Stranger Than Kindness

by Mark A Radcliffe

  Anna knew she had to identify something she wanted to leave with, given the fact that she had felt the need to abandon her home and run away to Eastbourne. The main thing she wanted was to come away feeling safe. Deep down that was enough. And that made her feel ashamed. What about Meena and Paul? She had taken so many steps backwards, in defence of herself, she had forgotten how to consider stepping forward, in defence of others. When she had been a nurse it was that quality that defined her. Now it seemed that she was no longer a nurse. And she had no plan: the nearest thing she came to intent as she and Adam drove to CREAK was a sense that her instinct, whatever the hell that was, would act when the time came. Less a plan, more the vague hope of a child hoping that the bogey man, or the dance instructor, will choose to leave her alone and hurt someone else instead.

  Adam had woken early and lay still for as long as he could before needing to pee. He felt little about the day ahead. He was here because he was curious, not about the modern industry that was psychiatry and how it sustained itself. He had always simply assumed that it would flourish, no matter what. The mechanics of that relentlessness didn’t interest him. He was curious about this new past that was emerging and it seemed to be emerging through Anna. He was also increasingly curious about Tom. He had managed to limit his interest in the boy at first, partly because Tom gave him the impression that he didn’t want to be interesting, he just wanted a little help. But he had noticed Tom soften a little, talk more, direct conversation at him rather than others: these were the hallmarks of enquiry. And then he had noticed him playing guitar, the way he held it, the way he moved his head when he played, gazing at the floor beneath the guitar neck, and it occurred to him that perhaps he was more curious than he thought. Once that had taken hold, it had begun to flow around his body like water in a stream.

  The grass is a different shade of green here, he thought. Not darker nor brighter, just different. And it was a tiny bit colder, even though he was used to being beside the sea. However, he didn’t feel far from home and he expected to be back before the sun went down and he hoped that Tom would still be there. So they could talk. Properly. He didn’t know where Anna would be by then.

  They were early, a habit established as nurses and never lost. They sat outside in the car on the gravelled and relatively spacious car park looking at the surrounding acres of open grassland and perimeter of trees and then at the incongruously modern, flat building that Adam thought looked like a small block of Spanish holiday lets.

  ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘9.42.’

  ‘Early.’

  ’Always,’ Anna said quietly.

  ‘You nervous?’

  Anna shook her head, then thought: Who am I kidding? ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How can I help?’ Adam spoke very softly.

  That was something that hadn’t changed, she thought. He always managed to slow down the things that were going on around him by being quiet near them. ‘You could come in with me. Not to the meeting but the building, wait downstairs. If I’m not out within an hour, set off the fire alarms or something?’

  ‘OK. Shall we go now?’

  ‘Bit early… but yes… why not.’

  They got out of the car. Anna looked smart and businesslike in a black jacket tapered to the waist over a grey scoop neck shirt. With a black knee-length skirt and flat shoes, she looked a bit like a lawyer. Adam was in jeans, plimsolls and a beaten-up leather flying jacket with a rusty zip and his old hat: he looked like her client.

  ‘They can’t hurt you, you know,’ he smiled. ‘Too many witnesses.’

  ‘There speaks a man who has never seen The Wicker Man,’ she said.

  The building was glass-fronted; the revolving doors were over ten feet high and made completely of glass.

  ‘Nice building,’ she said as they entered a large spacious reception room, with a circular glass desk in the middle and a pretty, already smiling woman sitting behind it. ‘Like something out of the X-Men,’ Adam said, looking around him. And, before Anna could find her special ‘talking to receptionists in slightly intimidating buildings’ voice, Adam said: ‘Must get hot in here in the summer, no?’ He was smiling more broadly than Anna had ever seen.

  The receptionist laughed. ‘Architects hate people,’ she said. ‘They had to buy massive curtains to block out the sun because people kept fainting, and then they had to buy new lights because nobody could see anything when the curtains were drawn. Then the lights system didn’t tally with the internal generator or summat and so that had to be replaced. Cost a fortune.’

  ‘Still,’ Adam grinned, ‘I bet he still won some award.’

  ‘He did!’ she said loudly. ‘And no offence meant, but it’s telling that you assumed it was a man because I don’t think many women would build a multi-million-pound building and think: Let’s point it toward the sun, that’ll look nice looking down from the hillside.’

  ‘No offence taken,’ said Adam. ‘I think you’re probably right.’

  The receptionist and Adam were looking at each other, nodding, and Anna took the opportunity to remind them both she was present. ‘I have an appointment at 10am,’ she said, unfolding her letter and offering it to the woman. ‘Unfortunately the letter didn’t tell me who with…’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the woman said cheerfully. ‘What’s your name, please?’

  ‘Anna Newton.’

  The woman smiled even more broadly. ‘Oh yes, I was told you would be early. Dr Cassells is waiting for you in Room 102, first floor, either one flight up the stairs or you can get the lift.’ She turned to Adam. ‘I don’t have your name on the list.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Adam, ‘I never made it on to the list. I’m not here for the meeting, I’m just the driver.’

  ‘Cassells?’ Anna turned to Adam.

  ‘Can’t be.’

  Adam turned back to the receptionist. ‘Dr David Cassells? Shortish, poor dresser, psychologist used to work in London, about my age but probably looks older?’

  The receptionist looked embarrassed and glanced upward and to her right. ‘His name is David and I believe he did work in London and I have no way of knowing how old you are, sir.’ The lightness had left her.

  Adam winked. ‘Right. When they put in the lights they put in some cameras, eh?’ She almost smiled. ‘It’s OK,’ he said as lightly as he could. ‘If it’s the David Cassells we think it is we both used to work with him.’ The receptionist just nodded and Adam and Anna took a few steps away from the desk.

  ‘Bit of a coincidence. Will he remember you?’ Adam asked.

  ‘I would have thought so. We worked together for over a year after you left.’

  ‘Did you get on with him?’

  ‘I thought he was smarmy and self serving.’

  ‘Well, yeah, but did you get on with him?’

  ‘When I had to. At arms length. I wonder why he didn’t sign the letter?’

  ‘Maybe he’s carrying a torch?’ Adam winked.

  ‘I hope so,’ Anna said. ‘I could use it to set fire to him.’

  ‘Good luck.’ Adam touched her arm gently and wandered over to sit in one of two wholly absurd transparent plastic chairs near the revolving door.

  Anna took the stairs and tried to remember the last time she had seen Cassells. He left, got a job up north, big job, regional something-or-other, and she didn’t go to his leaving do because Tom would have been about 6 months old and because it would have been full of psychologists. Did she bother saying goodbye? She couldn’t remember. Did she ever let her disdain leak out? Probably, but he never struck her as a perceptive man. He was typical of his type, only ever seeing things when he had been told they were there. But she could see him now, as she emerged from the stairwell onto a floor that was essentially two enormous rooms with a corridor between them, both rooms visible to each other because they had long glass walls. He’d put on
weight and looked shorter because of it; he had grown his hair so it nearly reached his shoulders and he had a floppy thin fringe and a beard. He looked like the sort of man who fancied a go at Question Time and who took The Rolling Stones seriously. He stood up when he saw her and smiled, walking toward the door as quickly as his pudgy little legs would let him. Any fear she had was gone. There was some disdain sweeping in and… what’s that carrying it? Oh yes, that’s anger.

  ‘Anna! How lovely to see you, you look wonderful, even better than before. How do you do that?’ He actually kissed her on the cheek. His beard was soft and he smelt of something expensive. He held both of her arms just above the elbow, too close to her breasts.

  ‘David. What a surprise. Why didn’t you sign the letter?’

  ‘It wasn’t signed? Oh Anna, how unprofessional, I will have a word with my PA. I don’t actually send the letters but I do apologize.’ He looked at her wide-eyed. ‘Well. It’s a small world, eh?’

  Downstairs Adam was, much to his surprise, thinking about Alison. There was something about her that drew his attention. He had always been attracted to women who hid something. He had, as a younger man, worried about what that made him. A man who needed to feel like he was rescuing people? A voyeur? But he knew that that standard issue self-loathing was fundamentally lazy. He wasn’t attracted to them because they hid something that he wanted to uncover, he didn’t want to know what secret they had or join the internal battle they waged. He just liked the fact that they had corners. Women who had struggled with themselves had resources, surprises, insights and sometimes, although not always, a humanity that made them better to be around. He had a sense of Alison as being just a little bit dark. He didn’t care where it came from: he just liked what it produced.

  Someone else came through the revolving door. Expensive suit, looked like a salesman. Looked vaguely familiar, but Adam thought that was the point of salesmen. He announced himself to the receptionist but Adam couldn’t hear him as the man had his back to him. The receptionist smiled briefly, the way people do when their smile is not reciprocated and asked him to take a seat for a moment. The man looked round and eyed Adam suspiciously. The only seats available were next to Adam or on the other side of the revolving door. The man had to choose to sit next to the scruffy man who didn’t seem to be wearing socks, or appear rude and go and sit some distance away. He opted for rude and looked self-conscious about it.

  At precisely ten o’clock the receptionist said ‘Mr Portier. Dr Cassells will see you now. First floor, room eleven.’ She didn’t look at Portier as he stood up and didn’t so much as glance over at Adam either. Black did though, briefly, quizzically, and then he headed for the lift.

  ‘Well, David, I assume I am here to talk about the CCT research project?’

  ‘Ah, CCT: Cuddle Camp Therapy we call it,’ he smiled.

  ‘I’m sure you do, but the research seems to suggest it works.’

  ‘Does it Anna? Really? If we unpack the numbers, is it saying it works?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cassells was sitting now, in a large chair that made him look smaller. He was nodding to himself, looking at the large oak table that dominated the room and occasionally glancing toward the corridor. When the knock on the door came he leapt to his feet with the relish of a fat schoolboy being excused from double PE.

  ‘Come in,’ he shouted, bounding over to the door to shake Black Portier by the hand and then turning to Anna and saying: ‘Do you know Mr Portier? I think you might. Yes?’

  Downstairs Adam sidled up to the receptionist. ‘Quiet morning?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Every morning is a quiet morning.’ She was relaxed again. ‘We don’t normally have someone on reception, Cass— Dr Cassells wanted me down here this morning.’

  Adam nodded. ‘Forgive me,’ he said ‘But that man who just came in, I know him from somewhere and I can’t place it. Portier? First name a colour, I believe, not mauve.’

  ‘Black. I thought it was an unusual name too,’ she laughed.

  ‘He doesn’t work here then?’

  ‘No, up from London to see Cass— Dr Cassells.’

  ‘We’ve just come from the south, if we’d known we could have shared petrol,’ Adam said. ‘Or, better still, Cassells could have come down to see us.’

  The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘He’s not really the sort, to be honest.’

  Adam smiled. ‘Is there a toilet I can use, please?’

  ‘Not on this floor, I’m afraid. If you go up to the second floor—yes I know, whoever designed this place should be made to work here—but second floor, take the lift, turn left out the door. You need a code 4536 to get in.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Adam said and wandered over to the lift.

  ‘What are you doing, David?’ Anna was shaking slightly, thrown completely by the pale figure of Black Portier.

  Cassells exaggerated a look of shock. ‘What am I doing? I am being the Director of CREAK, Ms Newton, hosting a meeting with the only available member of a research team that appears to have struggled to maintain its professional standards and the funding co-ordinator, Mr Portier here.’

  ‘Hello Anna,’ Black said quietly. ‘How are you?’

  Anna looked at him and nodded before turning back to Cassells. ‘Funding co-ordinator? What does that mean?’

  ‘Mr Portier was responsible for gathering together the interested parties prepared to underwrite your research. The government cannot fund every question everybody wants to ask but we can sometimes help, as we did with your project, both financially and in terms of co-ordination. Mr Portier is, I think you know, a seller of ideas by trade. Advertising, PR, marketing, whatever you want to call it. He sells the question to funding groups and then sells whatever answer you researchers come up with to a waiting nation.’ It occurred to Anna that she had never seen anyone look as smug as Cassells. Particularly when he added: ‘He also helps with recruitment.’

  That stung. ‘Did you recruit me?’ Anna asked, looking at Black and holding his gaze for the first time since he had come into the room.

  Black nodded. ‘It wasn’t difficult. If I hadn’t chosen you for the job I could have been accused of discrimination.’

  ‘The fact that you had any sort of say at all means you could be accused of discrimination.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Black. ‘We had a brief, pleasant but not terribly meaningful relationship nearly twenty-five years ago. It was another lifetime. Why would that matter? Unless of course you’d got pregnant with my child and never told me.’

  ‘Coffee, anyone?’ asked Cassells.

  Anna felt the coldness, a coldness that had protected her all her adult life, rush through her, starting from her heart and pushing outward until she could actually feel the tips of her fingers push the fear out through her skin and leave only cold blood.

  ‘Well, Black,’ she said evenly. ‘If you are hoping to pay some child support I should tell you that you are but one of the candidates.’ She turned to Cassells. ‘So, I assume the research findings on our little project have unnerved enough people and I am here to be told that I cannot publish the findings. Is that right?’

  Cassells smiled. ‘Anna, don’t be so dramatic.’ Cassells had poured her black coffee and put it in front of her.

  ‘David, it is my belief that Paul Stern has been disgracefully discredited and Meena Ahmed was seriously injured.’

  ‘Those sound like questionable beliefs, Anna,’ said Cassells, mimicking his own clinical voice.

  Anna ignored the tone and words. ‘So am I here to receive your support in publishing the findings to this really rather interesting research? That would be great, David, and it would go some way to re-establishing my belief that people like us came into this work to do something helpful.’

  ‘Anna.’ Cassells leaned forward crossing his hands in front of him, fixed his gaze just above her eyes a
nd said in what he had clearly decided was his Director’s voice: ‘Firstly, I am not convinced the research is good. Some of the data don’t corroborate the findings and some of the interviews are poorly annotated. I found the conclusions a little sweeping, not scientific, and frankly the risks are too great to put out sloppy work.’

  ‘It wasn’t sloppy, David. Call me what you like but Paul Stern is ten times the researcher you will ever be. He was bordering on autistic in how meticulous he was and we have copies of everything, so if you or anyone else have changed the work…’

  ‘Anna, you sound paranoid,’ he said loudly. He paused, giving the impression of regaining his composure.

  Anna didn’t believe him. Didn’t believe his body language, his presentation. He was acting. He was acting like a director and nothing about him scared her.

  ‘Anna, let me spell it out for you. The last time a piece of research suggested an anti-psychotic drug did not do what it said on the tin, the drug company concerned lost £34 million in world wide sales over the first year, £48 million from its share price and moved its tax base from the UK to Germany. It then threatened to sue the British Government for allegedly falsifying research results and sabotaging the legitimate business of what was one of the only companies to demonstrate year on year growth right through the recession.’

  Anna shrugged. ‘So?’

  Cassells sighed. ‘Three other companies including Leichter and Wallace made it known that they were considering their tax arrangements, which was one of the reasons my predecessors hired Mr Portier here, and others, to forge helpful partnerships in research with the companies who not only fund so much research and do so much good right across the medical spectrum but also generate wealth in this country.’