Nine Lives (22 page)

He had risen from the floor and now he stood by my side.

‘It's wonderful, Donald,' I said. ‘Every square inch of it.'

He put his arm around my shoulder.

‘Are those our boys on the rock?' I dared to ask.

‘Perhaps,' he said, and he took away his hand.

The ‘perhaps' worried me, coupled as it was with that gesture. I wondered what was behind that ‘perhaps' and whether it was related to the ‘why' I was seeking. I knew in my bones that they were linked.

I heard the end-of-visiting bell, and as it rang, a warder came into the room.

‘Beautiful isn't it, Mrs Dorricks?' he said.

I nodded. Sad too, I thought. For the painting was so free, so unconfined, so unfettered, yet its setting was limbo and durance vile.

‘Let's have the nurse look at your head,' the warder said. ‘An early night is what you need, Dorricks, and a
couple of aspirins. You don't have to worry about Cox,' he added. ‘He's back in solitary.'

Serves him right, I thought, though I knew that his solitary would only increase his wife's pity.

I took Donald's arm and the three of us walked down the corridor.

‘It's absolutely beautiful,' I said again. ‘Are you going to be all right?'

‘Don't worry, Mrs Dorricks,' the warder said. ‘He needs to sleep. I'll let him call you in the morning.'

I took Donald in my arms. ‘You've made me very happy,' I said.

But on my way back to the ferry, I wasn't happy at all. The image of those two little boys on the rocks nagged at me. That ‘perhaps' image. Donald's melancholy and his uncertainty saddened me. Yet the mural had been beautiful and I had to ignore its setting, and view it only for itself.

When we reached Fishbourne, I looked around the pier for Mrs Cox. There was no sign of her, and I was glad of it, because I didn't want to be the one to break the news about solitary. I presumed she'd finished off her bottle and taken an earlier ferry. I travelled alone back to London and made an early night. But I couldn't sleep, and when I did, in short snatches, it was only to dream of rocks on the curve of the wall and the ‘perhaps' figures on their crests.

I rose early and made myself breakfast, though I wasn't hungry. But it was something to do, something to occupy me until Donald's phone call.

It came at eight o'clock. He sounded perky and assured me that he was well. That no damage had been done. I told him once again how much I loved his picture.

‘You make my day,' he said.

I told him that there had been no sign of Mrs Cox at the ferry. That she must have taken an earlier crossing.

‘She didn't,' Donald said. ‘She showed up at the prison at about ten o'clock. Drunk as a lord. Banging on the gates. Wanting to visit. They sent her away. The warder told me this morning.'

‘Poor woman,' I said. She couldn't resist it, I thought, and I imagined her sitting by the water, drinking herself silly, then dragging her unwilling feet to visit a man she didn't want to see. Yet she could not help herself.

‘I hope she got home in one piece,' Donald was saying.

‘No doubt I'll see her next visit,' I said.

‘I have to go now,' he said. ‘Thanks, sweetheart, for everything. I'm innocent, you know. The mural proves it.'

I wondered what he meant by proof. And I knew that those ‘perhaps' boys on the rocks had something to do with it. But I was as confused as I had been from the very beginning. That beginning when the verdict had been given. Sometimes I think I am never meant to understand it. That Donald is protecting me from some unpalatable truth. My fear is that I shall die in that same ignorance, and it would be such a waste. But I don't know how to proceed. It seems I have no choice but to embrace that ignorance and to know that it is good for me.

It was early enough, I thought, to ring the boys before they left for work. Matthew answered the phone.

‘We were just leaving,' he said. Then, ‘I love you, Mum.'

‘Me too,' Martin contributed.

‘Thanks,' I said. It was all I wanted. The Margate seas were calm again, and my boys were fishing off the rocks.

No more procrastination. No more shilly-shallying. I must prepare my next sortie. The attic images are fixed in my eye. No adjournment will shift them from my retina. I take out my directory. Since I am approaching the end of my crusade, I feel like taking a flying leap. I have not forgotten the thrill of Paris, that so random strike. But I will not risk the continent again. I scan my register. Believe it or not, there is one lone practitioner on the Isle of Eigg. A Mr Scott, way up in the Hebrides. With a sparse population, surrounded by water, unreachable for parts of the year, they must all be pretty doolally to start with. And with only one therapist to hand, they must keep him pretty busy. On the other hand, the state of doolalliness on Eigg might be considered the norm, in which case Mr Scott would be sorely unemployed. But with luck, either way, he might find time for me. It would mean a flight. And a ferry. So as far as Verry was concerned, it had to be Devon once again. I made the usual call and asked for an appointment.

‘Have you seen your doctor?' Mr Scott asked.

I couldn't see that that was any of his business and I told him, ‘No. Why should I?'

‘I need a doctor's letter of referral,' he said. ‘I cannot see a patient out of the blue.'

Well, bugger you, I thought. If you're so picky, I'll try someone else. There are plenty of other therapists crying out for business.

I was rather sorry about Eigg, but I still fancied an island.
I thought the Isle of Wight might oblige. There were a number registered in that location, and I chose a Mrs Tomkins. I made my usual telephone call.

Mrs Tomkins' secretary answered, and when I asked for an appointment, she had the nerve to ask me the name of my GP.

‘Why is that necessary?' I asked her.

‘Before I make an appointment for you, I need a letter of referral from your doctor. He must examine you before an appointment can be made.'

‘Thank you,' I said. ‘I'll go and see him.' Then I put the phone down.

I contacted three more therapists and had to endure the same response. I was at my wits' end. Only two more to go. Or in real terms, only one, because I expected no such difficulty with the last of my crusade. I sensed a conspiracy of sorts, and I suspected Wilkins' hand behind it. I tried not to be alarmed. Seven times in my mission I had been lucky. I must not be greedy. I must find another way.

Since it was now clear to me that the register of qualified therapists was out of my reach, I had to find another source. Other so-called healers. Unqualified and legion. But letters after a name did not guarantee competence. And I should know. I went to a London suburb and bought the local paper.

There were two back pages of services. The first column was devoted to rubbish disposal, and as a natural corollary, as it were, there followed a column under the heading of ‘Alternative Healing'. The sundry practitioners offered a variety of services, from Positive Thinking, whatever that was, to Energy Boosting, Hypnotherapy, and Stress Counselling. I thought the last would suit my purposes and was closest to that on offer from the professionals. I returned to my office and made my usual call.

Her name was Penny Brown, and she couldn't have cared less about my GP and his referral. I gave her a false name and arranged to call on her the following afternoon. I decided that this one was not going to be a quickie. I was curious about Miss Brown's methods. I would wear a mackintosh to avoid fibre in case I chose to sit down. And, of course, my gloves. I can't understand why anybody wants to be cured of stress. A life without stress must be very boring indeed, because such a life dare not allow itself to be fed by the imagination. For it is that very gift that causes stress and I'd far sooner accommodate the anxiety that ensues than forgo the talent of imagination. But each to his own. Miss Brown clearly thought that stress was bad for you and I was fascinated to discover how she thought it could be remedied. I rather looked forward to our meeting, and I hoped that I wouldn't warm towards her.

I didn't have to use my Devon ploy. Miss Brown lived in Surbiton and I could be there and back within a couple of hours.

It was raining when I set out, and I was glad of it, for it legitimised the waterproof that I was wearing, and once inside, I had no intention of taking it off. Or my gloves. Both would pass as the uniform of a stress-riddled loner, in dire need of counselling.

Miss Brown herself answered the door. She was a middle-aged woman, too young to die, but I could not afford such a thought and at the sight of her, I imaged that attic again, and the rope, and I duly stepped inside her parlour. There was a pervading smell of incense, sandalwood, and I wondered whether that played a part in stress counselling.

‘Sit down,' she invited me.

‘I'd rather stand,' I said. ‘I'm restless.'

‘Well, take off your coat then,' she suggested.

‘No. I feel unsure without it.' I had all the qualifications for her counselling.

‘Would you like me to stand too?' she asked.

‘No,' I said quickly. I needed her sitting for my dispatch. ‘But thanks for asking. I appreciate your willingness to join me in my troubles.'

I was a willing patient and she seemed anxious to help.

‘Is there anything special that is troubling you?' she asked.

‘Yes,' I answered with absolute honesty. ‘But I can't talk about it.'

‘Can you give me any clue at all? Jealousy, perhaps? Greed?' She was way off the mark. I shook my head.

‘Is there any name that comes to mind?' she asked. ‘Some name that has to do with what is troubling you.'

I nodded. ‘There is a name,' I said. But only because I didn't want to disappoint her. Any name would do, I thought. I was about to pick one out of the hat, when she interrupted.

‘Don't tell me the name,' she said. ‘I want you to tell it to yourself. Over and over again. I want you to tell it to that wall. Over there.'

She pointed to a corner of the room where a large punchbag was fixed to the adjoining walls. It was a big red bulk of cushion and looked solid enough. It invited assault.

‘Stand in front of it,' she said. ‘And start punching. Say the name to it, over and over again.'

It was as if she was asking me to play with her. Like a child. And on that basis, I obliged. I started to punch the bag, gently at first. And rhythmically. One two, one two. And a strange feeling overcame me, a feeling of welcome release. I went on punching with a certain pleasure, but I noticed that my punches obeyed no rhythm and that they were strong,
angry and almost violent. I punched away. I was sweating and I heard a groan from my mouth. A word was forming under my tongue, claiming release, and it seemed I could not hinder its escape. I was losing control and punching my heart out.

And then it came. The name. In a whisper at first, as if I didn't want to hear it. But louder and louder, indifferent to audience. ‘Robinson,' it yelled. ‘Robinson.' Over and over again, in dire dactyl trisyllable.

‘That's enough,' I heard Penny shouting from where she sat. I looked at her, listening still to the harsh echo of that terrible name, and I pitied her. Pitied her profoundly. I might well have let her off my hook, due to her kindness and skill. And skill indeed it was, for at the price of a mere ten quid, and with no letters after her name, she had unleashed a name that had haunted me for almost thirty terrible years. But now, bless her, she knew too much. She knew the name and she would have to go. Apart from the inhuman error of Mr Quick at the symposium, the death of dear Penny Brown was the only one I would live to regret. She had done me great service but the knowledge that I had shared with her was to be her own undoing.

I swallowed my remorse, and rushed behind her.

‘What are you doing?' she asked, and with a smile as if I was about to play a silly trick on her. Those were Penny's last words. I choked them with my string, checked her pulse, and watched her die. But I didn't flee from the room as was my habit. I tarried awhile and told her I was sorry. That she was but an accidental station on my crusading road and that if there were a heaven, she had certainly earned her admission.

I left the house, and once outside I took off my waterproof
and gloves. It had stopped raining and I noticed a rainbow in the sky. Its beauty did not please me. I was dejected. Penny Brown had not been an easy dispatch, because in many ways she had been good to me. She had mightily eased that last attack of mine, the killing that would justify them all and, hopefully and at last, bring me peace.

I drove home slowly. In time, Wilkins would be driving in the opposite direction. That journey would be buoyed with hope, and the return with dire disappointment. I was beginning to feel sorry for him. Indeed, I was beginning to feel sorry for everybody, not least for myself. And once again I questioned the need for my crusade, punctuated as it was with doubts and uncertainties. And, worst of all, with scruple. Then I imaged the attic again, the rope, the shattered guitar, and slowly my doubts dissolved. ‘I am innocent,' I said to myself. Over and over again. Only one more to go, and the hardest of them all. But it would be the righteous justification of all that had gone before. I dreaded it, but I would rejoice when it was all over.

EIGHT DOWN. ONE TO GO.

The clerk at the station …

The clerk at the station switchboard picked up the emergency line.

‘She's dead,' a woman screamed at him.

‘Slow down, lady,' the clerk said. ‘First tell me your name and where you're speaking from.'

‘More than dead,' she kept yelling. ‘Murdered.'

‘What is your name, madam?' The clerk was patient.