Death's Sweet Echo

by Maynard Sims

  I quickly spotted Maria. She was sitting on a tartan rug, dressed in a white cotton shift, her chestnut hair tied back from her face with a white ribbon. She didn’t look round as I approached. She was staring out at the placid water of the lake, as if lost in thought.

  'Hello, Maria,' I said when I was a few yards away, but my words elicited no immediate reaction. Undaunted by her lack of response, I sat down on the rug next to her and waited for her to acknowledge me.

  After a full minute of total silence, she finally spoke. 'They’re out there,' she said. 'In the water.'

  'Who are?' I said.

  'You don’t normally see them. They’re good at hiding. But if you’re patient, and quiet – you have to be very, very quiet – they come out. Then you can see them.'

  I looked at my daughter closely, looking for tell-tale signs in her eyes that she was on some kind of medication, but I couldn’t decide. Her eyes were a clear, vibrant green. She had her mother’s eyes, and staring into them took me back to a time, a happier time: when my wife, Elsa, was still alive and we were a complete and very happy family. Staring into my daughter’s eyes damned near broke my heart.

  Maria had just turned twenty, and it was hard to believe that only two years had passed since the trouble started.

  It had begun with Elsa’s untimely and premature death from cancer. It had shaken me to the core, but my reaction was nothing compared to Maria’s. She had not long finished her A levels, and passed, as I suspected she would, garnering two As and a B, and securing her place at Loughborough University, where she planned to read History. Elsa’s death derailed those plans.

  She and her mother were incredibly close; more like loving sisters than mother and daughter, and Maria felt the loss of her friend and confidante as a body blow. It left her reeling, and she reeled into the arms of a young man, Sean Penman, who had quite a reputation in our village. Tales of his rebellious nature, his drug use and regular bouts of violent behaviour sent shivers down my spine. And despite my best efforts to steer my precious daughter away from him, it wasn’t long before I realized that my efforts to dissuade her from the relationship were the equivalent of shouting into the wind. If anything, my disapproval of her choice of partner only served to strengthen her resolve to pursue him.

  I knew I had lost her when I had to rush her to the local hospital’s A and E unit suffering from what they told me was a drug overdose. When it happened twice more in the space of a year, I knew I would have to intercede or risk losing Maria from my life permanently.

  With the university place long forgotten, she moved out of the family home and into a squat in London with Penman. Legally I had no standing; she was nineteen now and, in the law’s eyes, a woman. It was only when Penman tired of her, as I guessed he would, and she arrived on my doorstep broken-hearted and destitute, that the flicker of hope that I could redeem her was fanned into life.

  I sought out the Drysdale clinic and paid them enough money up front to care for her and help her back on the path to a drug-free existence.

  'Who’re they?' I said, staring out at the still water of the lake.

  'The silver people, of course,' she answered, her gaze never leaving the surface of the water. 'And hush, they won’t come out if they hear you.'

  ***

  Susan Reynolds leaned back in her chair and regarded me across the desk. She was a handsome woman: mid-fifties, with neatly cut, short grey hair. She was impeccably dressed in a dark blue tailored suit over a vermillion silk blouse, a single row of pearls hanging at her throat, and she peered at me through a pair of rimless spectacles.

  ‘So who do you think she was talking about? The silver people, a strange but very precise choice of words.’

  ‘I was hoping you might tell me that,’ I said, feeling myself wilting under her intense scrutiny.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ she said.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Turner, I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s a fact that a number of our guests create worlds that, to them, are very real. It’s a common escape mechanism; immersing themselves in a world one step removed from reality.’

  ‘Have you conquered her addiction?’

  ‘It’s not the job of the Drysdale Clinic to conquer Maria’s addiction. That is down to Maria herself. We’ll give all the support and guidance we can and, where necessary, medication to ease the process of kicking the heroin.’ She lifted a page from the open file lying on the desk in front of her. ‘I see she’s three-quarters of her way through the methadone reduction program, so that in itself must give you hope. Another month or so should see her free of opioid dependency altogether.’

  I smiled. ‘I agree. It’s very good news. It’s just that this silver people thing has me a bit rattled.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. All I can recommend is that you don’t take it too seriously. Go along with her charade. If she says that silver people are living in the lake, then don’t say anything to challenge her belief.’

  ‘Humour her, you mean?’

  ‘If you like. It will do no harm long-term. Just see it as a crutch Maria needs at the moment. I’m sure it will pass, and your daughter will return to you, cured of her addiction, and clear-headed enough to return to her life as it was pre-dependency.’

  ‘Her university place is still open.’

  ‘There you are, then. That puts this silly silver people thing into perspective. What was she going to read?’

  ‘History.’

  ‘A bright girl, then. I thought as much. I’ve sat in on a few of her counselling sessions, and she always struck me as someone with a keen mind. I wish all of our guests shared her gifts.’ She smiled and got to her feet. The interview was over, at least as far as Susan Reynolds was concerned. I stayed seated.

  ‘Was there something else?’

  ‘You say to humour her; does that extend to saying to her that I can see the silver people myself?’

  She sat down again. ‘If necessary, yes. You’re trying to rebuild your relationship with your daughter, Mr Turner. Indulge her a little. Let her feel that you’re… singing from the same hymn sheet, as it were.’

  I nodded slowly. Yes, I could do that. I stood. ‘Well, thank you very much, Dr Reynolds. You’ve put my mind at ease.’ I walked to the door and wondered who it was I was meant to be humouring – Maria or Susan Reynolds.

  ***

  I dropped in to see Maria before I left the clinic, to say goodbye, and to tell her I would come to see her next week. I wished it could have been sooner, but the company I worked for were sending me up to Scotland to lecture at an IT seminar in Dumfries. It would be a week, at least, before I could get to Hertfordshire again.

  Maria was sitting on the bed in her well-appointed room. Music was playing softly on the small stereo in the corner. James Blunt – Back to Bedlam, an old favourite of hers – progress indeed.

  ‘You’re beautiful, it’s true,’ I crooned in her ear, singing along to Blunt, as I hugged her goodbye. I felt her struggle slightly in my arms and, as I released her, she took a step backwards, a slight flush to her cheeks.

  ‘Shhh, he’ll hear you.’

  I checked myself. ‘Who’ll hear me?’

  ‘Phillip. He’s my friend. He can get awfully jealous.’

  ‘Who’s Phillip?’ I said gently.

  ‘He lives in the lake.’

  ‘Is he one of the silver people?’ I said, trying my best to follow Dr Reynolds’ advice.

  She shook her head, vehemently. ‘No. Phillip is just Phillip. The silver people hate him because he’s not like them. He’s more like us. They want to kill him because he won’t become one of them.’

  I stood regarding her for a moment, while responses to this flashed through my mind, each dismissed before I could voice it.

  I settled for something anodyne. ‘Well, you take care until I can get along to see you next week.’

  She smiled: a warm
, genuine smile. It was wonderful to see. ‘Love you, Dad,’ she said.

  With tears welling in my eyes, I left the clinic quickly, and drove the sixty miles or so home with a warm feeling in my heart, and James bloody Blunt running endlessly over and over in my head.

  ***

  I got back from Dumfries on the Monday of the following week to find a stack of mail on my doormat, and a flashing light on my answering machine. I picked up the mail and sorted it quickly into piles – urgent, not so urgent and bin material – then I poured myself a scotch and settled down into my favourite armchair to play my messages.

  There were three in total, all from earlier that day, each one from Susan Reynolds, each one increasing in urgency. The final one made me put down the scotch and had me reaching for my car keys.

  ‘Please, Mr Turner, this is my third time of calling, and I must insist that you call in at the clinic at the earliest possible opportunity. There’s been an incident. One that I’m not prepared to discuss on the telephone, but one that needs your immediate attention.’

  The stupid woman. If it were that urgent, why didn’t she ring my mobile? As I started the car, I remembered. I’d recently upgraded my mobile phone, and thought I had texted everyone on my contacts list to advise them of my new number. I thought the Drysdale Clinic was on that list, but obviously not.

  ***

  I pulled in through the gates and took the drive at speed, spraying gravel in my wake.

  I barged into Dr Reynolds’ office without knocking. ‘What is it? What’s so urgent? Is Maria all right? Is she hurt?’

  Susan Reynolds looked at me furiously, and then I saw she was in the middle of a consultation with a middle-aged couple who were sitting, flanking a young man whose face looked vaguely familiar.

  ‘Mr Turner,’ she said. ‘If you could just wait outside until I’ve finished with Mr and Mrs Finnegan. I assure you, I’ll be with you shortly.’

  ‘But your message. You made it sound as if it were a matter of life and death. Has Maria been hurt?’

  She got to her feet, shooting the Finnegans an apologetic look. ‘Your daughter’s fine, Mr Turner. Now wait outside, please.’

  I allowed myself to breathe again, apologised to Mr and Mrs Finnegan, and left the office, closing the door behind me.

  I found myself back at reception. Janet was behind her desk, tapping away at her computer. She looked up at me and smiled. Not her usual smile of welcome, her professional smile, but a smile loaded with nuance – chiefly a smile of sympathy.

  I felt my spirits sink even lower than they had been on the journey here.

  ‘Janet,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me what the hell has happened?’

  ‘It’s not really my place to do so, Mr Turner. Dr Reynolds wants to speak with you herself. I’m sure she won’t be long.’

  I let it go and went to sit down in the small waiting area. I grabbed a celebrity magazine from the well-stocked rack and let my eyes flick over the pages. I was staring at pictures of celebrities without seeing them, and it was then that I remembered where I had seen the young man in Reynolds’ office before: Nicky Finnegan, singer from an Irish boy band, who’d rarely been out of the newspapers last year. I remembered reading of lucrative record deals and concert tours; ridiculously lavish parties, star-studded affairs that made the headlines for all the wrong reasons; and stories of alcohol and drug excesses that appeared in the more salacious scandal sheets and red tops. It was obvious to the casual observer that the downward spiral had begun in earnest for these five fresh-faced boys from the Emerald Isle.

  And now Nicky Finnegan was here at the clinic with his mum and dad, probably due to start a course of rehabilitation. I felt for Mr and Mrs Finnegan. It was sad when your children went off the rails, because, no matter what the experts say, you invariably ended up blaming yourself for their downfall.

  ***

  I watched the Finnegans trail out through reception and out through the front door. Finnegan Senior looked stoic; his wife was dabbing her tear-reddened eyes. I figured they’d left Nicky behind to start his treatment.

  Susan Reynolds stood at the door to her office. ‘Mr Turner,’ she called and, when I looked round, beckoned me inside.

  I took a seat across the desk from her. ‘Your messages sounded serious,’ I said.

  She adjusted her spectacles and fixed me with a look. ‘It is,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an incident concerning Maria. I’d like to emphasise that she wasn’t harmed in any way, but it does leave the clinic open to possible legal action from one of the aggrieved parties.’

  ‘Incident? Aggrieved parties? What on earth happened?’

  ‘Your daughter assaulted a member of staff,’ she said flatly.

  It was as if she’d punched me in the stomach. I felt all the air leave my body in a rush, leaving me reeling and breathless.

  When I’d recovered my equilibrium, I said, ‘Maria? Assaulting someone?’ My mind was scrabbling for some kind of logic; some kind of explanation that made a modicum of sense to me. It didn’t succeed, and I was left floundering. ‘But Maria is the least violent person I know. She just hasn’t got it in her.’

  ‘Sometimes the people we love the most have parts of their lives that remain a total secret to us,’ Reynolds said.

  My anger was close to the surface, and it erupted in a single word: ‘Bullshit!’

  Dr Reynolds looked unmoved by my outburst. ‘How long was it, Mr Turner, before you realised your daughter was a heroin addict?’

  I glared at her. That wasn’t fair. Maria kept her addiction well-hidden, even to the point of injecting herself between the toes so she wouldn’t leave track marks on her arms. But Reynolds had me and she knew it. She pressed home her advantage.

  ‘Mr George Grant. He comes in a couple of times a week to tend to the grounds. He’s not a professional gardener or grounds man; in fact, he’s a retired bank manager, an enthusiastic amateur. He doesn’t do it for the money, just as a way to fill his days, and to get him out of the house.’

  I stared at her, wondering where this was going. ‘And?’

  ‘Mr Grant claims your daughter assaulted him.’

  ‘Absurd,’ I said.

  ‘Tell that to the doctor at Lister Hospital who treated his wounds. He says that Mr Grant was subjected to a savage beating.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘Mr Turner, as unpalatable as you may find it, when my nursing staff arrived at the scene, there was only your daughter and Mr Grant there, and Mr Grant was unconscious on the ground.’

  ‘And where did this incident take place, and what did Maria say had happened?’

  ‘They found them down by the lake. As for Maria… well, I can only describe her state as close to catatonic. She seemed out of it, and just repeating more of her fanciful nonsense about the silver people. I don’t need to remind you of what you reported to me the other day.’

  ‘But what did she say, exactly?’

  ‘“They did it. The silver people. They hurt Mr Grant.”’

  ‘And how’s Grant now?’

  ‘He’s recuperating at home.’

  ‘And he’s going to press charges?’

  Reynolds shook her head. ‘No. George is a dear, sweet man. He won’t hear a bad word said about Maria. They used to chat away for hours when he was doing his work. No, we have nothing to fear from George.’ She took off her spectacles, breathed on them, and cleaned them with a tissue from a box on her desk. ‘His wife, however, is a different matter. Phyllis Grant is a retired JP, and something of a harridan. She’s screaming bloody murder and demands that someone pay for the crime.’ She leaned forward, elbows on the desk. ‘This isn’t going to go away, Mr Turner,’ she said seriously.

  I sat back in my chair and tried to digest what I’d just been told. I couldn’t believe that Maria had done this. Elsa had been the kindest, gentlest person I’d ever known, and Maria had her mother’s temperament to a T.
‘May I see her? I’d like to hear this in her own words.’

  ‘I’ll take you along to see her presently. But first I’d like to discuss some kind of strategy. See if we can’t resolve this mess before it goes any further.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Perhaps if you go to see them? Offer them your sincerest apologies. Make them see that your daughter isn’t a violent person, but a young woman who has made some bad choices in life. Speak to them as a father who will do anything to steer Maria onto the right path.’

  ‘In other words, throw myself at their feet and beg for mercy.’

  ‘Essentially, yes,’ she said with a bland smile.

  After a moment’s thought I said, ‘Okay. I can do that. But I want to see Maria first.’

  Dr Reynolds got to her feet. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll accompany you to her room.’

  ***

  Maria was sitting on her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms clamped around them tightly. The stereo was silent, but she was humming softly to herself.

  I sat down on the bed beside her. A few strands of hair had escaped the white ribbon and fell over her face. Gently, I pushed them away from her eyes.

  At my touch she turned her head to look at me, opened her mouth to speak, and then shut it again.

  ‘Hello, my darling. How are you feeling?’

  Again she opened her mouth, again she closed it. I glanced around at Susan Reynolds, who was hovering just inside the door. ‘Could you leave us alone?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll be in my office. Look in before you go. I’ll give you George Grant’s address.’

  I waited until she had closed the door, and then spoke to my daughter again. ‘Hey you,’ I said softly. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  She surprised me by grabbing my hand and squeezing it tightly. ‘Is George all right?’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

  ‘No lasting damage. He’s recovering at home. Did you attack him?’

  A kind of sob broke in her throat. ‘No, of course not. George is very special to me, always so kind. Why do people keep asking me if I hurt him? I would never hurt George. He’s my friend.’