‘And you are a practised flatterer,’ she said, smiling. ‘All your life still ahead of you, life as yet to be discovered, both good and bad. It’s easier for the young to lie, to see things in plain black and white, to accept what others tell you is the truth, is the way of the world, and for you to believe what you think is right and proper. A young person’s perspective on the world is not as elastic as it becomes when you get older. When you get to my age you’ll see how things become less straightforward. I was like you once. I believed what I believed, believed what I was told. But now I find I question everything. All manner of strange things. I like Beethoven…’ she said unexpectedly.
‘Beethoven, Mrs Bradshaw?’
‘I ask myself, do I love to listen to Beethoven because I like his music, or because to like Beethoven is cultured and his music raised on a pedestal by the musical elite, and to like it is to be like them, cultured? How much of that has influenced me in liking Beethoven in the first place?’
‘That’s very interesting,’ said Kimble, not the slightest bit interested in her ramblings. He wanted to get the silly old duffer back on track. ‘So, Bartholomew Place…’
‘Now I look back on my life I see where I have been blind, misled, whilst all along so sure in myself that everything I did I did for the benefit of people, for their good. Today I see it clearer than I’ve ever done before, and I see it for what it is; that I was so very wrong. I’m too old, Mr Hemmingway, to keep these things to myself. Before my time is up I feel I must make some amends for my own part in things, albeit a small part. That is why it was fortuitous you contacted me when you did, almost as if my prayers had been answered. Perhaps you have been sent by God.’
He followed her gaze, which settled on a wooden crucifix fastened to a wall above a cabinet. He smiled uncertainly. ‘How long did you work at Bartholomew Place, Mrs Bradshaw?’
‘Twenty-five years, give or take a few months.’
‘A long time.’
‘Time to experience many things. I wanted to help people, you see, for as long as I can remember. My mother, bless her, didn’t like me being involved in that kind of work, close to people who were not right in the head, as she used to say – couldn’t understand why I was drawn to it. But I saw it as a calling. To support people less fortunate than myself. Ill, but not physically – illnesses of the mind, where the damage cannot be seen, cannot be cut out with a surgeon’s knife.’
‘That’s very worthwhile and commendable of you, Mrs Bradshaw. As I said when we spoke over the phone, I’ve been tasked with writing an article on the state of our mental institutions, past and present; how they’ve changed and the levels of care, that kind of thing.’
‘Yes, that is something that desperately needs to be written.’
This was going to be far easier than he first thought, Kimble mused. ‘I mentioned also that I’d like to talk about a particular patient who resided at Bartholomew Place a number of years ago…’
She shrank back. ‘Oh, we can’t mention names! Patient confidentiality.’
‘Please don’t worry about that. Everything will be kept anonymous. We’ll call this patient Miss X, shall we?’
She thought about it. ‘I suppose that will be acceptable.’
‘You were there when a patient called Laura Leach was admitted, correct?’
She struggled within herself. ‘No names?’
‘No names at all,’ he said. ‘But a specific patient experience will emphasise the validity of certain treatments.’ He thought he was talking bullshit but she nodded in agreement.
‘That’s true,’ she said, as if to give herself reassurance. ‘And we will be calling her Miss X, won’t we?’
‘Yes,’ he lied, and found lying was coming far too easily to him.
‘And Laura’s case was typical of so many young women who passed through Bartholomew Place, if indeed they passed through at all. Some never left. It would be good to use her as an example, as an illustration of the wider malaise.’
What on earth was she going on about, he thought? ‘OK,’ he said, ‘for starters, why was Laura admitted to Bartholomew Place? I understand from my other source that there was a death involved – is that right?’
‘A death. Yes, that’s absolutely right. Poor man…’
She fell infuriatingly silent as her mind wandered back over past events. ‘Mrs Bradshaw?’ he prompted.
‘Laura Leach came to Bartholomew Place the same year I retired,’ she began, her fingers fumbling beneath the blanket. ‘That would be 1959. She was about seventeen-years-old, as I remember. A snip of a thing. Terribly shaken, afraid, not knowing what was happening to her. I didn’t know the full story at first, not till I had access to all her notes.
‘She’d been away at boarding school. Bullied relentlessly it appears, which drove her into such lonely depths one can hardly imagine. When she was old enough her father paid for her to take driving lessons. The driving instructor was a young man, married with a child. We never knew his name, of course. It seems she fell for his easy charms, and, perhaps, he genuinely did care for her. But Laura, being so young and impressionable, deprived of companionship and warmth for so long, fell in love with him, or what innocent and impressionable young women like Laura mistake for love. He should have known better, of course – she was only just sixteen. But in a moment of weakness, madness – perhaps even true love – they…’ She lapsed into silence again, looking up at Kimble. ‘Well, you know. I needn’t describe the details. Maybe this was only intended to be a one-off on the man’s part. Maybe they both realised the mistake they had made. We shall never know. But as is the way with these things it took only the once and she became pregnant with his child.
‘She didn’t know what was happening to her at first, being innocent of such things. But it dawned on the deputy headmistress, who noticed the telltale swelling and who insisted on calling out a doctor to examine Laura. When they discovered she was pregnant that’s when things blew up. Laura refused to believe the evidence of her own eyes at first, but when the truth could not be ignored, instead of being horrified she was beside herself with joy at the prospect. The sheer magic of a new life, something that she would nurture and give all the love she never had, swamped all other practicalities and misgivings.
The headmaster informed Laura’s father at once, and took it on himself to privately inform the young driving instructor. Both parties took it badly. Unable to bear the shame, to face the consequences of what he’d done and the consequences for his marriage, the driving instructor took his own life, apparently dying of carbon monoxide poisoning inside the very car in which they’d conceived the child.
‘Laura was grief stricken at the news. But her father came at once to take her from school and bring her back to Devereux Towers. He was immensely angry and disgusted that Laura had not only brought disgrace upon herself and her family but had compounded things by bringing about the death of the young man, tearing apart his family in the process. He heaped full blame for all that had happened on Laura, and Laura alone.
‘Abortion being out of the question, she was kept a virtual prisoner in Devereux Towers till the child was born. She named the baby Alex, though it was never christened such, because the child was taken from her as soon as the umbilical cord was cut. She cried out for it as the midwife wrapped the baby in a blanket and carried it from the room. She never saw the baby again.
‘Her father could not forgive her. He was already a man with a voice in Langbridge, standing on the town council as well as being from the wealthiest family in the area. He put her behaviour down to a diseased mind and he used his influence to have her sectioned and sent away to Bartholomew Place.’
Leonard Kimble had stopped scribbling on his pad a while ago, engrossed by her story. ‘You mean Laura was sent to an asylum primarily because she was a young woman who had a baby out of wedlock?’
She nodded gravely. ‘You imagine this to be an isolated incident, young man? Do you know how many women have bee
n put into asylums for this very reason, the country over? How many years some of them stayed in these places? As for Laura, like so many others she was sterilised whilst inside Bartholomew Place, so she could never have children again. They believed people with mental health issues should not have children. So you see that’s why I needed to tell my story to you, to the national press. Poor Laura was but one amongst many women who have had to endure this barbarism by our so-called care system.’
‘She wasn’t mad?’
‘It depends who is making the judgement. Pregnancy in one so young was once considered the act of a degenerative mind. The additional suicide of the father was a double-blow for Laura. It sealed her fate.’
‘But her father – he pushed for this to happen?’
‘He actively sought it, yes. Laura was in Bartholomew Place for many, many years.’
‘She didn’t kill anyone?’ he asked.
‘Not directly. Her only crime was the opposite – she gave birth. Are you getting all this down, young man?’ she said curtly, nodding at his frozen pen.
‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘But being held in such a place for all those years – could this have had a negative effect on her mind?’
‘It can’t have had any other.’
‘Could it have made her violent, for instance?’
She frowned at his bluntness. ‘Who knows what effect such a lengthy immersion can have on people? Anger, vengeance, an inability to make relationships, suicide – they are all possibilities. The loss of her baby made Laura both inconsolable and angry, till that anger was driven out of her by various treatments. Or they tried. Who knows what kind of legacy that leaves on a sane mind? You must help me, Mr Hemmingway; you must help me bring all this to light by bringing it to the attention of the wider public. For all I know such practices are still going on, even though it is 1976. I need to get my story out for all those women who have suffered and who continue to suffer.’
‘And the baby?’ he asked. ‘What became of Laura’s baby?’
‘It was given to a childless couple living in Langbridge.’
‘And Laura never knew who they were? Never knew where her child lived?’
She shook her head. ‘She never knew. It was her father who orchestrated finding the couple and arranged for the baby to be adopted. No one outside Devereux Towers or Bartholomew Place knew of Laura’s pregnancy. It was kept a close secret. But even close secrets leak out, especially in a place like Langbridge.’
‘Do you know who the child is, and where it is now?’
Ellen Bradshaw’s eyes began to water. Kimble didn’t know whether it was the heat from the fire or emotion that prompted them. ‘No names?’ she asked again, firmer. ‘You have to promise me that. And it must not go any further than you or I. The child does not know its sad beginnings or who its real mother is. It would be devastating to find out such a thing, as you can imagine.’
‘Yes, I promise,’ said Kimble, ‘it will be our secret. And it is good for your health to get things off your chest.’
‘I shall tell you who the child is,’ she said, her jaw stiffening. ‘But first put away your pad and pen.’
* * * *
32
Caught in a Strong Beam
Martin Caldwell sat behind his desk, his head in his hand. The other hand held a glass, its sides smeared with the remains of the vodka he’d downed. But he couldn’t get drunk. There was a time it used to have an effect, not always good but necessary. It dulled things somewhat, took the edge off them. Tonight, though, that edge remained brutally sharp.
The hard bristle of his unshaven chin irritated his hand. He knew he looked a sorry sight; his hair lank and uncared for; dark shadows beneath red and bleary eyes; and he no longer wore a suit and tie. So much for starting afresh, he thought dismally. So much for being able to dump the past, wipe the slate clean, become someone else. Someone new and unsoiled.
God, he wished tonight was over and done with.
He would have poured out another shot but the bottle was empty.
He could call the entire thing off, of course, before it was too late.
But it was already too late and he knew that. Events were rolling on, seemingly uncontrollable and at speed, like a driverless truck hurtling down a steep hill with no brakes. All he could do was close his eyes and wait for the impact. Only then would it be truly over. Maybe, when it was, he could try wiping the slate clean again. Create a completely new life somewhere else.
How ironic, he thought, that in order for him to create his new life, someone else had to die tonight.
For Katherine, life had become painfully intolerable. Life without Felix wasn’t a life at all. She could never have foreseen how desperately she loved him. She’d known love before, or something she’d sorely mistaken for love, but all along these types of love had been lies. Only now did she fully understand what the word meant, its joy and its torture, brought into sharp focus only by his disappearance. Something inside her felt sorrow for all those people she’d duped, because now she felt what they must have felt, and it was excruciating. It was eating her up, gnawing at her insides like a ravenous beast and she thought she’d go mad with the agony.
Then there was the envelope, shoved through her letterbox without a stamp. A note from Laura. If she wanted to know where Felix was she had to meet her tonight, on the outskirts of Langbridge. In the car park by a small patch of woodland, a local beauty spot.
Hope rose in her breast. When she got Felix back it would mark the end of this kind of life, she vowed silently. They’d move abroad, settle down and have kids, grow old together.
But if she found out anything had happened to him then Laura fucking Leach was going to pay for it. She was going to suffer anyway. Laura Leach was a dead woman whichever way things turned out, because Martin had arranged it so.
Katherine’s expression hardened. When she looked in the mirror she hardly recognised herself. She touched the spot on her cheek where the walking-stick had struck her. It was still sore and bruised. The bitch had almost broken her cheek bone. Felix would tell her she’d let herself go. She really ought to fix herself up when she got back, she thought. Get her hair done, buy some new clothes. Christ, it was as if this place and its people had a toxic effect on her. She could feel it attacking her, as if the very air was poisonous. She narrowed her eyes. Stop moping, you sullen old woman, she told herself; you’ve business to attend to.
She put on a raincoat – it was pissing it down outside. This place was always damp, she thought. She’d be glad to be shut of it. She went into the kitchen and picked up a small knife, which she placed in her coat pocket. She didn’t trust that fucked-up bitch one inch.
The rain drenched the car’s windscreen and the wiper blades had difficulty in keeping it clear. She peered hard into the darkness ahead; Langbridge was now a mile or so behind her. Beyond the car’s headlights there was only the impenetrable blackness of open countryside, the road awash and looking like a turbulent stream. She almost missed the turning to the car park, had to stop, reverse back up the road a little and swing the car round hard. The uneven ground was strewn with deep puddles, the car’s wheels dropping into water-filled potholes. She brought it to a halt, turning off the engine but keeping the lights burning, listening to the heavy drumming of the rain on the thin metal roof of the car. The headlights lit up a line of trees, stark and bare and marking the edge of the wood.
She checked her watch but could hardly make out the time in the gloom. Katherine grabbed her umbrella, stepped outside. Cold rain prickled her face, drove into her thin coat. The wind caused the trees to moan in lament, and the sound of the rain pounding the sodden ground was like the hissing of steam from some great engine. The car park was empty. The land all around was empty. It was as if the world had ceased to exist.
‘Laura, are you there?’ she shouted above the sound of the rain. There was no sign of any car, and when she looked back at the road she saw it was empty. No car lights to indicate
anything was coming. If this was some kind of perverse joke, she thought, getting heated up and grasping the knife in her coat pocket…
Then she heard the sound of something moving beyond the line of trees. Thought she saw some kind of movement in the dark undergrowth. She strained her eyes to try to see what it was but it was near impossible. The car’s headlights were still blazing, but outside their limited reach it was difficult to make anything out. The sketchy outline of trees against the fractionally lighter band of sky, and that was all.
She wished she’d brought a torch. She forgot how dark the countryside was when night fell. She was more suited to a better-lit urban life and would be glad as hell to get back to it. Katherine narrowed her eyes, her hand lifting the knife out into the open. The sounds stopped. She listened intently.
Nothing. Nothing except the sound of this blasted weather. She was letting her imagination run away with her. Katherine turned back to look at the road. Where the hell was that bitch?
The blow to the back of her head caused her to drop instantly to her hands and knees. The pain crashed into her, her body afire with it. She was vaguely aware of the sounds of splashing footsteps behind her, tried to scramble to her feet, her vision a firework display of sparks. Katherine opened her mouth to scream.
The second blow caved her skull in and she fell flat, dead before her face hit the mud and boiling rain. Her blood gushed in a torrent down the side of her face, into her open eye, washed into a puddle of water that ran into her mouth and filled it.
The third blow from the Fijian war club caused her head to dissolve into a bloody pulp. The end of the club rested there a second or two, in the bowl of her broken skull; and then it was twirled around the mush of bloodied brains and hair like a paintbrush being dipped into a pot of paint, till it was fully coated in a thick, gooey gloss.
MOUSE (a psychological thriller and murder-mystery) Page 20