The Banishing (8 page)

Melissa looked up at him. A friend? She had met him only fifteen minutes ago. She didn’t know how to respond. Was he saying it because he knew he was helpless to do anything else to help her and felt bad? Or did he care?

“What else?” she asked, feeling bad about ignoring his first remark.

“The only thing I can suggest to you is to keep a diary of the things you see, the things you notice. Everything about your husband’s behavior that concerns you.”

“Why?”

Josh tapped his pen against the wooden desk. “It will help to record what’s happening in case things do get worse. It will give any professional he might end up seeing something to go on.”

Melissa stood up, grabbing her handbag. She felt disappointed, and yet she couldn’t understand why—what had she expected this stranger to achieve?

“You’re going?” he asked, standing and following her to the door.

Melissa paused. “I probably shouldn’t have come,” she said.

“Keep a diary,” he repeated. “What harm can it do?”

“He’ll never seek help,” Melissa replied, her voice low and defeated.

“You never know. If things get too bad, Melissa, it might not be his choice. Do you understand what I’m saying? Come back to see me,” he said, reaching out again, taking hold of her by the arm. “I’m worried about you. Living with this is obviously taking its toll. I can tell just from looking at you. I don’t need a qualification to see that. You need support, too. Like I said a moment ago, Melissa, it might get to the point where your partner
has
to get help, whether he wants it or not.”

“What? You mean lock him up on a psychiatric ward?”

Josh shrugged. “I don’t know. I can‘t possibly answer that, but when someone is ill, they need help of some sort.”

“It isn’t
that
bad,” she lied, opening the door and turning to leave.

“It could be many things,” Josh said, pulling her back, “an anxiety disorder of some sort, possibly. Without seeing him myself, I can’t give you any answers. I really am sorry I can‘t tell you more.”

Melissa nodded and smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “Like I said, he’ll never accept help. I don’t even think he realizes there is a problem.”

Chapter Eleven

Keep a diary. Get some support. Those weren’t answers. Not answers that could help. She didn’t blame Josh, though. She knew that he could do little without seeing Mark himself. She knew that no serious professional would offer a diagnosis based on the comments of a distraught wife. Even if he were capable of doing so, what would that achieve? Mark seemed totally unaware of his behavior. The other day, when she had asked him who he had been talking to in the lounge, he seemed genuinely surprised and had strenuously denied it.

She had been stupid seeking a savior, a way out of this mess through a door she couldn’t step through. That door was locked, unless she could convince Mark that he needed the help.

That was when the idea hit her. Maybe it was a stupid idea, and more than likely it would not work, but it was worth a try. Anything was worth a try. Mark had purchased a video recorder last year to use for holidays and special occasions. In truth, the thing had been a waste of money; they had only used it twice. What if, Melissa thought, weighing the idea in her mind, she filmed Mark when he was in one of those…trances. It was bound to happen again, she surmised. Would he believe her, then? Would he see how he was acting and then agree to seek help?

It was a long shot. There was a chance she might not see him act that way, again, but Melissa had the uncomfortable feeling that what she had seen the other night was just the beginning of something new.

Melissa went up to the bedroom and quickly changed out of her work clothes. Mark had not returned yet from work. She was glad of his absence, fearing—irrationally, she knew—that he would read the guilt in her eyes and know she had been doing something behind his back. It wouldn’t even matter to him that she had done so in order to get help. He would just see it as a betrayal and strike out at her. There was no rationality behind his thinking, lately. All that seemed to exist was a temper waiting to explode at any given moment. Like a bomb ticking. She didn’t want to be near him when he exploded—or be the one to set him off. That’s how she felt.

Melissa dropped her work uniform into the hamper by the door and opened her wardrobe. She pulled out a cream-colored sweater and a pair of loose-fitting jeans and put them on. She walked over to the mirror and sighed. She looked so pale, so tired. Dark circles tainted the skin beneath her eyes. She looked drawn, almost gaunt. She hadn’t had much of an appetite the last few weeks, and she had noticed her clothes had become slightly baggy.

It was everything that was happening
, she thought, her face inches away from the mirror. She watched herself, as if seeing her face for the first time, and she felt like a stranger was looking back at her from behind the glass. The woman staring back at her seemed like a mere shadow, a ghost.

The shit that had happened with Mark. What he had done to her in bed, yesterday. The figure in the lounge the other night. The meeting with Josh Howell. It was all an untidy, problematic mess, and she hated how powerless she felt, how unable she actually was to change a single thing.

Melissa enjoyed feeling strong, independent. Now, she felt like a weak child, just waiting to see what happened next. The whole thing scared her more than she had ever imagined anything could.

She dropped her eyes from her reflection and made her way down the stairs. She padded into the lounge, drew the curtains against the darkening sky outside, and flipped on the small lamp. It illuminated the room, sending bright light into the far corners of the shadowy lounge.

She went into the kitchen, and there she saw the note. It was sticking to the fridge door, hanging behind one of their many magnets. She went over and picked it up:

Got called to another job. I’ll probably be home after midnight, so don’t worry about staying up. I’ll be thinking of you.

Mark. X

I’ll be thinking of you.
The words that might seem romantic, now seemed laced with malice. Almost like a threat. She wadded up the note and threw it into the trash bin. Then, she smiled. A wave of relief washed over her that she would not have to see him. She would be able to spend a night alone, a normal night. A night where she wouldn’t be wondering whether he would turn on her, full of rage. A night where she wouldn’t overhear him talking to a voice that wasn’t really there.

Melissa went over to the phone and ordered herself a small, plain, cheese pizza and a bottle of pure orange juice. The guy on the line said her order would be delivered within the hour.

With nothing else to do, Melissa went into the lounge. She sprawled out, lying back across the three-seated leather sofa. She switched on the TV, where the main evening news was covering a story about the rape of a teenage girl by a gang of youths, and lay her head back against one of the cushions.

Within seconds, she felt her eyes droop. They felt heavy, as if dipped in cement. She gave in, deciding that a quick nap wouldn’t hurt. She closed her eyes, the TV playing quietly in the background.

“In other news,” the female news reader said, her voice official and authoritative, “a young, married woman has been killed by her husband. The victim, as yet unnamed by the police, was stabbed 17 times by her husband in their Northamptonshire home. Locals say the couple seemed happy, playing an active part in the local community. This is what might happen to you, Melissa Sanderson, if you‘re not careful. You might die, too,” the voice rasped.

Melissa’s eyes snapped open, and she felt her stomach freeze. She stared across the room at the TV set, propping herself up on her elbows. The newsreader was smiling, her eyes staring at the camera, but her mouth was drawn down into a contorted, menacing grin. “Now, we’ll hand it over to the local news,” she said, and the camera switched to the live, local studio.

Melissa grabbed the remote control and turned the TV off.
This might happen to you, too, Melissa Sanderson.
She sat there in the dim light of the lounge and curled her legs beneath her, bringing her knees to her chin.

When the front doorbell rang 20 minutes later, Melissa decided she wasn’t hungry and left the delivered pizza in the fridge for Mark.
He might be hungry when he got home
, she thought.

* * * *

Melissa sat up in bed. The curtains were drawn tightly. The main light and two small lamps were switched on, scattering any shadows that might have arrived with the darkness of night.

She couldn’t handle being in darkness. Not now. In an effort to forget the disfigured face of the newsreader she had seen on the TV earlier, Melissa tried to keep her thoughts busy. Frightened of any conclusions she might reach if she allowed herself to get lost in her mind, she tried rationalizing things. She tried to believe that the newsreader had simply been an overlap of a dream as she woke. It
could
be true. It
might
have been that way. Even if it was, just thinking of that face staring at her from the screen sent fear likes waves of electricity through her body.

The small, video recorder lay heavily in her lap. She wanted to check if it was still working. She had blank film and batteries in it, just in case she had the chance to film Mark. It
could
work. If she caught Mark talking to himself—about dark things like blood—she could try and capture it somehow and show him. It could be just the thing to open his eyes.

Even as she sat there, propped up by pillows and fidgeting with the camcorder, Melissa knew that her faith in helping Mark might be wasted, even hopeless. He might not change. He could, God forbid, become worse.

Somehow, she believed that if she could help Mark, she could stop the weird things that had been happening to her. The dead woman grabbing her at the ICU. The newsreader. The figure in the lounge. Somehow, it was all connected.

Her rational mind argued against any of those things being real, but she
had
seen it all happen before her eyes. Did she believe in ghosts? Could people behind a TV screen read out messages directed at her? Did dead patients suddenly wake up and grab nursing staff? Melissa sighed, rubbing her forehead. Question after question, and she couldn’t answer any of it.

She thought back to when she was a child. Melissa’s mother used to take her to church every Sunday. The smell of burning candles, of polish on wood, and incense were so strong in her memory, she could almost smell the scents there with her in the bedroom. Every single Sunday without fail, Melissa would dress up in what her Mum called her “Sunday best”, and she sat down, hands folded neatly in her lap, listening to the priest talk about things that intrigued her. Sin. Judgment. Life after death. Satan. The priest’s sermons about the never-ending war between good and evil. She believed in it all, then. As a child, she soaked every word up like a sponge to water. Her faith was innocent, accepting.

What about now? Melissa wondered if she could believe in anything. Her Mum and Dad had died years ago, and with it, Melissa’s faith in God. So did her faith in a lot of things. It had all wilted away into oblivion. Like leaves falling from an autumnal tree…it had dried up. Her faith had been fleeting, something she barely grasped long ago, before she was old enough to understand anything. Open-minded? Yes. A believer? No.

Unless she was going crazy, unless she was willing to accept that she could not trust her own eyes and ears, Melissa knew that something was happening to her. Something not normal. What it was, she had yet to find out, but she would. As she turned on the camcorder and watched it whir to life, she decided she would.

* * * *

She felt warm tears slide down her cheeks as she watched. It was like seeing a memory come alive, and it haunted her. At first she didn’t want to watch, because it almost felt like it was taunting her, but she could not bring herself to switch the camcorder off.

The small screen attached to the recorder was playing the bright, vivid images of Melissa with Mark the day they were handed the keys to the house they now lived in. It was the day that the paperwork was finalized, signed, sealed, and paid for. The home she was in now, but it looked like another world.

Melissa had been the one filming. She remembered it now with a clarity so sharp, it was as if it had happened yesterday. Unused to using the camcorder, the picture was blurry at times. The screen filled with shaky, unsteady images as she followed Mark around the home, enjoying the ecstasy of a life and a new beginning. The video was short—only eight minutes long—of Melissa and Mark exploring the empty house they had bought.

There was a thrill between them—a spark of excitement that had been so strong that Melissa smiled as she watched the moment unfold before her on camera. That had been a happy time, a good time. She realized, watching it there with her head leaning back against her pillow, that it was probably amongst the last few days of normality. Before Mark had changed.

Seeing him there before her, she realized how
much
he had changed. Following Mark on camera, Melissa had filmed him rummaging through empty drawers, running up the stairs, running his hand along surfaces and inspecting their new property. The thing that struck her more than anything was his happiness. How good he looked and how alive he seemed. The man she now shared a bed with felt more like a ghost than a man. Hollow, empty, and remote. It was as if he would melt and dissolve if she reached out to him.