by Liz Lawler
*
Emily couldn’t tell if it was night or day. She was in a bed and had been undressed. Beneath the cotton gown she was wearing her underwear and was relieved she’d not been stripped naked. The bed was tucked against a wall with a bedside table to her right. The dimmed ceiling light cast a warm glow over the room, which was a comfortable size for a single room, twelve foot square at a guess. The far wall opposite was fitted with the type of furniture found in a hotel bedroom. A single wardrobe attached to a desk, a leather tub chair, a lamp on the desk and, surprisingly, carpet on the floor. A picture hung on the wall above the desk and the blinds on the window behind her were fully closed. On the same side wall as her bed was a door, a slim light wood affair, but it was the second door facing her that her eyes fixed on.
Behind it were the people who put her in here.
She would stay calm. It was her best defence. No more tears. She would play this right, because right now her only chance of getting out of here was to give the right answers. Make the right noises. She knew enough about mental health care to get by. She would admit to depression, anxiety, seeing people who she knew weren’t really there – and blame it all on Zoe. Zoe was her trump card. The reason and cause of this setback. She had just passed a first anniversary. She had the right to fall apart a little bit. Geraldine would be relieved if she told her she had made it all up. She would of course apologise for wasting police time. She hadn’t intentionally set out to do so, but while Zoe remained missing, her mind created a set of characters that she could focus on, people that she thought needed rescuing. A transference used as a coping mechanism to take her mind off thinking solely of Zoe. This is the picture she would paint and when they saw it and judged her sane, she would walk right out of here.
Wriggling out of the bed she found the light switch and turned the bulb brighter. She opened the door near the end of her bed and saw a small en suite bathroom containing a shower, toilet and sink, two white towels, a mini-sized toothpaste, a deodorant and soap, a comb and toothbrush and a pair of paper disposable knickers. She stepped into the room, looking for a lock, and had to make do with just shutting the door.
She used the loo and showered quickly and then dressed in her own clothes which were hanging in the wardrobe. The hangers were plastic and attached to the clothes rail. She put on her sandals and combed her hair. So far no one had disturbed her. She crossed over to the blinds and found a switch on the wall and pressed it. They made a soft whirring sound as they opened and dull daylight came into the room. The walls were painted a soft blue with white patches deliberately added to resemble clouds. The picture was of a beach; sunny sky, a stretch of sea and sand dotted with small waves breaking the surface of the green sea. The window was one sheet of glass with no opening. She now knew exactly where she was: the top floor of The Windsor Bridge Hospital. It was the modern psychiatric wing, which she had avoided visiting when invited on her tour of the hospital. Now she was there without a choice.
She was a patient. A psychiatric patient. A strike two had been added.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Geraldine banged the front door with the flat of her hand. How loud did these people have their telly? She could hear Holly Willoughby talking from outside. She banged again and stood still on the only clean spot she could find on the short path, which consisted of two square slabs of concrete, half covered by bin bags which seagulls or foxes had attacked. Buttered bread and cans leaking baked bean juices smeared the ground.
Finally she heard someone behind the door. ‘You better not be a fucking salesman.’
Doreen Jacobs opened the door. With barely a change in her expression, she greeted Geraldine. ‘Oh, it’s you. I should have known it was Old Bill by the knock. What brings you here, DI Sutton?’ She said Old Bill as if she were an old con, but as far as Geraldine was aware she’d never come under the radar of the police before Zoe went missing. Maybe she just didn’t like the police or blamed them for failing to find her daughter.
The woman had changed little over the last year. With her short fair hair, she reminded Geraldine of a lot of women she’d met in her career. They were hardened and mean-faced, with features pinched of any warmth or charity. She was short and fat with big beefy arms that could probably crush you in an embrace. Her daughters got their height and dark hair from their father. She made no attempt to invite her visitor in. Geraldine was tempted to toy with her, to tell her they had new information on the whereabouts of their missing daughter, just to see if she got a reaction, but she was a professional and would not lower herself to such behaviour. She found Doreen Jacobs a hard and callous woman, a conniver, whose character and manner of speaking bore little resemblance to her older daughter. It was a wonder that she had produced someone like Emily.
‘I’m here with news about Emily—’
‘We know,’ she interrupted. ‘The doctor rang last night and told us. She was meant to have been staying here by all accounts.’
Geraldine sighed inwardly. She should have anticipated that would happen. She’d had a wasted journey. ‘Oh, right. Well, it’s good that you know. I’ll leave you to it then.’
She turned to leave. The woman’s words stopped her. ‘I’m not surprised they locked her up. She was never right as a kid.’
Geraldine stared. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said she was never right. She was never like a normal kid. She was born grown up and not in a good way. She was constantly watching you. Always lurking in doorways. Her eyes on everything you did. When Zoe were born, if she’d had her way, she’d have disappeared with her sister. I used to have to watch her and make sure she didn’t run off with her. She tried taking charge like she was the mother. Organising baby feeds and nappies and leaving me lists of when I should feed her sister, change her, as if we were simple-minded. She was nine! A clever little mare who thought she could do it all.’ She smirked and her washed-out blue eyes gleamed knowingly. ‘And she could. It wasn’t anything she couldn’t tackle, she could mind a baby as if born to it. In the end we let her. Why not? She thought she was better than us, so now it was up to her to prove it. I’d like to know who she thinks changed her nappies. Fed her her bottle. The fucking fairy godmother? Before Zoe was born we used to listen to her talking to herself. To her imaginary friend! She had a whole fucking room of them. Lined up teddies and dolls who she believed talked to her. I never heard a word they said, mind. It was all in her bleedin’ head. And Zoe was just one more to add to her collection.’
Geraldine felt her stomach knot in anger. What the woman described sounded like the very lonely life of a child who took comfort from toys and then later from a baby sister in the absence of feeling it from her parents. She had coped the only way she knew how.
‘Do you not like your daughter, Mrs Jacobs?’ she asked bluntly.
The woman looked at her, appearing not in the least offended. She pulled out a packet of cigarettes from her tracksuit pocket and used a Bic lighter to light one, then she inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth, avoiding Geraldine’s face. ‘What’s to like? We don’t know her. She lived here until two years ago, but we didn’t have a clue what she thought. She mostly kept to her room. The only one let inside her room was Zoe so she could fill Zoe’s head with grand ideas.’ She inhaled again and looked away. ‘I hate to say it, it’s a wicked thing, I know . . . but I wish it had been her who had gone missing, and not my Zo.’
Geraldine got back in her car. She was shaking. Little shocked her in her job, but the brutal words she had just heard were some of the worst she had encountered. To wish one child gone in favour of another was an affront to nature.
Doreen Jacobs had revealed a great deal in this conversation. She had abused Emily unremorsefully, using her to bring up her own sister. The picture painted couldn’t have been clearer, and Geraldine imagined nine-year-old Emily carrying a baby, changing nappies, giving feeds and walking the long, lonely nights soothing a crying baby. Taking comfort fr
om someone who was real. Before Zoe went missing Emily must have been incredibly resilient to have borne such an upbringing. She wished she’d got better under the care of Eric and did not need this more serious intervention of hospitalisation.
She started the car, wondering if the hospital would let her visit. Was there a cooling-off period before visits were allowed? Emily would surely need things brought in, and somehow Geraldine couldn’t see Doreen Jacobs ferrying her stuff. She needed to be careful, though, for Emily’s sake. She was not her friend. She was a police officer.
Their relationship was strained now. She felt as if she had deserted a sinking ship and left Emily drowning.
She sat up straight, took a steady breath and looked in her wing mirror before pulling away from the Jacobs’ house. She was a police officer. She could only do what was right. She could not rewrite the bad things that had happened, nor find everyone who went missing. She would be there for Emily when she needed her and that was the best she could do.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Classical music was playing through speakers at low volume. A dozen or more people were in various stages of activity. Some were sitting at tables eating or pouring cereal into a bowl; some were pouring brown liquid from a flask, or buttering bread. They looked like ordinary people making themselves at home. She wondered if those more easily identified as having mental problems were locked away elsewhere.
She was spotted as a new arrival by a woman with brown curly hair who was smiling and walking her way. She wore furry toy slippers on her feet, pink bunnies with floppy ears. ‘Help yourself, love. There’s coffee and tea over there. Or breakfast if you want?’ Emily murmured her thanks and walked over to the trolley. She was not yet ready to eat, but she was thirsty. She made her way to an empty table and sat alone, checking out her surroundings as she sipped lukewarm coffee from a plastic mug.
The open-plan living area was large and rectangular with plenty of room to move around. Armchairs, beanbags, low round coffee tables and round dining tables had been set out on three sides of the room, to offer a choice. A large TV, out of reach on a wall in one area, was presently switched off. Book cases were dotted in various places. Paintings of landscapes hung on the walls. The whole place looked comfortable, a place where you could relax and forget your troubles, until you spotted the four cameras high up in each corner of the room and realised you were being watched.
A wiry young man sat down at a table next to her. His back was taut; well-defined muscles were clear under his T-shirt. The blond quiff on his head was a good four inches high and she wondered how long it took to style. He took a paper napkin and spread it out neatly on the table. He took a knife and carefully centred a slice of bread in the middle, before cutting off the crusts and removing them from the napkin to place on the tray. He now cut the single slice of bread in half. Emily watched, fascinated. But he was not done yet. He cut each half-slice in half again and then each quarter-slice in half. He finally cut each of those in half. The bread was now cut so small that it resembled scrabble pieces without letters.
The woman with the brown curly hair approached him. ‘Be a good lad, Gems. Eat your bread and butter.’
He gripped the blunt, plastic knife, his knuckles white, and stared at her. She saw something in his eyes and she backed away. She came over to Emily’s table instead of returning to her own. ‘He’ll be alright once he’s had his meds. Won’t you, Gems?’ she called out.
Gems ignored her. He was eating one cube of bread at a time, Chewing each tiny morsel slowly.
‘He’s not really called Gems, but we call him that on account of his hair,’ she said, touching the top of her head. ‘You know, like the biscuits.’
Emily smiled.
‘I’m Molly, or Mol, if you prefer.’
‘Emily.’
‘You looked a bit shell-shocked when you walked in here. First time?’
She nodded.
‘You get used to it after a day or so. Give it a week and you’ll feel at home.’
She looked at Molly in alarm. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘I’m on a twenty-eight-dayer.’
Emily’s eyes questioned her.
‘Under section two they can keep me here twenty-eight days. On day twenty now and counting down. They’re trying to sort out my meds to stop me going cuckoo.’ She grinned. ‘But it’s a fat lot of good, I’ve always been a nutcase. Having bipolar drives me round the bend.’ She roared with laughter, realising what she’d said. Then leaned in close and lowered her voice. ‘Give Gems a wide berth. You don’t need to worry about the others, but he’s unpredictable.’
She left her then and Emily finished her coffee. She stilled as she saw a member of staff heading her way. It was a male psychiatric nurse wearing a plain white tunic top and navy trousers. ‘Good morning, Miss Jacobs, my name’s Ben. Dr Green has arranged for you to have a medical examination. If you’ve finished breakfast, would you be happy to have that now?’
She stood up. ‘Sure.’
‘If you’d like to follow me.’
Emily’s legs trembled as she followed the psychiatric nurse across the room to a pair of closed doors she had not previously noticed. He pulled out a retractable ID card connected to a belt loop on his trousers and she watched him swipe it through a panel on the wall. The doors buzzed and made a clicking sound as they unlocked and he pushed them open, leading them to another corridor. No bunch of keys jangled as he walked. No echo of his footsteps rang out on hard corridor floors. His access and exit were made by using a simple piece of plastic and soft carpet muffled his shoes. They passed closed doors until they came to one with a silver nameplate inscribed in black: Treatment Room.
A short, slim man rose from behind the desk. He wore glasses and a brown suit with a shirt and tie. He looked younger than her, and a little geeky with his floppy fringe. ‘Good morning. Please sit down. Dr Green has requested you have a medical examination, and with your permission I’d also like to take some blood?’
Emily willed herself to relax. This is where it began. From now on they would be watching her and listening to her every response. ‘Good morning. That’s fine. Always good to get an MOT,’ she said lightly.
He smiled a little awkwardly, and she imagined him more suited to working in a laboratory. ‘You slept well?’ he asked.
‘Very, thank you. The bed is very comfortable.’
‘That’s good. I understand you recently had surgery and were also hit by a car earlier this week. So, Ben is going to step out and swap places with a female nurse so that I can examine you. Is that alright?’
‘Of course. Would you like me to get undressed?’
‘Please. You can go behind the curtain. There’s a gown you can put on and a couch to lie on. Get yourself comfortable and we’ll pop back in.’
She started shaking behind the curtain. She was giving them free rein to carry out this exam. If she’d refused, she wondered how they would have reacted. Would they hold her down? Somehow she didn’t think so. But it would be a black mark against her.
She settled on the couch and breathed steadily.
A female nurse accompanied the doctor; she smiled a greeting and stood by Emily’s side. The doctor took a stethoscope and listened to Emily’s chest. He shone an ophthalmoscope into her eyes. He instructed her to follow his finger. Then asked her to close her eyes and place her own finger on her nose, pull it away and retouch the spot at a steady pace. He took a tendon hammer and tapped behind and in front of each elbow, each forearm, below each knee and the back of her ankles to test her tendon reflexes. He scraped the pointy plastic end of the hammer along the soles of her feet and her toes curled downward.
At the sight of her injury, he gently palpated it. ‘Some blow you got there.’
She murmured a yes. ‘I was stupid not to look before crossing. I hope I didn’t give the driver too much of a shock.’
He looked at her and pulled a face. ‘Yes, we tend to forget that sometimes.’
/>
Pulling aside her gown, he examined the small scar from her operation. It was pink and healing. He had checked her fully, head to toe, giving her the most thorough examination she’d ever had. There had been no expense spared, and she wondered who was paying for it all. This was a private psychiatric ward. You could not come here without money. She wondered if a similar arrangement was in place as with the surgical unit, and the NHS was footing the bill. Or was she entitled to free treatment because she worked there? She had not fully looked at the perks of her contract. This could be one of them.
When she was dressed she found him sitting at the desk, his eyes on his screen, typing. ‘I’m arranging for you to have a CT scan. This should be done later today. In the meantime, is there anything concerning you that you’d like to ask?’
‘Apart from the fact that I’m here, you mean?’
He heard her wry humour and acknowledged it with a small smile. ‘Indeed.’
‘No, I have no other concerns. Thank you for asking.’ She stood ready to leave. ‘There is one thing. Am I able to make a call? I don’t seem to have my bag with me and I’m not sure what your rules are in any case.’
‘I’m sorry, you will have your personal items returned to you, but we don’t advise the use of mobile phones. We encourage a peaceful environment and try to avoid the possibility of taking unauthorised photographs or videos. It’s protection for us all, you understand. You’ll be meeting with the ward manager, who’ll be best able to explain about your stay here and telephone access.’
She hesitated. ‘Believe it or not it’s only to call Allen Ward, about a patient I nursed yesterday. I wish to pass on something I forgot to mention in his notes.’
The request took him by surprise. Clearly not many patients had asked to use a phone for this purpose.
‘In that case,’ he said, and stood up and came around the desk, ‘press zero for the operator and then the extension number. I’ll leave you for a moment.’