Walking with Ghosts

can die a million deaths, and never know she has died. The violence that William feels towards his mother need never be given rein. Within the cosmic theatre it can find free expression. The violence is contained within the play, and Dora’s life is never threatened.
    That’s what William did. It was something he knew, something that was easy and clean and simple. His father was revenged. The formality of the operation, the twist of taking out their eyes, like she had taken out Arthur’s eyes, gave the play symmetry, the fatal gift of beauty.
    Between acts. Between the repetition of the same act over and over again. William could forget and relax.
    Almost.
    Anyway, that was the first thing. The main thing. The second thing that William had to do was connected to the first thing. It was the same with every production. In the theatre nothing was possible without finance. Many of the actors, the scene-changers, the little people associated with the theatre didn’t realize that. It was not their realm. But the producer, the writer, the director, they knew. Nothing happened without a budget. Every production needed money.
    That’s how the business with India Blake came about.
    She wasn’t a mother; she was a meal ticket. The plan had been to hold her there, in that garden shed, until her husband paid the ransom. Then she would be released. But it didn’t work out, because William realized that she would give his description to the police.
    When he got the money, William thought about killing her. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Just to kill someone like that, in cold blood. She wasn’t a mother, she wasn’t Dora. She didn’t fit into the pattern of vengeance, of revenge. She wasn’t suitable as a sacrifice. And anyway he’d done the sex thing with her. As an experiment. To see what it felt like. He’d brought her water and packets of crisps, and watched her eat and drink. He wouldn’t have been able to kill her. So it was good that she died eventually, of natural causes. That had solved the problem.
    And it would be the same with Charles Hopper. There was no way that Charles could be used as revenge for William’s father. He would have to live in the chest in William’s house until he died.
    All that was clear.
    The Dora stand-ins had to die; they had to have their eyes taken out. That was written into the script all those years ago. The others, India Blake and Charles Hopper, they knew too much, they would stop the play being performed if they had their freedom. They had to be imprisoned. They didn’t have to be killed. They had to be stopped.
    What had happened today, when he had felt impelled to kill the private detective woman, was that he had temporarily got the two categories mixed up. Up to now he had been able to keep them apart. He had understood from moment to moment exactly what was happening. He had been in control. Then suddenly, today, when Marie Dickens had gone to the rear of Charles’ house, he’d lost sight of who she was. He’d thought she was Dora. And she wasn’t, she was just someone who knew too much.
    And something else. In the instant that he’d mistaken the private detective woman for Dora he’d lost sight of himself. His self had slipped away from him. There was a moment there when he had almost taken her. A moment when he had been on the verge of becoming a common murderer.
    William scratched his head. The top of his skull was prickly. There was a dull ache behind his ears and behind his eyes. Tension in his neck.
    It was absolutely necessary that he keep a clear head about this. The issues were straightforward. There was no need for things to become confused. It was a matter of concentration.
    There was a loose end. The loose end was called Marie Dickens, the private detective. She was getting too close. William would have to get her inside his house, put her in the chest with Charles. They could be company for each other.
    That’s what he had to do. He had to remember that she wasn’t Dora. At all times he had to remember that. He would keep saying it over and over to himself. She isn’t Dora; she isn’t Dora. But when he’d said it five or six times he had to shake his head, because suddenly there was too much to remember, too many processes to control. And his head hurt, both inside and out.
    Felt like it might explode.
     

35
     
    Diana comes in with a tray of drinks. Outside the wind is buffeting the windows. There may be a storm brewing and you