Vampire bats. Rabies.
The voices in her head were beginning to worry Jess a little. Hearing voices was one of the first signs of psychosis. On the other hand, the sergeant major had been quite helpful.
She carried on and the chink of light began to get bigger. Then she turned a corner and it was lost to view.
Oh my God. It’s gone.
Keep going. Just keep walking forward.
I’ll never get out.
You will. Have faith.
She walked on. There was no light, only a soft, black darkness. The walls of the tunnel seemed to close in around her.
The voices ceased.
Have faith, Jess. Have faith. She heard her voice break the silence. She was talking to herself. Come on. Keep going.
She turned a corner, and the light came back into view. She breathed a sigh of relief, and looked around her.
The tunnel had opened out into a chamber, hung with stalactites of ochre rock. In front of her was a great lake, about fifty metres across, filled with water of an intense turquoise blue. Around it was a path, and above it a shaft of light, shining down from a gap in the rocks above.
She caught her breath. It was beautiful. The most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. She closed her eyes in relief, and she offered up a prayer. ‘Thank you, God,’ she whispered. She remembered it was Sunday, and she thought of the bells ringing out for evensong in the church beside her house. She’d hear them again, next Sunday, and the one after that. She thought of the bell-ringers pulling them, hanging on to the ropes for dear life, jumping up and down, and the bells pealing out, all over the world, and she understood why they did it, and why people listened, and why their hearts were uplifted, and why they found strength in themselves to carry on. It was to give thanks to God for the simple fact of being alive. Whether or not he heard them, or gave a damn.
She took the path that led around the lake to the hole in the rock face above, where the light was coming through. When she got there, she looked up at the shaft. It had obviously been used as an escape route before. A series of metal handholds had been set into the rock, leading all the way up to the top. It didn’t look easy to get up there, but neither did it seem impossible.
She peered up at the shaft, and, at the top, saw clouds scudding across a blue sky. The sight thrilled her. She imagined herself climbing out, hearing the soft rustle of the trees. She could almost feel the breeze against her skin. It was just a matter of time. Time, and effort.
She put her hands on the first hold, and tried to haul herself up to the second. The metal felt hard and cold against the flesh of her palms. Her arms hurt, but she persevered, willing herself on, inching her way up the shaft. She was breathing heavily. She wished that she were fitter, and the holds closer together.
She was just congratulating herself on reaching halfway up the shaft when she heard a low rumbling noise. The walls around her began to shake. She looked up at the sky again, and saw a few small rocks tumbling towards her. She dodged her head. The quarry, she thought. The shaft must be right beside it. And they’re blasting.
She edged herself up, an inch at a time, until she reached a small ledge hewn into the rock. It was big enough to squat down on, so she stopped there for a moment, pausing for breath. She reached out for the next hold, but it came away in her hand. It was damp and rusted. She threw it down the shaft, onto the rock below.
The next hold was too far away for her to reach, so she had to remain where she was. She looked up at the shaft and saw the sky and the trees above, so near and yet so far. Damn, she thought. Now what the hell do I do? On an impulse, she took Nella’s neon beanie out of her pocket and threw it, as high as she could, up out of the shaft. It disappeared from sight. She hoped it would attract attention, tell someone she was down here, and in danger.
There was another explosion, this time closer, and louder. More rocks came tumbling down, and there was a ringing in her ears.
Then there was a deafening blast, and the sky went black. She felt the darkness close around her, like a blanket. It had come back for her, reached up out of the mine to claim her once again.
She fell like a lover into its soft, silent embrace.
When she opened her eyes, she saw a halo of light above her head.
I’m dead, she thought.
There was a loud chugging sound all around her. She wondered whether she was going to be run over.
She gave a scream. Her voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else, high and piercing.
Nothing happened.
A few minutes later, a face appeared in the halo. The face of a man with long, tangled hair and a beard.
That must be God, she told herself.
Her eyes adjusted to the light. He was wearing a filthy knitted cap. He had a plug in one ear.
Maybe not.
There was a look of horror on his face.
It was the Longbeard.
‘You all right?’
She croaked out an answer. ‘I think so.’
So she wasn’t dead.
He held up his hand and she saw that he was holding Nella’s neon pink beanie. He gave it a shake, as if in triumph. He must have seen it fly up out of the shaft when she’d thrown it, and come to investigate.
‘Stay there. I’ll get help.’
The Longbeard vanished. Jess lay there, looking up at the sky. Her head was throbbing, her hands were burning, and there was a deafening noise in her ears. But the sky was still blue, and there were still clouds scudding across it. And she was here to see it.
The chugging stopped.
In the silence, she could hear the trees rustling above her head. They sounded religious, she thought. A living cathedral.
The deafening sound stopped. There was shouting.
The man would come back for her, she knew. He’d lay a blanket over her, and then other men would come. They’d wait for an ambulance, and she’d be taken to hospital. Doctors would look at her head, and maybe put a bandage on it, and tell her to be careful, she had concussion, but it wasn’t serious, and she’d be all right in a few days’ time. They’d clean up her cuts and bruises, and send her home. Nella and Rose would be there, and she’d tell them she’d had a stupid accident, fallen over on a hillside. They’d be nice to her, get her a cup of tea. Fuss over her, till she told them to stop.
And then, after a while, everything would go back to normal. The bells would ring out again on Sundays, and she’d be there to hear them. Every Sunday, for now, and for years to come. It was a miracle, but that was what was going to happen.
Yes. That was how it was going to be. She’d known it all along.
Everything was going to be all right.
31
Jess was in hospital, in a room on her own. She’d been there four days. Bob and the girls had visited her, but she’d heard nothing from Dresler. And now she was beginning to get bored. There was no reason for her to stay any longer, as far as she could see. She hadn’t fallen very far in the shaft, but had been hit on the head by some falling rocks. She’d suffered mild traumatic brain injury, what used to be called concussion, and a series of tests had been done. She’d seen the report. The scans had shown no gross structural changes to the brain, and there was no cellular damage. However, they were keeping her in for observation, since she had shown signs of ‘post-traumatic confusional state’: cognitive impairment, behavioural changes, irritability, sleep disturbance.
What they didn’t seem to realize was that there was actually nothing wrong with her. All these so-called symptoms were the result of no one believing what she’d told them about her experience in the mine, and of being kept in hospital against her will. At first she’d found it profoundly disturbing that not only the medical staff but her own family had doubted her account of what had happened that day; now, however, the shock had worn off and she merely felt frustrated, and desperate to get out of hospital and go home.
The door opened, and a woman came in. It took Jess a moment to re
alize who she was – Barbara Brown, a colleague who worked at Whitchurch, the local psychiatric hospital. In the past, she’d referred a number of her clients to Barbara, sometimes for treatment, sometimes when they needed to be sectioned.
‘Jess.’ Barbara took a chair by the bed. ‘How are you doing?’
Jess had always liked Barbara. She was a woman in her fifties with a mass of unruly dark hair, now streaked with grey, who dressed rather soberly, as if trying to compensate for the hair. They’d known each other for more than twenty years, and Jess trusted her implicitly; she’d always shown common sense and compassion, as well as a gentle good humour, when dealing with her clients.
‘Fine. I’m hoping to be out of here soon, actually.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t rush it. You’ve had a nasty shock. You could probably do with a bit more rest.’
It was nice of Barbara to visit, Jess thought, but she couldn’t help feeling irritated by her advice.
‘How did you know I was in here?’
‘Bob gave me a call. He thought it would be a good idea if I could pop by and have a chat.’
Jess’s irritation increased. What was Bob doing poking his nose into this? He hardly knew Barbara. They’d met at various social functions to do with work, but that was all.
‘The thing is,’ Barbara went on, ‘you do seem to be a little confused at the moment. That’s completely consistent with the nature of your injury. MTBI – concussion – can be caused by nearby explosions, as well as a blow to the head.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me. The scans have shown that.’
‘Scans don’t pick up everything. With diffuse injury—’
‘Look, as I keep saying, my memory of what happened in the mine is perfectly clear. One of my patients, Elinor Powell, took me into the tunnel at Bryn Cau to see her paintings. While we were in the mine, her sister Isobel turned up. They argued, Isobel sprayed mace into my eyes, and then they ran off, leaving me there. I wandered around down there for hours. I could have died.’
‘Yes, we know.’ Barbara adopted the patient, understanding voice that Jess had heard her use so many times with her clients. ‘You told the police that. And they told you they’d sent a search team down the mine but there was no evidence of any paintings, anywhere. Neither was there any sign of mace in or on your body when you were tested.’
‘Well, the test must have been wrong.’
Barbara looked sceptical. ‘Whatever the explanation, the fact is you were found alone in a shaft by the quarry. You had no business to be there. I know it was a Sunday, but blasting sometimes goes on there at the weekends. You were taking a huge risk.’
‘You haven’t been listening.’ Jess tried to control her irritation. ‘I had no intention of doing anything dangerous. I was abandoned in the mine. And that shaft was the only way out.’
‘OK.’ Barbara nodded her head in agreement, in that way psychiatrists do when they realize their patient has completely lost contact with reality. ‘I understand.’
Jess stopped talking. There was no point in continuing the discussion.
Silence fell. Barbara fiddled with her glasses, which hung on a string around her neck.
‘I expect you’re bored stiff in here,’ she remarked after a while.
‘I am. They don’t like you to read too much, or watch the box. Taxes the brain too much, apparently. Even daytime TV.’
Barbara laughed.
‘Listen, Jess. Take advantage of the situation. Get some rest.’ She paused. ‘You’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Bob told me you and he had parted. I was sorry to hear that.’
Jess shrugged, but she was annoyed. Why Bob had to go around telling anyone and everyone about their separation, she didn’t know.
‘This has nothing to do with that. I’m coping fine.’
‘Of course you are.’ Barbara was tactful. ‘But it must be a lot of work looking after the girls on your own. And then there’s this client, Elinor Powell, isn’t there? The twin. It sounds as if she’s been quite demanding. Getting you down to the tunnel to come and look at her paintings . . . and, what was it, running off and leaving you there?’
Jess knew that technique, as well. Going along with your patients’ deluded stories, so as to gain more insights into their mental condition.
‘I’ve dealt with a number of twins myself,’ Barbara went on. ‘They’re quite complex individuals to deal with, in my experience. In fact, it’s frustrating that there are so few clinical studies on the subject. Heaps of stuff about genetics, as if twins are just there to be used as guinea pigs to tell us about “normal” people. But nothing about the twin relationship as such.’
Jess thought of mentioning The Twin in the Transference but decided instead to rest her brain, as she’d been ordered to.
‘I had one patient who had a breakdown after his twin brother married and moved away.’ Barbara fiddled with her glasses again. ‘He used to look in the mirror and see no one there. It was very strange. And what was also strange was how quickly I became drawn into his world. He treated me as if I were his twin, and I found myself responding to that.’ She hesitated. ‘You have to be very careful, don’t you? Not to get too close.’
Jess didn’t reply. She was trying not to get angry. She didn’t want to be told how to handle her client. And she didn’t like the implication that she’d lost control of the situation, either.
Barbara sighed and stopped fiddling with her glasses. Then she changed the subject.
They made small talk for a while, and at last she shifted on her chair, as if getting ready to leave.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘when you get out of here, don’t go straight back to work. Take a few weeks off. Your patients can wait. You need time to get well yourself. You’re a good therapist, Jess. We don’t want to lose you.’
Was that a veiled threat? Jess wondered.
‘If you want some proper R & R, I could have a word with the people at The Grange, if you like. It might be better than going home, where you’ll have the girls to deal with.’
The Grange was a private mental hospital – mental health rehabilitation centre, as it called itself – where Barbara often sent patients to recuperate. Some of Jess’s own clients had come from there, continuing their therapy with her after their stay at the hospital. It was a pleasant enough place, a country mansion on the outskirts of Cardiff, overlooking the Bristol Channel. But the fact that Barbara was recommending it as a place for her to recuperate offended her greatly.
‘No thanks. I’ll sort myself out.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ Barbara got up to go. ‘But whatever you do, don’t rush back into action, will you.’
Jess didn’t respond.
‘Promise me.’
Jess gave a vague nod.
‘OK.’ Barbara sighed. ‘Well, let me know how you get on.’
‘I will.’
‘Bye, then.’ Barbara gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Good luck.’
Jess did her best to smile back, but failed.
Barbara walked over to the door. Before she opened it, she turned to Jess, a look of concern on her face.
Jess gave her an airy wave. ‘Thanks for dropping by.’
Barbara sighed again, opened the door, and left, shutting it quietly behind her.
When she was gone, Jess leaned over and picked up the remote control on the bedside table. She’d been told not to read, text, or watch television, but none of the nurses were looking. In fact, they never came near her, except to serve her meals. There was a small glass panel in the door, and from time to time, a face would peer in, but it happened less and less often as the days passed.
She flicked through the channels: news, pop, chat. A panel of middle-aged women discussed the contents of their knicker drawer. One of them kept theirs in a mess, the knickers all jumbled up; another made sure that each pair was neatly folded and ranged by colour. Chat, pop, news. As she switched back to the news, she was confronted by Tegan Davies, sitting in fron
t of the Pierhead building in the Bay.
Tegan was looking immaculate, as usual. The cream outfit was spotless, her hair was carefully sprayed into place, and her make-up was perfect.
‘A press conference was called today at Blackwood Miners’ Institute to announce a new site-specific work by local painter Hefin Morris.’ There was a smug lilt to her voice that irritated Jess. ‘Mr Morris, an ex-miner from the Rhondda, is making a name for himself nationally with a series of paintings based on his former work in the mines. A self-taught artist, Mr Morris has in the past declined to appear in public, and his identity has remained something of a mystery, but today, he surprised onlookers by making an unscheduled appearance, as Betsan Evans reports.’
Jess turned up the volume, as the scene switched from the studio to the museum. There, sitting behind a battery of microphones, was Dresler. He looked much the same as ever, dressed in a dusky blue cord jacket that matched his eyes, a striped scarf round his neck, and a self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. Beside him was a man in a peaked cap and a T-shirt. There was a streak of green in his hair, his nose was pierced, and both his arms were covered in tattoos.
For a moment, Jess didn’t recognize him. Then she realized he was Nathan, the man she and Dresler had followed in the van the day they’d gone up to Bryn Cau to find Morris.
The reporter burbled on, but Jess wasn’t listening. So that was the latest scam Dresler and Isobel had cooked up together, was it? To present Nathan, the guy who’d supposedly first brought the paintings in to the Powell Gallery, as Hefin Morris. Evidently, in reality, Nathan was Elinor and Isobel’s factotum; and now he’d got the job of actually pretending to be Hefin. His was a rather limited approach to the role, Jess thought, consisting mostly of grunting his agreement to whatever art world verbiage Dresler came out with. On the other hand, his tattoos did give him the air of an authentic radical.
Jess watched as Dresler continued to do the talking. The phrases tripped off his tongue – political engagement, cultural philistinism, savage cutbacks, social deprivation – but she didn’t follow what he was saying. There was no need to. Because he was lying through his teeth. He knew full well that Elinor was the real Hefin Morris; he was simply going along with the twins’ scam, using Nathan to pose as Morris in a last-ditch attempt to save his reputation.
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