Andrea returned and her face was ashen. I saw that she was going to sit in the place I already occupied and I moved away, reluctantly relinquishing my imagined hold on Prim, but just as unwilling to undergo the added trauma of being “invaded” by my wife.
Prim snuggled into her mother’s arms once again and looked up into Andrea’s face. “What… did… Nanny… say?” Each word had had to be forced.
A child’s question and perhaps the only way she could express concern for her grandmother.
Andrea’s reply was as grim as her face was pallid. “Not much,” she said.
Kneeling on the floor in front of them, I let go a deep sigh. No, it was more of a silent groan. I should have known Mother would deal with my death in her own remote way. Any wayward emotion would be kept in check in another’s presence. Maybe she’d burst into tears once she put the phone down. Maybe. I wondered if she had even enquired how I’d died. Well, could be I was judging my mother too harshly, but it had taken a lifetime for that judgement to be formed. Let it go, I told myself without bitterness. Mother was Mother. Her self-preservation took its own line. I returned to my wife and daughter, who had no such hang-ups.
I don’t know how long we remained there in that gloom-laden room, all of us weeping and scarcely moving—it could’ve been an hour or half an hour—but finally it was the sound of a car door slamming on the drive, then the doorbell ringing, that roused us.
Andrea gave Prim one last hug before rising and walking right through me as she went to answer the door. Briefly I felt that now-familiar disorientation as her psyche mixed with mine and misery piled on misery. But I’d also caught a curious hint of anticipation, a kind of reflex lightening of her mood which, while hardly shifting the grief, at least interrupted it for a moment.
I heard the front door open, then a loud sob that came from Andrea. The silence that followed was broken only by a few more muffled sobs. Rising smoothly—at least I had acquired a certain grace of movement in my new state—I went through to the hallway.
Andrea was in Oliver’s arms, one of his hands in her hair, holding her head against his shoulder. His eyes were closed and there was nothing in his expression.
19
I hung around the house for three days—I think (time continued to baffle me)—full of self-pity and anguish for my family. Outside, the weather had turned grey and drizzly, suitable for the general mood, I suppose.
I think I must have been afraid to leave everything that was familiar to me; somehow the contact helped maintain my own reality. Nothing could be mundane for me anymore, but at least the familiar offered a kind of sanctuary.
It was terrible to witness the suffering of my family and I searched for ways of letting my presence be known to them (I wasn’t yet ready to leave the house and find a spiritualist). I tried to move objects, anything from ornaments on the mantelpiece to lace curtains; I spoke directly and loudly into Andrea’s ear; I tried writing my name on a steamed-up bathroom mirror; I willed cups to rattle in saucers; I tried rapping on table-tops, kitchen counters, any hard surface that came to hand. Nothing, though. I made no sound, I caused no disturbance. I could only watch as a stream of visitors offering condolences came to the house—friends, neighbours, and of course my business partners, Oliver (again) and Sydney. Surprisingly, it had been Sydney who had formally identified my body, I learned—eavesdropping was a cinch when you couldn’t be seen. Or maybe it wasn’t surprising after all. It would have killed Andrea to view my mutilated corpse and my mother was out of the question. Oliver? To be honest, I’m not sure how he would have handled it. Badly, I’d guess, given his reaction when he arrived back at the hotel suite to see what was left of me on the bed. Underneath his bravura persona, he was quite a sensitive soul. Despite police suspicion he’d have been an awful choice of murderer. In fact, I think he would have been a disaster as a murderer.
The police came twice, asking the same old questions about dodgy acquaintances and outright enemies, but Andrea had nothing to give. The worst were the Press and television journalists who rang the doorbell night and day—how does it feel to know that your husband was the fourth victim of a serial killer, are you satisfied that the police are doing their job efficiently, do you fear for your own life knowing that the murderer is still at large, do you have photographs of your husband we could take copies of? It was intrusive and it was cruel. I would have done anything in my power to keep them away, but of course, I was helpless. The frustration and the sense of inadequacy were hard to bear.
Eventually, I became restless within myself. I don’t feel I’ve ever been one for self-pity (never much cause before anyway), but I’d indulged too much in the aftermath of my death. Okay, maybe I had good reason, but basically I’ve always been an optimist and it seems to me that death should not necessarily erase the character you’ve developed during your lifetime. It wasn’t exactly optimism that got me moving, though, more like curiosity, a compelling urge to discover more about myself and this dimension in which I existed. Also, I felt the need to find my murderer, and certain ideas were pushing their way through this great fog of misery and woe that had engulfed me.
First things first, though. I had a duty to call in on Mother. All right, it was more than duty—I wanted to see her, she was my only parent, after all. Yes, and I did love her. How can a son not love his mother? I made up my mind to leave my house and visit her. Besides, arrangements for my funeral and kind eulogies from well-meaning visitors (my canonization was due any day, I began to feel) were unsettling. I needed to get into the world again before I turned into a morose, reclusive ghost.
So I bade silent farewells to Andrea and Prim, whom I’d followed around during the day just to be near her (understandably she was being kept away from school for a while), sitting on the floor beside her bed at night when she slept; later I’d drift off to my own bedroom and lie down next to Andrea, throwing an arm over her, imagining I was real and could feel her. Purposefully, I set out into my strange new world.
It was late afternoon as far as I could tell and the traffic flow from the city was already beginning to swell as I made my way to the wide main road. Prepared for a long haul—my mother lived close to the river on the east side of London—something happened that both surprised and pleased me.
My mother’s image and the low-rent flat she lived in were strong in my mind, because I was thinking of her sitting in her old lumpy armchair, the curtains behind her possibly drawn closed so she would be in shadow (that was her usual mode of mourning, and by mourning I don’t necessarily mean grieving for someone just passed away; any slight or upset that involved altercation with other people—might be the milkman delivering late, or a neighbour making too much noise—would send her off into one of her sulky moods). Just my staying out late when I was a teen—which I did a lot, I admit—was enough to send her into a grumpy retreat for a few days. Sunshine was never allowed into the room during that time, but the gap between the curtains would open an inch or so usually about the third day, widening from then little by little as the mood drained from her. It was irritating, but eventually I learned to take no notice. I’d carry on talking to her as normal and sometimes, if there was no response, I’d reply for her. I had many such self-conversations and I’m afraid it never improved the situation. In the end I’d begin to annoy myself, so I’d make an apology and finally—after the third or fourth one that is—it would be accepted. Full daylight returned to our front sitting room.