by Luana Lewis
Stella opened the door a crack. Blue was still in her bed, thumb in her mouth, eyes fixed on the screen. The television was blaring.
‘What do you mean, she might be missing?’
‘They’re still checking with friends at this stage and they’re having a look at her laptop. It might be that she’s just gone out somewhere without telling anyone. Her mother looked in on her and saw her sleeping this morning when she left the house. She also spoke to her on the landline at around ten, when the girl said she wasn’t feeling well and wasn’t going to school. So she was still at home at that stage. But when the mother called again at around lunchtime, she didn’t answer the home phone or her mobile. The mother made her first call to the police when she got home at around eight, after she’d called round to a few of her friends and couldn’t find her.’
‘Has this girl run away from home before? Did the mother give a reason she might have run away?’
‘She hasn’t gone missing before, but she does have a history of behaviour problems. Apparently she’s been caught smoking cannabis on the school premises and she’s been excluded a couple of times – disrupting classes, truanting, that sort of thing. And she self-harms – with razorblades.’
‘I think I’ve seen the scars.’
‘She used to be on Ritalin. At the moment she’s taking – hang on.’
Stella heard rustling noises.
‘I’m back,’ he said. ‘Aripiprazole, Epilim and diazepam. And she hasn’t taken her meds with her.’
‘All of those?’
‘Yep. That would mean some pretty serious symptoms, wouldn’t it?’
‘Either that,’ Stella said, ‘or a psychiatrist who is very liberal with his prescription pad. It sounds like they think she has either a mood disorder or a psychotic disorder. Maybe she has bipolar disorder that’s been difficult to control, that could be why the mood stabilizers are prescribed. And bipolar symptoms can look like a psychotic disorder in phases where the person is manic – so she might have had some kind of delusional, out-of-touch-with-reality episodes. But it’s a little strange. She seems so young for that diagnosis. Do you have the clinician’s details?’
‘The name isn’t in the police report. I’ll try to find out who it is.’
‘Maybe she’s having some sort of withdrawal,’ Stella said. ‘She’s been feeling sick, nauseous.’
‘Stella – I have to say – if it is her, I think this girl is a risk. I’m a little concerned.’
She knew Peter. If he said a little then what he meant was: extremely. He was much gentler, much less formal this time, and that worried her most of all.
‘She has behaviour problems. If she self-harms with razorblades that involves a potential for violence.’
‘Great.’ Stella stood in front of the double vanity unit. She stared at her toothbrush, her toothpaste, her perfume. Max’s side was empty. Acid churned in her gut and pushed its way up into the back of her throat. The after-effects of the wine and the adrenaline, she supposed.
‘I want you to take a photograph of her and send it to me,’ Peter said.
‘I’ll try. I don’t know if she’ll let me. She freaked out when I mentioned the police. Maybe she’s committed some sort of crime – robbed a house in the area and run off, or something. Who knows.’
‘Try. I’ve let her local police station know but I don’t know how fast they’ll act. It would help, to have a photograph.’
‘OK.’
‘And keep an eye on her.’
‘Pete – where are you?’
‘Stella,’ he said. ‘I’m not coming out there.’
‘I didn’t ask you to.’
The last time he had tried to help her, she hadn’t been very cooperative.
‘Send me the photograph as soon as you can. I’ll see what I can do.’
He still cared, she could hear it in his voice.
Stella filled a glass of water and opened the mirrored cabinet above the basin. Inside were several white cardboard boxes full of tablets in blister packs. She reached for the box on the far left, swallowed her antidepressant, then placed the box back in its place. She reached for the next box and placed a small, bitter tablet on her tongue. Then she spat it out. The diamond-shaped pill dropped into the basin, dissolving around the edges into a puddle of blue. She ran the tap, flushing it down the plughole.
She needed to be able to think.
All of the drugs she took were legal: prescribed by a psychiatrist. She needed diazepam in the morning, or she would never leave the bedroom. And she needed another dose at night, or she remained sleepless, seeing shadows around her bed where there were none. The psychiatrist said it was fine to continue this medication regime for years, there were no risks. Max agreed with him. Of course Stella did not believe a word of it. She was overmedicated and she knew it: physically and psychologically dependent. The tranquillizers, in particular, were a hard habit to break.
She hated herself for being so weak.
So much medication. Blue could be a danger to herself. To others around her. Stella couldn’t make it through the night, alone with the girl, sleepless and fearful. She wasn’t going to sit around and wait for Peter to make up his mind about whether he could forgive her for cutting him out of her life, or for the Met Police to make their way up to her through the frozen countryside. She had to do something.
Stella placed the mug of tea down on the bedside table and smiled at Blue. She hoped this might appear to be a reassuring, comforting smile.
‘Drink this,’ she said. ‘You’ll feel better.’ She retrieved the remote from the bedcovers and turned off the television.
‘I’m sorry about before,’ Blue said. ‘I didn’t mean to make you angry.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ Stella said. ‘I’m sorry I lost my temper.’
She had been careful to make the tea just the right temperature; she had added a little extra milk to make sure it wasn’t too hot. Then she had put in two heaped teaspoons of sugar and stirred well. She had tried a sip herself and she was confident that the sweetness and the milk masked the bitter aftertaste.
Stella watched as Blue lifted the mug, brought it to her lips and took her first sip. Thankfully, she was being quite cooperative, really quite docile.
‘It’s good,’ Blue said.
Stella smiled, pleased.
She had no idea when Blue might have taken her last dose of medication. A physical withdrawal might leave her edgy and unpredictable. She might relapse, into psychosis or a manic state. Stella felt justified in giving her a low dose of an anxiolytic to ensure she stayed calm, to help her sleep. To help Stella stay sane.
Stella could still see redness on the skin around Blue’s chin and her own fingerprints, imprinted like a bracelet around the girl’s wrist. She sat down next to her, right on the edge of the bed.
‘Look, Blue,’ Stella said. ‘I’ve let you into my house and I’ve been kind to you, right?’
Blue nodded.
‘So I think I deserve something in return. I’d like you to answer some questions that might actually sound a bit silly.’
‘Fine.’ Blue already sounded sullen.
‘Do you know what day it is today?’ Stella said.
‘Friday.’ The wariness in Blue’s eyes eased away in response to the innocent question.
‘And the year?’
‘2011.’
‘Do you know where you are now?’ Stella continued.
‘Inside your house.’
‘And which country are we in?’
‘England.’
‘Just a few more,’ Stella said. ‘Can you tell me the name of the Prime Minister?’
‘David Cameron.’
‘And do you remember my name?’
‘Stella. Stella Fisher.’
Stella was confident that the girl was oriented to time, place and person. There was nothing floridly psychotic about her. She didn’t know exactly how long Blue had been off her meds, but there was no sign of seriousl
y disturbed thinking. Yet.
‘Blue, do you take any medicine?’
Blue nodded.
‘Do you remember the name of the pills you take?’ Stella asked.
‘No.’
‘Try.’
‘There’s a lot. My mother gives them to me, I don’t look at the boxes. Epi-something. Like epilepsy, but I don’t have epilepsy. And some other stuff.’
Stella felt a sense of relief. Blue seemed to be telling her the truth. She hadn’t lied about her name. It was very likely she was the missing girl. Once she had a photograph, Blue could be returned home without delay.
But why would a psychiatrist prescribe so much medication for a fifteen-year-old? Diazepam was highly addictive. Stella could vouch for that. And if Blue stayed on the antipsychotics for long enough she could develop neurological problems – grimacing, tongue thrusting, odd tics in her arms and legs. It could become difficult for her to move or walk. And the damage would be permanent – irreversible. It didn’t seem right. Unless. Unless Blue had exhibited some seriously disturbed, even dangerous, behaviour.
‘Do you remember how long it’s been since you took your last dose?’ Stella asked.
‘Uh-uh.’
‘Did you know that it can be bad for you to stop taking those pills suddenly?’
Blue shook her head.
Then she turned to Stella and smiled, tremulous and wide-eyed and nervous all of a sudden. Stella could not read her at all.
‘It’s true that I came to see Dr Fisher,’ Blue said. ‘But I lied when I said I’d never met him.’
Stella sat up straighter and stiffer on the edge of the bed.
Blue took another sip of tea, her eyes never leaving Stella’s face.
‘How do you know him?’ Stella asked.
‘He’s my doctor. Or he used to be.’
‘I see.’ Stella kept her tone even. She wasn’t going to react with shock or surprise to the girl’s lies and her ever-changing revelations. She was relieved that Max was not the girl’s father after all, that Blue had no permanent place, no role to play in disrupting their already complicated union. It made sense that Blue was a patient. And no doubt a deeply disturbed one, given her medication.
‘What was Dr Fisher treating you for?’ Stella asked.
‘He was my mother’s doctor. I went to see him too, sometimes. He tried to help us. I used to hurt myself but I don’t do it any more.’
‘I see. Did something happen at home – something that made you decide to come and find him tonight?’ she asked.
Blue shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. She hesitated. ‘I just wanted – to ask him to help us.’
‘Help you how?’
‘I don’t really know.’ She placed the mug back down on the bedside table. It was still half full. She lay back against the pillows, closing her eyes.
Blue had changed her story so many times that Stella had lost track. Stella felt as though her inner compass was shattered; she no longer trusted her instincts. When she looked at Blue she felt both sympathy and fear, in equal measure. But fear was her master. She reached for the mug and offered it to Blue once more. ‘Finish your tea,’ she said.
Blue drank, obedient.
‘Blue,’ Stella said. ‘Can you describe Dr Fisher’s office for me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well?’
‘I walk there, after school. From the tube. It’s on Grove Road. First I have to tell the receptionist I’m there. Then I wait in the waiting room. His office is upstairs, on the first floor.’
‘Where do you sit, when you’re in his office?’
‘He has a big desk but he doesn’t sit behind it. We sit in the armchairs, there are two, they’re exactly the same. Big. With red flowers on them.’
Blue yawned. Her eyelids drooped, they looked heavy, as though she was struggling to keep them open. She reached out, hesitantly, for Stella’s hand and Stella did not pull away. Such an odd girl; her mood fluctuating so quickly, from guarded, to oppositional, to affectionate.
Stella shuffled up next to her. They sat quietly for a few moments, facing the blank television screen on the wall. Blue edged closer and rested her head against Stella’s shoulder. Stella was too tired to resist. She couldn’t remember the last time she had touched another human being. She relaxed. She wrapped her arm around the sad, troubled girl, holding her tight and feeling her soft hair against her face, enjoying the fresh smell of lavender.
Blue’s chin sank forward on to her chest, her head flopped forwards, her hair covered her face.
Stella was so tired. She wished that Max was home, to take care of her. She wondered what Max thought of Blue and her moods and her charms. Apprehension flipped like a fish, turning over and over inside her gut as she thought about the girl and the way she had hunted down Max’s home address; about her fantasy that Max would act as her saviour.
Central London, May 2009
The party was downstairs, in a cave-like, subterranean room. Along one side was a bar, packed with people. Along the other side, a series of booths were tucked into the arches that ran beneath the city, each one snug with an oval table, scatter cushions and billowing scarves overhead.
There were eight of them around the table. Stella sat on the end because she had been the last to arrive. As usual, the District and Circle Lines were down for the weekend. There was a couple down the opposite end Stella hadn’t met before – friends of Izzy and Mark’s from antenatal classes – but the rest of the group she knew well; most were from her doctoral programme. It was Izzy’s thirtieth birthday, and she was also forty weeks’ pregnant. She had chosen a North African bar and restaurant, where there would be belly dancing for all. She was determined to induce labour.
Stella was drinking some sort of cocktail with fresh lemon and mint and lots of ice, and something pinkish swirling along the bottom. They raised their glasses: to Izzy and Mark and their baby. To being thirty. All of them, soon.
The music was loud, a Middle-Eastern, pounding, energetic beat. The belly dancer’s bustier teemed with sequins. Her veils billowed as she swayed and turned, sending ripples through the flesh of her belly. Izzy, despite the size of her own belly, sprang up to join her. She grabbed Stella’s hand and pulled her on to the dance floor.
Stella liked to dance. She pulled at her hairband, letting her hair fall loose down her back. She felt light and uninhibited, as though they were back at university again, not qualified, not responsible for anyone else – just having a good time. They danced in a circle, the oud playing a slow tune, building up to something; the belly dancer leading the way: grinding and rolling her hips to the flute, the drums and the tambourines, clapping her hands, jiggling the chains around her hips. Faster and faster, impossibly fast. Stella was laughing, clapping, spinning. They all were.
And Lawrence Simpson was standing at the bar, and he had seen her.
Stella looked away, laughed at something Izzy said about the belly dancer’s hips. The music was loud, relentless, reverberating against the low brick ceiling. She retreated to her table and lifted the bottle of sparkling water. She filled the glass in front of her, bubbles rushed to the top and over the sides, she saw too late the rim was marked with a faded ring of some other woman’s pink lipstick. And Simpson was at her elbow, looking down at her. She could see from his smile and the expression in his eyes that he was pleased to see her on neutral ground.
‘Dr Davies,’ he said. There went his hand again, flipping back his fringe, his nervous tic.
‘Dr Simpson,’ she said.
‘So you remember me?’
‘Of course I remember you,’ she said. ‘You’ve spent hours in my office.’
‘Has the psychotherapist tried to set your clinic on fire lately?’ he said.
She gave a small laugh, to be polite. It was bad luck that they should run into each other outside of the office. She’d never been to the restaurant before and London was so vast – what were the chances? She wondered if he’d been watching h
er, dancing. She pulled her hairband off her wrist and tied her hair back from her face. The back of her neck was damp with sweat. She tried to relax her shoulders.
He gestured towards the crowded bar. ‘I’m with a colleague,’ he said. ‘You won’t be insulted if I don’t introduce you – under the circumstances.’
The music was throbbing and pounding, he had to lean in close to speak to her. His aftershave was fresh and subtle. ‘I came over because I thought it might be helpful if we talked again.’
The music had slowed. Stella could hear each distinct chord of the string instrument: slow and suspenseful, building to a climax.
‘It’s not a good idea for us talk here. We shouldn’t have contact outside the office.’ She had to talk loudly, to be heard.
He leaned closer. His lips practically grazed her ear. ‘If you just give me a minute of your time,’ he said. ‘I wanted to apologize.’
It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. He looked contrite and entirely sincere. Perhaps some of his oppositional attitude, his bravado, had been based in fear. Fear of the court process and fear of losing his daughter. Perhaps the way he behaved in her office was not the most accurate reflection of his personality in the outside world.
She nodded. ‘I appreciate your apology,’ she said.
The waiter had arrived with plates of food and the smell was wonderful. Stella was starving but she could hardly tuck in with Simpson leaning over her. He wasn’t budging from her table. Her drink, with two straws protruding from the top of the tall glass, stood in front her. The ice was beginning to melt. The others were tucking into the starters: pita bread, humus, and yoghurt and cucumber dips. Stella dragged her eyes away from the swiftly diminishing feast.
‘Do you have children?’ he asked.
She didn’t answer.
‘I don’t expect you to tell me,’ he said. ‘But I imagine you don’t. It’s impossible for you to understand what it’s like – my daughter’s been shunted off to foster care again, and it’s not because of anything I’ve done wrong. I’ve never had a chance to look after her, her mother won’t allow it. The system works against fathers – you must know that from the work you do.’
Stella was starving, and slightly lightheaded from the dancing and the cocktails. Her head was at an awkward angle as she craned her neck to look up at him.