Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.
Not that Shiv was altogether sure what it meant.
One time, Aunt Rosh had asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up and, without a moment’s hesitation, he’d said, “Holden Caulfield.”
Now, Mum joined them on the lawn, sitting on one of the wicker sunloungers. She’d got the camera out already and was firing off the first of what would no doubt be several hundred holiday snaps. She might’ve been posing for a glamour photo herself – yellow summer dress dazzling in the glare, the villa reflected in duplicate in the lenses of her sunglasses. Like a 1960s film star.
“It looks bigger in the flesh,” she said.
“The villa is made of flesh?” Declan said.
Shiv took her first proper look at the building. It was in the Greek style, with white walls, blue window frames and shutters, tiled roof, and a pergola draped with vines that shaded a dining area on the lower terrace. A balcony overlooked the poolside – an ideal place to watch the sun set over the bay. That was where Mum and Dad would share a bottle of red, last thing, their voices drifting to Shiv’s room. She still associated family holidays with falling asleep to her parents’ murmured conversation somewhere outside at the end of a long, warm day.
“There’s a welcome hamper!” Dad called from inside the villa.
“Wine?” Mum called back.
In reply, Dad made a whining noise.
“It’s a form of mental cruelty,” Dec said. “Dad Jokes. Banned in forty-seven countries around the world.”
“Forty-six,” Shiv said. “North Korea refused to sign the treaty.”
“Ah, yes, you’re right, Shivoloppoulos. Can’t believe I forgot.”
Declan got up and perched on the edge of Mum’s sunlounger. Shiv sat the other side of Mum, who put an arm round each of them, massaging their backs.
“So, Child A and Child B – do we like it here?”
“Hmm,” Shiv said, “I suppose it’ll do until we reach the holiday villa.”
At that moment, Dad appeared, wearing his tartan swimming shorts and goggles, his nose gleaming white with sun-block. “Right,” he said, “who’s coming for a dip?”
2
After dinner, the residents are shown into a small, windowless room done out in shades of blue and furnished with six chairs in a single row facing a plain oval desk with a further four chairs lined up behind it. The residents fill up the row of six, as instructed. Shiv sits between Caron and a girl called Lucy: a plump, moon-faced chatterbox, the same age as Shiv – friendly, if over-eager – who dominated the conversation (and the food) at Shiv’s end of the table during dinner. Next to Lucy is a girl whose name Shiv can’t recall, then one of the boys – the younger one. Mikey? Yes, Mikey. He must be thirteen, or he wouldn’t be here, but could pass for ten. Short and slight, twitchy with nervous energy, continually roughing his fingers through his shortish, dark-blond hair or fiercely chewing his nails.
“OCD,” Caron whispered to her at dinner, nodding in his direction.
At the end of the line is Docherty, who insists on being called by his surname. He looks seventeen going on twenty, with a US-army-style buzz cut and a spider’s web tattoo on his right elbow. Good-looking in a hard, getting-into-fights kind of way. He barely spoke at dinner. It was a strange meal all round, the conversation stilted, cramped by self-consciousness. They all seemed to heave a sigh of relief when it was over and the orderly who’d supervised them ushered everyone out of the dining room.
“Shame to break up the party,” Caron muttered to Shiv on their way out.
Shiv tried hard to keep a straight face.
Now, as they settle into their seats in the Blue Room, a second door opens and four staff file in. Two men and a woman are in blue-and-grey uniforms, a cross between a tracksuit and something a paramedic might wear. At the rear is an older woman in a sharp grey business suit carrying a stack of buff cardboard folders.
The uniforms sit facing the patients across the oval desk but the suit remains standing, taking up a position at one end of the desk. She sets the folders down.
“Good evening, everyone,” she says. “And welcome to the Korsakoff Clinic.”
She beams, arms spread in the mime of an embrace, the illumination from the spotlights in the ceiling reflecting off her glasses and giving her mannishly short, salt-and-pepper hair a silver sheen. Fifty? Sixty? Those glasses look expensively stylish; the twinkly eyes behind the lenses are the same shade of green as Mum’s.
“I am Dr Pollard,” she tells them, “the Director of the clinic. My colleagues –” she points in turn “are Assistants Webb, Hensher and Sumner.”
Shiv tags them: Webb is the cool black guy; Hensher is the awkward ginger guy; Sumner is the too-smiley, fake-tanned blonde. None looks older than thirty.
“There are other staff here, of course,” Dr Pollard continues. “Gardeners, cooks, cleaners, security, a maintenance man, a nurse – Zena, whom you will have met – and a couple of orderlies … but the four of us –” she gestures at herself and her colleagues behind the desk – “will be the ones who supervise your treatment.” She pauses. “We will be the ones who help to make you well.”
A snort of laughter further along the row. Mikey.
The Director’s gaze settles on him, lingering for a moment, as though she’s debating whether to challenge his reaction or ignore it. She ignores it.
The look establishes her authority better than any words.
“OK, so,” Dr Pollard says, returning her attention to the group, “what is this strange place in which you find yourselves? What is the Korsakoff Clinic?”
Her gaze trawls the line of residents, like she’s waiting for a hand to go up – or, worse, is about to pick one of them to answer.
The Director presses on. “Those of you who’ve read the literature we sent to your parents and guardians will have an idea of who we are and what we do. No doubt some of you will have googled us as well.” She says the word as though holding it between tweezers like a captured wasp.
Shiv has read the literature. Shiv has googled.
As soon as she’d been recommended for referral, she tried to find out as much as she could. Not that there’s much to be found – not about what goes on here, anyway. The Korsakoff Clinic’s methods appear to be cloaked in mystery, rumour and misinformation. Even its own prospectus gives only a vague outline of the treatment programme. Most of the text describes the place’s history. So, Shiv knows the clinic was founded by the Korsakoff Institute, a psychotherapeutic research body established a decade ago thanks to the bequest of an anonymous, and very wealthy, American donor. It is named after a neuropsychiatrist whose theory is at the root of the clinic’s “therapeutic strategy”. Shiv made little sense of it (at least, Wikipedia’s definition). But, by all accounts, it has created a buzz in international psychiatric circles, with three clinics opening around the world – in the US, Canada and Germany – and now a fourth, in the UK. The British clinic is partially funded by the government after winning a contract to trial its innovative methods in small groups. Since it opened a year ago, three sets of adults have been treated here.
Shiv and the others are the first teenagers.
“What I want to get straight,” Dr Pollard continues, “is why you’ve been sent to us in the first place.” That beaming smile, which disappeared with Mikey’s interruption, resurfaces. The gap between her front teeth is almost wide enough to fit another tooth. “Of all those referred to us, why have we chosen to accept you? What makes the six of you so special?”
“’Cos we’re the craziest of the cray-zeeez.” This is Caron.
One or two of the others laugh; even Assistant Webb cracks a grin.
“It’s Caron, isn’t it?” Dr Pollard asks. When Caron nods, the Director presses her palms together and says, “Sorry to disappoint you –” that gap-toothed beam again – “but, no, you’re not the craziest young people in the country. You are,
however, just the type of crazies we happen to like.”
Should they find this funny? No one seems quite sure.
“Your specific individual circumstances are different, of course.” Dr Pollard is serious again. “But you’re all here for the same three reasons.” She counts them off on her fingers. “One, you’ve each suffered a traumatic bereavement. Two, this trauma has resulted in psychological delusion, making you a danger to yourself or to others. And, three, conventional therapies have failed to help you.”
A hand goes up.
“Yes, Mikey,” the Director says. She doesn’t need to ask his name, then.
“What’s that?” He leans right forward in his chair, leans abruptly back again; starts gnawing at a thumbnail like he’s trying to rip it clean off.
“What’s what, Mikey?”
“What you said.” He shoves a hand through his hair. “Psycho-thingy.”
“Psychological delusion. Is that what you mean?” The boy nods, irritated; of course that’s what he means, his expression says. Dr Pollard adjusts her glasses. Then, like it’s any kind of an explanation, “Well, Mikey, that’s what we’re all here to find out over the next two months.”
Shiv swaps glances with Caron, lip-reads the older girl’s mouthed “WTF?”
The Director, meanwhile, has taken the top folder off the stack she set down on the desk. “Now, before I hand over to Assistant Webb,” she says, “I’d like to make one other thing absolutely clear: whatever your experience of treatment has been so far – whatever form of counselling or therapy or, heaven help us, medication you’ve received – you will start with a clean slate here at the Korsakoff Clinic.”
She raises the folder, gives it a little flourish, like a conjuror about to perform a trick. Shiv can see that it is thick with papers.
“This is one of the files we request from those under whose care you have been until now,” the Director says. “Your case notes.” Then, glancing at the cover, “Which one of you is Lucy?” The plump girl next to Shiv raises a hand. Addressing her directly, Dr Pollard says, “I have read your notes, Lucy – of course I have… I have read all of your notes,” she adds, taking in all six residents with a sweep of her free hand.
She pauses.
“And this is how much bearing they will have on your treatment here.”
Dr Pollard goes to a corner and drops Lucy’s folder with a whumph into a large bin. She picks up the next file and does the same. Then the next and the next.
Assistant Webb’s presentation is more orthodox.
He explains the rules and regs of the clinic, the dos and don’ts. This is a psychiatric institution, he stresses; as such, certain restrictions apply. By day, they are largely free to move around inside the building and most areas of the grounds – when they’re not in scheduled therapy sessions, that is. But by night – from Lights Out at 10.30 p.m. to Wake Up at 7a.m. – they will remain in their bedrooms. For fire-safety reasons, their doors will not be locked at night but they are alarmed – so, if anyone tries to leave his or her room between these hours it will trigger the alarm and bring the late-duty security guy running. Same goes for any attempt to leave the building during “Shut Down”, as Webb refers to it.
“You have an intercom panel in your room for use in an emergency.” He stresses the last word. “The intercom will also sound the Wake Up buzzer and enable us to broadcast any announcements to you all at the start of each day.”
There are CCTV cameras inside the building and at various points around the gardens and grounds, he adds, before emphasizing that these and the other security measures are to “ensure the residents’ safety”.
“This is not a prison. You are not prisoners.”
He hands out copies of the timetable – the schedule for the first month of their stay. It’s the same every day, six days a week. Sunday is a rest day; also laundry day.
As he outlines the daily activities, Shiv wonders if the others are as distracted as she is. By the papers and folders still protruding from the waste bin in the corner. Or by Dr Pollard, who has taken her seat and is watching them intently, gaze shifting from resident to resident. She has removed her glasses and set them down on the desk, the lenses aimed at the six of them like a second pair of eyes. Her dramatic finale has left an almost audible aftershock humming beneath everything Assistant Webb says.
“Any questions?” the Director asked, as she was binning the last folder.
No one put their hand up.
If the residents were startled into silence, the staff seemed unsurprised by what their boss did. Maybe they’d seen it before, with the adults who’d been here. Her party piece. From their neutral expressions, Shiv couldn’t say what they made of it.
Shiv was impressed enough.
Her counsellor these past months had been so straight, so earnest, the trashing of the case notes was a blast of fresh air. Maybe this place really is different. Maybe its treatment really does work.
Assistant Webb is still talking. Shiv makes herself study the schedule, “key therapeutic activities” in bold:
Morning Afternoon Evening
7.00 – Wake Up 1.00 – Lunch 6.00 – Buddy Time
8.00 – Breakfast 2.00 – Talk 7.30 – Dinner
9.00 – Walk 3.30 –Break 8.30 – Recreation
10.30 – Break 4.00 – Write 10.30 – Lights Out
11.00 – Make & Shut Down
“Really, the activities are self-explanatory.” With the faintest smirk, Webb says, “At Walk, you walk; at Make, you make stuff; at Talk, you talk; at Write, you write.”
“What about Buddy Time?” Caron asks.
“You have been divided into pairs, three sets of ‘Buddies’. You’re meant to befriend your Buddy, get to know them, spend time with them, look out for them,” he says. “When you’re feeling crap, your Buddy is there to get you through it.”
“What if your Buddy is feeling crap too?” Caron, again.
Mikey cuts in. Agitated, talking to himself. “I ain’t having no Buddy.”
“Hate to break it to you, Mikey, but you’re on my Buddy list, same as everyone else.” Assistant Webb turns to another sheet on his clipboard. “Yep, your name’s right here: Mikey and –” he looks up – “which one of you is Siobhan?”
“So, you drew the short straw,” Caron tells Shiv, at Recreation.
“I think he’s quite sweet.”
“Sweet? Mikey?”
They’re sitting on beanbags in the Rec Room. Before dismissing them all, Assistant Webb suggested this evening’s Recreation period was an ideal chance for Buddies to introduce themselves. Not one pair of Buddies is here though. The girl whose name Shiv forgot (Helen, it turns out) is playing pool by herself. She is fourteen, she says, but so short her feet leave the floor whenever she leans across the table to reach the cue ball. She’s Buddied with Docherty, who has gone for a run. Helen seems not to mind in the least. With her plaits, her Asiatic eyes and calm aura, she reminds Shiv of a Native American shaman.
Caron’s Buddy, Lucy, disappeared to the loo with a promise to join them afterwards. That was half an hour ago. And Mikey was first out of the Blue Room, without a word to anyone.
“You and me should ask to be Buddies,” Caron says.
Caron is in a grump – craving nicotine, on account of having to ration her secret stash, and disappointed by the Rec Room. (No TV, no DVD player, nothing to play music on … just pool, ping-pong and board games. That’s B-O-R-E-D.)
“We need to play something,” Shiv says. “Take your mind off cigarettes, yeah?” She scans the shelves of games. “How about Scrabble?”
Caron shakes her head. “You can’t smoke those plastic tiles. They just melt.”
Eventually, they settle on Buckaroo. It’s a real laugh. They play for ages – persuading Helen to join in too – and are surprised when an orderly comes to remind them it’s nearly time for Lights Out and Shut Down.
“It’s going to be OK here,” Shiv says as she and Caron pause outsi
de their rooms to say goodnight. Her face feels stretchy from all the laughter downstairs.
“I thought you and therapy didn’t get on?”
“I like Dr Pollard. She seems … different.” Even as she speaks, Shiv isn’t sure whether she’s just glad to be here at last. Committed to giving it a go because the alternative … well, there is no alternative. She pictures those files thumping one after another into the bin. “Caron, this place – it’s where I belong.”
Caron is quiet for a moment. “’Zuss, girl,” she says, finally, giving Shiv’s arm a rub, “you say that often enough you might even start to believe it’s true.”
Sometime during the night Shiv has the sense of a light shining in her bedroom. Too frail to be the main bulb; in any case, that snapped off automatically at ten thirty. Sitting up in bed, she sees that the light is on the far side of the room – a rectangle of illumination on the wall. An image of some kind.
Shiv slips out from under the covers and goes over to investigate but, as she approaches, the light vanishes. In her just-woken state, it takes her a while to realize she must have stepped in front of the projection beam. She turns and, sure enough, there’s a thin shaft of light issuing from a fixture in the ceiling – what she mistook for a sprinkler or smoke detector. It’s illuminating her T-shirt.
Stepping aside, she allows the image to re-form on the wall, careful to stay out of the beam this time as she leans in for a closer look. The picture is faint and grainy from being enlarged.
Declan.
In snorkel, flippers and bright red swimming shorts, captured in mid-air as he leaps off the side of a boat.
3
At breakfast, she discovers that everyone was woken in the night by the projection of an image of their lost loved one onto their bedroom wall.
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