Part 14 (1/2)

For the first few days the girls were cautious, respecting his privacy, whispering in barely audible voices outside his door and then creeping away disappointed. But as time pa.s.sed and he became more of a fixture in their lives, they became inquisitive and imperious, like robins.

Now they burst in, noisy and exuberant, with cold air caught between their layers of clothing, bearing exaggerated tales of the outside world. They cracked the door open if he didn't answer, and slid in, hiding under Peter's bed or in his wardrobe and talking in stage whispers until Alice and Justin emerged from their shared la.s.situde, lured out by the keen scent of a foreign existence. Alice maintained his appearance of dignified calm, but Justin's face lost a bit of its pallor at their approach.

Dorothea gave Justin ink blots and photographs to a.n.a.lyse. She listened intently to his answers, took careful notes.

'What do you see in this one?' she asked, showing him a black-and-white headshot of a pleasant-looking man in an old-fas.h.i.+oned fedora.

'It's the photograph on his obituary,' Justin said. 'He died in a terrible car crash, and that's the picture his wife sent to the papers.'

'That is a very strange answer,' she said frowning, her brow furrowed with concern. 'You are a very unnatural person, Justin Case.'

'You're not supposed to say it's strange,' he answered. 'You're supposed to say ”I see” in a nice calm voice and write it down.'

'Yes, I do see. But it's still strange.'

He nodded.

'What about this one?' She held up a picture of a prancing circus horse festooned in brightly coloured banners.

'No rider. He's fallen off. They can't stop the horse from galloping. It's running away. Gone mad. Rider braindamaged. Or dead.'

'You're making this up, aren't you?'

'I'm not. That's what I see.'

'And this?' She held up an ink blot.

'I can't tell you. It's too gruesome.' He turned away, shuddering.

Dorothea shook her head and made notes. 'You make me look like Happy the Clown.'

'I'm sorry.'

She looked at him, surprised. 'There's no need to be sorry. I don't imagine you choose to see the world this way.'

They played word a.s.sociation with predictably morbid results. At other times Dorothea followed Justin around with a notebook. She claimed to be studying (his) abnormal psychology.

'Do you suffer from bouts of melancholia?' Dorothea asked, then looked up at Justin and snorted. 'Next question. Would you describe yourself as possessed by demons? Do you practise self-abuse? Have you thought of becoming a priest? What dreams do you have?'

Yes, yes, yes, no. His dreams were either too disturbing or erotic to share, so he made them up. 'I dreamt I had a tiny dragon living in the palm of my hand. Its claws were extremely painful. It spoke with a squeaky voice and had razor-sharp teeth.'

She scribbled razor-sharp teeth into her notebook and underlined it twice, as Anna watched nervously, hugging Alice for safety.

'He is strange,' Dorothea explained to Anna, 'but not in a bad way.'

If I could just stick by her, Justin thought. If I could just tell her all the things in my head, knowing my thoughts won't cause her to run away, or to wither. She doesn't think I'm mad, or at least she doesn't show that she thinks I'm mad.

It helped that at least a portion of someone else's reality overlapped his own.

And so day by day, as Dorothea took notes and Anna clutched his arm, Justin fell in love with each of them a little more, with their soft bodies, blunt features and strange fantasies; with their high voices and cat eyes and casual ways of demanding affection. It wasn't l.u.s.t he felt, or brotherly love, but something lighter and more ambiguous.

They, in turn, talked with him, followed him around, welcomed his presence in their lives.

They were little girls, but girls nonetheless.

37.

Justin missed his dog.

As the days pa.s.sed and Boy failed to reappear, Justin began to accept that he had been gravely wounded or killed in the airport explosion.

A disinterested observer might expect the death of an imaginary dog to be less traumatic than, say, the death of a real dog, but this was not the case. Justin felt that Boy was the only living creature who understood the peculiar half-reality occupied by his enemy. It made sense. Boy lived in that world too.

Yet if this were true, Justin brooded, if Boy had come to exist because he, Justin, had conjured him out of thin air, out of the murky depths of his subconscious, then how could Boy be killed off in the real world? His head spun.

The dog had offered him solace and loyalty. Protection. Love. Boy was his, his creation, his companion. His soul-mate. He was the only creature on earth who could fill the jagged void in his brain, in his heart. Who could possibly want to destroy that?

Justin knew. He dropped his head into his hands in despair.

I want my dog back.

I'll talk to him, he thought. I'll beg him to give me back my dog. I'll do anything. I'm not proud.

And then he sat up, suddenly angry. But I created Boy. No one has the right to destroy him but me.

He was shouting now, spinning around like a blind boxer. You can't just crawl into my head and destroy my creation! Do you hear me? He's my dog! He's mine, and I want him back!

Justin looked up and saw Dorothea staring at him. He brushed the tears from his face. Looked away.

'I was talking to fate.'

She said nothing.

'I want my dog back,' he explained.

'The greyhound?'

'Yes.'