The Shadow

Part One

The Shadow

The thing is, Susan Taylor-Matthews had never really meant to upset the woman anyway. She had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and Big Ben could, should, have told her that her place was not here, but not Rosalie Colander? Coriander, or whatever she was called. But then as her Doug her husband had patiently pointed out, those who were a bit lost anyway, these hopeless hopefuls, did rather tend to......stick to one.
It had been an important opening, that one. The venture she and her husband had worked so hard on over the years to bring some much-needed culture to the city.....both art centre it was, which, while run down, was so well connected infrastructure-wise. Providing prestigious studio space it did, for several other young, emerging talents, both in painting, installations and in sculpture.
The ateliers had been thrown open to the public before the exhibition opening that was to feature her work, all the years and years of graft and sacrifice, the manoeuvrings to get into power. Nevertheless, she had arrived now at at least it could be truly said that she had a Name. There had been several shows abroad, her most recent prize, the critical reception from her closest friends. Now was the time for both her mentors, and colleagues share in their hard-won recognition, before the opening itself.
Rosalie Callendar as an individual had hardly registered with her for years when they had been, well, colleagues at the school. Many of the staff had jested that they had seemed very similar, any creativity notwithstanding. They were each rather Bohemian in their differing ways, somewhat absent-minded in demeanour: middle-aged, fair, with blue eyes. That, however, was where the similarities ended. Taylor was extroverted and a of strong personality, or at least she had always prided herself on this, but her colleague was not. Callendar had been almost pathologically shy in the staffroom, avoiding eye contact, and when not focusing on her lesson preparation, had always appeared to be doodling.
A bit of a sad case, really. Yet the head of the school had allowed her to exhibit at the end of term in the school's little studio area, after she, the head of Art had conceded that Rosalie's work indeed was Art. Of a sort. That had been all very well, except that a few rather strange individuals had turned up for the opening, when Sue had assumed Rosalie had had no friends.....she had not perceived Rosalie to have been the type of person who might have been drawn to any kind of clique.
There were a lot of oohs and ahs from both these odd folk as well as the staff on the opening, but after being approached for her expert opinion Susan had believed in being brutally honest. 'Your work is merely decorative,' she had told her. 'Not really Art at all.'
And that had been that. Until just before the opening when she had run into her just outside the centre. Quite by chance. 'Do wait a while,' she had urged her. 'Our opening will be in a couple of hours.'
And it seems that Rosalie had stayed. She had spent a considerable amount of time exploring the other workshop areas chatting with the other artists; one afterwards had remarked that she had asked her a good number of searching questions about painting in general, different techniques and so on. ‘She seemed very ambitious,' had been her observation.
Then she had found her way to her own workspace. 'This is what I have been doing recently!' she beamed, then actually waving some kind of catalogue into Susan's surprised face.
'Did she really think I would be interested in her work, on my opening night?' Susan had wondered. She tried to be polite when this woman had had the effrontery - on her night, producing a book her work, mind - then had opened the thing and had even started showing her garish photos of more of these really unprofessional-looking drawings.
It had been hard not to burst out laughing. But she had tried to be gracious, offering the brochure she had done at some great time and expense for her opening. She had hoped that that might get rid of her. It didn't. She remained - a stalwart, shabby figure in her trademark black along with her trademark unkempt and sometimes greasy hair shrouding her equally trademark sallow face, long nose and baleful eyes. Susan had always thought she looked ill. That in itself raised a certain primal revulsion in her, as for the unclean, or the tubercular. As she had tried to engage her husband and friends into what she had hoped would be her own, intimate little soiree before the main opening, Rosalie had doggedly remained. When Rosalie had asked her husband about some insider comment after he had spoken to her, Susan had pointedly told him that it had been about 'a private conversation.'
On going out, Nanda, who had been the first invited to occupy an atelier here, had told her that Rosalie had explained to her she had been 'asked to network' but some marketing guru? Life coach? - and that after all, it was supposed to be an open evening. Yet there was something about Rosalie's neediness and inability to read the situation that had really started to infuriate her.
And when she had returned and found her still there, that was the last straw. She just could not help herself, her patience finally  boiled over. 'Rosalie!' she had called out to her in exasperation beyond words, 'This is a private venue. You were not actually invited here.' Others, and there had been a lot here now, drinking the cold, thin wine to toast the project, either studiously ignored the exchange, or pretended to be focused on something else.
'Do you mean I am intruding?' Rosalie had queried, disingenuously. 'You can join the opening in another half-hour,' she had reminded her evenly, 'but this is meant to be a private party.'
She had not expected such a bashful person to make a scene but she had, as she had sarcastically made her goodbyes, loudly, in front of everyone, and sworn out loud on finally leaving. But what had she expected?
The opening after that had gone well and her most loyal friends had congratulated her on being so assertive. Others, however, including her husband, had expressed some reservations. 'You have to see it from her point of view,' they had told her. After all, you had said it was an open evening.'
Yes, not a few had asked her to consider it from her point of view. One or two others had sounded a different kind of warning. 'She wants to get back at you,' they had warned her. 'The students said she practices black magic.'
It might have been due to those who had been rather more critical than supportive of her getting rid of an unwelcome presence when she had, but something about the incident just would not go away. It might have been due to the dark fogginess of November. But often it started to seem that she was catching sight of Rosalie's profile, out of the corner of her eyes, when she was not there at all. It still seemed to possess a jeering, jarring presence. On her next opening at the centre, her heart had been in her mouth when she thought she saw Rosalie leaning in the background just out of the spotlight, eyes gleaming.
She began to feel she was being watched everywhere and on one occasion had turned suddenly to check, half expecting to see a thick, floating face confronting her, contorted with hate. She could not get the wretched woman's presence out of her mind. Not that the rumours about that woman having been practising black magic had really, somehow hooked some sense of deep, dark guilt in Susan, when she had put her in her place, but even so.....
Then, on one particularly bad night, she woke up suddenly. Her eyes took in what the lamplight coming in from the window allowed her to pick out from the dark....only to see in crystal-clear detail that awful woman's profile and twisted form sitting on her bedside table - with a gleaming knife aimed at her heart!  Her husband had never heard her scream like that, bit on the morning he was still quick to play psychologist. 'You just feel guilty because of the way you humiliated her in front of so many people.'
The psychologist her doctor referred her to had actually asked if there was anyone who bore her a grudge and naturally she had mentioned what had happened on her opening night. This therapist had agreed that in the case of someone who was frustrated and less than well balanced, it was scarcely surprising she might have carried some resentment towards her.
She had felt so very understood until the therapist. Those spaniel eyes, seeming to penetrate her most unacknowledged need. The first time she had gently asked her how it had felt, being so unsupported in her early years, whilst simultaneously trying to bring up children and look after a husband too, she had wept so much and it had felt so cathartic.
However her therapist, who was a Jungian, had then started asking more probing questions. Challenging her most cherished assumptions. It seems that along with her colleagues, she too was starting to hone on alleged similarities between herself and her old colleague.
‘The thing is Susan,' she had leant towards her, never breaking eye contact, 'You see, Susan, we do often project certain things.'
Apparently, Jungians were of the opinion that many people are secretly ashamed of certain aspects of their personalities, calling this their Shadow. Apparently, her therapist believed that she, Susan, was projecting her shadow onto Rosalie.
Did she really think that Rosalie symbolised a part of her own psyche? The idea revolted her. Susan had been righteously furious. It hadn't been she who had virtually gatecrashed her party, brandishing her book of half-baked and undistinguished works. She wasn't even by this point even alive!
She had by this point learnt of Rosalie's death after some of her friends had organised a retrospective of her work. There were rumours that while her health had been compromised, the death had been by her own hands.
No one of any quality or influence had attended the exhibition of course, just a few other strange individuals; she had even visited the venue herself, which had been irritatingly close to her venture.  Again though, there had been a couple present who for some inexplicable reason, had seemed quite fascinated with it all.  She had been turning to leave when her eye had been inexplicably drawn to an all-too familiar figure gazing steadily from a muted corner.
But she was supposed to be dead! Furiously, she charged right on the shadowy figure's personal space. The figure turned. A pair of cool, detached blue eyes, infinitely more confident than the ones Susan could remember, regarded her.
'Oh, Susan,' she murmured. 'Did you never understand? Now we will truly be part of one another.'
All of a sudden, there was a rushing, gurgling sound in her ears, as the earth suddenly lurched up meet her whilst at the same time, a relentless stabbing sound pounded in her skull. Suddenly, the eyes on that sallow face became twisted again and an idiotic rictus crossed it when she passed out, as she realised with gathering horror that the detested face she was looking at, was in fact her own.