The Secret Prophecy

by Herbie Brennan

  Their local hospital was the Costa General. Em had never heard of Saint Brendan’s.

  “They sectioned her,” Uncle Harold said. He hesitated, then added guiltily, “There was nothing I could do about it. I did try.”

  Sectioned? Some sort of operation? They were opening up sections of his mother? Sounded horrible, but if it was for her own good, why would Uncle Harold try to stop—?

  The memory fell on him like some terrible cascade. Sectioned wasn’t any kind of surgery. It was the name for the legal procedure that committed you to a lunatic asylum! The person who made a sectioning application had to be your nearest relative—he was sure of that. But with Dad gone, Mum’s nearest relative was Em himself, and he certainly hadn’t made an application. Unless . . .

  Harold was his mother’s brother. He was legally Mum’s closest relative while Em was underage. “You sectioned her?” Em gasped.

  Harold dropped his posturing and waved one hand irritably. “No, of course not. Why would I section her? I told you; I tried everything I could to stop it.”

  “Who sectioned her? It has to be a relative.”

  “No it doesn’t,” Harold said. “It was a social worker.”

  “A social worker?” Em exploded. Social workers called on people in council houses who were mistreating their children. Em had never even seen a social worker. Social workers simply didn’t have any business with people like his mother and himself. “What social worker?”

  Harold pulled a chair across and sat down. Now that he’d stopped puffing himself up, he looked defeated. “A Mrs. Harlingford,” he said.

  Em cut him off. “What had she got to do with Mum, this Mrs. Harlingford?”

  Harold shook his head. “I don’t know. She just turned up at the university, demanding to be let into the apartment. Caroline was out somewhere at the time shopping, I think, and you were away in France, so the provost sent for me. When I got here they were arguing on the doorstep; but your mum came back from shopping a few minutes afterward, and the Harlingford woman served her with a commitment order under the Mental Health Act.”

  “They can’t do that!” Em protested. “I mean, a social worker can’t just walk up to you and have you committed just like that. You have to get a medical examination or something.”

  “She had two forms signed by doctors.”

  Em just stared at him. This was unbelievable. Eventually he asked angrily, “What doctors? Who were they?”

  “One was Alex Hollis. I don’t know the other one, but there was the stamp of some clinic; I can’t remember the name.”

  “Dr. Hollis?” Em almost felt like yelling. “That’s our own GP. Dad and he went golfing sometimes.” Dr. Hollis’s surgery was only about twenty minutes from the university. He was the GP to most of the faculty. Why would he do a thing like this?

  Harold looked down at his feet. “I know; I didn’t understand it either. I tried to see him for an explanation, but there was a different doctor at the office, and the secretary said Dr. Hollis had to leave the country for a few days.”

  “What happened next?” Em asked. “After the Harlingford person served the papers?”

  “Well, Caroline protested, of course, and so did I; but Harlingford stoned it: I threatened to call our lawyer, but she just said to go ahead. Meanwhile, she had to put your mother in the hospital. Then she called these two goons she had with her in the car—bouncer types: all dark glasses and bulging muscles—and said she had to go to the hospital right away. Harlingford didn’t want to give me the name of the hospital, but I insisted; and finally she said it was Saint Brendan’s.”

  “Where is that?” Em interrupted.

  “Other side of town. Highgrove.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “Why didn’t you let me know?” Em demanded.

  “Your mobile must have been out,” Harold said. “Tom’s too. Somebody told me the French network’s pretty shaky.” He glanced away.

  It was a lie. Em knew it at once. Harold was useless in a crisis. Carefully, he said, “How is Mum? You’ve visited her, haven’t you?”

  Harold shook his head. “They wouldn’t let me.”

  “Who wouldn’t let you?”

  “The hospital. They said no visitors for four days. They were doing an initial evaluation or something. I sent her a suitcase of clothes, though, and I phoned every day to see how she was.”

  Em glared at him. “So how was she?”

  “Fine. At least they told me she was fine. They wouldn’t let me talk to her.”

  “I don’t understand this!” Em protested. “Why would some social worker we’ve never seen want to section Mum?” Behind the question other questions were lining up. Why did their family doctor sign the section papers? And who was the second doctor involved whom Uncle Harold had never heard of?

  Harold shook his head again. “Didn’t have any idea. All our lawyer could say was that she was acting within the law. He did have the idea that she might not be a bona fide social worker; but when he checked, she was kosher. Working for some government department, too, quite high up.”

  “How long are they going to keep her there?”

  “I don’t know,” Harold said, “but Mr. Greeve said that under Section Two of the Mental Health Act, you can be detained for twenty-eight days.”

  “Twenty-eight? That’s nearly a month!”

  “They can extend that to six months if they make another application; and they can make further applications after that, more or less indefinitely.”

  Em continued to stare at him, his mind working overtime. Eventually he said, “This all happened Tuesday? Three days ago? So this is the fourth day?” Harold nodded without saying anything and managed somehow to look vaguely guilty. “So we could visit her today?” Em suggested.

  “Bit late in the day now. Besides, I have stuff to do . . .” Uncle Harold protested.

  “It’s all right, Uncle Harold. I’ll go to see her on my own,” Em said carefully. He had a sudden, surprising surge of sympathy for his uncle. The man was weak, silly, and disorganized; but that was probably just the way he’d been born. Shouting at him now wouldn’t help. Em needed the exact address of the hospital, a quick shower, and a change of clothes, then he could go see his mother and find out properly what was going on. He was fairly sure he’d extracted as much information from his uncle as he was likely to get.

  “There’s something else,” Harold said.

  Em sat down again and waited.

  “The house was broken into again,” Harold said.

  Chapter 14

  Saint Brendan’s wasn’t at all what Em had expected. It wasn’t a lunatic asylum for one thing—no high walls, no muscular orderlies carrying straitjackets—but a massive, redbrick general hospital . . . and a busy one to judge by the jam-packed car park and the high volume of traffic.

  Em walked through the main gates with a feeling of trepidation. He’d said nothing to Uncle Harold, but behind his shock and outrage there was a niggling part of his mind that wondered if his mother hadn’t brought this on herself.

  Except she didn’t seem to be in a mental institution. She seemed to be in a hospital, the sort of hospital where you got bones set and bleeding stopped and had operations.

  Em started moving again, walking slowly toward the main doors.

  The feeling of trepidation still hadn’t gone away by the time he reached the reception desk. A pretty girl in white gave him a tired smile and asked, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see my mother,” Em said. “Mrs. Caroline Goverton.”

  “What ward is she in?”

  He should have asked Uncle Harold, but he hadn’t thought of it. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” The girl tapped keys on the computer beside her. After a moment she said, frowning, “When was she admitted?”

  “Four days ago, I think.” For some reason Em felt impelled to add, “I was in France.”


  “Lucky you,” the girl said. She turned back to the screen, and the frown returned. “Was it an emergency admission?”

  Em took a deep breath. “She was sectioned under the Mental Health Act.”

  To his surprise, the girl’s face brightened. “Oh, she’ll be in our Lydon Clinic; it has a separate reception and records.” She gestured. “Back the way you came, turn left outside the front door, follow the signs to A and E: Accident and Emergency; but when you get there, go around the side of the building and stay on the path until you see the sign Lydon Clinic.” She smiled. “It’s a bit small, so keep your eyes peeled.”

  It was a bit small, so small he nearly missed it: a labeled arrow high up on a wall to his right. He took the narrow avenue indicated and eventually discovered a group of single-story buildings surrounded by a grove of trees. There were no nameplates, no indication whether or not this was the clinic he was looking for. He was still hesitating, wondering if he should just knock on a door and ask, when a young man in a dark blue pin-striped suit emerged from somewhere, walking briskly away from the buildings.

  “Excuse me,” Em called. “Is this the Lydon Clinic?”

  “Yes.” The man pointed. “Main entrance is at the side—bit confusing. You’ll have to ring the bell. Reception will let you in.”

  As the young man had suggested, the main entrance doors were locked, and their darkened glass panels meant that Em could not see inside. He found the bell and pushed. The intercom panel clicked at once, and a female voice said, “Yes?”

  “Is this the Lydon Clinic?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve come to visit one of your patients,” Em said. For some reason he felt it might be important not to mention names at this stage. Best wait until he was safely inside; although he half expected the receptionist to refuse him entry.

  But the receptionist only said, “Yes, of course. Please push the right-hand door when you hear the buzzer.” And the sound of the buzzer came at once.

  The reception area of the Lydon Clinic was very different from the massive foyer of Saint Brendan’s hospital. Em took less than a dozen steps inside the door before he reached the counter. To one side stood a uniformed security guard who watched his approach unsmilingly. The counter itself was in the charge of a slim, middle-aged woman wearing a severe tailored suit. She favored Em with a polished, professional smile. “May I help you?”

  “I’d like to see Mrs. Caroline Goverton,” Em said.

  “Are you a relative?”

  “I’m her son.”

  The woman’s reaction could not have been in greater contrast to that of the hospital receptionist. Her smile vanished at once, and her eyes flicked briefly sideways to the security guard. She made no attempt to consult a computer or any other form of record. Instead she murmured, “Excuse me a moment,” and picked up a white telephone, carrying it as far away from him as the cord permitted.

  The woman whispered so quietly he could only hear a few scattered words—“son” was repeated several times—before she returned to hang up the phone. “Dr. Marlow will be with you in a moment.”

  Anger rose up in Em, pushing aside his usual mild-mannered exterior. “I don’t want to see Dr. Marlow. I want to see my mother!”

  The receptionist eyed him coolly. “I’ll ring her and tell her you’re here,” she said. “But Dr. Marlow thinks it would be wise for him to have a word or two with you before you actually see her.”

  “Why?” Em demanded belligerently. There was something terribly wrong here, something terribly wrong about the whole situation since he arrived home from France.

  The security guard shifted his position. Not exactly a threatening movement, more a preparation for possible trouble. The receptionist said, “I’m sure Dr. Marlow will explain when he arrives.”

  The security guard moved again, but before Em could react, the entrance door behind him opened to admit a tall man in a white coat. He walked directly across. “You must be Edward Michael,” he said, and extended a well-manicured hand. “Julian Marlow. I’m the psychiatrist in charge of your mother’s case. Perhaps we could have a word before you see her?” He favored Em with a look that oozed professional sincerity.

  So his mother was a case now? “Look—” Em began.

  Dr. Marlow took him gently by the arm and led him a pace or two away from the receptionist and her guard. “I know this is hard for you, Edward, but I promise you your mother is getting the best possible treatment available. She—”

  “Treatment for what?” Em demanded furiously. He hadn’t wanted to talk in front of the receptionist and security guard, but now he didn’t care. “I don’t know what she’s in here for. Nobody’s told me anything.”

  If the sudden outburst fazed Dr. Marlow, he didn’t show it. “I’m afraid,” he said kindly, “your mother has had a breakdown. She’s been under a great deal of strain. I understand your father died quite recently, and there seem to have been various other pressures. But the good news is that her condition is treatable. In a few weeks, a month or two at most, I’m certain she will be quite her old self again.”

  “A month or two?” Em echoed, appalled.

  “I understand Social Services is currently making arrangements to look after you while she’s here. They may not have contacted you yet since I believe you’ve been away; but I do know there are provisions within the act for dependent minors, so you need have no worries about how you’ll cope while she’s away, and I believe the modern facilities are excellent.” He gave a tight, benign little smile.

  Em felt himself go chill. His mother had been sectioned under the Mental Health Act, and now somebody was making arrangements to take him into some sort of care home. “I can stay with my uncle Harold,” he said quickly. There was no way he was going into care in some sort of children’s home.

  “Yes, possibly,” Dr. Marlow told him easily. “I’m afraid those arrangements have nothing to do with us here, but you can take the matter up with Social Services when they make contact with you. I’m sure something can be worked out. In any case, whether you’re in a home or with your uncle, you’ll be able to visit your mother whenever you want to. Which brings me to your visit today . . .” His face took on an expression of concern.

  He was going to refuse to let Em see his mum: Em was sure of it. “I want to see her,” he said firmly. He wanted to see her now, try to find out what was going on, then make his escape. He was going to find somewhere to hide until he figured out what he could do. There was no way they were going to lock him up the way they’d locked up his mother.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I want to see her alone.”

  “Yes, of course,” Dr. Marlow repeated. “I merely wanted to warn you in advance that you may be a little . . . shocked by your mother’s condition.”

  “What do you mean?” Em asked, alarmed.

  “I’m afraid she’s no longer the woman she was when you last saw her. She’s currently on medication; we were forced to sedate her quite heavily to calm her and prevent self-harm. So you mustn’t be concerned if she slurs her words or seems a little . . . detached from reality. This is purely temporary, I assure you. You will see a massive improvement within the next few weeks or so; but in the meantime you mustn’t allow her condition to upset you, or pay too much attention to the wilder things she might say to you.” The professional smile again. “Well,” Marlow said briskly, “that’s all I really wanted to tell you. Ms. Playfair”—he nodded toward the receptionist, who was trying to look as if she wasn’t listening to the conversation—“will give you a floor plan of the clinic and directions on how to find your mother.”

  Em said quietly, “Dr. Marlow, why was my mother officially sectioned?”

  And Dr. Marlow said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to take that up with Social Services, Edward. We only look after the patients when they’re sent to us. The legalities of the situation are another department.”

  Em felt nervous and confused. He’d fully e
xpected to have been escorted to see his mother. He was in a mental clinic, for cripe’s sake; and while his mother certainly shouldn’t be here, the other patients were probably bona fide lunatics. What happened if one of them tried to talk to him? Or attack him? But he wasn’t escorted. Miss Playfair, as Dr. Marlow had said, had given him a floor plan with the clinic’s logo on it—a merry little eye inside a triangle—then lost interest in him altogether. Ms. Playfair had told him his mother was in the conservatory, resting, and had marked the area with an X. So far he’d seen no other patients, thank heavens. Perhaps they were all out for a walk or watching television or having supper or something. With luck he might be able to see his mother without even . . .

  Em turned a corner. An old woman with unruly, graying hair was staggering drunkenly along the corridor toward him, holding onto the wall for support. Her eyes were wild and staring, her face locked into a contorted expression of manic determination. She gave a strangled call when she saw him and increased her pace.

  For a moment Em considered running. He didn’t know how to deal with lunatics, and this was clearly a card-carrying escapee from the funny farm.

  He should never have hesitated. The mad woman put on a surprising burst of speed and was almost upon him now. “Em,” she gasped. “Oh, Em . . .”

  Em went cold. If he’d still had time to run, he knew his legs would never have worked. He felt totally paralyzed, except for a jaw that dropped of its own accord to register astonishment. “Mum . . . ?”

  Then she was holding him, clinging to him, using him as support while he held her and nearly burst into tears, then did burst into tears as he murmured, “Oh, Mum. Oh, Mum. Oh, Mum.”

  “They told me you’d arrived,” his mother whispered. “That Playfair woman phoned and said you were coming to meet me in the conservatory.” She stroked his hair and stared into his eyes. “They have cameras in the conservatory. They spy on everything you do here. I don’t want to talk to you while they’re spying on us, so I came to meet you. Oh, Em, I’m so glad you’ve come.” She was having trouble with her balance, but he knew she wasn’t drunk. There was no smell on her breath, no thickening of her speech, although she was talking slowly.