Claustrophobia (10 page)

The next morning, under a brisk shower, was like waking up after some sort of trauma, where you don't know who you are or why. Pen rubbed herself dry so hard she was bright red, and stumbled out to the kitchen, where Derrick already had everything under control. Bless him.

‘I made waffles,' he said, as if compensating for something, and she leaned over and kissed him firmly on the cheek. Then sat and ate them slowly with him, even though it meant they might be late for work.

She watched him chewing, warmed under his occasional familiar glance. Everything was normal, surely it was. What on earth had she been thinking? ‘Insanity,' she told herself, ‘all those night-time thoughts, that desperation.' Weariness from her long days, her overly vivid imagination.

It was time to call a halt.

She couldn't easily quit the library without good reason, and even if she did there was no longer a job to go back to at Derrick's college. But she could draw a line under the rest of it. She didn't have to see Kathleen again. She could stop going to the library café, lie low, keep herself to herself.

As if sensing her thoughts, Derrick said, ‘Is everything okay, the new job and so on? You don't talk about it much. I thought maybe you –'

‘No, it's fine,' Pen interrupted. ‘I really like it. Really.'

Derrick gazed at her. ‘I thought maybe we should get some help in with the redecorating,' he said at last. ‘Because you've got a lot more on your plate now, and I'm pretty busy too, and it's not going to get done on schedule.'

‘There's no hurry, though, is there?' It was literally the last thing on Pen's mind, though the house was in a state, half-undone, ready for remodelling, in suspense almost. The thought of it made her nervous. ‘We don't want strangers coming in, nosing around. Let's just do it ourselves, as we said.'

‘Nosing around?' Derrick said. ‘I can't see why they would. What's to see, anyway?'

‘Nothing,' Pen said, a little sharply. ‘I didn't mean that. I just don't like the idea.'

‘Well, if you can stand the mess, and the delay,' Derrick said. ‘I just have this sinking feeling we might never get it finished. And it's important, you know? It's something we planned together.'

He was almost wistful, Pen thought. At times like this, she could believe that he
did
love her the way she'd always supposed. That there had never been a Kathleen before her.

Pen collected up the plates and took them to the sink.

‘We were going to try to be more open, more sociable, Pen. And it's just not happening. But you don't seem to care much either way,' Derrick said.

Pen closed her eyes. ‘Of course I care, darling,' she said brightly, and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Have faith. We'll get there.'

Four days later, on the desk in Pen's cubicle, there was a little French paperback.

L'Homme qui regardait passer les trains
. The man who watched trains go by. By Georges Simenon.

It could be a coincidence, she thought. But as French literature was not part of her library duties, it seemed unlikely anyone had put it there for work reasons.

There was only one person who would have left it there.
Have you read any Simenon?
…
I use him in teaching, his prose is so clean and precise.
The rhythms, the intonation, seemed burned into Pen's inward ear.

Pen sank into her swivel chair and turned the flyleaf. Inside was a post-it note: ‘Thought you'd enjoy this. KN.'

The confidence of those initials, as if there was no way they could be mistaken. And the discreet understatement: no pressure, just an assumption of connection.

Pen pulled out the post-it note and shredded it. The book itself she thrust into her desk drawer. Was it a gift, or a loan? Either one required acknowledgement.

This she had not expected. She had thought the decisions would be all on her side – she was the one, after all, with the undeclared interest. Not that Kathleen would seek her out. It was not supposed to be this way.

She could, of course, pretend she had never seen the book; someone might have removed it, mislaid it, or taken it away to read …

Maureen popped her head around the cubicle wall.

‘Oh, did you get that book?' she said. ‘Came in yesterday evening – night shift left it with your name on, so I brought it up.'

Pen nodded. ‘Thanks.' No need to say more: it was only a book, after all, and this was a library. It could have been something she'd ordered for herself.

But how did Kathleen know she worked here? They had only met in the café, which was open to anyone. She must have asked around, or looked her up – the staff directory online, maybe. She might still have Pen's surname – only the maiden name, thank goodness – from her winter-school register.

Pen was spooked. It was one thing to be the observer – another thing entirely to be the observed. She didn't like it one bit.

All day the book turned this way and that in her imagination, like a restless sleeper. She opened the drawer; she closed it again. She was torn between curiosity – why
this
particular book, was it a message? – and annoyance at the incursion into her private space.

And she feared that she might even start to read it …

After work she had to call in to the foreign-language bookshop in the city centre, to collect some items Derrick needed for school. She had to drive around and around the block on William Street waiting for a parking spot.

When at last she got out of the car, she saw that the shop was no longer there.
We have moved to Hay Street
a sign said, and gave directions.

‘Bugger it,' Pen muttered, and stood contemplating whether to walk or to shift the car. Turning, she saw a dingy doorway that said
Internet Café
. There were all sorts of shiftless types hanging around, moving up and down the dark staircase that led to the basement premises. She made double-sure she'd locked the car, and headed down the Mall. On foot would be quicker, given the trouble she'd already had parking – and it was near closing time.

There were sales clerks and businesspeople rushing in every direction, punctuated only by slow clusters of teenagers, buskers with dogs, and every so often a young couple smooching on a wooden seat, that awkward display that screamed
Look at me
while feigning utter indifference to the rest of the world. Pen thought of a song on one of Derrick's CDs – Brassens, it was – about how lovers one day realise that

in the random streets

on one of these fine benches

they've already lived the best part of their love

The best part. How it could only be downhill, domestic and confined, from then on.

‘Is it all behind me? The best part of our love.' She and Derrick had never made a show of things in public – always discreet, muted, sensible.

She stared at the couples unashamedly as she passed. There was always one who looked back at her, as if to make sure they were being watched.

‘Already dishonest,' she thought, ‘from the very beginning.' They pretended to be lost in each other, in their embrace, but it was always with an eye to something else …

She only just made it into the foreign-language bookshop; the sales assistant was clearly getting ready to go home. Pen apologised profusely and paid for Derrick's order. As she let the door clatter behind her, she saw in the window cabinet
Dimanche
by Georges Simenon, and all at once the day's nausea rushed back upon her.

Of course it wasn't that coincidental – the man had written hundreds of books, and you'd find him, even in English, in any respectable bookstore. And probably a few not so respectable, she thought. But it was hard, just the same, not to feel that things were closing in on her. As if a big eye in the sky were watching and connecting all the dots, reading her thoughts. As if little bits of Kathleen were planted everywhere, come to stay, never to leave her alone.

She will never go away and leave me alone …

Pen jogged all the way back to the car, put Derrick's books inside, and on an impulse, ignoring the unsavoury loiterers, went down the threadbare staircase into the internet café. Her head was pounding.

It was true the written word was treacherous. But only when you could trace it to a source. Pen paid her three dollars,
logged in to a PC, and went straight to Hotmail to set up an anonymous address.

7

Having sent the message, of course, Pen was left with the problem of
not knowing
. She'd thought there would be satisfaction simply in
saying
it, in sending it off into the ether. But as days went by, it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop … Twice on her way home from work she called in to an internet kiosk, nowhere near the campus, to see if there was any reply.

No reply.

She couldn't even really be sure if it had arrived. So she sent another message, a simple variation on the first:

You may think people are disposable, but the past never goes away. You can't get off scot-free. Who do you think you are?

It was stilted, telegraphic, unsatisfying. But too much more would be a giveaway of some sort – she couldn't write anything that would link the message to Derrick, to any specific event. And the strange thing was, as she sat there in the grip of her compulsion, the image of Kathleen insisted its way into her head, the real Kathleen, not this ugly chimera Pen raged at by email, but the warm, scented, friendly form of her, leaning back against the café bench, smiling and inviting her out into the sunshine.

‘If I rang Kathleen and made a time to meet,' Pen thought, shaking herself, ‘I could see for myself if the emails have made a dent in that – that calm exterior.'

So on her very next night shift, during the evening break, she went to a payphone off campus, hanging up twice before finally letting the call connect.

‘Why don't you drop round here tonight?' Kathleen said. ‘I could do with some company, and I don't feel like going out anywhere.'

It was all Pen could do not to gasp. ‘Um, okay. I'll be finished at eight, I can come over then.' Her brain was racing at this sudden turn. ‘Are you sure tonight is a good time? Is there anything I should bring?'

‘Have you eaten already?'

Pen had.

‘Then just your good self. Let me give you directions …'

When Pen rang Derrick, he was glum.

‘What a shame – there's a French movie on SBS tonight, I thought we could watch it together.'

Pen winced. ‘I'm sorry, darling, but everyone's going, and
I can't really get out of it without giving offence. I'll only stay a little while, anyway, just to do the right thing. They'll all be getting smashed – it's not my cup of tea. Maybe you can tape the movie?'

‘Of course.' He paused. Pen could just see his expression resigning itself, ever accommodating. His mind a million miles from divining the truth. ‘You have fun, and drive carefully. Don't be
too
late.'

In fact, Kathleen's house was only a short drive away, nestled low on a block a few streets back from the university. The front and carport were overhung with something like ivy or Virginia creeper, so that you couldn't see much of the house from the road. Pen pulled the Volvo in neatly behind the familiar silver Corolla. Bizarre to think she had ever contemplated following that car, and now here she was, on the doorstep, invited.

Why was the woman so keen? Was she a bit
too
keen? It hadn't crossed Pen's mind till now. After all, the affair with Derrick – why would she be interested in women? And she didn't look like a lesbian. Not that you could really say what they looked like …

It couldn't be that she suspected Pen of anything – she had sounded relaxed and normal, and besides, there was no reason for her to link Pen to the stolen batch of essays, or the anonymous emails. Pen flushed a moment at the thought of them, then rallied. She had come this far, whatever else happened. She rang the doorbell.

At first there was no answer, so she rang again. This time there came a yell.

‘Come in. Just come in.'

The hallway was dark but led through to a bright, open-plan dining area. Kathleen was on the phone in a corner of the kitchen, her hair slightly damp as if from the shower, her face a little puffy. ‘Look, I've got to go, okay?'

Pen stood still, moved back a little, embarrassed.

‘No, I've
got
to go. See you.'

Kathleen hung up, and turned to Pen, smiling weakly. ‘I'm sorry about that.'

Pen shook her head. ‘I can come back some other time.'

‘No, no, please, sit down. It's just … it's just my ex, one of those horrible stories you don't need to hear.' (‘As if there were lots of them,' Pen thought. ‘And Derrick was one of them.')

‘I don't even know why these things happen,' Kathleen said, ‘it's ancient history, but you've caught me on the hop. Murphy's law, isn't it – that someone like that will call when you're expecting company? I do apologise.'

Pen thought, ‘She's surely not one of those women who will launch into all their personal details when they hardly know you.' Where it started with exes, and ran rapidly downhill to menstrual problems. Kathleen just didn't seem that kind. Aloud, Pen said, ‘Well, I brought some chocolate, if that helps.'

Kathleen laughed and took the box. ‘I'm sure it will. As long as you eat some too, otherwise I'll scoff the lot … Look, you go into the lounge, and I'll make some coffee. I meant to have it ready, before I got interrupted.'

Pen wandered through into a dark, high-ceilinged room with lovely old mismatched armchairs and a coffee table loaded with books and papers. The walls were bare but for
a single painting, portrait-shaped but semi-abstract, which suggested a woman sitting on a swing. It was sombre, at odds with its subject matter, the woman's figure nothing more than a few deft, black curves carved or stamped tensely into the thick background texture. It looked like a Franz Marc, or Chagall maybe, but it was an original, not a print.