Gee reacted like I suspected she would: not as supportive as she should be (correction, not supportive at all). She wasn’t interested because Harrison’s death happened to coincide with her major career crisis: she announced she was stepping down as a paediatrician.
It was probably the worst move she could make; more time on her hands in a city she loathed. It was the start of the rot, and she would call me up, screaming and caterwauling about how isolated and abandoned she felt.
“Christ, what is
wrong
with her?” I asked my mother, who was at as much a loss as I was.
“I’m worried about Gee,” she said. “She isn’t…
together
.”
“It’s just Gee being Gee.”
“Please visit her. She never answers her phone. Has the most
desperate
homesickness. She doesn’t even want me to visit her in Aberdeen.”
I snapped back, incredulous. “Bloody hell, Mother, I’ve lost my husband and she… she is, like,
homesick
.”
It was the first time I had almost fallen out with my mum. Why was I surprised? I didn’t expect Gee to be sympathetic–she was hard-wired to process death in an efficient, methodical manner: hospital mortuary, funeral directors, chapel of rest.
My mother responded with a sharp one-word reprimand. “
Lorien
.”
“I have a dead husband to deal with. Dead. Husband. Does she even have the emotional intelligence to process this?”
She sighed. “It’s not about Harrison, don’t you see? It’s about her. She won’t let anyone in, has always done this. She’s thrown her career down the pan and has distanced herself from everyone. You know, she’s never been right since… since your father died.”
I swear, I almost laughed out loud at this one. Surely, I was the one who had good reason to be more depressed: when it came to body counts, I’d buried a father first followed by
a husband three years later. Go figure.
Instead, I said, “I have to go,” and hurled my phone into a pile of laundered clothes at the foot of the bed.
When Gee announced she was giving up esteemed surgeon work to work in a different
department collecting blood samples from patients on the first floor at UCLH, I came close to seeing a spontaneous human combustion–our mother near burning herself out with shock.
I witnessed it first-hand. Mum and I met Gee for lunch in Mayfair and my sister dropped the bombshell somewhere between the serving of oyster risotto and mint tea.
“
PHLEBOTOMIST!
”
screamed Mother as though stung by a swarm of bees, scaring the hell out of an unsuspecting passing waiter. I threw him a sympathetic glance.
Gee nodded, nonplussed, asking me to hand over the cocktail menu.
Mother wasn’t done and almost broke windows this time: “
Phlebotomist
? As in
bloods
?”
“
Yes
, Mum. As in
not
terrorist.” Gee waved the waiter over to order a Sake Margarita.
“
Make it three,
” I mouthed to him.
“Where has this come from?” Mother asked, obviously flummoxed.
“C’mon, Mum–it’s not like… like I’m…I dunno…selling
weed
. Still respectable.”
“Don’t get smart.”
“I’m
not
. Think of it like… I guess, a new direction.”
The drinks arrived and we fell on them, desert-parched.
Mother, who doesn’t drink, drained her cocktail. “Why throw away your career?”
“I have a
child
.”
“You can do both. Reduce your hours and see more of Ben.”
“Mother, you’ve never worked in your life!”
I pitched in, defensive. “What do you call raising two children?”
“Oh, please, Lori. You know what I mean.”
“You think?”
“Damnit, I know what I’m doing,” snapped Gee, flouncing off for the longest-ever bathroom break, leaving me to deal with the fallout as usual.
Our unflappable mother was rocked. Her hands gripped the tablecloth. I leaned towards her. “You okay?”
“Did you know about this?”
“NO! All news to me.”
“It doesn’t
feel
right. She loves her work.”
“Mum, I stopped trying to figure Gee out a
long
time ago. She does what she does.”
“It is
depressive
behaviour–probably postnatal.”
“I’ll get Harrison to talk to her.”
“Doesn’t he have enough on his plate?” Mother made it obvious that the scales had fallen from her eyes since the
hospital incident
.
“Do you want him to help her or not?” I snapped, fed up having to fight my husband’s corner each time his name came up in conversation.
She nodded and when Gee returned, we told her we’d settled the bill and wanted to leave.
Chapter Eight
The Watcher, Old Town
Dinner at Ribbons was a success. I started to trust the girls; think less that they were eccentric strangers who had snatched me off the street. We talked until 1am. Kate was the first to call it quits, prompting us to wind up the night, leaving Cece to finish up in the restaurant. She
insisted
.
Kate and Suzanne scattered across town in separate black cabs while I set off on foot towards the spacious tenement flat that was starting to feel more like mine. Walking home late at night didn’t bother me. Taking off at a stride, I marched purposefully as I once did from Kings Cross Station or Angel towards Barnsbury after work.
The clock tower on the Balmoral Hotel was now a perfect cut-out on the skyline. I had never experienced a Scottish summer and the ever-present persistent light continued to surprise me. It could stay bright until past 11pm and then the sun would make a return just after 4am, even earlier on occasion.
Keeping my eye on the skyline, I marched onward, feeling welcome traces of tiredness instead of the usual wired insomniac buzz. Perhaps I would sleep tonight. Indulging this idea, I relaxed my shoulders and attempted to empty my head of questions and thoughts.
I sensed I was being followed seconds later; it started as a sliding sensation in the pit of my stomach. It was a
feeling
–one that forced an irrepressible violent shudder.
I turned in time to see the flicker of someone crossing the street and slipping too quickly into the shadows.
Maybe only a minute passed but fear slalomed to my stomach; not enough to prompt a hysterical reaction but I was aware it could be a potentially serious situation. Not a trick of the mind. I slipped phone from bag to pocket in one fluid movement while powering on. I told myself not to put up a fight over a Mulberry even though it would, no doubt, get tossed.
Don’t put up a fight
.
These stealth-like actions triggered a release of stress hormones into the blood stream. Adrenaline had me on high alert and I continued to speed on, not so much scared but fired up. Another furtive glance confirmed the glow from a cigarette lighter, head bowed with hand cupped over the face even though the night was breathless.
I have never been more aware of my surroundings and could almost believe I had extra-sensory vision that could see through brick walls; stare into houses and glimpse people asleep in their beds. I listened but there was a rush in my head; blood vessels constricting. I could feel increased levels of adrenaline and noradrenaline pump round my veins and wondered if a roaring heart could echo down a deserted street and give the game away.
Run for your life or fight for your life: two options but I only considered one. I was at once bold and reckless.
What do you want?
The words soaked into my tongue but I couldn’t make a sound.
Danger. I could feel a physical instinctual push to run; direct orders from above. Hear the klaxon horn screaming evacuation:
head to the nearest exit. Get out of here now
. I ground to a halt, heels smoking, and stood rooted to the spot.
Statue-like on the street, I seemed to trigger a spell, throwing a hush about the place for several seconds. In these moments it seemed to me that late-night buses glided without violent hiss or roar, cab doors didn’t slam and pub-goers either drew on cigarettes or downed drinks because the rabble of conversation ceased momentarily.
I can describe it best as one great inhalation; the calm before the storm.
I wait for someone to move in the purple light but no one ever does. I’m not fooled. Shop-door shadows are thick, impenetrable and not giving up their fugitive without a fight. I don’t know how to explain it but I
knew
I was being watched. The hidden stare raked over me, leaving me stripped down and exposed. Vulnerable.
There was a presence of someone, electrical pulse waves: charged and emotional. Dangerous and threatening; yet, somehow, I was connecting to this anger and desperation. Someone was trying to reach me.
I swear, I felt tuned in and emotionally wired. Defiant, I stood my ground, shaking and almost hyperventilating at this point. Nothing stirred except my ribcage surging and deflating, my breathing laboured. It felt as though I was suffering the effects of high altitude.
“Harrison?” I whispered. Fearful, hopeful.
Stillness was suddenly broken as a late-night bus turned onto the top of the street and roared towards me, lights blazing. It forced a reaction, shook me alert and I abruptly turned on my heel in the direction of home. I walked fast, didn’t run. My hands were shaking so much it took several attempts activate the main door locking system.
I bolted to the stairs, grabbing the banister to haul myself faster to the top, thankful I just needed a thumbprint to throw myself through the door. Once inside, I slid down the wall to the floor and sat in shadows and orange laser beams thrown in from street lighting.
This marked the start of the watching or haunting, although I didn’t know who or what it was. It was a surreal, tense time. However, whenever I look back and tap into that feeling of fear, I realise that dying didn’t faze me. It was the waiting that was killing me.
Chapter Nine
Faithful & True
The morning sun took the edge off last night’s fears, fractionally. I’d even managed some sleep, a record two hours and 40 minutes. Washing down four paracetamol with coffee, I went over and over what happened on the walk home from Ribbons; an exhausting process retracing each step in my head—trying to figure out who was watching me and why. No answers, but I did concede I had to drink less and sleep more, considerably more, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to hold down my job, the one thing that focused me. Correction, work saved me.
People walked to work without guile, and I decided to lock down the incident. I didn’t want to get familiar with this feeling of fear; waltzing with agoraphobia. No wonder one spins out of control. Had to pull back. I thought about Elvis James and made a note to call him.
Meanwhile, the freak heatwave sucked the life out of the Old Town. Road surfaces blistered, shade was short lived, forcing stray dogs to lie flattened on pavements panting while the rest of the world trundled about its business, people’s lifeblood batteries drained.
God help me, I thought, walking down the street towards the office, wading through 8am sunshine as thick as volcanic lava. I could feel my ankles puff up and my pulse pump harder to increase blood flow.
Surely, the sheer weight of heat would have people crawling on pavements, demented from exhaustion. I thought about global melting and sea levels rising, feeling a sudden irrational fear of being washed down Holyrood Road, surrendering to a current stronger than me.
There was a shimmer in the distance as buses chugged down the street leaving behind a maroon plume of pollution. I stopped at the coffee shop to collect my flat white.
“Aye, it’s a right scorcher,” said the young barista, grabbing a cup without needing to ask what I wanted.
This was all he ever said during the six-week heatwave, this warm meteorological welcome, but it became part of our routine and I appreciated it. I was visible and did still exist even when, at times, I felt as though I could evaporate in a quick shimmer and no one would have a clue where I had gone. That I had been.
Silence hit the streets in the heat. This is when loneliness hit me hard. At times like this, I found that the city itself with its great architecture became a solid, reliable companion. I had an imposing castle always in sight and had read up on its secrets; battles, pirates and prisoners trapped in dungeons. Bloody wars. The castle was one of the first places we visited when we moved here and I remember standing with Harrison under the glinting colours from a magnificent stained-glass window in the War Memorial; the horseman,
Faithful and True
, from the Bible’s book of Revelation.
As we stood, Harrison took my hand. In a second, I could feel our reconnection in the serene surroundings. It was a
sign
, I said. Yes, I’m still someone who believes in signs. We were going to be okay.
Jim was first at his desk, pouring over proofs and cromalins, black indelible marker in hand.
He handed me a coffee without looking up. We had a routine going on which didn’t involve conversation for the first 15 minutes. This morning, however, I surprised him by stopping at his desk. “I went out last night.”
He stopped scribbling, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. A low whistle followed. “You went
out
? After dark? The vampires didn’t get you?”
“I’m still here.”
“Good for you. Dead-husbands convention?”
“That will be the one.”
He knew more than anyone that I had turned down every invitation, press launch and public appearance since the accident. He stepped up to the mark; covered for me discreetly without pushing me out. I owed my job to him. There was ambition in him but, fortunately for me, not in journalism but music.
“I met the girls who… well, one of them is the designer I told you about. She will replace the Elvis spread.”