The Girl in the Gallery

by Alice Castle

  She exchanged a swift glance with an equally stricken-looking Katie and scrabbled off the bench. ‘I’ll just pop in and get us some refills,’ she said, shamelessly abandoning Katie to do the mopping up, with only a quick beseeching glance at her friend.

  Katie raised her eyebrows briefly. ‘Make ours really strong, please,’ she said.

  Once clear of the table, Beth managed not to run into the café, but sauntered as though she didn’t have a care in the world. She smiled at a couple of mothers she knew by sight who were, of course, agog at the shenanigans at their table. Inwardly, she was wondering. Maria might be overcome at the moment, but her expert knowledge of the workings of the mind could prove very useful.

  It was a point she had ample time to consider. Service, never lightning fast at the Summerhouse, was moving into its languorous after-lunch phase. As she queued up at the counter with a herd of patient mothers, rambunctious toddlers banging into her ankles, she scanned the many familiar notices taped to the café walls, without really paying attention.

  When the Summerhouse had first opened with some fanfare, about ten years ago, these walls had been pristine. She wasn’t quite sure when the first notice had appeared, possibly during the notorious drain blocking of the summer when Ben had been five. ‘Customers are politely reminded NOT to flush wipes down the loos, the Park’s drains cannot cope.’ Fair enough, Beth had supposed. Unblocking a wipe-gunged sewer could not possibly rank as a pleasant job. But such a specific notice, not far from all the tempting cakes set out behind the glass display cases on the counter? Beth had thought it was a mistake.

  That did not stop the author adding another work to the wall a week or so later, containing more capitals, more lurid details about sanitary pads and their effect on the place’s pipes and, sadly, missing off a vital apostrophe. In Dulwich, that scarcely mattered – a teacher with a red pen had obviously been queuing for a coffee, and had done a quick correction almost the day it went up.

  The next piece of A4 tacked up on the wall declared itself to be a ‘polite notice’ and threatened visitors with legal action for defacing café property. After that, it was open season. It reminded Beth of Dolores Umbridge’s relentless stream of proclamations and prohibitions in Harry Potter. Notices went on top of notices, and much fun was had by all the frustrated writers, academics, and comedians of Dulwich in augmenting the words of the increasingly infuriated café owner: ‘If patrons were to refrain from breathing, the proprietor would be most grateful’ was a favourite, though the one in the style of Samuel Pepys’ diary had been fun too: ‘To Dulwych, where I did kisse the proprietor in the quiet playe area, where toddleres must sterilyse their handes before touching the bookes provided…’

  Things seemed to have settled down now, though there was always an outbreak of waggishness around April Fool’s Day. This year’s effort had threatened that any toddlers left unattended would be sold to the child-catcher. But as this had touched a raw nerve of parental paranoia, it had been ripped down by customers, not the proprietor, and a stiff editorial was promptly published in the local paper, the Dulwich Diverter.

  By the time Beth had got to the head of the queue, paid for three strong teas, added milk from an uncooperative flask at the table by the door, and made it outside – two in one hand, one in the other – walking gingerly so as not to scald herself, she could see that Katie had got the situation under control. Maria was sitting up properly again, with a crumpled tissue in her hand, it was true, but most importantly with a smile pinned to her pretty face. Phew. As usual, she owed Katie big time and she signalled this with her eyes as she passed the cups over, managing not to splosh too much on the uneven surface. She hoisted herself over the bench again and settled down.

  ‘Sorry, that took forever as usual. They’re lovely, but…’ So much of Dulwich life was in those three dots. No-one ever criticised the café but…

  ‘Never mind that. Listen, Beth, Maria’s got a lot to tell you,’ said Katie brightly, nudging the Italian.

  Maria gave a slightly wobbly smile. ‘Normally, I never talk about my work – and still, of course, the specifics, well, you understand,’ she said, spreading capable hands to encompass the Hippocratic oath, the feelings of her patients, and possibly even the inability of laypeople to get to grips with the intricacies of her specialism.

  Beth smiled encouragingly. ‘In this case, well…’ Maria glanced towards Katie for reassurance or confirmation before continuing, Beth wasn’t sure which. ‘You see, I work at the Wellesley.’

  Beth instantly sat up a little straighter. The Wellesley Hospital was just down the road, in Camberwell. Not only did it specialise in psychiatric issues, but it was the largest mental health training institution in the UK. For Dulwich parents, however, it had come to have other connotations. The high-pressure lifestyle that most people enjoyed, with rewarding, lucrative jobs allowing them to pay the College and Wyatt’s school fees, had a knock-on effect on their children. Some just didn’t perform in the same way their parents had, for many reasons. And every term, a significant minority seemed to be shipped off to the Wellesley for treatment, whether for anxiety, anorexia, or other conditions. Exactly how many were affected, Beth had no idea. It wasn’t something people talked about. If their own children were in treatment, people were reluctant to discuss it. And if it was their kids’ friends or classmates, then a protective silence also descended.

  Falling short of the Wellesley, there was a network of counsellors and therapists who saw children from the Endowment schools – and others. To Beth, who at the moment was in the very fortunate position of having a child who seemed to be coping with life, it looked as though these poor kids were the collateral damage in their parents’ assault on the citadels of privilege. Though she was absolutely certain that no parent ever considered their children’s mental equilibrium a price worth paying, often they were too deep in the game to change direction – opt for less competitive schools, a smaller range of GCSEs, less ambitious A levels and, ultimately, the consideration of a non-Russell Group university or even something vocational.

  The awful thing was that private counselling didn’t come cheap, while NHS waiting lists for children’s psychiatric services were months’ long. ‘Getting in’ to the Wellesley was almost as difficult as making it to one of the Endowment schools – but it wasn’t something that ever got boasted about at dinner parties.

  Beth felt as though she’d been hearing about a cult for years, and had occasionally caught glimpses of it, but always hoped that she would never have to be fully inducted into its mysteries. Now she had accidentally met one of the high priestesses, who knew everything.

  Maria’s eyes were still wide and beseeching as she started to talk.

  ‘At first I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. I specialise in anorexia, you see, so it was very interesting for me to come to the UK. We have an anorexia problem in Italy, but it is not such a big area, for sure. And even in Belgium, where we were living before Kuwait, the incidence was reasonably low. Then in Kuwait, well, the expat community is a very mobile population, and the problem becomes hard to pinpoint. So, you can see why I was excited to come to the UK and take up my work again,’ said Maria earnestly.

  Katie nodded along, but Beth thought of the many reasons to come and live in this green and pleasant land, this was possibly the saddest.

  ‘So here I was, in this new area, with all this data and many, many patients queuing for treatment.’

  This time, both women nodded.

  ‘So, gradually things settle down. And remember, we still haven’t been in the country long, just since halfway through this term. A matter of weeks, barely. And yet it becomes clear.’

  Beth glanced over at Katie. She, too, was sitting forward on her chunky wooden bench. Maria couldn’t possibly have a more attentive audience.

  ‘You know there are sometimes little clusters of incidents in the mental health arena,’ said Maria. Her English, always impressive, was even more assured when she was
on medical ground. ‘There may be, for instance, a spate of suicides of teenagers in the same area… you remember cases like this?’

  Katie looked blank, but Beth spoke up. ‘There were quite a few suicides at Bridge University recently, weren’t there?’

  ‘Yes, though it was thought they were coincidental, rather than definitely linked. They were all very sad cases – one boy had split with a girlfriend, another was struggling with depression. Three of the deaths happened in the first weeks of the new academic year, so we can assume that those are problems the students brought with them and found themselves unable to cope with for differing reasons. The students did not know each other. I am thinking more of what could almost be called an outbreak of suicide, for instance like the deaths at high schools in one specific area in California. In this case, the teenagers were highly privileged, the children of high-achieving Silicon Valley workers. It would seem that the first suicide breaks a taboo, and then that makes it easier for others to follow suit…’

  ‘You’re not saying that’s going to happen here, are you?’ Beth’s glance took in the tranquil park scene – children and dogs playing under a sky which was not far off the duck-egg blue of a Fortnum & Mason carrier bag. Dulwich was an idyll at the centre of London’s mad urban sprawl, a small oasis of perfection which existed mainly to show other, less fortunate areas how things should be done. She couldn’t help her voice rising in anger and concern, though why she should be reacting so badly to even the suggestion such tragedies could happen here, she didn’t know. It was frightening, that was all.

  ‘It is natural to feel defensive about such an idea,’ said Maria with an understanding smile which caused Beth’s hackles to rise further. ‘I’m not suggesting that there will be a suicide pact here; I pray very much not. What I am saying is that there is linked behaviour going on, yes, here, which in my view is dangerous, very dangerous. Extremely so.’

  Despite the warmth of the sun massaging her back through her thin cardigan, Beth shivered. She had felt the presence of evil when she had looked down at poor Simone Osborne, lying so still in the Gallery. Now, Maria seemed to be confirming there was something malign in Dulwich. Again.

  ‘Linked behaviour. What does that mean, exactly?’ Katie asked, with a worried frown.

  Maria clasped her hands together and looked down, briefly, seeming to gather herself. Maybe she was marshalling the right words in her second language – or maybe this was going to be difficult to put into words in any tongue. After a beat, she looked up, her brown eyes frank and steady as she gazed at the two women.

  ‘I have not come across this before – and I don’t like it. But we are seeing a pattern emerging. Have you heard of the Blue Whale challenge?’

  Both women gazed at her blankly. Maria sighed. ‘Well, it started, we think, in Russia. In a way, it is mischief, but it is worse; it is very manipulative. There are Facebook groups. You join. You watch other people being set challenges. You start to take part yourself. There are 50 challenges in 50 days. It starts easily, but then the challenges become more extreme. You have to dare yourself to watch a particular horror film right through to the end. You have to do other things which stretch your boundaries, make you uncomfortable, uneasy. Then you have to cut yourself. Then still more challenges. Ultimately, there is pressure – to take your own life.’

  ‘You’re not saying that could happen here?’ Katie looked pale.

  ‘You don’t understand, Katie. I’m saying it is happening here. Already. It has spread throughout Europe. There have been no deaths reported in the UK yet, but already there is a toll on the mental health of the children participating. And yes, they are children.’

  ‘But why would any kid from round here want to do something like that?’ Beth shrugged.

  ‘It’s hard to understand, I agree. On paper, they have everything. But sometimes, things are too, you would say, cosy, no? Particularly for teenagers. They need to challenge themselves, this is how they grow. But not like this, I agree. We have to stop these things.’

  ‘How on earth do we do that?’ Katie said.

  ‘Yes, it’s not easy,’ Maria shrugged. ‘There are general guidelines if you think your child is on social media too much. There are signs to look out for. Are they withdrawn after using their phone or tablet? Are they secretive? But, seriously? All teenagers are like that. One of the first of the online acronyms, like LOL, was PIR for parent in room. If we had to intervene with every withdrawn teenager who doesn’t want to talk to their parents and doesn’t want them hanging over their shoulder when they’re online, then we would be working on every child in London.’

  Beth, who’d fallen silent, piped up again. ‘Where is the name from? Blue Whale… it doesn’t sound sinister; I suppose they’re too cunning to call it Death Cult or anything.’

  ‘In fact, once you know the story, the name is frightening, too. The name refers to a real habit of some blue whales. They beach themselves on purpose and then, well, they die.’

  The two women looked at each other, stunned. There was no getting inside a whale’s head, but how terrifying that our largest mammals, so apparently serene, could secretly harbour a death wish. Beth immediately worried about the whale music she’d listened to on the rare occasions she’d paid a trip to the beauty parlour in the village – always as a result of getting a birthday voucher from Katie. Maybe their songs weren’t quite as restful as people wanted to believe. The whales might well really be wailing.

  ‘But there’s no proof that this Blue Whale thing has taken hold here, is there?’ Katie, as ever, was clinging to the good news.

  ‘Not that we know of,’ said Maria cautiously. ‘But there is a group of girls being treated at the moment that is giving us much, much cause for concern. Of course, I cannot really say anything more to you about their names or their situations. There is confidentiality and so on to be respected. But I will say this. There is a leader among them, and she is the one doing the damage.’

  Beth glanced at Maria, surprised by the vehemence of her tone. The woman’s attractive face, framed by the dark-brown bell of shiny hair, was set and her mouth was a determined, angry line. Whoever this girl was, Beth wouldn’t like to be in her shoes.

  ***

  Harry York shoved his hand through his thick hair in exasperation. Usually having a lot of hair was a good thing – his mum, bless her, was always going on about what a lovely head of hair he had. But on a hot day, when he was getting nowhere fast, it was a pain. He felt as though his brain was in danger of melting. If it was this hot now, what was high summer going to be like? Well, with any luck he wouldn’t have such a taxing crime to work on. Yeah, right, he said to himself. And maybe Catford would finally come up in the world, and he’d win the lottery. And find a parking space outside his flat.

  His eyes flicked over to his shabby curtains. His mum had told him a million times to get some nice new ones down at John Lewis, but he never had the time. Or the will, frankly. What did it matter if they didn’t quite close? It meant he could keep an eye on his car, parked all the way down the road, if he wanted to. Anyway, this way the curtains matched the rest of his flat – it was all horrible.

  The furniture was vintage, all right, but vintage flat-pack, which seemed to age in dog years. It was all either wonky, chipped or broken, or on the verge of it. There was probably an Allen key somewhere that could tighten everything up, but he was buggered if he could find it. Only the bed was functional, and that was all he really needed. He came here to sleep. And read. Kind friends, mostly married, took pity on him now and then and fed him, otherwise it was work, work, work, drinks down the pub, time with his mum and stepdad down in Dartford, joshing on the phone with his younger sister and brother, and reading.

  Reading was his passion. Thank God, the bookcases in this place were sturdy, even if nothing else was. They had to be, to withstand the weight of his serried ranks of paperbacks, green spine after green spine glowing in the light of his super-strong reading lamp. York was a
devotee of the Golden Age of crime fiction, and had the complete works of the masters, from Margery Allingham to The Z Murders.

  It wasn’t just a colony of Penguins roosting on his shelves. Like the worst sort of petty criminal, York was indiscriminate about his thrills. Anyone who kept him guessing would do. And for him, the Golden Age definition was ever-expanding. PD James, CJ Sansom, Umberto Eco, he loved mysteries of all types and shades, from grey and grisly to deepest noir.

  He’d always have a soft spot, though, for the country house crime, despite the fact that PC Plod was outwitted by a talented amateur every single time he set foot over an ancestral threshold. The way Lord Peter Wimsey or Albert Campion managed to pull off such feats of mental ingenuity, while their police handmaidens struggled to master joined-up thinking, made York smile. A less generous man might have found it infuriating, but York was an indulgent reader. It was escapism he was after, not the grind of evidence-sifting and witness-crunching that he knew all too well was truly at the heart of solving crime. Besides, who didn’t love the pirouettes of inspiration and flashes of dazzling brilliance that amateur sleuths always managed?

  Perhaps, he thought, struck by a moment of self-revelation, that was the reason that he didn’t mind occasionally involving civilians in his own cases – to a very limited extent – and only if they could contribute materially to background information or other aspects of the situation that he couldn’t cover to his liking himself.

  He could certainly do with a large dash of inspiration in this case. Hopes had more or less faded for little Simone Osborne. With her life support due to be withdrawn tomorrow unless her mother – still praying for her girl – could convince the doctors to give her more time, there didn’t seem to be any chance of getting further on in the case. He had no major suspect. No-one had seen the drug or drugs being administered or the girl being positioned. Yes, she had been on the list of waiting staff for the Hospice drinks, but so had a whole gaggle of College girls.