‘You’re lucky he lives here,’ she said, not even remotely out of breath.
I had to rush to keep up with her. It was me that was huffing and puffing, yet she must have been twice my age.
‘He lives here?’
‘He owns the building, lets out the other rooms. He has several properties actually, but he lives on the top floor. I know it seems unlikely, but the doctor is quite the speculator. He talks of investing in manufacturing. He’s always lecturing me about how the English rely too much on imports and neglect their own industry. Have you not heard him ranting about inadequate technical education systems or the English obsession with excessive overseas investment?’
I shook my head, unable to get a word in edgeways.
‘Then you are one of the lucky ones, my dear. Yes, he lives frugally and isn’t the sort to spend. If it was left to him, this entire house would be unfurnished, only filled with instruments and those morbid specimens he insists on collecting. You’ve seen his office. He is not a believer in this new fashion for travelling to and from work, thinks it a pointless waste of precious time.’
She turned back to look at me now, flashed me her most charming smile.
‘Here I am, babbling on at you! Now, he told me he must see you, so I arranged his diary to accommodate this appointment. But please understand, Mrs Lancaster, he does not have long.’
I nodded. I was too conscious of catching my breath and noting how she’d expended comparatively little effort while I felt as if I’d run a hundred-yard sprint. I saw her take in the sweat on my upper lip and her expression changed. She seemed suddenly uncomfortable in my presence. I had the feeling that something about me had struck her as odd. I’d checked my reflection that morning and noticed that I was dull around the eyes, that my skin was dry and grey, and my egg-shaped lump still green. I began to worry I’d been spending too much time in my own company, unaware that my lips moved during my imaginary conversations, arguments I always won, with no one to point out my bizarre habits.
She opened the door to reveal Dr Shivershev behind his desk, spinning around on the spot, his head moving in all directions as if he were trying to swat a fly but first needed to find it.
‘Come in and sit down, Mrs Lancaster.’
His housekeeper shook her head, irritated by him instantly, showing that over-familiar fatigue one gets from close proximity. She closed the door behind her and I approached his desk.
‘I had both gloves in my hand only a second ago, how on earth could I lose one? It makes no sense, no sense at all,’ he said, still looking as if the missing glove could be found floating in mid-air.
I spotted it on the floor, picked it up and handed it to him.
‘Ah! Thank you. Please, sit down. Now, I suppose Irina told you…’
‘That you don’t have long, I understand,’ I said.
We locked eyes as I handed him the glove and he looked at me with the same expression as his housekeeper. I pretended not to notice. It felt strange enough being somewhere other than my bedroom, let alone out in the world beyond. It was most unsettling. We both stood there holding the black glove, until I realised I was the one who was supposed to let go. I think perhaps we were both recalling the moment we had last laid eyes on each other, in the Ten Bells. Of course, this would not be mentioned, neither of us could have a good explanation for being in there, so we would ignore it. This was an important part of our culture, after all: to understand when it was expected of us to ignore the glaringly obvious and politely pretend things were as they should be.
He asked how I had come about the lump on my head and sat forward, eager to listen, taking in all the bruises I wore in various states of healing.
‘My housekeeper pushed me down the stairs.’ I wasted no time. ‘I’ll come straight to it, Doctor. I am sorry if I appear out of sorts, but I fear for my life. It is not my intention to burden you, but I suppose it is your bad luck I have no one else. You’re the only person I’ve really had any conversation with outside of that house since I married, so I’m afraid I’m forced to confide in you. Please, this needs to be written down; otherwise, if anything does happen to me, no one will ever know. This way, there’ll be a record of this conversation and you can be a witness.’
I had his attention. He nodded, then took out fresh paper and a pen and gestured for me to continue.
I explained all that had led to my being seated in his office at that moment. How Thomas had changed after we married. How the scab on the back of my head had really come about and how I’d lied to protect him and not embarrass myself. I even confided in him that Thomas had come home with blood all up his arms and all over his coat and shirt.
‘Did he tell you what happened?’
‘No, only that he’d been in a fight with a man who owed him money.’
I blurted out this rambling, garbled mess and he tried to scrawl as fast as I spoke. I told him about our violent argument after the Café Royal, about Thomas’s subsequent disappearance and about how when he did eventually return home, he cried like a child begging for comfort and talked gibberish about a woman in the attic.
‘I’m sorry, what woman? I don’t understand – there is a woman in your attic?’ said Dr Shivershev.
‘No, of course not.’ I explained again, in more detail, about the attic and the dummy and
