by Emily Gunnis
Through their pioneering research in the mid 1950s, James and Stone discovered the more widespread demand for tranquillisers, particularly amongst housewives. In 1959, Mercer brought cocynaranol to the market. Reducing symptoms of chronic anxiety, depression and episodes of mania, the drug gained Philip Stone a Nobel prize for medicine shortly before his death in 1968 and launched Mercer Pharmaceuticals onto the international stage. Mercer subsequently caught the attention of Cranium’s MD, Carl Hermolin, who in 1970 paid an undisclosed sum to the remaining founder, Charles James, to take over the company.
Philip Stone. Hadn’t the letter referring Ivy to a psychiatric hospital been written by a Richard Stone? And Sam was sure the same name had come up on Kitty’s phone in the car. Stone was a common enough surname, but somehow this didn’t feel like a coincidence.
She googled Richard Stone and Mercer Pharmaceuticals and waited for a result. Nothing, except one article on a website called Psychology Today. It was an interview in which Richard Stone, a renowned psychiatrist, mentioned a falling-out he had had with his father, Philip Stone, in the 1960s. The article didn’t give details, but mentioned that the two did not speak again until just before the older man’s death.
Sam felt a rush of panic and dialled Kitty’s number, which went straight to answerphone. ‘Kitty, it’s Sam. I’m with Ivy’s mother now. This might be a coincidence, but I think you may be meeting with a man called Richard Stone this morning. I was wondering if it was the same Richard Stone whose father founded a company called Mercer Pharmaceuticals. There may be a link between him and St Margaret’s, but I have no idea what. Just a bit worried about you; please call me back.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Monday 6 February 2017
Richard Stone finished his breakfast, as he did every morning, by gulping down a large tumbler full of orange juice, then made his way into the bathroom. His morning bath was ready, and after taking off his dressing gown and easing himself into the steaming water, he let out a groan of pleasure. It was his favourite indulgence to leave the tap running slightly, ensuring the bath stayed piping hot so that he was constantly engulfed in steam.
Richard lay back and listened to the silence as the room morphed into a sauna. He tried to relax, but his mind kept wandering back to his session with Kitty the day before. The revelations about St Margaret’s had been a huge shock and brought back old memories he had worked hard to forget. He was not looking forward to going over it all again in her session later today. His grief was taking a huge emotional toll and he didn’t know if he had the strength Kitty needed from him. He would see how today went and then perhaps they could discuss the possibility of referring her. His son James was right: it was time to retire completely.
He tried to relax but his head throbbed and his back ached mercilessly. In his younger years there would have been a reason for his body to feel so bruised and broken: a fall from his bike or a pummelling from his brother. Now it was just the daily grind of old age. He closed his eyes as condensed water from the fogged-up mirror began to drip into the sink below it, echoing through the room in high-pitched clinks.
As he listened to the hissing of the slowly running tap, goose bumps started to slowly trickle over his skull, then down his back. He shifted in the water, rearranging the pillow at his head to try and get comfortable. The bath oil, which normally soothed him instantly, was irritating his skin; like an itchy woollen blanket on a hot summer’s day. As he tried to ignore the displeasure in the back of his mind, he slowly became aware of a feeling of nausea rising in his stomach.
He slowly opened his eyes again, running them around the room and trying to work out what it was that was making him feel ill at ease. The room was so thick with steam, he couldn’t even see his toes at the end of the bath, and the familiar sound of the extractor fan was strangely absent. The realisation that he was starting to feel disoriented made him sit up and take several deep breaths. He felt an overwhelming need to get out and let this strange feeling pass. Perhaps he was too old to be wallowing in steaming hot baths; maybe they were yet another one of life’s remaining pleasures he would be denied.
As he sat forward in the water, contemplating getting out, the doorbell rang. Who could that be? It was nine in the morning; Kitty wasn’t due until noon. After a few moments, he was startled to hear a woman’s voice in the hall. Had his son and daughter-in-law popped in for a surprise visit? No, there was no chance of that; they would have called ahead.
As he tried to convince himself he must have imagined the voice, he suddenly heard a door slam, making him jump.
He placed his hands on either side of the bath to push himself up, but he had no strength in his arms and fell back into the water.
‘James? Is that you?’
Alarmed now, he attempted to push himself up out of the bath again, but lost his grip on the slippery sides, this time falling back into the water with a violent thud. The world was suddenly a blur as he went under, his panicked breathing sounding loud in his ears. He let out a scream under the surface, inhaling water, which he coughed up frantically as he managed to push himself back upright.
‘James!’ he spluttered, finally finding his breath. ‘James! Help me!’
As he clung to the side of the bath, retching up water and gulping for air, a pair of dirty, bloodied feet appeared on the bathmat next to him. Slowly he looked up. A girl of roughly eight was standing over him. Her head had been badly shaved, so that stray clumps of hair stuck out like continents on a map. Her neck was so swollen that her head was tipped back and her skin was burning with a fever. She was filthy, the sweat from her forehead leaving tracks through the grime on her face.
‘I don’t feel well,’ she said as she clutched her shivering body. Richard could see that she had a lesion halfway up her arm. She was scratching at it, scabs of skin coming away under her fingernails. ‘My throat hurts,’ she rasped, putting her hand up to her swollen neck and rubbing it.
Richard could hardly bear to look at her. He said nothing, too terrified to speak. She leant in further, her breath rancid, blood from the lesion dripping into his bathwater.
‘Mother Carlin gets angry when I cry, but it hurts so much I can’t stop. Please, you have to help me.’ Slowly she reached out for Richard’s hand; he pulled it away.
‘Please don’t,’ he said.
The girl ignored him, tugging at his arm, causing him to lose his grip again on the side of the bath. He grabbed at it with the other hand, clinging on as if he were hanging from the edge of a cliff.
As the child stared down at him, he heard the bathroom door handle turn and the hinges creak. Footsteps clicked across the tiled floor, and he squinted to see who was walking towards him through the steam.
‘Hello?’ he said. ‘James, is that you?’
No reply.
‘For God’s sake, help me. I can’t move!’
His hands began to shake violently, and as the last of his strength drained away, he fell back into the water. Struggling to keep his head above the surface, he stopped thrashing and tried to calm himself.
Slowly he managed to ease the shower head off its cradle with his toe. It sank to the bottom of the bath with a clunk and he pushed it down the bath and under his buttocks, propping him up so that he could keep his nose and mouth above the surface of the water. Then he pulled out the plug with a sharp tug.
He began to count: one, two, three, breathe. Stay calm, don’t panic, you can stay like this until the water drains out and you get your strength back. You’re not going to die here. But as he stared up at the ceiling, he felt the presence of the girl in overalls next to the bath again. Slowly he turned his head towards her.
She was not alone any more. Next to her stood Kitty Cannon.
Her long grey hair was pinned back, her head was bowed, her chin close to her chest. Her brown eyes were fixed on him and she stood silently staring at him for several seconds. She was holding a box, which she slowly lowered to the bathroom floor.
&
nbsp; ‘Kitty, thank God. Help me.’ His mind was a fog now; sounds were muffled, and when he moved his head, he was overwhelmed with nausea.
Kitty said nothing; instead she began taking things out of the box. Heels clicking on the porcelain tiles, she left and returned with another box, repeating the process as the little girl watched her quietly, smiling. Richard twisted his neck and peered over the edge of the bath. The floor was scattered with files, some with photographs attached to them, some without. So many files that by the time she had finished, they covered the entire floor.
‘Kitty? What are you doing? Please, Kitty, get me out of here, for God’s sake!’
‘My name is Elvira,’ she said calmly, reaching out her hand.
Richard took it instinctively, thinking she was going to help him, then let out a cry of pain as she sank a kitchen knife into his wrist, making a deep cut along the inside of his forearm. Blood gushed out through the open wound. So much blood that within a minute the bath was red. He tried desperately to pull away from her, to find some strength in his body, but there was none.
‘I see the cocynaranol is working,’ she said as his wrist screamed out in agony. ‘You remember that drug, don’t you, Richard? I certainly do; it had some nasty side effects when you and your father tested it on us. I was surprised how easy it was to get hold of with a letter to Cranium Pharmaceuticals on a sheet of your headed paper. It appears your signature still holds a lot of weight.’
He watched in horror as she walked round to the other side of the bath, then lifted the knife again. His mind raced. Elvira. This was Kitty’s sister, Elvira. It was Kitty who had died that night, and this woman in his house had been part of his father’s trials at St Margaret’s.
‘You were one of the children!’ he said, letting out another cry as she dug the sharp blade into his other wrist. The pain was unbearable; like being branded with burning-hot irons. ‘Kitty, please don’t do this. I fell out with my father over those trials; I didn’t speak to him for forty years because of what he did.’
‘And you did nothing wrong?’ said Kitty. ‘Are you sure about that? You didn’t refer Ivy Jenkins to a psychiatric hospital because your father told you to? Because they were worried about her friendship with an eight-year-old girl called Elvira? An innocent little girl who told her about how she and the other children at St Margaret’s were being used in your father’s drugs trials?’
Richard closed his eyes as he thought back to that day, back to the meeting his father had ordered him to attend.
They had all been there to decide Ivy Jenkins’ fate. Sitting round a table in the back room of Preston church: Father Benjamin, Mother Carlin, Dr Jacobson and Helena Cannon. He had arrived late, after getting lost. As he had made his way through the church into the small, stuffy room, Father Benjamin was escorting out a young man with blond hair and blue eyes. Richard later learnt that his name was Alistair Henderson, and that he was the father of Ivy’s baby.
The priest had made the introductions, and then proceeded to take control of the meeting.
‘Thank you, everyone, for coming,’ he said slowly and confidently, as if he were conducting a service. ‘As you all know, we have a number of children here at St Margaret’s who for various reasons, mostly problems at birth, are unsuitable for adoption. Rather than turning them out on the street, we have utilised an opportunity offered to us by Mercer Pharmaceuticals that has enabled us to continue with our good work at the home.’
Richard had felt the heat rush to his head at the harsh reminder of the horrific situation at St Margaret’s. He knew his father was using the children at St Margaret’s to fast-track a new drug he was desperate to get the green light on. When Richard had first heard about it, he had made his disapproval known, but since then had not spoken of it and did his best to stay away.
Father Benjamin had then turned to him. ‘However, a situation has arisen that I need your help and discretion with. A girl we have here, Ivy Jenkins, has befriended one of the children taking part in the trials, and we believe she may be aware of what is going on. Obviously, she is not admitting as such, but she is due to leave St Margaret’s soon, and should word get out, the work your father’s firm is conducting would be in jeopardy.’
Richard had said nothing, ashamed to be a representative of his father’s company in this matter.
‘A second issue has come to light,’ Father Benjamin had continued, ‘which is that the father of Ivy’s child, Alistair Henderson, has received a number of letters from her of a very distressing and obviously fabricated nature, which he has returned to me today. Mr Henderson has a promising sporting career and is very nervous about Ivy making life difficult for him. He would be willing to help us with any costs incurred in keeping her with us for the next few years.’
Dr Jacobson had finally spoken. ‘A few years? How are you going to manage that?’ His arms were crossed defensively, his body turned away as far as it could be from the conversation.
Father Benjamin had ignored him and looked at Richard. ‘Dr Stone, I understand you are recently qualified as a psychiatrist.’
Richard had said nothing; it was quite obvious where this conversation was going. He had known immediately why his father had sent him to this meeting. To punish him for speaking out against the trials in front of his colleagues. To remind him who was in charge.
‘Your father seems to think that you may be able to help us with our problem with Ivy Jenkins. Since having her baby, she has been experiencing violent episodes, delusions; she has even been on hunger strikes. And it occurs to me that she may not be entirely safe either to herself or the wider community if she leaves St Margaret’s at this time.’
‘I really don’t see the need for me to be at this meeting,’ Dr Jacobson had snapped, at which point Mother Carlin, who until now had said nothing, turned to him.
‘We think it is important that we are all fully aware of the situation with regards to Ivy Jenkins, Dr Jacobson. We all need to be involved in this decision. I don’t see why you should be enjoying the large payments given to you by us for referring these girls while allowing yourself to believe you are not privy to our decision-making. God is watching. Indeed, the very hairs on your head are all numbered. If you want this to stop, to go back to your GP salary, with that large house you and your family have just moved into, please let us know now.’
The nun had not looked away once during her little speech, as Dr Jacobson’s face had turned every shade of red. Though it was quite obvious what he wanted to say, he had remained silent until she had finished, then he stood up and stormed out.
Father Benjamin had then stood up and walked over to Richard. ‘Here are the letters Alistair Henderson gave me. Please study them, but I trust that you will come to the same conclusion as I have. That Ivy Jenkins is unstable and would be best placed in an institution for the foreseeable future. Obviously the important work we are doing here will come to a natural conclusion, and when the trials are finished, we can review her situation.’
Richard had looked down at the five envelopes that Father Benjamin had placed on the table in front of him. ‘When do you want her assessed?’
‘Now. Obviously we want her to speak to you, so we have told her that she is having a medical because she is going home.’
‘Isn’t that rather unnecessarily cruel?’ he’d said, unable to stop himself.
‘Your father has cleared your schedule for the day. Once you find there are grounds to admit her, I think it best if she goes immediately. Shall we?’ Father Benjamin had stretched out his hand towards the door, and with that one simple gesture, Ivy Jenkins’ fate was sealed.
Richard slowly looked down at his frail body in the empty bath; he was shaking now with cold and fear. ‘Please, Kitty, I was young and stupid. Call me an ambulance, I beg you, then we can talk about this.’
‘I’m tired of talking to you, Richard. I gave you a chance. More of a chance than I ever gave any of the others. I don’t mean to offend, I know psychiatry i
s your life’s work, but I have to say, you’re not terribly good at it. You’ve been seeing me for how many months, and you didn’t see this coming, did you?’
As he watched her face, perspiration dripping from her forehead, the light in the room began to fade.
‘I told you about the night my father died, didn’t I?’ she said. ‘Didn’t you sense there was so much more I needed to say?’
A black outline grew slowly around her as she held up the bloodied knife and surveyed her work.
‘I didn’t mean to cause him to crash; it wasn’t my intention for him to die. I woke up from a nightmare, dreaming of Kitty. I was haunted by her. I couldn’t stand it any more; I decided I had to tell him the truth. That it was his beloved Kitty who was buried at St Margaret’s; that I was an impostor.’
She wiped the beads of sweat away from her forehead with the back of her gloved hand.
‘I went out in the blizzard to get the bus to the hospital, desperate by that time to tell him and Helena together, whatever the consequences. Then when there was no bus to the hospital, I just kept going. I knew the way so well, we went nearly every day to visit her. For an hour, I pushed on through the snow.
‘Then suddenly his car was there. He swerved to avoid hitting me and came skidding off the road at such speed that when I ran over to him I knew immediately he was dead. I had seen so much death at St Margaret’s; I knew he was gone.
‘I don’t know how long I stood there, but a man came and startled me, so I ran all the way home. I waited for the police to come and arrest me and take me back to St Margaret’s. But when they finally arrived, they told me that there had been a terrible accident. They didn’t know I’d been there, that I had caused it. After the shock wore off and I realised I had got away with being responsible for my father’s death, I developed a whole new perspective about it and it became rather inspiring.’