by A J Waines
He looked dazed. ‘That’s ages ago. I’ve no idea.’
‘You don’t have a diary?’
He shook his head.
‘How do you remember appointments?’
‘I just remember them, or I write them on my hand.’ He held up his fist, which had a smudged black doodle on it I couldn’t make out. I reached into my bag for my diary and flicked through the pages. He hadn’t been with me at that time.
‘Do you remember going to Liverpool Street?’
‘No.’ His response was immediate. ‘Why would I go there?’
‘That’s where the fire you’re describing took place. On May 28th.’
He scratched his head. ‘Did it? It can’t be that, then – this was just recently.’
I sighed loudly.
His forehead crumpled and his eyebrows dipped together. ‘You think I’m…I’m…making it up?’ he stammered.
I faltered. ‘No. I don’t know what’s going on.’
He looked deflated, lost.
‘Have you never heard the names Jake Stowe, Terry Masters or Jane LaSalle?’
He pulled a face. ‘No. Who are they?’
‘Patients,’ I said. I didn’t tell him that two of them were dead. ‘One’s an accountant, one’s a builder. Have you ever been to Jerry’s Fish Plaice on Tottenham Court Road?’ That was the café where Jane used to work.
‘No way – you know I hate the smell of fish.’
‘When did you last go on the Underground?’
‘Earlier this week, with you.’
‘You’re sure that was the last time?’
He nodded.
I remembered it. He’d met me after work on Monday and we’d caught the Underground to his flat. He’d been his usual self. No hesitation about going down the escalator, no problems getting on a train. Even a person with nerves of steel would show some signs of trepidation having been through the incident Con had described.
I bit my lip. I wasn’t getting anywhere.
What had happened to him? I knew Con. He was a fine actor, but he wasn’t into stupid make-believe like this.
‘Can I stay here, tonight?’ he said. ‘I know Miranda’s back at my place, but she’s been a bit cranky lately and I don’t want to be alone – if you know what I mean.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You must stay here.’ After what had happened to Jane and Jake, I didn’t want him out of my sight.
I went straight to the kitchen and grabbed all the knives from the wooden block, rolled them in a tea towel and stuffed them in a drawer. Scissors? How many pairs were there in the flat? I found one pair under the sink, another in the cutlery drawer.
I pictured the sitting room and bedroom – what other sharp objects were lying innocently around the place? Everything had become a potential weapon. Con hadn’t said anything about feeling suicidal, but it was the first thing I thought of. I couldn’t take any risks.
As Con brushed his teeth, I did a flying cull of the flat, tipping everything I could find that might cause any damage in a bag at the bottom of my wardrobe. I pulled the cord from my dressing gown, scoured the cupboards and hid away all the tablets. Was all this necessary? I didn’t care – who knew which way Con’s brain would turn? I had to keep him safe.
After he’d got into bed I went back to the kitchen. I switched the light off and stuck my head out of the window, willing the balmy night air to take all this madness away. It couldn’t be happening. Not to Con.
A waft of wisteria from the guttering below drifted up to me. Down on the street, a taxi honked its horn at a cyclist cutting the corner. It was never truly dark in the city – too many bright lights.
A shudder took hold of my entire body. I couldn’t lose Con. I’d got it all wrong. His jealous outbursts were bold statements of his love for me – that’s all. They showed he cared who I was with and what I was up to. They showed he wanted me for himself. I could live with them, couldn’t I? He couldn’t leave me now. I wouldn’t let him. No way.
I peeled off the grime on the window ledge; moss and twigs that had fallen from the gutter above. I dropped it over the edge and waited to hear the patter as it hit the patio below.
It sounded like Con was reliving the same horror as the others, but how was that possible? He recognised the smell when I said scorched oil. He seemed utterly convinced that he’d been involved.
There had to be another explanation. A cloud slid away from the moon and in that split second, a realisation hit home. They hadn’t been lying. They weren’t faking it. Jane, Jake and Terry, like Con, wholeheartedly believed they’d been there.
The following day, I was up at six-thirty, printing out notes and running through the PowerPoint presentation I was due to give that lunchtime. I’d slept fitfully, finding myself looking at the clock almost every hour. I’d given up the sleeping tablets. With Con potentially suicidal, I was prepared to stay awake all night if I had to. With so little sleep, I was feeling woozy, as if everything had a sheet of cling film over it.
When I came out of the bathroom, I had second thoughts about going. How could I leave Con and swan off to Cambridge?
I waited until eight-thirty, then called a friend of Con’s from the Young Vic.
‘I’m sorry it’s so early,’ I said. ‘I’m concerned about Con.’
‘Yeah,’ said Danny. ‘He was really weird when I saw him yesterday. Jumpy as hell. I’ve never seen him like that.’
‘Listen – are you busy today?’
‘Got a performance tonight, but largely faffing until then.’
‘This is going to sound crazy, but can you…look after him? Stay with him.’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Don’t let him out of your sight. He’s really not himself. Some patients I’ve seen at the hospital have had something similar and they’ve ended up…in a very bad way.’
‘Is it some kind of virus?’
‘I really don’t know. It’s got me totally flummoxed, I can tell you.’
‘Where is Con now?’
‘At my place.’ I gave him the address.
‘How is he?’
‘Asleep right now, but he was very upset when he came over last night.’
‘He was talking about a fire when he was with me yesterday, at the theatre. It was bizarre…I couldn’t work out what he was on about.’
‘I know…I felt the same. Can you come straight away?’ I checked my watch. ‘I’ve got to catch a train.’
‘I’ll be right over.’
Danny arrived looking like I’d dragged him away from Ascot, wearing shiny grey trousers, a checked jacket and waistcoat. A pink cravat was nestling inside his open-necked shirt, but it wasn’t unusual. Most times I’d seen him, he was incredibly well turned out. Con said it was because, when he was ten, he was plucked from obscurity on Oxford Street by a talent scout, to play a key part in Home Alone 3 and was always primed in case it happened again.
I pointed out the kettle, bread and biscuits.
‘Anything sharp, like the bread-knife, is hidden away,’ I told him, nodding towards the drawers in the kitchen.
‘Sure,’ he said, taking it all in his stride.
I liked Danny. He was intense, but gentle. I didn’t want to burden him, but I couldn’t leave Con on his own. After what had happened at the hospital, I had to give this lecture; I couldn’t afford to appear negligent in any other area of my work.
Con had spent another troubled night moaning, throwing himself around, clawing at the pillow, calling out. He was still asleep by the time I left, but it wouldn’t be for long.
I made Danny promise not to let Con fob him off and go walkabout.
On the way to the station, I took the radical step of looking up Terry’s number and giving him a call. He was booked in to see me next week, but I persuaded him to meet me at the weekend to try something I had in mind.
At the conference, I stumbled through my presentation, hoping there was no one important in the audience, my mind still firm
ly on Con. My plan was to escape as soon as I’d finished, but a professor from Oxford University, who claimed he’d read my research paper on separation anxiety, cornered me, insisting I stayed to have lunch with him.
Professor Monkton reminded me of a turtle, in his old-fashioned seaweed-green waistcoat. He had ginger sideburns the texture of scouring pads. I think he was bluffing about reading my work. I think he’d just glanced at my profile in the conference brochure and fancied some female company.
I picked at the salad, making trite small talk, checking my watch more often than was polite. He told me about the research he was doing. I was only half-listening – something about monkeys on an island.
After we’d finished, I took the opportunity to ask if he’d come across any recent papers on brainwashing or covert forms of coercion.
‘Not really…it doesn’t ring a bell.’ He scratched his blubbery cheek. ‘But you’re at St Luke’s aren’t you?’
I nodded as we stood up, ready to leave.
‘Well, have you spoken to Professor Schneider?’
‘Er, not directly.’ I tried to hide a shudder.
‘He might know,’ he said. ‘He’s been taking some diversions into neurology lately, I believe.’
I avoided his eyes. ‘Really?’
‘Anton Schneider’s a good friend of mine. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind talking to you about it. I can mention it, if you like.’
‘N-no, no – it’s okay,’ I stammered, as he held up my jacket for me. ‘Please don’t bother the professor,’ I insisted. ‘I can speak to him myself.’
When I finally managed to extricate myself and was on the train home, something about what Professor Monkton had said began to niggle at me. I wished I’d paid more attention. I flipped through the list of delegates in the brochure to find his name and the title of his latest research paper: The Hundredth Monkey and the Collective Unconscious. I read the abstract. It was based on the theory that an idea or skill can jump instantaneously from one portion of the population to another once a critical number is reached.
I leant against the window, my head jostling as the train rattled over points on the track. Could this be in any way related to what was happening with these four ‘survivors’? Was some sort of sinister idea being passed around that certain vulnerable people believed to be true? Was there some kind of cult involved?
I tried to remember what each of my patients had told me about their personal lives. Not much. I thought about Con. What groups did he belong to? The theatre was his life – was that the connection?
Con was asleep again when I got home. Danny was looking bored, doing a jigsaw at the kitchen table.
‘I haven’t had any trouble,’ he said. ‘He’s been in bed most of the time.’
I thanked him and offered to make him an early tea, but he wanted to get to the theatre.
While Con continued to sleep, I opened my laptop and looked for more information on the theory Professor Monkton had been working on. The concept wasn’t new; research had begun in the 1970s. The more I tried to apply it to the Tube incident, the more I was pulled towards the question of how. How had four people picked up the idea that they had been involved in a serious incident when they hadn’t been there?
It wasn’t long before I realised that the starting point wasn’t my biggest concern. It was how it was going to end that I should be focusing on. It was obvious now that all four of them had been genuinely traumatised by the scenes they believed they had witnessed, but there was a more significant factor. They all seemed to be suffering from extreme guilt. Was it this that was sending them over the brink, making them take their own lives? Terry Masters was still affected. Now Con seemed to be having the same experience. It was like a runaway train. I had no power to stop it.
I slammed my laptop shut.
I had to explain to Con the full story about the suicides. He had to know he was in grave danger.
Chapter 22
I dragged Con halfway across London on Saturday morning without telling him what it was about. Terry Masters joined us outside Liverpool Street shopping mall at 10am. What I had arranged was highly unorthodox, but it was the only idea I could come up with.
I thanked Terry for turning up and introduced him to Con, watching to see if there was any glimmer of recognition between them. I saw nothing.
‘Is this that exposure therapy thingy?’ asked Terry. ‘Where you have to face what’s scarin’ you?’
‘Not quite,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to ask either of you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.’
I led them past the flower stall until they could see the underground ticket hall, closely observing their reactions.
Terry looked edgy. ‘I’m not goin’ down there,’ he said.
I reassured him. ‘We’re staying right here. I’m not suggesting you go anywhere.’
Con turned to me, confused and rapidly running out of patience. ‘What’s going on? Why have you dragged us both out here?’
I addressed both of them. ‘Does this look like one of your flashbacks. Is this the ticket hall you keep seeing in your nightmares?’
‘I’m still squeamish about goin’ anywhere on the underground,’ said Terry straight away. ‘But I can tell you for sure. It wasn’t ’ere.’ He jerked his head in all directions. ‘Nah. The ticket office was on the other side and there weren’t as many barriers.’
‘He’s right,’ Con agreed. ‘This isn’t the place.’
I led them to the nearest café, finding a secluded table near the back, and explained that the only fire on a Tube in London in the last nine months had occurred here on the Central line on May 28th.
They looked at each other.
I also explained that two of my patients had described exactly the same kind of flashbacks. There was a chilling silence. Then I told them those patients had committed suicide.
There was an even chillier hush around the table.
Terry stared at me blankly. He had what looked like smudges of charcoal coating the sunken skin under both his eyes and he was using his elbows to prop his head up on the table.
‘That’s bollocks,’ he said. ‘You sayin’ I’m makin’ it all up?’ Despite being angry, his body looked too heavy for him to drag it out of the chair and leave.
‘No – I think you sincerely believe you were involved. You’ve all had extremely vivid memories of it. That’s part of the problem. It feels so real that you’re having difficulty coping with it.’
‘Okay,’ said Con, ‘What were we involved in then, if it wasn’t that fire at the end of May? It must have been somewhere else.’
‘That’s the issue – there hasn’t been any other incident – nothing remotely like the one you’ve all described. So – I thought if you two shared your stories, we might see a link somewhere.’
‘Won’t that just prove we were both there? Wherever it was?’ said Con.
‘We’ll see,’ I said. ‘You might have both been involved in something else that could be at the heart of this.’
‘Okay,’ said Con, looking like he was anxious to get it over with. He turned to me, his lips tight. ‘Before we start – what exactly happened to the others?’
I took a breath. I didn’t want to influence their accounts by saying too much. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
Terry swore under his breath. His knee hadn’t stopped bouncing up and down since he took a seat. Con started rattling his nails on the table.
I asked if they felt comfortable speaking about it in each other’s presence and they both nodded reluctantly. I also asked if either of them were taking recreational drugs or medication of any sort.
‘Headache tablets,’ Terry admitted. ‘Nuffin’ else.’
Con shook his head. I’d certainly never seen any signs he might be using drugs.
‘Okay – when you’re ready, I’d like you to explain your experiences in turn, in as much detail as possible.’
I knew exactly what I was looking for. It was how the
y told the story that was of most interest to me.
They both gave me permission to tape them, so I set my phone to record and placed it in the centre of the table. Con went first. He was articulate and his story flowed.
‘It was like this dark sea of faces. Hands reaching out to me, cries for help,’ he said. ‘At one point a guy broke through the smoke and his hair was on fire, his jacket, his arms. I ducked away from him.’ Con put his hands over his ears. ‘His screams were terrible. I should have tried to get him to the floor to beat out the flames with my coat. But I was scared I’d catch fire too. I turned away, I left him. Left them all. To die.’
His final words resonated in the space around us. But his theatrical skills were useful; he wasn’t afraid to turn it into a performance and I could see that was helping Terry to validate his own version of events. Terry nodded several times and his eyes glazed over as if he was seeing everything Con was describing inside his own head. He then followed with his version.
Terry’s account was stilted and more emotional, but their stories were remarkably similar. It was no surprise to me that both of them used the words scorched oil to describe the smell they’d encountered.
I asked them again if they knew where and when the incident took place. They both looked blank. I put the crumpled map Jake had drawn on the table.
‘Is this the layout you remember?’ I didn’t explain where the map had come from.
‘Yeah, yeah – that’s it!’ said Terry. He stabbed at points on the sketch. ‘Barriers ’ere, escalators there – steps round ’ere.’
Con couldn’t take his eyes off it. ‘God – yeah – this is what I remember, too.’
‘Where’s this, then?’ said Terry.
‘I don’t know, but it’s not Liverpool Street.’
They both looked at each other.
‘The next bit is a bit more difficult,’ I said, my voice catching in my throat. ‘I’m not going to beat about the bush here – I need to know how you’re feeling about suicide. I’m not saying either of you are going to do anything like the others – but we do need to address it.’