The Smoke In The Photograph (9 page)

The ceaseless beeps of the heart and blood pressure monitor he was attached to made it very hard for Steven to get to sleep. Actually, if he was honest with himself it was the guilt. Guilt about his affair, but mostly guilt about hitting Julia. How could he have let his anger and fear get the better of him like that? How could he deliberately strike the person he loved most in the world?

Ariel was to blame. She had left the shoes at the old house. Undoubtedly she had done it on purpose as a way of attempting to force his hand. Steven cursed himself again for ever having met her, for ever starting the affair. At no time had he even insinuated to Ariel that he had any intention of leaving Julia. Unless she had taken his part in the affair as some sort of insinuation that he would.

The anger he felt earlier, the seething rage that had forced him to hit his wife, had not been aimed at Julia, it had been aimed at Ariel. Things were finally starting to return to normality in his marriage. Yet he could not break off his affair for fear of how Ariel would react.

He would tell her now, by text. It was the cowardly way, he knew that, but maybe he was a coward; he certainly felt like one. Only a coward would hit his wife, after all.

His phone was in the little cabinet at the side of his bed. He leant over and retrieved it. This simple action felt like a chore with the residual ache and tightness in his chest. He sat back up in the hospital bed and started composing the text.

I am sorry, but it is over.

He stared at the words he had written. It was so cold, so callous. Once again he hated himself. He imagined Ariel reading the text, pictured her sitting there sobbing as the words scorched themselves into her heart. It would be painful, but it would be quick. Perhaps hating him would allow her to move on quicker.

Or it will anger her, said the coward’s voice in his head.

This was of course his biggest fear. What if in rejecting her he caused her to seek retribution? He was, after all, already convinced that her leaving her shoes at the previous house had been no accident. Ariel wanted him to get caught out. In her mind, if Julia knew the truth and threw him out, he would come running to her open arms.

'No,' he said aloud to the voice in his head. 'It has to end, and it has to end now.'

He searched for Ariel's number in his contact list and assigned it to the text message.

The temperature in the room appeared to drop ten degrees as his finger hovered over the send button. Steven felt his hair move, as though being attracted by a static charge. He looked around the room, and despite being utterly alone, he felt that he was being watched. The beeping sound of his heart monitor became more frequent as his sudden unease took hold of him. As he breathed out, he saw the faint mist of his breath float away from his mouth.

DING!

The bell sound on his phone, and the accompanying vibration made him jump in his bed. He was convinced that for a fleeting moment the waveform on the heart monitor flatlined. He had received a text. He saved the message for Ariel to the drafts in his phone then opened his message folder. What he saw confused him. There was the little sealed envelope icon as normal for an unread text, but next to it on the screen was blank. Even if the text came from a number not stored in his phone, the unknown number would be displayed. It seemed as if this message had come from nowhere.

He opened up the message and the message on the screen scared him more than the temperature and electricity in the room.

DO NOT SEND THAT MESSAGE!

H

He couldn't believe it. Someone had to be playing a joke on him. Perhaps they were spying on him right now, and that was why he had the sense of being watched. However, he knew all too well what the H stood for. It was impossible.

Steven put the phone back in the cabinet beside him, and as soon as he did, the air in the room lost its chill.

He settled back into his bed, and eventually slipped into an uneasy sleep.

Light streamed in through the open curtains. Julia covered her eyes with her arm. Her head was pounding. It reminded her of the hangovers she used to get far too often in her days at university. Last night she had not had a drink though. She had come home from the hospital and had coffee.

She tried to remember coming to bed. It had been late, of that she was sure. She couldn't remember it at all. The last thing she had any recollection of was setting up her things in the studio. Then what had happened? She struggled to see through the hangover-like fog in her mind. Had she felt ill? There was a vague memory of dizziness.

She rolled over to Steven's side of the bed. It felt cool and empty. The clock on his bedside table showed that it was already quarter to ten.

Getting out of bed she grabbed her dressing gown, but was pleased to feel that the house was much warmer than it had been the previous night. She wondered what time they would be releasing Steven from the hospital. She supposed that by now he was kicking up a fuss to leave, telling them he was okay whether he was or not. Often she had wondered how Steven would have handled a patient as awkward as he was.

She went to the en-suite bathroom and splashed her face with cold water, hoping to clear some of the fog from the previous night. It was then that she noticed her hands were filthy. They were covered in multicoloured marks, ones that she knew very well. They always looked the same after she had done a lengthy session painting.

It didn't make any sense. She had no memory of painting anything. She supposed it could have come from handling her boxes of art supplies, but doubted it. These were the type of smears and stains that could only be attained by hour after hour of actual painting. She rushed out of the room and up the stairs to the attic.

She saw it as soon as she got in the room. It was there in the middle of the room, atop the expensive easel her husband had bought her for their first wedding anniversary. A painting of the house, her house. It was her work. She would recognise that anywhere. The brush lines and colour selection were in keeping with her style. The subject matter, however, was totally out of character.

Julia Draper was an artist renowned for her abstract landscapes, paintings that captured the bleakness and beauty of nature. She was likewise known for doing moody portraits. Paintings of buildings, though, were not a thing that would usually interest her.

This, however, was a perfect rendition of her new home, realised in her personal style. There was no question in her mind that she had painted the picture, even though she could not remember doing so.

She stepped closer to the easel, to examine the finer details of the painting. The attic windows seemed to be covered with a cloud of translucent, purple smoke. She peered through this to the central window. There was a face at the window. It was a woman, her face contorted into an anguished scream. Behind the woman, there was a shadowy figure, holding a straight razor.

The taxi pulled up outside the house and Steven paid the driver. He had to admit he felt a little hurt that Julia had not come to pick him up, or even called to see when he was being discharged. He supposed she was still mad at him for the argument. She had said in the hospital that perhaps the shoes were Wendy's after all, but Steven knew better.

Of course, he kicked himself for not noticing the shoes himself when he was packing. If he had, then he would have simply thrown them away and Julia would have been none the wiser. It was simply that his wife had so many pairs of shoes that he had just been grabbing them and boxing them up.

He walked to the front door. His chest still felt a little tight, an aftereffect of the asthma attack no doubt, but on the whole he felt well. As he reached for the doorknob his mind flashed back to the night before. The memories stopped him in his tracks.

She had been there in his hospital room, Helen Swanson. She had sent that message to his phone, the one he had not been able to find this morning. He knew he had been awake, and yet there was no evidence of the phantom text message.

Steven pushed the memory to the back of his mind, where it belonged. He didn't believe in ghosts, so it must have been a dream. Or perhaps a hallucination caused by the stress of the move and the events afterwards.

He stepped into the house and closed the door behind him. The house seemed quiet. Julia was usually unable to sit in silence. She had to have the television or radio on regardless of whether she was watching or listening respectively. Today there was nothing. He strolled through the hallway, peering into the living room, dining room, study and kitchen as he went. All was still and there was no sign of his wife.

Perhaps she had gone out, but both cars had been outside, so if this was the case she must have gone on foot. This didn't seem like something his wife would do. Being blessed with a naturally slim frame and a high metabolism, Julia ate whatever she wanted and was completely against exercise of any form.

He wandered to the staircase and peered up.

'Julia?' he called out. 'Where are you?'

'Bedroom,' she called. There was something in her voice that didn't seem right, an unnatural level of excitement. He climbed the stairs.

The bedroom door was shut. As he opened it there was a loud clicking noise and a bright flash. Panic grabbed hold of him and his heart skipped a beat. He clutched at his chest. It all seemed incredibly reminiscent of the previous night. Had there been a flash then?

As his vision began to clear, he saw Julia in front of him carrying a camera. She was grinning from ear to ear.

'Jesus,' he said, catching his breath. 'What the bloody hell are you doing?'

Julia skipped over to him and threw her arms around him. She pulled him towards her and kissed him as though they had been apart for weeks, not hours.

'I'm so glad you're back,' she said, pulling away from him slightly. 'Sorry I didn't come and get you. Did you get a taxi?'

He stared at her,  he felt a little shell shocked from the speed of her questioning.

'Yeah, Doctor Williams called one for me when we couldn't get hold of you,' he said. 'What's happening? Why are you so excited? And, what's with the camera?'

She let go of him and grinned.

'It's probably easier if I show you,' she grabbed his hand and led him out of the room.

'Why is it so cold in here?' Steven asked, aware of the chill permeating the air.

Julia didn't answer. Instead she led him along the landing towards the staircase up to the attic. At the bottom, she motioned for him to go up. He looked at her, raising his eyebrow. He wondered what she was up to. He climbed the stairs and entered the attic.

He looked around and saw the two canvases propped up against the wall. Their wooden frames faced him, meaning that the painting surfaces were against the wall.

'Have you started painting again?' he asked.

She nodded with eagerness. He was just about to congratulate her, and tell her how proud he was of her when he noticed that the centre window was wide open.

'No wonder I'm cold,' he said, walking over to the window. 'Did you open this?'

Julia, still with her beaming grin, shook her head.

'No, actually I shut it. Five times since last night.'

What the hell was she talking about? Steven began to worry, her cheerfulness and confusion seemed to be like some sort of manic episode. Not wanting to agitate her he let the window comment go, and changed the subject.

'All right, let's see those paintings,' he said, starting to move over to where the canvases were resting.

Julia stepped in front of him and put a hand on his chest, still smiling.

'No. Not yet.’

Something was wrong with her. That was becoming ever clearer by the second.

'When?' he asked.

'Soon,' she replied. 'I have to tell you something first.'

'Okay.’

She went on to explain the events of the previous evening, how she had returned home from the hospital to find the house was cold, that she had discovered the open window, and assumed that he had not shut it, so she didn't think any more about it. Then she told him how she had unpacked all of her supplies and set up her easel, in preparation to start working again soon. Then she couldn’t remember a thing.

'Next thing I knew it's morning, and I'm in bed. When I got up, the house was warm. I saw that I was covered in paint. So I was confused. I came up here and saw this.'

She turned the first canvas around. Steven was shocked to see a very clear rendition of their new house. Definitely in his wife's style, but nothing like any of her other work. He peered at the painting. It was good, excellent in fact. Julia had lost none of her talent. His eyes were attracted by a purple, see-through cloud across the line of attic windows. At the centre window he noticed a face. It couldn't be. How would Julia know? He felt cold again.

'Who is this woman?' he asked, although he already knew the answer.

Julia rummaged in her pocket.

'I didn't know at first, but I had my suspicions,' she said. 'So I went to the library and found this.'

She handed him a piece of paper. He unfolded it and saw that it was a photocopy of the front page of the Lincolnshire Echo from six years ago.

Local Photographer Butchere
d
the headline screamed in bold type. Below was a photograph of a smiling, beautiful woman. A face from his past, one that Steven had not set eyes on for a long time. Sadness and dread filled his heart.

Julia did not even know his connection to Helen Swanson. It was a part of their agreement never to talk about their pasts, an agreement he was glad to keep when it came to Helen. How could he tell Julia what he had done? She would hate him for it, and he would deserve that hate.

'When I came home from the library, the window was wide open again. I kept shutting it, and as soon as my back was turned it was open. Then I had another blackout,' she said. 'When I came to, I'd done this.'

Julia turned the second painting around. From the shine, Steven knew it was still drying. However, this one was even more different from her usual work. The painting showed a close up of an SLR camera, much like the one hanging from the strap round her neck. The main focus of the painting was the lens. Reflected in this was more of the swirling, purple smoke. It appeared to be trying to form the semblance of a figure.

He let out a sigh. It was happening again.

'You're trying too hard,' he said, attempting to sound caring. 'Wanting to get back to work so soon. Can't you remember what happened last time you put this much pressure on yourself?'

She stared at him, her smile fading for the first time since he had arrived home. Her lips trembled and he could see her eyes were welling up.

'I'm not making this up,'  There was not any hint of anger in her voice, just disappointment.

'I didn't say you were,' he said, trying to be reassuring. 'But, perhaps you're getting confused about the times.'

She narrowed her eyes and gave a slight shrug.

'What do you mean?'

'Perhaps you opened the window again before you went out,' he said. 'And perhaps you saw this article before you did the painting.'

The colour rose in her cheeks, and her eyes bored into him.

'I'm not fucking crazy,'

'Of course not,' Steven replied, not wanting to argue again. He had to stay calm, even if Julia didn't. 'It's just that, after the last time, perhaps you should ease yourself back into work. Pace yourself, not go at it all guns blazing or you might burn out again.'

She turned around and kicked the folding table next to her easel, sending the items on top of it crashing around the room. The jars of water and white spirit shattered upon hitting the floor. She turned back to Steven.

'It was so hard for you, wasn't it?' she screamed at him. 'Poor Doctor Draper, his wife's in the nut house. What about me, Steven? Do you have any idea what it was like for me? They locked me up. They drugged me. They got inside my head and messed around with it. Sure it cured my depression, but it left me unable to put a brush to a canvas for six fucking months.'

She stopped and took a deep breath. She wiped the tears from her cheeks then looked back at him.

'It's not happening again. I wouldn't let it. I know exactly what I saw, and what I did last night. If you don't believe me, get the fuck out of my studio.'

She fell to her knees and began to cry, gentle weeping, that broke his heart. Steven felt the same urge he had so many times since he had met her. He just wanted to wrap her in cotton wool and protect her from the world, and herself. He knew he couldn't though. She was too strong, and too independent for that. All he could do was comfort her. He took a place on the floor next to her and put his arm around her, feeling the gentle sway of her body from crying.

His eyes, though, stayed fixed on the face of the woman in the window. The face of Helen Swanson.