Suspect

by Michael Robotham

  My great-grandfather was a founding member of the General Medical Council and my grandfather its longest serving chairman. He established his reputation as an administrator rather than as a surgeon, but the name is still writ large in the history of medical ethics.

  This is where I come in—or don’t come in. After having three daughters, I was the long-awaited son. As such, I was expected to carry on the medical dynasty, but instead I broke the chain. In modern parlance that makes me the weakest link.

  In the four years that it took me to get my degree, my father never once missed an opportunity to call me “Mr. Psychologist” or to make cracks about couches and inkblot tests. And when my thesis on agoraphobia was published in the British Psychological Journal, he said nothing to me or to anyone else in the family.

  A comparable silence has greeted every stage of my career since then and my flaws have mounted steadily until he’s come to regard me as his own personal failure.

  I have carried Bobby’s notes home with me in a battered briefcase. Before dinner I pour myself a drink and attempt to settle down to an hour or two of work.

  With Bobby I seem to be up against something impenetrably mysterious. His paranoia and random acts of violence create broken sequences of questions and send my mind whirling. I promised Eddie Barrett a psych report. It has to be finished before Bobby’s next court appearance. At the same time, as I go over the notes again, I can feel myself looking for echoes of Catherine’s life. Could they have met at some point?

  According to Bobby his father had been in the air force and trained as a mechanic. He was too young for the war, which didn’t bother him because of his pacifist views. He was also a Marxist and would take Bobby on a bus from Kilbum to Hyde Park most Sundays so he could heckle the lay preachers on their packing-crate pulpits.

  Every childhood has a mythology that materializes around it and Bobby’s was no different. He told stories of riding on the handlebars of his father’s bicycle and being taken to football games where he sat on his father’s shoulders.

  He described getting caught in a soccer riot between rival fans, when police on horseback charged the crowd. His father wrapped him in a coat and carried him to safety.

  “I knew that nothing was ever going to knock him down, not even those horses,” Bobby had said.

  “What happened to your father?”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” he had replied.

  “Did he abandon you?”

  Suddenly he had exploded out of his chair. “You know nothing about my father!” On his feet, sucking air between clenched teeth, he raged, “You’ll never know him! People like you destroy lives. You thrive on grief and despair. First sign of trouble you’re there, telling people how they should feel. What they should think. You’re like vultures!”

  Just as suddenly the outburst had dissipated. He wiped away white flecks of spit from his mouth and looked at me apologetically. Then he had filled a glass with water and waited with a strange calm for my next question.

  We moved on to his mother, whom he hadn’t seen in more than six years. The change in his tone had been startling.

  “Let me describe my mother to you,” he had said, making it sound like a challenge. “She was a grocer’s daughter. She grew up in a corner shop—having her nappies changed right next to the cash register. By the time she was four, she could tote up a basket of groceries, take the cash and hand back the correct change.

  “Every morning and afternoon, as well as Saturdays and public holidays, she worked in that shop. And she read the magazines on the rack and daydreamed about escaping and living a different life. When Dad came along—dressed in his air force uniform—he said he was a pilot. It’s what all the girls wanted to hear. A quick shag behind the social club at RAF Marham and she was pregnant with me. She found out he wasn’t a pilot soon enough. I don’t think she cared . . . not then. Later it drove her crazy. She said she married him under false pretenses.”

  “But they stayed together?”

  “Yeah. Dad left the air force and got a job working as a mechanic fixing buses for London Transport. Later he became a conductor on the number 96 to Piccadilly Circus. He said he was a ‘people person,’ but I think he also liked the uniform. He used to ride his bike to the depot and home again.”

  Bobby had lapsed into silence, perhaps reliving the memories. Prompted by gentle questions, he had revealed how his father was an amateur inventor, always coming up with ideas for time-saving devices and gadgets.

  “My mother said he was wasting his time and their money. One minute she’d be calling him a dreamer and laughing at all his ‘stupid inventions’ and the next she’d be saying he didn’t dream big enough and that he lacked ambition.”

  Blinking rapidly he had looked at me with his odd pale eyes as though he’d forgotten his train of thought. Then he remembered.

  “She was the real dreamer, not Dad. She saw herself as a free spirit, surrounded by boring mediocrity. And no matter how hard she tried she could never live a Bohemian lifestyle in a place like Hendon. She hated the place—the flat-front houses with their pebbledash façades, the net curtains, cheap clothes, greasy spoon cafés and garden gnomes. Working-class people talk about ‘looking after our own,’ but she scoffed at that. She could see only smallness, insignificance and ugliness.”

  “How would you describe your relationship with her?” I had asked, watching his face twist in frustration.

  “She’d get dressed up and go out most nights. I used to sit on the bed and watch her get ready. She’d try on different outfits—modeling them for me. She let me zip up the back of her skirts and smooth her stockings. She called me her Little Big Man.

  “If Dad wouldn’t take her out, she went by herself—to the pub, or the club. She had the sort of wicked laugh that told everyone she was there. Men would turn their heads and look at her. They found her sexy even though she was plump. Pregnancy had added pounds that she had never managed to shed. She blamed me for that. And when she went dancing or laughed too hard she sometimes wet her pants. That was my fault too.”

  This last comment had been delivered through gritted teeth. His fingers picked at the loose skin on the back of his hands, twisting it painfully, as though trying to tear it off. His body humbled, he began again.

  “It cramped her style if Dad took her out. Men won’t flirt with a woman when her husband is standing at the same bar. By herself she had them all over her, putting arms around her waist, squeezing her ass. She stayed out all night and came home in the morning, with her knickers in her handbag and her shoes swinging from her fingertips. There was never any pretense of fidelity or loyalty. She didn’t want to be the perfect wife. She wanted to be someone else.”

  “What about your dad?”

  I remember him taking a long while to answer. He seemed to find certain words unpalatable and be looking for others.

  “He grew smaller every day,” he eventually had answered. “Disappearing little by little. Death by a thousand cuts. That’s how I hope she dies.”

  The sentence had hung in the air but the silence wasn’t arbitrary. I remember feeling as though someone had reached up and put a finger in front of the second hand on the clock.

  “Why did you use that term?”

  “Which one?”

  “Death by a thousand cuts.”

  A crooked, almost involuntary smile had creased his face. “That’s how I want her to die. Slowly. Painfully. By her own hand.”

  “You want her to kill herself?”

  He hadn’t answered.

  “Where is your mother now?”

  “She’s dying of breast cancer. She won’t have a mastectomy. She’s always been proud of her breasts.”

  “How do you feel about losing her?”

  “I dream about it.”

  “What do you dream?”

  “That I’ll be there.”

  I can still picture his stare, his pale eyes like bottomless pools.

  Death by a thousand cu
ts. The ancient Chinese had a more literal translation: One thousand knives and ten thousand pieces.

  Bobby’s desire for revenge was so strong that he couldn’t hold it back from me. The woman he dragged from the cab was roughly the same age and wore the same sort of clothes as his mother. She also showed a similar coldness toward her son. Is this enough to explain his actions?

  He wants his mother to die slowly and painfully, by her own hand. That’s exactly how Catherine McBride died, which is why his choice of words sent a chill through me.

  I have to stop thinking about Catherine. It’s Bobby who needs my help. I know I’m getting closer to understanding him, but I mustn’t force pieces to fit the puzzle. The desire to understand violence has built-in brutality. Don’t think of the white bear.

  12

  The school is beautiful: solid, Georgian and covered with wisteria. The crushed-quartz driveway begins to curve as it passes through the gates and finishes at a set of wide stone steps. The parking area looks like a salesroom for Range Rovers and Mercedes. I park my Metro around the corner on the street.

  Charlie’s school is having its annual fund-raising dinner and auction. The assembly hall has been decked out with black-and-white balloons and the caterers have set up a marquee on the tennis courts.

  The invitation said “formal casual,” but most of the mothers are wearing evening gowns because they don’t get out very much. They are congregated around a minor TV celebrity who is sporting a sun-bed tan and perfect teeth. That’s what happens when you send your child to an expensive private school. You rub shoulders with diplomats, game-show hosts and drug barons.

  I join the men congregated at the bar. Bottles of wine and beer are buried in tubs of ice and various spirits and mixers are set out on trays.

  This is our first night out in weeks but instead of feeling relaxed I’m on edge. I keep thinking about Ruiz. He doesn’t believe my excuses and explanations. Julianne also thinks I’m hiding something. Why else would she ask Jock if I was having an affair? When is she going to say something?

  Ever since the diagnosis I have descended into dark moods and withdrawn from people. Maybe I’m feeling guilty. More likely it’s regret. This is my way of disinfecting those around me. I am losing my body bit by bit. Slowly it is abandoning me. One part of me thinks this is OK. I’ll be fine as long as I have my mind. I can live in the space between my ears. But another part is already longing for what I haven’t yet lost.

  So here I am—not so much at a crossroads as at a cul-de-sac. I have a wife who fills me with pride and a daughter who makes me cry when I watch her sleeping. I am forty-two years old and I have just started to understand how to combine intuition with learning and do my job properly. Half my life lies ahead of me—the best half. Unfortunately, my mind is willing but my body isn’t able—or soon won’t be. It is deserting me by increments. That is the only certainty that remains.

  The fund-raising auction takes too long. They always do. The master of ceremonies is a professional auctioneer with an actor’s voice that cuts through the chatter and small talk. Each class has created two artworks—mostly brightly colored collages of individual drawings. Charlie’s class made a circus and a beachscape with colored bathing huts, rainbow umbrellas and ice-cream stalls.

  “That would look great in the kitchen,” says Julianne, putting her arm through mine.

  “How much is the plumbing going to cost us?”

  She ignores me. “Charlie drew the whale.”

  Looking carefully I notice a gray lump on the horizon. Drawing isn’t one of her strong suits, but I know she loves whales.

  Auctions bring out the best and worst in people. And the only bidder more committed than a couple with an only child is a besotted and cashed-up grandparent.

  I get to make one bid for the beach scene at £65. When the hammer comes down, to polite applause, it has made £700. The successful bid is by phone. You’d think this was bloody Sotheby’s.

  We arrive home after midnight. The babysitter has forgotten to turn on the front porch light. In the darkness I trip over a stack of copper pipes and fall up the steps, bruising my knee.

  “D.J. asked if he could leave them there,” apologizes Julianne. “Don’t worry about your trousers. I’ll soak them.”

  “What about my knee?”

  “You’ll live.”

  We both check on Charlie. Soft animals surround her bed, facing outward like sentries guarding a fort. She sleeps on her side with her thumb hovering near her lips.

  As I brush my teeth, Julianne stands beside me at the vanity taking off her makeup. She is watching me in the mirror.

  “Are you having an affair?”

  The question is delivered so casually, it catches me by surprise. I try to pretend I haven’t heard her, but it’s too late. I’ve stopped brushing. The pause has betrayed me.

  “Why?”

  She’s wiping mascara from her eyes. “Lately I’ve had the feeling that you’re not really here.”

  “I’ve been preoccupied.”

  “You still want to be here, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  She hasn’t taken her eyes off me in the mirror. I look away, rinsing my toothbrush in the sink.

  “We don’t talk anymore,” she says.

  I know what’s coming. I don’t want to go in this direction. This is where she gives me chapter and verse about my inability to communicate. She thinks that because I’m a psychologist I should be able to talk through my feelings and analyze what’s going on. Why? I spend all day inside other people’s heads. When I get home the hardest thing I want to think about is helping Charlie with her multiplication tables.

  Julianne is different. She’s a talker. She shares everything and works things through. It’s not that I’m scared of showing my feelings. I’m scared of not being able to stop.

  I try to head her off at the pass. “When you’ve been married as long as we have you don’t need to talk as much,” I say feebly. “We can read each other’s minds.”

  “Is that so. What am I thinking now?”

  I pretend I don’t hear her. “We’re comfortable with each other. It’s called familiarity.”

  “Which breeds contempt.”

  “No!”

  She puts her arms around me, running her hands down my chest and locking them together at my waist.

  “What is the point of sharing your life with someone if you can’t communicate with them about the things that matter?” Her head is resting against my back. “That’s what married couples do. It’s perfectly normal. I know you’re hurting. I know you’re scared. I know you’re worried about what’s going to happen when the disease gets worse . . . about Charlie and me . . . but you can’t stand between us and the world, Joe. You can’t protect us from something like this.”

  My mouth is dry and I feel the beginnings of a hangover. This isn’t an argument—it’s a matter of perception. I know that if I don’t answer, Julianne will fill the vacuum.

  “What are you so frightened of? You’re not dying.”

  “I know.”

  “Of course it’s unfair. You don’t deserve this. But look at what you have—a lovely home, a career, a wife who loves you and a daughter who worships the ground you walk on. If that can’t outweigh any other problems then we’re all in trouble.”

  “I don’t want anything to change.” I hate how vulnerable I sound.

  “Nothing has to change.”

  “I see you watching me. Looking for the signs. A tremor here, a twitch there.”

  “Does it hurt?” she asks suddenly.

  “What?”

  “When your leg locks up or your arm doesn’t swing.”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t know that.” She puts her fist in my hand and curls my fingers around it. Then she makes me turn so her eyes can fix on mine. “Does it embarrass you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Is there any special diet you should be on?”


  “No.”

  “What about exercise?”

  “It can help according to Jock, but it won’t stop the disease.”

  “I didn’t know,” she whispers. “You should have told me.” She leans even closer, pressing her lips to my ear. The droplets of water on her cheeks look like tears. I stroke her hair.

  Hands brush down my chest. A zipper undone; her fingers softly caressing; the taste of her tongue; her breath inside my lungs . . .

  Afterward, as we lie in bed, I watch her breasts tremble with her heartbeat. It is the first time we’ve made love in six years without checking the calendar first.

  The phone rings. The glowing red digits say 04:30.

  “Professor O’Loughlin?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Charing Cross Hospital. I’m sorry to wake you.” The doctor sounds young. I can hear the tiredness in his voice. “Do you have a patient named Bobby Moran?”

  “Yes.”

  “The police found him lying on the walkway across Hammersmith Bridge. He’s asking for you.”

  Julianne rolls over and nestles her face into my pillow, pulling the bedclothes around her. “What’s wrong?” she asks sleepily.

  “Problem with a patient.” I pull a sweatshirt over my T-shirt and go looking for my jeans.

  “You’re not going in are you?”

  “Just for a little while.”

  13

  At that hour of the morning it takes me only fifteen minutes to reach Charing Cross. Peering through the main doors of the hospital, I see a black janitor pushing a mop and bucket around the floor in a strange waltz. A security guard sits at the reception desk. He motions me to the accident and emergency entrance.

  Inside the Perspex swinging doors, people are scattered around the waiting room, looking tired and pissed off. The triage nurse is busy. A young doctor appears in the corridor and begins arguing with a bearded man who has a bloody rag pressed to his forehead and a blanket around his shoulders.

  “And you’ll be waiting all night if you don’t sit down,” says the doctor. He turns away and looks at me.