Dr Samantha Willerby Box Set

by A J Waines

I didn’t tape all my patients, but I did keep meticulous notes, taken by hand during appointments and transferred later to the computer. It was important to remember details – get the slightest point wrong with a patient – call their cat she, say, when it’s a he and it can instantly break any established trust. It tells the patient you haven’t been paying enough attention.

  I went through my notes from Jake’s first session and a tape of Jane’s second, searching for any links, but drew a blank.

  I didn’t know what I was looking for, I just had a feeling I’d know when I found it. The strongest sense I had was that there was something to find. This wasn’t over – I was sure of it.

  I had a meeting arranged for 3pm, but I cancelled it and carried on. If I went off to do other things, I’d lose my train of thought. There was a clue here in these notes, in these tapes; there had to be.

  By 4.30pm, my brain was saturated. I took off the headphones, stood up and did a full body stretch. I was going to have to leave it. Go home. Perhaps I’d been wrong. Maybe what happened to Jane and Jake was just some weird and tragic coincidence.

  I went to my desk and blew out the candle beneath my burner. The instant the flame went out, a neuron exploded inside my head.

  I’d got it.

  Chapter 19

  Present Day

  It’s all going wrong.

  I keep thinking people are looking at me, sizing me up, wondering how stable I am. Perhaps I should confess everything in full. Get it all out in the open. Over and done with. But where? In a church? With my therapist? I really need to tell someone the truth – otherwise it’s going to suffocate me. I’m tempted to spill it all, spit it out – the truth – but as soon as I start imagining what words I’d use to explain myself, the whole idea feels too risky. By far.

  I carry on with my daily routine pretending I’m on top of things. I smile, I laugh, but it’s all fake. It’s like the elephant in the room I can’t talk about. Any normal, sane person would be shocked and horrified by my part in this. There’s no way they could understand and I can’t trust their reactions. Before I know it, I’d be led away and locked up.

  Something’s got a fierce grip on me – it’s like being poisoned – a venom getting to me from the inside. Seeping from one cell to the next, contaminating every inch of me with so much pain and shame. If people knew, a grim scandal would erupt. I feel desperately guilty – of course I do – about the mess it’s making, but it was never my fault. I’ve got to keep hold of that. I am NOT to blame.

  Chapter 20

  It was the tiny whiff of black smoke that touched my nostrils as I blew out the candle, that did it. Black smoke – the smell of it.

  I’d been about to go home, but I stayed where I was. I sat down abruptly and allowed the buzzing in my head to run its course. This was really important. How could I be certain I’d got it right?

  I turned again to my computer and checked all the online reports of the Liverpool Street fire from the local press, the Metro and Evening Standard. None of them had printed the words I was looking for. The police hadn’t used them, none of the quoted witnesses had either.

  It meant only one thing.

  It was right there on the tape and in my notes. Jane and Jake’s accounts shared one particular phrase that was identical. Remembering the black smoke, they had both described the smell as scorched oil. Exactly the same words. It was very specific. Too specific, it seemed to me, for two patients who had never actually met.

  But Jane and Jake weren’t the only ones who had used that particular description. There was someone else.

  I tried Leo’s number, but Lian answered.

  ‘He’s with his wife,’ she stated curtly. ‘Can I help?’

  I muttered an apology and put down the phone.

  When I found Leo the following morning, he wasn’t the epitome of calm I was expecting. He didn’t appear to hear me when I knocked. I gingerly pushed open his office door to see if he was there, and found him kneeling on the floor looking as though he was trying to build himself a life-raft with a pile of A4 paper.

  ‘I went to see the professor,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m really busy,’ he said, without looking up.

  I glanced down at the overlapping papers on the floor. Some appeared to be photocopies from medical journals, others looked like print outs from the Internet. He began frantically scooping them together.

  ‘Leo – listen. I think I’ve got another faker – another patient who’s claiming to be a survivor from Liverpool Street – and who wasn’t there.’

  Leo appeared to be counting pages. ‘Have you told Professor Schneider?’

  ‘No…’ I wasn’t sure how much I could trust the professor any more.

  I explained about the connection between the three stories. ‘This guy, Terry Masters, had inconsistencies in his story, too. He talked about stairs when I know there aren’t any. He insisted that the lights on the Tube went out. He said it was one of the main reasons for the escalating panic; no one could see a thing. Except they could. I called the transport police earlier and they categorically stated that the lights in the train itself never went out. All the police witness accounts state the same. Terry wasn’t there, either.’

  I slapped my hands against my thighs. ‘I’m worried about him.’

  Leo was breathing heavily; the knot of his normally pristine tie was swinging at half-mast below his unfastened top button. There were damp patches under his arms.

  ‘I’m not sure I can help you,’ he said distractedly. ‘I don’t know what to suggest.’

  ‘But don’t you think the whole thing is really odd – more than that – suspicious? Three people lying about the same incident – two of whom have committed suicide?’ My voice was starting to squeak. ‘I’m scared Terry might be about to join them.’

  Leo let out a thinly disguised moan. I’d never seen him like this. Dr Hansson seemed the most composed and self-controlled person I’d ever met.

  There was a sound behind me. Lian rushed in.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said sharply. ‘Dr Hansson isn’t feeling well.’ She gave me a fierce stare that was clearly more than an invitation to leave. She ushered me into her office, next door.

  ‘It’s not a good time,’ she whispered. ‘His wife has taken a turn for the worse. They think she’s got only hours left to live.’

  ‘Oh, no…how awful,’ I muttered, hovering by her desk.

  She gave his door a concerned glance and pulled it shut. ‘He’s insisting on seeing his patients, but I’m going to get someone to take over from him.’

  ‘Can I have his home address?’ She drew her chin back. ‘So I can send him a card,’ I assured her.

  She spun the old-school Rolodex on her desk and scribbled a few lines on a sticky note.

  ‘I’ll see if I can persuade him to take a few days off,’ she said. She flicked her hands in my direction to shoo me away like she was herding chickens.

  I was on my own.

  Back-to-back patients for most of the day prevented me from doing anything further. Then, it turned out my brain was needed on another matter altogether. A matter I’d completely forgotten about until a colleague happened to wish me luck on my way back from the canteen. I was booked to give an important paper at a conference in Cambridge on Thursday and hadn’t yet written a word of it. I urgently needed to throw some last-minute ideas together or I’d be in real trouble. As a result, I spent the next two hours with my head down poring over reference books.

  I locked my office and was about to leave, when I heard Debbie arguing with a burly looking man at reception. I hung around nearby, in case she needed some back up.

  ‘I’ve already told you, the professor’s not here. Perhaps you can see someone else.’ Debbie tapped the computer vigorously as the disgruntled man leant over the counter trying to see what she was doing. She looked at the screen, then tentatively back up at him. ‘Er – we don’t seem to have you registered. Can you spell your na
me again?’

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ he roared. ‘We had an agreement and—’

  ‘If you could just tell me your name again,’ Debbie said, cutting across him.

  ‘It’s a private matter,’ he hissed, between clenched teeth. ‘I’m not on any of your sodding lists.’ With that he stormed off.

  Debbie slammed her pen down on the desk and dropped her head into her hands.

  ‘You okay?’ I said, approaching the desk.

  ‘It’s just mayhem,’ she said, looking up in despair. ‘Professor Schneider had loads of commitments this afternoon and he’s disappeared again. No one can reach him.’ She dropped her voice. ‘I know he’s been having some domestic problems. Karen, in the office, said she overheard him on the phone having a nasty argument with his bank.’ She scratched her scalp. ‘I don’t know what’s going on – and I certainly don’t know what that was all about.’

  I wanted to be sympathetic, but with everything I had to cope with right now, I couldn’t think of anything to say. I patted her on the arm and headed home.

  I rang Con as soon as I got in; I just wanted to hear his voice. When the call went to voicemail I tried my best friend, Hannah, instead. She’d been away, so I hadn’t spoken to her in a while.

  We were at University together. She’d gone on to set up a private practice in Harley Street, but just a few months later her brother had died suddenly from anaphylactic shock. Her world was blown apart. Friends rallied round her at first, but then they gradually dropped off. She told me I was the only one who had stayed the course, although I did little more than sit quietly with her and make cups of tea.

  The last time I’d seen her, she’d decided it was time to claw her way back into life again and she’d booked a holiday to Rome with her mother. It looked, from the photos she’d posted on Facebook, that the bubbly character I remembered from the past had come through the worst of it. Her freckly skin was a soft shade of peach instead of ghostly white, her long coppery hair had soft waves in it.

  Hannah answered quickly and I could tell from her rapid breathing that she was on the move.

  ‘Hi there, Sammie, get my postcard?’ There was a roar of traffic in the background.

  ‘I did, thanks. How did it go?’

  ‘It was just what I needed. I’m so glad you talked me into it.’

  ‘Did I? Well – you’ll have to tell me all the details soon, but for now, if you’ve got a moment, can I ask a favour? I need to pick your brains – it’s not very pleasant, I’m afraid.’

  She laughed. I could picture Hannah striding fast, swinging her arms. She was always involved in what was going on around her, never watching where she was heading.

  ‘Come on, Sammie – I owe you a zillion favours.’ She hadn’t sounded so sparky in ages. I cheered inwardly.

  Hannah had a sharp brain and keen insight. For her, getting a first in psychology had merely been a matter of turning up. She was also the kind of person who changed the energy in the room when she walked in, as if someone had switched on a light.

  I told her about Jane, Jake and Terry and the loopholes that were bothering me; the question I most needed an answer to was why. Why would patients go to such extreme lengths? Hannah would know.

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ she said. I waited for more. ‘Why did they come to you in the first place?’

  ‘Good question. They all seemed emotionally cut up.’

  ‘Not faking the PTSD?’

  I considered her question. ‘I don’t think so – that’s the odd thing. They seemed genuinely distressed. They’d have to be amazing actors to fake the symptoms. It’s one thing to spin a story, it’s another to make yourself tremble the whole session…’

  ‘Mmm,’ she considered, ‘it’s a bit odd that they’d go to all that effort to get attention and then end it all.’

  ‘One person might do that,’ I said, ‘but two following the same pattern, with a possible third waiting in the wings?’

  I heard the regular click of her heels on the pavement. ‘Could they be talking about a different fire? Not the one at Liverpool Street?’

  ‘I’ve thought of that. I checked with the police and they said there’ve been no similar incidents on underground trains anywhere in Europe in the last nine months.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of anything like this,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t have any ideas?’

  I could imagine her now, using her free hand when she spoke, creating little semaphore patterns in the air like she always did. ‘Sorry. That’s psychology for you. It’s all about people doing wacky things, for wacky reasons.’

  I had to laugh. ‘Thanks for that, Hannah.’

  It was only once I’d ended the call that I realised something I hadn’t seen before. Talking to Hannah had given me a new angle after all. The patients hadn’t just lied about being involved, each of them spoke about someone they didn’t help during the incident. The little girl, the young boy, the old lady.

  I felt goosebumps prickling my spine.

  Jake, Jane and Terry had been faking the same emotions – they were each pretending to be riddled with guilt.

  Chapter 21

  Con turned up unannounced late that evening. He fell in as I opened the door, looking dishevelled as if he’d been on the streets for hours.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I was practically holding him up. He staggered towards the sofa.

  ‘Oh God,’ he said, as he sank down holding his head in his hands.

  I suddenly had a bad feeling. ‘Oh Lord, what has she done?’

  Images sprang into my head of Miranda trashing Con’s flat or someone having to break in because she’d left her keys somewhere.

  ‘No – it’s not your sister.’ He hunched forward on the sofa and I noticed he was dressed for the middle of winter, with a thick scarf and heavy boots. I looked down at my T-shirt; one of us had got it wrong. ‘I’ve been having terrible flashbacks.’

  ‘To the motorbike accident?’

  ‘No – something far worse. It’s all terribly patchy.’ He swung his head back, exhausted. My mind backtracked to his disturbed sleep, two nights ago. ‘I need a brandy,’ he said. I wasn’t sure that was a good idea, so I made a coffee and added a small tipple.

  I knelt in front of him. ‘These flashbacks – what are they about? Can you tell me?’

  His eyes popped wide. ‘Like I say, it’s patchy, but I was on the Tube…’

  ‘The Tube?’ My stomach rolled into a tight ball. ‘Where?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He hit his head with his fist. ‘Can’t blinkin’ remember.’ I gripped his hand and noticed his knuckles were scuffed and bleeding. ‘There was smoke and…then I was in a tunnel…running…’

  A ghastly déjà-vu was descending on me. I could barely get the words out. ‘When was this?’

  He put his hand over his mouth, shaking his head. ‘I can’t remember. Yesterday? The day before? I can’t say exactly…it—’

  I interrupted him. ‘No, Con, this isn’t right.’

  He looked at me, curiously.

  ‘What are you talking about, Sam – this was real. I was caught up in the middle of something. There was a terrible panic. It was pitch black and then there were these orange flames – like a blasting fireball – that came from nowhere. And the smell, God…’ he started coughing. ‘This thick acrid smell of…’

  ‘…scorched oil,’ I said, finishing his sentence for him.

  He stared at me, like a child trying to solve a magic trick performed before his very eyes.

  ‘How did…?’

  ‘Hold on,’ I said. I went to get the notebook where I’d recorded the words Con had spoken in his sleep. I started reading, ‘Blocked…busy…crowd…dark…run…get out…’

  ‘Yes – that’s it,’ he said, he shuffled to the edge of the seat, agitated. ‘I was in the ticket hall, surrounded by all these people and there was mayhem. There’d been a huge crowd coming up the escalators and a stampede because we were blo
cked by the barriers. People were scrambling over them and falling and getting trampled. There were people at my feet. I was standing on them.’ He started to weep, swinging backwards and forwards clutching his head. ‘I stood on people’s arms and legs trying to escape…trying to find the way out…’

  ‘Oh – my God, Con – it’s happening to you!’ I took hold of him, not knowing what to do – just knowing I had to protect him.

  He was gasping, grabbing my hand, digging his nails into my skin. Reliving it.

  ‘Listen, Con – this didn’t happen to you.’ I gave him time to let my words sink in.

  ‘Why are you—?’ He was about to lose his rag.

  ‘Okay – where were you at six-thirty in the evening on Monday, May 28th?’ I wasn’t going to let this get the better of him. I had to make him see.

  He looked dazed. ‘That’s ages ago. I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You don’t have a diary?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘How do you remember appointments?’

  ‘I just remember them, or I write them on my hand.’ He held up his fist, which had a smudged black doodle on it I couldn’t make out. I reached into my bag for my diary and flicked through the pages. He hadn’t been with me at that time.

  ‘Do you remember going to Liverpool Street?’

  ‘No.’ His response was immediate. ‘Why would I go there?’

  ‘That’s where the fire you’re describing took place. On May 28th.’

  He scratched his head. ‘Did it? It can’t be that, then – this was just recently.’

  I sighed loudly.

  His forehead crumpled and his eyebrows dipped together. ‘You think I’m…I’m…making it up?’ he stammered.

  I faltered. ‘No. I don’t know what’s going on.’

  He looked deflated, lost.

  ‘Have you never heard the names Jake Stowe, Terry Masters or Jane LaSalle?’

  He pulled a face. ‘No. Who are they?’