My Sister

by Michelle Adams

  Matt is calling me, the phone buzzing desperately at my side. But I can’t answer. I have to focus. I have only one aim. The truth. I must start right back at the beginning of our family’s story, and for that there is only one place to go.

  36

  I drive through capillary country roads swamped in green, a canopy of autumn blue above. I pass intersecting streams, a couple of farms, and yellow fields full of rapeseed. With no idea of where I am going, I follow the intermittent flashes I get of the white steeple rising above the treeline. ‘House of the Rising Sun’ plays on the radio, followed by ‘Hotel California’. Halfway through the second chorus I see the old building appearing in full view as the trees thin out and the overgrown ground flattens out. Up ahead is a broken sign, aged wood with faded letters, the words Fair Fields Rehabilitation Hospital for the Infirm and Mentally Insane just visible.

  I shut off the engine at the end of a fractured tarmac road. The music stops, leaving nothing but the wind rustling through the grasses and the whistling of a few birds overhead to break the silence. I check my phone but find that I have no signal. Regardless, as I step from the car, I slip it in my pocket.

  The perimeter of the compound has been fenced off, the metal meshwork covered with hazard signs: Keep Out! They flap frantically in the breeze, as if they are trapped and are trying to fly away. From where I am standing the land appears flat, without dimension, and in the distance I see the main building of the hospital nestled between other smaller buildings. The bracken snags at my feet as I navigate the perimeter until I find a gap in the fencing. I drop down and push through, snagging my jumper on a fault in the meshwork. I get to my feet, dust off my blackened knees. Now that I’m on the other side, the central building feels bigger. A threat as it rises above me.

  I arrive at a small building, the blackened smudges of fire damage licking up the side of the wooden boards covering the walls. I look through a broken window and see that it is nothing but a shell, just like Miss Endicott said, the inside of a cavernous black wound. It still smells of soot and burnt wood. Was this where the fire started? The fire that Elle may or may not have been responsible for?

  I continue to a clearing overlooking the main block. Close up, it has an impressive look about it: columns at the front like the Parthenon, covered by a flaky mixture of grey and green age spots. I can imagine my father here, impressed by the extravagance of the place as he was driving towards it. The imposing columns and high windows; the ornate steeple that I have followed to get here erupting proudly through the roof. I think he would have taken one look at it and been certain it was a good idea. Because even though it was him that wanted to keep Elle rather than me, I am also sure that he would have chosen here over home for her. He was a fixer, a decider, a doer. He saw a problem and found a solution he could stick to. Just like he stuck to shutting me out.

  I move up the steps towards the front door, the huge arcade swallowing me up. The door is small in comparison to the rest of the building, almost doll’s-house-like. There is a sign that reads Keep Out; I shove against it, breaking the rules. But a chain, thick and heavy, locks the door shut. I would need bolt cutters to get through it. I rattle it a bit, then let it drop. It clatters against the door, and I watch as more dry paint flakes away.

  I follow the line of the building until I broach a corner. Underneath a mass of ivy I spot an old wrought-iron railing marking another entrance. A set of steps descends to a basement. A small metal sign directs me: Visitors. I follow the arrow, edging my way down the creeper-covered steps, clinging on to the railing, which is fortunately still solid. I arrive at the bottom step and test the door handle. Seems loose. I brace my shoulder against the door and with one strong effort break through, sending sprigs of ivy and clouds of dust into the air. I slip inside, my heart racing. I’m in.

  And now, standing here alone in the dark, I remind myself why I’ve come to this godforsaken place. It isn’t only to prove that Antonio didn’t hurt Elle. I also need to prove to myself that Elle really is crazy. To hold in my hand the evidence that backs up the story of why I was given away. Because all the years of separation have left me marked, stigmatised as the one who wasn’t wanted. Now, the possibility that somewhere within these walls lies the answer to everything, the single cog that drove my life forward, is exhilarating.

  I pass through several dingy corridors until I come across a large bath standing in the middle of a room, flanked by thick green rubber curtains that are falling apart in places. The walls are covered in peeling paint, as if they are shedding their skin. Perhaps an old hydrotherapy room. Dust clings to every surface, and from somewhere I can hear water dripping. I look towards the next room and see rows of Victorian sinks all lined up alongside each other, still beautiful, like the kind somebody would fit into an old house to restore the period features.

  I head along another corridor, up a set of stairs, where the rooms open up and the sunlight gains access. It dapples through in faint bands of light, illuminating the grey fingers of dust that snap at my feet as I tread through years of filth. It is cooler up here, and there is a breeze filtering through broken windows. The walls are painted in myriad colours, as if by children. In squiggly, childish letters somebody has painted the word recover in the centre of a yellow sun. It reminds me of the paintings on the wall in Miss Endicott’s reception area. When I think about Miss Endicott, it reminds me that this place, unlike the first building, isn’t as damaged by fire as she would have had me believe. Was that a mistake on her part? Why was she so sure there was nothing left?

  ‘Must be the children’s wing,’ I say to myself as I walk through into what looks like an auditorium. There are chairs stacked along the walls, and some left higgledy-piggledy on the floor, scattered about as though a freak tornado hit the room. The windows that remain are dirty, partially covered in threadbare curtains. I fear that if I was to touch one, it would disintegrate in my hand.

  The excitement I felt at my proximity to the truth when I first arrived has long passed, sucked out of me by the claustrophobic nature of this forgotten place. It’s as if it’s constricting around me, the sensation of being trapped with no way out. God only knows how it must have felt as a patient. But the paintings on the walls give me hope that it was better than I imagine it to have been. Even so, the smell of damp and bodily functions is hard to ignore. I hold my hands up to my nose and try to breathe through my mouth. But the taste gets the better of me and I nearly choke on it as it hits the back of my throat. I pull my jumper up over my mouth, and then cover that with my hand for good measure.

  There is graffiti, too. Somebody has painted an elaborate mural of crucifixions with words over the top that read: You will pay for what you did to me here. As I move through the maze of rooms, passing upturned desks and abandoned belongings, the image is repeated time and time again. The words remind me of something that Joyce once said. Something that would explain Elle’s pain. He didn’t feel it right after learning what they were doing to her. They had to bring her home. Is that what was happening? Was Elle being mistreated while she was staying here? Abused by those who were supposed to be caring for her?

  I pass into a narrow corridor, dark, with only a little light streaming through a solitary window. On one side there are cells, some padded, some concrete. The isolation cells. All the doors are open; one of them is snapped in two, as if somebody broke through. Inside that cell the graffiti reads: This is where you will be judged. I fight back a tear, certain for the first time that Elle’s life might have been harder than mine. Certain that she must have felt as let down as I always have.

  I climb a creaky staircase and it becomes clear that I am in an administrative section. I open flimsy doors with glass windows, uncertain what I am looking for. I am moving too slowly, but it is because I am now sure that this is the place where my family was destroyed. Something happened here that my parents discovered, and it changed everything. I don’t want to miss what that was. Within these walls the seeds were pl
anted, watered and matured until my sister was spat out, ruined, destroyed. Without this place, perhaps we would have all lived together. I let go of my jumper, breathe in the stale air.

  Then as I push open the next door I am met by a wave of hope. This is without doubt the records room, a gaping cave stacked with rows of files like a library. I rush across to the first shelf, pick up a dirty beige folder with a number on the front. But then my excitement fades. There’s no name on it. I pick up a second, and again I find only a number: 0021-94-59. Without names, it will be impossible to find Elle’s file.

  I open the first folder, the pages brown, dusty. It belonged to Charlotte Green, diagnosed with manic depression. ‘They’d call that bipolar now,’ I mutter. There is a grainy, faded photograph tacked to the inside, and the sense of hopelessness on little Charlotte Green’s face washes over me. ‘What a stupid system.’ I toss the file down and open the next. This one has a picture of a young man on the inside cover. ‘Green, Christopher, 26, admitted in 1959, schizophrenia.’ I remember the name in the first file. I reach down, grab it just in case I have made a mistake. But I haven’t. I’m right. Green, Charlotte. Green, Christopher. It’s alphabetical.

  I move along the rows pulling out folders, checking names. I realise that some of the files do actually have names written on their spines; it’s just that most are so faded they can’t be read. I must be close to Harringford, so I keep flicking through, looking for where the Gs become Hs. But then another thought comes to mind. Matt. I pull out the business card from my pocket. Matthew Guthrie. He told me that he had therapy too, didn’t he? Is it possible he knew Elle all along?

  Part of me doesn’t want to look, as if by doing so I’m snooping in something private to which I have no right. Like his bathroom cabinet. But I can’t help myself, and before I have even decided whether I should or shouldn’t, I’m clutching a file that has the name Matthew Guthrie written on the spine. I open it, and there staring right back at me is his childhood face, unmistakable blond curls drooping across sad eyes.

  I slide out my phone and see that I still have no signal. I move over to the window and wait for the phone to register on the network. As it does, a call comes through. It’s Matt.

  ‘Oh, thank God you picked up,’ he says, breathless. ‘I’ve been trying for the best part of half an hour. I’m on my way to Horton. Where are you? Are you with Elle?’

  ‘No.’

  His breathing relaxes. ‘When you heard somebody in the house . . .’ he says, sounding relieved that the things he imagined possible have not come true. ‘Tell me where you are. I’ll come and find you.’

  ‘I’m at Fair Fields.’

  ‘Oh.’ He pauses. ‘You went there? OK, wait outside. I’ll meet you on the road just before the fence.’ I hear the revving of his engine as he accelerates.

  ‘Too late. I’m already inside.’ I look down at his childhood face on the inside cover, wonder just how well he knows my sister. ‘I’m in the records room.’

  ‘In the records room? What did you find?’

  When he remains silent, I take a punt on a guess. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you knew Elle as a child?’ For a moment I listen to his breathing, the sound of his lips as he swallows. Then the line goes dead.

  37

  I watch from the window as Matt crosses the grounds of Fair Fields, his steps quick, just short of running. I am sitting on the windowsill, his file placed on my knees. I haven’t moved since he hung up, a little over fifteen minutes ago. He must have left Edinburgh as I was leaving Mam Tor. He disappears from view as he nears the building, and only a minute later he arrives in the records room. He must know the layout, remember where he is going.

  ‘Irini,’ he says as he bursts through the door. His cheeks are red, his brow shiny. I hold up his file.

  ‘I didn’t read it,’ I say, feeling a little guilty. For a moment he stands there, his eyes darting about the floor.

  ‘Let me explain.’ He rushes towards me, and I don’t stop him when he takes one of my hands in his, just like he did at the hotel. It feels good to have him touch me, his grip tight, his strength comforting. My lack of resistance spurs him on, and soon enough he has wrapped me in his arms, holding me to his chest. When he lets me go he says, ‘Thank God you are all right. I left work as soon as you told me that you heard somebody in the house. If anything had happened to you, I would never have forgiven myself.’

  He finds a couple of chairs and sets them up near the window. We sit down like we are on a confessional chat show, him wringing his hands between his knees, nervous. He is dressed in his suit, a light mac over the top. He looks different from before, sharper, without stubble, but there is worry on his face. I’d love to tell him it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t have to do this. Part of me wants to make it easy on him, stop him before he starts. But the other part of me needs the truth. No turning back now.

  ‘I should have told you before. If you are angry at me, you have every right. But I didn’t want to admit to having been here. In this place,’ he says as he glances at the walls surrounding us. ‘I was ashamed.’

  ‘Why? What do you think I would have done?’ I try to sound soft, reassuring, but I get the feeling that everything I say now sounds like an accusation.

  ‘Maybe you’d have felt the same way about me as you do Elle. I didn’t want that.’ I can’t deny him that. I haven’t exactly been kind about Elle. ‘Plus I try not to remember the things that happened here. It wasn’t a great place to be.’ He shakes his arms out from his jacket, loosens his tie as if it is suffocating him. ‘The time I spent here was hard.’

  ‘I need to know what happened, Matt.’

  He sits back, his hands on his knees. ‘Aye, I know. I was only in here for a few weeks, after my parents’ divorce. The doctors said I needed to stay in; my parents believed them. They would have done anything to assuage their guilt over the separation.’ He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. ‘You see, I didn’t take it very well. I idolised my father, thought that without him around everyday life would be impossible. I was playing up a lot, in school, at home. They brought me here to help me work through a few issues. But it didn’t help. It made things worse.’ He looks to the floor, unable to maintain eye contact. I feel the urge to say something, but I’m sure that if I do, I’ll tip the balance, and suddenly he’ll realise that he doesn’t owe me this explanation. So I wait, and a moment later he starts speaking again. ‘It was in the papers, and there was an investigation. Residents chained to beds, shock therapy, beatings, violations of girls, some of them not much older than ten. Boys, too. I got a few lashes, and they tried to break me, but my parents pulled me out before it got too bad. Others weren’t so lucky.’

  ‘You mean Elle.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, still unable to look at me. ‘She was here a long time. I knew her briefly; we became friends.’ I reach out, take his hand. I’m grateful to know that in the midst of this, he was with her, no matter how temporarily. ‘The kids who had been hurt left this place, grew up. But they kept the scars they took with them.’ He lifts a tuft of hair and points to a small triangular scar on the top of his forehead. ‘Elle has one too. Hot pokers from the fireplace. Meant we were fighters.’ I remember the small scar on her face, how I always wondered if it was chickenpox, and realise how wrong I was. I think back and wonder if my life was ever as bad as I believed it to be.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. I want to hold him in my arms, cradle him as he speaks. It’s like finally it’s all coming out. I edge towards him, but he starts up again and I hold back, give him space.

  ‘Scared kids grew into angry adults. They wanted justice. Some came here, wrote things on the wall, broke the place up. You must have seen the graffiti on your way up here. Others tried to press charges, but very few cases ever made it to court. I stayed in touch with Elle because we lived close by. I guess we understood each other. That’s how we ended up back here. I thought we would cause some trouble. Break a few windows or somethi
ng stupid. But Elle was planning to burn the whole place down. She set fire to the linen room. They chased us away before it got out of hand, put the fire out, thank God. Afterwards, I told my mother what had happened and she moved me away. Elle and I lost touch, but to be honest, it was a relief. I realised that in my effort to thank her for being there for me, I was prepared to go along with any of her suggestions.

  ‘Then a year or so ago I met her by chance at the gym. At first I avoided her. But then Greg got involved and we became friends. When she showed me a picture of you about a month ago, said you were coming to visit and that I should be there, help her to reconnect with you, I couldn’t say no. She’d been strong as a kid, helped me. I thought I owed her, so I went along with it. I wanted so much for her to be all right, knowing what she’d been through. So I agreed to show you around a bit.’

  ‘But you told me that Elle said her sister had died.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ He picks shamefaced at his thumb. ‘But she said stuff like that for attention. She would lie and exaggerate to impress people. She was always making stuff up, looking for sympathy. I felt sorry for her, I guess. I’m sorry I got it so wrong.’

  I reach out, touch his knee, stroke it with my thumb. With my parents gone, Matt is the only person who understands Elle like I do. Despite the fact that he held back the truth about their connection, I’m so grateful that he is here. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘Maybe not. But what does matter, and what I should never have kept from you, is this. Elle came to me after you left and told me that somebody was threatening her. That they were going to reveal everything that was in her file from Fair Fields. She seemed terrified. She also told me that the person who was threatening her knew about the fire we had started all those years ago, and that I was being implicated as the ringleader. She wanted to disappear for a few days, and told me that if I covered for her, everything would blow over. I didn’t want anything about the fire to come out. I’ve built a good life for myself, and I love my job. I didn’t want to risk losing it because of a stupid childhood mistake, so I went along with it. I covered for her.’