The Night Following
The Night Following
Morag Joss
Edgar Awards (nominee)
On a blustery April day, the quiet, rather private wife of a doctor discovers that her husband has been having an affair. Moments later, driving along a winding country road and distracted perhaps by her own thoughts, perhaps blinded by sunlight, she fails to see sixty-one-year-old Ruth Mitchell up ahead, riding her bicycle. She hits her, killing her instantly. And drives away.
The hit-and-run driver is never found. But the doctor's wife, horrified by what she has done, begins to unravel. Soon she turns her attention to Ruth's bereaved husband, a man staggering sleeplessly through each night, as unhinged by grief as the killer is by guilt.
Arthur Mitchell does not realize at first that someone has begun watching him through his windows, worrying over his disheveled appearance, his increasingly chaotic home. And when at last she steps through his doorway, secretly at first, then more boldly, he is ready to believe that, for reasons beyond his understanding, his wife has somehow been returned to him…
A story of loss, lies, and wrongdoing, astonishingly complex and ingeniously inventive, The Night Following is also a love story and the extraordinarily moving tale of a killer's journey from the shadows into the light. It confirms the mastery of a writer who is both tender and unflinching in her examination of human frailty-and of the shattering repercussions of deception.
Morag Joss
The Night Following
© 2008
Permission to reproduce “I live in a world I have not created” by Elizabeth Jennings, from her collection Relationships,
published by Macmillan, is granted by David Higham Associates Limited.
FOR PATRICK
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For this UK edition of The Night Following I would like to express grateful thanks to Duckworth Publishers and in particular to Peter Mayer, Tracy Carns and my editor Mary Morris.
For her generous and insightful editorship of the novel for its original publication in America, I am most grateful to Kate Burke Miciak at Random House.
I am indebted also to my two wonderful agents, Maggie Phillips at Ed Victor Limited in London and Jean Naggar of the Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency in New York. They are so much more than agents; I appreciate deeply their warmth, kindliness, optimism and faith.
Permission to use the Mimosa poem, written by Maria G. Bracchi-Cambini and dedicated to her daughter Joan, was very kindly given by the late Joan’s brother Bert and her daughters Sue, Anne, and Carol. Thank you.
Finally, I wish to thank my friends and my daughter Hannah, who in their various adorable ways kept me going during the writing of this novel.
THE NIGHT FOLLOWING
Something tells me it’s important not to look dangerous. You would think I’d be beyond it by this time, the old dread of making scenes, but I do want to get it done quietly, with the niceties observed. With some respect for finer feelings, though whose exactly it’s hard to say at this point. If I could be sure of that, if I could be sure they’d take me with an attitude of courteous regret, of sorrow even, that reflects my own, I’d do it today. I would.
My hair and shoes are a little unfortunate but I could make myself tidy. I could practise the proper face in a mirror first. There’s not much I can do about the bones around my eyes that have a bluish, knuckly look about them now, but I think I could upturn my face so it resembled the mask expected of reasonable women entering this supposedly balanced and amiable chapter of middle age. I could clear my throat and imitate the rounded, sprightly cadences of such women’s voices and say-what?
Suppose for instance I said, in that singing-out manner, Oh, excuse me! Could you help? I’m afraid something has happened.
As if I’d dropped a jar at the checkout. Would that be the correct thing?
There must be a right way and a wrong way, as there is for everything. I believe turning up at a police station might be customary, insofar as my particular circumstances are customary. But police stations aren’t in obvious places anymore and I could waste all day looking for one. Or I could dial 999, although call boxes aren’t in obvious places anymore, either. And they would ask me what’s happened because how else are they to know who to send-police, ambulance, or fire engine-and I couldn’t begin to go into it all on the telephone. But what is the emergency, they’ll insist. All I could tell them is that I think I am. I may be the emergency. It’s true that I would be emerging. I would be appearing unexpectedly after a spell of concealment. Surely I must be the emergency. What else could I say? That there’s been an accident?
Once they saw I wasn’t dangerous, I suppose for a time at least they’d prefer to think of me as sick. Indeed, I could just walk into a hospital. That worked before, after a fashion. I could just walk into a hospital, and nobody would ask if I actually believed I could ever find help there for what afflicts me.
The truth is I’m neither sick nor dangerous. I’m merely displaced. Not that that makes me unique. You’ve seen me, or someone like me, anywhere out of the way and out of season, run-down, closing down and in decline, though I may have escaped notice unless you happened to catch me in a small space between thoughts of your own. You will have seen me in odd, deserted places: a woman alone on a bridge, or standing by the roadside at a strange and hazardous point where weeds are sprouting, perhaps just loitering near an inexplicably derelict bus stop. I’ll remind you of loneliness or old age, or that winter’s setting in.
But most often I’ll be in restless places, the passing points of departure and arrival between various somewheres. I’m the one apart and hesitant in the waiting rooms of stations, under the arc lights of ticket halls and in the corner booths, hovering at turnstiles and gates, never quite joining queues nor scanning information boards, yet never unaware of the human traffic. I stay in by the wall, sidestepping the tide of those in genuine and deliberate transit, dazed yet somehow impervious, lost but not utterly bewildered. I drift just outside the echoes and thrums of journeys that are not mine, the endings and beginnings of missions, diversions, pilgrimages, expeditions. I observe lives unlike mine, full of imperative planned destinations, and I envy people this apparent conviction that their myriad tiny events, their moving towards events yet to be, are of some importance. Neither a proper impetus to travel nor a true purpose in remaining where I am falls my way. I lack reasons either to go or to wait, and this looks like failure in me.
Not that I am at all disgraceful. I am never drunk. I don’t mutter. I don’t carry my belongings in a bundle. It may be stained and tatty but I do have luggage, and I tend also to have an address, albeit it’s always temporary. I manage to keep out of hostels, mostly. Once a day I endeavour to eat at a table, wherever there’s a bargain (jumbo platter, hot drink, £3.99) and whether or not it’s a proper mealtime. Also once a day I’ll spend up to an hour nibbling on most of a sandwich and then wrap and pocket the crusts for later. I’m a hoarder, not a scavenger; I admit I never spend money on a paper (and actually it suits me not to read the news before it’s old and discarded) but I would not dream of polishing off abandoned cups of coffee. It’s true that I’m not above helping myself to forgotten gloves and scarves. Once in winter I took a man’s coat, left on a bench.
So my vagrancy is unspectacular. I wear a taint of rationing, that’s all. I have the thready, ashamed look of a reduced person who assumes there is worse reduction to come, who lingers until the last minute where it’s warmest before boarding the final bus or train, or who walks away from the dark station as the grilles rattle down because nobody waits for her in the evenings.
But tomorrow, though it’s hard for me to speak loud enough for you to hear, I’ll try again. I’ll take a sly, off-centre interest in your m
oments of parting and greeting, look too closely at your clothes, the magazine you carry. Your polite glance when you ask if the seat next to me is free I’ll take as an invitation.
Yes! Though it’s none too clean.
No. Oh well, it’ll do.
I’m overglad to be spoken to, so that far too soon and whether you replied this way or not, I’ll turn to you with a remark too intricate, an anecdote too unlikely and revelatory. Yes, the pigeons here are awful, aren’t they? I met a woman once who got worms off a bench, from the droppings, she said. Filthy, it was. Much worse than this! After that she wouldn’t sit anywhere in public without spreading the seat with newspaper first. Once she stood an entire night because she hadn’t got any. But you can’t win, can you, because that played merry hell with her veins, which was worse than the worms. Or so she claimed.
And you’ll look away. You’ll dread that anyone might overhear and think something in you encouraged the likes of me to babble to you in this manner, in a hurrying voice and staring straight at your eyes, using the sincere and zealous hand gestures of a person who expects to be disbelieved or motioned to shut up before her story is finished.
I don’t blame you. I’ll watch you walk away just as I might have been about to ask if you knew where the nearest police station is, or if there is a telephone nearby, or a hospital. I know I’m unsettling. Maybe it’s because I know something you don’t, though it secures me no advantage. It’s only the knowledge that some other knowledge eludes me. It’s nothing more than an awareness of questions that the happenstance of some lives and not others-mine, say, and not yours-poses for some people and not for others.
Such as, where do I pick up the story of a life that should be over, but isn’t? If events have halted a life’s narrative as utterly as death itself, how do I go on as if I believed in mere continuation, never mind solace and amends? You won’t know. So I won’t detain you by saying, Oh, excuse me! Could you help? I’m afraid something has happened.
I won’t call after you to tell you how weary I am, I’ll settle back and wait out another day. To pass the time, from somewhere in my baggage I’ll bring out bundles of thumbed papers secured under rubber bands and I’ll fret over ordering and reordering them, rereading this or that grubby old letter as if it might contain something new. And I’ll sink into wondering again, asking myself the same questions and finding them still unanswerable.
27 Cardigan Avenue
living room
8th May
Dear Ruth
Were the flowers satisfactory? I just got white ones, you know I’m no good with colours. Were they the right thing?
Writing this isn’t my idea it’s Carole’s. You don’t know Carole.
Well can’t think of anything else for now.
Arthur
Did it begin that morning? If it did, could I have known? Suppose that morning the butter had been purple and the sparrows blue and flying backwards, was I too preoccupied with writing my shopping list (eggs, raspberries) to notice? If clouds had arranged themselves over the garden spelling out a warning in big vapoury letters and loomed through the window, might I have been turning away at that precise moment and failed to see? I go on wishing that if what happened was fated to happen I could have been given a second’s notice, just long enough to take a step out of its path. But that would amount to its not having been fated after all, and I would probably have missed such a warning, anyway. I had been unattuned to signs for so long.
Because of course it began long before the condom wrapper in the glove compartment. I must have missed those signs, the slight, prosaic symptoms of near-comic, midlife adultery: an unexplained and distant air of satisfaction, some extra fastidiousness about hair and fingernails, a renewed determination to lose some weight. Did he take longer to answer when I spoke to him? How many times did he look at me and wish he were with her, or slip away to ring her in a small, timed absence? I missed the little signs, but maybe I missed huge and laughably obvious ones, too. Maybe he had been living in a state of priapic delirium right under my nose but I had stopped seeing anything at all when I looked at him.
So the day began small. It was a Thursday in late April and set to be the same day again, the one I lived over and over, small and ordinary as I liked all days to be, though this one was to have one of those small and ordinary variations. We were switching cars. Jeremy was taking mine to be serviced and leaving me his so that I should not be inconvenienced. He would leave my Renault at the garage in Salisbury, walk to the hospital, and pick the car up at the end of the day. Small and ordinary arrangements had been made. Small, ordinary, and half-joking warnings not to scratch his precious Saab convertible were given and taken, after which we exchanged a small and ordinary good-bye.
No, that’s not it, either. Too innocuous a beginning-my car being due its service-to be truly a beginning. Nor is a Thursday in April very much to the point, although it was, as would be said later, a proper spring day: sharp and blustery, one of those boisterous, unpredictable mornings randomly bright and dark when cold sweeps of cloud pass and clear across the sun, a day when your eyes water in the wind and you wish the weather neither warmer nor cooler, just less sudden.
I drove to the supermarket. I knew Jeremy’s gym bag and rackets would be in the boot so I didn’t bother to open it; it was too small to be much use even empty. I unloaded as fast as I could and filled the floor on the passenger side with bags. I wanted to get on; often I ran into someone I knew and I didn’t especially want to, out of slight embarrassment, perhaps. The Saab was bright yellow. Without telling me, Jeremy had sold the Volvo and cashed some bonds and bought it on his fifty-fifth birthday. I hadn’t said anything at the time. I considered my not taking much notice of what Jeremy did to be one of my virtues and anyway, smug people often are naturally indulgent. He said he’d always been bored by estate cars and I would still have my little Renault if that was the issue. A sign.
I placed the last bag with the fragile things in it on the passenger seat, walked around to the other side, and got in. I had started the engine and put the car in gear before I noticed a dark liquid pooling in a corner of the bag and a shocking red ooze escaping from it onto the seat. I snatched the bag up and at once the split in the bottom of it yawned open. The raspberries and a box of eggs already disintegrating in raspberry juice dropped out and broke into the puddle that was forming in the hollow of the dove grey suede upholstery. The raspberry carton, minus the lid, tumbled out along with more juice. The bag was still swinging from my hand. Then the second carton of raspberries and the lid of the first flipped through the shreds of plastic and landed on top. That’s why I was looking for a tissue.
Still in living room
9th May
Settee, 4.15 am
Dear Ruth
A few came to the house afterwards. What’s-her-name Marsden from across the road and your group got it organized. Sandwiches, etc. It passed off all right. I stuck leftovers in freezer. Do egg sandwiches freeze?
Arthur
PS Funny to think you don’t know Carole, you know everyone.
Ifished in the glove compartment for something to mop up the eggs and raspberries. No tissue. My fingers landed on the empty little foil wrapper torn halfway across the letters DU and REX.
I don’t like surprises, but my natural propensity is always to avoid making a scene. So I didn’t burst into tears or sink my head onto the steering wheel or even swear. I wasn’t angry. What happened was not the result of anger. Nor was I quite shocked. I was overwhelmed, if anything, by detachment. As if caught in a freak rush of air, I felt all at once swept off my feet and placed somewhere cooler, elevated, and separate. Of course I hadn’t really moved and I sat there for maybe only two or three minutes, but I felt my breathing ease and my heart lighten with every beat. As time ticked by, I watched my life, or my idea of it at least, shift and re-form; I saw the old encumbered sense of who I was and all the ponderous certainties of the piled-up, married years lift and blow a
way from me. Maybe they never had been so certain after all, or of much use. I gave them one last audit as they flew past, disintegrating as they went: engaged at twenty to Jeremy (ten years older, anaesthetist, dependable). No children, history of miscarriages, cause unclear. No career worth mentioning, some dabbling once as agent for a catalogue selling artists’ supplies, a little voluntary work in galleries. Inclined to be fanciful, if not highly strung. These days she paints, in watercolours of course and with enthusiastic mediocrity, the same butterflies and flowers and landscapes painted by all unconvincing, wishywashy women; she sets great store on capturing the curve of wings and petals, the gleam of weak skies and pools of shallow water.
All the traditional wisdoms about fidelity, security, even happiness, came loose, too, and went flapping after them. They grew shimmery and fell away to nothing, and when they had gone I marvelled that I had ever thought them real.
This new lightness both exhilarated and relaxed me. I switched off the ignition. I sat with the condom wrapper in my hand and saw what must have gone on like a sequence of illustrations from a story I’d been carrying around in my head, untold, for more than half my life. Look, here are Jeremy and his wife, married all these years. Jeremy is an anaesthetist; his wife is artistic. He rescues human beings from pain, she notices the reflections of clouds in puddles. Here is their tasteful house in Beaulieu Gardens, a leafy cul-de-sac. They do not look unhappy, and why should they? They acquired long ago a lightness on the subject of childlessness and they have no troublesome friends or worries about money. They have everything from a double garage to a self-cleaning espresso machine. But if they are happy they are not ecstatically so. Ecstasy is not in the picture. What’s on the next page?