SIX
Say what you like about Fleet Ward – and trust me, I’ve got plenty to say on the subject – but it puts most other places to shame when it comes to the variety of its breakfast menu. Just a picturesque fifteen-second totter from dining room to meds hatch gives all customers the option to start their day with a cheeky benzodiazepine after tucking into their Frosties. Or, you might prefer an artisanal Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor – which perfectly complements lighter ‘fayre’ such as fruit or pastries (currently unavailable) – or even, for those with a somewhat more unusual perspective, a custom-crafted anti-psychotic, designed to follow a full English that’s guaranteed to put hair on your chest and take ten years off your life-expectancy.
There’s even a mixture of ‘desserts’ for a few select occupants with more complicated demands. Uppers, downers, mood-stabilisers . . . whatever the customer requires or their consultant prescribes. Take it from someone who knows, if you’re not overly bothered about décor or service, this is the place to be. Reservations are not required, but it’s always busy, and if happy pills and botulism are what you’re into, the Fleet caters for all tastes and conditions.
It helps if you’re bonkers, obvs.
That Sunday morning, the day after they’d found Kevin’s body, I breakfasted like a champion on scrambled eggs, which would soon be followed by olanzapine and some tasty sodium valproate. While Eileen and one of her less than chatty assistants cleared the dirty cups and plates away, I sat in the dining room with Ilias (bacon sandwich and risperidone), Lauren (sausage, egg, beans, lorazepam and clozapine), Shaun (toast and sertraline) and Donna (Greek yoghurt brought in by a visitor – unopened – and lamotrigine).
‘That was gorgeous.’ Lauren dropped a meaty hand on to Eileen’s arm as she passed. ‘Best ever.’
Eileen smiled and said, ‘Glad to hear it.’
Lauren took this as a cue and began to sing a song in praise of her breakfast, but it was mercifully short and then she just sat looking grumpy, because she hadn’t been able to come up with anything that rhymed with sausage.
‘Where’s Kevin?’ Ilias asked.
Everyone stared at him.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Ilias said.
Donna pushed her uneaten yoghurt away. ‘It feels weird, doesn’t it?’
‘Takes a while to sink in,’ I said.
‘I still think he killed himself.’ Donna was stretching in her chair, getting ready for a few hours’ walking. ‘It’s so sad.’
‘You’re wrong,’ I said.
‘You don’t know any better than the rest of us,’ Lauren said.
‘Oh, I think I do. I’ve already talked to one of the detectives.’
‘Bollocks,’ Lauren said.
Shaun had begun to cry. He put his hands over his face.
‘It’s OK to be upset,’ I said. ‘You need to get it out.’
Lauren grinned. ‘He’s always getting it out. Under the table, usually. Or was that Kevin?’
I shook my head and nodded towards Shaun. ‘Seriously? You reckon it’s all right to make stupid jokes like that when his friend’s been murdered?’
‘Who’s been murdered?’ Ilias said.
‘You’re full of shit,’ Lauren said. ‘Piss off.’
When Shaun stopped sobbing and took his hands away, he left one finger pressed to his chin. He leaned towards me, wide-eyed.
‘Am I going to die? Am I going to die? Am I going to die . . . ?’
I assured him that he was going to be fine and he nodded, grateful. He plastered on a smile and I watched him get up and walk slowly towards the door where Malaika was standing ready to wrap an arm around his shoulder.
‘Come on, darling,’ she said.
People were getting up from the other tables, lurking. We watched Graham dabbing gently at the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin before standing up and heading out, ready to take his place at the meds hatch. The Thing walked across and stood by our table for a minute or so swishing his kilt around.
Did I mention that Tony wears a kilt?
I probably should have done, considering that he’s about as Scottish as I am, but I suppose it’s just not one of the things I find remotely strange any more.
I’ve got used to all sorts of weirdness.
‘I need to go and pack,’ Tony said.
‘Course you do,’ Lauren said.
Something else I forgot. Tony spends at least a couple of hours every day standing by the airlock with his coat on and his bags packed, waiting for his relatives from America to come and collect him. I’d been there several days before one of the nurses told me that Tony doesn’t have any relatives in America. I’m not convinced he has any relatives anywhere, because nobody comes to visit. That may be his choice, of course, because he can never be sure he isn’t sitting there passing the time of day with the Thing.
When Tony had gone, Ilias said, ‘Does anyone want to play chess?’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ Lauren said.
I shook my head.
‘Come on,’ Ilias said. ‘Sundays are so boring.’
‘Not boring any more.’ Lauren sat back and sniffed. Jerked a thumb in my direction. ‘Not now Juliet Bravo over here reckons there’s been a . . . murder.’
She rolled the Rs, showing off, and Donna laughed, which was annoying. I resisted the temptation to point out she was doing Taggart and not Juliet Bravo. ‘I don’t reckon anything,’ I said. ‘There were homicide detectives here all night. A full forensic team. I told you, I’ve talked to them. I’m actually going to be helping with the investigation.’
Lauren began to sing again, changing the words to that old song by Sophie Ellis-Something-or-other. ‘It’s murder on the Fleet Ward . . . like to burn this fucking place right down . . .’
‘Is that true?’ Donna asked, when Lauren had finished. ‘You helping?’
‘It makes sense, when you think about it,’ I said. ‘To make use of a professional on the inside.’
‘Can I be your what-do-you-call-it?’ Ilias asked. ‘Sidekick.’
Lauren laughed, hissing through her manky teeth like someone had let the bad air out of her. I looked at one of the egg-streaked forks that Eileen hadn’t taken away yet and thought about pushing it into Lauren’s fat face.
‘I’ll see how it goes,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a word with the DCI.’
Lauren was still laughing when Marcus came over to sit with us. He’s not normally here on a Sunday, but obviously this was no ordinary weekend. He asked how everyone was feeling and said he hoped that we weren’t too shaken up by what had happened the night before.
‘I’m used to it,’ I said. ‘I was just telling this lot that the Murder Squad were all over this place while they were all asleep.’
‘Now, hang on, Alice—’
‘There were detectives here though, weren’t there?’
‘Please don’t talk about murder. It’s not helpful.’
‘Tell them.’
‘Yes, there were detectives here. And by all accounts, you were being very naughty.’
‘Just doing my job,’ I said.
Marcus shook his head, then said what he’d come across to say. ‘I wanted to let you know that unfortunately there won’t be any classes tomorrow, because the occupational therapist won’t be coming in.’
‘That’s not on,’ Lauren said.
‘Doesn’t bother me,’ Ilias said.
‘What about doing my drawing?’ Donna’s pale-blue eyes filled immediately with tears. They’re probably no bigger than anyone else’s, but because the rest of her face is so thin they always seem enormous, like she’s E.T., or one of those sad-looking kids in the paintings. ‘When’s she coming back?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘I can’t say. You know how it goes.’
We knew well enough, even if most of them
didn’t actually understand the reasons. The ward psychologist had gone on maternity leave before I arrived and had never come back. There were two fewer beds than when I first came in, one less nurse and more agency staff.
All about money, same as usual. The allocation of resources.
‘Same bullshit in the Met,’ I said.
‘It’s less than satisfactory, but what can we do?’ Marcus stood up. ‘As it happens, we would have needed to suspend tomorrow’s classes anyway, because the police have said they will be coming back. They will need to talk to everyone. Staff and patients.’
It was an effort not to punch the air or shout something.
I was thinking about Kevin, of course I was – about that body bag being unzipped on a slab somewhere and what those who loved him would be going through – but there’s no point pretending that I wasn’t as stupidly excited as I’d been since the night they frogmarched me in here. That morning dose of olanzapine was already starting to kick in and take some of the edges off, but even so, I suddenly felt as alive, as much like myself, as I could remember feeling in a long time.
‘Statements, right?’ I was trying not to shout. ‘They need to take our statements.’
‘I believe so,’ Marcus said.
‘Find out where everyone was, what they were doing when the body was discovered. Before it was discovered.’ I was nodding and looking round the table, at Ilias and Donna, then finally at Lauren. I let my eyes settle on hers: piggy and puffed-up. I let what I’d said hang for just long enough.
‘So we’d better get our stories straight.’
SEVEN
‘Hello, ladies!’
It’s what major-league tossers say, isn’t it? Blokes out on the sniff, stinking of Paco Rabanne and coming on to any group of women in a bar or wherever, on the off-chance there might just be one who’s thirsty/short-sighted/desperate enough to let some stubbly bellend buy her a drink. It might well be the kind of thing Andy’s taken to saying, now he’s single again. To be honest, it might be the kind of cheesy crap my ex always trotted out. We weren’t really together long enough for me to get to know him all that well. Oh, I certainly found out enough, though, and before you say anything, I don’t need reminding that he probably thinks exactly the same thing. That he’s well shot of a mentalist like me, that he had a narrow escape and was lucky he discovered what I was really like when he did.
Fractured skull notwithstanding.
What am I really like, though? Well, that’s the $64,000 question . . .
Was I me when I was making an honest living, doing my best to catch rapists and killers? Or was I only the real me once I became ‘unwell’ and started to see just how evil so-called innocent people can be? What the ordinary punters we think of as good and kind are actually capable of? The dark desires and the secret schemes and the deals they make with the devil (figuratively speaking; I was never that far gone) . . .
It’s a tricky one, you can’t deny that, surely.
Are you . . . you when you’re stone cold sober or does the real you only come out to play after you’ve had a few? Maybe you should think about that for a while before you judge me, or anyone else who’s sitting where I am for that matter. All I’m saying.
Talking of which . . . hello, ladies!
To be fair, I think most of this lot would let you buy them a drink, and I dare say one or two would happily shag you if there was a bag of crisps thrown in, but you need to bear in mind that a lack of self-esteem is a major issue in here.
So, take a bow, my bitches.
LUCY, aka L-Plate. I reckon her parents probably own most of Sussex or something, because she talks like she’s one of the royal family and they’re always bringing her in fancy food and gorgeous clothes, but for all that, she’s actually dead nice. We have a real laugh, me and L-Plate, though she can lose it a bit if you stand too close to her and she does not like being touched. Gets properly freaked out about it. I saw her spit at George once, when he tried to put his arm round her. Same as a lot of people, I don’t know if L was messed up before the drugs, or if the drugs messed her up, but either way . . . I know why kids from my neck of the woods end up on the hard stuff, but I’ve never really understood posh people and heroin. Like, I’ve got a polo pony and a house that has a maze in the garden, so what am I missing? Oh yeah, a decent smack habit.
Only the finest China White though, and needles from Cartier, natch.
I already mentioned the flat-Earth thing, but that’s pretty tame compared with some of the theories L-Plate trots out. The coronavirus 5G thing and 9/11 was an inside job and the moon isn’t real and the Beatles never existed and do not get her started on the vapour trails that planes leave. Depending on what mood she’s in, either the government’s trying to control the weather or they’re spraying us all with something that’s going to turn us into zombies. Look, I know I’ve come out with some strange stuff in my time, but this is proper nutter level, and it’s even funnier when she’s doing it in this cut-glass accent and looks like something out of Vogue. From a distance, I should add, because when you get close (as close as she’ll let anyone) you can see that she’s got iffy skin and teeth like that bloke out of the Pogues. She’s not got a bad bone in her, though, that’s the most important thing, and you’ll never hear her slagging anyone off. When L-Plate’s not ranting like some loopy duchess, she’d give you the shirt off her back, and believe me, any one of her cast-offs would be well worth having, because if you stuck it on eBay you could probably pay your mortgage for a few months.
DONNA, aka The Walker. The fact that Donna makes L-Plate (who’s got a figure I would kill for) look a bit on the chunky side tells you all you need to know, really. Well, it doesn’t, of course. It doesn’t tell you why. If I knew what was actually going on in anyone’s head, I’d be the one with the Mercedes and the office at the end of the corridor. The truth is, I can only tell you about the oddballs I’m holed up with based on what they do and which meds they’re on. What they come out with.
Donna doesn’t actually come out with anything that you wouldn’t hear at the average bus stop or post-office queue, but you only need to look at her to see what’s wrong. What the wrongness has done to her, at any rate. You only need to watch her taking an eternity to cut a carrot into twenty pieces, push it around her plate for a while, then spend the next couple of hours walking furiously up and down the corridor to burn off the calories she hasn’t taken in. She wears a tracksuit all the time, like she’s in training for something.
She’s not the only patient who says she shouldn’t actually be here, but (not counting yours truly) Donna’s probably the only one who really shouldn’t. By rights, she should be in a proper eating-disorder clinic, but apparently they can’t find anywhere that’s got room for her. Ilias says it’s ridiculous, because it’s not like she takes up a lot of space.
She told me once she was from the south-west somewhere, but I can’t remember the name of the place. She’s got an accent, but it’s very soft like the rest of her. Her personality, I’m talking about. Her body’s all angles and pointy bits. She’s a gentle soul, wouldn’t say boo to a goose and never raises her voice, but it’s like she’s on the verge of tears all the time, so you have to tread a bit carefully with her. First time my dad saw her, he said she was like a ghost and I know what he was on about. She floats around the place like she’s haunting it, though I think he just meant that you could virtually see through her.
So, yeah, Donna walks. Morning, noon and night, wearing out the lino, and she won’t stop, even when she’s having a conversation. If you want to talk to her about anything, then you’d best be prepared for a half-marathon, which is ironic really, as I’ve never met anyone in more need of half a Marathon . . . and several Mars bars. Yeah, I know they’re called Snickers now, but the joke wouldn’t work, would it?
JAMILAH, aka The Foot Woman. Fifty-something, if I had to hazard a guess. A petite
Somali woman, with the most beautiful grey hair which – when she takes her headscarf off – comes down to her waist. Jammy (I’m not sure she loves it when I call her that) is another one who doesn’t have much to say for herself, though there is one topic about which she’s unusually vocal. She probably doesn’t suggest it quite as often as Ilias suggests playing chess or Shaun asks if he’s going to die, but there isn’t a day goes by without her offering to give me – or anyone else in the same room – a pedicure. There’s nothing threatening or creepy about it, I don’t want you to think that, because the truth is she’s always extremely polite.
‘Would you like a pedicure, Alice?’ Softly-spoken, a thick accent. ‘No? OK, then . . .’
First thing in the morning, she’s all set to go to work, keen as mustard to get at your trotters. Same if you’re eating, or, even stranger, after a tap-tap on your bedroom door in the middle of the night.
Now, I’ve no idea if this is something she’s done professionally, if it’s part of a past life she’s clinging on to, but I doubt it, somehow. I know I’m a fine one to talk about clinging to anything, but my relationship with the Job is very different, all right? There’s some serious unfinished business. So, with Jamilah, I can only presume it’s something . . . sexual. I mean some people have a thing about feet, don’t they? Granted, she doesn’t look like she’d find anything sexually arousing, not even sex, but this is probably the last place you should judge any book by its cover, so I’m keeping an open mind.
I do know that I’m not queuing up for her services any time soon.
I don’t know exactly what a pedicure involves, but I’ve had mates who’ve done it and I know there’s a certain amount of . . . shaping involved and trimming. I know things get removed. I mean, I’m guessing she had as much gear taken off her when she came in as the rest of us, but some people are sneakier than others, so is it really worth taking the risk?
I’m not letting anyone in here come at my feet with tools.
LAUREN, aka The Singer. From Kent or Essex . . . that neck of the woods, and I almost went with another nickname entirely, because a couple of nights after I got here she marched into my room, asked if she could use my bathroom and proceeded to piss all over the floor. I mean everywhere, and not just in my bathroom, either. Everybody else’s too as it turned out, like she was marking her territory. So I nearly went with Cat-Woman, but even though the piss-spraying is marginally more unpleasant than her tuneless wailing it happens a bit less often, and trust me, she’s nothing like those sexy women in the Batman films, so The Singer it is.
Rabbit Hole Page 4