Chapter 16
JACK
Six months earlier, Fulham Road,
Chelsea, London
Clutching a black briefcase and holding his raincoat tightly closed at the neck, Jack stood still in the cold, dark torrential rain outside his home. A streetlamp lit up his pained face as he stared into windows, watching the beautiful woman he felt nothing for excitedly preparing for his arrival. Becoming soaked, he felt numb. He simply didn’t care. He wondered if he ever really had.
He watched Mara move from one room to the next, setting the table for supper. He knew what she would be doing; repeatedly realigning objects into perfect position. Knives, forks, flowers, candles, chairs: everything had to be just so. Everything had to be flawless. To the outside world, she mimicked the perfect wife.
His eyes closed with sadness. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t love this woman. He lived a lie.
With a heavy heart, he trudged to the front door, inserted the key into the lock, and forced himself to cross the threshold. Perfect Mara rushed towards him: stunning, willowy, immaculate. Her long brown hair in a loose Rapunzel plait flowed down her back. She wrapped her tanned, jewel-laden arms around his neck and draped herself across his chest.
“Hey, I’ve missed you, lover boy.” Her heady, cloying perfume hit the back of his throat. The scent used to turn him on, before he knew the truth, before the shedding of the first layer of snakelike skin.
Jack gently pushed her away; she smarted at his reaction, but pretended not to notice.
“I’m soaking wet. I don’t want to ruin your outfit. let me go and change.” He stepped away from her, avoiding eye contact.
He dropped his briefcase to the floor, slipped out of his raincoat, hung the damp garment over the banister, and lumbered up the stairs, his head low, his shoulders hunched with resigned acceptance.
With Cleopatra arrogance, Mara stood at the bottom of the stairs and held her head high. Eyes sly, she watched him ascend, knowing the truth but refusing to accept it. He will love me…he will.
She lifted his briefcase and placed it on the hallway table, exactly in the centre of its highly polished mahogany surface. She took time to nudge it backwards and forwards until all four sides sat equidistant to the table’s edge.
It was important that everything she touched, everything she had control over, was always in its place, in an exact place for no particular reason. It was just so.
The obsession was exhausting and time-consuming, but for a few moments, whilst making things perfect, her fears took a back seat and the blissful escapism relaxed her.
Her peace was short-lived. Staring down at the shiny brown leather, she placed her hands either side of the briefcase, spreading her fingers wide across the glossy table top.
Slowly at first, then building in speed, she absentmindedly drummed her fingers, over and over, as if playing piano keys. Long red talons rhythmically rose and fell, repeatedly pounding the wood, getting louder and louder, until she abruptly stopped. She lifted her hands to the top of the case.
She gently stroked her fingertips across it, methodically and erotically, backwards and forwards, tracing the leather’s cool softness, enticing it to open for her, to reveal its secrets.
Suddenly impatient, she gripped the sides of the case and ran her thumbs across the numbered locks, willing them to open, but she didn’t know the combination.
Time stood still as she accepted defeat. She would have to wait.
Her glazed eyes wandered up the wall, to look at her reflection in the hallway mirror.
The briefcase forgotten, she tilted her head, admired her ethereal beauty and smiled.
“OK, darling,” she trilled. “I’ll pour you a drink.”
Seeing the raincoat behind her in the mirror, she closed her eyes, lowered her head as if in prayer, and slammed the fingertips of both hands against her temples, pressing, kneading, and dragging the skin of her face to ease the anger building inside.
Then, with the flick of a switch, she stopped, dropped her hands to her side, straightened up, poised her head high, and feigned a fake smile. Mara, calm and in control.
She turned her attention to the raincoat and sauntered to the banister. Fussing with its material, she flicked rainwater from the lapels.
“And don’t be too long, darling,” she shouted up the stairs. “I have your favourite for supper. We don’t want it to get ruined.” The ever attentive, perfect housewife.
“Did you see her today?” she asked sweetly, slipping a searching hand into the raincoat’s pockets. “Did you see the bitch today?”
Present Day, Cloud 9
Pyke and Maggie settled down to their tea and biscuits with the comfortable silence of age-old friends. Sharing the deep, leather-worn sofa, they kept their eyes on the screens of Pyke’s Stonehenge storyboard world. He’d spun each screen to face the sofa. He liked to take a moment of free time, to stop and smell the roses every now and then, and to take a precious moment of mindfulness in his 24/7 work marathon.
Something he’d been unable to do when alive.
Like Amy, a brave soldier of depression, his mind had never let him stop, to relax and enjoy a moment. Destructive thoughts ruined any moments of quiet. Fear, shame, panic, self-loathing, and loneliness would rush to the surface whenever he stood still or relaxed his defences.
Beating the sadness was a daily battle, but he knew now it didn’t need to be. He wished he’d reached out for help, had taken less meds and more therapy, learned a few mental tricks on how to manage the illness. But the thought of leaving his apartment and the safety of his computers to come face-to-face with those who didn’t understand had kept him a prisoner.
Depression was one thing he didn’t miss about his earth life, but he shouldn’t knock it. Living his life through computers had made him what he was today; a genius and techno geek with the ability to multitask mercurial problems. Everything for a reason, he was a crucial member of the Unit.
Today, free from illness, he lived and relished every precious second to its fullest, especially intervals where he idly supped tea with Maggie. Today, he was all about enjoying his time, the now, making it count, having fun, mindfulness.
They sat quietly for a few minutes, happy in their solitude, lost in thought. With his cup of tea held mid-air, Pyke tilted his head this way and that way, viewing his work as if in an art gallery.
“We have some more help on the way for you. You can’t keep up with all this on your own. I know you don’t like help, but try…for me…will you?” Maggie nudged Pyke in the ribs.
He shrugged, gazing into his cup. “Maybe.”
“Give this one a chance…OK? If nothing else they can make us tea.”
Maggie smiled and shook her head, knowing the conversation didn’t change his mind. Pyke hated sharing his precious walls. He preferred to work alone, but with their increasing workload he did need help.
A calm silence fell between them. Few people could sit together comfortably in silence, one or other would always try to fill the gaps with chatter. Maggie loved Pyke for that.
She sipped gently from her teacup, her little finger cocked as she raised the fine china to perfectly painted coral lips. The screen furthest away attracted her attention. She spied it with wolf-like eyes. Files and images were open across it, lighting it up with the face of a smiling young woman beaming at them.
“What are you working on, on number five? I don’t remember authorising it,” she asked.
Pyke followed her gaze.