by A J Waines
I didn’t tell them about the novel either. It would only kick-start a line of enquiry I was sure would lead to Leo and involve confiscating his notes about the reversal procedure. Without them, Con was going to end up like Jane, Jake and Terry. I couldn’t risk it.
With Con fast asleep and snoring, I sat next to the bed and logged on. An email from Dexter Beaumont was waiting for me, stating he had no background in neurology, not in any other area of medicine. He claimed he was ‘somewhat baffled’ by my questions about brainwashing and suggested I may be mixing him up with another author.
I moved on to the psychology journals Imogen had identified, searching for anything connected to mind-control. My access was limited, though, as most of the journals required professional membership. I’d need to get to a specialist library to find out more.
Con snuffled in his sleep and opened his eyes. ‘Come here,’ he said, when he saw me.
I leaned closer, but didn’t touch him.
‘I’m sorry I skipped off like that,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t breathe with all this…fuss.’ He must have had a shower at the police station – he smelt almost presentable. I sat on the edge of the bed, still at a distance.
‘You didn’t answer the phone. You didn’t even leave a message, Con.’ I was trying to remember that he wasn’t in his right mind, but I still found myself simmering with rage over what he’d done. ‘I was worried sick.’
He reached out for me, but I wasn’t ready for a big all-is-forgiven hug. ‘Terry, the guy you met – he killed himself on Monday.’
So much had happened since then, the start of the week seemed a very long time ago.
‘Shit – he seemed…’
‘Yeah – well – you seemed…normal, together, sane – whatever words you want to use. But then they found you dashing in front of cars on a bloody motorway!’ I threw a punch at the duvet and he shifted his leg.
‘I don’t know how I got there.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘I don’t remember any of it.’
‘What do you remember?’
‘Needing space. Getting on the bus. Going to…’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I was on the streets for one night, I think, in Brixton. I had those terrible flashbacks again…’
‘I told you it was serious, Con. You must stay put this time. Be with someone all the time.’
He held out his wrists. ‘Handcuff me to the bed, if you have to.’ He narrowed his eyes and gave me a dirty smile.
I ignored him. ‘This is serious, Con. You could have been killed. You didn’t know what you were doing.’
‘I know.’ He looked down. ‘I’m sorry.’
I toyed with a loose thread on the duvet cover. ‘At the theatre…’ I said, hesitantly, ‘have they run any experimental workshops or introduced any avant-garde acting methods, that you know of?’
He scrunched up his face. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I read that method acting can be dangerous to some actors who immerse themselves too deeply in their roles.’ I avoided his eyes.
‘Oh – so you think this wacky brainwashing thing is about the theatre?’
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I just can’t work out where it’s come from. I’m questioning everything.’ I felt a tremor of discomfort. ‘And you have taken off all of a sudden several times when we’ve been together, saying it was something to do with the theatre…’
He laughed and leant forward, pulling me to him. ‘Don’t be silly.’
He brushed me off with a kiss, but there was definitely something he wasn’t telling me.
I watched him for a moment, then went into the next room. As I’d done with Leo, I came back with the Dexter Beaumont book hidden behind my back.
‘What’s that you’ve got?’ he said grinning, thinking I had a present for him.
I held it up. ‘Do you recognise this?’
‘Terror Underground, what’s that?’ He sounded disappointed.
I read out the synopsis from the back cover and watched his face. He sighed with boredom.
‘Have you read it?’ I asked.
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ He looked confused. ‘You know I don’t read stuff like that.’
It’s true; I’d only ever heard Con enthuse about literary novels. I was about to hand it to him when I thought better of it. If he read the sections that echoed his flashbacks, wasn’t it likely to set off another suicidal episode? I couldn’t take the risk. I needed to keep him as unruffled as possible.
‘Never mind.’ I said. I sat beside him and surreptitiously slipped the book under the bed. ‘Anyway,’ I said, drawing upright. ‘I think we might have a way to sort this out.’
‘How?’
‘Dr Hansson – you remember him from the hospital?’
‘The plastic surgeon?’
‘He’s been working really hard trying to find a way to help you. He knows the right people.’
‘Woah – hang on. You’re talking about a plastic surgeon, here. He sews limbs back together. He’s not tinkering with my mind. There has to be someone else.’
I got to my feet. I was exhausted and exasperated and didn’t have time for this. ‘Well – there isn’t!’ My face was on fire. ‘At this point in time, he’s the only chance you’ve got. If I make it known what I think has happened to you – and to the others – there’ll be a massive investigation. We don’t have time for that.’ I jammed my hands into my hipbones, my nostrils flaring at him. ‘I can have you followed around every minute of the day, but sometime soon you’re going to find a way to kill yourself – I guarantee it, you will. This isn’t a game, Con. You have to see him.’
Con played with the tassel on the corner of the duvet. ‘I get the impression you’ve been seeing quite a bit of him, yourself,’ he said sarcastically.
‘What? Oh, come on!’ I stood glaring down at him.
He threw back the covers and stood up to face me, his expression wild. ‘You and the swanky plastic surgeon.’
I took a step back. ‘Look – you can drop this right now,’ I snapped.
‘Are you seeing him?’ His tone had changed, to a snide and accusing whine. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me slightly.
‘Listen…’ I tried to wriggle free, but he held me tighter. ‘I’ve never—’
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he hissed, cutting across me. His hands had made their way to my neck and he was starting to squeeze.
‘This is ridiculous, I…Con – let go of me – you’re hurting!’ I wrenched his hands from my neck and stood back, stunned.
He flopped back onto the bed. ‘I notice you’re not denying it,’ he said in a sullen voice.
‘Con – this is stupid. Dr Hansson thinks he can help. We’re going to see him.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said, folding his arms.
The doorbell rang. It wasn’t even 10am. My father came in with Miranda looking gloomy, right behind him. She was heavily sedated and could barely walk in a straight line.
‘She’s going back to Linden Manor in an hour or so,’ said my father. ‘It’s clear she can’t cope on her own.’ He gave me a sad smile. ‘She just wanted to say goodbye.’
We sat and drank tea in the kitchen. Con joined us, but he was still in a mood. We were like a dysfunctional community. My sister had bitten our own mother, my boyfriend was on the verge of suicide and my position at the hospital was looking decidedly wobbly. The situation would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so tragic and so real. I didn’t dare think about what the next few days might bring.
Miranda was staring at the oven, her eyelids drooping as if they were made of heavy-duty rubber. Con was trying to make an origami butterfly out of a torn envelope, but it ended up looking like a squashed frog. Dad was upset and didn’t know what to say. Eventually, he went into the sitting room and hid behind the paper.
Before long, Con went for a lie down on my bed.
‘I know – I’ll keep the door open,’ he said in a singsong voice, be
fore I suggested it myself.
Miranda and I were left together. Her hair hadn’t been combed and her teeth were chattering.
‘Have you taken your tablets?’ I asked.
‘I wish everyone would stop asking me that!’ She screwed up her eyes and started picking at the skin around her nails.
‘I gather you nearly bit her nose off,’ I said. She looked up and giggled. I laughed too. I knew we shouldn’t, but I was on the verge of hysteria. The whole scenario was ludicrous.
She got up and started walking around the room with exaggerated grace, extending her arms like a child pretending to be a ballerina.
‘Is it happening again, Miranda?’
‘Why are you calling me that?’ she said, in a dazed, distant voice. ‘My name is Mimi.’
I wanted to cry. After all the steps she’d taken, all the progress she’d made, she was back where she started. Everything she’d achieved had fallen away like one of those precarious wooden bridges spanning a gorge in the jungle. She was left on the wrong side. And the bridge had collapsed.
I left her humming to herself absently, all too reminiscent of unstable times in her past and went to check on Con, popping my head into the bedroom and coming straight out when I saw him asleep. A string of disturbed nights had taken its toll on him.
I joined my father in the sitting room and sat on the arm of the sofa. He folded the paper carefully.
‘Two body-blows in one week,’ he said, with a sigh.
‘I know.’ I squeezed his shoulder.
‘I can’t believe we’re losing Miranda…Mimi…ha, I don’t even know my own daughter’s name any more.’
I kissed the top of his head. ‘I’m sure she’ll be back before long.’
He let out a little groan that suggested he wasn’t convinced.
‘How’s Mum?’ I asked.
‘Still furious. I’ve managed to persuade her to drop the charges, so that’s something.’
Miranda appeared in the doorway.
‘You will come and see me, won’t you?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said.
Things would be different this time. I’d shut Miranda out all those years ago and, once in care, she’d done the same to me. Back then, in our own ways neither of us could cope, but having her in my life once again had reminded me of the gap her absence had created. She was annoying and unmanageable at times, but there’d been moments recently when I realised I’d genuinely missed her. This was only a minor setback; I wasn’t going to give up on her again.
I met her eyes. ‘If you’ll let me.’
I was back at St Luke’s Hospital by early afternoon. Con was still adamant about not seeing Leo and I’d had to rope Danny in to keep an eye on him for the rest of the day. They were going to spend most of it at rehearsals, so I knew at least Con wouldn’t go stir-crazy. One day at a time.
Before they left together, I took Danny to one side. ‘Make sure he doesn’t run off – don’t let him distract you.’
A pause. Poor bloke. It was a tall order. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said, ‘but he’s not the kind of guy to sit still for long.’
‘I know. Just try to keep him busy with other people if you can.’
He let out a despondent moan that I took to be: ‘I’ll try’.
I also asked him the same question I’d asked Con about any unusual acting methods they used at the theatre.
‘You’re joking,’ he said. ‘Too busy learning lines and getting the lights to come on at the right time for any fancy stuff.’
I laughed and felt a shadow lift.
It didn’t last long.
Chapter 31
Leo looked like he’d been in a fight when I found him in his office. Papers were strewn everywhere. He had a stubbly beard emerging and his eyes seemed to have shrivelled into glistening raisins.
Lian grabbed my wrist from behind before I could go inside.
‘Leave him be,’ she hissed, pulling me close.
‘I can’t – I don’t think you realise how important—’
‘His wife died last night.’
My mouth fell open. Oh, no.
I was about to back straight out, but Leo spotted me and called me inside. Lian gave me the kind of look that could burn off eyebrows.
‘Is Con with you?’ he said, looking behind me.
‘No.’ I stayed in the doorway. ‘I’ve just heard. I’m so sorry.’
‘It might be better to get an independent expert in,’ he said, ignoring my sympathy. ‘I can’t think straight anymore.’
He was pacing around the room, blindly trampling on the sheets that had fallen to the carpet. ‘I’m no use to you – not now.’
‘Leo, no, you can’t give up.’ I took a step into the room.
‘I’ve had it,’ he said.
I stood closer to him. ‘I know it’s terrible to ask you at a time like this,’ I said. ‘But, if you give up now, it will set us back days. Someone else will have to start from scratch.’ I put my hand firmly on his arm. ‘I’m not sure Con will last that long.’
He sank into his chair. It looked like his body was shrinking before my eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said faintly, backing off. ‘I’d better go…’
He put his arm out. ‘No. Stop. Don’t leave.’ He patted the chair beside him. ‘Talk to me. I don’t want to be alone.’ He rubbed the indentation marks from his specs on the bridge of his nose.
I pushed the door shut and sat down. ‘Can I help? Is there anything I can do?’
‘Lian is ringing people. I’ve been prepared for this for a while.’
He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Talk to me about anything…’
I said the first thing that came into my head. ‘My sister’s gone back to the psychiatric facility.’
He leaned forward. ‘Why? I thought she was doing well.’
‘She bit my mother’s face in an unprovoked attack.’
He stared at me with startled eyes. ‘Bit her? That’s serious.’
‘I say it was unprovoked, but…’ I tried to imagine them in the hall of my parents’ house. What had happened to make Miranda so angry?
‘You’re not convinced?’ He folded his arms. He sounded slightly less distraught now we were talking. Perhaps, like me, he found dealing with other people’s problems removed him temporarily from his own. ‘Have you ever considered that Miranda might be broken inside?’
‘Broken?’
There was a drawn-out silence. ‘That someone…damaged her?’
‘I think she cracked under terrible pressure at home – pressure to be the golden girl and make our parents proud, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I meant something more…sinister.’
I shook my head vigorously. ‘I know what you mean. I’ve thought about that. Of course I have. I know sexual abuse is one factor that can trigger schizophrenic psychosis. But, I’ve never had that concern.’
Leo made a bridge with his fingers.
‘Honestly,’ I insisted, ‘I know reports say that fifty per cent of adults abused as children never report it, but I know what to look for. I’ve thought about all the people we came into contact with when we were young and I can’t think of a time when anyone beyond the immediate family was alone with either me or Miranda – certainly not on a regular basis. When relatives came over it was usually for rather formal lunches, followed by a game of cards or badminton on the lawn. It was always a group thing. I don’t ever remember us being taken on trips or even to the park by outsiders.’
‘Mmm,’ he said.
‘It’s difficult to see Miranda’s situation with a professional eye when she’s my sister, but I’d like to believe she would have told me by now…if there was anything to tell.’
He looked as if he was thinking about how best to phrase what he had to say next.
‘Have you asked her?’
I stroked a patch of dry skin on the back of my hand. Had I asked her? Had I ever asked her directly? Had I ever sincerely e
ncouraged her to explain what really happened to turn her from a fun-loving, cheeky child into a wild, untameable creature?
‘No,’ I said, shamefacedly. ‘And I think it’s time I did something about that. But I’ll have to be really careful. I don’t want to plant seeds inside her head, put words into her mouth. It could create terrible havoc.’
‘You’re a psychologist.’ He smiled. ‘You know how to tread carefully.’
He was right, I should know how to get to the truth. I’d done enough work with patients over the years to know how to gently and subtly instil trust and help people to tell their story, in ways which were safe for them. I could do it with my own sister, couldn’t I?
‘She paints, doesn’t she?’ he added.
I’d forgotten Leo had seen one of Miranda’s pictures in my flat.
He sat back with his fingers interlocked across his abdomen. ‘Maybe the answer’s there.’
I pictured the garish paintings I’d recoiled from, but hadn’t explored properly. ‘You might have a point.’ I wanted to hug him. ‘Thank you, Leo. You’ve helped me more than you can possibly know.’
He shrugged it off, then stood up breaking the intimacy. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to let you and Con down, but…’
I got to my feet, but faced him and stood my ground, biting my lip. ‘I know this is the worst time in the world to ask this of you, but there’s no one else…and I can’t save Con on my own.’ I hated putting pressure on him like this, but I couldn’t walk away without a fight.
He looked down at his hands, shook his head sadly, then straightened up, seemingly imbued with a little more energy. ‘Okay. I’ll try, but you’ll have to give me a hand.’
‘Of course.’ I glanced down at the jumble of papers on his desk and picked up the loose sheets from the floor. ‘Dare I ask how you’re getting on?’
He patted the nearest pile of papers. ‘We don’t know, of course, how the false memories were first implanted, but my theory is laid out here. I’ve spoken to a number of experts and this seems to be the general consensus.’ He shuffled through various sheets and put them in a pile. ‘The blue file contains my assumptions about the false memory process – the green file has everything for the reversal.’