by Katie Lowe
‘That’s all to come,’ Anna Byers says now. ‘This season, on Conviction.’
6
There are worse things to be haunted by than ghosts.
My husband wrote that, I’m sure of it. It was one of those lines he was a little too proud of. The kind he’d say out loud, proudly, for me to groan at.
I’d smile, pretending to be teasing – but we both knew I wasn’t.
Now, though, as I run through the woods, the wet earth sucking at my feet … I think he might be right.
Today, the first episode of Conviction goes live. The past seems to catch at my ankles and tug at my hair; the voices of strangers and people I used to know whip through my mind, pulling the breath from my throat.
Dan told me not to google it. ‘Trust me,’ he’d said, meeting my eye in the bathroom mirror. ‘You won’t find anything on there that makes you feel any better. About anything.’
So I didn’t.
Until last night.
Late last night.
Now, I run faster, the branches reaching for me as I pass.
She had everybody fooled, Darren had said, in the trailer. And he’s right. It’s a skill of mine, to be able to make everyone think I’m something that I’m not.
Everyone. Including myself. But I can’t outrun the things I read. The rabid delight of strangers, all calling for justice – for my husband’s death, and for the boy convicted of his murder – without knowing either man at all.
The thought makes me run faster still, though my lungs, my calves, all ache in protest. But still, I run – towards my destination. Towards the place that never fails to soothe me. The place I need to be.
I’ve never told anyone why I really moved here. As far as Sarah, Dan, and Evie are concerned, it was a pin-in-a-map decision. I saw a patch of green earth, a mass of water I thought was a lake, a few rolling hills – and after all that had happened in the city, it was enough. As soon as Graham’s life insurance paid out, I bought a cottage plucked straight from a picture book, and I started over again. A clean break – this, as good a place as any.
It’s not that I told anyone that was the reason. It’s a story they wrote themselves, built out of clues accidentally dropped – reading meaning where there was none. I simply didn’t correct them.
Because psychiatrists, as a rule, avoid words like ‘crazy’, or ‘nuts’. Our job is to remove the stigma around mental health.
But it’s these words I hear, in my mind, when I think about the real reason; when I see it, looming up ahead, turrets and chimneys spiralling up behind the wall around the grounds. Hawkwood House – or rather, its ruins – seems almost to glow against the grey sky and loamy green hills, the black woods and cliffs behind.
It is nuts. It is crazy. But it’s a place that’s fascinated me since before Evie was born. And when Graham died – in that strange and eerie after – it seemed like the only place I could go.
I like to imagine it alive, still a working hospital – a home – for women who needed respite from their lives. It had music rooms, chapels, an aviary – even a spa, of sorts, a pool set under a coloured glass dome – all of which, its founders seemed to think, would help its patients to find joy in their lives again. That intention spoke to me. It still does now, when I’d do anything for a break from this life that I’ve built, and from the one I lived before.
It gives me something like peace, even though it’s derelict, long abandoned. If anything, I’m grateful for that. Because with no one else around, it feels like mine.
My heart pounds faster as I reach the gate – and stop. A clumsy stop that’s almost slapstick, like a cartoon character hitting a pane of glass.
In the shadow of the open door, I see her. A woman dressed all in white, long black hair spilling down her back in loose curls. In the early-morning light, she’s a blink away from a ghost. As she walks the building’s perimeter, I see the car parked behind the moss-covered fountain: a black Mercedes, low-slung and glossy as a beetle.
The realization makes my cheeks burn hot. From the way she looks at the building, the frank, businesslike assessment of its flaws and scale; the way she chatters into her phone, hands gesturing, as though giving instructions, I know: she’s a property developer. A vulture, come to pick over the bones of Hawkwood House. In a year, more than likely, it’ll be no more than another block of soulless luxury flats.
She turns towards the gate, squints at me, and smiles. She waves and takes a step in my direction.
I turn around, and I run.
‘You can’t spend the rest of your life obsessing over the past,’ Sarah said. Has said, over and over again, in the ten years since I moved here. Now, for the first time, I start to think she might be right.
7
I swipe my card through the scanner. The unit doors heave open with a pneumatic whoosh.
My favourite nurse, Joanna – everyone’s favourite nurse, beloved by patients and staff alike – emerges from behind the reception desk and beckons me over. ‘Borrow you a sec?’
My stomach drops. She disappears again, before I can read anything in her face.
‘What’s up?’
She hands me the department’s tattered iPad. ‘I thought you should probably see this.’
The screen blinks, threateningly, as it always does when unplugged. She reattaches the charging cable, and the words The Ten Commandments glow at the top of the screen.
I glance at Joanna. ‘What am I looking at?’
She blushes. ‘I know I probably shouldn’t, but … I’ve been keeping an eye on Amy online since she left, last time. Now she’s back … I thought you should know what she’s been writing. On her blog.’
I’m not entirely sure how to react, as far as my professional obligations go. Monitoring patient activity online – especially after they’ve been discharged – has always been a bit of a grey area. Officially, it isn’t something we do. And most of our patients have private accounts – with aliases neither we, nor their parents, could ever reasonably be expected to guess.
Still, that doesn’t stop us trying, sometimes.
Call it curiosity. Call it an invasion of privacy. Or call it extended patient care.
I look down at the screen. Number 1: You will do whatever it takes to achieve your goals. Number 2: Willpower is EVERYTHING – do not lose it.
I wince. Warning signs, for a patient like Amy, whose anorexia turns supposed self-control into slow death, self-destruction. ‘Oh dear.’
Joanna nods. ‘I just thought you should know. Because she’s saying she’s fine. I’m not sure if she’s in denial, or what, but …’
‘I’ll let you know. We’ve got her phone, right?’
‘Yeah. She’s checked in and ready for you.’
‘Great.’ My own phone vibrates in my pocket. I hand the tablet back. ‘Let me know if anything else comes up.’
I glance at the notification as I walk towards the day-room, calves still aching from my morning run.
@ConvictionPod tweeted: Four hours to go. Episode One goes live at 1 p.m. GMT. Get ready for our most twisted season yet.
The floor seems to give way beneath me.
I regain my balance and walk on, as though everything’s fine. But it isn’t. And I’m not sure it ever will be again.
‘Amy.’
She tips her head back over the rim of the tattered day-room sofa. ‘Doc.’
It’s an affectation that reminds me of another patient, on another ward. A girl I couldn’t save. The thought of Amy ending up the same way sends a chill through me. I force a smile. ‘Come on. Let’s have a chat.’
She rolls up and shuffles towards me. As she passes, I touch her shoulder lightly with my palm. Through the layers, I feel the nub of her shoulder, all sinew and bone. She’d been doing so well, before. Automatically, I wonder what’s caused her to relapse – although deep down, I know better. Illnesses like hers fight with claws and teeth. Sometimes, they just come back.
This is her fourth admis
sion under section, though she’s been a patient, on and off, for almost nine years. As I follow her to the consulting room, I pause to let her make cheery conversation with one of the cleaning staff. I smile and nod along, realizing uneasily that she – a patient – is on first-name terms with a staff member I couldn’t pick out of a line-up.
I wonder if this is the sort of thing that will be held up as evidence of my bad character, once people realize this season of Conviction is about me.
I commit his name to memory.
Just in case.
Finally, we’re alone. ‘So. Ames.’ She sits, instantly picking at the fraying threads of the old armchair. I take a seat opposite, my elbows on my knees, eyes level with hers. ‘I’d say it’s good to see you, but … well, you know we were all hoping this time it’d stick.’
‘I’d say I’m glad to be back, but … yeah.’
I smile. She smiles back, a toothy grin. I wonder, sometimes, whether we’re supposed to like our patients. During my training, it seemed as though clinical detachment was the goal – the defining characteristic of the good doctor. But I can’t help but feel a kind of attachment to Amy, and the other girls who pass through the unit.
I want them to get better – of course I do. But I also understand what makes them the way they are. It’s not the desire to die that makes them choose hunger; compulsive, relentless exercise; or both. It’s a need to control the way they live.
‘So, tell me. What’s been going on since we last caught up?’ Her eyes flit to my hands. I show my palms. She won’t talk as freely if I’m taking notes, so – today, at least – I don’t. ‘No pen. The floor is yours.’
She laughs. It’s brittle, a snicker at the gallows. ‘I thought I was doing OK. Which, I know it doesn’t look like it, but … I was, for a while. You can look at my weight chart. I maintained for seven weeks.’
‘I saw. That was really, really good. The longest stretch you’ve had as an outpatient – right?’
She nods. ‘Yeah.’
‘Did anything happen, that week, that made things start to take a turn? Anything that you can pinpoint as a trigger, perhaps?’
She purses her lips. One of the advantages of having worked with her for so long: I know whatever’s coming next will be a lie. ‘No. I kept wondering what it was, even when it was happening. I just … I couldn’t control it. It just came back.’
‘Well, you’ve done the right thing. And you’ll be thrilled to hear you’ve made it back just in time to catch movie night tomorrow.’
‘Oh, yay.’ She clicks her tongue. No one rails against the department’s poor choice of films with quite as much heart as Amy. I’m glad to see she’s still as ferocious as ever. ‘What classic 1980s B-movie do we have to look forward to, this time? Tell me it’s Back to the Future again, please.’
‘Back to the Future isn’t a B-movie. It’s a classic. And you’re always welcome to suggest alternatives.’
‘Pfft. Remember how much trouble I got into when I asked for The Hunger Games?’ She raises her palms. ‘A genuine mistake. It’s not my fault if they’re going to give these things triggering names.’
I laugh. I can’t help myself. ‘You know I can’t condone that kind of thing.’
‘Yeah, well … I watched it while I was out, and it was fine. You’d like it.’
I wonder what I’ve done, or said, that’s given her this impression; what hint of personal information I’ve given, accidentally, over the years we’ve worked together. ‘Would I?’
‘Yeah.’ She doesn’t elaborate, and a silence falls. Already, I know this will bother me for the rest of the day. It’s almost certainly nothing, but it feels like a slip: evidence of a mistake I’ve made, some vital piece of personal information I’ve handed over without thinking.
It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. But I promised myself I’d be better. I promised I wouldn’t let it happen again.
I reach for my notebook and pen, and change the subject. ‘How’s your mum?’
She rolls her neck around, the bones a sharp ‘V’ in the centre. I feel my own throat tighten in response. When she looks back at me, her expression has cooled. I’m not the only one, it turns out, who can pull up the barriers. ‘She’s fine. I mean, given her only daughter’s mental, she’s doing OK.’
‘You’re not “mental”, Amy. You know that. You have an illness. That’s all.’
‘That’s not how she sees it.’
I say nothing for a moment. I wait for her to go on. But she doesn’t.
‘Do you think it’d be helpful to share some of these feelings with her in our next review?’ I say, finally. She looks at me doubtfully, as though she’s waiting for the punchline to the joke. ‘If we can open up the lines of communication a little, you might find she’s able to take a step back. It’s possible that she’s just saying all these things because she just doesn’t know what else to do. She might just be trying to express her concern.’
‘Concern, yeah. She’s expressing plenty of that. But trust me, it’s not about my health.’ She looks down at her hands, the bitten-down nails bluish underneath. ‘I’ll talk to her, if that’s what you want. But I don’t think it’s going to help.’
With her face covered by her hair, for a moment she’s the echo of Evie: the same unbrushed tangle of curls, the same angular pose. It makes something ache in me. An instinct for protection.
‘She loves you, Amy. She’s your mum.’
Don’t be so hard on her, I want to say. But I don’t.
She looks up. For a split second, I think I’ve managed to get through.
And then it’s gone.
‘Are we done?’ she says flatly.
‘Amy—’
‘Can I go now? Please?’
I sigh. ‘If you want to.’
She stands and leaves. The door slams, heavily, behind.
8
I click, swipe, and refresh. Still nothing.
Foam clings to the sides of my cup. I wrap my hands around what’s left of the warmth, and look once again at my phone. The screen is still blank. Since the notification, forty minutes ago – Slight delay with uploads, here – not a ploy for suspense, we promise. AB. – nothing.
A watched pot never boils, they say.
I click the screen on, and off again.
‘Spare any change?’
There’s a startling blankness in the eyes of the woman in front of me, her hair a matted, filthy mess, hands thick with dirt. I feel a pang of sympathy, a there-but-for-the-grace-of-God sting. ‘Let me … Hang on.’ I root around in my pockets, but come up short. I bend down and search through my bag. I find a few coins, nothing that counts for much, really – but I hand them over, and she turns and shambles away.
The stare of the woman behind her – her eyes fixed on me – makes my cheeks flush with the sudden recognition.
‘I thought it was you!’ she says, her tone far friendlier than it ought to be, given the circumstances – the fact I’d turned and run when we’d made eye contact on the grounds of Hawkwood House. She strides towards me, beaming brightly.
‘Sorry, I …’ I trail off. I have no idea what to say. ‘You must think I’m completely mad.’
She looks at me, blankly. ‘Why?’
I’m thrown off. ‘Didn’t you …?’ I trail off.
‘You are Hannah Catton … aren’t you?’
My old name. It reverberates through me.
‘McLelland. Catton was …’ I blink. ‘I’m sorry – I’m confused. I thought you recognized me from … running. I’m probably having a moment, but—’
‘Oh dear.’ She laughs. ‘This is awkward. You don’t recognize me, do you?’
I stare at her. ‘No.’
‘Darcy?’ She scans my eyes for some sign of recognition. ‘From the Buyon Clinic? Two thousand and … something?’
An image begins to form in my mind, the vague outlines of an intern, the year the cracks began to show at Buyon, my former hospital. ‘Darcy … Bu
rke – right?’
‘Yes!’ She beams. ‘Quite glad you didn’t recognize me, really. Braces and extra-strength conditioner: two things my twenty-three-year-old self should’ve learned about much sooner.’
The image of her settles in my mind. A shy girl, a little buck-toothed, dark eyes. A wild, frizzy mass of hair, constantly escaping from a bun. A good enough intern, but … not all that memorable.
Still, I return her smile. I click back into my professional mode, my default. ‘Well, it’s nice to see you again. What have you been doing with yourself since?’
‘Well, once I’d qualified, I actually went back there – to Buyon?’ Her eyes scan my face, hopefully. Again, my stomach drops. I wonder what she knows. ‘Just on a fixed-term contract. But it must’ve been after you’d left. Which …’ She pauses. ‘Sorry, you’re trying to enjoy a quiet coffee, and here I am, telling you my life story. You’re busy, aren’t you?’
‘No, not at all.’ A lie; politeness, nothing more. ‘I’ve got to head back to work soon, but – sit, sit.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course. Tell me everything you can in—’ I reach for my phone. But it isn’t there. ‘Oh …’ I pat my pockets, handbag. I scan the table again, uselessly lifting the napkin, my empty cup. ‘My phone is …’
Her eyes widen. ‘Have you lost it?’
I think of Dan, warning Evie about a spate of mobile phone thefts in the area, weeks earlier. Don’t leave your phone out on the table, he’d said. You might as well be asking someone to steal it. I think of the woman I handed my change to. She’d disappeared, right away – without stopping to ask anyone else for theirs.
Frustration coils, hot, in my chest. ‘Yeah, I … Yeah.’
‘Oh, no. Do you want to use mine?’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. It isn’t. ‘Just … Let me know when it’s quarter to, would you?’
‘Will do.’ She pauses. She’s nervous. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘I’m fine.’
A silence falls for a moment. I realize I’m being cold. None of this is her fault. It’s mine. ‘So you went back to Buyon, and …’