by A J Waines
I’m doing my level best to make things work, but I’m making a real hash of it. I’m resorting to behaviour no one would ever believe possible and there’s no going back. Can’t people see how hard this is? Isn’t it in capital letters carved into my forehead?
I had to act, I had to go out on a limb and now everything’s at boiling point. I only hope it’s worth it. No one really understands what it’s been like. All the waiting, not knowing. I tried my very best to sort it out in the right way, but nothing is working in my favour.
Now I have a terrible secret. I don’t know if it’s going to break me. My grip is starting to slip away. I’m clutching at straws and I don’t have a good feeling about where this is going to end up.
Chapter 14
Present Day
I was an hour late for the open evening at the Camden Community Art Project and it was in full swing when I arrived. I’d invited Con at the last minute, thinking he wouldn’t be able to make it, but he’d already arrived and introduced himself to Miranda without waiting for me. I spotted them sharing a joke by the fire exit. Justin was in front of them sipping a glass of orange juice.
I didn’t approach them straight away. I watched the easy way Miranda was chatting to Con – full of smiles, fluttering her eyelashes, flicking her fingers through her newly styled hair. They looked like old friends.
The team had put on a good show; there was plenty of white space between the pictures and sharp spotlights. Someone behind the scenes was taking this very seriously. Shame my mind was in a mess; I couldn’t take it all in.
I stopped in front of a canvas and allowed my eyes to travel over the images. If I’d been asked to find one word to describe the painting, I would have said grotesque. It was abstract and garish, with shapes that depicted something between a cow and a human foetus. I glanced at the title: Home. Then I saw the name of the artist. I took a faltering step backwards. It had been painted by my sister.
Suddenly the room felt cramped and airless. I fanned myself with the programme, torn between slipping away before I was spotted and a morbid interest to see more. Scanning the walls, I came across further works in a similar style; swirling browns and purples – one with a huge pair of leering lips, another with what looked like a breast sliced in half.
I had no idea Miranda was producing work like this. On the one hand it looked bold and striking, but on the other it was abhorrent. Was this a true reflection of what was going on inside my sister’s head?
I tried to remember a time when I hadn’t been afraid of her, a time before the outbursts had started to define her. There must have been periods when we’d been a relaxed and harmonious family. Before my world became taut; before that continual feeling that I was living on a knife-edge. Gradually, insidiously over time, we’d closed ranks and shut Miranda out. My mother was ashamed, my father was bewildered, but I was just plain scared.
She was my sister – we shared the same DNA. From as far back as I could remember, my unspoken mission had been to hold on tight to my sanity and never be like her. It was hard to love someone when so much fear got in the way. Hard to get close when all my instincts told me to keep my distance.
‘You’ve barely mentioned your sister since I’ve known you,’ said Con, stepping to my side. ‘I didn’t know she was so gifted.’
‘I didn’t know this was what she was producing,’ I retorted.
‘She’s sold three tonight already.’ He gave me a hug. ‘I’m sorry about the weekend.’
‘Did you manage to sort things out at the theatre?’
A tiny hesitation. ‘Yeah, yeah…it was…yeah.’
Over his shoulder, I was half-watching Miranda and Justin. She was showing him something in the brochure and he was looking interested and holding her hand. Justin saw me and dragged Miranda in our direction.
‘What do you think of the exhibition?’ Miranda asked.
I felt all their eyes on me. I was trying to figure out the right thing to say.
‘They’re challenging Sam’s comfort zone, I think,’ said Con. I couldn’t work out if he was having a go at me, or trying to make things easier.
‘What’s that?’ said Justin, attracted by a mobile twirling in the air by the window. Miranda followed him.
‘She told me her creativity is her reason for living,’ Con said pensively. ‘She said it saved her life when she was ill.’
‘She told you that?’ I said, staring at him. I felt a hole rip open inside. I couldn’t imagine Miranda ever confiding anything like this to me.
‘We had a chat on the phone the other night – when you weren’t in. She told me all sorts of things.’
‘Did she now?’ I felt my shoulders rising.
‘You’re not close?’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘She said you had a lot of catching up to do. That she’d been in an institution for twelve years.’
I nodded, impressed by Miranda’s frankness. ‘It’s difficult. She’s wonderful – bright, funny, eccentric – but she’s…’
‘She told me she couldn’t cope with normal existence, with the responsibilities and pressures when she was younger.’ He looked over at her; she was making Justin laugh, finding coins behind his ears. ‘She had to break free, that’s all.’
‘She told you all this?’
He shrugged.
‘Listen, I dearly love my sister – I really do…’ I was misty-eyed now; hurt, angry and upset with everything the day had brought me. ‘But she’s got a whole universe of demons and dragons inside her.’ I held my arm out towards the nearest picture as if to rest my case.
‘Yeah – she said as much.’
I brought my hands to my hips. ‘Did she tell you that at the age of nine, she went manic in the supermarket, ran down the aisles knocking boxes and tins off the shelves, yelping like a hyena? That at twelve, she emptied five wheelie bins of rubbish over the neighbour’s lawn? That at fifteen, she set fire to her own hair at one of my parents’ posh dinner parties? That at eighteen, for their silver wedding anniversary, she tried to bring a horse – yes, a two-year-old stallion – into the conservatory?’
I wasn’t sure what had sparked off this tirade. I’d turned up tonight to genuinely support Miranda, but it was starting to feel like a mistake.
‘She told me about that time in her life,’ he said. ‘Miranda’s sorted now. She’s on medication.’
‘That time? You make it sound like it lasted a couple of days. You weren’t there.’
‘It’s over now. Look at her – she’s better.’
‘How do you know? Are you some great psychiatric expert all of a sudden?’
I admired Con’s optimism, but right now it felt not only naïve, but reckless. ‘You don’t know what people are capable of, Con. One minute they’re acting perfectly normally, the next they’re…’ I knew I wasn’t talking about Miranda any more. Since the shock of Jake’s suicide my mind had flooded with self-doubt and fears of incompetence. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to leave.’
Con grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t let this spoil things…for us,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry.’ I let him pull me towards him. ‘I’ve had a terrible day. One of my patients killed himself. I feel like shit.’ My anger was melting into exhaustion.
Con held me close. ‘You should have said. We could have come another night.’
‘I didn’t want to disappoint Miranda.’
Con interlocked his fingers with mine. ‘She would have understood.’
‘I think I need to go,’ I muttered.
He stroked a strand of hair out of my eyes. ‘Shall we come with you?’
‘No. Justin is enjoying himself,’ I said. ‘I’ll get some fresh air and have an early night. Say goodbye to them for me.’ I gave him a warm, lingering kiss on the lips and he watched me go.
On the bus home I felt numb. I tried to put Jake out of my mind and I thought about Con and Miranda instead. About how quickly he seemed to have got to know her and how
little he seemed to know me. Was that my fault? Was I too preoccupied with work?
The bus pulled away from the next stop and a man carrying an old television sat down in the seat next to me. I shivered when I remembered the spare lead Stan had found in my office that afternoon. I remembered looking up and seeing the books tumble into the space when he unplugged it.
Then one of the WPC’s questions came to mind and sparked a query of my own. She’d asked if I’d taped my sessions. Now I was wondering if someone else had.
Jake Stowe’s parents were waiting for me when I arrived at the hospital the next day. They looked like they’d had about as much sleep as I had.
‘They said you were the last person to see him,’ said Mrs Stowe accusingly. She was tall and wiry like Jake. ‘He was due to get married in the autumn,’ she added, as if I’d deliberately ruined his future. She buried her face in a man’s handkerchief. Patients sitting in the nearby waiting area were starting to crane their necks. I had no option but to invite the couple into my office.
‘We just want to know why,’ said Jake’s father, as they took adjacent seats. He was clutching his wife’s hand as if they were on a particularly hair-raising fairground ride.
I cleared my throat. ‘I only had one consultation with Jake, I’m afraid. I didn’t know very much about him. He gave no indication – no indication whatsoever – about what he was going to do.’
‘But he must have been upset. I’m mean – that’s why he was here in the first place, wasn’t it?’ said Mrs Stowe, tipping the chair forward onto two legs.
‘I see patients who have Post-Traumatic Stress,’ I said. ‘Yes – they’re all having problems coping after some horrific experiences. Did he talk to you about what had happened to him at all?’
‘The car accident?’
I hesitated. ‘Or anything else that might have been worrying him?’
‘No – we…he’s always been a quiet boy. We thought it was a good idea when he finally decided to come and see…a professional.’ Mrs Stowe looked up with disgust as she said the final word.
‘He didn’t mention an incident on the Tube?’
‘What incident?’
‘The fire at Liverpool Street.’
Mr and Mrs Stowe looked at each other. ‘No. Are you sure you’re talking about our Jake?’ said his father.
‘It’s a bit of a mystery, I’m afraid, but Jake definitely talked about being involved in an incident on the Underground.’
‘It’s news to us,’ said Mrs Stowe.
‘I think Jake could have been confused,’ I said. I didn’t want to come straight out and accuse their son of an obvious lie. I still hadn’t seen Jake’s medical history, so I had to tread carefully. ‘Was he prone to periods of depression?’
‘He was a bit low after the car accident, if that’s what you mean?’
‘And before the accident?’
She looked at her husband and they shook their heads. Now wasn’t the right time for these sorts of questions. I’d have to wait for Jake’s notes.
‘I’m so very sorry…’ I finished feebly.
I opened the door for them and watched as they shuffled along the corridor in a daze, like they were making their way through thick fog.
I needed an urgent fix of caffeine after that, so I hurried to the canteen for an espresso. When I returned to my office, I found Professor Schneider standing inside.
He was portly but tall, with receding dark hair swept back as if he was constantly battling a fierce wind. He had his hands in his pocket like he was hiding something.
‘I wanted to speak to you and your phone…was engaged,’ he said, not quite looking at me. ‘So I thought I’d drop by, instead.’
I walked over and lifted the receiver to be greeted by a healthy dial tone. ‘I don’t know what the problem is,’ I said.
He rocked from one foot to the other. ‘Just wanted to check you were okay…after the…terrible business.’
‘It’s been a nasty shock,’ I said.
He nodded, his thumb under his chin, his finger on his lip.
‘What does your supervisor have to say about it?’
‘I’m still waiting to have a new one sorted out…after Dr Derriman left…if you remember?’
Professor Schneider knew I’d been without a clinical supervisor for weeks. He was the one who was supposed to be setting up a new one.
‘Ah, yes, we need to get that fixed up.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ he said. ‘Let me know if there’s anything…’ He tailed off. Our eyes met and I caught a glimpse of hostility, not concern.
‘Thank you,’ I said, trying to mask my confusion.
Once he’d left, I stood by the door – the key in my hand.
What had Professor Schneider been doing alone in my office? With icy realisation, I was suddenly certain about one thing. When I’d left the room a few moments ago, I’d definitely locked the door.
I had back-to-back patients for the rest of the day. I was exhausted by the end of it, but glad to focus on other people’s emotional turmoil instead of my own.
‘You’re working late.’ Leo Hansson loomed out of the shadows, making me jump.
The canteen had long since closed and we had both chosen to risk the vending machine for a coffee. It was about as close to the real thing as Bucks’ Fizz is to champagne, but it gave the illusion of a caffeine hit.
‘I’ve got a report to do for the police.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘What’s your excuse?’
I knew he was behind with his patients again today. One of his colleagues had told me he’d been at his wife’s bedside again for most of the previous night.
Leo ignored my question. ‘The suicide?’
‘You heard,’ I said nodding.
‘Are you okay? He was one of yours I understand.’
‘Yeah, although we’d only had one proper session.’
He stirred the murky mixture. ‘We can’t work miracles.’
‘He was obviously very mixed up…you know…’ I caught a drip from the bottom of my cup. ‘But it’s still a horrible shock.’
‘People are unpredictable – you should know that by now.’ He walked with me down the corridor, but his steps were crisp and stiff, putting me on edge. ‘Kim was right, you know, the other day,’ he continued. ‘I’ve been busy providing for her and Felicity, her sister, giving them what I thought they wanted, but I haven’t been there at all.’
I turned to him, forced him to stop. ‘People show love in different ways,’ I said. ‘Women often use words, or show love with physical affection, but men often do things – they take action to show their love.’
There was a taut silence. I could tell my argument wasn’t holding any water.
‘Nice try,’ he said. ‘I’m taking your advice and seeing them both soon anyway. It’s a start.’
‘Good.’
‘I think I’ve been overcompensating for my own childhood,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you this.’
‘Don’t apologise…go on…I’m a good listener…or at least, I’m supposed to be.’
‘It’s true, you are. But, perhaps we should leave it there. You’ve got enough patients to cope with in your day job, you don’t need any more, after hours.’ He smiled and turned to go.
I touched his arm. ‘Not at all…I’ll let you into a secret. I can’t bear small talk and idle banter. Besides, I can tell you’re someone who thinks and reflects deeply on things. I find that very…’ I was going to say ‘attractive’, but rapidly changed it to ‘interesting’.
I stayed still, waiting for his response. ‘You really want to know?’
‘It’s a problem we therapists have,’ I said. ‘We’re inveterate nosy parkers.’
He pulled a face. ‘You asked for it. Shall we sit?’
He indicated a bank of empty chairs in an unlit waiting area ahead of us. Instinctively, we turned our chairs towards each other.
‘My mother was a successful historian,’ he began, ‘she was always hidden away in her study. The first words I ever learnt to read were Do Not Disturb from a notice hanging on her door. I remember her drifting like a ghost from room to room; passing through, but never stopping to speak to me. As an only child in a large house cut off from neighbours, I learnt to occupy myself with reading, studying and playing with the anatomical skeleton that belonged to my father. My best friend became an old set of encyclopaedias I found in the cellar.’
I nodded. I knew the feeling; with Miranda off the rails and Mum and Dad preoccupied with their careers, I too had sought friendships in books.
‘One of my earliest memories is of a fishing trip with my father…’ he went on. ‘I’d managed to fill a plastic box with writhing three-spined sticklebacks. Then I’d hooked a brown trout. The fish was wily, I was inexperienced and lost it. My father didn’t say a word. He took my plastic box and threw all the fish I’d caught back into the river. Then he made me crouch down as he ducked my head under the water and told me to start again.’
I swallowed hard.
‘Seems rather sad to have to admit that this is my most vivid childhood recollection. I’d have preferred a special occasion, brimming with love and sunshine. I thought I’d learnt my lesson, thought I could avoid the imbalance of my own upbringing. Now I realise, of course, that I’d got it all wrong.’ He found my eyes and didn’t let them go. ‘I thought the most important thing for any child was to have a good relationship with its mother. I’d really missed out on that when I was young, so I guess I stood back and let Helena do all the work. I didn’t play enough part in the family myself.’
I was shocked by his candour. And deeply touched.
‘You did what you thought was best at the time,’ I said. ‘That’s all any of us can do.’
For a second I wondered why Con and I had never had conversations like this. It was hard to explain, but Leo and I seemed to be made of the same emotional fabric. I looked at him and saw a reflection of myself: outwardly strong and self-assured, but confused and lost underneath.