DEATHLOOP (3 page)

But then Clarissa and abandonment had history, it had been a fixture of her childhood after all. Her father first, unable to bear his wife’s interest in their daughter became jealous and withdrawn. He found that he could not tolerate the intrusion of this small creature into their once perfect world, (he’d had no idea it would be so loathsome), so one day he just upped sticks and left. Then it was the turn of her mother. Reeling from her husband’s desertion, blaming Clarissa for it entirely and hardly able to gaze at this daughter of hers without wanting to thump her, she accepted a job teaching English in Tokyo and was never heard of again.

An older aunt stood in, brought Clarissa up as though she were her own, and she was adequate, she did her best, but there was an elephant in the room and everyone knew it. Clarissa’s parents did not want her, they did not love her, and for all the elaborate reasons and excuses why the two of them had gone off, it boiled down to this. But no one dared say so. Perhaps it would have been better if they had.

Clarissa often wondered if that was why she found herself attracted to Sam. No one wanted him either, so she would want him. She would want him as much as he wanted her. Perhaps that was all there was to it, although she didn’t dwell on this much anymore. But then, after believing she knew everything there was to know about her relationship with Sam, in the middle of her reading spree, Clarissa discovered a book about codependency, and although she would concede this to no one, it rang a bell. Everyone worried for Sam in case Clarissa left him, but Clarissa knew that if they were ever to separate, Clarissa would suffer the most. She needed Sam to need her, and thankfully, need her, Sam did.

A year earlier, entirely by accident and against Sam’s advice, Clarissa had become involved with New Age concepts. An old friend, Kelsey, had started up a New Age book shop in Richmond and had asked Clarissa to help her out occasionally because Kelsey’s primary occupation was acting, and on the rare occasion when a job came up, Kelsey was of course keen to take it. Standing behind the counter day in day out Clarissa started reading about the occult, about past life regression and reincarnation. She became fascinated by past life regression particularly and read as much as she could on the subject. If only these had been the books she’d had to deal with in the publishing house things might have been different, but Norman Bell, a strict Catholic, would never have given such contentious issues the time of day.

Sam was convinced that all this mumbo jumbo was another one of Clarissa’s fixations. She’d had her fair share over the years after all. So he just smiled politely and pretended to listen, believing it would be something else next week. But for the first time Clarissa did not tire of her new passion, like she had with Troika pottery, the life and times of Betty Boothroyd, car mechanics, Twin Peaks, ‘cutlery through the ages’, the life and times of Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry, Georgian embroidery samplers, gorillas, French polishing, Isadora Duncan, Lindisfarne, the island and Lindisfarne the 60’s pop group to name a few, but had continued to read and investigate and had become so immersed in these things, Sam found it impossible to get her to talk about anything else.

Clarissa had gone on three courses to train in past life regression, although she kept quiet about each one because she knew Sam would hit the roof, especially if he found out how much they cost. The first one was a simple course in hypnosis which she managed to master days before anyone else. Then it was hypnosis with reference to past life connections, the third, putting all this into practice attempting to get people to dip in and out of previous lives when they were in a hypnotic state. By this time Clarissa was hooked, especially when one of her subjects started speaking in tongues. Percival Hollingsworth, the stringy 60 year old who ran the Rebirth Psychic Centre in Dollis Hill was flabbergasted. Although stuff of legend, he had never actually seen this with his own eyes. From then on he regarded Clarissa as next in line to the throne, he almost genuflected each time he saw her.

Finally, when she could keep all this to herself no longer she told Sam what she had been up to. Sam stared back at her like a man about to go into cardiac arrest. Could it just be Clarissa’s usual exaggeration or could it actually be true? The idea of Clarissa presiding over a man speaking in tongues was too bizarre to contemplate, but even when questioned closely Clarissa’s story remained the same, indicating a certain degree of truthfulness. Sam’s heart sank. This silly fad as he thought it was, had blossomed into a full blown obsession.

“I’m going to be a genuine regression therapist soon,” said Clarissa, bursting with excitement, “with my name on a certificate and a plaque on the door, how about that?”

Sam was so depressed by this piece of news he couldn’t even muster a reply. Eventually Sam told Zack, knowing full well what his reaction would be and it’s true to say that he was not disappointed. Zack found it hysterically funny and ragged Sam endlessly, until in the end Sam told Zack to shut up, it was bad enough being married to a trainee shaman, he really didn’t need Zack to keep going on about it.

Clarissa continued studying and carrying out her research, sometimes at the British Library. An Indian reference book was her favourite, one that she could barely open it was so huge, then, refining her technique, becoming more and more skilled, and practicing on an occasional basis with other like-minded folk. However, in order to obtain proper qualifications she had to pass a pretty strict test and so in preparation, at the end of a particularly boozy afternoon, after Clarissa had begged Zack to be her guinea pig yet again, Zack had finally given in.

Zack had told Clarissa in no uncertain terms that she’d be better off working behind the counter at Oxfam than spending her days on this trash and Sam wholeheartedly agreed, until Clarissa told them to stop ganging up on her, they knew nothing about past life regression so she would prefer it if they reserved judgement until they did. Zack was kicking himself that Clarissa had at last managed to beat him into submission but how the hell could he get out of it now? Ex-girlfriends had often questioned Zack about Sam and Clarissa, but especially about Sam. They just didn’t get it, no one did.

In their first month at university, a couple of days before they palled up, Zack overheard some posh kids calling Sam a Jewish midget. “A hideously ugly Jewish midget to be precise,” one of the girls had said, fully aware that Sam was within earshot. Sam blushed various degrees of scarlet, desperately trying to marshal enough dignity to walk away, torn between a shrug, a laugh. In the end he just looked close to tears as he pretended suddenly that he’d forgotten to be elsewhere and bombed off like a manic little cartoon character, accompanied by the posh kids’ laughter.

Zack thought about this for a full day and a half before walking up to Sam, alone as usual, sitting on a wall, (like Humpty Dumpty he’d often thought), and asked him if he was doing anything later that night.

Sam blinked back at him in shock. “Er… no… no,” he said.

“Good,” said Zack, “because there’s friends of mine I’d really like you to meet…” and that was it. He’d collected Sam rather like a milk bottle. People still stared for a while, the God, Zack Fortune, hanging around with a miniature Elephant Man? What was the crack? But after a while, they got used to him. Relaxed, Sam could be great company, so funny he could reduce a room to hysteria in minutes flat.

Not long after they met, Sam told Zack that he’d had an older brother, Michael - handsome, rich, making a fortune doing something dodgy but lucrative in the city, obviously their parents’ favourite of the two sons, he’d married a top model and life was sweet. Until that is Michael became involved in drugs as so many of the city boys are wont to do and died one night at the age of 23 in an orgy of amphetamines and cocaine. His parents were bereft, especially his mother who could not accept the tragic hand fate had dealt her, and who had framed Michael’s baby shoes and toys, mounting them along the hall of their house as some grotesque tribute to her dead son.

Sam told Zack that when he went round for dinner his mother would gaze at him across the table and it was clear what she was thinking: ‘Why didn’t God take you instead of him? Why did he leave me with this freak… the runt of the litter, the little ugly one… please God, tell me what I have done to deserve this?’

Sam seemed to think his parents had only ever put up with him because of Michael. Sam was the lame duck, but it was all right because they had Michael, the swan. Without Michael, however, their tolerance of Sam was tested. Here he was, as large as bloody life, a reminder of how totally useless he was, and a reminder also of just how perfect Michael used to be.

Once, when he’d had a drink or two, Sam brought the subject up, not directly, but sort of skirted round it. Neither of his parents denied the allegation, allowing Sam his few moments of rightful indignation before changing the subject. What Sam found most galling was that they didn’t even have the decency to be ashamed.

When Sam married Clarissa, Sam’s parents were excited, mainly because they thought that with Clarissa’s background and good looks there was a fifty-fifty chance of their grandson being at least average looking and of average intelligence, unlike Sam, who they considered a catastrophe in every department. And when they failed to conceive, his parents made it clear they thought the problem was Sam’s. How could a woman as cultured and as beautiful as Clarissa be unable to produce children? It was crazy even to think it. So, in his own way Sam had managed to dash their hopes once more.

It wasn’t just that Zack felt sorry for Sam, far from it. Zack would never spend time with anyone he didn’t really want to be with. Sure, he had about as much compassion as the next man, which in truth, is not very much, but being with Sam was not an act of charity, far from it, plus Sam had paid him back in spades over the years, picking him up each time he took a tumble.

“I love him, that’s all,” Zack would say when questioned, secretly acknowledging the fact that no one in his life mattered more than Sam Stein, and so if Sam’s good wife needed to be indulged for an hour or so, indulge her he would.

Sam and Clarissa lived in a rather grand mansion block in Baker Street, in one of those flats rather like the Tardis that had much more space within them than you ever thought possible at the front door. Clarissa had done the place out with expensive swags and flounces, sequined cushions and patchwork velvet quilts and replacing the window panes with airport glass to deaden the noise of traffic from the street below only added to the sensation Sam once suggested, of being encased in a top quality padded cell.

Zack arrived a few minutes late, full of apologies. Clarissa brushed them aside and took him by the arm leading him down the rather claustrophobic hall, lined with books and objets d’art.

“You hate me for this, don’t you?” said Clarissa, as they walked along side by side.

“Fear not, old friend, you’re still on the Christmas card list.”

“And when’s the last time you sent a Christmas card to anyone, ever…”

They entered an expansive room, bordered with antiques, where Clarissa indicated for Zack to sit down on a Chesterfield that took pride of place, bang in the middle of the floor. Sam loved this Chesterfield and had refused point blank all entreaties from Clarissa to dispense with it and get something more stylish. Generally speaking, they agreed on décor, mainly because Sam backed down in just about every dispute they ever had, but he stuck his heels in with this. “We are not getting rid of it,” he told Clarissa with rare grit, “so let’s just drop the subject, shall we?”

Clarissa had finally managed to get him to agree to it being recovered with aubergine cotton velvet, but that was it, a concession, nothing more. When it arrived back from the upholsterers Clarissa was quite surprised at how good it looked, and from wanting to bin the thing, decided that for once Sam was right to insist on its reprieve. Zack sank into Sam’s Chesterfield now, refusing a drink he simply said, “Let’s just get on with it shall we? I don’t have that long.”

Clarissa told Zack to pull off his shoes, to lay back, and to make himself comfortable. Clarissa pulled up a Victorian balloon backed chair, perching next to him. She knew Zack felt foolish, she knew also that he regretted agreeing to this, consequently, she knew she had something to prove.

“Now listen Zack, please, whatever happens don’t come out of the hypnosis yourself, however… well… hairy it gets.”

“Hairy?” said Zack, a little alarmed now.

“You must let me bring you back slowly, don’t think of trying to stop it yourself, that can cause real problems.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Zack with a grin.

As Clarissa told Zack to close his eyes and started speaking extremely quietly, Zack stifled a desire to burst out laughing. What on earth was he doing here? Lying on a sofa, listening to his best friend’s wife who everyone knew was a little left field, trying to get him to plunge the depths of his memory and come up with a scenario that placed him where? Floundering in the ranks of Oliver Cromwell’s army? Fighting in the trenches in the First World War? The whole thing was absolute tripe.

Zack continued thinking along these lines until he was suddenly aware that he had no sense of being in the room at all. He could barely hear Clarissa now, just some hum - was it from the fridge, or the washing machine maybe? He squinted out of one eye to reassure himself and saw Clarissa miles away, tiny, like a marionette. How could she be that far away, the room wasn’t that vast, was it? And why had she moved her chair? He didn’t remember her moving her chair. His eye lid snapped shut again, rather like someone had clawed it down in temper. He felt strange now, in limbo, suspended in a heavy atmosphere, and then without warning he was somewhere else, floating up the narrow staircase of a small stone cottage, and at the top of the stairs, across the landing, he pushed open a creaking door and stepped inside a room.

A bulbous ewer stood on a wash stand, a wool coat hung limply on the back of the door, and an old iron bedstead covered with a blood stained counterpane dominated the room. For a moment, Zack thought he was alone, but he wasn’t. A slight, emaciated figure peeked out from under the bed covers, his skull tightly bound with jaundiced skin, his long lank grey hair streaked with white and matted. He was immobile this man, but his haunted eyes swept and searched. Who the hell was this?