by A J Waines
‘I’m sorry. Max, Stephanie and Richard are still missing.’
I replace the receiver and sit on the edge of my threadbare settee staring into the empty blackened fireplace. Just the cello then. Three more instruments and three bodies to go. Are the police going to get in touch every time something new breaks the surface?
In our last session, the first one at the flat, I told Sam more about the other three players. Not that I know a great deal; I hadn’t followed their lives at all since we graduated and barely knew them at college outside rehearsals.
‘Like I said before, sorting out groups at college was pretty random really, it was down to the tutors, but Richard was the one I saw the most,’ I said. ‘He was a bit of a laugh. He liked to take risks and muck about; too easily distracted from his studies. You have to be pretty obsessed to make it as a serious musician and Richard spent more time on the football pitch or at a snooker table than in a practice room. He scraped by, an instinctive player, winging performances on a couple of rehearsals, and he was an exceptional sight-reader. But he didn’t have enough dedication to get to grips with the technique…you know, to make it professionally.’
Sam asked if I liked him.
‘I didn’t fancy him, if that’s what you mean. I’m not sure I knew him well enough to feel anything either way. He was always joking about and I never knew whether to take him seriously or not, so I was cautious with him. But he seemed sweet enough. I wasn’t exactly in his circle. But then I wasn’t in anyone’s circle.’
Sam asked me what had happened to him after college, but there wasn’t much to tell.
‘I got the impression he’d been an odd-job man for longer than he liked to admit. He did everything from pulling down sheds to putting up old ladies’ net curtains. Personally, I think it was a waste of his talents. He would have made a great school teacher. I can see him getting a bunch of kids excited playing songs from West Side Story on recorders or something.’
She asked about the others and I said I’d told her everything I knew about Max. ‘Stephanie was the quiet one,’ I continued. ‘I remember her in the college orchestra at the front of the cellos. She was pretty good, I think, but she let it go after she left college. Married a Japanese bloke and had kids. Her career never even got started.’
Sam asked if we could do the trance exercise again, to access memories that were lurking beneath the surface. I know it’s useful, but the whole process does get me flustered. What if I accidentally give away something I’m not ready to tell her? I don’t want her to know, for example, about my recent trip to the pub in search of a willing guy. I don’t think that will go down too well, although there’s something far worse I can’t afford to reveal.
She let me hold her hand again. She seemed hesitant at first, but I suppose she shouldn’t make it obvious that she’s starting to feel something deeper for me. From the way our sessions ended at the hospital, I reckon I’m the first patient to see her privately in her flat, so that must mean something. She’s certainly made an extra effort for me, but she’s got protocol to follow, I’m sure. Erica was always banging on about that when I was seeing her. She was always keeping her distance, saying we weren’t meant to have hugs or contact, even if I was upset; all kinds of rubbish like that. I’m hoping things will be different with Sam, given a bit of time.
Sam led me through the usual trance thing. As it happened, something new did come up, about the lunch with the Hinds’ family, the day of the accident.
‘It’s something Karl said after Max reminded us all about Mick coming to a sticky end at that first party. Karl asked if we were still playing the same instruments we’d played fifteen years ago. Thinking about it now, it seems an odd question to ask, don’t you think? Why would he be interested? He wasn’t even a musician. He worked for his father in property and investments. Anyway – we went round the table and everyone said yes, “except Max of course,” Richard butted in, “who’s upgraded his old box to a two-million-quid deluxe model.”’
‘That conversation seems significant to you,’ Sam had said, narrowing her eyes.
‘Yes, but there’s something else, I’m sure of it.’
Chapter 13
Sam
As soon as I opened it, I felt my scalp prickle. It was sitting on the mat when I got home from St Luke’s. My first thought was that someone had sent me an early Christmas card. It was pretty; a real dried rosebud, with the words Thank you in silver letters on the front and a handwritten message inside:
I’m so glad you’ve agreed to see me ‘out of hours’. I feel you’re someone who truly understands. I’ve never had that before. Rosie XX
The kisses were larger than any of the other letters. Big kisses.
I slipped the card back into the envelope and dropped it into my briefcase. I’d take it to work and leave it with my other work correspondence.
I wondered again if seeing Rosie in my own home was such a good idea. It made our connection less clinical, more personal. I’d need to be careful from now on; I mustn’t confuse her in any way or do anything to give her the wrong impression. She had to understand she was my patient and nothing else – not my friend, not even an acquaintance – a patient on a purely professional basis.
I threw my heavy briefcase onto the sofa, then ran a deep bath. I sank down into the soothing water and dropped the soap. The sound of the splash made me think again of Rosie’s accident. I pictured the van sinking like a stone into the lake and Rosie searching for her viola as water came gushing in. It would have been dark, suddenly so cold; a massive shock to the system.
There’s no way I’d have reached out for any possessions in that situation, no matter how valuable. Rosie had told me her viola wasn’t worth anything, so I couldn’t quite get my head round the fact that she chose that case deliberately, and not the violin. I needed to fully grasp the tremendous sentimental value Rosie’s viola held for her. It was her one and only long-term friend.
I dried myself off and returned to my briefcase on the sofa. A ridiculous new directive had been introduced at work; from now on we had tons of forms to fill in with boxes, graphs and charts to show weekly levels of improvement with each patient. Ugh!
I was rescued by the trill from my landline; a local number I didn’t recognise. I lifted the receiver. ‘Hello…?’
‘Dr Willerby?’
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Bruce Lennox, Dr Willerby. I’m sorry to disturb you, only I wondered if you’d had time to think about the question I asked you in our final session.’
Bruce was a recent patient; forty-three, short and schoolboy thin, with two hedgerows of bushy hair that didn’t meet up on the top of his head. Awkward and unforthcoming, I’d got the impression he’d spent most of his life stooping under a low cloud of inadequacy. He’d had some memory issues after being attacked in a bar. I’d brought our sessions to a close last Friday so he shouldn’t have been calling me.
‘Bruce…er…how did you get this number?’
‘Er…I think it was on your website.’ I knew for a fact it wasn’t. I was also ex-directory.
Three minutes before the end of our last appointment, Bruce had asked me out on a date.
‘I’m really sorry, Bruce. I’m flattered, of course,’ I’d told him, ‘but there’s a clear directive that means someone in my profession can’t date their patients.’
‘Why not?’ He’d been indignant, hurt.
‘Because we’ve had a very different relationship so far and changing the dynamic between us could interfere with all the good work we’ve done.’
‘I’m prepared to take that risk.’ He’d moved a little too close to my chair, so I got up and eased my way past him to get to the door. Before I could reach it, he was right behind me, breathing into my neck, his hot hands on my waist.
‘Bruce – this isn’t a good idea. I don’t want to have to call security.’ I hadn’t told him my alarm button was a million miles away under the rim of my desk, but he let go
and stood back.
‘Just think about it,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t have to be over. You’ve been so kind, so supportive. I can’t believe you don’t have any of the same feelings I feel…but, I know you can’t say otherwise, not here…I don’t want to cause you any problems with your job…’
He’d held out his sweaty little hand and I’d taken it reluctantly.
After that, thankfully, he’d left.
But, clearly, it wasn’t over.
‘Dr Willerby?’ his voice grated again in my ear.
‘I’m in a rush, Bruce,’ I said, my only thought being to end the call as soon as I could. ‘But my answer’s still the same, I’m afraid. I could lose my job for meeting patients or even ex-patients socially.’
‘I won’t say if you won’t…’ his voice oozed conspiratorially down the line.
‘That’s not the point.’ I sighed. ‘I’m sorry, it’s not appropriate.’
‘If the rules were different, might you be interested?’
I scrabbled around in my mind trying to find a rejection that wouldn’t sting too much. ‘Sorry, Bruce – we had a professional relationship, there’s nothing else to say.’
‘But you might think about it?’
He simply wasn’t getting it. ‘Listen – the contract between us has ended,’ I growled, in a steely militant tone usually reserved for persistent cold-callers. ‘There is nothing more. Please don’t contact me again.’
On Saturday, Miranda wasn’t answering her phone again, so I decided to drop round to her flat. I wanted to make sure she was looking after herself. The last time I’d been there I’d been horrified by the number of pizza boxes that were littering her living-room-cum-studio. Evidence of too many take-aways, when she knew good nutrition was a key factor her specialist insisted on to keep her on an even keel.
According to Miranda, several friends had turned up with ‘spicy pepperonis’ one night. But I know my sister too well. When she scratches behind her ear, or turns away as she begins a sentence, I can tell she’s lying.
It started to pour down as soon as I got to pavement level at Camden Underground. I jogged for several blocks, having not thought to bring an umbrella.
‘Why didn’t you call?’ she snapped as she opened the door. She sounded put out rather than surprised. She stood in bare feet, one on top of the other, wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt. Her bleached blonde hair stood up in spikes so she looked like she’d just got out of bed even though it was lunchtime.
‘I’ve been calling. You’re not answering.’
I tried to push past her out of the rain.
She thrust her elbows out. ‘No – let’s get some fresh air.’
‘But it’s raining…and you’re not dressed.’
‘I’ll get changed.’ She started closing the door on me.
‘You’re not leaving me out here!’ I raised my voice, storming past her. She dropped back with a huff, and let me inside. ‘What’s going on, Miranda?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not returning my calls, you’re distant with me. Secretive. You didn’t even want to let me in.’
‘Let’s go out for a coffee,’ she said. ‘I’m going dizzy with paint fumes. There’s that really nice place down the road. I’ll only be a moment.’
She disappeared up the spiral staircase, leaving me to breathe in the sickly smell of linseed oil. I wandered into the kitchen and took a look in her fridge. Pots of yoghurt within their sell-by date, cheese triangles, a bunch of celery, half a tin of baked beans, half a loaf of bread. It wasn’t brilliant, but it wouldn’t kill her. I sniffed the milk. That was okay, too.
I heard Miranda hurriedly shutting drawers and cupboards upstairs. Why was she so keen to get me out of there? I retraced my steps and sat on the arm of the only chair in the room that didn’t have tins or dirty rags on it. As I scooped my coat under me to avoid wet paint from nearby fresh canvases, my foot caught the edge of something tucked under the seat. I slid it out. Another pizza box. It wasn’t shut, so I took a quick look to check there was no mouldy pizza inside it. Instead, there was a palette knife and a roll of oily cloth.
The sound of Miranda slamming a door upstairs startled me and in my rush to hide the box, the contents tipped out onto the floor. The last thing I wanted was for Miranda to know I’d been snooping, so I dived down to put everything back where it was. As I grabbed the bundle of cloth, something slipped out onto the bare floorboards. I froze, unable to take my eyes off it.
This was not good. This was not good at all and I had no idea how to deal with it.
The next moment, I heard her footsteps rattling down the iron staircase. I thrust the box under the chair and folded my arms.
Miranda gave me a prim smile and grabbed her keys from the kitchen table. I didn’t move. I was in two minds about confronting her there and then, but I decided it would be better to deal with the situation once we were outside. Then at least she wouldn’t be able to bundle me out and lock the door on me.
As soon as we were on the high street, I opened my mouth to speak. But she beat me to it.
‘Someone is interested in one of my pictures,’ she said. Miranda’s canvases had been selling steadily since her last exhibition at the gallery. ‘She works at Battersea Dogs and Cats Home…Denise someone.’
‘That’s great. Is she paying enough for it?’
‘I don’t need any handouts, if that’s what you mean.’
‘No. It wasn’t. Never mind. I’m glad.’
Would it ever be possible to have a conversation with Miranda without her getting defensive?
There was a steady reggae beat thumping away in the background at the Urban Shack Café. A warm-faced Rastafarian with dreadlocks down to his waist, and an attitude so relaxed I was surprised he was still standing, asked what we’d like.
Miranda ordered a chocolate milkshake and I had a latte. We sat on high stools by the window.
‘It’s nice here,’ I said, looking over at the waiter.
She’d pulled the folded napkin from under her tall glass and had started scribbling on it. ‘Dezzie is really sweet. He plays his guitar in here, sometimes.’ She bopped around to the beat, rattling the pen between her teeth. ‘You seeing anyone yet?’
I ignored her. Why did she keep asking me this? ‘I haven’t seen enough of you, lately,’ I said pointedly.
‘I get preoccupied with my painting.’ The doodle she’d begun started to evolve into a dragonfly. She stopped and looked solemnly into my eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’ She gave the words considerable weight.
‘You’re sorry about what, exactly?’
She let a silence hang. ‘We’re just different, that’s all,’ she said.
That seemed to be my sister’s answer to all our problems. I was too sensible and straight-laced in her eyes; she was reckless and irresponsible, in mine. Poles apart.
There was a moment of awkwardness, then I bit the bullet. ‘I know I shouldn’t have looked, but—’
‘You’ve been spying on me,’ said Miranda indignantly. She scrunched up the napkin and stuffed it under the edge of her saucer.
‘My foot got caught on—’
She shoved her glass towards the window. ‘Yeah, yeah, come on, spit it out.’
I took in her entire face. ‘I found it, Miranda. I found a syringe in the pizza box.’
She tutted and flapped her hand at me. ‘Oh, that. I use it for paint. To get the right mix of oil base, otherwise the white, in particular, goes all lumpy.’
I was on full alert waiting for the scratch behind her ear, a turning away, but there was nothing. Maybe I was losing my touch, or maybe Miranda had wised up to it. Whichever way, I didn’t believe her. It all added up; her distant behaviour, sleeping in late and now I was seeing her in daylight, the orange rings around her eyes and her brittle hair. Were her pupils dilated? Was she sweating more than usual? I’d have to pay more attention.
‘Are you sure?’ I said. I’d come across plenty of sc
hizophrenics self-medicating with heroin before.
She reached for her bag. ‘If you don’t trust me, that’s your problem.’
I didn’t know what to do. Should I go straight to her case worker? Should I try to squeeze the truth out of Miranda first? Had I got it entirely wrong? I pulled at her wrist. ‘Don’t go, Miranda. Please.’
She plonked herself back onto the stool and sat in sufferance, playing with her top lip. I chose another option. I’d drop it for now, give her the benefit of the doubt, and go to the Project where she worked to speak to her tutor and friends. I’d be tactful. I’d ask if they knew about her painting practices. Check if white paint was a particularly difficult one to work with. I was determined to find out for certain, one way or the other.
A couple came in who recognised Miranda. Her face instantly shifted out of the shadows into blazing sunlight and she gave them a cheery wave. ‘I’m glad you’ve made friends,’ I said.
‘That’s Sponge and Kora – they work at the gallery.’ Miranda extended her smile to me. She seemed to have completely forgotten about my accusations. Good timing, I thought. Now I knew who to ask. It was obvious she wanted to join them, so I left her to it.
Later that evening, as I was getting ready for bed, my landline rang. It was Rosie.
‘I know I’m seeing you soon, but I thought you’d like to know they found Max’s violin case…’
I felt unexpectedly vulnerable hearing her voice as I stood barefoot on the cold kitchen floor in my pyjamas.
‘Rosie – okay, but this isn’t—’
‘It turned up in a cove. The police said it probably broke open, but there was nothing inside. I thought you’d be interested. They also found Stephanie’s cello a few days ago. It was all smashed up in the lake. They think the violin is probably ruined, too – but they haven’t found it yet.’
‘Rosie, this is all very interesting, but you do know we agreed that you’d only phone if you needed to cancel a session?’
Silence.
‘Rosie? You remember that sheet I gave you last week? Have a look at it again – it does say that we—’