SIXTEEN

Lies

 

Alex slept. And he dreamed. He dreamed of a man he once knew. He dreamed a memory.

His father sat at the table studying the model before him. Alex sat on the floor, pushing toy cars around the chocolate brown carpet, small fingers rolling the little die cast models across the floor. He made noises, simulating engine sounds as he drove the cars around. There would be collisions and he would make the sounds of a crash and raise his arms into the air as if they were the mushrooming fireballs of flame and smoke that always seemed to accompany crashes in a child’s mind.

Peter Rappaport heard his son at play, the whooshing sound of air expelled from lungs distracting him from his perusal of the model. He looked at his son, watched him for a long moment, Alex unaware of his study. A jumble of emotions gripped Peter whenever he looked at his son, or thought about him. The boy was five years old and had the same shock of dark, jet hair as his father and eyes nearly as black as his hair. Where those had come from, Peter did not know, his own were blue as were his mother’s.

As always, Peter could not think of his boy without thinking of Jocelyn, without being haunted by her image, regardless of how much he loved his son. And he did love him, he knew that now, it had taken a long time for that love to assert itself, but it had. But even love could not blot out the hurt he felt.

He returned his attention to the model. The building was white, Mediterranean in style. Set in acres of land, swimming pool, tennis courts. Palm trees scattered around the estate. They had photographs, good quality, they told Peter a lot, but they did not give him the depth the model did, the depth that would help make his task easier. Photographs were flat, they could reveal many things, show dips in the land for instance, but they could not tell you how deep those dips might be, could not show the hidden wells of shadow that could hide a security guard or an observation post. For that sort of detail something extra was needed.

The model had been built, like others before it, from Alex’s descriptions of the real estate. He had never been there, did not know where it was, to him it was just a name on a map, a series of photographs he had been shown. His descriptions were often crude, but that was understandable, he was only five years old.

He was brought out of his reverie by a question. His son was standing at his side, the toy cars forgotten on the floor. Alex stared at his father with those big, dark eyes, his head cocked to one side in contemplation. His eyes solemn.

“What are you thinking, Daddy?”

Peter looked at his boy, wondered how long he had been watching him. It spooked him sometimes, the way Alex would just look at him like that. What are you thinking, Daddy? He shook his head minutely, it was not the sort of question a normal five year old asked. But Alex was not a normal five year old, just sometimes it was difficult to remember that, he looked so innocent. Why my son? He thought. Why?

Alex continued to stare at his father, waiting for an answer.

“You tell me, Alex,” Peter said finally.

Alex frowned, a line creasing his smooth forehead. He shuffled his feet and moved his head, inclining it on the left now. His lower lip pushed out in a pout. “Why?” He said, puzzled.

Peter did not know if his son was reading his thoughts or whether the question in his voice was just a normal childhood reaction to something he did not understand. Why is the sky blue, Daddy? Why is the grass green?

“How do you do the things you do, Alex?” How can you read thoughts? How can you look at a picture and know what’s behind a door or around a corner? Peter had heard of remote viewing, had consigned such nonsense to the waste bin of his mind along with other things some people believed in with fervour. Things like, UFO’s, ghosts, spontaneous human combustion. He just didn’t get it. This was real life, not fantasy. But there was Alex, as real as the table at which he sat, as real as the chair his body was folded onto. He could feel the wooden slats of the chair pressing against his back, they were there, he was not imagining them. The chair was real, and so was his son’s ability. It seemed therefore, that he had to re-think his position regarding all things fantastic, after all, if remote viewing was possible, wasn’t everything else? Peter did not want to think about it, it was dangerous. If anything was possible, then nothing was impossible. And that included Heaven and Hell. Life after death. He’d never believed in God, but what if he was wrong? Was Jocelyn waiting for him, up there with the angels? It was a thought that caused him much grief lately, bringing his sense of loss back to the fore with a vengeance. If she was waiting for him, then he had wasted so much time, time that could have been spent with her. Five long years he had been without her now, with nothing but memories and the constant reminder of her that was his son. His irrational loathing of his child, vile, bitter thoughts that had risen like a tidal wave within him all those years ago had threatened to consume him. No, they had consumed him at first. The thoughts he had suppressed, beaten down, for the sake of his own sanity, now rose again and he felt the acid sting of bile in his throat as if the thoughts had material form. He swallowed hard and sighed deeply. He was being stupid.

Alex watched him, a shadow crossing his eyes.

“Am I a bad boy, Daddy?” His voice trembled, tears glistened at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill from his lids and tumble down his cheeks.

Peter reached out and grasped his son, pulling the boy to him and crushing him to his chest.

“No, Alex,” he said, his own tears kept at bay with difficulty. “No, Alex, you’re not a bad boy, never a bad boy.” He rocked the child in his arms until the feelings and the tears passed, until he made Alex believe him, until he believed himself again, for a while at least.

 

Madeleine felt drained. The events of the day seemed to suddenly take their toll on her. She felt exhausted, mentally if not physically. She’d waited until Alex was in the spare room and collected his clothing. The clothes were filthy and wet, torn and damaged. She went through the pockets, a small amount of money, a few notes and some change, a bus ticket. There was a name sewn into the collar of the green anorak and she realised the coat had been stolen. There was nothing to tell her any more about the young man she felt compelled to help. She took the clothes and put what she could into the washing machine. He was about the same size as Doug and she found him replacement clothes from his wardrobes, a pang of pain scratched at her as she sorted through the clothes. She had not opened his drawers or looked through the clothes hanging in the wardrobes for a long time and each item she saw, that she touched brought a memory to mind. Tears sprang into her eyes as she lifted hangers off rails and she bit her lip to stop the small cry of anguish from creeping out of her mouth. The wardrobes were a museum and she had a life long pass into the musty caverns of his history, no entrance fee to pay and the doors were always open.

She sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the feelings to pass, they would eventually, they always did. She was tired, the strangeness of the day weakened her resolve, made it harder to cope with the sense of loss she felt for Doug. It had been a long day, the strain of being with her parents and the unspoken thoughts that hung heavily in the post Christmas air. Her mother and father would be home now, would have been for quite some time. The ‘phone! Her mother always rang when she got home from visiting. She would be panicking by now. Madeleine went to the telephone in the living room, the answer phone blinked its red eye at her, once, twice. She played the messages, both from her mother, the first puzzled she was not home, the second a note of concern that overlaid the puzzlement. The second call had been over an hour ago. Madeleine picked up the ‘phone and dialled the number. Her mother answered before the first ring had been completed.

“Madeleine?”

“Hi, Mom,” she forced a cheerfulness into her voice.

“Where have you been?” Her mother almost shouted down the ‘phone, relief masked by parental indignity.

“Pardon?” I don’t need this, Madeleine thought.

“I’ve been worried about you. I told you I’d call when we got home.”

“Yes, Mom, I know, I… .”

“Worried to death, I’ve been…”

“Why?” Madeleine snapped at her mother

“What?” The question stopped the older woman in her tracks.

“Why have you been worried? What’s the matter?”

“I… well… There’s no need to take that tone with me, young lady,” her mother recovered well from her cross examination, falling back on an age old stand by.

Madeleine sighed. Her mother just drove her mad sometimes. “You’re right,” she said, “I’m sorry. I’ve been shopping and I bumped into an old friend and time ran away from me.” The lie tripped off her tongue easily, it was much easier than the truth. How could she explain the truth to her mother, she couldn’t explain it to herself. Her mother digested this morsel of information, focused on it rather than her worry.

“A man friend, was it?”

Madeleine heard the hope in her mother’s voice. Maybe she had met someone who would take her mind off Doug, make her forget the past, let her start again. That was what Madeleine heard when her mother spoke.

“No, Mom. It was Ruth, remember Ruth?” There was no Ruth, Madeleine had never met anyone called Ruth.

“No, dear, I don’t think so.” Madeleine almost smiled when she heard the disappointment this time.

“Well, she was shopping and so was I and we haven’t seen each other for ages so we were just catching up and I’ve only just got in. I got your message and realised I should have rung you earlier, so here I am, now.” It was amazing how the lies came forth without even having to think about it. Still, she supposed that she had to live a lie a lot of the time with other people. They asked how you felt but never wanted to know the real answer. They just want to hear, “Oh, fine, you know.” They never want to know that it’s been an awful day, that you had to drag yourself out of bed, throw off the thoughts of uselessness you felt, the pain that just existing sometimes caused you, the emptiness inside because you were all alone. People would run a mile if they heard the truth all the time.

“Oh, well, as long as you’re alright, that’s what matters,” her mother conceded.

“I’m a grown woman, mother.”

“I know, but you’re still my daughter. I’m still allowed to worry about you.”

“Okay, but there’s no need,” I hope! “Anyway, I’ve got to go, mom. I need a shower.”

“Oh, well, I’ll talk to you soon then.” Her mother did not seem bothered about being pushed off the ‘phone. She’d done her duty, rung her daughter, made her feel just a little bit uncomfortable in the way only a parent can and now they were running out of things to say to each other, which had been the case for a long time, even before Doug died but the effort of avoiding unpleasant subjects had put a further strain on their relationship and they were both happier when they rang off. Madeleine sighed and stretched. She really did need that shower.

She looked at her face in the mirror in the bathroom, wiping steam away with a hand. The mixed emotions she had experienced this day seemed to have left their mark on her. Her face was dirty, grime etched into her pores and her eyes were puffy and sore as if she had been rubbing them irritably for a long time. Her hair was in desperate need of a wash and she ached all over. Her knees were scraped raw from her tumble to the road and her palms were sore where her nails had dug into the flesh.

She stood under the shower and let the spray cascade over her, sluicing away the pain and confusion of the last few hours, listening with eyes closed as the water gurgled away down the plug hole taking with it all the anxiety that had built up inside her, the sense of impatience she felt at wanting to know the answers to her questions, questions that were not even formed properly in her mind.

She wrapped herself in a thick bathrobe while she dried her hair then dressed in fresh clothes. Her stomach rumbled and she realised she had not eaten for hours. She was suddenly ravenous. She made a plate of sandwiches, roast beef, onions, French mustard. The first bite did nothing to quell the growl in her stomach and she did not stop until she had devoured every last mouthful.

She wondered how long it had been since her guest had eaten. She felt guilty and returned to the cupboards and made a round of sandwiches for Alex and took them up to him. She knocked. Hearing no response, she slowly opened the door and peered into the darkened room. He lay sprawled diagonally in the bed, entangled in the quilt, his sleep restless.

He muttered under his breath, she could not make out the words but he seemed agitated. She pressed a switch on the bedside lamp and a soft rose glow threw its shine onto the bed and wall. She put the plate of sandwiches on the bedside table.

“Alex?” She spoke gently. He muttered and turned over, lying now on his back. She called again, a little louder. Still he didn’t wake. She touched his shoulder, prodded him softly and spoke his name once more.

He cried out sharply, his eyes flew open and he sat up rigidly. His sudden movement startling her and she cried out and stepped back. Alex looked around himself, his eyes blinking rapidly, disoriented.

“It’s okay,” she reassured him, “you’re safe.”

His eyes focused on her, recognition replacing the blankness of his stare. He sighed heavily.

“Are you alright?”

He nodded, “Yeah.”

“I thought you might be hungry. When did you last eat?”

“How long have I been asleep?” He rubbed his eyes, sleep clogged the corners.

“A couple of hours.”

“Uh, it was about six o’clock this morning.” He did the arithmetic in his head and his stomach rumbled noisily.

“I didn’t know whether to wake you,” Madeleine said, “but I was hungry and thought you might be too.”

“I’m starving,” he told her, picking the plate up.

“I’ve washed your clothes. They’re still wet, so I’ve got you some fresh ones… I think they’ll fit. You’re about the same size as…” She didn’t finish the sentence.

Alex nodded in understanding and somehow, she knew he did understand. “Thanks,” he spoke around a mouthful of roast beef.

“I’ll fetch them.” She felt herself blush inexplicably and was glad of the subdued light. She returned and placed them on the bed. “Do you want anymore to eat?” The plate of sandwiches was almost finished.

“If there is any.”

She nodded and turned to leave. His voice stopped her at the door.

“Madeleine?” She waited.

“Thank you.”

She felt the blush again. “Come down when you’re ready,” she said and closed the door behind her, leaving him alone in the bedroom.

 

He put the plate on the table and she turned to look at him, startled by his silent entrance into the kitchen. It was a very different Alex from the one she had first met, clean, tidy. The shadows under the eyes were still there but they had receded to merely dark smudges. The clothes fit him well enough that they might have been bought for him.

“You made me jump,” she held a large kitchen knife in her hand, pointing at him unconsciously.

“Sorry,” he glanced at the blade and she noticed she was wielding it aggressively. She turned back to the sandwiches, cutting through them with the knife and put them onto the plate. She sat at the table and Alex drew out the chair and sat opposite her.

She had composed herself while he was upstairs. She looked him in the eyes. “So, Alex Rappaport. Tell me who you are.”