From a Safe Distance (4 page)

Going back to their August appointment, he could see in his mind's eye the way Vee walked into the room hugging the thick folder in a plastic bag, her eyes showing what he interpreted as a fear of being rejected, her coat wet on the shoulders. She said she wasn't sure if the book was finished, he remembered, but didn't think she could do much more to it. She did not appear triumphant after all her work. She was, however, quite insistent that he read it, saying as she left, “You'll know what to do”. Although she was being mysterious, he'd assumed at the time that she wanted him to check it through, but now he suspected there was more to it than that.

He would “know what to do”. What did she mean? And what effect could he possibly have on anything, or anyone, now? People at Squaremile, for example, had probably forgotten all about Vee and the damage they did to her. Out of sight, out of mind. He knew Helen had worked with Vee for a short time at Squaremile, but she'd never mentioned anything.

Compounding his guilt regarding her suicide, he was ashamed to admit that, four months on, he'd only opened the book the night before, in bed, and even then, he hadn't
started at the beginning. The answers to his questions must be in that folder, but did he really want to find out? He felt daunted.

‘How long are you going to be? It's your favourite.'

‘Not long; give me two minutes.'

As a way of avoiding reading it, a way of trying to set a boundary between the professional and the personal, he thought Vee's folder should now be returned to the Gates family and the whole matter laid to rest along with its author. Perhaps what she wanted from him was too difficult; even if he read the book, there was a chance he'd be no further forward. But now he was making excuses again. He slammed his fist down on the desk. The book would just have to be returned, that was that. The situation was intolerable.

But examining his emotions required honesty: he had to face up to the fact that reading a book by someone who might once have been his wife, knowing the outcome, demanded courage. And he was a coward in matters of the heart. Besides, with his retirement approaching, he wanted to wind down, not take on any new projects. Finding he was trying to justify his behaviour only made him more aware that he was on shaky ground; the simple truth required no embellishment: he was afraid to read
Doors Closing
because he did not want Vee's words to reawaken something that could cause him even more pain.

There. He put the folder in his very tatty briefcase, which had given years of service, ready to take back to work, where he would keep it for the time being, and went downstairs to his wife.

‘Happy Birthday, darling!' She kissed him and they sat down. She had gone to a lot of trouble. She made him blow out the single candle on his cake and he felt himself relax in the warmth of her company. As he looked at her across the table, her short dark hair framing the softness of her face, her eyes smiling as she laughed at a feeble joke, he felt glad, convinced after all that his life was as it should be. We only get one chance, he thought, and regrets can weigh us down.
He would give Vee's book back. Making that decision eased the pain a little, temporarily, but a degree of curiosity remained. He needed to talk to someone. But whom could he trust?

Often the only way to relieve the guilt people feel about something important is by taking some kind of action. Reluctantly, he had to admit that this applied to him. Vee had known this too.

Max carried on writing down his thoughts to do with Vee at the hospital after work, during his last days at Porteblanche. Predictably, staying late did not make him popular with Helen. A voice broke into his thoughts. It was Simon, the colleague he would probably choose to confide in.

‘Hi, Max! What are you doing still here at this hour?'

‘Oh, it's a long story. But I could ask you the same question.'

How would he broach the subject? He had known Simon for some years and he trusted his professional judgement, even if the man was possessed of a frantic determination to see the lighter side of everything. But to his credit, Simon never minced his words. He still had the enthusiasm and looks of a junior doctor, but the wisdom of a fellow consultant. He was between five and ten years younger than Max, heavily built, with blond hair, looking a bit like Boris Johnson.

‘Drink?' Simon asked.

‘OK, but I'll have to ring the wife.'

Simon was divorced. Standing in the doorway in his dark overcoat, collar and tie and polished black shoes and carrying a neat black briefcase, he made Max feel scruffy in his brown cords and check shirt. Simon resembled a character from a 1960s British TV police drama, Max thought,
and it occurred to him that the young doctor's “uniform” had moved back in time from the beige chinos and blue shirts of ten years ago.

While Max rang Helen, Simon went back into his office next door and returned with the latest edition of
Shrink
magazine in his hand. Max finished his call and put his phone in his very tatty briefcase. Simon pointed out this month's amusing story in the magazine, which Max had read. They both laughed. Max grabbed his coat.

They went in convoy to a pub on the way to Okebury, where Simon lived, hoping they would not be recognised. Max noticed that Simon's car was looking a bit elderly. Their headlights scoured white semi-circles on the building as they drove on to the flattened gravel. It began to snow. The pub was packed; they plunged into a room filled with the deafening roar of competing conversations, punctuated by shrieks of laughter. For a second he thought of the Smoking Room at Porteblanche. But the behaviour of these people could be put down to alcohol rather than psychosis. Luckily, a group was just leaving, so the two men pushed their way into the alcove. Someone slopped his drink on Simon's coat: ‘Sorry mate!' Because they were driving, they made one drink last forty minutes. Gone were the student days of carefree and competitive inebriation. Simon paid, but it took him ten minutes to get served. When he finally got back, he demanded to know what the “long story” was which had kept Max late at work, so Max attempted to explain. He would have to, if he wanted to pick Simon's brains.

‘Hang on; you say you went to her funeral?' Simon looked worried. ‘But why?'

‘Helen wanted to go because of working at Squaremile. But if you must know, there is another reason, which made things difficult for me, actually. I knew Vee years ago, before she was ill.'

‘Knew her – what, in the Biblical sense?'

Max looked him straight in the face. Simon's light brown eyes glinted with mischief as he took a mouthful of beer.
Max found he was strangely calm, but he still had to raise his voice above the noise.

‘It was all a long time ago. Of course, Helen knows nothing about this – and I want to try and keep it that way.' He told Simon some of the story.

At first, Simon's face lit up, but then it turned sour: ‘Bugger me, Max! She must have really been something. Huh, wouldn't catch me doing all that for a woman,' he added, with a flippancy close to cynicism. ‘Nearly giving up a job? So,' he went on, ‘let me get this straight. Now, from beyond the grave, she commands you to read a book she was writing, which probably contains adult material about you. She also seems to expect something else from you. What did she say? “You'll know what to do”. What the hell is that all about?' Simon frowned, stiffening his neck backwards.

‘Sounds crazy, I know.'

Max told him how Vee became his patient years after their relationship had ended, and about the way she had been treated at work. Working at Squaremile one day a week allowed him only a glimpse of life there. Max was aware that the conditions in the pub were not right for asking advice nor, for that matter, for talking at all. The noise was tremendous, so subtlety would have been impossible. And in the end, he wasn't sure if Simon was the right person. He decided to bide his time; he'd said enough.

Simon put his large hands on the table as he spoke, one each side of his pint glass. ‘I know what it is. You're worried because you feel guilty. Am I right, or am I right?' He lifted his head, nodded slightly with certainty and gave Max a quizzical look. Then, lowering his voice and leaning towards his colleague, serious for once: ‘Hey! You mustn't let guilt about her suicide eat you up! It happens.' He was almost gentle. ‘Have you got a date for the inquest?'

‘No, not yet.'

He drew back, both arms out in front of him on the table. ‘When did she die?'

‘September.'

‘So it can't be far off. Then you can start to forgive
yourself.' Simon folded his arms and went on, ‘Now then: are you going to read this book, because I think, my friend, that if you do, you'll find out what she was on about, what she wanted you to do. And from what you've told me, I would guess that it has something to do with that Squaremile place.'

Simon was making it all sound so straightforward, Max thought.

‘But Max, if I'm right, it boils down to whether you want to take on what could be a difficult job, tackling an established organisation. Personally, I wouldn't want to know, but I didn't know Vee the way you did. Seriously though Max, there are other things to consider: your marriage, your reputation – your health, even. And do you intend to do Vee's bidding, whatever it may be, on your own?'

Max shook his head and finished his pint.

Simon continued. ‘There are practicalities. ‘Oh, come on, Max! Admit it! It's guilt pure and simple. Do you really want to let guilt take you down this unknown road?'

Max had had enough. ‘Come on, let's get out of here. I can hardly hear myself think. I didn't think it would be this busy in here. What's more, you've worn me out.'

Simon laughed out loud. ‘Time to move on, Max. Time to move on.'

If he decided to speak to Simon again about Vee, he would see him the next day, and the conditions would be better. The office at the Porteblanche Unit could be draughty, especially at this time of year, but at least it was quieter than the pub. Max didn't get as many external phonecalls as he used to, but some were still put through to him, such as the occasional invitation to give a talk to some self-help group or other. He didn't have so many patients to see either, in or out, now the majority had been reassigned. He had, however, reviewed the young man with the hole in his jumper who'd come in the other day; he'd calmed down, but was still resentful at having been sectioned.

Max heard his colleagues leaving one by one, and the
sound of a vacuum cleaner in the corridor. A particularly strong gust of January wind blew and the lights went out. The hospital generator kicked in after a few seconds. The door was ajar; hearing someone cough outside, he guessed who was there.

‘Come in!'

‘Working late again?' Simon came in, smiling.

‘Hmm. Simon. What is somebody of your age doing hanging around draughty psych departments after hours? Haven't you got a home to go to?'

Simon was slow to answer. ‘Well no, actually. It was repossessed. The recession and all that.' He looked uncharacteristically vulnerable.

‘Oh, I'm sorry. That was tactless of me.'

‘You weren't to know. My son and I are dossing down at my brother's for the time being, but it's difficult because I don't like to be in the way too much and cramp his style: he's got a new girlfriend.'

Max was preoccupied. He picked up the handful of papers he had just printed off and tapped them together on the desk. ‘D'you know something?' he said, sitting in an armchair. ‘I've realised what I need to do.'

‘What's that then?' Simon sat with one buttock on the desk, one foot in mid air.

‘There's no reason why I shouldn't tell you the whole story. It's just that –'

‘– Max, what are you on about?'

Max took a deep breath. ‘What I've realised is that the person who really needs to know everything is Helen. Please don't be offended, but … I'm just a coward, you see. It's not her feelings I think I'm sparing, but my own. But then that's not true either, is it? If I told her, I wouldn't feel so anxious to avoid her. And several things have happened to make her suspicious – God only knows what she's thinking now. She's probably feeling pretty sad. I know I would feel left out if I thought she had secrets.'

‘Max, this is all very well but, pangs of conscience aside, do you want to jeopardise your marriage over an old flame,
who's dead anyway? And when you haven't even been unfaithful? You didn't – I mean, after Helen, did you?'

‘You mean, have sex with a patient? Of course not. I may be retiring soon, but that doesn't give me an excuse to break the rules. No, I haven't been unfaithful to Helen, with Vee or anyone else. Vee was … a long time ago.' Max looked at Simon, stood up and slipped the new sheets of paper into his briefcase. Simon moved to a chair.

‘Forgive me for saying this Simon, but what you said just now about jeopardising my marriage: you've got it the wrong way round,' said Max. ‘I think I'd be jeopardising my marriage if I
didn't
tell Helen. My discomfort and her suspicion combine to make an elephant in the room.'

‘How about if I advised you
not
to read Vee's book then? That way, the discomfort and suspicion won't last because they don't go too deep. I agree that you can't leave things as they are, but if you read the book, you might be asking for trouble. It's easier to sort out a small problem than deal with what Vee might have written. You have no guarantee it's positive! If she was ill, she could've written anything about you!'

Standing by the desk, Max thought for a moment. ‘If that's the case, I think I'm better off knowing about it, especially as I don't know who else has read it, apart from her brother. Wouldn't you prefer to know what someone's written about you – something that might have been in circulation before you even knew it existed?'