2004 - The Reunion

by Sue Walker

  “I’m forced to say, Alexandra, that there have long been whispers about your…and I will use the term here…your workplace bullying methods. The company has seen fit to ignore these because of the money you’ve made for us. But this is a whole different ball game. We’re going to let you go quietly. Louise isn’t pressing charges. The case would be a hard one to pin on you. I’ve no doubt you’d make a fine and convincing showing at court, if it came to that. But it won’t. The company couldn’t have those type of headlines splashed all over the press. However, I will give you one final warning. A promise. I will do everything in my power to discredit you and have your licence to trade revoked if you ever, ever try to get another job in the City. And that stigma will follow you everywhere, believe me. So, you’re in a Catch-2 2 position. You may still have your licence but you cannot trade. Consequently, I suggest that you embark on a career change. And get some psychiatric treatment…”

  She winced at the humiliating memory. Then smiled. “She’d still managed to play hard-ball and get a decent pay-off on the QT.” When she’d made it plain that she was willing to trash her own City reputation just to get back at the company and force things into the open, they’d caved in. On the money side anyway. She’d wanted out of the City for a while. It had been boring her. And that stupid little bitch Louise had asked for it. She hadn’t been the first either. But she’d been a squealer, unlike the others, who knew what initiation they were in for, and knew to grin and bear it.

  She threw back the last of the cognac. It would definitely help her sleep. She stood up. She could safely leave the photos lying about. She wasn’t expecting any visitors tonight.

  The bed was cold when she got in. She stared at the ceiling, watching the rain’s shadows run black rivulets down the walls. She was drifting off, the feeling of falling a welcome one to her. But it wasn’t going to be that easy. She jumped and was hyper-alert and awake again. She sat up. An unbidden memory had been prising its way through her subconscious, not for the first or last time. It must have been looking at those damned photos that had done it.

  Christ, the last day or two she’d spent more time living in the past than now. But this one? Maybe it was because Guy had said he was looking forward to coming home for Christmas…Christmas…

  “Double o seven. Lucky for more than James Bond, it seems…” The layers of tissue paper had come off easily, her excitement building with every vigorous rip. It had taken what seemed like an age to actually acknowledge what she was seeing. In reality it had to have been a mere split second. And she knew immediately what was going on. She remembered punching her way through the crowd, all eyes and mouths like round, shocked O’s. All heads craning to see what she was fleeing…

  “It’s all right, Anna, I’ve found her. Leave it to me. No, honestly. I’ll be fine with her.” Sarah’s voice had drifted through the back door and into the frosty night. She ignored it and hunched into her parka, enjoying the view. This garden bench was her favourite. Stuck bang-up against the house wall, it was in a raised position at the top of the grounds, and the view was always remarkable, stretching seemingly for miles across lawn, until the eye reached the arbour, where the swing was. All was glittering snow and ice. The sky was clear. A half-moon—more than enough to light up the sparkles of the snow-covered lawn—picked out Sarah’s silhouette as she approached.

  “Alex, you can’t stay out here. It must be minus five. You’ll freeze. Look, you’re already shivering. C’mon, let’s go inside.” She again ignored Sarah, who at least had the sense not to try to touch her.

  She was aware that her face must still be blotched red with the tears, and she retreated into her parka hood as far as she could. Her breathing had returned to something like normal. She could at least smoke now and drew deeply on the roll-up. It was made out of old dried-up tobacco, but she was out of normal fags and what the hell, it was a fag, after all. She felt Sarah shift a few inches nearer to her on the bench. In truth, she was glad it was Sarah and not any of the other staff. Well, glad it wasn’t Anna or Ran). Laurie wouldn’t grubby his hands to try to deal with her, with any of them, outside the formality of a bona fide therapy session. Controlling bastard. But he’d bring this episode up as soon as possible at their next session. There was no doubt of that, and the thought made her nervous. The others would know that too, and it would be doubly worse.

  She waited for Sarah to try again. At least they’d made it up since the camping fiasco. Well, sort of. If Sarah only knew that what had happened had been largely because of her. Her fault really. But Sarah had been nice, though nervy around her, since then.

  “Alex, what’s going on? Please tell me? What happened in there? Here.”

  She was offering a fag. A proper one, and some neat vodka. Fine, she’d accept both, happily and greedily.

  “What happened with the raffle? What’s with the rope, the knife? It’s some kind of perverse joke, right?”

  She found her voice for the first time. “Joke! Yeah, Sarah, that’ll be right! That’s why I’m shaking, freezing my tits off out here and smoking and drinking myself to death! It’s all one big j—”

  The shaking suddenly got worse and she allowed Sarah to prise the vodka bottle and the cigarette from her hands. She slapped both palms to her face, the tears oozing out.

  “Something happened. Something we’ll all be paying for one day. Believe me…”

  An exceptionally loud howl from the wind snapped her out of the memory. She slid back under the duvet. If she was honest, she knew this day would arrive. How could it not? Not with a fool like Simon around in the world. He might be academically bright, but she’d never had a particularly high opinion of his other qualities. And she had to keep an eye on Danny. He’d always been a selfish bastard, as far as she was concerned, so he should be okay. And the others? Well, that remained to be seen. Whatever, she needed to do some hard thinking and planning. She wasn’t, after all these years, going to have her life fucked up again. Not by anyone.

  PSYCHODRAMA II

  The same few weeks, and 1977

  File note from Nurse Sarah Melville to Sister Anna Cockburn

  21 December 1977

  RE: Patient, Alexandra Baxendale (d.o.b. 12.9.62)

  Following last night’s episode with the raffle, after which I spent some time talking Alex down, I have still been unable to find out what was going on.

  It’s perfectly clear that the genuine prize was switched. How, I can’t think, except that I know the wrapped prizes were left unattended in the Nurses’ Office at night before lights out, while whoever was on night duty was doing their rounds. What’s also obvious is that this ‘prize’ was meant for Alex and so Danny, as the ‘lucky dipper’, had to be involved. They’d all told each other what numbers they had drawn for the raffle, so Alex’s 007 was well known.

  “ I confronted Alex with the fact that Danny had to be involved, but she wouldn’t be drawn. She just kept saying ‘Bastards!’, so I assume she knows who did it and that it wasn’t just Danny.

  I am also no clearer about why the fake prize of rope and knife should be so upsetting, nor where they got these items or how they got them in. However, since the Unit is not a prison, the free movement of forbidden items (Carrie’s past marijuana supplies, for example) will always be an issue.

  In short, I have managed to get precisely nowhere with Alex.

  Sorry.

  Copy to: Daily Nursing Log

  Copy to: patient file, A. Baxendale

  THIRTY

  Sarah Melville stepped out into the freezing air, fighting her way through the madness of the Glasgow Christmas shoppers to reach the relative serenity of the underground car park. The security locking of her dark green Range Rover beeped its greeting at her. She climbed up into the luxury of die leather seating and sat, eyes closed, as she allowed the past hour to wash out of her.

  Her last client of the day had been wearing. She always was. That was why she’d recendy manoeuvred her into changing her appoint
ment time to a Thursday evening. The very last appointment of the week, barring client emergencies. Tomorrow was the usual Friday lecturing and an afternoon conference speech. A breeze.

  She turned the ignition, allowing the CD player to fill the vehicle with the low-level, soothing balm of Celia Cruz salsaing her way through a throaty rendition of ‘Te Busco’—the only music of choice on such days. Full concentration was required until she hit the A82 with the magnificence of Loch Lomond opening out on her right-hand side.

  After a wearying and difficult drive in blinding sleet, the full-beam headlights picked out the white-posted driveway entrance. The Range Rover slithered round an icy bend, snaking its way to the entrance of the exquisite, loch-side converted baronial mansion, the stone-carved name plate kinnaird HALL a welcome sight. Her own analyst had given her the tip on this place. The owners, who were running it as an hotel, at a catastrophic loss, had gone bankrupt, and developers had bought the building and carved, albeit expertly, a handful of luxury apartments out of it, keeping a couple of the best features: the swimming pool and the huge roof terrace with a bookable function room attached. A very unusual home. Worth every penny.

  She wandered into the vast hallway of her ground-floor apartment, ignoring the ringing telephone, always an essential accompaniment to her homecoming if, like today, she’d kept her mobile switched off.

  Ten minutes later she headed for the swimming pool. She had it all to herself. Bliss. Twenty metres of blue oblivion. She executed a perfect dive into the deep end and lost herself in fifty glorious lengths. Fifty lengths. One kilometre. A neat number. A tough, cleansing swim. She was reluctant to leave the side of the pool, but, knowing the habits of the other residents, she could expect the guy from the top floor to be down in a few minutes, and sociable chit-chat was not what she wanted tonight. She made her way back to the flat, and, after showering, strolled into her study, bringing back a tray of whisky bottle, soda, tumbler and leather folder, bulging with paperwork. Outdoors, the wind slammed the sleet against the glass, but she sat back in a towelling robe, warm and invigorated.

  She slurped greedily at the burning liquid, knowing that it was foolish to follow hard physical exercise with hard liquor. Tonight was an exception. Though inwardly calm, she’d noticed on her drive back that her gear-changing hand was far from steady. Easy to see why. She put her paperwork to one side, giving in to the most persistent thought of the evening.

  Somehow, in the back of her mind, under the most protective of subconscious layers, and occasionally in her worst dreams, she’d expected something like this. Though Simon Calder’s reappearance at Debbie’s, of all places, hadn’t been the one she’d expected, imagined or feared. However, there was no getting away from the fact that when he started making a name for himself on the Edinburgh clinical psychology scene, she had wondered what she’d do should they bump into each other. In reality, it wasn’t that likely. But possible. Most probable was an accidental meeting at a professional social do. And she knew herself well enough to recognize that her decision to get out of Edinburgh, retrain and immerse herself in psychotherapy had, albeit very vaguely and peripherally, taken the odds on such an encounter into consideration. Basically, it had been there somewhere, although in the very far background. But it bad been there. As for the chances of meeting any of the others, including the one she most dreaded? Not a chance. She had no idea where they were and was sure they’d forgotten all about her. Even Alex.

  The unbidden image of the fifteen-year-old skinheaded tomboy flashed through her mind. She hadn’t thought of Alex for an age. Occasionally, the dream world introduced distorted and disturbing versions of her. But she hadn’t had any of them either, not for years. She refilled her glass, letting her memories flow back to a few weeks before. The conversation with Debbie after Simon Calder had gone kept replaying itself.

  “God, Sarah, that’s a turn-up, eh? You didn’t tell me you’d worked in an adolescent unit.”

  The lie came easily. Too easily. “‘Course I did. Shit, Deb, we’ve been together so long we can’t even remember those early courtship conversations.”

  She hoped the joke would cover her anxiety and her lie. But Debbie’s memory never failed her.

  “No, I would’ve remembered. I mean I knew you’d specialized in adolescents at some point, but I didn’t know you’d done work in a unit, and the APU no less. When was that?”

  “Oh…seventy-sevenish for a couple of years.”

  “A couple of years! Bloody hell, you’re a dark horse. Seventy-seven? That was in its early days, wasn’t it? Who was in charge?”

  She had no choice now but to keep up the conversation. If she could keep it to who worked there and general talk about the Unit, all well and good. “Eh…it was a guy called Adrian Laurie.”

  She watched Debbie frown and then smile in recognition. “Ah, yeah. I read loads of his stuff when I was training at the Tav. I think he had some important things to say, but, as I recall, he suffered a bit of a backlash and headed abroad. The States, I think. And then of course, the APU shut, didn’t it? Too expensive for one thing, and Laurie’s theories were becoming unfashionable. Anyway, you would’ve quit the scene long before then and been in your psychotherapy training.” She paused and smiled admiringly at her. “Well, well, well, Sarah. You are a one. What an interesting professional period that must’ve been for you, clever girl. But you’re an even better asset to the world of psychotherapy.”

  She tried not to stiffen as Debbie stepped forward to put her arms around her. Though maybe she could use the occasion to distract her from any further Unit talk. But Debbie wasn’t going to give her the time. She felt a light kiss and then a squeeze to her waist as Debbie nodded towards the kitchen. “C’mon, let’s open a bottle of robust Rioja and play some of that salsa you so love, and you can tell me all about poor Simon Calder…”

  The snow was really beginning to pile up outside now. She shivered, despite the fact that she had the central heating on full blast. At the end of the day, Debbie seemed more in awe that she’d worked in the Unit than offended or puzzled that she hadn’t mentioned it during their five-year relationship.

  Strictly speaking, neither of them should’ve gone on to talk about Simon Calder in such detail as they had. But lovers, husbands, wives, close friends in the same profession always did. Of course there were ethical boundaries. Every good professional knew that. But Debbie had sold her with a winner. Little Katie Calder needed help, and her father’s current behaviour, which wasn’t helping matters, was seeded in his past. So, what was his past? For her part, she could convincingly plead that twenty-six, nearly twenty-seven years was a long way back to remember, which Debbie accepted. If only she knew how clear her memory of him, of them all, of that time was.

  But, strangely enough, it was what Debbie had said to her about Simon Calder, rather than the other way around, that had stuck. And brought back crystal-clear memories of 1977…

  THIRTY-ONE

  The scattered detritus of the previous night’s party was all around them. Sarah watched Anna come back in, grave-faced, and close the door. She moved to a vacant chair by the still-illuminated Christmas tree, accidentally kicking a plastic beaker out of the way. She observed the faces of her assembled colleagues: Adrian Laurie and Ranj outwardly impassive, Anna furious. And the American psychiatrist from down the road, Matt Benson, fresh and alert. Brightly confident, he was taking the initiative, rather cheekily, she thought. He’d obviously decided that his mere presence at the incident gave him the right to be part of the post-mortem.

  “It’s a set-up that had to involve Danny Rintoul. To give the ‘wrong’ prize, you have to have someone on the inside. And since it had been known for some days who was going to do the picking out of the hat, Danny’s your man. And what the hell’s going on that kids can sneak a thing like a hunting knife in here? To get hold of something like that would take some time and planning. Yeah, it was a definite set-up.”

  She smiled to herself. Ranj,
clearly irritated at this indignant stating of the obvious as if it was an incisive deduction, cut in. “That’s clear, Dr Benson. I think we’d all have to agree with that. There was nothing fortuitous about this incident. We know it was planned. It’s extremely worrisome to me too that a dangerous weapon such as this knife can make its way in here. Potentially, it puts us all in danger, staff and patients. However, I don’t see how we can prevent it unless we wish to introduce the kind of personal searches and authoritarian regime found in a secure institution for the criminally insane. I’ve worked in those places, and that’s not what I came to work here for. Thankfully, we’re not gaolers.”

  She sat up in her chair, enjoying Ranj’s demolition of Dr Benson. But she had to watch herself. Best to pre-empt questions and keep them off the subject of her conversation last night with the distraught Alex. She directed her attention to Ranj. “When you were handing the prize over to Alex, didn’t you notice anything about it? The weight, for example? I mean, a year’s free pass to the Odeon and a box of chocolates smaller than the runner-up box are a bit different to rope and a knife.”

  Ranj met her eye and held it. “I did think it was a bit heavy, Sarah. But I didn’t wrap the prizes. You and Anna did. I knew that the first prize was multi-wrapped, but that was about it.”

  It was unusual for Ranj to be defensive. She felt Anna, to her left, stir and lean forward in her chair, nodding at Ranj. “Yes, that’s right. You couldn’t have known, Ranj. That apart, the one interesting thing is when and how the substitution was made. As you said in your handover note, Sarah, all the wrapped prizes were kept in the office these past few days, until practically the last moment. The only vulnerable time was at night, when the staff member on night duty was doing the final rounds. As a rule, the office isn’t locked then, because all the kids are, or are meant to be, in bed. Obviously there was a switch, and someone now has the genuine first prize, although I’d be surprised if they’d dare to use the cinema pass, no matter how valuable it is. Too easy for us to catch them. Adrian? You want to say something?”