The other pictures were all of young men, one of whom she recognized as Simon Homewood. She presumed that these were the fortunate recipients of Childs’s friendship that Giles Nevinson had told her about. A gap in the line suggested that things did not always work out well. The last and newest, an unsmiling young man with a great mop of black hair blowing across and half obscuring his face, she guessed was his godson, Harry, the tyro psychiatrist who provided the topic for a great deal of their conversation. His ambitions, her expertise, these she’d decided explained Childs’s evident desire to keep their relationship going. Giles, however, insisted it was a strong masculine streak in her character, the one enabling her to resist his own advances, that formed the attraction.
‘I thought we might have our tea in here,’ said Childs, coming in with a tray. ‘For London, it’s a fine view.’
He set the tray down on the desk, nudging over a thick stack of manuscript sheets to make room.
‘You’re not writing a novel, are you?’ she said, smiling.
He looked at her blankly and for a moment she thought she might have gone a familiarity too far, then as her smile faded, his arrived and he said, ‘Oh, this stuff, you mean? No, just a little thing I’m trying to put together on the Phoenicians.’
‘Not so little, from the look of it,’ she said. ‘Why the Phoenicians?’
‘Perhaps because they were not unlike the British. Great traders, fine ship-builders, hugely ingenious in matters of practical technology. Same stubbornness too. When their principal city, Tyre, was taken by Alexander, none of the men under arms took advantage of Alexander’s offer of mercy to any who sought sanctuary in the temples. Rather they chose to die defending their own homes.’
‘And you think that’s what would happen here?’
‘Perhaps,’ he said, smiling. ‘But it does us good to seek help and refuge in the deep past sometimes, don’t you think?’
‘I think you’re right,’ she said. Then, encouraged by his easy reception of her inquisitiveness, she went on, ‘I was looking at your photos. Is the boy you?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And that’s Father.’
‘I can see the likeness,’ she said. ‘I notice Simon’s here, too. Looking very attractive. Still does, of course. Though I could wish that he wasn’t attracted to me.’
She wasn’t quite sure why she said it. Perhaps she was looking for advice. Or perhaps she simply wanted to test the continuing strength of the psychological links between the man and his protégés.
Childs did not respond straight away but regarded her seriously for a moment with those mild blue eyes.
He should have been a saint, thought Alva, beginning to feel a little guilty. Or a priest, maybe. Not one of your hellfire brigade, but one of those who sought to lead his flock to heaven through love, not drive them there by fear. Which was a strange judgment coming from a devout atheist who earned her crust digging for the roots of human evil!
Then he smiled and said, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t see a problem. Nice to know that Simon’s human. His one fault perhaps is that he can be a bit of a boy scout. But as Baden Powell was not unaware, even boy scouts can fall into temptation. BP’s remedy was cold showers, but I’m sure with your professional skills we won’t need to turn on the water! Now, let’s have tea.’
Alva didn’t feel this was the greatest compliment she’d ever received, but it did confirm her feeling that, unfair as it might seem, though the problem wasn’t hers, the solution had to be.
She made sure that her relationship with Homewood never became too informal; not always easy, as she liked him a lot. It was in some ways easier for her to deal with George Proctor, who now came into the office and performed his customary semi-military halt before the Director’s desk.
He then accepted an invitation to sit down, which he did, disapprovingly, perching himself right on the edge of his chair. For the next minute or so he listened carefully to Homewood’s detailed and comprehensively glossed instructions, at the end of which he nodded and said, ‘So, suicide watch but we don’t let him know we’re watching, right?’
Homewood, long used to Proctor’s reductionism, smiled and said, ‘I think that just about sums it up, George. Anything to add, Dr Ozigbo?’
‘Only that if ever Hadda asks to see me, please try to get in touch immediately, no matter what time of day.’
‘You think that time could be of the essence here?’ said Homewood.
‘The disturbed mind is constantly opening and closing windows. It’s important not to miss the opportunity when the right opening comes,’ she said.
‘I understand. You got that, George?’
‘Yes, sir. Buzz Dr Ozigbo’s pager any time of day or night. Best make sure you keep it switched on then, miss.’
‘Oh, I will, George. I will.’
Proctor got up to go and Alva rose too. Homewood hardly seemed to notice she was leaving, busying himself with some papers on his desk. A gentleman in the old-fashioned sense, he normally would have risen and escorted her to the door. But in the presence of Proctor or any of his officers, he had taken to making a conscious effort to show that he classified her simply as a staff member like any other.
As they walked together down the corridor, Proctor said, ‘Fancy a cuppa, miss?’
This was a first. She knew Proctor had a little office of his own next to the warders’ common room, but she’d never been inside it.
Intrigued by the motives for this sudden attack of sociability, she said, ‘That would be nice.’
The room was small and functional. Its furnishings consisted of a desk, two hard chairs and a filing cabinet on top of which stood a portable radio.
Proctor said, ‘Have a seat, miss, while I pop next door. Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk,’ she said.
‘Right. Won’t be a sec. Like some music while I’m gone?’
Without waiting for an answer he turned the radio on. It was tuned to a non-stop music station that seemed to specialize in hard rock. The music bounced off the walls at a level just short of painful but she didn’t want to risk marring this moment of rapprochement by turning it down.
Proctor returned from the common room carrying two mugs of tea. He placed one in front of her and took his seat at the other side of the table.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘Cheers.’
They both drank. The tea was extremely strong. Alva was glad she’d asked for milk.
‘You and Mr Homewood seem to get on well,’ said Proctor.
Alva had to lean across the table to catch his words above the noise of the radio but long usage had presumably inured the Chief Officer to the din.
‘Yes, I’d say we have a good working relationship,’ said Alva carefully. She sensed that Proctor was not just making casual conversation, so care seemed a good policy till she knew where he was leading. Her first guess was that he’d detected Homewood’s feelings for her and for some reason felt it incumbent on him to warn her not to lead him on. Which, if the case, was a bloody cheek!
‘Funny places, prisons,’ he resumed. ‘Ups and downs, lots of atmosphere, easy to get funny ideas.’
Was he perhaps a nonconformist preacher in his spare time, lumbering towards a stern moral reproof?
She said, ‘Yes, I suppose it is, George. You should know that better than anyone. Because of your long service, I mean.’
‘Very true,’ he said. ‘Bound to be the odd disagreement, though. Between you and the Director, I mean.’
‘Not really,’ she said firmly. ‘I think we’re very much on the same wavelength.’
‘That’s good. Mind you, Dr Ruskin and the Director were like that too, until they fell out.’
There had of course been various references made to her predecessor during Alva’s time in the post, but this was the first mention of a dispute.
‘I didn’t know they’d fallen out,’ she said.
‘Oh yes. I mean, that’s why the job came vacant.’
/> This was even more of a surprise.
‘No, surely it was because of the car accident?’ she said.
‘Yeah, well, him dying like that meant they didn’t have to say he’d resigned. Best to keep quiet about that, Mr Homewood said.’
‘Why did he need to say that to you, George?’ said Alva.
‘Because I was waiting outside his office with my daily report when they had the row. Couldn’t help noticing, there was a deal of shouting, Dr Ruskin mainly. Then he came through the door yelling, “You’ll have my resignation in writing by the end of the day.” I gave it five minutes before I went in, but the Director knew I was there. That’s why two days later, when Dr Ruskin had his accident, he brought it up with me. Said best to keep quiet about Dr Ruskin wanting to resign. That way it would make things straightforward with Dr Ruskin’s widow for the pension and such.’
Alva digested this, then said, ‘So why aren’t you keeping quiet about this now, George?’
‘Oh, you don’t count, miss. You’re one of the family. No secrets in a family, or it just leads to bother, eh? How’s your tea, miss? Like a top-up?’
‘No thanks, George. I’ll have to be on my way now,’ said Alva, recognizing that the significant part of the conversation was at an end.
But what did it signify? she asked herself as she walked away.
She felt she’d received a warning, but Proctor’s motive in offering it was obscure. Could be kindness, so her sense of being on the same wavelength as Homewood wouldn’t lead her into dangerous areas of over-presumption. Or maybe it was just a malicious need to insert a small wedge in what he saw as a wrongheaded liberal alliance.
Time would probably reveal all. It usually did. She focused her attention instead on the delicate stage she had reached in her treatment of Wolf Hadda. She had a feeling that something was going to happen in the next couple of weeks. At least it seemed likely that George Proctor’s new friendliness meant he would live up to his promise of giving her a buzz as soon as it happened.
ii
The buzz came sooner than she expected.
Three days later at half past four in the morning, to be precise. She picked up her bedside phone and dialled. Proctor answered instantly.
‘Tried to slit his wrist, miss,’ he said. ‘And as they took him off to the hospital wing, he kept saying your name.’
‘I’m on my way.’
She walked through the shower to wake herself up. As she towelled dry, she glimpsed herself in the full-length wall mirror. There was, she thought, a great deal more to her than her prison outfit promised. If Homewood could see her like this, the poor man would probably burst out of his trousers!
She excised the narcissistic thought, pinned up her hair and pulled on her prison kit.
She arrived at the prison at the same time as Homewood. He’d been told first about the suicide attempt, of course, but he had slightly further to come. She’d heard he had wanted to live close to his place of work but his wife had insisted that, in choosing a home for herself and her three children, other considerations came first. Alva sympathized. Homewood’s devotion to his job probably meant he took it home with him. That must be bad enough without having the looming gothic reality of the place just around the corner.
He said, ‘You were right.’
It sounded as much an accusation as a compliment.
Proctor was waiting for them.
As they walked with him towards the hospital block, he told them what had happened.
‘He got into bed at lights out, settled down, seemed to go to sleep, but some time in the night he slashed his right wrist with a razor blade. Normally he’s a very restless sleeper, and he’s been a lot worse lately, tossing and turning all night, sometimes just lying there with his eyes wide open like he didn’t want to go back to sleep. Fortunately Lindale was on duty. He’s got a good nose for anything different and it struck him that Hadda was lying unusually still, so he took a closer look.’
‘How the hell did he get a razor blade into bed with him?’ demanded Homewood.
Proctor said woodenly, ‘Looking into that, sir.’
Alva guessed he was thinking, If we ran this prison on my lines, not yours, there’d have been a lot less chance of this happening.
On admittance to the hospital block, they found the doctor waiting for them. His name was Martens. According to his own account, he’d been a star student and he couldn’t disguise his sense that fate had played him a dirty trick by leaving him high and dry as a prison doctor in early middle age. He was certainly no great fan of forensic psychiatry, but her first glimpse of him this morning was reassuring. He had the weary, irritated look of a man eager to get back to his bed rather than the sad resigned expression of someone who’s just lost a patient.
‘Oh good. You’re here at last, Doctor,’ he said in the faintly sneering tone with which he always used her title.
Homewood frowned and asked brusquely, ‘How’s Hadda?’
‘Hadda is fine,’ said Martens. ‘In fact, he might well have been fine even if he hadn’t been found till breakfast. Despite what one may glean from sensational literature, wrist-slitting is a pretty inefficient way of committing suicide. Most people slash, as Hadda did, across the wrist, and few go deep enough to get to the artery. If your blood is normal, the body’s pretty efficient at sealing up a severed vein. Opening it up longitudinally rather than laterally gives you a much better chance of success . . .’
‘But he’s going to live?’ interrupted Homewood impatiently.
‘Oh yes,’ said the doctor. ‘Still, I suppose it’s the thought that counts.’
‘Is he conscious?’ asked Alva.
‘Indeed he is. He became quite agitated when I tried to sedate him. He’s mentioned your name several times, Dr Ozigbo. Not always in the most complimentary of terms.’
He said this not without satisfaction. Clearly, in his eyes, for a psychiatrist’s patient to attempt suicide was prima facie evidence of failure.
And in mine . . .? she asked herself.
She moved forward into the ward. Homewood was going to follow her but she put her hand on his chest.
‘Just me,’ she said.
Hadda was watching her as she approached his bed. He looked pale so far as it was possible to tell on that scar-crossed face. His right wrist was heavily bandaged but it was the ungloved hand that drew her eyes. It was the first time she’d seen it plain. She understood now why he usually wore the black protective glove. The absence of two fingers was a disfigurement more startling than the facial scars or even that suggested by the eye-patch.
He said, ‘Come to gloat?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Don’t play not understanding,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s entitled to an I-told-you-so, even psychiatrists.’
‘You need to spell it out, Wolf,’ she said. ‘What is it you think I told you so?’
His gaze drifted away from hers and his expression froze as though his facial muscles were resisting his brain’s command. Then, with a perceptible effort of will he brought his eye back to focus on her face.
He said, softly at first but with growing strength, ‘Everything they said about me at the trial, the paedophile trial, I mean, was true. And a lot more besides. I know the dreadful things I did. I know the dreadful person I was, the dreadful person I still am. I’ll spell it out to you, and verse, if that’s what you want. I know it, I admit it, I acknowledge it.’
Now she saw his eyes filling with the tears that she’d been hoping to see from the start of her involvement in his case, but the sight filled her with pity not pleasure.
Whether it was her pity or his pain that made things unbearable she could not know, but now he broke eye contact with her and turned his head away and buried his face in the pillow. But he was still talking and she lowered her head close to his to catch what he was saying.
Distant, muffled, half sobbed, half spoken, she made out the words.
‘Help me . . . help me . .
. help me . . .’
Book Two
The Beautiful Trees
Ich habe die friedlichste Gesinnung. Meine Wünsche sind: eine bescheidene Hütte, ein Strohdach, aber ein gutes Bett, gutes Essen, Milch und Butter, sehr frisch, vor dem Fenster Blumen, vor der Tür einige schöne Bäume, und wenn der liebe Gott mich ganz glücklich machen will, lässt er mich die Freude erleben, dass an diesen Bäumen etwa sechs bis sieben meiner Feinde aufgehängt werden.
Mit gerürhrtem Herzen werde ich ihnen vor ihrem Tode alle Unbill verzeihen – die sie mir im Leben zugefügt – ja, man muss seinen Feinden verzeihen, aber nicht früher, als bis sie gehenkt werden.*
Heinrich Heine: Gedanken und Einfälle
* * *
* I am the most easygoing of men. All I ask from life is a humble thatched cottage, so long as there’s a good bed in it, and good victuals, fresh milk and butter, flowers outside my window, and a few beautiful trees at my doorway; and if the dear Lord cares to make my happiness complete, he might grant me the pleasure of seeing six or seven of my enemies hanging from these trees.
From the bottom of my compassionate heart, before they die I will forgive then all the wrongs they have visited on me in my lifetime – yes, a man ought to forgive his enemies, but not until he sees them hanging.
The Woodcutter Page 15