Heller's Regret

by JD Nixon

  “Why are you so wet?” I asked in surprise.

  “Matilda, this house is a furnace. We’re all drenched in sweat. It must be fifty degrees in here at least.”

  “I’ve been so cold.”

  With infinite care, as if I were fragile, he placed me in the passenger seat in his car. Later, I couldn’t remember the trip to the hospital at all and not much about my eventual treatment by an emergency team, Heller banned from the room. The doctor examined me, listening carefully to my rambling, incoherent reasoning behind why I was bleeding from my wrists, while a team of nurses stitched me up, took blood tests and inserted multiple IV needles in my arms.

  She rang someone and another doctor came down, carefully questioning me about what I’d said to the first doctor. I tried to be rational and calm when I explained myself again, but the increasing expression of unease on his face betrayed his feelings. He quietly discussed me with the other doctor and they made a decision to admit me to the mental health unit for overnight observation.

  A nurse came along after I’d been processed for admission and helped me into the shower with some sympathy. The warm water ran dark with dirt and blood. Afterwards, clean and dressed in one of the hospital’s shapeless gowns, the nurse took my blood pressure, pulse and temperature, checked the IV bags and left, patting my shoulder and telling me to get some sleep. She locked the doors to the room behind her. Unlike other hospital wards in which I’d stayed, there was no curtain between the doors and the room. Anybody could peer inside the room and observe me.

  I found out later that Heller had not been allowed into the ward. One of the overworked nurses had explained the reasons why with patience she rapidly lost as he kept trying to bully her into letting him stay in my room. In the end, she was forced to threaten to call the police to make him leave.

  That night in hospital was easily one of the worst times in my life. I fretted over Samuel while the doctors and nurses came into my room at all hours to examine and question me, huddled together in earnest conferences about me. I felt detached from the situation and from everyone around me. All I wanted was to be back in the house looking after Samuel.

  A huge window overlooking the entrance to the hospital took up most of one of the walls of my room. I watched hospital staff coming from, and going to, work, free to do what they wanted while I remained imprisoned in this room.

  Everybody who spoke to me throughout the night was considerate and patient. Though nobody came out and said it to me, of course, I sensed that they’d assessed me as not being a high-risk patient. Though to them I’d self-harmed, despite my repeated attempts to explain the logic behind that action, I wasn’t presenting as dangerous or violent. I was grateful for that small mercy, because I suspected that if left with no other immediate options, the staff would restrain patients who were otherwise uncontrollable. But no matter how much I might console myself with that, the inescapable fact remained that I’d been admitted to the mental health unit. They believe I’m crazy, I thought to myself more than once, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

  The night dragged on. Though unbelievably tired, I slept only fitfully, the cannulas in my arm stinging every time I moved. In addition to that discomfort, being woken regularly for ‘observation’ rendered the chances of finding any sleep virtually impossible. I met the dawn with tired, blurry eyes, weary down to my bones, barely able to ring for a nurse to help me make my shaky way to the bathroom.

  About an hour later the same nurse unlocked the door to allow a man to bring me a breakfast tray. As I pecked at the food apathetically, pushing most of it away uneaten, another doctor came into the room, accompanied by the second doctor from last night. They talked about me for a couple of minutes as though I wasn’t there and the second doctor left.

  The new doctor pulled up a chair next to my bed and took me through my story yet again. He asked me a lot of questions about my activities in the house: why had I cut myself and applied eyeliner; why had I smeared my blood on the painting; why had I insisted that it was freezing inside the house when others had told me the house was roasting; why hadn’t I eaten, bathed or changed my clothes for days; why had I thought ‘They’ were coming to get Samuel; why didn’t I recognise my own workmates; and why exactly did I believe I’d just time looking after a boy who apparently didn’t exist. I answered as honestly as I could, slightly more coherent than I’d been last night.

  I wasn’t allowed any visitors, my time dedicated to medical checks, showering, ignoring the food brought to me, and drilling down into my subconscious with the doctor. Various professionals probed my sleep patterns, stress levels, feelings towards my parents and siblings, relationships with my workmates. I gave them the same responses I’d provided from the beginning. While I believed I answered calmly, it was hard to miss their exchanged glances and busy note taking.

  “I’m being released today, right?” I asked the new doctor when we were alone again. “I was only admitted here for overnight observation, and it’s now been days. You’ve had your chance to observe me. I want to leave so I can return to the house and make sure Samuel is all right.”

  “Tilly –”

  I interrupted. “What’s your name again? I’ve forgotten.”

  “I’m Dr Reid,” he said patiently. “You can call me Gavin if you like. I’m your consulting psychiatrist.”

  I didn’t want to call him anything. I just wanted to get back to Samuel. “So you’re going to release me today?”

  “We’ve decided it would be best for you to stay here a few more days.”

  “But I was told it was just an overnight observation.”

  “A few more days,” he said gently.

  I flopped back on the pillow and started crying. “Why won’t anyone tell me how Samuel is doing? Can’t you see I’m worried sick about him? What’s the matter with you people?”

  “Tilly, I know you’ve been told this, but I just want to repeat it. There is no Samuel Grimsley. He doesn’t exist. You do understand that?”

  “No, I don’t. Samuel is real. I saw him. I touched him. I talked to him and watched him play the piano and with his toys. He is real and you’re happy to let a little boy stay by himself in a huge, old house. It’s cruel. It’s illegal.”

  I rolled over, turning my back on him. I wasn’t interested in discussing the matter for one more second.

  “There is no Samuel Grimsley,” he repeated quietly, before leaving, locking the door behind him.

  I didn’t care what any of them said. They were the crazy ones, not me. Samuel was real and nothing anybody said to me would change my mind about that.

  I spent the rest of the day lying in bed, too tired and depressed to move, doing nothing but staring at the wall, or the ceiling, or out the window. Why wouldn’t anybody tell me if Samuel was okay? I was so distressed over him being abandoned that I couldn’t relax and I couldn’t sleep.

  An idea gripped my mind that explained everything. Nobody would tell me where Samuel was because They had taken him away. It made perfect sense. Shame washed over me. I’d promised Mrs Grimsley I’d look after Samuel, and I’d let Them take him away. She would be devastated by my failure.

  Though upset by my realisation of the truth, I eventually surrendered to sleep. My last conscious thought was that I had to do something to rescue Samuel and I had to do it fast.

  Chapter 9

  When I woke the next morning, my depression still hung like a dark cloud around my head, though my mind itself felt clearer. My breakfast stayed untouched, the porridge congealing into an unappetising grey blob. Consumed by thoughts of Samuel, I passively let the nurse take my blood pressure, pulse and temperature, and change my dressings, delivering one-word responses to all his questions.

  Dr Reid visited me mid-morning, a couple of other people who were never introduced standing behind him, writing in their file folders, but not contributing to the conversation. He greeted me with upbeat cheeriness. I hated him. We spent another pointless hour going over the s
ame things again. At the end of his questioning, he wrote in his file folder for a while.

  When he looked up at me, he smiled in satisfaction. “Tilly, I’m not sure if you realised it, but the responses you gave me this time were more lucid than your previous ones. And importantly, you acknowledged several times that some of the things you’d done during your time in that house were irrational.”

  “So?”

  “So it means I’m more optimistic about your complete recovery. You’ve made great progress since the night you were admitted.”

  “Then can I be released today?”

  “You’re not quite at that stage.”

  “I need to go back to the house. I’m pretty sure now I know what happened to Samuel, but I want to check for myself.”

  That buoyed him for a moment. He leaned forward. “What do you think happened to him?”

  “I don’t think it, I know it. They took him away.”

  He allowed a fleeting touch of frustration to show on his face. “Tilly, we’re not going to move forward until you acknowledge that there is no Samuel Grimsley. Last night, I checked birth records. The only Samuel Grimsley disappeared in 1905 from the same house. There was a short article about it in the newspaper at the time.” He pulled out a piece of paper. “I printed it off for you.”

  I read the news article, handing it back to him when I’d finished. “The Samuel I spent a week with must be a descendant of this Samuel. Mrs Grimsley told me the family has lived in that house for a long time.” I was struck by a thought. “I suppose next you’re going to tell me that Mrs Grimsley doesn’t exist either.”

  “She’s real, but she’s Miss Grimsley, not Mrs. She’s still in hospital, this hospital actually, as her stay has been extended. It’s taken longer for her to recover from her operation than expected.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “I’m sorry, you can’t leave this ward at the moment.”

  “Why are you keeping me prisoner in here? You don’t want me to return to the house.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You’re trying to stop me finding Samuel, but you’ll never stop me.”

  “We merely want to help you recover.” He hesitated as if he was debating in his mind whether to continue with what he was about to say. “Tilly, what precisely is your relationship to that giant blond man? He’s very bossy and has turned up trying to enter the ward several times. He’s also been ringing the nurses several times a day wanting to visit.”

  “Really? He told me that he cared about me a lot.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “I don’t know. I realised in the house that I knew him, but I don’t know how.”

  “That’s a start. At least he’s a slightly familiar face. Would you like it if I allowed him to visit for thirty minutes this afternoon?”

  “I don’t really care.”

  “I think it could be very beneficial to you to talk to someone you know. I’ll go ring him now.”

  I lay on my side, staring out the window again and thinking about Samuel and Mrs Grimsley. I would have liked to visit her in hospital and explain what had happened to the little boy. She would be angry with me, but I knew I deserved it.

  My lunch tray arrived and I didn’t acknowledge the person bringing it in. I just lay in bed, wishing more than anything that I could be released right now. I had to find Samuel, but in order to do that, I had to get out of here. I couldn’t figure out a way to escape. My door was always locked except when I had medical staff in the room.

  I ignored the door opening again. It didn’t matter to me who it was.

  “Matilda,” said an accented voice.

  I sat up and glanced over to the big man who entered my room. He wore the black uniform all of the men in the house had worn.

  When I saw him, a rush of memory swamped me, leaving me breathless. “I work for you, don’t I? With all those men. I was wrong. You’re not Them.”

  He shook his head and came over to sit on my bed, taking my hand in his. “No, we’re not them. And you do work for me in my business.”

  “Your name’s Heller.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why was I at the Grimsley house?”

  “You were on a job for me.”

  “You’re the one who rang me that time and I didn’t recognise your voice.”

  “Yes. I was so worried about you. It’s not like you at all not to be in regular contact on a job.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened to me while I was there.” We held each other’s gaze. “I’m not insane.” I couldn’t help the almost begging tenor of my voice. I needed someone to believe that about me.

  “I know you’re not.” He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed it softly.

  That little statement lifted my spirits more than I thought possible. This man, who said he knew me well didn’t believe I was crazy.

  He looked at the lunch tray. “Matilda, you haven’t opened any of the food. You must eat, my sweet.”

  I showed him my bandaged hands. I was so embarrassed that I hadn’t noticed how raw and blistered they were from those hours of digging. And because I’d been covered in dirt, a good many of the blisters had burst and become infected. I believed one of the tablets I was given each day was an antibiotic.

  He opened the containers of food for me and pushed the tray closer. I made an effort to nibble on the edge of a sandwich, but soon put it back on the tray.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Matilda, you must eat. You’re very frail at the moment. You won’t recover if you don’t eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Dr Reid came into the room and beckoned Heller over to the far corner. I watched them shake hands. Dr Reid spoke to him at length in a low voice and Heller responded. They both glanced in my direction a few times, but I was becoming used to people talking about me.

  They came closer.

  “Tilly, you have to eat. You’re very tired and underweight at the moment. You’re almost skeletal and I understand that you were battling to regain weight when you first arrived at the Grimsley house. You won’t recover from your infections without nutrition. And you’re also very dehydrated. I hoped that you would remedy that yourself by eating and drinking what we gave you. The hospital dieticians helped us choose menus for you that provide maximum nutrition and hydration. But they can only be of assistance if you eat.”

  “Matilda, I explained to Dr Reid about your previous traumatic assignment where you lost a lot of weight. Now you’ve lost more that you couldn’t afford to lose.”

  “Tilly, if you don’t start eating, I’m going to put you on another IV.”

  “I’m not hungry. I can’t force myself to eat if I’m not hungry.”

  “In that case, I’m left with no choice.” He left the room.

  “You have to eat, my sweet. We’re all worried about you.” He sat on the bed and took my hand again.

  “I want to leave.”

  “We all want you to come home, but that’s not going to happen if you need to remain on these IVs.”

  “I want to go back to the house. I think Samuel’s been taken.”

  I couldn’t even describe the expression of despair that crossed his face when I said that.

  “Matilda,” he began gently. “There is no Samuel Grimsley. I’ve explained that to you.”

  “You didn’t see him. None of you did. He was real. I talked to him.”

  “Matilda, we searched that house thoroughly – top to bottom. We didn’t see any signs of a child.”

  “He hid from you. He’s lived in that house all his life. He probably knows lots of hiding places. I want to go back to the house.”

  “Matilda.”

  “We were doing something very important when you took me away. I need to return so I can finish it for him.”

  Dr Reid returned with a different nurse. She added a huge IV bag to the other ones I was already hooked up to.

  “Could I pl
ease have a mug of tea?” I asked.

  “Certainly,” said Dr Reid, pleased I showed some interest in consuming something. “The nurse will organise one for you now.”

  I looked forward to a mug of Mrs Grimsley’s tea again – it would be like an old friend, a comfort blanket.

  “Dr Reid, I think it might be good for Matilda if she could have the television on.”

  “Certainly. That’s an excellent idea. I’ll arrange it before I leave the hospital today.”

  Heller spent the remainder of his allocated thirty minutes holding my hand and talking about the Warehouse, Daniel and Niq and the men. Some of what he told me was familiar to me and I remembered the Warehouse clearly. Images of Daniel and Niq burst clearly into my mind as Heller spoke. I was mortified thinking of what I’d done in the house to remember them. I should never have forgotten them in the first place.

  The nurse popped her head in the room to tell Heller his time was up. He argued with her, but her threats of not allowing him to visit me again forced his hand.

  He kissed my forehead, casting me a lingering, last backwards glance. He may have left instructions for the nursing staff, because about five minutes after he left, the TV came on. One of the nurses brought me a remote control for it, a small, lightweight, simple one with buttons only to turn it on and off, adjust the volume and change channels. She also placed a hot mug on my table, a tough plastic cup with a lid I couldn’t remove. It was a bitter reminder that I couldn’t be trusted with boiling water.

  I eagerly took a sip, but was disappointed. It was black tea with milk.

  When the nurse came back for routine checks, I said, “This wasn’t the tea I wanted. I wanted a different one.”

  “Sorry, love. The hospital only stocks black tea. If you want one of those fancy herbal things, you’ll have to wait until you’re released.”

  That news crushed me. I’d been looking forward to that tea so much. I tried to be polite and drink it, as I’d asked for it especially, but I only made it halfway through before abandoning it. I wanted my tea.

  I flicked through the channels, settling on a cooking show. That would do, I thought. Time passed much more quickly when I had something to occupy my mind. And before I knew it, the news was on. Though I was now receiving nutrition via the IV bag, a dinner tray was delivered. I lifted the cloche, took a sniff and replaced it without tasting. If you weren’t hungry, you weren’t hungry – it was as simple as that.