'Let them in Mimsa.'

  Mimsa stared at her, wide-eyed, uncertain.

  'Go on,' she nodded, smiling.

  They carried the packing cases out first, then the furniture. She watched the house, now already bare, being gutted. Cleansed, she thought to herself, walking around the rooms, checking. God, they looked small, suddenly. Tiny.

  She stood on the pavement and watched the van reverse away. Eighteen years. Eighteen years and she wasn't sure what her next door neighbours looked like. They wouldn't miss her; the street wouldn't miss her; there was no sentiment here. Only inside her own heart.

  As she climbed into her Mercedes, she saw the young couple arrive in their blue BMW and park opposite her. He was smart, trendy, in a Paul Smith suit; she was a willowy blonde. He lifted a small boy out of a car seat and plonked him on the pavement. Then the three stood, looking at the house.

  'I think red for the front door,' she heard her say.

  'Or black,' he said. 'Black would be smart. Look, there, 46, that's black.'

  The same conversation they had had, she thought, a tear rolling slowly down her cheek; eighteen years ago; they had stood on that pavement, the three of them; David in his Tom Gilbey suit, herself and their son. Fabian. The thrill. The hope, the dreams, the plans. Plans. She sighed, and started the engine.

  A new beginning. It was a bright day for it, a fine August morning. She felt a twinge of pain in her shoulder as she turned the wheel. They told her it would still hurt for a while to come. But it was heating, all the wounds were heating, both the physical and the mental. It was the memories that would last the longest. She wished it was as easy to empty her mind as it had been her house.

  The removal van was already at Cheyne Walk and they were piling her furniture on to the pavement.

  She climbed the stairs to the top floor and walked around the huge empty apartment. She felt free, suddenly, free of so many things. She hardly noticed the removal men bringing everything in; there seemed to be no effort, no effort at all. Even the huge bouquet of flowers that arrived from Philip scarcely registered more than a gentle smile.

  She slept well that night, without pills, without anything; slept well for the first time, she realized, since it had begun.

  There was so much that had passed. People had attempted explanations. The chaplain of Broadmoor. The psychiatrist at the hospital. But they could only ever know part of the story. Without the body, Fabian had done nothing wrong. Without the body that was buried under the rubble at the bottom of the lake, buried under the rubble of her mind. Without the body, it could all be a product of her mind. And they believed it was. All of them, except Philip. Who knew.

  It was Philip who had got her through the past months. Philip, with his theories and explanations, who helped her peel away the layers. It was Philip who dismissed the idea each time she thought of telling.

  'If they did look... and found nothing? What then girl?'

  That, she knew, would be the worst horror of all.

  She stared out across the Thames streaked with the morning sunlight at the trees of the park on the far side, at the rooftops of Battersea, Clapham, Wandsworth and beyond.

  She smelt David, suddenly, the musty vinous smell of his denim jacket, felt the warmth of his body, the bristles of his moustache and heard Fabian's voice calling out from inside him and shivered. Conductors; conduits; receptors; the technical jargon; the explanations; Philip; the chaplain; Morgan Ford; it sounded like something to do with electricity, not with the... She stumbled on her thoughts.

  'In a violent death, usually an accident or a murder, the spirit needs to be helped over. He may not be aware that he has died.'

  'If a possessed person dies, what happens to the evil spirit?'

  'It goes with him to Hell.'

  'Could someone bring it back?'

  'Perhaps.'

  'If an exorcism is successful, where does the spirit - the demon � whatever it is that's driven out, go?'

  'It has to find a new host.'

  'It was horrible, Philip. It was David, but he spoke with Fabian's voice.'

  'That happened before.'

  'This time it was different.'

  'Because the tunnel made you scared.'

  'No. It was Fabian. He had made David his host. Ford was wrong. He said David wasn't receptive. I knew he was.'

  'How?'

  'I knew.'

  'No, girl. If David had been receptive, you wouldn't have got out of there.'

  'Evil will not enter a person who will not receive it.'

  'Do you think David had come down to find me? To help me?'

  'Perhaps.'

  'The spirit wanted me. I wouldn't receive it so it tried to enter David?�

  'Perhaps.'

  'And he was fighting it too?'

  'Evil spirits can be very cunning. Good mimics. Take on a departed person's characteristics. Voices. Mannerisms. Appearance.'

  The circle creates energy, like a beacon. He can find his way to the circle.'

  'Does evil have beacons too? Could Otto have been a beacon?'

  'Mrs Hightower, no clergyman who is a true believer can rule out the diabolical.'

  A lone jogger, in a singlet and shorts, was running across the Albert Bridge. Jogging, she thought. It had been a long time. Tomorrow she would jog again.

  She felt a strange stillness and calm. David's dying had released her from something. She was sad, deeply sad, and sometimes she missed his phone calls and the glee in his voice when he talked about his wine, but in a strange way, in her grieving she was free.

  It was as if the past had begun to exorcise itself.

  She walked up the stairs to her office. She was looking forward, once more, to work. To the deals; to the piles of manuscripts. To concentrating on something different.

  'How did it go?' said Julie.

  'Fine; I thought it would be much worse. The flat is gorgeous - the view this morning was quite fantastic.'

  'I'd like a view,' she said.

  Alex smiled. 'Anything happen yesterday?'

  'Nothing urgent. Philip left a message - something about the theatre on Thursday; he said your phone wasn't working yesterday.'

  Alex walked through into her office. It felt chilly after the warm sunlight and she pulled up the blinds, opened the window and let the warm summer air soak in.

  Her desk was stacked with letters, manuscripts, message slips. Challenges. God, she was so far behind, from her weeks in hospital and from the preoccupation with moving. She stared around the room for a moment, collecting her thoughts, making a mental schedule for the day. Then she smiled to herself again. It was over. She stared out at the blue sky. The long climb had begun, back to where she had been once, back to somewhere that could never be the same. Sighing, she stretched out her arm and switched on her VDU.

  Two green words stared back at her, bright, unflickering.

  HALLO, MOTHER.

  THE END

 

 

  Peter James, (1988) Possession

 

 

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