by Penny Kline
*
The seminar was not turning out the way I had hoped. Since there were no longer sufficient funds for tutorials, seminars provided the only opportunity for the students to express their opinions. Eighteen was too many. Some never spoke a word, others tried to monopolise the discussion. Still, it was early days yet and once everyone had settled down I would make sure they took it in turns to prepare a short presentation.
This week’s topic was Personality Disorders and I had decided to begin with a brief rundown of the main categories.
‘The paranoid personality is unduly sensitive and rigid,’ I began. ‘He or she has difficulty in trusting anyone and may be excessively envious or jealous of others.’
‘I think it’s wrong to classify people.’ It was Janice Kirk.
‘Yes, we talked about that last time, Janice. Obviously each individual is a special case but, as I explained, if no classifications are ever made it’s difficult to understand particular syndromes of symptoms and provide suitable treatments, or develop new ones.’
‘Mental illness is a response to a sick society.’
‘Yes, I understand what you’re saying.’ The previous week she had explained at some length how she had to wash up in a restaurant each evening to support herself and how people who had never been short of money had no idea how the other half lived so their opinions were worthless.
‘Right,’ I addressed the whole group, ‘if you remember it was agreed last week that at the beginning of each seminar I would give a brief summary of the material you were asked to read, then open things out into a general discussion.’
‘I think it’s all wrong,’ said Janice, ‘being labelled affects your self-image. If you’re called manic-depressive then every time you’re in a bad mood people say you’re ill.’
One of the younger students yawned loudly.
‘Yes, I do understand the point you’re making, Janice.’ I tried to sound friendlier than I felt. ‘And I’m sure it’s something we’ll be talking about later on.’
‘Why not now?’
‘Because first I want to run through the other disorders, including the manic-depressive personality.’
Some of the students started making notes. Janice clicked open the springs on her file and started noisily tearing sheets from her pad of A4. Every so often she looked up with the kind of half compliant, half aggressive expression that led me to speculate whether, if I classified her as suffering from a personality disorder, I might feel more well disposed to her.
At the end of the seminar, while the others were stuffing their belongings into their bags, Janice sat quite still with her elbows on the table and her chin resting on her clasped hands.
‘Hope you don’t mind me asking,’ she said, watching the last student disappear through the door, ‘but have you been doing this job long?’
‘I only work here three hours a week.’
‘Yes, I know that, but there’s your patients too, your proper work.’ She smiled, unpleasantly, aware that she had made it clear she knew more about me than I did about her. ‘I’ve a flat in Brislington, there’s a real community atmosphere there, at least there is in my road. We all support each other, don’t need any experts to tell us what to do.’
‘Good.’ I hoped I was making it fairly clear I wanted to leave.
‘Funny,’ she said, picking up the brown hessian bag she had dropped close to my feet. ‘I thought it’d be all school leavers doing this course. Didn’t realise there’d be quite a few of us old ones. By the way, you never gave us an assignment, only earlier on you were saying —’
‘Yes, I know what I said.’ I had no intention of admitting I had forgotten to set them any work. ‘I changed my mind. Next week I’ll be giving you your list of topics.’
She nodded. ‘Right, well, I’ll love you and leave you. By the way, the little lad, I hope he’s feeling better. If I had a kid I’d call him Charlie.’
‘You know Charlie Newsom?’
Her face remained expressionless. ‘I expect they have special counselling for kids, don’t they, or is he a bit young for that kind of thing? They never caught who did it, never got the bastard. Well, you’d know all about that. People talk, think the worst, pick on the most likely suspect, but if you ask me it’s best to keep your ideas to yourself, leave it to the Old Bill.’
I wanted to ask how she knew where I lived but, since that was exactly what she was expecting me to do, I decided against it.
‘Yes, well I’ll see you on Thursday, Janice.’
‘Anyway, at least you know my name.’ She laughed. ‘Right you are then. See you.’
As I was leaving the building I bumped into Steve Harrison and asked if he had come across someone called Janice Kirk.
‘Why, what’s the problem?’
‘Did I say there was a problem? She’s a mature student, tall, fattish, hair half black, half bronze. Only she mentioned Eric Newsom, well, Charlie actually, seems to know where I’m living and all about what happened.’
‘Charlie?’ Steve was in a hurry, probably hoping for a quick cup of coffee before his next class. He kept his mouth slightly open, ready to answer any questions as quickly as possible. ‘Oh, the little boy. What’s this Janice Kirk got to do with —?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Hang on.’ He frowned, trying to remember. ‘I’ve a feeling there’s a first year … lives off the Wells Road, quite close to where you’re staying. He probably saw you coming out of the house.’
‘Anyway, she’s a pain in the arse, Janice Kirk, keeps interrupting, arguing the toss, irritating the other students and —’
‘— generally driving you round the bend. You’re a psychologist, Anna.’ He gave me a stupid grin. ‘Should be an expert at handling her type. By the sound of it you could be just what she needs.’
‘Thanks. I just wondered if anyone else had mentioned her, had the same problem?’
‘I’ll ask around.’ He put up a hand to touch the patch of eczema on his neck. ‘But you’ll find there’s one like her in most of our groups and more often than not it’s what’s laughingly called a mature student.’
*
It was cold in the kitchen. Dropping the pile of unopened mail I felt the radiator and realised it was full of air with just a couple of inches at the bottom that had heated up. Searching for a key to bleed it, I came across the stuff the previous tenant had left behind — a book of instructions that had come with the electric cooker, a bottle opener, some nuts and bolts that had something to do with rearranging the shelves in the fitted cupboards. The flat still smelled strange, like the scent of alien washing powder on other people’s clothes. All the rooms were very small — not that I minded, it was easier to keep clean and, besides, I would be returning to Cliftonwood in a few weeks’ time. Repairs had been held up — I had spoken to the owners of the ground floor flat who were staying with relatives — but they were hoping the house would be ready by the middle of November at the latest.
There was no radiator key. I would have to ask Eric if he had one and perhaps it would provide an opportunity to find out a little more about him.
Outside the back of the house a security light came on and lit up the spiders and wood lice crawling over the weeds that stuck out between the slabs of stone. It was not yet pitch dark but the sky was overcast. A light was on in the workshop but I could hear sounds in the kitchen, then Charlie’s high-pitched voice protesting about something or other. When I tapped on the door there were scuffling noises, then it came open and Eric stood there, pushing his glasses up his nose.
‘I was wondering if you had a radiator key,’ I said, stepping into the warmth as he stood back to let me pass. ‘My kitchen’s like an ice box.’
Charlie was sitting on a floor cushion, reading a book. He was dressed in tracksuit bottoms, with holes in the knees, and a striped hand-knitted jumper. His hair stood up in tufts and one of his hands was resting on his forehead. Eric twisted his book round to look at the cover but C
harlie snatched it away angrily.
‘Now what’s the matter?’ Eric smiled at me, but there was very little amusement in his face, then he started rummaging about in a drawer, taking out light bulbs, fuse wire, and rolls of bin liners. ‘Are they all the same or do they come in different sizes? No, I think it’s a standard thing.’ He handed me a brass key. ‘Anyway, you’d better try this.’
Charlie stood up and left the room, dragging a slipper on with one hand, still holding the book in the other. The remains of their supper still lay on the table: two plates smeared with tomato sauce, a few toast crumbs, a couple of apple cores.
‘Book about poisonous snakes,’ said Eric. ‘Still, at least it’s got him away from his computer. The way he’s going he’ll soon be a bloody addict. Get those types referred to you, I expect.’
‘Not so far. Fruit machines, arcade games. I’m not sure they’re a genuine addiction so much as something that takes the person’s mind off things they’d prefer not to think about.’
‘Want some?’ Eric had a teabag in his hand. ‘Kettle’s boiled.’
‘Thanks, if you’re making it. By the way, has Charlie said anything about school?’
‘School?’ He stared at me and I guessed he was afraid I was going to start interfering, telling him how to bring up his own child. ‘I asked him what he’d done today and he said “nothing” but that’s what they all say isn’t it? Why?’
‘Oh, just something he muttered about “nobody telling him” something or other.’
Eric dropped two tea bags into the pot. ‘This guy you work with, you say he’s a friend of Faye Tobin’s?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ I recognised the name of the woman who was part owner of the toy shop.
‘One of my best outlets. Since you’ve no kids you’ve probably never been there. It’s in Fish Street, mostly upmarket stuff, no Barbie dolls or laser guns, just good traditional stuff, rocking horses, dolls houses, Stieff bears, most of it costing a bloody fortune but with some parents nothing’s too good for their little kiddie-winkies.’
‘I must visit it sometime,’ I said, thinking about Janice and her not so enigmatic remark. People talk, think the worst. Did she know something about Eric, or did it just amuse her to try and stir up trouble?
‘Faye and Deborah,’ said Eric. ‘They’re the two women who run the place. Have you met my father? He’s a GP.’
‘In Bristol? Dr Newsom? No, I don’t think so. Does he refer any of his patients to us?’
‘Haven’t a clue. If you’d met him you’d remember. Patronising git. Doctors are all the same, he’s just that bit worse than most. Thinks he’s God’s gift to the medical profession, writes crappy papers on psycho-social problems in general practice, gets them published in some low-grade journal.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. Reason I mentioned him, he walked out on my mother just over a year ago, moved in with Deborah.’
‘Deborah from the toy shop?’
‘She’s thirty-seven, my father’s fifty-three.’ He shoved a mug of tea into my hand. ‘Anyway, by the time he’s sixty she’ll be bored stiff with him, and I’m going to make dead certain my mother doesn’t let him come crawling back.’
His face was flushed with anger. When I made no comment he glared at me, willing me to agree his father was a bastard.
‘Your mother’s taken it badly has she?’ I said.
‘For Christ’s sake, of course she’s taken it badly. What else would you expect? Not that she’ll have a word said against him. “He’s still your father, Eric, I wouldn’t want you to feel you had to take sides.” If she’d get angry, say what she really thinks. God, I could kill him. No, what I’d like for him would be a slow, lingering death, something lethal that slowly destroyed his nervous system, then started on his brain.’ His face was contorted. ‘You think I don’t mean it?’
‘No, I’m sure you do.’ I took a swig of tea and burned my tongue.
*
Five minutes later I was back outside the door to the annexe, searching for my key, and listening to the couple in the next door house, the woman’s voice raised dangerously high; the man’s was lower, mocking. If the textbooks were to be believed almost all rows were either about sex, children or money. Had Eric and Nikki had rows? Didn’t everyone? Rows were an integral part of a close relationship, that was why Owen’s refusal to discuss our relationship, really have things out, had been so destructive.
My phone started ringing. I wrenched open the front door, ran through to the living room, and snatched up the receiver.
‘It’s me again,’ said a horribly familiar voice, ‘no, don’t go away.’
‘Who is that?’ It was the third call in as many weeks. The first one had come through two days after I moved in.
There was no answer.
‘Look, I told you, if you want Mrs Thurston she left this flat five weeks ago and I’ve no idea …’ But whoever it was had rung off.
Switching on the television, but with the sound turned down, I watched a foreign correspondent, standing in front of a pile of rubble. An earthquake? A terrorist’s bomb? It was the first time in my life I had slept on the ground floor. There were locks on all the windows but a determined burglar would have no problem breaking in. Two weeks ago, somewhere in the city, an eighty-one year old woman had been raped. People talked about the fear, the humiliation, but what about the pain? The road was quieter than I was used to and the annexe was so well soundproofed that I never heard Eric or Charlie. Occasionally, when I opened a window, the sound of Eric’s power tools drifted across from the workshop at the end of the garden, but only when the wind was blowing in the right direction.
Switching on the overhead light I stared at the tear in the paper shade for a few seconds too long, then looked away and saw the blurry shape of the bulb on the wall above the television. My unopened letters were still in the kitchen. I collected them without much enthusiasm: a reminder, forwarded on by the Post Office, that my car insurance needed renewing, a circular informing me that I had already won a substantial prize. The writing on the third was large and childlike. It was addressed to ‘The Occupant of the Annexe’ and the stamp had been stuck on upside down. Tearing it open I smoothed out the single sheet of lined paper, then steadied myself against the arm of sofa.
Hallo there! How do you like living next door to a killer? Charlie is my darling!
Chapter Three
I slept badly and woke late, still achingly tired. Fortunately my first client was not booked in until ten-fifteen. Struggling down the corridor to the pale green bathroom I ran a bath and sank under the water, feeling the tension at the back of my head start to ease. In the early hours I had lain awake, my brain a confused jumble of conversations — with clients, with Owen — then started wondering if the letter on lined paper had been meant for me or the previous tenant, and whether, as seemed likely, the phone calls were from the same man.
Eric had returned from taking Charlie to school. Through the frosted glass in the bathroom window I could see him up a ladder, doing something to the black covering on the roof of his workshop. Two days after I moved into the annexe he had come round to make sure everything was all right, then started asking questions about my job and the people I worked with. I could tell he was worried about Charlie, although he never said so directly, just threw out the occasional remark about shrinks and how everyone seemed to think he and Charlie should have reacted differently. When I suggested people responded to traumatic events in a variety of ways he had made a remark about psychologists, then changed the subject.
An ancient copy of An Encyclopaedia of Family Health had fallen out of a cupboard in the bathroom. Botulism, brain tumour, cerebral haemorrhage — if there was one way guaranteed to make a headache worse, anyway it was getting late. I decided to skip breakfast and spend the short time before I had to leave finding out a bit more about the previous occupant of the flat.
The grass was wet and needed cutting. Eric heard my
footsteps on the concrete path and turned his head sharply, frowning as if he was expecting some kind of trouble.
‘This won’t take a moment,’ I said. ‘There’s no need to come down. I just wanted to ask you about the person who lived in the annexe before I did. Did you know her quite well?’
‘Meaning what exactly?’
‘I’ve had some phone calls,’ I said, ignoring his slightly paranoid response, ‘nothing too serious, but whoever’s making them seems to assume I know who he is.’
‘Oh, yes.’ He hardly seemed to have taken in what I was saying. ‘Gayle Hedley knew her better than I did. She lives four doors down. Every road has one, knows when you go out, when you come back, bloody menace.’
‘How long did she live here? What was she called?’
‘Thurston. About two years but we never got to know her that well. She was the manageress of a greetings card shop in Broadmead, quiet type, divorced. Nikki talked to her occasionally.’
‘And you say she left about two weeks before I moved in.’
He had come down the ladder and was standing with his hand on the workshop door. ‘After Nikki died I got the impression she was afraid she might be next in line. I expected her to move out straight away but it must have been the middle of July before she said she was going. Told me she’d got a job in another town.’ He gave the door a push. ‘Got time to have a look inside or are you in your usual mad hurry to get away?’
He seemed to have forgotten I had taken Charlie to school the previous day. ‘How’s your cold?’ I asked, glad to see he was looking a little healthier.
‘Charlie was coughing in the night,’ he said, ‘expect it’ll be you next.’
‘Yes, I expect so.’
Nothing I knew about him so far had prepared me for the obsessional way in which the inside of his workshop had been arranged. It was immaculately tidy with some of the tools fixed in brackets and the rest laid out on benches, in descending order of size. Fitting up the place must have taken months and I could see why he was reluctant to leave. One of the walls was covered in pin board, with detailed designs, most of them looking as if they had been there quite a time, and a newer one of a Noah’s Ark. I had expected the workshop to be full of rocking horses, and other toys, in various stages of construction, but demand must have been so great they were delivered to the shops as soon as they were completed. The place had a pleasant smell, a mixture of wood shavings and oil, but there was very little sign of any work in progress.