The Mysteries (36 page)

I saw faces, the faces of women and the lost girls; the missing, the mysteries. Peri, Linzi, Jenny,
Fred . . .

I was sitting beside Fred. I knew I was dreaming. We were on my bed together, and she looked younger than I'd ever seen her, a teenager like Linzi Slater.

“It's easy,” she said. “It's really easy. Lie down and close your eyes.”

I did as she said.

“Now tell me what you see.”

I was looking across a grassy field at a low hill. On top of the hill was a grove of trees. The sun was going down behind the hill, turning the trees to black shadows against the peachy gold of the sky.

I opened my eyes. Fred's face was very close. She frowned and reached her hand out toward my eyes. I shut them quickly. There, waiting for me, was the grove of trees on the hilltop.

“Don't look at me,” said Fred's voice. “It's not allowed. Concentrate. You have to forget about everyone. Just concentrate on the place you see behind your eyes. The place where you want to be. You just have to want it enough to give up everything.”

I was aware of the threatening implications behind her words, but they didn't frighten me. What was there to give up? My debts? A failing business? A string of shallow, temporary relationships? Who would even miss me if I disappeared? Even my mother was used to me not being around.

I didn't try to look at Fred again. I knew she wasn't really there, anyway. I went on looking at the low hill with its mysterious, solitary grove of trees. It was a fragment of landscape I had never seen before, yet I was coming to know it intimately. It seemed to take a very long time for the sun to set, but finally it began to grow dark, and I knew the moment was near, the moment when I'd have my answer.

Then, out of the darkness, a bird sang.

My heart gave a painful lurch and began to pound harder. What kind of bird sang at night? Was it nearly morning? Already? But I hadn't been anywhere, I still didn't know anything. It wasn't fair.

The bird gave another long, warbling call, and this time I recognized the sound as the telephone.

Groping along the bedside table until I found the cordless phone, I thumbed it on and fumbled it to my ear. My mouth was so dry my lips were sealed together.

“Hello? Ian?”

It was Laura. I managed to croak a single syllable.

“Ian? Are you OK? You sound terrible!”

“Just.” I sniffed. “Just woke up.”

“I woke you! I'm so sorry! For some reason I thought you got up early.”

“S'OK.” I peered at the clock—9:23. “Overslept.”

“Well . . . should I call back later?”

“No, no.” Keeping the phone clamped to my ear, I edged out of bed and into the bathroom for a glass of water.

I heard her take a deep breath. “I'm sorry to bother you. It's just—you did say you were going to call.”

A haggard, grey, heavily stubbled face stared back in surprise at me from the mirror. She couldn't wait a few more hours? She seemed astonishingly eager to hear from something that looked like
that
. I gave myself a wink over the water glass.
You dog, you.

“I was going to call,” I said. I forbore to point out that it wasn't even 10
A
.
M
. and repeated, “I overslept. Sorry.”

“That's all right. It's just . . . things have been put ahead. I thought I'd be leaving on Sunday, but it turns out they want me at a meeting in New York on Friday afternoon. I don't suppose you're free for dinner tonight?”

“Free as a bird. What do you fancy?”

“Do you know a good Chinese place?”

“Lee Ho Fook.” She didn't know it; rather than spend more time figuring out the directions, I suggested we meet in a pub near Leicester Square at six o'clock. I would happily have gone on talking to her, having her voice so intimately close in my ear, but I was bursting to go to the toilet, and that was an intimacy I did not wish to share.

During my shower I felt shaky, and diagnosed low blood sugar, so I dressed quickly and went out for breakfast, scooping up a surprisingly substantial pile of mail on my way out.

I ordered the “full English” in my favorite café, and, before looking at my mail, glanced through the newspapers I'd paused long enough to buy on the way. Of the broadsheets, only the
Telegraph
carried the Linzi Slater story. It seemed that she had ingested an unknown number of sleeping tablets and paracetamol, washed down with an alcopop, before injecting the heroin. I was about to read the brief story through again when I was distracted by something odd. The date on the newspaper was Thursday, June 22.

I checked the other papers. They had the same date.

“Here you are, my friend, full English,” said the café owner cheerfully, setting down a white china plate brimming with fried eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, and mushrooms.

“What is today?” I asked him.

“Today's date? Is the twenty-second. Thursday.”

I had gone to bed Monday night, slept what felt like a normal eight or nine hours, and awoken on Thursday morning. I'd slept through my birthday. More than two full days had passed.

No wonder I was starving. I ordered more bread and more coffee, and began to work my way through the food before me, trying not to wonder what would have happened if Laura hadn't phoned. Or, if I'd left the ringer switched off, and the answerphone on so I wouldn't be disturbed. Would I
ever
have woken up?

I shuddered as I recalled Fred's calm voice telling me to forget everything.

The smoked, salty tang of the bacon dipped in unctuous egg yolk, the smell of strong coffee, plaintive foreign music and voices, and spatters of hot fat frying in the background, the way the sunlight glittered on the ashtray on the next table—all these things were life, and, no matter how prosaic or lonely it could be, I knew I wouldn't willingly sacrifice a single half hour of it for whatever peace there might be beneath that hill.

Two days I'd spent staring at that skeletal grove of trees, watching the light bleed out of the sky; two days and two nights and another great handful of hours . . . No wonder it was etched on my brain like a part of me.

It wasn't Doon Hill that I'd dreamed about, nor was it the rocky, treeless slope in Knapdale where I'd met Mider; as far as I could recall, familiar as it seemed, that particular low hill, topped with about a dozen deciduous trees of some kind, was not a place I knew or had ever visited in my waking life. But it was real, real enough to make my chest tighten as I thought of my narrow escape.

I didn't want to die. That seems so obvious that it should not need saying—doesn't everyone feel that way?—yet every day people kill themselves, often for incomprehensible reasons. Many more are driven to flirt with death. I thought of Sylvia Plath's self-mythologizing, and of all the young people drawn by that fantasy. Had Linzi Slater wanted death, or only an escape from her own narrow life? Had she imagined there was something better waiting for her on the other side?

I could understand the urge to disappear. Even when I was younger, even though I'd told him I didn't, I
had
understood why my father had gone. He'd run away because it was easier and more exciting than staying. Men often took that way out, had done so for centuries. They ran away to sea, or just over the hill to the next village. Women, traditionally, were the ones who stayed put and tried to work things out. But times had changed. Maybe Jenny had left me for the same reasons my father had left my mother.

I finished my breakfast and only then remembered I still hadn't looked at my mail.

Despite its promising bulk, most of it, as usual, was junk. The only personal letter was a thick, square one from my mother. It felt suspiciously like a card, and I winced at the prospect of a second birthday card, another birthday check, and wondered if my mother was getting forgetful in her senior years.

But inside it was another envelope, this one light green, addressed to me c/o my mother in handwriting I recognized immediately: a neat, rounded, girlish hand that stabbed me to the heart. I peered closely at the stamp, which showed an old-fashioned airplane and a man decked out in fur-collared coat, flying helmet, and cheesy grin—but I couldn't make out the postmark. I turned it over in my hands, feeling oddly light-headed.

“More coffee?”

“Yes, please. Oh, and could I have a glass of water?” My mouth was very dry, from nerves now as well as dehydration. I waited until he'd brought my water and gone away again before I opened the green envelope.

There was a card inside. On the front of the card was an atmospheric, arty photograph, a misty scene of a low hill topped by a small grove of trees, outlined against what might have been sunrise or sunset. With a deep, foreboding chill, I felt myself back inside that timeless dream.

It was an effort to turn the card over to look at the acknowledgments on the back. They were there, as for any normal photograph: the name and logo of a publishing company, the title (“Morning Mist”), and the photographer's name. The man's name meant nothing to me, but maybe this was a famous image, maybe I'd seen it on a poster or a book cover. It was an odd coincidence, but surely not sinister. Without looking at the picture again, I opened the card and read the message written there in dark blue ink in Jenny's familiar hand.

Dear Ian,

After dreaming about you three times in the past month I finally decided to listen to my subconscious. I would like to see you again, in real life, and talk to you about what happened to us. I'm not asking for anything more than a meeting. I am happy, and my life is good in a lot of ways, but I guess turning 40 is one of those milestones that makes you look back over the way you've come and think about what might have been. I wonder if you're feeling the same way? Or maybe you think that the past should stay dead and buried. I wouldn't blame you. It's your choice. You don't owe me anything. I'll be in New York City early in September, and I'm planning to visit The Cloisters on the 6th. If you're there between 11 a.m. and 1 p.m. I'm sure we'll find each other.

Your
Jenny

That was it. I read the brief note again and again, but there was no more to it than that. No address, no phone number, no way of contacting her unless I accepted her challenge and met her in New York on the day we'd always celebrated as our anniversary.

Celebrating the first anniversary of our first date—seventeen years ago!—I'd taken Jenny to New York. It was the first time she'd ever been, and she'd thought nearly all of it was wonderful, but her favorite place by far was The Cloisters, a collection of medieval European art and artifacts in Fort Tryon Park. As I tried to remember it now, I couldn't recall how to get there, or what the building looked like. My one sure memory of that day was the awe shining on Jenny's lovely face as she gazed in mute wonder at the magnificent Unicorn Tapestries.

I looked down and read the note again. This was so typical of Jenny, I thought, she hasn't changed at all.

No mention of her marital status, any children, or what she'd been doing for the past ten years: As far as
we
were concerned, none of that mattered. No promises, of course, although she signed herself “Your Jenny.” No room for me to maneuver: As I had no way of getting in touch with her, I couldn't argue that my job, bank balance, wife, or any other commitments prohibited a trip to New York on that date. If I
cared
I'd be there. If I wasn't there, I didn't care. Did
she
care? I'd have to wait and see.

She was still an absolutist, still the emotional dictator . . .

And I knew from the pain in my chest that what I felt for her was more than just curiosity or regret. I wanted a second chance. But to have to wait, and do nothing, for nearly three months was impossible. I would have to find her before then. Why should I let her make all the rules?

I wouldn't. I would find her first. After all, finding people was what I did.

I paid the bill and went home to begin my search.

It was still too early to call most people in America, but my mother was always an early riser, so I took the risk.

“Sweetheart, how nice to hear your voice! How are you? Did you have a nice birthday?”

As if I was still into birthday treats. “Mmm, quiet. I mostly just slept.”

“Really? Well, I guess you must have needed it. I'm glad you took the day off, at least.”

“Mom, do you remember my old girlfriend, Jenny Macedo?”

“Of course I do! Did you get her card?”

My heartbeat quickened. “The one you forwarded? Yes.”

“Oh, that's good. I wasn't sure it would arrive on time. Wasn't that nice of her, to remember your birthday.”

“How did you know it was from Jenny?”

“What do you mean?”

“There's no return address on the envelope.”

“Of course there was. One of those little sticker things. I'm sure I remember that.”

This news sent me hurrying across to the couch where I'd dropped my armload of papers when I came in. The outer envelope would be there, and maybe the address label had fallen off inside it. Clamping the phone to my ear with my shoulder, I began excavating. Bingo. But the envelope was empty.

“Well, it's not here now. Must've fallen off your end. Can you remember anything about the address? The city?”

She made the little humming sound she used to signify thinking. “Well . . . you know, you might be right. Maybe there wasn't a return address. There
was
a sticker, though; it was on the back flap, like a seal. It said ‘Jenny' in fancy script, and there was a little picture, no, a design, it was sort of like a logo, I think. Sorry, I can't remember it exactly. Anyway, I saw her name, and made the assumption it must be from
your
Jenny, and I was right, wasn't I?”

“My Jenny as was.”

“I always liked her. I was sorry it broke up the way it did. It's nice that you're back in touch. What's she up to these days?”

I shook my head helplessly. “I don't know. Thinking about the past, I guess, but I don't know why.” I spent the rest of the day at my computer, trying to find something more about Jenny, but made no progress. Everything I learned was a negative: no phone number for her in Austin, Dallas, Fort Worth, or San Antonio; no Jenny Macedo listed on the Web site self-advertised as the largest cyber meeting place for rug-weavers; no definite hits on any of the search engines. Surely anyone who sold anything these days had to have a Web site, but if she ran a business or had a design trademarked as “Jenny” (this had occurred to me following my mother's comment about the sticker looking like a logo) I hadn't yet found it.