Too Close

by Natalie Daniels

  Why had she lied to Dougie?

  She got out of the car. She locked the door, ran a hand through her hair, and slung her bag across her shoulder as she approached number five. The de Cadenets’ house had an air of neglect: overgrown acer trees spilled on to the pavement, a mound of dead leaves made the front tiles slippery, the curtains were drawn, the front door was black and chipped, and the glass was thick with dust.

  Emma rang the doorbell. It was dark and quiet within. No response. She stepped back to look and see if there was any life upstairs. Dots of rain prickled her skin and speckled her pale grey jacket. If no one was in then she would leave a note for them. She’d take a sheet from their recycling box, which was bulging with loose-lined pages covered in neat ink-penned handwriting. From the point of unity, the same self may retreat … The rest was hidden under a Wetlands magazine. She rang again and peered through the panel. She was about to leave when she saw a figure slowly approaching. She stood back. With much unlocking, the door opened and an old man stood there. It was clear from his eyes, dark and fiery, and his skin, sallow and swarthy, that he was Connie’s father. He blinked at her.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I did try ringing several times …’

  ‘Hello,’ he said. There was a smell of mustiness and drains.

  ‘I’m Dr Robinson.’

  ‘Is this bad news?’ he asked. He looked scared.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m from the Tatchwell, I’m working with Connie.’

  At the mention of his daughter’s name, a weighted sorrow seemed to seep through his features; his shoulders dropped, his head hung, his mouth drooped.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, opening the door wider. She stepped inside. It was dim in the house. The walls of the hall were crowded with paintings and prints, and the floor was lined with piles of books in Sainsbury’s bags. He moved awkwardly through the hall, leaving a faint waft of urine in his wake. She wondered whether there was a carer in place or whether he was trying to care for his wife alone; she would ring social services when she got back and find out exactly what was going on.

  ‘Is your wife in?’ she asked, but he had bent down to move a heavy metal doorstop and it fell over with a bang, drowning out her voice.

  She glanced up into the darkness of the floor above. No curtains were open; the house was still, the green carpet worn on each step. A painting caught her eye: Connie and her brother as teenagers, lying on a sofa reading books.

  ‘Your son David lives in Australia, is that right?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ Mr de Cadenet said, pausing mid-shuffle, sounding most surprised that she should know.

  ‘No one else is in?’ she asked, as they turned left into a sitting room where piles of clothes spilled out of black bin bags. They were having a sort-out. Every cranny of wall space was filled with paintings or prints and every inch of the floor appeared to be occupied, either with the bags or piles of books that grew in towers across the carpet and upon the sofa and chairs. The Life of the Medici, The Letters of Marsilio Ficino: Volume V and Ramses lay on the tops of the nearest piles.

  ‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘You’re certainly having a clear-out!’

  ‘Yes, we’ve been trying to … sort things out,’ he said, looking about the room confusedly while a telephone began to ring. He didn’t seem to hear it, or he ignored it. Her own calls had obviously been similarly left to the ether.

  ‘Are you here to take the books?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m here to talk about Connie … I’m the forensic psychiatrist?’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  Dust lay thick about the place. The paintings were skew-whiff, revealing darker stains on the walls behind. Her eyes followed a trail of crumbs across the carpet that led to a half-eaten lemon drizzle cake, which lay in its Sainsbury’s box on a chair. A faux fire glowed dimly but the room was cold and his hands were purple, trembling slightly.

  He set off across the room. She noticed how his cardigan had stains on the back as if someone had been hurling mess at him. She thought of Connie and her brother and the game they would play with him, making him guess what he was wearing. It was hard for him to walk, and looking down she noticed why: his shoes were on the wrong feet. She would ring social services as soon as she got back to her car.

  ‘But I can definitely take some bags to the charity shop if you need me to,’ she said. ‘And here, let me take these plates and cups to the kitchen.’

  He stopped mid-voyage and turned to her. ‘How very kind of you,’ he said, surprised by the offer.

  She picked up the cups that were lying around, all of which had congealed mould at the bottom. She scooped up the lemon drizzle and found a couple more plates amongst the piles. ‘You’ve got some lovely paintings,’ she said as she did so. And he stopped and looked upwards around the room as if he had only just noticed them.

  ‘Yes, we’ve always enjoyed art. Not me so much, but I enjoy other people enjoying art …’ He smiled at her and his eyes almost disappeared.

  She took the crockery through to the kitchen, which was in an equal state of disarray. Emma put the soiled things to soak in the sink and filled up the dishwasher, which was half full of dirt-ingrained plates. She turned it on for them and on her way back through to the sitting room she was distracted by a photograph stuck on a cupboard: the whole family, wrapped up in scarves and hats, stood on a windy British beach somewhere. It could have been an advert for life insurance or a bank, manipulating happiness into money: everyone was laughing, smiling, all eyes on Annie, who was kicking a leg high in the air, grinning a toothless grin, her red hair blown wildly up by the wind. Emma felt her heart beat fast in her chest. The abject finality of loss still struck her with the same force as it had all those years ago. The phone began to ring. She stood there listening to it for a moment before coming back through.

  ‘Do you want me to get that?’ she asked. He was sitting down on the small two-seater; he’d cleared a space for them both and had poured two whiskies, which sat on either arm of the sofa.

  ‘Oh no, don’t bother. I can’t understand a word they say … Please sit down. Have a drink,’ he said. She sat down next to him, shifting one of the bin bags at her feet.

  ‘Has Connie remembered anything yet?’ he asked, tapping his elegant but stiff fingers against his glass.

  ‘Things are coming back,’ Emma said, straightening her skirt, turning to face him better.

  ‘The car?’

  ‘We’ve shown her photographs of the girls …’

  She saw it then, the incomprehension and bewilderment. He looked pummelled by shock. With a shaky hand he drank from his whisky glass.

  ‘She’s in denial,’ Emma said.

  ‘Karl said you called it something, her condition …?’

  ‘Dissociative amnesia. It’s one way of dealing with trauma.’

  ‘He thinks she’s faking it. Do you?’

  ‘Well, faking it is comparatively unusual. Dissociative amnesia is more to do with the brain protecting itself, locking traumatic events away, as it were, into a box, and pushing it to the back of the brain,’ she said. It was something she herself had become quite adept at, in a conscious way, of course.

  ‘And what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Must she remember?’ he asked. ‘No good is in that box. Just pain. Wouldn’t you agree that perhaps there is enough pain about already? Why bother?’

  She wanted to take a sip from her glass. She could imagine how good it must taste; she could almost feel the burn in her throat.

  ‘I have to assess her mental state at the time of the offence and whether she is fit to stand trial. At some stage, Mr de Cadenet, she has to be held accountable. If Connie doesn’t acknowledge her actions, how can there ever be recovery?’

  ‘Recovery?’ he repeated, taking his glasses off and pinching the skin between his eyes. He was from another generation: war children raised by parents wh
o kept whole worlds locked away in boxes.

  ‘I think we all have to face pain, Mr de Cadenet,’ she said, like the hypocrite she was.

  ‘I’m sorry to be disrespectful but I don’t trust you doctors,’ Mr de Cadenet said. ‘Connie wasn’t herself, you see … Those drugs that silly grinning GP gave her … they did something, I’m sure …’

  She knew exactly which drugs Connie had been taking at the time of the offence: aside from the Lofepramine for the depression, she’d been prescribed a benzodiazepine for her anxiety. Nothing unusual.

  ‘That’s very unlikely, Mr de Cadenet.’

  ‘They all think I don’t notice anything, but I do.’ His voice faltered, his lip quivered. He was looking right at her now. ‘She just wasn’t herself at all.’

  He pulled out a grubby grey handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes. Emma reached out and touched his cold shaking hand. Where was David? Where was Karl? Where was Mrs de Cadenet? He shouldn’t be here on his own.

  Her touch, her empathy, elicited a release and the old man hung his head and began to weep. She took his hand in both of hers and smoothed it and squeezed it. ‘Connie was most likely suffering from a psychotic episode …’

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything! What did we do wrong?’ He was crying like a child. ‘I don’t know if I can forgive her. I thought I was a Christian … but I just can’t …’

  Emma gripped his old mottled hand in hers. She said nothing.

  ‘I don’t know what to do. Julia always knows what to do when things go wrong …’

  There was a ring of the doorbell. ‘That might be her … I’ll get it,’ Emma said, letting go of his hand, getting up, making her way into the hall. She opened the front door expecting Julia to be standing there, but instead a tall middle-aged man with messy, dark, greying hair and paint-splattered jeans hovered on the doorstep, clutching keys in his hand. Behind him in the road was parked a van with its engine running, its back doors open and its hazard lights flashing.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ he said, evidently wondering who she was. ‘Just come to pick up Andrew’s books for the market …?’ He had a faint Irish accent.

  ‘Oh, right,’ she said.

  A car horn honked. A car had pulled up behind the van. He turned round, whistled and raised his hand to the driver.

  ‘All the ones in the Sainsbury’s bags, apparently,’ he said.

  Emma held the door open for him and he stooped to pick up the first few bags. Outside, the car behind his van hooted again.

  ‘Here, let me help,’ she said. She grabbed another couple of bags and followed him out to the van. He was grateful and dealt with the driver behind calmly, gesturing that he’d be a few minutes. Then he turned to Emma and said, ‘What a plonker,’ under his breath. She smiled and went back in for the last few bags.

  As she was putting them into the van, she managed to get her cardigan caught on something. She couldn’t reach the catch. He leant over to try and help her free herself, gently tugging at her cardigan. He smelt of something musky but pleasant.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said, only making things worse. The thread had come loose.

  ‘Don’t worry!’

  The car behind revved its engine provocatively. He gestured politely and smiled at the driver. ‘Take your time … wind the idiot up,’ he said, his blue eyes twinkling at her. Emma smiled, freed herself from her cardigan and tried to unhook the catch but she was too close; she needed her glasses. He stood there patiently as she unhooked herself at last, then he slammed the van doors shut and thanked her for helping him.

  She went back into the house and closed the door. What a nice guy. Some people just had a way of making you feel better than you felt before you saw them. The hall looked much better empty. She returned to the sitting room, where Mr de Cadenet was sitting in exactly the same position that she had left him in, only his whisky glass was empty. He seemed lost in his own world and for a split second he didn’t appear to recognize her as she sat down next to him.

  ‘Has Karl gone already?’ he asked.

  ‘That was Karl?’ She could hear the van pulling away. She drew the curtain back and looked out into the street. She wished she’d taken more in, introduced herself. She wanted to talk with him. You’ll think he’s fantastic. He’ll make sure of that.

  She should get on with the business she came here for. ‘Mr de Cadenet, I was wondering whether it might help if you came to visit Connie?’

  He sighed and clasped his hands together.

  ‘At the Tatchwell,’ she added.

  ‘No … I couldn’t do that … no.’

  ‘She’d love to see you …’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Would Mrs de Cadenet consider it? Connie misses her dreadfully. I could pick her up and bring her back if that was easiest?’

  Slowly he turned to face Emma; he seemed confused. ‘Mrs de Cadenet?’

  ‘Yes. Connie is desperate to see her.’

  ‘Julia is dead,’ he said.

  Emma stared at him, at those eyes that could be Connie’s eyes. She opened her mouth a little, but nothing would come out. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said eventually. Why didn’t she know this?

  ‘She died two months ago. I’m glad she’s not around to see what’s going on now. She adored Annie …’

  ‘Julia died two months ago?’

  ‘She took an accidental overdose.’

  ‘I am so sorry.’

  ‘It was my fault.’

  Emma turned sharply. ‘No, no. You mustn’t say that.’ It was a stupid thing to say; those words meant nothing. People used to say them to her. ‘When Julia died, was Connie in Milton House?’

  ‘She’d just visited Connie, yes. Karl took her. It was a dreadful place. She came home with a terrible migraine. She went to bed and took some painkillers … I didn’t put the pills away. I didn’t understand about the Alzheimer’s. She didn’t remember that she’d already taken her painkillers … so she just kept taking more … I should have noticed,’ he said, bringing his cold mottled hand up to his face and pinching the skin between his eyes again as if he could press it all away. ‘I should have taken better care …’

  ‘Oh, Mr de Cadenet, I am so sorry. Was Connie told about Julia?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But she wasn’t allowed to come to the funeral.’

  Why, in God’s name, had no one told her that Connie was grieving?

  *

  Much later, after she had tidied up, cleaned the sitting room and the kitchen, and taken all the bin bags to a local charity shop, Emma drove back across the bridge in the darkness, a cigarette in her fingers, tears blurring the city’s lights. She drove through Kew and hit the North Circular, past those grim grubby houses all the way back to Wood Green, eventually letting herself in to the ordered safety of her own house. She leant against the door, blocking out the day behind her.

  In the kitchen she could see Si seated at the table eating and she remembered that hours ago she’d said she would pick up some lamb and make them supper. She walked down the hall into the kitchen. ‘Hi, love,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know you weren’t going to be back,’ he said, pointedly getting up and putting his scraps in the recycling box before exiting the room.

  Chapter 11

  May 25

  Polly and me have decided that we are Christians. Weve chosen Catholics because theres more blood and snacks and its by the newsagents. We went to St Mary is a Virgin church. You have to shake hands with the people near you and say may the force be with you. Then they pass around some free money on a plate. Polly said I will go to hell because I took some (only a quid) and your meant to give some (no one told me). She said I will get hot pokers put up my bum.

  We came back to my house where HORRIBLE Mum who I HATE started shouting strait away for NOTHING. She is ALWAYS shouting and grumpy about EVERYTHING specially dropping coats on floors and tidying up. Yesterday I left my lolly wrapper on the chair and she screamed at me PULL YO
UR WEIGHT YOU LAZY GIRL CANT YOU SEE IM TRYING TO KEEP TWO HOUSES CLEAN!!! I said get a cleaner and she said you are a spoiled BRAT. I said well whose fault is that and then I turned the other cheek. Daddy who is MUCH nicer said there was no need to be a marter but in a voice so she couldnt hear him. Polly says marter is the Virgin Marys sister.

  I will pray for my mum to be nicer. If she is Ive promised God I will be a nun. Polly says nuns have sex with Jesus. I asked how can you have sex with a dead man. She says he comes in the night with a turkey baster. I said thats impossible, why is he cooking turkey before hes even invented Christmas?? I will lock the door anyhow. We went to Pollys house instead. Later Dad helped Ness put up some shelfs from Ikea. He was being all bangy and hammering and making jokes until he banged his thumb and said FUK!! His thumb went red and squashy but he didnt cry at all he carried on making jokes. Not until we got back home then he started moaning like a baby and Mum had to take him to A and E.

  The door opens. I look up and see the Squeak holding it open for Dr R, who is in a brisk and efficient mood today: tight lips, clickety shoes, file under arm. She has attitude, as if last Thursday never happened, as if she had never kissed the rim of my toilet. She attempts to exchange perfunctory pleasantries with me but I don’t indulge. I’m sitting there with Annie’s diary in my hands but she doesn’t ask me about it. She has an agenda. She is focused (after she zips up her bag and puts it down behind her chair, well out of my reach).

  ‘Do you remember when your hair started falling out?’