The Talisman

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘No . . . come on, give me your hand, I’ll get you cleaned up.’

  ‘Don’t touch me – don’t touch me.’

  She sprang at him, lashing out at him, screeching at the top of her voice. He pinned her arms to her sides and shook her. ‘Harry, for Chrissake what’s the matter . . .? Harry?’

  Dewint stood in the hall while Edward called for an ambulance.

  She would not let Edward near her, but she seemed to accept the gentle cajoling voice of one of the ambulance crew as they helped her down the stairs. Edward shook his head, almost pleading with the ambulance men, ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, what’s the matter with her? Do you know? What’s wrong with her?’

  Harriet would not let Edward travel in the ambulance. He watched it drive away, and turned to Dewint for an explanation. He mentioned the pills Mrs Barkley kept in her bedside cabinet, and Edward found them. Pierre Rochal’s name was on the label, but when he phoned Paris, he discovered that Pierre was away on holiday.

  When Edward arrived at the hospital, he was told that without Harriet’s medical records they could not say exactly what was wrong with her at this stage. She was very dehydrated, and in an extremely tense condition. She was under sedation, and until they had obtained her medical history there was nothing anyone could do. They would contact him.

  Edward couldn’t believe it was happening, just as things were going so well, the company riding high. But only Edward could turn such a sad circumstance to his benefit, however unintentionally. It came about because he contacted Allard Simpson, Harry’s brother. Allard lived in a shabby but still genteel area of Kensington. He had hardly changed since the days at Cambridge, apart from looking seedier and being obviously low on funds. It had been twenty years, but might have been a matter of months.

  The same old mocking Allard looked Edward up and down. ‘My, my, the elusive Mr Barkley, my brother-in-law, no less. Well, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Barkley? Good God, couldn’t you have thought up something with a little more savvy? Do sit down, I’m sure I can find something to wet the whistle.’

  Edward’s glance took in the threadbare carpet, the dirty ashtrays. Allard lit the gas fire and rummaged through a cupboard, bringing out a bottle of brandy and two misty-looking glasses. ‘How’s sis? She keeps well out of the family’s way, can’t say I blame her . . . Well, cheers.’

  ‘It’s Harriet I’ve come about.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t think you, Mr Celebrity, would be here without a reason. What’s she up to?’

  Edward hedged, looking for the best way to broach the subject, then thought, ‘To hell with it,’ and blurted, ‘What’s the matter with Harriet?’

  ‘Good God, how should I know? I’ve not seen her since she rushed off to France with that Frog doctor . . .’ He looked at Edward speculatively, ‘Unless . . .’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Well, there was a bit of drama, so long ago I can hardly remember it. But, well, she was very dodgy for a time.’

  ‘Dodgy? What do you mean, dodgy?’

  ‘You know she cracked up, the Aunt Sylvia syndrome . . . Christ, look, why don’t you ask her yourself, or Ma – she knows more about it than I do.’

  ‘Right now she’s in no condition to be asked anything. Sylvia? BB’s wife? Why did you mention her?’

  Allard snorted and wagged a finger at Edward. ‘Come on, old chap, don’t pull the leg – you know very well, or you should. After all, you cleaned poor Dickie Van der Burge out of his fortune. You know the poor sod’s bankrupt? Can’t keep him away from the tables, gambling every night. I’m surprised he’s not turned up at your posh club with a sledgehammer, he loathes you . . . So would I – how much did you get from the old boy? Heard through the grapevine that you made megabucks, that true?’

  Edward’s mind was in turmoil . . . Sylvia? Sylvia syndrome? He gulped at the brandy as Allard leered at him, swinging one foot with its down-at-heel, scuffed shoe. He laughed, twirling his finger by his temple. ‘Sis gone a bit nutty again, has she?’

  ‘Allard, talk straight, or so help me God I’ll smash this glass straight into that smirking face of yours.’

  Allard backed down fast, poured himself another brandy. ‘All I know is, Aunt Sylvia was a bit dotty. Everyone put it down to her losing her two sons. Harriet went the same way after . . . Look, this is her business, you’d better ask her yourself.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me . . .’

  Allard did actually have the decency to become serious. He even showed a flicker of emotion when he told Edward about Harriet’s baby, about the cot death. Edward felt as if he had been punched in the heart. Allard continued telling him how Harriet had been diagnosed schizophrenic . . . Edward sat back and closed his eyes. ‘Jesus Christ . . . was the father the French guy . . . was it . . .?’ He swallowed, his mouth dried out, he couldn’t even bring himself to say Rochal’s name. He was so shocked he didn’t ask dates, times, all he could think of was that she had had a child, and the sense of betrayal consumed him, sickened him. Allard continued unaware of the emotional impact of his revelations . . .

  ‘I don’t know all the facts, and she would never say who the father was, maybe it was Rochal, doesn’t really matter . . . all I know is she went off to some psychiatrist in Switzerland, and he said it was manic depression. That’s all I know. I presumed she’d got it all under control – she’s in a bad way, is she? She’s always been a bit odd, you know up one minute and down the next. Drink? Another drink? Are you all right?’

  Edward sat with his head in his hands. He pressed his fingers against his temples, forcing himself, pushing himself towards controlling the explosion burning inside him. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. No more, thanks . . . so tell me, what about you? You follow the Judge? Did you take up law?’ Edward was sweating, and relieved as Allard casually discussed his own career. Having failed his exams he was now working for a well-known insurance broker. Edward listened intently, commiserated when Allard bemoaned the fact he had not gone into the theatre as he had always wanted. He heard himself offering Allard a table at the club any night he chose. He was totally back in control. Sharp enough to ask Allard not to mention to anyone his change of name, just in case it worried Harriet. He detected the vicious glimmer in Allard’s sly eyes, and reckoned he would delight in stirring things up whether it affected his sister or not. So he talked fast.

  ‘I have a couple of high-risk insurance companies, like to do a little “I’ll help you if you help me” racket . . . You must be in a position at your company to know when they are coming in with big profits at the end of the year. I want you to start shoving out high-risk claims on a couple of things – you know, safe, sure ones. There’ll be a lot of money in it for you . . . What do you say?’

  Allard snorted and said he wasn’t in a high enough position to do anything even a trifle dodgy.

  ‘Nothing dodgy in it, old chap. All you’ve got to do is take a gander at the profits for the forthcoming year, farm out a few high-risk policies in my direction, make yourself a couple of hundred thousand for starters . . . Get yourself a better flat, want to think about it?’

  Allard opened the brandy, finished the dregs of it and smiled. ‘Christ, I always knew you were a crook . . . Fuck off, I’m not interested, old bean.’

  ‘How’s Henry? Hmmmm, old bean?’

  Allard laughed, told Edward he could not blackmail him with that – it was common knowledge. ‘Even Pa knows my preferences, Eddie, so that angle won’t work.’

  Edward picked up his coat. Allard surprised him, and he was not, after all, going to be easy to sway. ‘Maybe you should have a chat with your old boyfriend.’

  Allard sneered. ‘You don’t seriously think he even talks to me now, do you? Far too important . . .’

  Edward put on his coat, then increased the pressure. ‘I think he will if you whisper in his ear that I would . . . I would talk to him and a number of other people. It would ruin him, so don’t beat about the bush, Allard. Earn yourself a few b
ob and get a decent pair of shoes. You can’t attract much looking the way you do, male or female.’

  Allard hated Edward, his Savile Row suit, his still strikingly handsome face. ‘You got a card or something so I can contact you?’

  Shaking his head, Edward said that he would contact Allard. ‘I’ll give you five days to think about it.’

  Edward had a long talk with the doctors. They were very helpful, assuring Edward that it was nothing more than a temporary relapse. Given time, his wife would be back home and perfectly able to cope with life. She was not an invalid, but he must keep her condition in mind. They put her on tranquillizers, and she was to go into a rest home for a few weeks. They warned him that she would appear drowsy and slightly disorientated. Edward puffed on his cigar, paced the room and eventually blurted out what it was he wanted to know. ‘Is this hereditary? She had an aunt who was institutionalized . . . It’s just that should . . . I mean, if she were to have a baby . . .’

  ‘Your wife, Mr Barkley, is not schizophrenic. We have all her records here from three different clinics. She has a history of manic depression. It can be inherited, but it is not a foregone conclusion. Her condition can be triggered off by emotional upheavals . . . In this case it’s very clear that it was caused by the loss of her baby.’

  ‘What was wrong with it?’

  ‘The doctor who delivered the child, a boy, said he was in perfect health. We still have little or no knowledge of why these cot deaths happen, but they are quite common. To your wife it was such an emotional loss that she had a complete nervous breakdown. You will have to be gentle with her, take great care until she feels confident, feels herself again. You must also learn to watch out for the symptoms, never forget that your wife does have this illness.’

  ‘You mean, if I detect anything unusual, this can be avoided?’

  ‘Well, it can most certainly help to prevent her getting to the advanced stage she is in at present.’

  ‘So, what are the symptoms?’ The doctor felt as though he were on trial. Edward had such an angry, blunt way of questioning him. ‘Well, what do I watch out for?’

  ‘Elation, almost euphoria, with sudden switches to irritability, anger, is the most obvious. If she should appear more active than usual, talking more . . . an inflated sense of self-esteem, grandiose ideas . . . In some cases . . .’

  ‘I don’t want to hear about other cases, Doctor, just my wife’s.’

  ‘She may very well appear deluded about her identity, need less sleep, be very easily distracted, and over-react to trivial or irrelevant stimuli . . . I am, you understand, Mr Barkley, covering all possible symptoms of depression, manic depression.’

  ‘I hear you, Doctor, and I am trying to assimilate it. Is there anything, could there be anything else?’

  The doctor smiled. Now he could see the chinks in Mr Barkley’s armour – he no longer behaved in such a brusque manner, he actually seemed helpless. ‘It’s not so bad as it sounds, but tell-tale signs can include sudden shopping sprees, even sexual indiscretions.’

  Edward ran his fingers through his hair. He was quieter now, and gave the doctor a half-smile. ‘She always was a bit of a handful . . . What will be the next move?’

  ‘As soon as she is physically tip-top, I want to put her through a course of psychotherapy. She’s had a number of therapists before, but I am not sure at this stage which type of therapy would be most beneficial. Perhaps a group would be best, as she has had a considerable amount of cognitive and behavioural therapy through the years.’

  Edward said that there were no financial problems and he wanted the best there was. The doctor rose from his seat and shook Edward’s hand. He realized now that the bravado had been a strong cover-up, and Edward was obviously very disturbed and shocked.

  ‘You know, Mr Barkley, a good marriage, a strong marriage in which there is total openness and understanding, is likely to discourage Harriet’s depressive states from becoming regular occurrences. External events can trigger a depression, and when this happens, outside help is always advised . . . You obviously care; you love your wife a great deal. Perhaps together you can beat it.’ He noted the fleeting look of anger cross Edward’s face before he gave a charming smile and said it was time to visit Harriet. As he reached the door, still with his back to the doctor, he said, ‘I love my wife, guess I’m not the easiest person to live with. But from now on I’ll give it a damned good try. Thank you for your time.’

  Edward spent a long time sitting outside Harriet’s room. He digested everything the doctor had said, and the future seemed daunting to say the least. He couldn’t bring himself to face her, to cope with her.

  A nurse came out of Harriet’s room, carrying a tray. When she saw Edward, she paused and put her head back round the door. ‘Oh, your husband’s here, Mrs Barkley . . . It’s all right, Mr Barkley, there was no need to wait. Can I bring you a cup of tea?’

  ‘No . . . no thanks.’

  He picked up the big bunch of Harriet’s favourite flowers, tapped on the door and walked in. She was sitting propped up on pillows, surrounded by so many bouquets of flowers the room was heavy with perfume. She smiled brightly. ‘You’ve overdone the flowers, place looks like a funeral parlour! There’s a sweet little Indian girl down the corridor, and I’ve sent quite a lot of them to her . . .’

  Edward laid down the flowers almost afraid to look at her. She had that flushed look, her cheeks rosy, hair shining. It had now grown to her shoulders, and she had tied a ribbon around it.

  ‘I didn’t notice before how long your hair’s grown, looks nice. Dewint’s in a terrible state without you to clear up after. He’s started polishing everything in sight.’ He pulled up a chair and she offered him grapes, oranges – he caught her hand and held it tight. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s all right . . .’

  Her eyes brimmed with tears and she chewed her lip. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry . . . have they told you all about me?’

  ‘Yes, no stone unturned. You’re going off to a nice place for a rest, then they say you’ll be back home as good as new. And, I’ve got instructions from Dr Wilson on how to be a good husband. I’ve not tried hard enough, I know it, but I’ll make it up to you. We’ll go on a holiday together, wherever you like.’

  ‘You know I might get a bit wobbly again, I mean, I’ll try not to, but did they tell you?’

  ‘Yes, they did. Dewint and I will keep our beady eyes on you, make sure you’re stocked up with pills, all you have to do is get yourself fit and come home fast.’

  ‘You still want me, then?’

  ‘I’m your husband, what the hell do you expect? You’ve got me under contract, haven’t you?’

  She smiled, then her eyes drooped, and he held her hand until she fell asleep. She was comforted that he had taken no phone calls while he sat with her, and had not looked at his watch once . . . He leaned forward and kissed her brow, then crept out and closed the door silently behind him. He felt so depressed himself he wanted to weep.

  Edward had always made a point of never associating with Jodie’s girls. They were for his punters, but tonight he needed someone. He got very drunk, and went up to the rooms with the prettiest and youngest of the girls. Jodie gave strict instructions, this was no ordinary customer . . .

  It became a nightly arrangement. He never asked for any particular girl, taking anyone available. But Jodie always made sure he got the very best. He treated the girls with great courtesy, and although he owned the place he tipped them well and sent frequent gifts. They all liked him. He was still a very handsome man, and his prowess in the bedroom made their work a pleasure.

  Edward changed his drinking habits. He had never been one to overindulge, but now he started drinking heavily. Many nights Dewint found him passed out in the drawing room, and in the mornings he would be hung-over, often asking for a drink as soon as he awoke. He never brought any of the women home, which was a blessing, but it was Dewint who sent the flowers and gifts on his master’s behalf.


  Allard took longer than the five days, but he did eventually agree to work for Edward, for cash in hand. As an added incentive, Edward gave him carte blanche membership at Banks, and a special introduction to the house in Notting Hill Gate. He then secured four high-risk policies, and farmed them out to his own insurance companies, two in Panama and one in Brazil. He had still had no word from Alex, and with money pouring in he prepared for a long-overdue visit to South Africa.

  The records of his ‘hits’ remained in a separate file, one that was not to be seen by Alex.

  Harriet came out of hospital and moved into a rest home. Edward was a regular visitor, although he never stayed long. He was always attentive, and brought flowers and gifts. There was a growing void between them, and she felt helpless, unable to reach out to him, and blamed herself. Often after these visits she regressed, and her therapist soon connected part of her trouble with her husband. Edward refused when it was suggested that he join Harriet in therapy, feeling that as he was paying vast sums of money they should be able to get his wife straightened out without his assistance. The therapist therefore concentrated on Harriet’s relationship with Edward in their sessions. Piece by piece, Harriet imparted snippets of valuable information concerning her emotional ties to her husband, and it became clear that she placed him above everything else in her life.

  She showed no marked improvement until she began drama classes. Suddenly she found a release, and a vocation. A month went by, and Dewint visited instead of Edward. Hesitantly, he explained that Edward had gone to South Africa, but would be in touch as soon as he returned. In fact, Edward had not yet left, he was sitting at home by the telephone. He placed a call to Skye Duval and waited. The line was buzzing, there were echoes of different operators. At last he heard Skye’s familiar voice. ‘Duval speaking, who is it?’

  ‘Hello, buddy boy, I need a meeting with you, we’re on, want to start things rolling fast.’

  ‘Okay . . . I’ll meet you at the airport, just say when.’