Parallel Life (4 page)

Essays done in under an hour, no challenge. Scrubbed the bathroom, left the bleach in there: must water it down before using again, have to be clean. Is the rug parallel with the hearth? Clock on my radio approximately thirty seconds slow, will rectify. Whilst over in the corner, might as well sort out the magazines – they are not properly aligned. Check global times: American zones, Australia, New Zealand. I am confined pro tem to Europe, but that's OK; my French is good, German adequate. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. A place for everything, everything in its place. Yet where do I belong?

Perhaps I should try to manage without the sites tonight. It's almost too easy. I have friends all over the world, and shared intimacies without true contact. It's real, and it's unreal. Are we all pretenders? What did people like me do before the Internet?

I found out about OCD on the web when I was thirteen-ish. The obsessive rituals are embedded deep, yet I can seek no help because I allow no one near. Except Harrie, of course. She would hate what I do online, but would never hate me. Can I ever let her go? I suppose she will ultimately beggar off without my permission. Harrie is Harrie and I am a freak.

One of the sites is harmless. Myrightway is for OCD sufferers and we make light of each other's ridiculousness. But the others are a different kettle of fish – new kettle, blue kettle? Hell, I might join a poets' corner just for a laugh. In Myrightway, we have Chameleon, who must wear green on Mondays, yellow on Tuesdays and so forth. Barrit has to close all gates as he walks down a street, while TheCounter needs to take a certain number of steps across a room, always right foot first. If he stumbles, he is forced by some inexplicable law to retrace his steps and begin again.

All, or some, of the above folk may well be members of my other sites, since the choosing of a handle under which to subscribe is the easiest part of the games. Dangerous games, especially in the place I found recently. Must not go there tonight. The first time, I was appalled; on my second visit, slightly shocked. Now? It is just part and parcel of my life.

Mother has the cronies in. She met them all in health clubs or BUPA hospitals, became their shepherd and now tries to improve all minds by pretending to play bridge. Bridge, like snap, is a game for children. We have never played Happy Families in this house. Chess is the great leveller, of course. I am champion at school, but have not allowed myself to be tempted by the possibility of Grand Mastership. Don't care enough. And Harrie would be bored by the whole business, so I'd be on my own. Managed the driving lessons, hated the instructor's aftershave. But passing that test in a Harrie-free zone was a massive achievement for me. I did that all by myself, yet I could not allow a dentist to touch my mouth.

The mask is in a box behind the locked door of my wardrobe. It is rubber, has holes for mouth and nose, a zip to strangle any sounds I might make in the throes of pain or passion. At school, they know I am different, yet they have no idea of how far I have travelled from the accepted norms. They call me Prof, Son of Prof, Boffin dot com, Brain of Britain. The physical attacks stopped when I produced that knife; they probably fear me now. I wonder what they would think of my rubber face-covering?

It will soon be time to begin tonight's adventure. I shall start on the safe site, then, if I need no sleep, move to the more adventurous areas of my not-quite-life.

In the meantime, I'll sort out the CD rack. Damp cloth, dry cloth, wipe and replace. What's Queen doing with Phil Collins? Better separate those two; the result of them breeding would be catastrophic. Shania Twain can stay with LeAnn Rimes – no danger there. And what happened to Sergeant Pepper? Mum bought most of these – she understands me sufficiently to know my taste in music, at least. I'll leave the classics to fend for themselves, set a scarred kettle to boil, make coffee. I can feel excitement breaking through my deliberately engendered reluctance. No harm will be done; I will be OK.

The Eckersley house was just a few strides away from Eileen's place of work. She was on call whenever needed, and she didn't mind in the least way because Hermione and Harriet were the lights of her life. Her husband, one Stanley Eckersley, was a lovely man, but the steadiness that was his forte could also have its downside; he was predictable. Stanley sat in the same chair every evening, newspaper open, feet resting on the fender, pipe by his side. After supper, he would fill the bowl and smoke in the back yard shed, as his wife did not enjoy the smell of tobacco.

She opened the door. ‘Woebee's home, me laddo. Did you have a good day?'

His day had been satisfactory. He had done two gardens and had brought home a small gate to mend. ‘How did you go on?' His accent was broad Lancashire, all vowels flattened to pancake level.

‘God, Stanley, you should have seen the state of her. Acts like royalty, so she does. How-and-ever, I have some smoked salmon for our supper, so that's what you might call a plus.' She went through to her gleaming kitchen and set to work all over again. Herself Upstairs was very generous with unwanted food, though the salmon had been taken on this occasion from Herself Downstairs. Lisa wouldn't mind. Underneath her displays of silliness, the mother of Harrie and Ben owned a heart of gold.

Stanley opened the
Bolton Evening News
.
‘How's the lad?'

Eileen appeared in the doorway. ‘Never even went to the dentist. Shut himself away again, just as ever. God knows what he does in there. He doesn't need to go to school much because they have revision time in the sixth form, but he never steps out for a walk, won't eat with the family. I think he's daft in the head. Harriet makes ten of him, and that's the truth.'

Someone knocked at the front door and Eileen rushed to open it. ‘Come in,' she cried. ‘It's Harriet,' she informed her husband. ‘Follow me into the kitchen,' said hostess to visitor. ‘You can wash a bit of lettuce for me.'

When the salad was prepared, Harrie and Eileen sat over mugs of tea. ‘What's the matter?' asked the Irishwoman.

Harrie sighed. ‘Ben.'

‘As if I didn't know. He's up all hours, you know. When I get up to go to the bathroom in the night, I can see from the landing window that he still has lights on. Mostly that angley-poised thing.'

‘Anglepoise,' corrected Harrie absently. ‘He's getting worse. Though he did pass his driving test after just five lessons from me – I didn't even know he was taking proper instruction. But I can't always do what needs doing, Woebee. I have the shop to run and my own stuff to do—'

‘You never do anything.'

‘Well, I—'

‘You never do anything for yourself beyond visiting that psychiatrical person. You should be out having a high old time. Harrie, you owe no one anything. In fact, others are in debt to you, because you could have been down Oxford mixing with the dans.'

‘Dons.'

‘Whoever – who cares? I do and your grandmother does, but we can't fix this for you. You have to go.'

‘I don't want to go to uni. I sort of got past it.'

‘So you're all right selling trinkets and the suchlike, is it? You're fine just making rings bigger for fat women and finding baubles for sugar daddies to give to their stupid bits of fluff on the side?'

Harrie burst out laughing. An indignant Woebee was a sight to behold because her eyebrows moved at least half an inch north, while her eyes seemed ready to jump out of their sockets. ‘I came here for a break, not to be shouted at. But I'm keeping you from your supper.'

‘Oh, beggar the supper – it'll not get cold, will it? Now. You know your grandmother has money a-plenty to spare and planning permission for a bungalow near the copse. You'd be grand, so. You'd be there, but not there. It's a good comprovise.'

‘Compromise.'

‘That's what I said. Your brother has his own place in their place, so why shouldn't you have a house in the grounds? Stanley will help. He helped with Ben's doings, didn't he?'

‘Yes, but—'

‘Oh, away with your butting and iffing. He still walks past all the while, you know.'

‘What?'

‘Don't you mean who? The lad with the dog. He's called Will. The boy, not the dog.

‘I know. He declared his undying love for me in 1996. We were both just about eleven and we shared an apple – very Adam and Eve. Ten years later, he just walks a dog. Hardly progress.'

‘We've had some lovely talks, so we have.'

‘About what?'

‘Not about you, that's for certain sure. He looks a bit standoffish, but he's shy. That's why he needs the dog. It's you he's looking to bump into, missy.'

‘Then why does he bump into trees when he sees me? He stares at me as if I'm from a different planet, all horns and green skin. Then he marches off with his dog and nothing happens.'

‘Make it happen. I made Stanley happen. If I'd left it to him, I'd still be working in the laundry and he'd be sharpening the same pencil he was working on when I came across him. Women run the world, but pretend that the men have a hand in it. That's the secret of life.'

Harrie puffed out her cheeks. ‘Bloody complicated.'

‘Language, please.'

The young woman stood up. ‘Get on with your supper. Thanks for being here. Thanks for letting me bore you silly.'

‘Away with your bother.' Eileen Eckersley stood at the window and watched as Harrie disappeared into her parents' grounds. There'd be two bridge tables and eight tipsy women in the morning room. The dining room would remain cluttered until tomorrow. His Royal Professorship might be home, might be asleep on an army cot in his laboratory. It was not a real home, had never been a home.

She became aware that Stanley was standing behind her. ‘I remember when Harrie's mother had a bit of heart in her,' said Eileen quietly. ‘I remember the light going out of her eyes once she had produced the son. I think she had that post-natal suppression thing. God, Stanley, I don't want to see that happening all over again to Harriet.'

‘What?' He rattled the newspaper.

‘It's no way for a young woman to live, tethered to a brother who can't set foot outside of his own pattern.'

‘Is supper ready?'

She turned. ‘Yes, Stanley. Supper is on the table, the sun's on Australia, the moon's on the wane. All's well with the world. Enjoy your smoked salmon.' She swallowed the desire to weep and found no appetite for food.

Harrie sat on the veranda of the gazebo. She could hear shrieks of laughter from the morning room, saw Mum sneaking a secret smoke outside the French window. She must be dummy in the current hand. In Harrie's book, Lisa Compton-Milne was a victim, not a perpetrator. All plastic surgeries and beauty treatments were compensations for a wasted life. Mum was not completely blameless, but she was confused at best. It wasn't her fault, was probably no one's fault. The twentieth century had been lived at a gallop and several people had fallen off the carousel. Lisa was one such person.

The woman who was Lisa's partner came and dragged her back inside. Harrie folded her arms, gazed at a navy blue sky and a million stars. A waning moon imitated an unfinished letter C with a small blot of cloud at its centre. Men had walked on that satellite owned by Earth. Well, they were supposed to have landed on it, though one of the many anti-America theories insisted that the whole business had been staged, possibly in some film studio. The moon versus Walt Disney? What a thought.

Something started to scramble about in the copse. Harrie turned and was assaulted by a huge creature with hot breath and a great deal of fur. She heard a man's voice: ‘Milly? Where the hell are you?' The canine invader stopped licking her victim's face, then removed two feet from Harrie's shoulders.

‘Sorry. Come here, Milly.'

Milly stayed exactly where she was.

‘Milly?'

Harrie laughed. ‘I could have had a heart attack just then. I was sitting here peaceably, thinking about the moon and Walt Disney, when—'

‘I'm sorry. She got away.'

‘She certainly did. I am the away she got to. You're Will Carpenter. We shared an apple and my first kiss.' She stroked the dog. ‘Sit down, Will. She won't bite you, I promise. And neither will I.'

He sat down, taking care to leave a space between himself and Harriet Compton-Milne. With unsteady fingers, he leaned over and fastened the dog's lead to its collar. For almost a year, he had been imagining this moment, dreading it, celebrating it, embracing it and her.

‘She's a big dog,' commented Harrie. ‘I am possibly scarred for life.'

The whole family was scarred. This beautiful girl, who seemed inseparable from her strange brother, had a mad father, an ill-behaved mother and a grandma who lived in the roof like one of the proverbial belfry bats. ‘I'm sorry,' he repeated.

‘I like dogs. Big ones, anyway. Small dogs are a bit yappy for my taste, and they get under your feet.'

‘Yes.'

There followed a short, excruciating silence. Will sat with his Alsatian bitch in the company of a woman who had occupied his thoughts for many a year. Awake, he imagined being with her; asleep, he endured dreams in which she was almost always the central force. But the family was mad. He should have stayed in the south, ought not to have come back to Bolton. ‘A lot of stars tonight.' As soon as the words were out, he cringed at his own stupidity. He was never going to be any good at this sort of thing, was he?

‘The stars are hope,' she answered. ‘Because, somewhere out there is infinity. In infinity, parallel lines meet.'

‘What?'

Harrie smiled. ‘It's just another of my many daft theories. Sometimes, I feel I am living a parallel life and that I shall be close to no one until I reach the great beyond. See? I am definitely daft.'