Nine Lives (6 page)

‘Not really,' she said. ‘Don't you know about me?' she asked again.

I shook my head, further confused.

‘Just like Donald,' she said. ‘Kept his mouth shut on everything.'

I agreed with her, but still could not guess at her part in it.

‘I'm Emma Dorricks,' she said again. ‘Donald's first wife.'

I put down the biscuit I was holding in my hand. If I'd bitten on it, it would have choked me. But I took a gulp of tea to swallow the lump in my throat. A lump of astonishment rather than sorrow. I recalled our wedding day in the register office. There had been papers to sign and perhaps one of them may have noted a divorce. But I didn't read them. I was too excited at the thought of my future. Then the thought occurred to me that perhaps Donald was a bigamist.

‘Were you divorced?' My voice was wavering.

‘Oh yes,' Emma said. ‘You're absolutely legal.'

‘Any children?' I asked. Another matter that I had to settle. I prayed that their union had been childless. I wanted something from Donald that nobody else had had.

‘No,' she said. ‘Fortunately. Otherwise I would never have left him.'

‘You left him?' I asked. How could any woman leave such a loving man? ‘But why?'

‘My fault. My fault entirely. And I regret it. But he was so clammed up all the time. We were together for two years, and in all that time he never talked about himself. Refused to answer questions. Told me there was nothing that I needed to know. I couldn't stand it. I started to go out on my own. I met another man. One who never stopped talking. Within six months I knew all I wanted to know about him, and a lot more that I didn't. I wished he'd shut up. I missed Donald's silences and I longed for peace. But by then it was too late. He'd met you, he told me, and he wanted a divorce. I envied you then, I have to confess. He's a good man is Donald. I can't believe he's guilty. Not Donald. He doesn't have it in him.'

I warmed to the woman. She could easily become a friend and I looked forward to a sharing of our discontent.

‘Why have you come?' I asked.

‘I want a favour,' she said. ‘I'd like to visit him. I still love him, you know, in my own way. I watched him every day at the trial. I was full of regrets. I think he can't have many visitors and he must be terribly lonely. But I need a permit to visit him so he has to be willing to see me. And I'm not too sure about that. So I've come to ask you to persuade him. To tell him about my visit. And all my regrets.'

I pictured Emma's hand on the glass partition and for a moment, I resented her print over mine. ‘But I'm not supposed to know anything about you,' I said.

‘But now you do. Please, please, I beg you. Just ask him to see me.'

‘But why do you want to see him so much? And after all this time?'

‘I never told him I was sorry,' Emma said. ‘And I pity him.'

‘You mustn't pity him,' I said. ‘Pity is difficult to live with. I ought to know. I avoid it if I can.'

Emma had begun to cry. I poured her some more tea, trying not to pity her.

‘I'll talk to Donald,' I said. It was still early and I could still visit him. I could ring the prison and tell them I was coming after all.

Emma rose from the table. ‘Here's my address and telephone number.' She drew a piece of paper out of her bag. She had already prepared it. ‘Please, I beg you, be in touch with me. Even if you can't persuade him,' she said, ‘I'd like us to stay in touch.'

She was smiling at me, and I sensed she was as lonely as I was, but unlike me, her loneliness was aggravated by regret. I was glad I had little to be sorry for. I had been a good wife to Donald but only because he'd been a good husband to me. I told her I'd be in touch. I was anxious for her to leave. I had to prepare for my visit. She understood, straightened her hat and picked up her bag.

‘I wish you a good visit,' she said.

As soon as she'd gone, I phoned the prison. I told them I felt much better and that I would be taking up my visiting permit.

I took special care with my dressing. I wanted to look my best for Donald. I was careful with my make-up. He used to love watching me as I applied the rouge and mascara. And especially when I painted my nails. I think the smell of the polish turned him on. Then my best linen suit and barely black stockings. He loved that colour. I looked in the mirror and introduced myself as the second Mrs
Dorricks. It was a title I had to get used to. On the train, I tried not to rehearse what I would say to him. I tried not to imagine how he would react to the news of my visitor. I concentrated on remembering our past together, a time when Emma Dorricks was unknown to me, a time when I had no predecessor, when I was his first much-loved discovery. By the time I reached the prison gates, Emma Dorricks had been forgotten and I had to remind myself why I had changed my mind to come and visit him.

I placed myself in front of the glass partition and put my hand on my regular spot though I didn't think that Donald would feel like playing after he'd heard about my discovery. I expected anger. Even denial. But I would weather them both, since both would be pointless. I decided that I wouldn't spring the news on him straight away. I would wait until visiting time was nearing its end. Until then, he could tell me how innocent he was and I would do my nodding bit, and we'd still have time to play our game.

He was smiling as he entered, and immediately put his hand to match mine and together we picked up the phones. ‘You shouldn't have come,' he said, ‘if you weren't feeling well. I was worried about you. You have to take care of yourself, sweetheart.'

I felt that all the wind had been taken out of my sails. My Donald was a man of few words, who had seldom given voice to his feelings. The word ‘sweetheart' was as foreign to his mouth as it was to my ear. Even so, it had rolled so easily off his tongue, it shattered my hearing. I suddenly loved him so much for his caring. I didn't want to think that I had shared that caring with anybody else. But most of all, I didn't want
him
to think so. I would not mention the name of Emma. That name was his history. Not mine.
That Emma event, like most others in his life, had been kept from me, perhaps because of his caring and for my own protection. I would not be Emma's message carrier. In my own recording of events, she had never happened.

Donald seemed in a good mood. Happy almost, although I couldn't imagine why. We played our fingers game for a while, and he won each time. His skill was greater than mine.

‘Have you seen the boys?' he asked.

I noticed that his smile was fading. ‘No,' I said. ‘They are not in touch with me.' I wanted to share my regret with him, to assure him that I, too, was part of that same deprivation.

‘Pity,' he said. ‘It would do me good to see them. Even though they think I don't deserve a visit.'

I said nothing. His fingers were inert on the glass. He had lost his appetite for the game and I decided that, on my return, I would do my best to contact our boys and to persuade them to visit him.

‘Cheer up,' I said to him. ‘How do you spend your time?' I had never asked him such a question. I didn't want to hint at his permanence in the place.

‘In the workshop,' he said. ‘But I'm beginning to paint. I'm learning. A teacher comes twice a week.'

This news heartened me, as would any event that enabled him to take his mind off his incarceration.

‘Can I see one of your paintings?' I asked.

‘Next time,' he said. ‘I've not finished the one I'm working on.'

Then I began to doubt whether he had even started it, and was just trying to cheer me up. ‘I look forward to it,' I said. I tried to start the finger game again, but he would
not cooperate. It's not a game for one, any more than tennis, and my fluttering fingers looked silly on the glass. I took my hand away, and he did the same. I was glad when the warder came and gently touched Donald's shoulder.

‘Now, you look after yourself,' were Donald's last words into the phone. I assured him that I would. I also added that I loved him. He reclipped his phone and pressed his lips on the pane. And I matched his with my own. As he was leaving he turned and pursed his lips once more.

‘Emma came to see me,' I whispered, because I knew he could not hear me. But I had promised Emma that I would try.

On the train back to London, I wondered how I could persuade my boys to visit their father. That would be the first step towards a reconciliation with Donald. Even if they considered him guilty, I would remind them of their boyhood and of the gentle role that Donald had played during those years. They could visit him just for that, for having been a good and caring father. Whatever they now thought, they had a duty to acknowledge those years. I felt myself growing angry and resenting them. Hating them even. It simply wasn't fair that I had to bear the burden of his innocence alone.

I had to laugh when I read the police psychologist's report. It was in all the papers. Though it didn't surprise me – I would not have expected any trace of imagination from that quarter. The poor sod reckons I am an unfrocked shrink. As if anybody in their right mind would have opted for such a profession in the first place. And I mean, precisely, in their right mind. For a truly right mind has no need to foist its own hang-ups on others in the name of healing. Old Arbuthnot also pointed out that the irregular intervals between the murders might be a significant factor. Well, I have foxed him and my most recent attack was nine months after my last. Let's see what Arbuthnot makes of that one. He'll probably deduce some gestation theory and phrase it in psychobabble. He has at least saved us from his theories regarding the guitar string. He'll never get to the bottom of that one, I promise you. So witter on, Dr Arbuthnot, and may you choke on your own gobbledegook.

I began to feel a little sorry for old Wilkins and his footsore slog around the country in pursuit. So out of the kindness of my heart, I decided to stick to London for my next sortie, so that both he and I wouldn't have too far to go.

I had to attend the school sports day. My boys were in the races and I had promised them to enter for the hundred yards fathers' sprint. I was glad of the diversion. I welcomed any physical exercise. I needed to keep fit for my mission. Martin won the long jump and Matthew broke all records with his discus throw. Verry was delighted, and I was proud of them
both. And nervous too, because my own event was coming up. I wanted them to be as proud of me. I lined up among the other fathers. The competition would be keen, for all of them looked very fit. There were about ten of us and I was determined to be first. I wouldn't be satisfied with any other placing. It was this determination, I think, that injected my heels and I ran like a hare to the finishing post, leaving them all behind. I heard Verry and the boys' cheers above all the others. I had won, not for myself, but for them. I saw my victory as a good omen for my next strike. That night, Verry cooked us a special supper, but my exertions had tired me and I went early to bed.

I had made an evening appointment with one Alistair Morris. My first night attack. I was excited. I had checked on Morris and found out that he was a bachelor who lived alone in north London. Not too far away, either for myself or for Wilkins. I discovered, too, that Morris was a Jungian therapist. I was not too sure what that meant but I was curious as to his methods.

Once again, I dressed as a woman, though this time in a skirted suit and high heels. I varied the wig too. I fancied myself as a blonde. I had made the appointment in the name of Priscilla Downes. I liked the ring of it, and I practised the name as I drove towards my quarry. As was my wont, I parked my car a little distance from my target's home. There were few people around. But I wasn't worried; I was in drag and, in any case, it was already dark. But I made sure that Morris's street was empty before I rang his bell, and that no net curtains had been raised. I hesitated before ringing. I was feeling too cocky, too sure of myself. I was still relishing the aftertaste of my fathers-race victory. Yet I couldn't hesitate too long. I primped my wig, and rang his bell. When asked, I announced myself through the intercom.

‘Miss Dowries.' I offered my contralto, the highest I could risk and I waltzed inside. I noticed a suitcase in the hall, suggesting arrival or departure. But, either way, it wasn't going anywhere. My womanly gait gave me confidence, which was boosted by the sight of my target. He was of slight build, thin, bony almost, and considerably shorter than I. What pleased me most was his neck: scraggy and of small diameter. He could be quickly and cleanly dispatched.

‘Miss Downes,' he stated. ‘Please sit down.' And almost in the same breath, ‘Of course, you are not Miss Downes.
Mr
Downes rather.'

All my self-assurance evaporated. This was the second time I'd been rumbled, and I could happily have killed the man there and then.

‘Well, that's what I've come about.' I relaxed into my baritone voice and recited my rehearsed lines.

‘Shall we try a little something?' he said.

He was not asking my permission, for he didn't wait for an answer. ‘I'm going to give you a word, and I want you to say, without thinking about it – that's important – I want you to give me a word that comes into your mind. Shall we try it?'

Again it was not a request for permission. This must be the Jungian method, I thought. Free association, I think they call it. I decided to let him play with me for a while.

‘Are you ready?' he asked.

I nodded.

‘Mother,' he said.

‘Father,' I hit back at him.

‘Dark?'

‘Moon' was my response.

‘Dream?'

‘Wake.'

‘Business?'

‘Money.'