Dangerous Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  Barclay stood up and Claire held her breath.

  He opened in the traditional way.

  ‘A word or two about my bride …’ His eyes slid down the girl’s figure. Was it only her who could see the derision in the look?

  ‘And the child.’ Barclay paused to look around him. Some of the guests were patently embarrassed by this reference to the unborn child conceived out of wedlock. These were old-fashioned people with old-fashioned values. Claire glanced at Roxanne. Her face was scarlet with embarrassment.

  He was doing this deliberately.

  Barclay continued. ‘I met Roxanne at a rather down-at-heel nightclub in Hanley, appropriately called Tramps.’

  More discomfort amongst the guests as Barclay continued, smooth as chocolate. ‘Little did I know then of her family’s good fortune.’ His lips seemed to curl as he spoke the words. ‘But then it’s not a bad thing to have a few secrets between husband and wife, is it, my dear?’

  Roxanne’s eyes flickered across the room. She was squirming with embarrassment now, looking down at the table and her half-empty champagne glass with dismay.

  Barclay then appeared to follow the traditional form of speech. ‘I think you’ll agree that Roxanne and our bridesmaid, Pippa, both look amazing.’ But he’d managed somehow to turn the word ‘amazing’ from a compliment to an insult. Roxanne, however, now looked happy, and so did Pippa, who had long slanting, devious eyes. Claire took a good look at her. Trustworthy friend or …?

  Barclay continued. ‘I just know that Roxanne and I will have an interesting and eventful life together and I look forward to having a little son or daughter to play with.’ Again a quick flicker of a glance at Claire.

  She leaned back in her seat, took a small sip of champagne, testing every word, every phrase Jerome Barclay had used, and realized that they had all been selected for their ambiguity, particularly the word ‘play’.

  She glanced at Adam. He too was looking and weighing up every word, his fingers coiled around the stem of the champagne glass. He gave her a swift glance and raised his eyebrows.

  Barclay finished his speech with a grin. ‘What jolly fun,’ he concluded, and sat down, but Claire was chilled. No one in the room knew quite what to make of this quote. But she did. She knew exactly what he was saying. He was quoting from a poem which had frightened her as a child. Written in June 1914 by Sir Walter Alexander Raleigh, titled ‘Wishes of an Elderly Man, Wished at a Garden Party, June 1914’, the words chilled her, reminding her of paintings where animals’ faces had been substituted for humans’:

  I wish I loved the Human Race;

  I wish I loved its silly face;

  I wish I liked the way it walks;

  I wish I liked the way it talks;

  And when I’m introduced to one,

  I wish I thought ‘What Jolly Fun!’

  The poem had been illustrated with a picture of a sheep. As an adult, she could understand what had frightened her so much as a child. It was the sheer cynicism expressed, the alienation from all people, the rejection and mockery of polite society’s mores.

  While one could understand this sentiment at a garden party in the summer of 1914, she now wondered. Had Raleigh had some foretaste of the terrors to come? Had he mocked polite society for its coming disintegration?

  She focused back on the present, whispered a quick explanation of the quote to Adam, who frowned, looked shocked, and asked if she was sure. She nodded.

  Formality over, people were beginning to stand up, circulate. The smokers dashed outside; some headed equally speedily for the toilets. Claire sat rooted to the spot.

  Adam leaned over. ‘I’m going to stretch my legs,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling quite cramped.’

  She smiled at him and remained seated. ‘We should be able to go soon, Ad. Thanks again for coming.’

  ‘It’s been interesting. But don’t you want to observe your patient a bit longer?’

  ‘Well – yes – but there’s not a lot I can do here and now.’

  She scanned the room. There seemed a generally happy air. She couldn’t see Barclay at the moment.

  Only one woman seemed to have any grasp of the real situation. She was slim in a red dress with a navy coat over, no hat. No fascinator either. Just a worried expression, almost one of apprehension, as though she could see that this marriage would be troubled. She had red hair, expertly dyed and coiffured, and was aged about fifty. Her frown and general look of disapproval made her look older. She crossed the room in quick, impatient steps, her heels clicking on the wooden floor, Claire clearly in her sights, as she took a path as straight and direct as a crow’s flight. ‘How do you do,’ she said without preamble. ‘I’m Maureen. Kenneth is my brother. You’re Claire, aren’t you? You’re a friend of Jerome’s.’ Her eyes, too heavily ringed in kohl, worried and concerned, said more.

  Claire was about to say, ‘Not exactly a friend, Mrs …’ but she stopped herself. What exactly had Barclay told his wife’s family about her? Had he mentioned the fact that he was under a psychiatrist? Had he confessed to the petty thefts that peppered his past and the unfortunate events that appeared to befall his family? How had he explained his mother’s suicide, his brother’s cot death, his father’s death? Merely as a succession of tragedies? Had no one questioned these coincidences?

  One of her queries was answered in Maureen’s next breath. ‘He said you were a psychiatrist.’

  Claire nodded, cautiously. Adam had returned to the seat next to her and was watching the woman with interest.

  Maureen’s expression changed to one of acute concern. ‘Why does he need a psychiatrist?’ The question was blunt and it left Claire in an awkward position.

  She started on the path that, ‘I’m not at liberty to reveal …’, but Maureen looked at her sharply. ‘This is my niece he’s marrying,’ she said. ‘My niece who …’ Her eyes skittered across the floor to the bulky wedding dress and frothy white veil. ‘Bless her,’ she said. ‘She isn’t the brightest button in the box.’

  Her eyes grew sharp and skewered Claire’s. ‘What should I know about my niece’s new husband?’

  This put Claire in a quandary. She could have an ally, someone who would watch over the newly married couple and the vulnerable unborn child. But she was bound by a professional code.

  She could only drop hints. ‘Keep an eye on him,’ she advised. ‘Look after your niece.’

  Maureen looked at her for a long minute, searching her eyes for something. Finally she spoke. ‘You don’t understand, do you?’

  Claire felt the impact of the question in the pit of her stomach. Adam was watching, silent, wary.

  ‘My brother,’ Maureen said, ‘is unused to all this money. It’s possible he will be – unwise.’

  Claire frowned. Now she was worried.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Six months ago,’ Maureen said, ‘Kenneth won some money on the Lottery. He got five numbers right and won three million.’

  ‘Jerome told me they were farmers,’ Claire said slowly. ‘He said they’d sold land.’

  Maureen shook her head. ‘Typical,’ she said. ‘Why tell a lie when the truth is so much simpler?’

  Claire could have answered this one for her. For sport.

  ‘Now do you see exactly what’s bothering me?’

  Claire nodded. She could already guess the answer to her next question. ‘And when did she and Jerome get together?’

  Maureen’s lips tightened. ‘Just after,’ she said. ‘Roxanne just … well, she just fell for him. She got pregnant pretty quickly.’ She glanced across to the bride and groom. Roxanne had linked arms with her new husband. With his free arm Jerome was lifting his wine glass to his lips, watching the conversation from across the room. Claire knew him well. He would know exactly what was being said. But it was getting to him. When his shoulders were bunched up like that he was concerned. It was one of the few emotions he ever displayed.

  Maureen too glanced across. ‘Well at least he’s done th
e decent thing,’ she said dubiously.

  The phrase had a discordant resonance with Claire. When had Barclay ever done the decent thing?

  She eyed Maureen warily. ‘Are they going on a honeymoon?’

  ‘I think so, but no one knows where.’

  It was tradition but it still made Claire uneasy. Foreign places can be a great backdrop for tragic accidents, Barclay’s speciality. Far away from family, friends, or an English police force. Maureen melted away and Claire continued to observe.

  The first dance was interesting, Barclay handling his bride, keeping her at least a yard away. It made the child bump even more obvious. Most of the evening, though, he simply sat, regarding the entire show as though watching an amateur dramatic performance or a child’s dreadful birthday party, something to be endured, smiling patronizingly but looking bored. And making no attempt to hide it. Claire observed him for a while. He wasn’t drinking much alcohol but was staying sober and watchful. He didn’t really look across at Claire or at Adam but his eyes stayed on Maureen. If looks could kill, she would have been lying dead at his feet, burnt to a crisp by the hostile heat in Barclay’s eyes. As the evening wore on, Claire glanced at Adam. ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve seen and heard enough.’

  ‘Suits me.’ He grinned at her, affection leaking from his face. He bent over and kissed her cheek.

  ‘Do we need to say our goodbyes?’ He glanced in Jerome’s direction.

  ‘No. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing something of him.’ They threaded their way through the revellers. Claire knew Barclay was watching their exit.

  Adam waited until they were in the car before asking anxiously, ‘Did I do OK, sis?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ she said. ‘And now I need to go home.’

  As she drove them back to Burslem, Adam quizzed her. ‘What do you think’s going to happen? I mean, he’s not just going to polish off Roxanne, the baby and her parents, is he?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘No – but really?’

  ‘I ought to warn her,’ she said, ‘or at least warn her parents to be on their guard, to watch out.’

  Adam put his hand on her arm. ‘Don’t, sis,’ he said. ‘They won’t believe you. It might even get you into trouble.’ He did look genuinely concerned so she kept her thoughts to herself.

  As they turned into her road, they saw a couple of girls loitering underneath the lamppost. It was a cool night but they were skimpily dressed. Adam gave her a worried glance. ‘Is the area changing?’ he asked delicately.

  She nodded. ‘They have made attempts to clean up the streets, but they don’t work for long. It’s just a place with a bad name. Maybe I should move on. If I can get hold of Grant …’ She couldn’t finish, suddenly feeling swamped by sadness. Maybe it was the wedding ceremony which had upset her. Or maybe just the fact that when Adam left she would be alone again.

  Adam glanced across at her. ‘Do you want me to try to contact him?’

  ‘Adam,’ she said, surprised and unused to this brotherly concern. ‘You’d do that?’

  ‘Sure. If it’d help you, sis.’

  ‘No. It’s OK. I’ll wash my own dirty laundry.’ Something struck her then. ‘Does …’ The word stuck in her throat like a piece of dry bread. ‘Does Mum know you’ve come today?’

  Adam looked uncomfortable. He squirmed in his seat. ‘I didn’t say,’ he finally managed. ‘I thought it better not to.’

  And between the lines Claire read the message only too clearly. When Monsieur Roget had left, her mother’s dislike for ‘The Frog spawn’ had begun, increasing in intensity when she had married Adam’s father, the reliable, English, uxorious David Spencer. And the dislike had compounded when Adam-the-perfect had made an appearance. Her stepfather had barely tolerated her. And Adam? He had been just too young to have any insight into the uncomfortable situation. Only ten when she had left to go to university. Claire had not so much slipped from favour, she could hardly remember a time when she had even been in favour. She tried, sometimes, late at night, to conjure up a loving mother and papa. But she couldn’t. All she could recall were her mother’s words.

  And who do you think is going to support you through all that? Not Monsieur Roget, the frog, I can tell you. Her mother never even called him ‘your father’. He was always Monsieur Roget, the frog. ‘He doesn’t want anything to do with you, Frog spawn.’ She had put her face close to Claire’s to deliver her blow. ‘He doesn’t even send you a birthday card.’

  So Claire had been a waitress and a barmaid all through university, and worked through the holidays, avoiding returning to the home where she was so unwelcome.

  11 p.m.

  They were in the sitting room, having opened a bottle of wine, and were sipping it slowly. After the tensions of the day they both felt they deserved it. ‘Thank you for coming,’ Claire said again, aware that had Grant not left, she probably wouldn’t have rung him and certainly not asked him to accompany her to Jerome’s wedding. ‘Thank you for being my escort.’ She giggled. ‘And well, just thank you.’ For not hating me as I once hated you, she added silently.

  And their silence built a bridge between the resentful and jealous older half-sister and the vulnerable child Adam had been. It soared over the sly pinches and imagined pillow-smotherings and rested on the sofa between them, peaceful and healing as a dove.

  Adam started fidgeting. He wanted to go back to his pad in Birmingham and possibly whoever was there, waiting for him.

  ‘I think I’ll be …’ He rose to his feet and she hugged him.

  ‘Again, Ad,’ she said, ‘thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure, sis. Maybe you’ll come down to Brum and meet up with Adele?’

  So that was her name. ‘Sure. Love to.’

  ‘And you’ll let me know if you want me to help track down Grant?’

  ‘Certainly will.’

  She saw him to the door, watched him climb into the car and leave; she turned around, locked and bolted the door behind him.

  Though she needn’t have worried. Of all the nights she might have wondered where he was and what he was doing, tonight Jerome Barclay was spoken for. He would be with his bride. It was, after all, his wedding night.

  As she dropped off to sleep, her mind seemed to home in on the unborn – both the child Sadie had aborted and the four-month pregnancy of his now wife.

  How much of a danger was Barclay to his unborn child?

  NINETEEN

  Monday, 6 October

  But life goes on. At least the wedding was over and done with. But in her quiet moments Claire’s concerns for Roxanne Barclay and the unborn child grew. She understood now why Jerome had felt the need to marry his bride. And a sense of duty towards his unborn baby was nothing to do with it. She could almost read his mind. Three million was a lot of money. She needed to work out a way to somehow let him know that she was watching. It was all she could do. She had tried before to intervene, but no one had shared her misgivings. She also determined to keep a closer eye on Astrid.

  In the meantime, life continued at Greatbach more or less as before.

  David Gad had gone home and he was due at the outpatient department later on in the week. As far as she knew there had been no more postcards, nothing to remind him of the Holocaust. But when they had stripped his room they had found two photocopies of the release of concentration camp inmates. Folded into four, at a guess they too had been sent to him while he had been an inpatient. And who knew how many had been directed to his home, maybe precipitating the repeated suicide attempts. It was a cruel reminder, but Claire believed – hoped – that now they would stop. Barclay had other sport to pursue and, surely, they would keep him busy?

  Stan’s condition continued to cause them concern. He’d had no more fits but he wasn’t well enough yet for them to carry out their plan to discharge him to The Sycamores. But at least Astrid was not still bullying him. When the nurse and Claire met, they skirted around each other warily.

  Si
nce Claire had had a word with her, she had been subdued and very quiet. Claire still wondered if it had been Astrid who had told Jerome Barclay about her caseload, but she was biding her time. She didn’t want another confrontation.

  And Dexter Harding, the stupid clever, was turning up for his appointments like a good boy. There was no warning that anything was wrong there. She had no concerns. No red flag waving. Later she would search her mind for some hint, some clue, that all had not been well in Dexter’s mind; that something had been brewing up: a resentment, anger. A plan. What would cut her to the quick later was that the clues were there. She simply wasn’t reading them. But there he was: bovine, stolid, answering questions without meeting her eyes. There was no spark. For once in his life Dexter Harding was being careful, guarded. And clever.

  She almost forgot about Barclay too. Then, just over a week after the wedding, on a Thursday morning, Rita spoke to her.

  ‘I’ve had a request for an outpatient appointment from Jerome Barclay,’ she said, watching for Claire’s reaction. Clang. The alarm bells were loud enough to wake the dead.

  ‘Do you want to see him?’

  ‘What exactly did he say?’

  ‘Just that he was intending going away for a while and he would like to see you before he went.’

  Going away for a while. Everything connected with Barclay made Claire uneasy. Even this simple sentence made her query his motives. Where was he going? Why was he going? And most of all, why was he telling her? Was it another of Barclay’s teases?