the words unspoken seemed to arouse in her a strange quiver of uncertainty.

Could
she have been wrong? Could Mervyn possibly be telling the truth? Surely not. For one thing, the news he was purporting to convey was too good to be true. Far too good. Besides, the way he spoke had been just that little bit
too
soothing,
too
reassuring. This was the way a snake would speak to its hypnotised rabbit, if snakes could speak. Careful had been his whole speech, and well-rehearsed. The letter too, which he was planning to show her, it would be similarly careful, just like the last one. The small, cramped hand-writing would be almost like Christopher’s, but not quite. The painstakingly concocted sentences would be just the sort of thing a boy of his age might write home to his parents … but they wouldn’t be the sort of thing Christopher would write. Norah would recognise the
document as a forgery almost at once, of course she would.

But then what? Confront Mervyn then and there with her suspicions? Accuse him of bare-faced,
calculated
lying?

Never in the world would she be able to summon up that sort of courage. That sort of foolhardiness, rather – crazy, disastrous foolhardiness: because once Mervyn knew that she disbelieved his story, it wouldn’t be long before he realised that she must at least suspect that their son was dead, and that Mervyn was responsible.

And then … and then? All alone in the flat, with no certainty as to when any of the others would come in …?

No, no. Soon she would be perusing the phoney letter, and as she did she must not allow the faintest quiver of doubt or suspicion to cross her face or to sound in her voice. “That’s wonderful, Mervyn,” she would have to say in response to whatever ludicrously rosy picture he’d concocted. Say it as if she meant it, too. Somehow contrive to make her tense features light up with the kind of delight that an anxious mother might be expected to feel at this sudden alleviation of her fears.

She couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t. While the
agonisingly
contrived smile might be held in place on her lips, what would be happening to her eyes? Eyes, the windows of the soul, through which all her grief,
distrust
and terror would be plainly seen, should Mervyn actually look into them while she was speaking. Of course, he often didn’t look at her while she was speaking. Indeed, he mostly didn’t. But on this occasion he would. Oh, how he would! Already she seemed to see those grey, shining eyes grow cold with hatred as
they gazed deep, deep into hers, plumbing her secret knowledge.