All These Perfect Strangers (34 page)

Michael shifted slightly and his weight lessened. Distracted, he reached out to touch my face. ‘I didn't mean to hurt you,' he said. ‘I love you.' He dropped the screwdriver. It rolled down and fell into the gutter, out of his reach.

‘I've got something that belongs to you,' I said. I lifted up my arm with the bangles. He sat up and pulled back my sleeve and I slipped them off into his hand. Then with my heels braced against the gutter, I pushed him as hard as I could. Two great shoves to his chest. The first pushed him off me, arms flailing. The second pushed him right over the edge.

Lying on my stomach, I peered over. There were holes in the mist and the ground was visible in large patches. Michael lay there.

He could have been asleep.

I am sitting in the waiting room looking at Ivy's red circles on the wall. Today, for the first time, they really are balloons, floating away, free. Escaping like me. The train ticket is in my blue diary which sits on my lap. Most roads are open. My bags are packed. I am leaving again, as I did before, except I am heading to a different university in a different city. I've got time to settle in and find a place to stay. After Christmas, I'll catch up what I missed at summer school and by the time first semester begins, everything will be back to how it should be.

The town is cleaning up now that the flood has started to recede. We didn't beat the 1923 record and Mum was disappointed. The whole place stinks of dirt and the river, as though we were buried alive and have just been dug up.

Frank had to be a ‘real' doctor during the flood. He delivered a baby and treated a couple of broken legs, one concussion and Bob, who had a suspected heart attack trying to help move racehorses to higher ground. It turned out to be angina. There is a picture of Frank on the front page of the newspaper, standing next to Bob's hospital bed. Bob is looking paler than usual, but maybe that's just the printing because Frank is looking a little green. I'll send Bob a card when I get settled.

Frank the Hero. Our local paper deals in absolutes. Ivy bought multiple copies and has put them around the waiting room. But I'm the only person here to enjoy them, which I find a bit odd. I would have thought everyone would be wanting an appointment but they must still be sweeping mud out of their houses.

Ivy is distracted by her new computer today. It's a light-grey beehive of a box that hums all the time. I can tell she's a bit on edge by the way she presses a key and then pulls her hand back as if it's got teeth.

In my mind I am saying goodbye to all of this. To Ivy. To the balloons. To the newspaper. To the waiting room. I didn't get a chance to do that at Scullin.

By the time they got me off the roof I had lost a lot of blood and was fading in and out of consciousness. As I was bundled into the ambulance, I could see Scullin disappearing forever.

Kesh and Toby visited me at the hospital. Kesh cried a lot and Toby chatted up the cute male nurse. Rogan stayed away. The police were a constant presence but having a head injury helped me avoid difficult questions until I'd come up with the right answers. In the end, I told them what they wanted to hear: Michael had killed himself after admitting he had murdered Rachel and Leiza. I tried to stop him and that's how I got injured. I even made him responsible for the attack on Alice. That was easy with the balaclava and screwdriver on the roof. I figured Rogan had tried to protect me from Marcus, so I owed him that much. It was also neater that way. Real life is never simple, but I've found people like to pretend that it is.

The only person I didn't mention was Nico. But then I thought I didn't have to, because I expected the nice, fatherly sergeant, who I suspected was on the bikers' payroll, and who spoke to me in a gentle voice and occasionally held my hand when my head hurt too much, knew exactly what had happened to him.

When they discharged me from hospital, I was put into my mother's car, and found all my belongings packed next to me. The Sub-Dean had convinced Mum that it was ‘for the best', if not for me then definitely for his budget. He tried to get her to sign a waiver against suing the college but she didn't fall for that one.

·  ·  ·

The telephone rings and Ivy pounces on it. She transfers the caller through to Frank but only after she whispers who it is. It is the whispering I notice. It cuts through the room the way a soft murmur never does. Something about ‘insurance' and the ‘medico-legal department'. Her head bobs up and down as she puts through the call.

I wonder what trouble Frank is in. Maybe a patient has made a complaint. Must go with the territory when they're mad in the first place.

Ivy sees me looking and she smiles nervously. Something is definitely wrong. But before I can ask any questions, Frank is standing there and he's not smiling at all.

‘Thanks for coming in today,' he says, after I follow him to his office. ‘I wasn't sure if you would after you cancelled your last appointment.'

‘I tried to get one yesterday,' I say. ‘But Ivy said you were busy.'

Frank's lower lip juts out and he nods his head slowly, as if he's not sure he believes me.

A little stung by this, I take the initiative. ‘I wanted to see you because I'm leaving town on the train tonight.'

If he is surprised, sitting there in his chair, he hides it well.

‘My settlement came through. There's enough money for me to start studying again. Bob's organised my new university.'

He asks me which one and I tell him. It's actually his old university, which I had forgotten. He doesn't seem very happy for me.

‘Pen, I am obliged to tell you that the police have been in contact with me.'

‘What did they want?'

‘They wanted to know if you are my patient.'

This is a ridiculous question because everyone in town knows who Frank's patients are.

Unless these police aren't from our town.

‘Did you tell them?'

‘Do you remember what I explained to you about confidentiality at our very first appointment?'

I do. What Frank doesn't know is that I looked it up again this year. It was mentioned in a lecture and I did some extra reading in the library. I could cite the cases for him. Explain how strict his obligations are in favour of the patient. In favour of me. I have been so very careful not to give him any reason to go to the police.

‘I neither confirmed nor denied that you were my patient. I asked them to put their request in writing and explained to them that I would have to discuss the matter with you, if you were actually my patient. They faxed it through yesterday.'

He shows me a piece of paper. A smudged official-looking crest is at the top.

‘Their request concerns a murder investigation and they are considering whether to apply to the courts for all my notes concerning you.'

‘But . . .'

He holds up a hand to quieten me. ‘There's more. It asks whether a certain diary makes up part of my patient notes. They provide a description. A4 size, dark blue, hard-cover, gold embossed writing on the front.' He glances at what I am holding in my hands. ‘They describe that book exactly.'

Sun is pouring into the room. There is a spider's web under the eaves.

Who would have told the police about my diary?

I wonder if that was what Terry was looking for in my room. I can't believe he would get the police involved. Others would though. Julie Cuttmore for a start. She'd do it in a heartbeat if she thought it would get me into trouble. She'd ask Terry to steal it and when he couldn't find it, go to the police and tell them I was keeping one. It seems farfetched but still the police know about my diary. Someone told them.

‘I've just spoken to my insurer's lawyer. Your diary isn't part of my notes. It belongs to you, as we agreed at the beginning, so it isn't protected.'

I put the diary down on the table in front of us, carefully, as if with one false move it might explode.

‘But what if I give it to you?' I say. ‘I could give it to you now and then it's part of your notes.'

Frank puts his hands in his lap, as though he doesn't want to accidentally touch it.

‘You would only be giving it to me to attract the privilege, not as part of a genuine treatment. I cannot lie to the police. I will have to tell them that there is no diary in my file.'

There is a flatness to the way he says this, rehearsed almost. He is not outraged or flustered. He's not even surprised. And I wonder how long he has known about this. Did it begin with the phone call from the police or was this something he knew from our first session?

I turn my head away from him and look at the spider's web again as I work through the implications of what's happening. Raindrops still cling to the web like crystal beads, a beautiful deadly trap.

‘You said if I wanted to continue with you, I had to put everything down in writing. Did you tell the police?'

He looks straight at me and says, ‘Why would you think that?' and I almost laugh that I expected an answer from the man who only ever asks questions. It doesn't matter though. I may not have been as successful a liar as I thought, but I'm better than he is. I stare at him and for a moment I think he is going to say sorry, but instead, he says, ‘Pen, what have you done?' Something he has probably been wanting to ask me every session.

I don't answer him. He doesn't deserve it. But that isn't important now. I need to get rid of the diary. I pull it back towards me.

‘You can call me anytime. You know that.'

I shake my head. I don't need him. I don't need anybody. I'm starting again.

As I tuck the diary into my bag I'm already thinking of ways to get rid of it. Burning it would be the best. I imagine ripping out the pages and watching them, one by one, fuel a fire. Ashes to Ashes. Rachel, Leiza, Michael, Tracey, disappearing forever. But the cover probably wouldn't burn. Too waxy.

No, that idea isn't practical. The ground is too damp to light a fire outside. But also, part of me knows even if there was a fire right in front of me, I wouldn't put the diary in. I'm not ready to get rid of it, to say goodbye to the people inside it. I can't let them go. If I go straight home perhaps I can hide it under the floorboard. It worked before.

I walk out of the door. Frank is behind me. There are tall people in blue uniforms standing in reception. Frank says, ‘What on earth is going on?' but we all ignore him. They surround me. A shorter one steps forward. I recognise Constable Morriset. I scan the rest of the faces. Another man looks familiar, but then all policemen look the same.

‘Penelope Sheppard, you are not obliged to say . . .' she begins. I don't even bother listening to the rest of it and say ‘Yes' before I am supposed to. Ivy stays well back from it all, behind the reception desk.

Constable Morriset puts on gloves and pulls the blue book out of my bag. She slips it into a clear plastic bag and seals it. They put me in the police car, next to her. She is trying not to look too pleased with herself. A good day's work. They never wanted Frank's notes, just the diary. They must have kept a watch on this place, knowing I would bring it in for our session.

People have come out into the street to see what is going on. The man from next door is standing out the front of his shop, gaping like a fish. I wonder if he knows who I am, if he remembers the day that I came in and stole a porcelain ornament. I was sure he saw me. That's why I left so quickly and ran back to the park, clutching it under my jacket. Tracey was more confident and decided to browse for longer.

‘It's been a while, Pen,' says Constable Morriset.

‘Why isn't Sergeant Durham here?' I ask.

She tries to appear unruffled but her edges get sharper. ‘He's not part of this investigation any more.'

‘Is that right?' I say. I want to show her that I'm not intimidated.

‘Don't worry. Sergeant Woodley knows the way to the police station.'

I look at the rear-vision mirror. The policeman who seems familiar.

‘I know Pen as well,' he says.

‘Is that right?' says Constable Morriset, tartly echoing my words.

‘You forgotten me?' he says. His eyes catch mine in the mirror. ‘Pen was the star witness in a big case we had a while back. Didn't get to trial though. Accused killed herself the day before it started. Shot herself with the murder weapon. Remember, Pen? I had to come and tell you.'

The trees are bare in front of the court house. The rain has torn off all the blossoms. Winter is here again.

·  ·  ·

They put me in the same interview room I was in that night. I tell myself that it is not deliberate, that there aren't that many interview rooms in a country station.

I pretend this is just a waiting room. But it isn't the same as the others. There are no pictures on the walls.

I sit for a long time alone, trying to work out why I am here. What am I really guilty of? Michael killed Rachel, not me. Just like Tracey killed the policeman. The diary doesn't help, but I think of how to explain it away. It was a hypothetical exercise as instructed by my psychiatrist to help me deal with my emotional loss. My survivor's guilt was such that I blamed myself for others' actions.

Sounds like lies.

The interview starts and it is the uniforms again. Not detectives. They'll be here soon, Constable Morriset tells me. The flood's delayed them.

She says that I am being questioned in relation to the death of Michael Doherty.

‘Michael killed himself,' I say. ‘He jumped from the top of the building.'

‘Did he?' Constable Morriset asks. ‘Because the angle of his fall looks like he was pushed.'

I keep my face blank. Expert evidence, that's all they've got. We just need to find another expert to say he wasn't.

She brings out a plastic bag and for a second I think it is my diary, and I begin to ready my excuses. But instead it's a bottle of tablets. The label has been ripped off. I still recognise it.