No doubt about it, the hunt for Kitty is now fast becoming a full-time job. Except sadly, one that doesn’t pay.
9.21 a.m.
One miraculous thing about Simon: in spite of the hell on earth the poor guy’s been living through, he’s really surprising me now by being a lot more positive, for the moment at least.
Soon as we’re out on the road to see Mrs K., he says it over and over, like a mantra: ‘She’s out there, Angie, I know it. She just has to be. She’s safe and well and just got a bit freaked out, that’s all. We need to find her and, what’s more, we’re going to.’
Almost like he’s trying to convince himself.
Had a quick shower before we left, but I’m still in last night’s jeans and had no choice but to borrow a jumper from the back of Kitty’s wardrobe. Oversized on her, but a snug fit on me. I can still smell her perfume on it too; an expensive one Simon bought her as a gift when he came back from one of his business trips.
V. weird sensation, being able to smell her. Once we hit the motorway, I keep nodding off, then get a sudden whiff of Kitty and drowsily wake up, thinking in my half-asleep state that she’s actually here in the car with us. And then remembering.
11.30 a.m.
Finally, finally we arrive, with my bum like a box of spanners after the long drive. We asked a lovely receptionist if we could have a quick word with Mrs Kennedy’s consultant, one doctor Emily Hargreaves. Because even though the very thought of in any way upsetting Mrs K. is utterly gag-making, we both feel it’s only right to fill in her doctor first to see what she advises. And we’re certain she’s on duty today. Simon had the foresight to ring ahead and let them know we were coming and would need to see her.
We’re shown into a tiny office and asked to wait. I catch Simon’s eye. It’s the only time so far today he’s been silent. He’s over by window, staring vacantly out at the wintry garden, absorbed in watching an elderly couple, arms linked and wearing about fifty layers of clothes each, having an outdoor stroll. Even with the two of them padded out like Michelin Man against the cold, and even though they’re barely able to hobble, never mind walk, they still look so companionable and so in love, arms linked and chatting happily away to each other.
I can almost tell what Simon’s thinking, without him having to open his mouth.
He thought that in fifty years, that would be him and Kitty.
12.15 p.m.
Dr Hargreaves strides in, a big, bosomy, middle-aged woman, radiating kindliness and almost motherly concern. If you were making a biopic of her life, you’d definitely cast Brenda Fricker, or if she wasn’t available, Miriam Margolyes. Insists on organising tea and sticky buns for us, as if we’ve just had a journey of epic Michael Palin-esque proportions, instead of a mere two hours on a motorway with many, many bypasses.
We’ve been speaking to her on the phone regularly since Christmas, but now that we’re sitting face-to-face, we fill her in properly as best we can. Simon’s incredibly careful to stress that we’ve good reason to believe Kitty is all right, but that she just got a bit freaked out ‘by a personal situation’, and is taking time out. He keeps hammering home the statistic about over ninety per cent of missing people coming back when they’re good and ready to.
Dr Hargreaves is nothing if not a terrific listener.
‘I can’t tell you both how very sorry I am,’ she eventually says, when Simon finishes. ‘And how much I appreciate your coming down here, at a time like this. Horrendously worrying for everyone concerned. I’m very fond of Kitty, you know; we all are here. She’s one of our most popular visitors. Never fails to brighten up the place every time she bounces in to see us.’
‘So you see, we thought we’d better ask your advice as to how best to break it to Mrs K. – to her foster mum, that is.’
Dr Hargreaves nods gravely. ‘I’m very grateful for what you’re both doing,’ she says, ‘but please understand that it’s highly unlikely Mrs Kennedy will be able to take in exactly what you’re saying. You have to remember the huge toll the series of strokes she’s suffered over the past few years have all taken on her, and on top of that, her Alzheimer’s condition is sadly now at stage six.’
‘Which means …?’ I ask tentatively.
‘She’s now experiencing what we call severe cognitive decline. It varies from patient to patient, but in her particular case, it means that her memory has continued to worsen dramatically. There are some good days, when she’ll still be able to remember her own name, but more often than not, she’s simply not able to recall any of her own personal history. In other words, while there’s a small chance she’ll remember a face, it’s highly unlikely she’ll be able to remember the name of a loved one.’
‘Even someone she loves as much as Kitty?’ I ask worriedly.
‘Perhaps it’s best just to tell her that Kitty’s missing at present,’ is all Dr Hargreaves says, pointedly not answering my question, ‘and that you’re doing everything you can to help get her safely back home—’
‘But you’re saying there’s a good chance she may not even know who we are?’ Simon interrupts her.
‘I’m saying there’s a very good chance she won’t even remember who Kitty is.’
12.40 p.m.
Just heartbreaking. Mrs K. looks exactly the same – looks unexpectedly well even – with a flush of colour in the pale, parchment-like skin. But hasn’t first clue who we are or why we’re here. We tell her exactly what Dr Hargreaves advised us to, then Simon looks worriedly at her while I shuffle embarrassingly around in background.
‘Who are you?’ she keeps on asking me. ‘And where’s Jean? What have you done with my Jean?’
I’ve absolutely no idea who Jean is, so I just keep telling her I’m Kitty’s friend and that we’ve met before, but that gets no reaction at all.
Then she sits up in bed and starts looking beady-eyed at Simon.
‘I know you, though.’ She points at him. Says it again. Keeps repeating it over and over. A hopeful sign maybe?
Then she says triumphantly, ‘I have it! You’re off the telly! You’re Simon Cowell!’
1.45 p.m.
Before we leave, we find Dr Hargreaves to tell her how we got on.
‘She kept mentioning someone called Jean, by the way,’ I tell her. ‘Is that one of the nurses who works here?’
‘Jean?’ Dr Hargreaves says, shaking her head. ‘No, I’m afraid we’ve no one by that name here. I shouldn’t worry about it, though. Most likely just a name she picked up from watching TV.’
One good thing, as Simon says to me in car on our way home. At least Mrs K.’s spared all this worry.
It’s bittersweet consolation, but I have to admit, marginally better than nothing.
‘Now you do know why you’re here, don’t you? Jean?’
The disembodied voice came from directly behind her, a flat, detached monotone; instantly put her in mind of this well-known battleaxe who worked at their local post office. A famously short-tempered one, who Jean and Mrs K. used to spend hours inventing glamorous exotic back stories, just for the laugh.
‘She’s actually a secret agent,’ Jean would giggle, but then Mrs K. would override her and say, ‘No, no! I’ve a better one! She’s on the run from the law, but then she thought she’d hide out here, in a small country village where no one would know her …’
‘… and from where she can operate her Al Qaeda sleeper cell in peace …’
Then the pair of them would collapse in fits of laughter. It was a weird thing about Mrs K., she often thought: even though there were decades between them, there was still absolutely no generation gap whatsoever. They were probably the unlikeliest pairing you could ever come up with, and yet somehow it worked.
‘… So I just want you to stretch out nice and comfortably on the couch for me, now Jean, there’s a good girl,’ the monotone from behind her was still droning on. ‘And remember, you’re not in any kind of trouble at all. We’re just here for a little chat. You’ve been
through so much and we just want to help you.’
A bloody child psychiatrist’s couch, that’s where she’d ended up; God, Mrs K. would have fallen around at that. Jean’s first instinct on coming in here had been to start acting like an out-and-out basket case, twitching and rolling her eyes and pretend foaming at the mouth like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Just to see if she could get some kind of a rise out of this one with her clipboard behind her, asking all these ridiculous questions. Anything, to relieve the tension, to take her mind off … well, what had happened. And what was very much still ongoing.
‘So, if you’re ready then, Jean, maybe you’d like to tell me what’s on your mind? In your own time.’
Jean lay back against the sofa and spent ages just gazing up at the Victorian ceiling overhead, heavy with coving and cobwebs, while the clock ticked on. Good fecking question. So how was she feeling? How could she even begin to put into words what was going through her mind? How could she possibly hope to make this one understand the sheer pain she’d been going through and was dealing with on a daily basis, when she was still trying to process so much herself?
‘… Because you know, you’d been doing so well,’ disembodied voice from behind her was saying now, after an interminable silence. ‘We were all inordinately proud of you. Ever since you were housed with Mrs Kennedy, for the first time in years, you really seemed to settle down and you were absolutely blooming. Everyone could see that for themselves. Doing terrifically in school too; your grades have all been exceptional. And it can’t have been easy for you, Jean, dealing with everything that came next. It must have felt so unfair, especially as it seemed your whole life had just turned a corner. So would you like to tell me about it?’
Would she? No, she decided. Too painful, to raw even to talk about yet, even though this one clearly meant well. Because how could she ever even hope to put into words what it had been like for her?
‘How about we start six months ago? Tell me about when you first started noticing a change coming over Mrs Kennedy.’
Jean shuddered on the sofa, but said nothing. Couldn’t. Besides, it wasn’t just one single change in Mrs K., it was a pile of different things that all seemed to come together, in a bunch. The way she just seemed to tune out on her, how she’d just retreat off into her own little world, singing snatches from TV shows or ads with catchy jingles she’d heard on the radio. And what had Jean done to help? Absolutely nothing. Just papered over the cracks and tried to act like everything was hunky-dory. Nursed Mrs K., cared for her, organised all her own school stuff, kept the house going, did all the grocery shopping and laundry; she wasn’t above even forging the odd signature on report cards, so to all outward appearances, Mrs K. was absolutely as normal.
They lived in a tiny town, though, and people had started to notice, to ask questions. Once, Mrs K. had got out of the house while she’d been at school and had been found strolling through Tesco in her nightie and hairnet, telling everyone she knew that she was on her way to London to meet Prince Charles. Another time, she was found on the bus to Cork, where she’d announced to anyone that would listen she was on the verge of running for the Presidency, but was a bit worried about all the intrusion into her private life. Word went out about plenty of other stuff too, and one day, Jean even had to threaten a girl in her class with a right walloping for openly referring to Mrs K. as ‘funny talker’ .
But like it or not, Jean could only keep the show on the road for so long. Like it or not, she was only sixteen. And pretty soon after, events took over.
‘Of course, if you’d rather not talk about that,’ the disembodied voice from behind her was saying now, ‘then how about we talk about when Mrs Kennedy was first admitted into hospital? How did that make you feel?’
Jesus, how do you think? She wanted to snarl back, but then bit her tongue. ‘Always remember, you’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, Jean love,’ Mrs K. had repeatedly drummed into her, trying to do the best to curb the latent temper she had on her, which had got her into trouble so often in the past. Back in the days when she still acted like a proper, normal mum.
Was it really only three months ago, she wondered, since her whole life had turned upside down? Memories came back in sickening fragments: rushing home from school that day, seeing an ambulance at the gate and a concerned neighbour who told her what had happened. A stroke, she’d been told. They didn’t know how serious it was yet, but were hospitalising Mrs K. anyway.
Early onset Alzheimer’s, Jean was told at the hospital, after what felt like weeks of tests. All, of course, complicated by the stroke she’d just suffered, which left poor Mrs K. effectively paralysed down one side of her body. And sure enough, that had been that. She knew it was only a matter of time before the authorities tapped on her shoulder in the hospital and told her she’d have to be re-homed. Yet again. She’d yelled at them, screamed the air blue and told them she wouldn’t leave Mrs K. Not when she was in this condition and needed her. We’re all each other has, she’d kept trying to tell them, but no one listened. No one ever did.
And now here she was. On the flat of her back talking shite to yet another well-intentioned do-gooder who thought she knew what was best for her.
But only she herself knew the answer to that. And it was so bloody obvious, it was staring her in the face. She was sixteen years old now, almost seventeen. Wherever they placed her next, she’d run. Just run. Because what was her alternative? Try to fit in with another family who didn’t really want an overgrown girl her age lumbering around the place? Feeling like an unwanted guest that had long outstayed her welcome?
There’d never be another home like Mrs K.’s, never. So why not just get the feck out now? Just check out like she was in a hotel. She’d always look after Mrs K. as best she could; she’d try to stay as close by the hospital as possible.
But the next chance she got, that was it. Mind made up.
She’d just walk out the door and never look back. And to hell with the lot of them.
Chapter Seven
2 January
As of today, our story officially hits the media in a big way. And not only that, but the re-enactment of Kitty’s last-known movements went out on the Crimewatch TV show last night. I was a tiny bit worried about what effect it would have on Simon, seeing a model all gussied up as the woman he loves, bit like in that Hitchcock movie, Vertigo. But apart from a slight flush when he had to watch a replay of a total stranger posing as Kitty striding down Camden Street, he seemed fairly OK with it.
‘You just wait and see,’ I told him encouragingly as the pair of us sat side by side, glued to the telly. ‘This will turn everything around for us. I just know it.’
The police PR department, in fairness, have been terrific, but they’re no match for our Sarah, tornado of efficiency that she is. She called round to Kitty’s not long after Crimewatch went out and, as ever, was like a badly needed burst of positive energy filling the whole house.
‘You are both going to love me so much!’ she said, handing out leftover croissants, which she’d filched from work and which I gratefully dived into. ‘So far, just on the back of the re-enactment going out tonight, I’ve managed to land the Times, the Independent, the Chronicle, the Echo, the Examiner and pretty much all of the tabloids in the bag, can you believe it? This is virtually guaranteed to be the single biggest news story that goes out tomorrow! The Echo even said they’d use her photo on the front page, isn’t that amazing? I’ve been faxing and emailing out press releases all evening, and the response I got was just incredible!’
Then, just as Simon stepped out of the room, all apologies, to take a call from one of his brothers, my mobile beep-beeped as a text came through. From Jack Crown.
HI ANGIE, JUST CHECKING YOU AND SIMON WATCHED CRIMEWATCH TONIGHT. RING ME IF YOU CAN TALK. STORY SHOULD ALSO MAKE TV NEWS BULLETINS FROM TOMORROW, SOON AS IT DOES, WE’LL REASSESS PROGRESS FROM THERE. REGARDS.
‘Who’s texting you this
late?’ Sarah asked, suddenly all ears, but then Sarah misses absolutely nothing.
‘Gobshite Crown,’ I muttered darkly. ‘Wants to see us tomorrow.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’
‘Sarah, the guy probably wants nothing more than a chance to rabbit on about police procedures yet again, and then to lecture me about how it’s far better to let the professionals handle this and to just let them get on with it. Bloody neck of him.’
‘Jeez, you’ve really made up your mind not to like him, haven’t you?’
‘No! I just …’
‘Come on, you practically have slits in your eyes every time you look at the guy!’
‘Well, he is annoying …’
‘No he’s not.’
‘… And he has all the charisma of … of …’ I randomly scout round for a suitable metaphor, but the best I can come up with under pressure is, ‘… of a Garda at a checkpoint.’
‘He is a Garda. What do you expect?’
Had to shut up, she had me there.
‘Come on, Angie, he’s doing absolutely everything, and besides, he’s not all that bad. If you ask me, I think he’s actually doing as much as anyone possibly could, under incredibly trying circumstances. And he’s always perfectly polite. All I’m saying is just give Jack Crown a chance, will you?’
Couldn’t particularly be bothered, though, but then I’m more comfortable with prejudice. Once I’ve decided not to like someone, I’ve always found that it’s generally far easier just to stick to that.
Sarah couldn’t stay long and after she’d left, Simon and I stayed up late into the night, talking, talking, talking. Taking the whole thing apart, then somehow trying to piece it all back together again.
‘Thank you,’ he said to me at one point. ‘If all this doesn’t work for us, I honestly don’t know what will.’
‘’Course it’ll work. It has to. You just wait and see.’
Me and You Page 12