Where There's Smoke (1997)

by Simon Beckett

  "To get back to your background," she said, businesslike again. "Do you have any family history of illness? You know, diabetes, anything like that?"

  "Uh, no, not that I know of. My grandmother had arthritis, but not until she was in her seventies."

  Kate nodded, trying to remember what else she needed to ask. The questions she had prepared eluded her. She clutched at one. "Why do you want to be a donor?"

  He appeared taken aback. "Well, I don't know. It seemed like a good thing to do. It doesn't hurt me, and if I can help somebody, then…you know, why not?"

  "Have you donated sperm before?" Kate refused to let herself be fazed by saying "sperm" to a complete stranger. "Or given blood?"

  "N-no, no, I haven't."

  The syncopation was back.

  "Then what made you decide to now?"

  "Uh, well…" A flush had crept into his face. "It, er, it wasn't something I'd even thought about before I saw your advert, really. But I suppose I like the idea of, well, fatherhood without the ties."

  "You could have the same thing by going straight to a sperm bank."

  He seemed flustered. "I know, but…Well, it might sound stupid but that's all a bit too anonymous." His face was very red now. "I wouldn't like the thought of letting just anyone have my…my child, if you know what I mean."

  It had never occurred to Kate that a man might feel the same way she did. "You do know that you wouldn't have any of a father's rights, don't you? You'd still only be the donor. The child wouldn't legally be yours, and there wouldn't be any contact between us afterwards. Assuming we go ahead, obviously."

  "Yes, I understand that."

  "And it'll mean a lot of inconvenience. The clinic's in Birmingham, and you'll have to make a lot of trips. They need quite a few…quite a few samples."

  He nodded acceptance.

  "I'll pay expenses," Kate went on, briskly, shutting out the thought of what she was discussing. "For your time as well as travel. I'll pay you either a flat fee or a daily one each time you go."

  Alex shook his head, emphatically. "I don't want paying."

  "I wouldn't expect you to do it for nothing."

  "I'd be doing it because I want to."

  Kate decided not to argue. She still hadn't decided anything yet, so there was no point. "You'll have to be tested for things like HIV and hepatitis," she continued. "And you'll have to go back for a second HIV test after six months. They won't actually go ahead with the—er—the treatment until you've had that."

  He looked startled.

  "Is that a problem?" Kate asked.

  "Oh, no, it's just…I didn't expect it to take so long, that's all."

  "They do the same tests on every donor. It isn't any reflection on you personally."

  "No, no, it's okay, really. I just didn't realise. But it's no problem."

  Kate tried to think of what else she had to say. Nothing came to mind. "Is there anything you'd like to ask?"

  Alex minutely repositioned his knife and fork on his plate. Except for the piece he had dropped into the glass, his omelette was still untouched. "Are you married?"

  Kate stared at him, levelly. "Why?"

  He was disconcerted by her reaction. "Sorry, I—I know it's none of my business. I just wondered if you were doing this because you were single and wanted to, or whether you were married and your husband was…was…" he gestured with his knife, stepping around the reference to sterility "…wasn't able to have children," he finished. "Your advert didn't say one way or the other."

  Her face had become hot. "Does it matter?"

  "No, of course not. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

  He was so obviously reluctant to offend that Kate relented. "No, I'm not married. I'm doing this because I want to."

  "Good. I mean, you know, good for you."

  Kate studied him for a few seconds. He picked up his knife and fork and half-heartedly began to cut up the omelette.

  "Why are you so nervous?" She had asked the question without intending to.

  He shot her a quick look. "I'm not nervous. Not really," he amended, as though realising there was no point denying it. "I've just, you know, never done anything like this before."

  He looked so chagrined that Kate couldn't keep from smiling. "It isn't something I've made a habit of, either."

  He glanced up at her, then smiled himself. "No, I suppose it isn't," he acknowledged. His smile faded. "I expect you'll have interviewed quite a few other people, though. I mean, I know I won't be the only one and…Well, it's a bit nerve-racking, that's all."

  Kate didn't correct him. He had gone back to playing with his omelette. His face was serious again.

  "Is this so important to you?" she asked.

  He didn't speak for a moment. Kate got the impression he was wrestling with the answer. Then he looked across at her. His eyes were a darker blue than Lucy's. "Yes," he said, simply.

  "Why?"

  He looked down at his plate. "I want children. I'm just not…I'm not the marrying kind. I'm not gay, it's nothing like that. I just can't see myself settling down and having a normal family or…" His voice tailed off, as though he had changed his mind about what he was going to say. "This seems like the next best thing."

  "Even though you'll never see the baby? Not even know if it's a boy or a girl?" Kate felt brutal, but she had to be sure he understood.

  All at once his face looked immeasurably sad. He stared at the unlit candle in the centre of the table, but Kate doubted he saw it. "I'll know it's there, though."

  He came to himself with a little start. "If you decide to choose me as the donor, that is. I don't want you to think I'm taking anything for granted."

  Now Kate looked away. "I've been keeping you from your lunch," she said, going back to her salad.

  She asked him for his card as they left the restaurant. "I'll phone you next week and let you know what I've decided," she told him, feeling both cowardly and pompous.

  He accepted that without complaint. "It's better if you call me at night," he said, taking a business card from his wallet. "I'm generally with a patient when I'm at work, so I wouldn't be able to speak to you. And I don't really want anyone there to know about this," he admitted, apologetically. He scribbled a telephone number on the back of the card before he gave it to her. "I know you've already got my number, but I'll give it you again. I've just moved, and I'm ex-directory now, so if you lose it you won't be able to get in touch."

  They shook hands, both a little awkward. Kate felt the heat and pressure from his even after she was no longer holding it. She watched him walk down the street, a slim figure, already lost in thought, hands shoved casually in his pockets. Catching sight of herself in the restaurant window as she turned away, she saw she had a smile on her face.

  "It looks complicated but there's really nothing to it," the librarian assured her. He was an earnest-looking young man, red-haired with a complexion that looked permanently wind-burned. His fingers produced soft clacks from the computer keys, like a stringless piano. "It's really much easier than dredging your way through piles of books."

  Looking at the messages and text appearing on the screen, Kate doubted that. But the librarian, almost irritatingly helpful, had insisted she use CD-ROM instead of the heavy indexes. Even though it was him doing most of the using. "Okay, what name did you say it was again?" he asked, without looking up from the screen.

  "Turner. Alex—or perhaps Alexander—Turner."

  Kate watched as phrases and letters appeared and disappeared from the screen with bewildering speed. She hoped that this would be the last check she would have to run. Although she knew it was only common sense to make sure that the psychologist was who and what he claimed to be, she still felt underhand for not taking him at face value. The first thing she had done when she had returned from the restaurant was to look in the phone Book. The Ealing Mental Health Centre was listed, with the same address and telephone number as on Alex Turner's business card, although it didn't giv
e the names of any psychologists working there. Kate had considered for a moment, drumming her fingers on her desk. Then she reached for the phone and dialled. A woman's voice answered. "Ealing Centre."

  "Hello, could you tell me if you have a Dr Alex Turner working there, please?"

  "Yes, we do, but he's out at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?"

  "No, it's okay, thank you."

  Kate had put down the phone before the woman could ask anything else, feeling a little thrilled and scandalised by her detective work. She tapped Alex Turner's card on the desk, thoughtfully, then picked up the phone again and dialled Directory Enquiries. "Can you tell me if there's an Institute of British Psychologists listed, please?" she asked, when the operator answered. There wasn't. Kate put on her most persuasive voice and asked if there was anything similar. She waited while the operator looked. Would the British Psychological Society do? he asked. Kate said it would. She dialled the number he had given her before she had time to reconsider. A woman answered. Kate plunged straight in. "I'm trying to find out details about a psychologist. His name's Alex Turner."

  To Kate's relief, the woman seemed to find nothing odd in the request. "Is he chartered?" she asked.

  "I don't know," said Kate. She wasn't even sure what chartered meant. "Does that matter?"

  "We only have chartered psychologists registered here. So if he isn't, I won't be able to help you."

  Telling herself she should have known it couldn't be so easy, Kate asked her to try anyway. She spelt out his name and waited as the woman entered it into a computer. "Here we are. Alexander Turner," the woman announced, taking Kate by surprise. She scrabbled for a pen as the woman reeled off a list of qualifications. Kate recognised some of them from his card. "And this is definitely the same Alex Turner?" she asked. The woman was apologetic. "I can only verify his qualifications. I'm not allowed to give out any addresses or phone numbers unless you're a member yourself." "I've got his work address as the Ealing Mental Health Centre, London. Can you at least tell me if that's the same one you have?"

  Kate could feel the woman's indecision. "Let's say if it wasn't I'd tell you," she said. Kate was about to ring off when the woman asked, "Have you tried Psychological Abstracts?"

  "Er…no. What's that?"

  "It's an index that gives details of any articles a member's had published. Or there's the same thing on CD-ROM called PsychLIT."

  She spelt it out. "Any university library should have it."

  Kate thanked her and hung up. She had no intention of digging around in any library. She was satisfied that Alex Turner was legitimate. There was no need to waste her time on pointless exercises.

  But the knowledge that an avenue remained unexplored niggled like a stone in her shoe. After spending most of the previous evening telling herself it was a waste of time, that morning she had phoned Clive to tell him she would be late. Then she set off for the university.

  The librarian's wind-burned face frowned in concentration as his fingers lightly patted the keyboard. "Ah. Here we go," he said, in a pleased tone. He leaned back so she could see the screen. "He's got eleven entries. Was it any particular title you were wanting?"

  "No, not really."

  The librarian looked momentarily curious, but made no comment. He showed her how to call up a record of each article. "The articles themselves aren't on CD-ROM, but we should have most of the actual journals on file, if you want photocopies."

  He gave up the chair, reluctantly. "If you want any more help, just ask. I'll be at the desk."

  Kate assured him she would. She looked at the first record. Some of the information was unintelligible to her, but the title of the article was clear enough: "The role of upbringing and environment in the forming of obsessional behaviour."

  Further down the page was something called an abstract, which she gathered amounted to a brief synopsis:

  Obsessional behaviour is frequently attributable to a specific event or events in an individual's background. Frequently, memory of these has been suppressed, so that the root of the obsession is obscured. This paper suggests that the success of therapy for such obsessions may be substantially increased when these seminal events are recognised. Six patients were helped to recall these using hypnosis, with positive results.

  There was nothing of interest there, so Kate moved on to the next record. This article had been published by an American journal, she saw, impressed. The title was "Blood Ties: Impulse-control disorders as an inherited trait?"

  It meant little to her, and the abstract wasn't much more help, either:

  Identical twins, separated at birth and given contrasting upbringings, were convicted of theft within twelve months of each other. This study considers the possibility of an inherited tendency towards impulse-control disorders, and suggests this as a subject of further research.

  Her attention wandered before she had finished reading. She called up the next record, this one detailing an article on pyromania but sat back without bothering to read it. Enough was enough. Leaving the monitor switched on, she went over to the librarian. His wind-burned cheeks grew darker when he saw her.

  "Sorry, I'm not sure how to turn it off," she told him.

  "That's okay, I'll see to it. Did you find what you were looking for?"

  "Yes, I think so."

  "Do you want any of the articles photocopied?"

  "No, it's okay, thanks."

  He looked disappointed. "Are you sure? It's no trouble."

  "Really, it's okay. I've seen what I needed."

  Then, because her excitement demanded an outlet, she gave him an extra broad smile as she went out.

  Lucy and Jack returned that weekend. Kate waited through tales of collapsing guy-ropes, sunburn and ice-cream indigestion, before Lucy wound down.

  "Are you going to be free one night next week?" Kate asked.

  Lucy was slumped in an armchair. "I think you'd have to drag me out of the house after the last fortnight. Why?"

  Kate couldn't keep it in any longer. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

  CHAPTER 10

  "This is Alex."

  The four of them stood in Lucy and Jack's living room, stiff smiles on all their faces. The planned barbecue had been rained off. Instead, the big table at the back of the room was now draped with a heavy white tablecloth, and set with Jack's aunt's best cutlery and glasses. Two heavy silver-plated candlesticks stood in the middle, the beeswax candles in them slightly askew.

  Lucy gave Alex a bright smile. "Pleased to meet you."

  Kate thought that she was going to step forward and kiss him, but she didn't.

  Jack stuck out his hand and gave Alex's a firm shake. "How you doing?"

  There was an awkward lull while everyone waited for someone to speak and no one did.

  "Well, isn't this just typical English weather?" Lucy declared. "If there's one certain way of getting it to rain, it's for us to decide to have a barbecue!"

  They laughed, a little more heartily than was strictly necessary. Before the silence could descend again, Jack rubbed his hands together. "Right, who's for a drink? Kate?"

  "Red wine, please."

  She reminded herself to drink slowly. She hadn't been able to eat anything all day.

  "Alex?" Jack said. "Beer, wine. Something stronger, if you'd like it?"

  Alex looked momentarily lost. "Er…beer, if you've got one."

  Jack's face split into a grin. "You can have Budweiser, Boddy's or Old Speckled Hen."

  "You can show him your beer collection later," Lucy said, disguising the sharpness behind a smile. "I'm sure Alex isn't bothered."

  Jack's smile was just as cosmetic. "Well, let's let him decide, shall we?"

  Kate knew Lucy and Jack well enough to gather that they had been arguing. She had felt anxious enough before she arrived, and the tension between them didn't make her feel any better. She had a sudden presentiment that the night was going to be awful.

  "I'll have a Bud, pl
ease," Alex said. Jack gave Lucy a triumphant glance, clearly taking the nickname as proof of a kindred spirit. He went through into the kitchen.

  "I'll have white wine, since you've asked," Lucy shouted after him, sweetly. She smiled back at Kate and Alex. "You might as well sit down."

  They went to the sofa and chairs set around the unlit fire. As she passed Kate, Lucy lowered her voice. "New dress?"

  Kate nodded. It was plain white, sleeveless and ended well above her knee. Lucy raised an eyebrow at her, but made no further comment as she settled into one of the armchairs. After hesitating by its twin, Kate sat on the sofa with Alex, though at the other side. She was conscious of her dress riding up over her thighs. It was shorter than she was used to.

  Lucy gave him a hostess's smile. "Kate tells me you're a clinical psychologist?"

  Alex nodded. "Er, yes, that's right."

  "You'll have to forgive my ignorance, but I'm not sure what one is. I mean, I know what a psychologist is, but I'm not sure about the clinical bit."

  He cleared his throat. "Well, it, er, it basically means I work with patients rather than on the, uh, theoretical or research side."

  He sat with his legs crossed and one arm thrown casually over the arm of the sofa, but Kate sensed the same rigidity in him she had noticed in the restaurant. He seemed to be holding himself in the relaxed posture by an effort of will.

  "So you treat schizophrenics and people like that, instead of getting rats to run round mazes?" Lucy persisted.

  "Ah, no, I wouldn't treat anyone for schizophrenia. That's more a psychiatric condition, really."

  "What's the difference?"

  "The difference?"

  Alex looked discomforted at being quizzed. Kate wished Lucy would change the subject.

  "Psychiatry deals with, er, with mental illness. It, uh, it tends to use a lot of drug treatment. Psychology—c-clinical psychology—is more concerned with behavioural problems."

  The faint catch was back in his voice, an almost imperceptible stumble over his consonants. Kate wondered if Lucy could tell how nervous he was. She was beginning to regret the enthusiasm that had led her to take him there. It hadn't been her intention to put him on display, but that was how it must seem.