The Banker's Niece 38: Cloak-man

1977

As far as Jane knew, not that she bothered much with history, Exeter’s ‘Quay’, an area next to the River Exe ten minutes’ walk from the city centre and a good half an hour from the university campus as well as the house where she lived, was once used by sea-going ships. That however was before a local countess decided she didn’t want them sailing through her estate and blocked the river with a weir. The Customs House was now a museum, and the brick storage tunnels under the hill behind the wharf, transformed into workshops and night-clubs: Smugglers, Pirates and The Barrel.

    Jane stood with Gordon next to the dance-floor in one of them. They were so similar, she could never remember which one she was in, even though she’d visited all three many times over her years at the university for one reason or another. There was always an excuse for a party.

    It was early and no one was dancing. A revolving mirror-ball sprinkled light flakes, and taped music played out softly from the empty DJ booth at the far end. They were the only romantic features of the room since without the crowds Jane noticed only too clearly the threadbare velvet on the chairs, the cheap shiny tables and the olfactory undertones of alcohol and cigarettes seasoned with sewage.

    Already she was regretting accepting Gordon’s invitation. They’d never been out together in public before – their encounters had always taken place in Gordon's room at the top of the house – and she feared it was a step too far for her.

    Not only that, but it had been a nightmare trying to find something to wear. What with her weight fluctuations and her general despair about her appearance she hardly ever bought clothes. She lived in one pair of jeans and a couple of thigh-length baggy jumpers which hid both the ever-present fat wobbling over the jeans’ waistband and the safety-pins necessary after she’d had a binge and couldn’t do up the zip. As a bonus, the jumpers stopped Jane’s mother being able to pick on Jane’s weight when reciting her usual litany of everything that was wrong with Jane.

    Unfortunately Heather had the same problems with food as Jane did and, while this was another bond between them, it didn’t help. Jane had introduced Heather to muesli – a packet of which they could finish between them in one sitting – and Heather had introduced Jane to cheesecake, likewise demolished. It was almost fun being in on it together, if you didn’t think about what followed, about hating everything to do with yourself and longing for something terminal because you couldn’t bear it any longer.

    But then, what female student didn’t have problems with food – either not eating it, like Jane in her teens, or not being able to stop eating it, like her and Heather now?

    Anyway, she’d ended up in a bright pink summer skirt with an elasticated waist, a baggy pale pink t-shirt she knew Gordon didn’t like – ‘The colour doesn’t suit you’ - and her brown boots which made her taller than Gordon but were better than the brown moccasins she wore with her jeans as she didn’t have any tights and could hardly go out in November with bare legs. (If only the clubs allowed women to wear trousers, things would be so much simpler.)

People began to trickle in and the noise of voices started to drown out the music. The DJ appeared – Jane could tell he was the DJ because he was older and smoother than most - and stood next to his booth chatting with a circle of admiring women. Queues formed at the bar.

    ‘We ought to start thinking about getting our drinks and finding a table,’ said Jane.

    ‘OK,’ said Gordon, turning from the dance floor.

    In a flurry, like fresh snow whipped up by a gust of wind, a figure materialised in front of them. He wore a threadbare whiteish shirt that might once have been blue. Flyaway light-brown hair, looking freshly washed, fluffed out around his head like Strewwelpeter’s. He was muttering under his breath.

    Gordon edged away but Jane waited. The man seemed distressed and she was curious. The muttering grew louder and she began to make out what he was saying.

    ‘They took my cloak. They made me leave my cloak in the cloakroom. It’s not a coat. It’s a cloak. It’s what I wear. They made me leave it in the cloakroom. I can’t go out and about without my cloak. They made me leave my cloak in the cloakroom . . .’

    Slowly she made sense of what was happening. This had to be Strider, the loony, the man she and Heather had been seeing in the Exe bar. Who else wore a cloak?

    ‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I,’ she said in an attempt to halt his tirade.

    The man glanced at her and then returned to his mad mutterings.

    ‘Why do you wear it?’ she said a bit louder.

    He ignored her.

    ‘What I mean is,’ she continued, ‘you obviously wear the cloak as a disguise, as something to hide behind, but at the same time it makes you so conspicuous. Is it that you want people to look at you, or is it that you don’t?’ She really wanted to know.

    The man pulled up short and stared at her.

    For a few seconds there was silence.

    Then he spoke again, but in a completely different – almost normal – voice. ‘That depends on who it is.’

    Now it was Jane’s turn to stare. She knew this man. She knew everything about him. She’d met him before, in a previous life, in previous lives. The past stretched out behind her like a long echoing corridor.

    She clutched Gordon, afraid she was about to fall over.

    ‘Take me away,’ she whispered. ‘I need that drink. Now.’

    ‘Who was that?’ she asked as they neared the bar.

    ‘Oh him,’ laughed Gordon. ‘Bit of an idiot, isn’t he. Works in the department as a technician. Name’s Rick.’

They found a table and staked a claim to it with their drinks glasses.

    ‘I must circulate,’ said Gordon. ‘Lots of people I should talk to. Want to come?’

    ‘Oh,’ said Jane. ‘No. I think I’d rather dance.’

    She slipped off her boots and joined the crowds massing on the dance-floor. She loved dancing.

    Some time later – she had no idea how long – thirsty, sweaty and tired, she returned to the table. There was no sign of Gordon and she gulped her drink peacefully.

    Cloak-man – Rick – did his materialisation trick again, appearing in front of her without her being aware of his approach.

    ‘There’s something I have to ask you,’ he said, leaning over the table, looking serious.

    He had a beard, she noted, surprised she hadn’t seen that before. It had the same clean fluffiness as his hair, and obscured most of his face except for his eyes, green and slightly sad.

    ‘OK,’ she said.

    What harm could there be in letting him ask a question? It was lucky though that Heather wasn’t there. She would be squirming under the table.

    ‘What star sign are you?’ he asked.

    Ah. That wasn’t what she expected. Perhaps Heather was right after all.

    ‘Why d’you want to know?’ she said.

    ‘Well, this astrologer-lady said that I was going to meet a Libran woman.’

    ‘I’m Cancer,’ said Jane, relieved.

    ‘Oh,’ he said, looking disappointed.

    Jane rummaged in her bag. She didn’t like him being disappointed.

    ‘Here’s an invitation,’ she said, handing him a card. She carried a sheaf around with her for occasions exactly like this. ‘It’s to a party in a couple of weeks’ time in the house where I live.’

    ‘Oh, thanks,’ he said, looking pleased.

    He stuffed the card in a pocket of his trousers and she wondered if he’d ever find it again.

    He wouldn’t turn up of course, or at least she hoped he wouldn’t.

It was she unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – who opened the door to Rick. He swept in, whisking off his cloak and flinging it over the banisters. She couldn’t help noticing his well-fitting magenta jeans, held up with a broad leather belt.

    ‘Food and drink in there,’ she said, pointing to the kitchen behind her. ‘Dancing there,’ she said pointing to the door off the hall that led to the sitting- and dining- rooms which they’d opened into one.

    Then she scarpered, doing her best to melt into the throng.

    For the moment, she’d solved her sartorial problems. She’d found in Dingles department store a floor-length dress in thick cotton, black with red flowers, tight over the bust – which was OK as her bust was the only part of her that never changed size – and then gathered. She didn’t have to wear tights, she didn’t have to wear shoes and she didn’t have to worry about her stomach. Nor did she have to wear a bra if she didn’t want to but she did because without one she didn't have a bust.

    She danced around the house, chatting to people, quaffing wine, and feeling slightly giddy. She was glad they’d all got together in the household and decided to pool their friends. Parties made her feel like a normal carefree student, instead of someone old and tired.

    The only problem was Rick. Everywhere she went she found him standing there in his red trousers, waiting and watching like Banquo’s ghost.

    At last he cornered her in the hall. ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said.

    Against her better judgement she did and to her surprise he listened, scrutinising her with his deep green eyes. She didn't say anything important, at least she didn't think she did, but while she babbled she realised that he lived in exactly the same world as she did and that she’d never met anyone else who did or came close to doing so. Certainly not her family, not even dear Ollie. But she didn’t want to live in that world. It was dark and dangerous and filled with monsters.

     So, when Gordon passed, she grabbed his arm and followed him into the dancing.

    ‘I need some normality,’ she mouthed.

    Gordon nodded understandingly.

    In the early hours of the morning when the house had emptied and she made her way towards the stairs and bed, she found Rick standing alone in the middle of the dining-room. 

     He looked so lost, she kissed him on the cheek.

    ‘I’ll find you a blanket,’ she said.

    The next morning when she went down for breakfast, he was still there, still in his red trousers, leaning against a wall in the kitchen.

    When she returned to her room, she found a note on the pillow.

    ‘Thank you for the party, thank you for the blanket, and thank you for being you.’

    Oh no. What had she started?

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