From that day, Ranald felt like his normal, everyday life was dimming. His physical presence fading into inconsequence. If he were to die, who would even notice?
He began to follow a simple and apparently straightforward routine. On waking he would shower, go for his morning swim, then it would be coffee and breakfast. Then he would go to the library, answer his emails and work on the project Douglas had sent him. Lunch. More coffee. Then work.
But all of this he performed as if on automatic, his body behaving at a level that would ensure functionality. Pushed to a dark corner of his brain, there was a version of him cowering in a corner, terrified for his sanity. Was he going mad? Really mad? Had a life of cruel disappointment, mental health issues and powerful medication pushed him over the edge?
Because, in the late afternoon, after all the mundane tasks were taken care of, he would select a book from the shelves of his library and carry it along the corridor to the lift, biddable as a puppy. Once inside, he would be welcomed, then he would sit and begin reading aloud to her.
He didn’t need to be informed that she would enjoy being read to, he just knew.
The first book he chose, completely at random, was Heart of Darkness. He picked it out because it was a slim volume. Then, when he saw it was the Conrad classic, he thought, why not?
‘Did you like that?’ he asked, when he closed the last page. Not sure himself how he felt about it yet.
‘I like to hear your voice.’
For their next read he picked another short book: The Awakening by Kate Chopin. When he finished it, his first thought was that, to his modern sensibilities, the actions of the main character were nothing that would cause concern. But to someone of that time, it must have been scandalous. Women were mere chattels then, surely? That this woman had the audacity to pay attention to her desires would have caused a bit of a fuss.
He waited for her reaction. Wondered if it might give him more of a clue as to who she was.
‘So sad. Why are these people all so sad?’
He didn’t know how to answer that.
His next read, again at random was The Turn of the Screw. Sure, he’d heard of the book. Who hadn’t? But he knew next to nothing about it. There was a film, wasn’t there? A governess, some strange children in a big lonely house. Her ‘wanderings’ in the garden. Wishing someone would appear to her. It all felt so familiar. Then a male figure appeared to her in the tower. Everything grew silent, the hour no longer friendly.
‘“…and even as he turned away still markedly fixed me. He turned away; that was all I knew.”’
Ranald stopped reading. He felt a moment of clarity. A stab of insight into his fog of dreamlike acceptance. He was reading a ghost story to a…
‘Why stop, my love?’
‘I’m tired,’ he said as he stood up.
‘See you in your dreams.’ Her voice followed him as he walked along the corridor. A feeling of unease both stippling the length of his spine and thrilling his mind.
And yet, a thought that felt like a betrayal: Dear God I hope not.