by Penny Kline
*
The first time I met Luke he had been lying on the floor beside his unmade bed. Janos, the caretaker of the house opposite my own that had been divided into bed-sits, had run across the road to fetch me. Why he hadn’t phoned for an ambulance straight away I can’t imagine. Maybe he thought Luke was play-acting. Maybe he thought I was a doctor. An empty bottle of paracetamol on a bedside cabinet had been enough for me to decide to drive Luke to Casualty myself. Together, Janos and I had lifted him to his feet and forced him to stumble down the stairs between us. Janos had pushed him into the back seat of the car, then climbed in beside me.
‘When you reach the hospital I come in too, Anna.’
But once inside the hospital a nurse and a porter had taken over. Janos and I had waited half an hour or so to make sure Luke was going to be all right, then driven back home.
‘Silly boy.’ Janos had been quite calm but I knew he felt guilty. It had never occurred to him that Luke was unhappy. Quiet, a little withdrawn, but he had gone to work each day — a store in Queen’s Road where he packed china and glassware — and come home each evening at five forty-five. He paid his rent on Fridays, remembered to put out his rubbish every Wednesday evening.
‘You collect the rents, do you, Janos?’ We had never talked much before. Just a few words when we met in the street. All he knew about me was that I was a psychologist. All I knew about him was that he had come to England during the Hungarian Revolution. I liked his face with its deep lines and scattering of small dark moles. His eyes were dark too, his hair thin and grey. We both liked dogs and Janos had an eight-year-old golden retriever which leaned its head on my thigh whenever we met.
‘I collect the money for Mrs Bonamy,’ he said. ‘She lives up the other side of the Downs in a big house overlooking the Gorge. I keep an eye on things, clean the stairs and passages, do a few repairs. In return I pay a reduced amount. It suits me quite well.’
‘And Luke moved in a few months ago?’
‘Only five weeks. I invited him to the basement for a chat but he didn’t enjoy it so I leave him alone except when he brings the rent.’
‘And he seemed all right last Friday?’
‘As far as I can tell. People who take all their tablets, they don’t give warning.’
‘Sometimes they do. Sometimes not. Didn’t anyone come to visit him?’
‘Never.’
‘And he didn’t make friends with any of the other tenants?’
‘No. Once a man came to the door but when I went to fetch Luke he said to say he was out.’
I remembered our conversation, almost word for word. It had taken place less than three months ago but it seemed like more.
Now, from the window of the day room at the hospital, I could see Luke walking across the lawn. When he reached a row of chestnut trees he touched each in turn, then stood up very straight with his arms stretched above his head. After a moment’s pause he set off again, back across the grass.
He had no idea I was watching him. I turned away, confused by the conflicting feelings he aroused. Compassion, anger, alarm — and something else. Martin would have called it frustrated maternal instinct. He would have been wrong. I didn’t feel in the least maternal towards Luke and in any case the relatively small gap between our ages rendered the whole notion ridiculous.
When I opened the French windows to let in some much needed air the distant whine of a chain saw was just audible above the golf commentary coming from the television. An old man seated near the window raised his head, feeling the breeze on his face. I smiled at him, then realized that he was blind.
‘Hallo. You’re not in a draught, are you?’
The old man turned towards me. ‘Is there any bacon?’
‘You want some bacon?’
‘Is there any bacon?’ He started to rise from his seat, then sat down again heavily, knocking his stick to the ground.
I picked it up and leaned it against the chair.
‘Is there any bacon?’ he asked. ‘I want some bacon.’
‘Not now, Arthur.’ A young nurse, with a tissue pressed to her nose, came into the room, winked at me, then asked if I was looking for someone.
‘I’ve come to see Luke Jesty.’
‘Oh, Luke.’ She sneezed several times, then peered through the window. ‘He was out there earlier. I should have a look.’
‘Is Dr Stringer here today?’
‘In his room.’
Arthur was still asking for bacon but she was taking no notice. Most likely the old man made the same request a hundred times a day.
A door on the other side of the corridor opened and William Stringer came out of his office. He glanced into the day room, stared at me for a moment, then realized who I was.
‘Anna, I was hoping to see you.’ He turned back and held open the door to his room. ‘Come along in.’
I followed him into the small carpeted room with its book-shelves, mahogany desk, and row of filing cabinets. On the lefthand wall was a reproduction of a Matisse. Clear blues and yellows. The figure of a woman, a bowl of pears on a tall, spindly table. Stringer’s desk was bare apart from a photograph of a woman aged about nineteen or twenty. He followed my eyes.
‘My daughter Miranda. Taken a few years back. She’s a trainee GP in Newcastle now, very keen on your line of country. Thinks nothing of psychotropic drugs. Prefers a counselling approach.’
I smiled but made no comment.
‘Sit yourself down.’ He lowered himself into his chair and smiled encouragingly. He was a big man, well over six foot, with thick white hair, a long, amused-looking face, and a large paunch hidden behind his loose-fitting double-breasted suit. We knew each other a little and I had always found him tolerant, broad-minded. Already in his sixties he had seen it all before, but still managed to keep an open mind about the causes and treatment of the mentally ill. He was even prepared to discuss Thomas Szasz’s thesis that there is no such thing as mental illness.
‘Well then, my dear, the Jesty boy.’
In the ordinary way I dislike being called ‘my dear’ but just at that moment I found it stupidly comforting.
‘How’s he been?’
‘Difficult to say,’ said Stringer. ‘How long has he been coming to see you?’
‘Oh, not very long,’ I said rather too quickly. ‘He took an overdose of paracetamol about three months ago, back in April.’
‘Paracetamol?’ Stringer leaned back in his chair. ‘Could’ve been the end of him.’
‘Yes, I know. Luckily he brought most of it up on the way to the hospital. They kept him in overnight, then sent him home the following morning.’
He nodded, pushing a finger behind the collar of his shirt to ease the pressure on his neck.
‘He was seen by a psychiatrist before he left hospital,’ I said, ‘and she — I’ve forgotten her name, I’m afraid — anyway it was agreed that he should come and see me on a regular basis.’
‘You’d been seeing him before the overdose?’
‘Oh, no. He was living in one of the houses opposite my flat in Cliftonwood. Janos, who lives in the basement, came and told me what had happened. I think he thought I was a doctor.’
‘Fortunate you were on the spot.’
‘I thought Luke was going to throw up in my car, but he jumped out when the lights turned red. Afterwards he told me he’d been worried about spoiling the seat covers. That’s Luke all over. He’s extremely anxious, quite obsessional, but there’s never been any sign of psychosis.’
‘I see.’
I was talking too much. What was William Stringer thinking? That I’d rushed in where angels feared to tread? That Luke was schizophrenic and I’d been treating him for anxiety neurosis? That my treatment had forced him into a psychotic state?
He smiled encouragingly. ‘And the night before last there was a road accident?’
‘Yes. Outside the Hippodrome.’ I started telling him about Paula Redfern and Luke’s job in the herbal remedies
shop.
‘You knew this poor woman?’
‘No, I never met her. I don’t even know how well they knew each other.’
‘Does Luke have any relatives living near by?’
‘Yes, his parents and a brother. I don’t know where the brother lives but I’ve met the parents. I went to tell them about the accident.’
‘Good. They haven’t been to visit as far as I know.’
‘I don’t think they’re expecting him to be in hospital more than a day or two.’
Stringer nodded, scribbled a few notes on a pad, then stood up and patted me on the shoulder. ‘He’s making a convincing job of passing himself off as schizophrenic. Why would he want to do that?’
‘I suppose it’s a kind of escape. Better than facing up to how bad he feels.’
‘Perhaps.’ He held open the door. ‘Come back whenever you like. I’m sure Luke will want to see you. Hey, don’t look so worried, I don’t have to tell you how difficult a lot of diagnoses are, how the patient can change from one state — ’ He broke off, glancing at his watch and picking up a file that was lying on his desk. ‘Anyway, keep in touch. ’Bye for now.’
I walked down the corridor and out of the door at the far end that led out into the grounds.
*
There was no sign of Luke and for a moment it occurred to me that he might have seen me and started walking back to Bristol. Even now he could be standing on the grass verge trying to hitch a lift. But why would he do that? He was the one who had wanted to come to the hospital in the first place.
Then I spotted him, leaning against the Occupational Therapy building, his eyes closed and his head well back as though he was enjoying soaking in the sun.
‘Luke?’ I walked towards him but he kept quite still. ‘Hallo, how are you?’
He stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you. Or so they say. Today if I may.’
I sighed. ‘Shall we sit down for a moment.’
He walked a few paces behind, then joined me, sitting at the far end of a rickety bench with one of its wooden slats missing. His breathing was fast and shallow. I touched him on the shoulder, then withdrew my hand quickly when he jumped and a long shudder seemed to run through his body. He was scratching at a mark on his jeans. He licked his finger, rubbed at the stain, then began laughing under his breath like a child trying not to giggle while being told off.
‘Have you seen the doctor yet?’ It was a stupid question but I was trying to force him to give me one straight answer.
Blowing out his cheeks he started making a sound like squelching mud. Then he bent down and peered under the bench.
‘They’ll be here soon,’ he whispered. ‘Soon, about noon, in the light of the moon.’
*
Turning into the gates to Ashton Park I drove carefully over the bumps in the road, put there to discourage motorists from taking a short cut, or at the very least to slow them down. It was a route I rarely took but I needed to walk in an open space, to clear my head, think things out. All the way back to the city I had been trying to justify my decision not to tell William Stringer about Luke’s violent fantasies. Luke wouldn’t say anything himself. If he spoke to Stringer at all it would be a jumble of incoherent sentences, linked by the sound of the words rather than any meaning they might have.
Knowing Luke, he could keep it up almost indefinitely. No doubt he had read about a research project, quoted by first-year psychology students full of righteous indignation at the use of psychiatric labels. It had been arranged that perfectly normal people should be admitted to hospital, complaining of hearing voices, then start behaving normally. In no instance had any of the staff detected that the pseudo-patient was actually quite sane. In my opinion it was an unfair experiment. Why should the staff have seen through it? Surely normal people would have asked to go home.
I parked on the grass next to a white hatchback containing an elderly couple who appeared to be fast asleep. Closing the door carefully so as not to disturb their dreams I started up the steep hill, making for the coolness of the wooded area to the west of the parkland.
A plan was forming in my head. I would give myself seven days to look into what had been going on in Luke’s life during the last few weeks and make sure nothing had happened that could have pushed him into actual violence. As well as that I would find out as much as I could about the accident. If at the end of a week I still had doubts I would go back to Stringer, and then to the police, and tell them about the fantasies. That way I was being fair to Luke, respecting the confidentiality of what he had told me, but acknowledging that in certain circumstances I was equally responsible for making sure that other people were protected. From Luke? Paula’s death was an accident, of course it was, and even if — I forced myself to face the possibility without my thoughts shifting to a safer topic — even if my worst fears proved correct Luke was now under close supervision, no danger to himself or to anyone else.
I needed to know more about Paula Redfern. Apart from the small amount of information passed on by Doug — that once, probably several years ago, she had been married — all I knew was that she and Luke had worked in the shop and, now and again, been to the cinema together. The shop — that was where I would have to start. Not today, it was far too late. Tomorrow, after my three o’clock client. I just prayed to God I wouldn’t find a CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE sign stuck on the door.
5
It looked dark inside but when I pushed the door it swung open with a tinkle of Chinese bells. Behind the counter a young man with spiky black hair like a bottle brush was sitting on a tall stool, reading the latest issue of Venue. He looked up briefly then continued running his fingers down the list of entertainments on in Bristol during July.
I had passed the shop scores of times but never been inside in case Luke thought I was checking up on him. Already I had involved myself in his life far too much, helping him to find new lodgings and change jobs, and he had gone along with what were really my decisions, not his. It was true he had an obstinate streak in him. Even so I was inclined to agree with Elaine who felt that usually in the past Luke had waited for someone else to organize his life.
The shop was smaller than I expected with a short counter on the right and behind it three pine shelves stacked with glass jars filled with herbs. There were scales for weighing two- or four-ounce packets and, at one end of the counter, a selection of books labelled FOR REFERENCE ONLY invited customers to look up the remedies for their ailments. I picked one up at random and flicked through the pages, coming to a stop at Nervous Debility. A quick look indicated that there were several suggestions for dealing with the problem. Camomile, lime flower, or a recipe which included dock root, juniper berries and red wine. It sounded fairly disgusting — unless the wine was strong enough to disguise all the other flavours — but perhaps it did the trick.
I wondered if Luke had returned from his sessions with me, pessimistic, jaded, to be greeted by Paula with a herbal remedy she considered far superior to any treatment the Psychology Service could provide.
The young man behind the counter was whistling an old David Bowie song.
On a noticeboard on the wall opposite the door, cards advertising a variety of alternative therapies and treatments had been pinned at random. Iridology, Reflexology, Dream Analysis, Body Toning. I approached the man, clearing my throat in the hope of gaining his attention.
‘I didn’t expect to find you open.’
He hesitated a moment, then spoke looking down at his magazine. ‘Oh, you know about the accident. I’m just filling in for a couple of days.’
‘I’m a friend of Luke’s.’
‘Luke? Oh, the blond guy. Pretty cut up about it, is he? I heard he was with Paula when it happened.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Pedestrians don’t stand much of a chance in this City.’ He glanced at me, then shrugged. ‘I only met her a couple of times.’
He was dressed in a pink sleeveless
T-shirt and baggy white dungarees. He looked about twenty-three or four but the spots round his mouth were the kind boys usually grow out of in their late teens. ‘You knew Luke, did you?’
He shook his head. ‘Only by sight.’
‘Yes, I see.’ I thought fast. ‘Look, the reason I’m here, I didn’t know Paula either, but Luke’s taken it very badly and I need to find out how well he and Paula … ’
He didn’t look up. ‘Search me.’
‘Well, d’you know of anyone who could help? Someone I could talk to?’
‘You could try Carl. Paula’s ex-husband. He’s an actor, used to be in that television series about the psychiatrist.’
‘Carl Redfern? Paula was married to — ’
‘The guy who owns this shop’s a friend of Carl’s. I guess Carl told Paula they needed someone to work in the shop.’
‘D’you know where Carl Redfern lives? I don’t suppose his number’s in the book.’
He shook his head. ‘Ex-directory, doesn’t want all his fans ringing him up.’ He grinned. His teeth were so white I wondered if they were his own. ‘Hang on.’ Tearing a corner off one of the herb bags he wrote down an address.
*
The house was in Redland. It was an old coach house that looked as if it had been converted during the last couple of years. Along the top of the garden wall a wisteria, which must have been planted years before the conversion took place, was in full bloom. The long mauve flowers hung almost to pavement level. You could tell it was an up-market area. Nobody had wrenched them off and thrown them in the gutter.
There was no doorbell, just a heavy iron knocker in the shape of a monkey’s head. I lifted it, then let it fall with a dull thud that might or might not have been audible inside the house. While I waited I wondered if Heather had remembered to tell Martin I might not be back in time for his meeting to discuss the setting-up of more self-help groups. He would be annoyed about it but by tomorrow he would have calmed down. In any case, meeting Carl Redfern was far more important.