The Deceiver

by Priscilla Masters

  Grant had been lying in wait for her. Without a word, he had picked up on her low mood, her despair, taken her hand and led her out to the garden where, underneath the ancient apple tree (which they should really have felled by then but hadn’t had the heart to) a bottle of red wine and two glasses sat, and as he poured them each a glass he had looked at her with those beautiful dark eyes. Later, she had analysed every single word, the tone, the manner, the gestures that had accompanied them.

  ‘I love you, Claire,’ he’d said huskily. ‘I love you. I love your intelligence and your steady ways. I love the fact that I can trust you and rely on you. I love your smile and your sense of fairness. I love your judgement and your lovely face …’ She had tried to contradict him, tell him it was not lovely but plain, but he had stifled the comment with a finger on her lips. ‘And that’s what I love most about you,’ he’d continued. ‘The fact that you don’t even acknowledge your beauty, let alone flaunt it.’ A wisp of a smile had softened his face. ‘Is that because your mother always called you an ugly little frog?’

  Now she pondered those words too and answered in the affirmative, recalling the cruelty of her childhood. ‘You, mademoiselle (said in a scathing tone), are an ugly little frog.’

  She left that moment to the past and returned to Grant and that feeling of happiness.

  ‘God, Claire, I love everything about you …’

  And so the day had been transformed from dire to dream, to something beyond wonderful, a jewel to be treasured, kept in a box and brought out to sparkle and dazzle, to transform dull days into magic. Kept for special occasions but always there, buried so deep in her heart it could never be removed or disturbed.

  And she’d left that behind? Discarded it like worthless trash? All because he had kept secret the hold his sick sister and needy mother had over him. And because the seconds of missing him had stretched into minutes. And then to hours and days, to weeks and long months. Without a word?

  But …

  The draft chilled her. The locked ward was not actually locked – it was secured with CCTV cameras watching entrances and exits, the patients carefully monitored, the staff particularly vigilant. If it was necessary, patients could be confined to their rooms, but she preferred not to go down that route. It smacked too much of prison. She had no reason or justification for locking Heather Krimble up. She was not a danger to anyone except, potentially, Charles Tissot, his inflated ego and his financially rewarding career, as well as possibly her unborn child – whoever the father proved to be. Claire pushed open the swinging doors to enter the ward. A quick peep through the porthole window showed an empty room. She found Heather and Ruth in the day room, watching television. It was as she was escorting them back along the corridor that the chill engulfed her.

  Another emotion took over. It was a moment that sticks to you as the spider’s web does to a fly. Or napalm to a child’s body, burning, scarring, frightening. As she walked along the corridor, the memory of that happy moment drained away as quickly as it had arrived and was replaced by fear. It was the precise moment when, as she was leading Heather back to her room, that they passed someone. Riley Finch, returning from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around newly washed hair, the steam and shampoo forming a cloud of scented vapour around her. As they drew parallel, Riley’s eyes first met and challenged Claire’s before sliding across to Heather and then slipping down to Heather’s blooming pregnancy, which made her mouth curve. For a moment, Riley was only conscious of the child within Heather and her smile looked cruel.

  If I can’t have something, why should anyone else?

  She quickly remembered herself, picked up her gaze to meet Claire’s face and wiped the instinct away, but not before Claire had read it all. Riley wanted that child. Heather’s arms stole over her abdomen. She’d read Riley’s avarice too. Knowing Riley as she did, the triangle of glances chilled Claire. These two were both her patients. At the centre of this morass of illusion, delusion, accusation, denial and lies lay vulnerability – an unborn baby quite unable to ward off these toxic ingredients. Riley’s character was ultimately selfish, Heather’s deluded, the compound mix as poisonous as a volcano’s sulphuric belch, as evil as Satan, as mischievous as Puck. They would be in close proximity for a period of time. Riley would be here for another few weeks while the courts decided her fate. During which time, Heather would have delivered. Put them together, baby in the middle, and … Claire felt the same dread as when she had been carrying out a chemistry experiment in the sixth form, knowing that the expected outcome was an explosion. Waiting for it had been a mixture of dread and anticipation, attuned to the flash and the bang. She could see it already, Riley’s lust for what Heather would have, Heather’s determination to cling to her mistaken beliefs. Waiting for Charles. And when Charles didn’t come?

  Riley Finch looked straight into Claire, met her eyes and smiled.

  It was deliberately innocent but underneath both triumphant and challenging. An I’m going to win smile. A just watch me get what I want smile.

  The three of them passed in the corridor, Ruth trailing behind. The moment was gone. Vaporized.

  Claire didn’t look back.

  She ushered Heather and her trailing sister back into her room and was much relieved when Heather sat on her bed, gave one or two test bounces and looked around contentedly at her surroundings. ‘It’s nice here,’ she said. ‘It’ll be a good place to wait for our baby.’ There was no sign that the encounter between the two women had even registered. And yet there was a strain on Heather’s face that had not been there minutes ago.

  Perhaps, Claire thought optimistically, it was all in my mind.

  Hospital rooms are reassuringly anonymous; they act as a sedative rather than a stimulant. Once the door was closed behind them there was a feeling of shutting out any threat, an atmosphere of calm, which soothed Claire. Inside here things felt normal – right up until the point when Heather lay back on the bed, tucked her hands behind her head and said, ‘I wonder when Charles will visit.’

  Snakes and ladders. Slippery slip. Back down to square one. Claire eyed her and swallowed the words. Don’t hold your breath, Heather.

  She needed to unravel this knot carefully, tease out the strands and cause the least amount of trauma. So she merely smiled. It is part of the training of a psychiatrist that you smile when confronted with a wall. Initially you agree with your patient. Or rather, you don’t blatantly contradict their statements, however false you believe them to be. Confrontation is bad for a mind already heavy with misapprehension. Later on, you may introduce doubt. You plant this tiny seed of doubt deep into their mind. Then you wait for it to germinate. Now was the time to introduce that little seed. ‘When do you think he will come?’

  ‘As soon as he can.’ Her tone was complacent.

  ‘The midwife will be visiting you tomorrow morning, Heather.’

  The hands stole down to her pregnant belly again. ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  Claire was keeping her fingers crossed that Heather would not discover her midwife’s relationship with her beloved Charles.

  Thinking about Charles, maybe she should keep him informed, let him know that Heather was now safely ensconced at Greatbach and from now on would be watched twenty-four/seven. She really should make that call, put his mind at rest. But she didn’t. And she recognized that, in some small way, she was punishing him for his assault. Who said revenge is a dish best eaten cold? It’s true.

  Her feeling of optimism leaked and encompassed other areas. Perhaps Heather’s delusions would melt away. Perhaps the child would be safe. Perhaps Rhoda would send one of her minions. After all, the community midwife team was large. On the balance of probability, the odds were about fifteen to one that Rhoda would not attend her patient. Whatever she had said, maybe she would be just too busy – particularly as she had been away on her course. Surely there would be plenty of catching up to do. Claire felt calmed as she observed her patie
nt. Heather looked comfortable, content, relaxed, her pregnancy bulging. Through her loose top, Claire noted a twinge. Braxton Hicks. False labour, a trial run but a sign that birth was approaching. ‘Heather,’ she urged, ‘if you need to be seen at any time, day or night, it will be arranged. If you go into labour early we’ll transfer you to the maternity unit.’

  The cunning look was back. The sly eyes slid over her. ‘So will Charles be there?’

  Something in Claire snapped. ‘He works there,’ she said.

  That produced a smile. ‘So he could be the one to deliver our child.’ The pressure of her fingers was leaving indentations on her pregnancy, visible even through her dress. She spoke down to it. ‘You will meet Daddy soon,’ she said.

  Enough was enough. ‘No,’ Claire said, ‘that won’t happen.’

  ‘No?’ Heather’s eyes slid up to challenge Claire. ‘And if I go into labour early – as an emergency? And everything is unexpected?’

  Was that what was in her mind? Digging her fingers in, urging the child to make its appearance and ‘meet Daddy’?

  ‘You didn’t go into labour early on your two previous pregnancies but we are getting near the date now so it’s not impossible. The baby moves a lot?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ The response was smug. ‘All the time. He’s going to be a rugby player – like his dad.’

  How did she know that? Were the contractions Braxton Hicks tightening or pseudo labour? ‘Have you had a “show” of mucous or blood?’

  Heather shook her head. ‘No. Not yet.’ Ruth was pressing herself into the corner, making herself practically invisible as her sister rose from the bed and crossed to the window to scan the car park. Claire had a nasty feeling she was looking out for the Jaguar. She didn’t ask.

  Heather turned back to her. ‘Do you know what time the midwife will be here?’

  ‘No. Just sometime tomorrow morning, so you’d better keep to your room then.’

  And out of Riley Finch’s way.

  Heather nodded obediently.

  Claire felt she needed to emphasize this. ‘It’s probably better if you stay in your room anyway, out of the other patients’ way. And later this evening the psychologist, a lovely guy called Edward Reakin, will have another chat with you.’

  ‘The psychologist, eh?’ She was looking at her sister now, a twinkle in her eye.

  What, Claire wondered, was she exposing Edward to?

  ‘Very impressive.’ The mocking tone in her patient’s voice was unmistakable.

  Claire felt bound to defend him. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘psychologists can be very helpful.’

  ‘Really?’ This time her tone was sharp.

  ‘Have you written down any of the dates when you and Charles met up, spoke, had contact yet?’

  ‘I haven’t had time,’ Heather snapped.

  Surprise, surprise.

  Claire spent a short while longer explaining parts of the treatment to Heather and Ruth, using the words discussion, psychotherapy, exploration. Then she left and had a word with the nursing staff on her way out, asking them to keep careful eyes on both Riley and Heather. ‘I don’t want their paths crossing.’

  Astrid, the nurse in charge, gave her a challenging look. ‘It’s going to be difficult to keep them apart,’ she said, ‘unless we confine one or both of them to their rooms.’

  ‘True, but I don’t want them conferring.’ Claire was frowning as she spoke. Something was in the air. That toxic chemical mix. Heather, Riley, the baby.

  At least, she thought, as she passed Arthur Connolly’s room, peering in to see him sitting with his crossword, puzzling over the answers, there was one patient she didn’t have to worry about. He looked completely oblivious both to her and to his surroundings – even his plight. He looked what he was: a man who had been dominated all his life. Only once had he rebelled. And this was the result. The premature ageing of Arthur Connolly. This is what happens when the weak become suddenly and unexpectedly strong. They are not used to the power. As she observed him through the porthole, he made a gesture of irritation – a sharp jerk of his fingers, then his hands, the stiffening extending up to his shoulders as he reached for the rubber and obliterated his presumably incorrect answer. Claire moved away. Arthur, she felt certain, would play no active part in this drama. His day of adventure was over. If he and Lindsay were apart he would revert to his natural state, as meek and gentle as a lamb.

  That was what she thought. How wrong can you be? All had their parts to play. And were already jostling into position.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Monday, 20 July, 4.58 p.m.

  Two minutes to go before she met up with Simon Bracknell.

  She left the ward, hurried down the stairs, deep in thought, confident of some facts, ignorant of others, fearful of still others and sensing yet others, the shadowy ones that hovered in the background like ghosts. With each step, she wondered what she was leaving behind on that top floor and contemplated her next move, aware of the people who swirled around her, drawn into the vortex. All featuring in their very own Chagall: ‘Woman with Unborn Baby’. Watched by …

  By the time she reached the bottom, she was feeling better. She had made the situation safe for now. Neutralized it. Taken the initiative. Admitted her patient, warned the staff and, hopefully, kept Riley away from Heather Krimble. It was five o’clock and she had an appointment.

  She was looking forward to meeting Simon Bracknell. It would be a change. Perhaps coming from the other side of the world, his take on matters would be different. Refreshing. Inspirational. Enlightening? And it would be nice to be in conversation with a bloke again.

  Since she and Grant had split she had had a few dates, spent half-hearted evenings comparing all other men with him unfavourably, knowing before she’d finished the first drink that this encounter was a dead end, going nowhere. No replacement. It wasn’t only a matter of physical attraction, it had been buried deep in their characters. Grant had been the perfect foil to her rather intense, intellectual, analytical even, approach to life, work, everything really. Always doubting herself, feeling at her core that her mother had spoken the truth.

  Mademoiselle Roget, ugly little French frog.

  She sat, waiting at her desk, thinking as she had done many times before, chin cupped in her hands, and delved deep inside herself to find her identity, analysing just why she and Grant had worked so well. But behind the sweetness there was a scorpion sting in the tail. Had Grant really meant what he had said in that damp April garden he would not have abandoned her without a word. He would not have concealed his sister and her illness from her but would have confided in her. That day, he would have explained that his sister was sick and needed him but that he would be back. Soon. He would have asked. No, begged her to wait for him. Instead he had simply vanished without a word, which made him a coward and her a fool for waiting so long. The fact was he had turned tail and run. And his explanation, six months too late, that every day he had been gone made it harder for him to come back seemed weak and insincere.

  And yet, she still smiled at his memory. Glanced at her watch. Ten past five. Simon Bracknell was late. She sat back in her chair, returning to her previous thought. Her obsession with time-keeping was just one symptom of her character that had been foiled by Grant. She was always early, always stressed about time, which had led to many gentle teases. Grant’s lazy, laid-back attitude had calmed her down, sedated her, helped her to accept the less-than-perfect.

  Simon finally rolled in at five thirty, knocking on her door and peering round in response to her curt, ‘Come in.’

  He began with an apology. ‘I’m so sorry, Claire. I got lost round the hospital.’ He grinned. ‘A nurse sent me round to the morgue.’ His grin broadened. ‘Must have thought I was the pathologist.’

  She stood up and held out her hand. How could she be annoyed? She studied him and liked what she saw. He was nothing like the perma-tanned, tousled-haired beach bum she’d pictured. For a start, he was thin. No
t athletic looking. Not a surf buddy but bony and pale skinned, with clusters of freckles on his forearms. She studied him. So where was the Baywatch, swaggering confidence? Nowhere to be seen. Plus he wore large, black-rimmed glasses that looked heavy on a rather delicate, fine-featured face. Hazel eyes hid behind the lenses. At least his accent was antipodean enough to convince her he was the genuine koala bear, marsupial article.

  His grin broadened, displaying teeth which also fitted the bill. Big, white, straight.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, pumping her hand. ‘I really am sorry about this. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.’ He hesitated, must have felt he needed to say more. ‘It’s lovely to meet you at last, Claire. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  The comment provoked the usual silent questions: What exactly? From whom?

  ‘All good,’ he tacked on belatedly.

  She smiled back, responding to his boisterous, awkward manner. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, please. That’d be great. Thank you so much.’ He waited while Claire picked up the phone and asked Rita to do the honours. ‘I’ve brought Heather’s notes with me. Thought we could go through them together.’ He pulled the set of notes out of a man-bag before continuing eagerly, ‘I’ve put a marker in the bits I thought you’d be most interested in. Generally, the letters back to the GP, a …’ his fingers were already leafing through the pages towards the first of the pink markers poking out from the thick file, ‘… Doctor Sylas and before that Doctor Barker. They give out the story clearest.’ He grinned again, his eyes meeting hers with a glimmer of amusement. ‘And shortest. Weird but not unknown for a woman to fall in love with her doctor.’

  ‘According to her version, Tissot wasn’t initially her doctor,’ she said. ‘She asked to be referred to him after she was pregnant.’