A Savage Hunger (Paula Maguire 4)

by Claire McGowan

  This town was ready to explode. You could see it in people’s eyes as they walked the hot streets, even women with prams, even wee kids. People gathered on corners, waiting for news, looking at the Army and peelers out of the corners of their eyes, sun glinting black off guns. They’d had enough. Six men had starved to death already. If – when – the next one went, there’d be all bloody hell to pay. And you, wee skitter of a fella, only a foot soldier in this war, driving someone else’s car, their God-awful Country and Western tape on the cassette player, you were the one who was going to make sure it happened, inexorable as the grim reaper. You were the one standing beside this petrol-soaked shitstorm bonfire of a country, and you were about to strike the match.

  Chapter Seventeen

  London,

  August 2013

  Below the Aer Lingus jet, London sprawled out, its outskirts beige, ugly and careless. But all the same Paula heaved a nostalgic sigh at the sight of it. This had been her place – somewhere to go when she’d left behind the hardened certainties of Ballyterrin, where everyone knew her and what had happened to her family. Where it wasn’t possible to change. In London, she was no one. Irish Paula, at uni. No close friends, just people she’d see now and again for a drink, send Facebook messages. Colleagues that she’d share work with. She’d learned the hard way that when people got close, they could be taken away. She felt a tinge of something at the thought of Aidan – he was back home with Maggie, sorting out the growing tangle of wedding admin. Wedmin, Saoirse had called it, and Paula had nearly boked. That was all really happening, in two weeks. Old Paula could never come back again – there were rivers that could not be crossed a second time.

  As the signs came on for descent, she closed her eyes and thought about what she’d do when she got there. There was no need to actually go into London on this trip. The clinic where Alice had lived for two years was in East Sussex, not too far from Gatwick. But she felt all the same the city’s gravity. And somewhere down below, among all the millions of people, was Guy Brooking. Guy, and also his wife, and his daughter, and so she hadn’t, and wouldn’t, try to find him.

  Bustling out at Gatwick with her wheelie case, trailing jackets and WH Smith bags, she almost missed the sign with her name on it. It was misspelled, Paula McGuire, and she looked up, then did a double-take. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I couldn’t resist the mistake. I knew it’d catch your eye.’ Dr Kevin Neary, one of her old university tutors. Kevin was one of the most eminent criminal psychologists in the country, and as a doctoral student Paula had naturally gravitated to him. He was also from Ballymena, his Ulster accent modulated by years in England and a London wife and kids. He had a neat grey beard and pens in his shirt pocket, a tie pin.

  She eyed him. ‘Putting me to shame as usual, Kevin. I was going to freshen up before I got there.’

  ‘Ah, you’re grand. It’s not a formal place we’re going to.’

  ‘You’re taking me?’ She’d asked him to help her set up the meeting, but not expected he’d have time to come as well.

  He ushered her towards the car park. ‘Let’s say calls were made. The girl’s father is some bigwig, yes? I don’t think the clinic wanted too much scrutiny on it.’

  ‘Oh right. So you’re here to keep tabs on me, is that the lie of the land?’

  He laughed, stopping by the ticket machines. ‘That’s what they think. I’ve met you, of course, so I know better men than me have tried and failed. Now, how do you work this yoke?’

  ‘I bet you don’t say yoke to the English.’

  ‘No, and it’s a shame. A very useful word.’

  After much perplexed stabbing of buttons – Kevin was a brilliant man, but one who referred to ‘email numbers’ and couldn’t work his own phone – they were leaving the airport and merging onto the M25. Gatwick was barely in London, Paula thought, as they soon cut off into country lanes, trees arching together so densely that Kevin had to put the car lights on. She needn’t have worried. She wasn’t going to run into anyone out here. She knew it was ridiculous, but she was jumpy every time she saw a fair-haired man out the window, or someone in a suit. Just for a half-second between breaths, but enough to spin her off her axis.

  He looked at her from the corner of his eye. ‘And I hear congratulations are in order? Doubly so.’

  ‘Well – I had a baby, yes. Maggie’s her name.’

  ‘I’ll insist on pictures when we stop. Sandra says you’ve to email her one, I don’t have a notion how that works. And – do I hear wedding bells? Our wee Paula Maguire?’

  She squinted out the window. ‘You know how it is back home – people still talk if you’re not married. And with the kid – anyway, the wedding’s in two weeks.’ Less than that now. Christ.

  ‘Lovely.’ It was a narrative that made sense – she’d had a child with her boyfriend, her childhood sweetheart, and now they’d get married and probably have more. Except, of course, it might not be true.

  ‘So what’s the place like?’ She changed the subject.

  ‘It’s like the Priory. Private rehab for kids with issues. So we’ve got the self-harmers, the drug users, and of course the eating disorders. They have a quite radical approach that you can’t get on the NHS – supposedly they can dry out a drug addict in a month.’

  ‘And anorexia?’

  ‘Well.’ He turned the car at a set of red-brick gateposts, almost invisible in the trees. ‘Let’s just say they hardly ever die. Not all clinics can say the same. So it works. In a way.’

  ‘In a way?’

  Kevin’s face, placid and kind, gave nothing away. It was what made him so good at his job. ‘You’ll see. Come on.’

  The place was like a country hotel, the kind stressed-out London couples would go to for minibreaks to try to revive their wilting relationships. They walked across crunching gravel and Paula noticed the bars on the lower windows. This was not a hotel – the people inside weren’t allowed to leave.

  Kevin spoke into the videophone entrance for a while, negotiating entry, and Paula looked around. It was silent, eerily so. Only the rustle of leaves and the odd cry of a bird. She wondered how Alice had felt, cut off here.

  Adding to the feel of a top hotel, they were met by ‘Guest Liaison Manager’ Maria Holt. Paula gathered her job was to look after the paying customers, i.e. the parents who put their children in here. She drifted off during the woman’s long spiel about the centre, as they were led down a wood-panelled corridor, Maria tapping in high heels. She had on subtle make-up, but a lot of it, and a blouse and pencil skirt. ‘Our success rates are consistently high, because we’re able to take a more aggressive approach to fighting addiction and mental disorders. Conventional therapies focus on controlling the problem, not the causes.’

  They passed doors, a TV lounge with several teenagers in it, vacant, eyes glued to the screen. They wore loose grey clothes, like prison inmates. ‘There are no closed doors at the Yews,’ Maria said, seeing Paula look. ‘It’s our most fundamental policy.’

  The centre director was ready for them in his office, which overlooked the thick trees at the back of the building. More yews, like the ones in Crocknashee churchyard. ‘Kevin! Good to see you.’ A firm handshake and a clasp of the shoulder for him. Paula was scrutinised by sharp blue eyes. ‘Hello, I’m David Allardyce. Dr Maguire, is it?’

  She tried not to wince as he pummelled her hand. ‘Hello, yes.’

  Allardyce was a short man, coming up to her eyes, and had sandy greying hair and a rugby player’s nose. Beneath the Paul Smith shirt and trousers was a strong body. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. Kevin here used to sing your praises.’

  ‘My best grad student,’ said Kevin.

  ‘I doubt that.’ Paula brushed off the compliment.

  ‘Well,’ said Kevin. ‘I’ve had ones who are more patient with funding applications, maybe.’

  ‘What can I help you with?’ said Allardyce. ‘I heard you were on the criminal end of things – not thin
king of going therapeutic?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Paula, thinking she couldn’t imagine anything worse. ‘It’s about a former patient of yours – an Alice Morgan. She was studying in Ireland and she’s gone missing.’

  His expression didn’t change. ‘Oh yes. I think I remember. But we don’t call them patients here, they’re guests.’

  ‘OK. Obviously, with Alice’s history, our first thought wasn’t forced disappearance. So I wanted to pick your brains really, see if you can help me put together a profile.’

  ‘Sure, sure. Sit down.’ He indicated the chairs opposite his desk, which Paula thought were by some famous Swedish designer. ‘Let me get the file.’

  She sat down, looking out at the cool oasis of trees outside the window. The place was peaceful, almost soporific.

  ‘Now.’ Allardyce had found a manila file in his oak cabinet. ‘Alice. She was with us for two years – a long stretch. Usually we pride ourselves on having a cure within three months.’

  ‘Can you ever really cure anorexia?’

  ‘Good question.’ He beamed a smile at her. ‘We consider them cured if they gain two stone or more and are eating normally again. Obviously, a relapse is always a risk. Was Alice’s eating still disordered?’

  ‘We think so. Here’s the last picture that was taken of her – the day she went missing.’ Paula took out her phone to show him Alice’s last selfie.

  He pursed his lips. ‘Hm, yes. Not quite life-threatening, but still very underweight.’

  She put the phone away. ‘Can I ask, Dr Allardyce, would you have expected Alice to have periods? Her room-mate at university said she didn’t.’

  ‘At that bodyweight, I’d doubt it, I have to say.’

  ‘We also found evidence in her home of bingeing.’

  ‘Bulimia?’ He frowned. ‘But that wasn’t her way at all. She had a real horror of vomiting – with her it was all about purity. She had something of an obsession with medieval saints, the ones who allegedly didn’t eat for years, left perfect corpses. You’d be Catholic, I assume, Dr Maguire?’

  She glanced at Kevin, who shrugged slightly. It was an unusual question to hear in England. ‘I was raised Catholic, yes.’

  ‘Then you’ll know about the incorruptibles. The saints with preserved bodies – they didn’t rot after death, supposedly. Alice wanted to be like this.’

  ‘You mean like. . . holy relics?’

  ‘Yes, something like that. Things that don’t decompose, that stay unchanged.’

  ‘But don’t bulimia and anorexia often co-present?’ asked Paula. It wasn’t really her area.

  ‘Yes, of course. But Alice – I’d be surprised. Very surprised.’

  ‘OK. Thank you. I need to ask—’ She hesitated, glancing at Kevin, who looked peacefully out of the window. This was all down to her. ‘We’ve heard Alice attempted suicide while she was here.’

  He fixed her with a stare, and for a moment the polite veneer was gone. ‘Who told you that?’

  She faced him. Right on your side, Corry had said. ‘We have a source in the police.’

  Allardyce placed his hands on his desk. ‘Well, yes, she did. A real pity. We take every precaution here – you’ll see there are codes on all the drug stores, and we watch them all the time – but accidents happen. Unfortunately Alice was able to stockpile some meds from another girl, who should have been taking them. The other girl died. Heart failure, at nineteen. Such a waste.’

  ‘And Alice’s parents don’t know this? They didn’t mention it.’

  He uncapped his pen. ‘Dr Maguire . . . do you have children?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ she bridled.

  ‘Just a question.’

  ‘I have a little girl.’

  ‘Well, maybe you can imagine then. Imagine the pain for a parent, of watching this child you brought into the world, and all they want to do is starve themselves to death. To disappear. You’d do anything, wouldn’t you, to make them eat? So Alice’s parents already blamed themselves. We didn’t want to worry them more. That’s all.’

  Alice

  2013

  Nothing good ever lasts. I know that. I’ve known it since I was seven years old and being put into boarding school by parents who blamed me for their marriage falling apart. And who had chosen to save the marriage, and lose me. But still – for a while, the four of us, here, it was good. I knew there were things under the surface. I knew Peter wanted to fuck me, and was getting more and more pissed off I hadn’t let him. I knew Dermot maybe wanted to as well, or maybe just thought he should, and that he wanted Peter to like him maybe more than anything else. I knew that Katy wanted Peter, because he was popular, and that she wanted something from me, something darker. To have me, or more likely, to be me. But despite all that, it was so special to start with. I remember the first night most of all.

  It was just before Christmas, so the boathouse was freezing, even when we dragged the little space heater down there. I’d told Katy to meet me there, and hinted it would be an amazing party. I’d told Dermot, who I knew from waiting to meet the stupid therapist, I’d be there too. I made it sound like I’d be on my own. I knew he would think that was the kind of thing he should do. I knew that if I pushed him, he’d probably do anything I asked. Whether he wanted to or not.

  Peter was trickier. I knew he’d come, but he might be angry when he saw it wasn’t just me. He was already pissed off. The night before, when we’d kissed on his bed, he had pulled away and started looking for something, a condom, I guess. I said did he mind if we didn’t. Why, he said. Do you not like it?

  I couldn’t explain that I didn’t even know. So I said I had my period. A little joke to myself, that one. And when Katy and Dermot and I were at the boathouse, and I’d introduced them, and Katy was forcing him to bond with her – sensing a fellow runt in the litter – Peter appeared over the hill. He was carrying a bottle of vodka and I smelled him before I saw him. Smoke, and booze, and aftershave, and something else. The smell of the alpha male. He stopped. He’d given me the key earlier, I guess thinking I’d be sexing myself up for him down there. Um . . . what’s this?

  I went up to him, stroked his arm. The way I learned from Rebecca. All men are the same, really. It’s cool, isn’t it? They’re good people, I said under my breath. And Dermot – he can get stuff. You know?

  Dermot’s ability to ‘get stuff’ made him OK to Peter. He even shook his hand. I saw him look at Katy and dismiss her, but maybe even enjoy her being there, the ego boost.

  There were other times too. Katy lying on my bed, laughing at Pitch Perfect. Dermot passing me notes in the library, little jokes. Peter smiling at me across the bar, everyone turning to see who he was looking at. It was good. It’s hard to believe it now, when things are so royally fucked up, but for a while, it was really good. It was the only time since Charlotte died that I actually felt I had friends.

  I should have known. If you let people in, it only makes it easier for them to hurt you. I guess that’s why I’m writing it down, to try to understand what went so wrong. I haven’t done that since I was in the clinic. Things aren’t as bad as then. I have to remember that. I have to try and eat, and not go mad again, because whatever happens I can’t go back there. I’d rather die. And when I say that, unlike Katy, I actually mean it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Paula asked to see the rest of the building, and after the briefest of hesitations, Allardyce lifted his desk phone and muttered some words into it. Maria was waiting for them outside, all smiles and heels. Could she offer them a drink or other refreshment? Perhaps they’d like to see the canteen with its nutrition programme?

  Kevin said equably that he’d love a coffee, so they clattered down the stairs to a large barn–like room tacked onto the back of the house. It had views of the trees, and was done up like a hotel buffet, with cutlery trays, condiments in baskets. Except for the nurses on each till point.

  ‘The guests have to get used to eating in publ
ic,’ said Allardyce. ‘It’s one of the biggest issues for anorexics. The alimentary act, chewing and swallowing, it disgusts them, so they often eat in secret. We have a terrible mice problem here from food in the rooms. So they have to show the nurses they made good choices – no diet foods, just nutritious items. We do more than fatten them up – we try to change their behaviour.’

  Most of the people in the room were female, and in their teens. The odd boy or older man was dotted around, looking shell-shocked. The girls chattered, but with a certain nervous energy. A flock of birds, pecking at their food.

  ‘What happens if they still refuse to eat?’ asked Paula. ‘Would you hospitalise them?’

  ‘If we have to. We have the facilities on site. Under-eighteens can legally be given nutrition, on a drip or orally.’

  ‘You mean you force-feed them?’

  ‘If you want to call it that. It’s saving them from a slow suicide, we think. Have you seen someone die of starvation, Dr Maguire?’ He was speaking neither loudly or quietly. ‘Everything shuts down. The eyes film over. The hearing goes. Their skin starts to crack open, even on the softest sheets. Their organs fail, one by one – the body eats itself to try to stay alive. Aside from breathing, eating is our most basic process. Unfortunately we live in a society which doesn’t understand that. People think you can stuff yourself with fat and sugar and are surprised to be obese – or at the opposite end, they think you can put in nothing at all for days and the engine will not grind to a halt.’ His eyes fell on one girl, who wore three layers of sweatshirts and a woolly hat, despite the warmth of the sun coming in the large windows. She was painstakingly putting milk into her coffee, drop by drop, her lips moving as she counted. Allardyce went on, ‘When you’re starving, the body starts to shut down non-essential systems. For girls, their periods usually stop. They may come back, if feeding is resumed. Or they may not. And the brain – no point in being able to think when you’re dying. So bear that in mind, when you’re trying to understand Alice. People with anorexia are mentally ill – you can’t trust them to make the right decisions. Their brains are dying, and it’s sending them mad.’