Land of the Living (10 page)

‘What?’ said Irene.

‘I need to leave here. I really do, or I’ll never be able to. I need to be in ordinary life again. I suppose I can’t just get up and put on these borrowed clothes — though, come to think of it, I don’t know why not — but I’m going to track down Dr Burns, or leave a message with his secretary, and tell him that I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll leave a forwarding address with Jack Cross. And if you still feel that it’s worth talking to me, then I can come and meet you at any place you suggest. But I can’t stay here any longer.’

Irene Beddoes always reacted as if it was always just what she had been expecting me to say, and that she quite understood.

‘That may be right,’ she said. ‘Could you do us one favour? As we’ve talked about before, you’re being seen by all sorts of different people and departments. I’m sorry about all the delays but as you can imagine it’s a logistical nightmare getting everybody together at the same time to agree on a decision. I’ve just heard that there’s going to be a meeting tomorrow morning with absolutely everybody. We’re going to talk about where we go from here. One of the obvious issues is about you leaving.’

‘Can I come?’

‘What?’

‘Can I come to the meeting?’

For the first time ever Irene looked at a loss. ‘I’m sorry, that’s not possible.’

‘You mean there are things I might not want to hear?’

She smiled her reassuring smile. ‘Not at all. Patients don’t attend case conferences. It’s just one of those things.’

‘It’s just that I think of it more as an investigation in which I’m involved.’

‘There’s nothing cloak-and-dagger about it. I’ll come and see you straight away.’

I wasn’t looking at her. My gaze was drawn to the window once more. ‘I’ll have my bag packed,’ I said.

I didn’t get Jack Cross that afternoon. He was too busy. I got a less important detective called Detective Constable Lavis. He was one of those men who was so tall that he was constantly ducking as if he was about to bump his head, even if he was in a room like mine that was about nine feet tall. He looked very much a stand-in, but he was friendly too, as if it was me and him against everybody else. He sat down on the chair next to my bed, which looked ridiculously small under him.

‘I tried to contact Cross,’ I said.

‘He’s out of the office,’ Lavis said.

‘That’s what they told me,’ I said. ‘I hoped he’d give me a call.’

‘He’s a bit busy,’ Lavis said. ‘He sent me.’

‘I was going to tell him that I’m leaving the hospital.’

‘Right,’ said Lavis, as if he had hardly heard what I’d said. ‘I’ll pass that on. I’ve just been sent along to talk about a couple of things.’

‘Like what?’

‘Good news,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Your boyfriend. Terry Wilmott. We were getting a bit worried about him, but he’s turned up.’

‘Was he working or was he on a binge?’

‘Bit of a drinker, is he?’

‘From time to time.’

‘I met him yesterday. He looked a bit pasty but he was all right.’

‘Did he say where he’d been?’

‘He said he’d been ill. He’d been staying in some cottage in Wales that a friend of his owns.’

‘That sounds like Terry. Did he say anything else?’

‘There was nothing much he had to contribute.’

‘So the mystery is cleared up,’ I said. ‘Idiot. I’ll give him a ring.’

‘So he hasn’t been in touch?’

‘Obviously not.’

Lavis looked ill at ease. He reminded me of the sort of adolescent who blushed when you asked him the time.

‘The boss has been sending me out on some inquiries,’ he said. ‘I called at your company, Jay and Joiner’s. Nice people.’

‘If you say so.’

‘We were attempting to establish the sort of period when you disappeared.’

‘Did you?’

‘I suppose.’ He gave a sniff and looked around as if checking out an escape route. ‘What are your plans?’

‘I already said. I’m planning to leave tomorrow.’

‘What about work?’

‘I’ll get in touch with them. I haven’t really felt up to it but I suppose I’ll go back in the next week or two.’

‘You’ll go back to work?’ he said. He sounded surprised.

‘What else? I’ve got a living to earn. And it’s not just that. I’ve got to get back to normal life while there’s a life for me to get to.’

‘Yes, right,’ said Lavis.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I know that my personal problems aren’t really your business.’

‘No,’ said Lavis.

‘I suppose you’ve got your hands full with the investigation.’

‘Pretty much.’

‘I know that I haven’t been giving you much to go on.’

‘We’re doing what we can.’

‘I’m really sorry that I couldn’t find the place where I’d been held. I’m not exactly the greatest witness in criminal history. But I feel completely in the dark. Have there been any other developments? I suppose they must have checked out those names I gave Cross. The names of the other victims. I was hoping that would give them a clue. Have they found anything? I assume they haven’t because if they had they would have told me. Except that nobody tells me anything. That’s one of the problems about being in this bed, in this room. I think that if nothing else I’ve gained some kind of insight into what it’s like to be old and ill. People just treat you as if you were slightly thick. Do you know what I mean? They come in here and they talk slowly and ask extremely simple questions as if I have a mental problem. And they don’t believe I need to be told anything. I honestly think that if I didn’t have a tantrum every so often, they would forget me altogether.’

The reason I was babbling on and on was that Lavis was shifting in his seat looking trapped and not answering, and the longer I babbled on the more trapped he looked. I felt that I’d become like one of those people in the street who walk along muttering to themselves and every so often they manage to stop someone and rant to them about their problems and about how everybody is out to get them.

‘I haven’t been able to tell you very much,’ I said. ‘I mean, I’ve said loads but it hasn’t been much use.’

‘No, that’s fine,’ said Lavis, as he stood up. He was about to make a break for it. ‘I just needed to check a couple of things. As I said.’

‘I’m sorry that I’ve been going on and on and on,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit stir crazy.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Lavis, as he edged away from me towards the safety of the open door. But he didn’t contradict me.

The St Anthony Hospital NHS Trust

Date: 28 January 2002

Subject: Case Conference — Abigail Elizabeth

Devereaux, Room 4E, Barrington Wing. Hosp.

No. 923903

Cc. Detective Chief Superintendent Gordon Lovell,

Laurraine Falkner (Chief Executive), Professor Ian

Burke (Medical Director).

Record made by Susan Barton (Medical Administration Assistant).

NB: RESTRICTED CIRCULATION

Present: Detective Chief Superintendent Lovell, Detective Inspector Cross, Dr Burns, Dr Beddoes, Prof. Mulligan.

Detective Inspector Cross began the meeting with an account of the case and the progress of related investigation. On 22 January Ms Devereaux was brought by ambulance from Ferdinand Road. Interviewed the following day, she claimed to have been kidnapped and threatened with death. The investigation has been hampered by lack of independent evidence. Ms Devereaux is unable to recall her capture. She was kept hooded and bound. Her only significant memory was a list of female first names, the names her captor claimed to be previous victims.

Ms Devereaux escaped from this captivity but, on being escorted back to the area, was unfortunately unable to locate the place she had escaped from.

Dr Beddoes asked if such escapes were unusual. DI Cross said his experience of such cases was limited. She asked if the investigation had made any progress at all. DI Cross said it was still in a preliminary stage.

Dr Burns described the mostly superficial injuries suffered by Ms Devereaux. He stated that her dehydrated, malnourished state, while not dangerous, was consistent with some form of physical ordeal.

Dr Beddoes asked if there was any physical evidence of violence or torture. Dr Burns said that there were bruises around neck and wrists suggesting physical restraint.

Dr Burns reported that the CAT scan showed no obvious cerebral lesions.

Professor Mulligan described his evaluation of Ms Devereaux. He announced his conclusion that her account of her post-traumatic amnesia was consistent with his examination.

Dr Beddoes asked if he had found any objective, physical evidence of such injury and such amnesia. Professor Mulligan said that such findings were not relevant. There was an animated discussion between them not detailed here.

Dr Beddoes gave her report on her assessment of Ms Devereaux. She found Ms Devereaux an articulate, intelligent, attractive subject. Her account of her ordeal was compelling and convincing. Further examination revealed that Ms Devereaux had been undergoing considerable stress in the months before the alleged ordeal. She had been under considerable pressure at her employment culminating in her being compelled to take a period of leave for stress-related reasons. This period of leave began shortly before, by Ms Devereaux’s account, her period of imprisonment began. Her relationship with her boyfriend had also been a source of considerable strain, due to his excessive drinking and violent behaviour.

Dr Beddoes reported that, on further examination, other relevant factors had come to light. Contrary to her own account, Ms Devereaux had a history of mental instability, and had indeed received medical treatment in the past. This she had failed to mention during her first interviews. She also had a history of reporting violence. Records showed that on one occasion she had called the police in response to a domestic disturbance. This was with her boyfriend.

She also had apparent difficulty in recalling these events. This was obviously comparable to her current reported amnesia. When these doubts began to appear in Dr Beddoes’ mind, she had consulted widely with others on the case in search of any independent, objective confirmation of Ms Devereaux’s claim. There was none. Dr Beddoes said it was her conclusion that Ms Devereaux’s disorders were psychological in origin and that the best course of action was a course of cognitive therapy and medication.

Professor Mulligan asked about the marks found on Ms Devereaux’s body and about her having been found in an emaciated state in an area of London distant from her home and work. Dr Beddoes replied that Professor Mulligan was there for his expertise in certain narrow neurological matters.

Detective Chief Inspector Lovell asked if Dr Beddoes was stating that no crime had been committed. Dr Beddoes said that she was not certain of what might or might not have occurred between Ms Devereaux and her boyfriend. But she was certain that the kidnap was a fantasy. In her view, not a fabrication. It was a cry for help.

DCI Lovell said the immediate question was whether Ms Devereaux should be charged with wasting police time.

There was loud discussion. DI Cross stated that he was not yet ready to dismiss Ms Devereaux’s account. Professor Mulligan asked Dr Beddoes if she was aware that if she was wrong then the result would be to cut Ms Devereaux loose and expose her to mortal danger. There followed more agitated discussion not summarized here.

Professor Mulligan stated that he wished it to be entered into the record that he dissented from the prevailing decision of the meeting. He stated that if anything happened to Ms Devereaux it would be on the consciences of everybody at this meeting. (Susan Barton excepted. Inserted on Professor Mulligan’s instructions.) Professor Mulligan then left the meeting.

There was discussion as to how to proceed. DCI Lovell ordered DI Cross to halt the inquiry. Dr Beddoes said she would immediately visit Ms Devereaux and discuss a therapeutic regime.

Dr Beddoes thanked the other members of the meeting for their co-operation. She described it as a model of how medical and legal organizations should work together. Dr Burns asked when Ms Devereaux’s bed would be available.

Part Three

One

Walk. Just walk. One foot in front of the other. Don’t stop, don’t pause, don’t look round. Keep your head up and your eyes ahead of you. Let faces blur. Pretend you know where you are going. People calling your name, but it’s an echo of an echo, bouncing off the white walls. They’re calling a stranger, not you. Don’t listen. That’s all over now, the listening and talking and doing what you’re told. Being good. Keep walking. Not running, walking. Through those double doors, which slide silently open as you approach. No tears now. Don’t cry. You are not mad, Abbie. You are not mad. Past the ambulances, the cars, the porters with their trolleys. Don’t stop now. Step into the wide world. This is freedom, except you are not free. Not free, not safe. But not mad. You are not mad. And you are alive. Breathe in and out and walk forward now.

The sky was startlingly blue and the ground icy. The world glittered with cold. My cheeks burned with it, my eyes stung, and my fingers were numb where they gripped the plastic bag I was carrying. My feet, in their stupid slipshod shoes, crunched on the gravel. I stood outside the tall Victorian house, at the top of which was our flat — well, Terry’s, really, but I’d lived in it for nearly two years now. It was me who’d painted our bedroom, opened up the fireplace, bought second-hand pieces of furniture and large mirrors and pictures and rugs and vases and the general clutter that made a place feel like home.

I tipped my head carefully to look up. The movement seemed to make pain spill over in my skull. The flat didn’t appear particularly homely right now. It looked chilly and empty. The bathroom window was still cracked, and there were no lights on. The curtains in our bedroom were drawn, which meant either that Terry was sleeping off the kind of hangover that made him pasty-faced and sour-tempered, or that he’d not bothered to open them when he staggered out of bed that morning, late for work. I hoped it was the latter.

I tried the bell anyway. If I put my ear to the door, I could hear it far above me — a spluttery ring because the battery was running out. It seemed to have been running out for months. I waited then tried again. I pushed open the metal letter-box and squinted inside to see if anyone was coming down the stairs, but could only see an empty strip of maroon carpet.

I retrieved the spare key hidden under the stone but I dropped it a couple of times before I managed to fit it into the lock with my frozen fingers. Even inside, in the hall, my breath steamed in the air. I hoped Terry had left the heating on, or that at least the water was hot enough for a bath. I was grubby and cold, and my body still felt as if everything had come loose inside. It was a poor kind of homecoming. The poorest, really.

It was an effort to go up the flights of stairs, past the flat on the first floor, where I could hear the sound of a television. My legs felt heavy and I was panting by the time I reached our door on the next floor up. I called out, as I turned the key. ‘Hello? Hello, it’s me. I’m back.’ Nothing. ‘Terry? Hello?’

Silence, except for the noise of a tap dripping in the bathroom. Suddenly, without warning, fear flooded me and I had to stop quite still, holding on to the door to steady my crumbling legs. I breathed deeply, in and out, until the fear had ebbed again, then stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind me.

I don’t know what I noticed first. Probably it was just the mess: the muddy shoes on the living-room floor, unwashed dishes piled up in the sink, dead tulips drooping on the kitchen table, next to several empty bottles and an overflowing ashtray. Grimy surfaces, stale air. But then I saw that there were odd spaces here and there, where things should be but weren’t. My CD player, for a start, which we’d always kept on a low table in the living room next to the little television. Except it wasn’t a little television any longer, but a new big one. Automatically I looked next at the small desk in the corner of my room for my laptop and it, too, was gone. It was an old one, a dinosaur in computer terms, but I groaned to think of the things stored in there that were lost — all the email addresses, for a start, which I’d never made a note of anywhere else.

I sat down on the sofa, next to a pile of old newspapers and Terry’s overcoat. Had we been robbed? Books seemed to be missing as well — there were gaps all along the shelves. I tried to remember what had been there: a giant encyclopedia from the lower shelf; several novels from the shelf above; an anthology of poetry; the
Good Pub Guide
perhaps. Certainly a couple of cookery books.

I went into our bedroom. The bed was unmade; the jumbled-up duvet still held the shape of Terry’s body. There was a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, along with two empty wine bottles. I opened the curtains to let in the dazzling sunshine, opened the window to feel the fierce, clean air blasting into the room, and then stared around. It’s always hard to see what isn’t there; to notice absence. But the alarm clock was gone from my side of the bed. My wooden box of jewellery was gone too, from the top of the chest of drawers. There wasn’t anything valuable in it — just a few earrings, bangles, a couple of necklaces, things given to me over the years – but they were mementoes and gifts and could never be replaced.

I opened the drawers. My underwear was gone, except for an old pair of black knickers stuffed at the back. Several of my T-shirts were missing, a couple of pairs of jeans and smarter trousers and at least three of my jumpers, including the expensive one I’d succumbed to in the January sales. I pulled open the wardrobe doors. All of Terry’s things were in there, as far as I could see, but some of the hangers on my side were empty. A couple of dresses were missing. My black coat wasn’t in the cupboard, or my leather jacket. Neither were most of my shoes – just a couple of pairs of sandals and some scuffed trainers remained on the wardrobe floor. Most of my work clothes seemed to be still there, though. I looked around, bewildered, and I saw that some of the missing clothes had been stuffed into a bulging bin-bag at the base of our bed.

‘Terry,’ I said aloud. ‘You bastard.’

I went into the bathroom. The lavatory seat was up and I banged it down. No Tampax, no makeup, no moisturizing cream, no perfume, no body spray, no deodorant. I’d been cleared away. Even my toothbrush was gone. I opened the cabinet. All the first-aid stuff was still there. I unscrewed the bottle of paracetamol and poured two into my palm. I swallowed them without water. My head banged.

This was a dream, I thought. A nightmare, in which I was being rubbed out of my own life. I’d wake up soon. But that was the difficulty — where had the nightmare begun, and at which point would I wake? Back in my old life, and nothing had happened and everything was just a feverish concoction inside my head? Back on the ledge, a rag stuffed into my mouth, my mind clouding over, waiting to die? Back in hospital, still thinking the doctors were going to cure me and the police were going to save me?

I went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. While I was waiting for it to boil, I rooted around in the fridge for I was suddenly dizzy with hunger. There wasn’t much in there, apart from several bottles of beer and three or four oven-ready meals stacked on top of each other. I made myself a Marmite and lettuce sandwich on white bread, plasticky like the hospital bread, and poured boiling water over a tea bag.

But mid-bite, still standing by the fridge and with a strip of lettuce dangling from my lower lip, a thought came to me. Where was my bag, with my purse, my money, my cards and my keys? I picked up cushions, looked behind coats on hooks, opened drawers. I looked in places it wouldn’t be and places I had already searched.

I must have been carrying it when I’d been snatched. Which meant that he had my address, keys, everything, while I had nothing at all. Nothing. I didn’t have a single penny. I had been so furious and so ashamed when Dr Beddoes told me about the ‘treatment regime’ she was going to begin that would help me to ‘move on’, I shouted something incoherent at her and said that if she wanted me to listen to a single further word from her or anybody connected with the hospital she would have to have me strapped down and sedated. Then I had marched out of the hospital in the clothes I’d been found in, trying not to let my knees buckle under me, trying not to weep, rant, beg. I’d refused all offers of a lift, some money, proper explanations, a follow-up session with a psychiatrist, help. I didn’t need help. I needed them to catch him and make me safe. And I needed to punch Dr Beddoes in her smug face. I didn’t say any more. There was no point. Words had become like vicious traps, springing shut on me. Everything I had said to the police, the doctors and to that fucking Irene Beddoes had been turned against me. I should have taken the money, though.

I didn’t want my sandwich any more. I chucked it into the bin, which looked as if it hadn’t been emptied since I was last here, and took a sip of cooling tea. I walked over to the window and looked out, pressing my forehead against the icy pane and almost expecting to see him standing there on the pavement below, looking up at me, laughing.

Except I wouldn’t know that it was him. He could be anyone. He could be that old man dragging a resistant dachshund with stiff legs, or that young guy with a pony-tail, or that nice-looking father in a bobble hat with a red-cheeked child beside him. There was a thin layer of snow on the trees and on the roofs of houses and cars, and the people who passed were muffled up in thick coats and scarves, and had their heads bent against the cold.

No one raised their heads to see me standing there. I was completely at a loss. I didn’t even know what I was thinking. I didn’t know what to do next, or whom to turn to for help. I didn’t know what help I would be asking for: tell me what happened, tell me what to do, tell me who I am, tell me where to go from here, only tell me…

I shut my eyes and tried for the thousandth time to remember something, anything. Just a tiny chink of light in the darkness would do. There was no light, and when I opened my eyes again I was staring once more into the street, made unfamiliar by winter.

I went to the phone and dialled Terry’s number at work. It rang and rang. I tried his mobile number and got voicemail.

‘Terry,’ I said. ‘Terry, it’s me. Abbie. I urgently need to speak to you.’

I phoned Sadie’s number next, but only got an answering-machine and I didn’t want to leave a message. I thought about calling Sheila and Guy but then I would have to explain it all and I didn’t want to do that, not now.

I had imagined coming home and telling my story. Friends would sit round me with wide eyes, listening. It would be a horror story with a happy ending, a story of despair, then hope; of ultimate triumph. I would be a kind of heroine, because I’d survived and was telling them the tale. The awfulness of what had happened would be redeemed by the ending. What could I say now? The police think I’m lying. They think I made it all up. I know about suspicion: it spreads. It is like an ugly stain.

What do you do when you’re feeling lost, angry, depressed, scared, a bit ill and very cold? I ran a bath, very hot and deep, and took all my clothes off. I looked at myself in the mirror. There were hollows in my cheeks and my buttocks; my pelvic bones and my ribs jutted out sharply. I was a stranger to myself. I stood on the scales that were under the sink: I’d lost over a stone.

I lowered myself into the scalding water, held my nostrils together between finger and thumb, took a deep breath and disappeared under the surface completely. When I finally emerged, spluttering into the steamed-up air, someone was shouting. They were shouting at me. I blinked and a face came furiously into focus.

‘Terry!’ I said.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing in there? Have you gone mad?’

He was still in his thick jacket and his face was blotchy with cold. I pinched my nose and slid under the water again, to shut out the sight of him, to stop the voice that was calling me mad.