Companion

"What shall we do today, then?" The man's voice sounded loud in the quietness of the flat, even though he had always thought of himself as softly-spoken. No reply was forthcoming, not for the first time recently. The silences had been getting longer, the man thought, things were not going as well as they should.

"No need to decide now, the world is our oyster. Mind you, I never did like oysters!" The man laughed at his own joke, a genuine enough laugh superficially, but closer analysis might have revealed a slightly off-key note, a hint of forced jollity. There were things that needed to be done before there could be any thoughts of venturing out into the world. Breakfast to be prepared, washing to be collected, ready to be taken to the launderette, cleaning to be done. The flat was always immaculate, the man had no wish to live in squalor, even though visitors were few and far between. He didn't mind that he seemed to do everything himself, it at least gave him a sense of making a worthwhile contribution to the household. It would have been nice to have some help occasionally, he thought, but his moments of dissatisfaction were rare. As he transferred the contents of his laundry basket into the large holdall he used to take its contents the short distance to the launderette, he mused, not for the first time, that it would be nice to have a washing machine of his own, but he knew that there just wasn't enough room in his small one bedroom flat.

He gazed lovingly at the female clothing mixed in with his own - after all his years of living alone, he would never have expected, now that he was on the verge of middle age, to have found himself sharing his life with someone else. It had always been so hard for him, going right back to his childhood, to overcome his agonising shyness, the feeling that he was never worthy of anyone's friendship, much less love. His parents always tried their best to encourage him to come out of himself, find activities for him where he could mix with others, build his self-confidence, but it was a hopeless task, the feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness were so deep-seated as to be completely intractable. 'There's nothing wrong with you', his mother would often say, but, much as he loved her, he knew, from as far back as he could remember, that she was mistaken, there was something wrong with him. He was too clever, too introspective, too painfully aware of all his faults, those faults highlighted day in and day out by his schoolmates, the fact that he was overweight, the fact that his teeth weren't too straight, the fact that he always knew the right answer in class without even trying - 'Fatso', 'Dracula', 'Teacher's Pet' were names that followed him everywhere, haunting, taunting. There was an old churchyard next door to his school, the church long gone but the tombs and gravestones still remaining, and he spent most of his break times and lunchtimes there, whenever it wasn't too wet, sitting quietly reading amongst the memorials of lives come and gone, peaceful people who accepted him for who he was. Everyone expected him to go on to a good university when his school career was over, but he shocked his family and his teachers by finding himself a job, one which, when they thought about it, people had to admit, suited his meticulous, almost obsessive personality - he began training as an archivist. As soon as he was financially able to, he left home and rented a bedsit near to his work, then later, bought his flat, his little oasis, where he had now lived for over fifteen years. It was a 'bachelor pad', nothing more or less, but ideal for him, because he knew beyond all doubt that there would only ever be him living there.

Until last March. His work was usually solitary, studying, cataloguing, and, in recent years, digitising for distribution via the internet, the contents of the county archives. From time to time, though, and they were times he dreaded, he had to help scholars and genealogy enthusiasts who had applied to undertake research in the archives, and required his expertise to help them locate what they needed, and to make sure the materials were properly handled, where access to the originals was necessary. He normally had a few days' notice of any such impending visit, by way of an e-mail from the administration office, but on this Monday morning, as he checked his computer, he found a message which had been sent on the previous Friday lunchtime - 'S.Rowland requires access to 18th and 19th century property archive, appointment made for Monday March 8, 10:00.' March 8 - that was today, an hour from now! He felt panic pricking his chest, how could he be ready in an hour? Maybe Mr Rowland wouldn't turn up, broken appointments often happened, then he would be left to his reclusive devices, as usual. He began his day's work, but his sense of trepidation only strengthened as 10:00 approached, until the discreet bleep of his pager resounded in his ears like a cannon shot, startling him beyond all reason. He reluctantly read the message, which confirmed his fears. 'S.Rowland at reception'. He made his way along the corridor towards the foyer of the building, his nervousness building with every step. The receptionist greeted him cheerfully, as ever.

"Suzanna Rowland is here, Mr. Porter," the woman said, gesturing towards the two or three seats against the far wall. The man blanched, this was going to be even worse than he'd feared. Not just a new person to deal with, but a female. He was literally shaking with fright as he turned towards where the stranger awaited him.

"Good morning, Ms Rowland, I'm Jonathan Porter." It took every ounce of his willpower to speak. "I believe you'd like to see our property archive."

"Hello, Mr Porter." The young woman extended a hand towards him, which he shook tentatively, and returned to its owner. "I'm researching the history of my home village, and the families who have lived in the area for the last 200 years, your archive has been recommended to me as an excellent source of information as to the ownership of the property in and around the village. I'm hoping to write a small book, we're trying to raise funds to renovate the village hall."

"A worthy cause, I'm sure. If you'd like to follow me, we'll hopefully be able to find something useful to you."

The man's mind was only half engaged with what he was saying, something was nagging at the fringes of his memory, this young woman, pleasant-looking without straying towards the realms of 'beauty', in her mid-twenties, at a guess, conservatively dressed, seemed eerily familiar to him, but he couldn't understand why. The thought continued to grate, like a hum in his mind, as he pointed out this file and that to Suzanna, and she began to study the information, taking copious notes. It was a good hour before the connection was made in his head - he looked towards the woman, who looked up from her notebook, her shoulder-length dark hair framing her face, smiling slightly as she met his gaze, and the pieces fell into place with a click that the man thought almost audible. She looked just like 'that' girl, the one who had gone out of her way to make his life a misery at school, then had seemed to change her mind, to be warming towards him, asking him for help with her school work, and finally asking him, after a couple of weeks, if he was free on Saturday, could he meet her at the public library to help her with a project she had to have finished by Monday morning. His heart had lifted, maybe, just maybe, he was going to have...a girlfriend? He'd been there half an hour before the time they'd agreed to meet, waiting on the benches outside, but after 90 minutes had come and gone, he knew in his heart that she wasn't going to come, he'd been stood up. Then she appeared, around the corner of the building - but not alone. She was with three or four other members of her 'gang', and they were all giggling and pointing at him. He remembered every word she'd said, verbatim, even after nearly 30 years - 'You didn't really think I was interested in you, you fat loser. I'd have to have my brain removed before I went out with you!' They all fell about laughing, before ironically waving goodbye and heading off into the town centre, leaving him sitting there, humiliated, alone. He shed no tears, just locked the feelings inside, further proof, if any were needed, of his worthlessness. All this came back as he looked at the young woman in front of him, looked long enough to see the smile on her face begin to evaporate.

"Is something wrong, Mr Porter?"

"No, no...I'm sorry, you reminded me of someone I knew at school, and it's taken me until now to place who it was I was thinking of. Memories fade with age, I'm afraid."

He assiduously avoided looking at her, unless it was unavoidable, for the remainder of the day, while still doing his best to help her research. As 4:30 approached, he spoke to her once again.

"I'm sorry, Ms Rowland, but I'm afraid the archive will be closing in a few minutes. If you need more time, I'm sure it will be possible for you to make an appointment to return on another day."

"Gosh, is it that time already? Can I just finish checking through this last document?"

"By all means, I'll be here for another half hour or so, but I will need to lock up and so on."

Fifteen minutes later, she handed him the document she'd been studying, and he returned it to its proper place. A place for everything in his life, he thought, except one thing.

"Thank you very much for all your help today, Mr.Porter, I've found masses of stuff I would never have thought of. I might well make another appointment, but it wouldn't be for a few weeks, I've got work commitments. Could I buy you a drink, you really have helped me so much today."

The man's mind reached for the stock response, 'Don't mention it, just doing my job, glad to have been of assistance, I need to get home', but something short-circuited the normal decision-making process, and he heard himself say, "Thank you, Ms Rowland, that would be very kind. Would you mind waiting for a few minutes while I finish here?"

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in a quiet corner of the pub across the road from the archive building, chatting over glasses of red wine.

"I've taken quite an interest in local history myself over the years," the man said, "hardly surprising, you might say, given my job. I was born and brought up in the county, and I'm very fond of the area. I have a considerable collection of books on the subject at home, I don't know whether there might be anything of use to your research amongst them. I'm free most evenings and weekends, if you'd like to have a look."

So it was, that Suzanna found herself, later that evening, and after more than half of a shared bottle of wine, in the man's flat. How tidy, how orderly, she thought, just what you'd expect from an archivist. Nothing out of place, except...

The doorbell rang. The man stared at the blank back of the door, stunned. He didn't have visitors, ever...except once...

The bell rang again, insistently. The man slowly walked to the door, and slowly opened it. A youngish man, in a smart suit, was on the threshold. He presented his identification.

"Mr Porter?"

"Yes, I am he."

"Detective Constable Chappell, C.I.D. I'm investigating the disappearance of a young woman, we believe she had an appointment with you on the last day she was seen. Suzanna Rowland."

The man swallowed, cleared his throat.

"Yes, officer. She's here. Suzie, there's someone to see you."

The policeman, and a hitherto unseen colleague, made their way into the flat.

"She's in the bedroom," the man gasped, as his heart clenched agonisingly in his chest, taking his breath away.

D.C. Chappell pushed the door open, then flung a hand to his mouth in shock. His colleague started forward, then turned quickly as a loud thud sounded behind him. Jonathan Porter had collapsed to the floor, lifeless. As lifeless as the mutilated body of Suzanna Rowland, tied to a chair and wrapped in museum dust sheets, like some grim, shrink-wrapped simulacrum of a mummy. Jonathan Porter's only companion.

****

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B