by A J Waines
The kitchen door was ajar and I watched them from the sofa. Miranda was pouring the coffees and Con was laying biscuits on a plate. I didn’t want to get caught up with any silly jealousy about the two of them. It was all above board. I was sure of that. The only reason Con hadn’t said anything was because he knew I’d react badly, due to Miranda’s turbulent history.
As I watched her, a memory flickered on the edges of my vision and then came out into the open. It had been kicking around inside my head for so long, I wasn’t sure if it was a memory or a dream. We were young; Miranda must have been about eight. She came out of my parents’ bedroom one morning, her thumb in her mouth, trailing a towel behind her. The look on her face said she’d been smacked, but the towel hid her legs. Dad always left his mark. Although Mum was the disciplinarian, it was usually Dad who was railroaded into dishing out the final punishment.
I remember I was sitting on the landing and Miranda walked straight past me with a fixed stare.
I don’t know why that particular scene had lodged itself in my mind. Maybe it was the blank look on her face that I’d found so disturbing. Maybe her illness had been taking hold, even then.
I heard Miranda laugh and looked up. She and Con appeared to be sharing a joke. I wondered if I’d spent most of my adult life feeling not only afraid, but sub-consciously jealous of Miranda. Not of her artistic skills per se, but of her unfettered ability to express herself.
I stayed for coffee but the strain was palpable. Invisible strands of barbed wire crisscrossed the room with every comment we made to each other. After twenty minutes, I made a hasty and somewhat inelegant exit.
Chapter 18
In spite of my sleeping tablets, Monday morning broke early, at 5am, with fierce, driving rain that thrashed against the windows, declaring war. I gave in and caught the bus to the hospital.
The harsh reality of Jake and Jane’s deaths hit me again as I entered the building. I’d kept calm over the weekend, remembering Miranda’s words – I couldn’t save everyone. But here I couldn’t escape reality.
Leo spotted me in the corridor on his way to theatre.
‘How are you coping?’ he said, with concern.
‘So-so,’ I said.
‘I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.’
‘I can’t just disappear. There are other patients at risk.’
‘Are you going to section them all?’ he said, with a wry smile. He didn’t look like he expected a response. He squeezed my shoulder. ‘Ask if you need anything,’ he added.
That evening, Con invited me to join him and Miranda for supper. He met me outside the hospital and we caught the Tube to Balham. I could see what he was doing; trying to get us all onto a better footing. There was an unspoken brittle edge between the three of us now, which would take more than a few helpings of coq au vin to sort out, but I admired him for his intentions.
It was clear as soon as I arrived that Miranda was making a supreme effort too. She’d bought a bottle of my favourite wine (she must have asked Con). She’d put Norah Jones on the hi-fi (again, no doubt after consultation) and the pair of them served up an exquisite three-course meal. Being the guest felt altogether different this time.
Con’s mobile rang just as he was about to start the washing up. He left the room to take the call and came back seconds later with his jacket on.
‘Sorry – got to go,’ he said, grabbing his keys from the stand by the door.
‘Is it Justin?’ I said, getting up.
‘No.’ There was nothing else. No further explanation. ‘I’ll try not to be too long.’ He pulled me towards him, buried a kiss in my hair and waved to Miranda.
‘What’s that all about?’ I asked, after the door slammed.
She made a dismissive grunt. ‘Probably the theatre,’ she said. ‘He often rushes off at short notice.’
A frown crept across my forehead as I went to fill the washing up bowl. Then as Miranda made coffee, I asked to take a closer look at the pictures she’d brought to the flat and thought no more of it. I realised that I hadn’t done justice to the ones I’d seen at the opening in Camden. I stood before each canvas in turn. The wine helped, but I found the tormented images just as disturbing.
‘I don’t make them up,’ came a voice behind me. ‘It’s just what I see inside my head.’
‘I think I’m starting to understand that now.’
‘Painting helps to clear them out,’ said Miranda, a tea-towel slung over one shoulder. ‘It’s like a catharsis and confession all in one.’
‘Confession?’ I couldn’t imagine what Miranda meant by that.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she blew dust off the frame of the next picture and started plumping up cushions. I knew she’d heard me. I didn’t push it. I tried to imagine what it must be like to have these images – not here, safely on the wall, but roaming loose and untamed inside one’s own head.
All of a sudden I needed to know the answer to a question.
‘Can I ask you something before Con comes back? It’s been on my mind.’ I felt the back of my throat tighten.
‘What?’ Her eyes were locked onto mine, steely with fear and defiance, trying to read what I was going to say. There was no going back.
‘Have you ever tried to… commit suicide?’
‘Oh, that,’ she said, casually, flopping onto the sofa. ‘Yes – just once. Shortly after I was put away. I cut my wrists.’
She turned her hands over and I saw pale scars running across the veins under her plaited bracelets. I cleared my throat, trying to hide my horror. I was surprised and ashamed that I’d never noticed them before. My own sister.
I couldn’t string the right words together. ‘I’m sorry…I should…I wish…’
‘Oh, come on – you’re not going to stand there apologising all night, are you?’ She rubbed my arm. ‘It’s over.’ She was trying to sound flippant, but she didn’t convince me.
‘Is it over?’ I asked. ‘For good?’ I stood over her so she had to look at me. ‘Do you ever go back to those dark feelings?’
She took her time, staring blankly over my shoulder. ‘You want the truth?’
‘Of course – these paintings…they’re recent. Something is definitely not right,’ I said gently, not daring to move.
Her next words came from a distant place. ‘The truth is – it’s never over.’
I stayed perfectly still and when she didn’t say more, I spoke again. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you.’
She stretched out her foot and pointed and flexed her toes, like a child. ‘I know it must have been tough – I was insufferable at times.’
‘You can talk to me, you know…tell me what’s going on.’
She shrugged me off. ‘I’ll explain, one day.’
With that, she shut me out, flicking on the television and humming out of tune.
She slipped out for a pint of milk shortly afterwards and in the meantime Con returned. He looked grim until he realised I was watching him, then he kissed my cheek hard with a loud mwah sound.
‘Everything okay?’ I said, with concern.
He slipped into a blasé tone. ‘Yeah, yeah. All sorted.’ He threw his jacket over a chair. ‘Any coffee going?’
I poured him a mug. ‘Miranda’s gone to get milk. She won’t be long.’
I tried to read his face; tried to work out what was going on. Were all these sudden disappearing acts about the theatre? He obviously wasn’t going to volunteer anything and I was too tired to risk a heated discussion about it.
‘Is it working out with Miranda at the flat? Has she been okay?’ I asked, instead.
He laughed and clapped his hands together. ‘Actually, she’s a great flatmate. She insists on cooking all the time and doing the cleaning. I’ve landed on my feet.’
‘I’m a bit worried about her,’ I said. ‘Something’s not right – it’s as if she’s trying too hard – covering something up.’
Con gave it some thought. ‘Na – y
ou’re seeing things.’ His eyes rolled slightly, with fatigue. ‘You spend too much time with head cases. She’s doing fine.’
Con insisted that I stay over. Even though I had work the next day, I agreed. I felt our relationship could do with some extra consolidating. I wanted so much for him to be right for me, but something was always just slightly off.
During the night, Con started his sleepy monologue again. A noise downstairs disturbed me or I might not have heard him. I went to the bathroom and, too awake by then to seamlessly slide back into the flow of sleep, I took a pen and wrote down his words. They might provide some light relief over toast in the morning.
‘Blocked,’ he said. Then, ‘busy…crowd.’ He turned over, churning up the duvet, raising his voice, ‘Stuck…’ His leg jerked and he huffed. ‘Dark…faster.’
It didn’t take long for the novelty to wear off and for me to wonder how long this sleep-talking episode was likely to go on for. I needed my rest, especially as I had patients first thing in the morning.
Con grunted facedown, then a low wail came from his mouth, muffled by the pillow. I noticed beads of sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. ‘Run!’ he said. ‘Get out…’ He thrashed his arm, narrowly missing my notebook. I put it down and put my hand on his back. He was boiling.
‘Con, it’s okay,’ I said, stroking his shoulders.
He barked something at me. It sounded like ‘doorway… narrow… can’t get through.’ Then he broke into a loud shout and sat up, ‘Got to get OUT…what the—’
He was awake. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, wiping the sweat with his palm into his hairline. ‘I thought I was done for.’ He pulled his knees towards his chest and rested his head on them, panting.
‘It’s okay – it was just a nightmare.’
‘I haven’t had one of those in years.’
I definitely couldn’t remember a time when he’d been distressed in the night like this before.
He got up and I heard him running water in the bathroom. He came back wiping his face with a towel. ‘Sorry, I woke you,’ he said. He stretched out over me pinning me to the mattress. ‘Now that we’re both awake, however…’
He started nibbling my ear and my neck, but we didn’t get far. His breathing got heavier, his movements slowed to a stop and I could tell he’d fallen back to sleep. I eased his weight gently to one side of me and pressed my face into his hair to fill myself with the smell of him. Then I put out the light.
Con didn’t mention the disturbance over breakfast and neither did I. It was a one-off. With any luck he’d forgotten all about it.
When I got to the hospital that morning, Debbie told me Professor Schneider wanted to see me.
‘So does that new doctor. What’s his name?’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Dr Graham.’
‘Dr Graham?’ The man who had got the wrong floor and ended up in my office. ‘What did he want?’
‘I don’t know. He was hovering near your door earlier. I told him you weren’t in yet.’
I shrugged and made my way to the stairs. Dr Graham was going to have to wait.
I found the professor in his room pacing back and forth, talking on speaker-phone. He didn’t look well. His hair was tossed awry and there was an untamed look in his bloodshot eyes. I hadn’t been looking forward to this meeting. No doubt I was about to be hauled over the coals for sitting by while two of my patients killed themselves.
‘Come in,’ he said absently, as he switched the phone back to the handset, still on his feet.
I tumbled into the seat in front of his desk and waited. I thought about Jake. What sort of inner torment had he gone through before he ended up on the Holborn Viaduct? And Jane – what had happened to send her straight down to the river to drown herself, right after our session? They had rarely been out of my mind.
The professor ended the call and straightened up. I decided to jump in first.
‘This is the second one,’ I said. ‘Something is terribly wrong and I don’t know what to do.’
He put up his hand wearily in an effort to get me to calm down. I took no notice and ploughed on, telling him it was now clear that both Jane and Jake had fabricated stories about being involved in the Tube fire. He leant his elbow on the filing cabinet, watching me. Confusion twisted the already grim expression on his face.
‘You’re sure about this?’
I explained all the areas where their stories didn’t add up.
‘You’ve done your research,’ he said, sounding exasperated. ‘Who knows why people do these things.’ There was a tremble in his voice when he spoke. ‘We’ve had our fair share of suicides before you joined us, believe me, it’s nothing new.’ He was trying to reassure me, but not making a very good job of it.
‘But – so close together? Both seeing the same therapist? Both lying about the same incident? Jane rushed off to kill herself the moment after I’d spoken to her.’
I pressed my fist into my mouth. I didn’t want to cry again. I needed to be strong to face this, sort it out.
He was unnerving me, standing there. Finally, he sat down. ‘It isn’t the first time we’ve had a glut of suicides,’ he said.
A glut? How many more was he anticipating?
‘I’ve looked into their records,’ he continued. ‘Apparently, Jane LaSalle had taken anti-depressants in her late teens and Jake Stowe had made an attempt before – three years ago.’
‘Really?’ My gaze was glued to his face. ‘I asked Jake if he’d ever considered suicide and he assured me he hadn’t.’ Another lie. ‘I’m sure his parents didn’t know about it.’ I glanced down at the batch of files on his desk. ‘Why didn’t these records come through to me?’
‘They’re here.’
‘Yes – I can see that. But I requested them. I should have had them from the start.’
‘And you requested them through the correct channels?’
I hesitated. ‘Well…I think so.’
He straightened his tie and I had the distinct impression he was trying to create some kind of smokescreen, letting the blame hover over me for not following the right procedures with hospital records, rather than admitting to a failure in the system.
He spread his hands on the desk and leaned towards me. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll all back you to the hilt.’ He drew a loud breath. ‘But…what we need to do is make sure that the hospital is covered at every turn. We can’t afford for this to escalate into a media witch-hunt or for people to start claiming we were negligent.’
‘I see,’ I said. So his concern was more for the hospital’s reputation than for the victims.
‘You just need to learn to say “no comment” whenever anyone asks you any questions – understand?’
I nodded. ‘Is there going to be some kind of investigation?’
‘The police will want to cover all the usual ground, but it’s nothing to worry about.’
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. At that moment his phone rang and he snatched up the receiver. I wasn’t sure whether I should leave, but he stuck out his arm and beckoned, when I started to get up.
I sat back and waited.
‘Yes…I know that already…yes, you did…no, that’s not what I said…’ he hissed into the receiver. I pretended not to listen and let my gaze roam around the room instead.
On the wall by the door hung an over-sized photograph: a group of four in soft-focus, presumably his family. The professor, looking dignified, was at the centre, a distinguished woman stood by his side and two boys of university age knelt at the front. I’d heard, however, that this epitome of domestic bliss no longer told the full story. Perhaps the person he currently didn’t sound too pleased to hear from was his wife?
Beside the photo was a framed certificate from several years ago, awarding the professor The Jeffersen Prize for medical advances. I’d heard through the grapevine it was for improvements in pacemakers, although various colleagues had joked that he was building his wife a kinder heart.
He e
nded the call abruptly and blew out his cheeks.
‘Where were we?’ he said.
‘The files. Can I have them now?’
He considered it. ‘Yes – I think that’s appropriate under the circumstances.’
‘I need to find out if there’s a link between Jane and Jake. Maybe they knew each other. Perhaps it was some kind of pact. We need to know.’
For a second, he looked like a rabbit caught in headlights, before he turned his response into a shrug. ‘That’s not our concern.’
I thought I’d misheard him at first. Not our concern? Who was he trying to kid?
‘But shouldn’t we be finding out exactly what’s going on? We could track the two of them down on social networking sites – see if they were in contact.’
He was shaking his head. ‘You’re not a detective, Dr Willerby. If the police want to do that, it’s their business – it certainly isn’t ours.’
I couldn’t let him do this. Couldn’t let him fob me off. ‘But – we need to find out what this is all about.’
‘Find out how? We can’t climb inside their heads, Dr Willerby – dead or alive.’ He laughed. He dared to laugh and I nearly stormed out there and then. I grabbed the arm of the seat, squeezing it hard, forcing myself to stay within the bounds of professionalism.
‘Claiming to be a survivor, telling a therapist, then taking your own life – it’s an extraordinary series of events,’ I insisted. ‘And for it to happen twice—’
‘Just leave it!’ he roared. He slammed both palms down on his desk in an emphatic gesture.
I got up, snatched the files, grabbed the door handle with slippery fingers and left, even more certain that there was something weird going on.
Why was the professor so guarded about finding out the truth? I wasn’t going to rest until I got to the bottom of it.
As I stormed along the corridor, I remembered the time he’d appeared in my office without my permission and I thought about the lead that had been hidden in my bookshelves. Had he been recording my sessions? Why on earth would he do that without my knowledge?