2004 - The Reunion

by Sue Walker

  She placed the photograph to one side, still mulling over its atmosphere. It was probably just low spirits because the holiday was over. That made sense. They were all a huffy lot, given half the chance. So had she been. With a sigh, she began rummaging through the box. There was a wallet with photos of a lovely woman, whom she took to be Sian Gallagher. She definitely had a look of her brother. There were also other oddments, like the rent book for the croft, paid bills for public utilities, MOT certificate, and suchlike. They were all bundled together by a thick elastic band.

  Finally, only a tatty envelope was left. She felt a hard square shape through it. She slipped the computer disk out. Marked in red felt tip on its label was one word, ACCOUNTS.

  She looked over at the black case on the floor of die wardrobe. She’d had half a mind to leave die laptop behind. But she was addicted to it. Three minutes later she was opening up the only file on die disk.

  The first name to appear was instandy recognizable. And confirmed her deepest suspicions about die ghosts she’d just seen in diat photograph…

  ELEVEN

  After almost four months in this place, she knew by now that any time there was difficult or potentially awkward news to impart, it came from Ranj. His full name was Ranjit or something, but no one ever called him that. Just Ranj. She’d first met him a month after her admission. He’d been away on a course. She liked the fine-featured face under the beard and dark blue turban. He seemed relaxed, approachable.

  She noticed that he’d waited until morning therapy was over. He, Anna and Sarah were all sitting in the circle with the rest of them. She heard Simon sigh, and then weigh in. Cut-glass Scottish accent—a male Jean Brodie—the public-school uniform pristine. “Here we go! What’s the big announcement, then? New curfew? Thanks to Lydia, who stayed out late twice last week.”

  There was a general murmuring, all eyes in the circle resting on Ranj, cool and relaxed as ever. He gave a polite cough and got stuck in. “Come on, that’s unfair and you know it, Simon. No. I’ve got good news for us all.” He gave a deliberately over-dramatic pause. Making them wait. “We’re all going on holiday.”

  “What the fuck! Are ye off yer skull? It’ll be fuckin’ November in two minutes, for fuck’s sake! Bloody winter!”

  “Right! Fuckin’ ridiculous!”

  Innes flashed a smile at Abby. They were all having a go, led, as ever, by the jeers of Carrie, Danny and Alex. But Ranj was keeping it together. Letting them get it out of their system. Waiting until each last mock groan of pain and mutinous grumble was spent. Anna gave him one of her bossy looks and took over. “Actually, we’re going camping.”

  She was holding up both hands to keep their protests down. “It’s a bit flashier than camping, as it happens, though we’ll be taking tents in case we fancy moving about a bit and want a night under canvas. But for the main part we’ll be staying in huts at an outward-bound centre. Heated huts. With hot and cold running water and kitchen facilities. There’ll be a chance to do lots of outdoor pursuits. Canoeing, climbing, orienteering. There’s also a TV lounge, so you won’t miss Top of the Pops, okay?”

  Innes watched a sulky Carrie let rip. “Where is this fuckin’ place? Do we all have to go, for fuck’s sake? An organized, group fucking holiday? Sounds cunting booooring!”

  But Anna looked ready for her, ignoring the second-chancer question and attending to the former with a put-on cheerfulness. “It’s up in Argyll. Near Inveraray. Ranj, Dr Laurie and myself have been to see it. It’s lovely, no matter what time of year. We’ve got hold of a long-range weather forecast. Winter hasn’t quite kicked in there yet. It’ll be cold but fine.”

  It was obviously Danny’s turn now. “When we goin’? Can we get time off?”

  Ranj answered him quickly, determined not to allow anyone a way out. “We’re going in two weeks. And don’t worry, we’ve organized school breaks. Since you lot only go out of here to school in the afternoons, it’s not that difficult. All right? Okay, that’s it.”

  The meeting was at an end, and everyone was filing out. Innes hovered in the hallway, unseen, and watched as Anna started moving furniture back against the wall.

  “Well, Ranj?”

  Ranj had grasped one end of the sofa and was pushing hard. “Who knows. I think it’s just what they need. What we all need. This place feels like a volcano ready to blow.”

  Anna stopped what she was doing and stared at him. “And you don’t think we’ll be taking the volcano with us?”

  Innes headed for the stairs. They were right. The place was beginning to feel tense, edgy. All the time. And she couldn’t, for the life of her, work out why.

  ANXIETIES

  Twenty-six years later—2003

  Note from Slater Anna Cockburn to Staff Observation File

  11 October 1977

  RE: Patient, Simon Calder (d.o.b. 23.8.60)

  Simon has had a bad day or two. The last family-therapy session with the Calders did not go well. Mrs Calder still insists that she fails to see why there have to be regular sessions including the parents when her son is an in-patient. She maintains that she simply does not have the time to devote one hour every two weeks to her son’s welfare, which she makes plain is now the APU staff’s sole responsibility. Indeed, Mrs Calder seems increasingly to be in denial about her role in Simon’s illness, preferring to disown him while he is in our care. We must address this in future family-therapy sessions and do all we can to ensure that Mrs Calder attends.

  Unsurprisingly, Simon’s self-esteem issues are more acute than ever. He is spending more and more time alone, which has to be countered. Staff must engage him with them and with the other patients. His relationship with Carrie is, as we know, his key relationship, but she, as we also know, enjoys periodically goading him. When he feels totally unloved he becomes more of a pedant than ever, showing that he is at least good at something. This of course angers others such as Danny, who feels educationally and intellectually inferior (correct on the former but not on the latter), and thus he too acts out.

  I suggest close monitoring of Simon for the next few days. He remains an acutely anxious patient.

  Copies to: Daily Nursing Log; Night Duty, Special Log

  Copy to: patient file, S. Calder

  TWELVE

  Girt abducted—police fears grow

  A four-year-old girl from the picturesque fishing village of St Monans, Fife, has been abducted. Katie Calder, who attends the exclusive St Kilda’s Nursery School in St Andrews, was waiting at the school gates for her mother in the company of two older friends yesterday afternoon, when she was grabbed by a middle-aged man.

  A police spokesman said that they were baffled by the abduction and becoming increasingly concerned for Katie’s safety. He insisted that the police search was broadening by the hour, and that extra officers had been drafted in from other forces to help with inquiries. The spokesman said it was ‘too early’ to link Katie’s disappearance with a number of unsolved child abductions that have occurred in the north-east of England and the Scottish Borders over the past two years.

  Meanwhile, Katie’s two friends are helping police compile an ‘E fit’ image of the abductor. Katie’s parents, Dr Simon Calder, a clinical psychologist, and his wife, Rachel, have another daughter, Lily (6). Neighbours say that the family is ‘devastated’ and ‘desperate for news of Katie’.

  “Are you sure she’s okay, Simon? It’s been practically a fortnight now and you’re still keeping her off school. Is that wise? Shouldn’t she be mixing again with her friends, trying to take her mind off it?”

  Take her mind off it! He cursed the pole-axing insensitivity of his mother. And cursed himself. Dr Simon Calder, clinical psychologist. Physician, heal thyself. That was a bloody laugh. How the hell could he heal anyone in this state? And with her around? His was the mother from hell. But so was his situation. It was a quarter to midnight and he’d had enough. He glanced for the umpteenth time at the two-week-old newspaper and threw it across the
room, the banner headline seared into his memory, the daily habit of reading and rereading it and others about his daughter now an embedded, settled-in neurosis.

  He pressed die phone harder against his ear. “Mother, Lily’s sister has been abducted. She doesn’t want to be at school. Besides, she has friends in the village and she’s not the only one still absent from school, believe me. The two girls who were with Katie when she was taken are still being kept away. Listen, my mobile’s going. I have to go. If there’s any news, I’ll let you know straight away.”

  He hung up. His mobile lay silent in his pocket, but he felt no guilt whatsoever about the phantom call. His mother was doing what she did best. Interfering. Undermining. Making him feel inadequate. Any normal mother would be pouring out unconditional support to him and his family. But his had never been a normal mother. Well, he couldn’t change that. But he was forty-three, not fourteen. He could make his own decisions without her sanction. Could get through this hell without her.

  He left his study and padded up the stairs of his beloved house. Its spectacular aspect, looking out over the mouth of the Firth of Forth, where it met the often angry North Sea, was unmatched. This night, nothing could be seen. Only heard. The swell was quieter than usual. But hypnotically soothing. His first stop on the landing was the double bedroom. Rachel was sound. And not. He could detect rapid-eye movement under the quivering lids. She too was troubled beyond words. Two weeks had passed since the event, and his wife, even in her unconscious, knew that the longer it went on, the worse the expected outcome. He stepped forward to kiss her cheek and left to visit the other occupied bedroom.

  For a moment he envied the apparent careless slumber of his daughter. Lily lay on her back, hands flung out in crucifixion, duvet discarded. She looked as at peace as any six-year-old should in sleep. But he didn’t need the skills of his professional training to know that the truth was otherwise. He kneeled beside the narrow bed, cartoon characters from the dim night-light grinning their mockery of happiness and reassurance. He kissed his child on the forehead, feeling rather than seeing the imperceptible stirring of her small body. He studiously avoided entering the third—and empty—bedroom, merely giving a single nod of approval as he recognized the glow of Katie’s night-light shine out on to the landing.

  Back downstairs in his study, he opened a window. He’d do that in most weathers, day and night, until the wind blew his papers away, or the rain and sea-spray mottled his spectacles, obscuring his vision. But it was summer, and the weather fine. He undid the last button of his Polo shirt, and blew air down his hot chest. The stiff whisky sitting undrunk by his elbow eventually aroused his attention. He downed it greedily in one burning gulp and hastily refilled, a few golden drops falling on to the hem of his shorts. Then, bending his head, he unscrewed his fountain pen, ready for that night’s attempt at catharsis.

  Sunday. Midnight

  It is almost two weeks since Katie was abducted. If she is not dead, then we believe she has been raped. We had devastating news today. Katie’s socks and skirt have been found. Everyone thinks she’s dead. Things are getting worse by the day. The waiting is killing everyone. The police won’t confirm it. But I can sense it, see it in their faces, hear it in the changed tones of their voices. They are unofficially linking Katie’s disappearance with that of the others—none of which have had a happy outcome. These other little ones may have all been returned. But they were returned…damaged.

  Why? Of all the children in this part of the world…but no, I must not wish this on anyone else. How cruel, how unjust. I know why. I deserve this, but my precious little Katie doesn’t. Why couldn’t fate have taken its revenge out on me directly? I just can’t bear this. Help me. Help us all.

  But no one can help. Not even this odd activity can ease my burden. It seems strange that throughout my adult life I have kept a journal. A most unfashionable thing to do. But it has been my salvation many a time. Self-psychoanalysis. A forum for my confused feelings. I used to enjoy the satisfaction of crises survived, when I looked back. But I begin to doubt that this one is survivable.

  And worst of all are the memories. Of that time before. Nothing has ever been able to assuage the fearful feelings of that time. Not my work helping and healing others. Not the love of my beautiful wife. Not the births and flourishing of my most precious daughters. That time has always been buried deep but constantly nagging.

  I barely sleep now. Because of the dreams. This episode has brought them back after what must be years. Rachel knows nothing of them. She’s happy to accept the pills I have given her every night since Katie was taken. My drinking is becoming a problem. I used to be an indifferent drinker. Could take it or leave it. But not now. Rachel knows nothing of that either. I buy secretly—outside of the village—and I dispose of the empties secretly. All is deceit. Lying. Guilt.

  Things could have been far worse. The police wanted, practically insisted, that we have an officer here at all times. Unthinkable! I absolutely put my foot down. Thankfully, Rachel was with me on that one. We want no intruders here. We already have enough. All unseen.

  As for work? It is fortunate that I have understanding colleagues. My patient workload has been suspended thanks to them. The simple truth is that no one can know why this event has hit me so much harder than anyone else. Rachel cannot know. No one else can. No, thafs not quite true. There are others.

  I begin to wonder if there is a God after all. If so, He/She/It is having the last laugh now. Savage justice indeed. There it is, plain as plain. Katie’s fate is my fault. My punishment. Utterly deserved. Time for bed now. Time for the dreams.

  THIRTEEN

  The gentlest rat-a-tat. He knew it was her. Irritatingly, she never waited for a reply. Just cracked the door open and then swarmed in. He leaned back from his desk, trying a weak smile. He watched as Dr Sheena Logan, Head of Psychological Services, Out-patients, helped herself to a chair opposite.

  “Simon, really. Are you up to being in? No news, I s’ppose?”

  He shook his head, moving his chair a few inches away from the tall, overbearing presence of his boss. She seemed to take up more of the room than he did, and he’d been finding her obvious concern and daily visits to his office oppressive. “Eh…no, Sheena. The police have nothing. And I…I prefer to be able to come in. Do paperwork, write reports. It’s absolutely right that I stay away from my patients just now…I agree with you and the department there and…and eh, I’m keeping my hours down. So I can be with Lily and Rachel.”

  She nodded, seeming satisfied with that, stood up and wandered back to the door. “That’s good, Simon. The family’s the most important thing at this time. You should be able to find great comfort together. Okay, I’ll be off. Do not overwork, though. Got that? Bye for now.”

  He pushed his chair forward again, head in hands. Thank God she was gone for another day! He knew only too well why she was being over-solicitous about his well-being. He’d told her. Well, told her some of it, when he was offered the job eighteen months ago. He’d had to tell her about his adolescent psychiatric past. Otherwise he wouldn’t have dared take up a post in the very hospital where he’d once been a patient. Even though it had been over a quarter of a century ago. Even though Dr Laurie and the nurses were no longer on the scene. Not to tell would have been too much of a risk to his career. The psychological/psychiatric medicine community was a very small one in Edinburgh.

  But Sheena had been fine, breezily saying that he wasn’t the only one in the mental-health field who’d had their share of being the ‘consumer of services’. She had followed this up with the usual facile observation that it probably made him a better psychologist Christ, if she could see into his mind right now.

  He slid open his desk drawer. The photo was getting tatty now. There they were. Staff and patients. All lined up in rows, like a bloody football team. With the glassy waters of Loch Fyne in the background. He ran a finger along the faces. A picture could never tell the whole story. Certainly n
ot this one. Anyone looking at it would see a group of teenagers with a handful of adults, enjoying their outdoor holiday. You had to look closely, and know what you were looking for, to even scrape the surface of what was really going on.

  Poor Ranj. It had been his state-of-the-art camera, and he’d pre-set it and run to join them at the end of the back row. A week later, back at the Unit, he’d proudly doled out a copy to each of them. Carrie had ceremoniously ripped hers into a million pieces and binned them in front of everyone. Very Carrie. But, as far as he knew, everyone else had kept theirs. Predictable behaviour, from a psychologist’s point of view.

  He reached back into the drawer. They were neatly in date order. He’d managed to locate and steal them so easily. The records department had abysmal security. He’d more than expected them to have been destroyed. But no. Some administrative oversight had ensured that they’d been squirrelled away, forgotten, collecting dust in an unused basement. The files were incomplete. But there was enough there. Strange, although he’d had the papers for over a year, and the photo for ever, he hadn’t been near them for an age. Not until Katie was taken. Then he’d gone to the safe in his study at home and brought them out. They were both talisman and curse to him. A reminder.

  Not being a complete fool, he’d often wondered, as he’d applied for and then secured the job here, how much he had been driven to it by the Unit. His choice of career was obviously linked to his past. He wanted to help and, where possible, heal. But to come back to this very same hospital? The ultimate ‘working through’? The apotheosis of ‘closure’? It wasn’t quite that straightforward. The Unit had been situated in the hospital grounds, and had never been part of this, the main building. In actual fact, the Unit building wasn’t part of the hospital any more, although the house still stood, neglected. More often than not, he found that he couldn’t face going past it, often executing ludicrous detours to avoid even seeing it. But he was slowly developing his own plan for getting over that particular phobia.