The Secret Prophecy (6 page)

Chapter 14

S
aint Brendan’s wasn’t at all what Em had expected. It wasn’t a lunatic asylum for one thing—no high walls, no muscular orderlies carrying straitjackets—but a massive, redbrick general hospital . . . and a busy one to judge by the jam-packed car park and the high volume of traffic.

Em walked through the main gates with a feeling of trepidation. He’d said nothing to Uncle Harold, but behind his shock and outrage there was a niggling part of his mind that wondered if his mother hadn’t brought this on herself.

Except she didn’t seem to be in a mental institution. She seemed to be in a hospital, the sort of hospital where you got bones set and bleeding stopped and had operations.

Em started moving again, walking slowly toward the main doors.

The feeling of trepidation still hadn’t gone away by the time he reached the reception desk. A pretty girl in white gave him a tired smile and asked, “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see my mother,” Em said. “Mrs. Caroline Goverton.”

“What ward is she in?”

He should have asked Uncle Harold, but he hadn’t thought of it. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter.” The girl tapped keys on the computer beside her. After a moment she said, frowning, “When was she admitted?”

“Four days ago, I think.” For some reason Em felt impelled to add, “I was in France.”

“Lucky you,” the girl said. She turned back to the screen, and the frown returned. “Was it an emergency admission?”

Em took a deep breath. “She was sectioned under the Mental Health Act.”

To his surprise, the girl’s face brightened. “Oh, she’ll be in our Lydon Clinic; it has a separate reception and records.” She gestured. “Back the way you came, turn left outside the front door, follow the signs to A and E: Accident and Emergency; but when you get there, go around the side of the building and stay on the path until you see the sign Lydon Clinic.” She smiled. “It’s a bit small, so keep your eyes peeled.”

It
was
a bit small, so small he nearly missed it: a labeled arrow high up on a wall to his right. He took the narrow avenue indicated and eventually discovered a group of single-story buildings surrounded by a grove of trees. There were no nameplates, no indication whether or not this was the clinic he was looking for. He was still hesitating, wondering if he should just knock on a door and ask, when a young man in a dark blue pin-striped suit emerged from somewhere, walking briskly away from the buildings.

“Excuse me,” Em called. “Is this the Lydon Clinic?”

“Yes.” The man pointed. “Main entrance is at the side—bit confusing. You’ll have to ring the bell. Reception will let you in.”

As the young man had suggested, the main entrance doors were locked, and their darkened glass panels meant that Em could not see inside. He found the bell and pushed. The intercom panel clicked at once, and a female voice said, “Yes?”

“Is this the Lydon Clinic?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve come to visit one of your patients,” Em said. For some reason he felt it might be important not to mention names at this stage. Best wait until he was safely inside; although he half expected the receptionist to refuse him entry.

But the receptionist only said, “Yes, of course. Please push the right-hand door when you hear the buzzer.” And the sound of the buzzer came at once.

The reception area of the Lydon Clinic was very different from the massive foyer of Saint Brendan’s hospital. Em took less than a dozen steps inside the door before he reached the counter. To one side stood a uniformed security guard who watched his approach unsmilingly. The counter itself was in the charge of a slim, middle-aged woman wearing a severe tailored suit. She favored Em with a polished, professional smile. “May I help you?”

“I’d like to see Mrs. Caroline Goverton,” Em said.

“Are you a relative?”

“I’m her son.”

The woman’s reaction could not have been in greater contrast to that of the hospital receptionist. Her smile vanished at once, and her eyes flicked briefly sideways to the security guard. She made no attempt to consult a computer or any other form of record. Instead she murmured, “Excuse me a moment,” and picked up a white telephone, carrying it as far away from him as the cord permitted.

The woman whispered so quietly he could only hear a few scattered words—“son” was repeated several times—before she returned to hang up the phone. “Dr. Marlow will be with you in a moment.”

Anger rose up in Em, pushing aside his usual mild-mannered exterior. “I don’t want to see Dr. Marlow. I want to see my mother!”

The receptionist eyed him coolly. “I’ll ring her and tell her you’re here,” she said. “But Dr. Marlow thinks it would be wise for him to have a word or two with you before you actually see her.”

“Why?” Em demanded belligerently. There was something terribly wrong here, something terribly wrong about the whole situation since he arrived home from France.

The security guard shifted his position. Not exactly a threatening movement, more a preparation for possible trouble. The receptionist said, “I’m sure Dr. Marlow will explain when he arrives.”

The security guard moved again, but before Em could react, the entrance door behind him opened to admit a tall man in a white coat. He walked directly across. “You must be Edward Michael,” he said, and extended a well-manicured hand. “Julian Marlow. I’m the psychiatrist in charge of your mother’s case. Perhaps we could have a word before you see her?” He favored Em with a look that oozed professional sincerity.

So his mother was a case now? “Look—” Em began.

Dr. Marlow took him gently by the arm and led him a pace or two away from the receptionist and her guard. “I know this is hard for you, Edward, but I promise you your mother is getting the best possible treatment available. She—”

“Treatment for
what
?” Em demanded furiously. He hadn’t wanted to talk in front of the receptionist and security guard, but now he didn’t care. “I don’t know what she’s in here for. Nobody’s told me anything.”

If the sudden outburst fazed Dr. Marlow, he didn’t show it. “I’m afraid,” he said kindly, “your mother has had a breakdown. She’s been under a great deal of strain. I understand your father died quite recently, and there seem to have been various other pressures. But the good news is that her condition is treatable. In a few weeks, a month or two at most, I’m certain she will be quite her old self again.”

“A month or two?” Em echoed, appalled.

“I understand Social Services is currently making arrangements to look after you while she’s here. They may not have contacted you yet since I believe you’ve been away; but I do know there are provisions within the act for dependent minors, so you need have no worries about how you’ll cope while she’s away, and I believe the modern facilities are excellent.” He gave a tight, benign little smile.

Em felt himself go chill. His mother had been sectioned under the Mental Health Act, and now somebody was making arrangements to take him into some sort of care home. “I can stay with my uncle Harold,” he said quickly. There was no way he was going into care in some sort of children’s home.

“Yes, possibly,” Dr. Marlow told him easily. “I’m afraid those arrangements have nothing to do with us here, but you can take the matter up with Social Services when they make contact with you. I’m sure something can be worked out. In any case, whether you’re in a home or with your uncle, you’ll be able to visit your mother whenever you want to. Which brings me to your visit today . . .” His face took on an expression of concern.

He was going to refuse to let Em see his mum: Em was sure of it. “I want to see her,” he said firmly. He wanted to see her now, try to find out what was going on, then make his escape. He was going to find somewhere to hide until he figured out what he could do. There was no way they were going to lock him up the way they’d locked up his mother.

“Yes, of course.”

“I want to see her alone.”

“Yes, of course,” Dr. Marlow repeated. “I merely wanted to warn you in advance that you may be a little . . . shocked by your mother’s condition.”

“What do you mean?” Em asked, alarmed.

“I’m afraid she’s no longer the woman she was when you last saw her. She’s currently on medication; we were forced to sedate her quite heavily to calm her and prevent self-harm. So you mustn’t be concerned if she slurs her words or seems a little . . . detached from reality. This is purely temporary, I assure you. You will see a massive improvement within the next few weeks or so; but in the meantime you mustn’t allow her condition to upset you, or pay too much attention to the wilder things she might say to you.” The professional smile again. “Well,” Marlow said briskly, “that’s all I really wanted to tell you. Ms. Playfair”—he nodded toward the receptionist, who was trying to look as if she wasn’t listening to the conversation—“will give you a floor plan of the clinic and directions on how to find your mother.”

Em said quietly, “Dr. Marlow, why was my mother officially sectioned?”

And Dr. Marlow said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to take that up with Social Services, Edward. We only look after the patients when they’re sent to us. The legalities of the situation are another department.”

Em felt nervous and confused. He’d fully expected to have been escorted to see his mother. He was in a mental clinic, for cripe’s sake; and while his mother certainly shouldn’t be here, the other patients were probably bona fide lunatics. What happened if one of them tried to talk to him? Or attack him? But he wasn’t escorted. Miss Playfair, as Dr. Marlow had said, had given him a floor plan with the clinic’s logo on it—a merry little eye inside a triangle—then lost interest in him altogether. Ms. Playfair had told him his mother was in the conservatory, resting, and had marked the area with an X. So far he’d seen no other patients, thank heavens. Perhaps they were all out for a walk or watching television or having supper or something. With luck he might be able to see his mother without even . . .

Em turned a corner. An old woman with unruly, graying hair was staggering drunkenly along the corridor toward him, holding onto the wall for support. Her eyes were wild and staring, her face locked into a contorted expression of manic determination. She gave a strangled call when she saw him and increased her pace.

For a moment Em considered running. He didn’t know how to deal with lunatics, and this was clearly a card-carrying escapee from the funny farm.

He should never have hesitated. The mad woman put on a surprising burst of speed and was almost upon him now. “Em,” she gasped. “Oh, Em . . .”

Em went cold. If he’d still had time to run, he knew his legs would never have worked. He felt totally paralyzed, except for a jaw that dropped of its own accord to register astonishment. “Mum . . . ?”

Then she was holding him, clinging to him, using him as support while he held her and nearly burst into tears, then did burst into tears as he murmured, “Oh, Mum. Oh, Mum. Oh, Mum.”

“They told me you’d arrived,” his mother whispered. “That Playfair woman phoned and said you were coming to meet me in the conservatory.” She stroked his hair and stared into his eyes. “They have cameras in the conservatory. They spy on everything you do here. I don’t want to talk to you while they’re spying on us, so I came to meet you. Oh, Em, I’m so glad you’ve come.” She was having trouble with her balance, but he knew she wasn’t drunk. There was no smell on her breath, no thickening of her speech, although she
was
talking slowly.

“What have they done to you, Mum?” Em asked.

“Tranquilizers. Heavy-duty. Two capsules the size of a horse pill three times a day, and they force you to take them. Makes you floppy all the time, affects your balance. Bloody buzzing in the ears as well, but think they care about that? They just want you sedated so you’re no trouble and don’t try to escape. You don’t either: I couldn’t climb onto a bus in this state, let alone find a bus stop.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “But you’re here now.”

“Your hair’s gone gray,” Em said inconsequently.

His mother actually managed a small smile. “Didn’t have my rinse with me, and they don’t let you buy in stuff. It’ll be fine when I get to a hairdresser.”

You’ve only been here for four days,
Em thought.
A rinse wouldn’t wear out in four days.
The gray had to have something to do with the drugs she was on. Or the stress of what had happened to her. He opened his mouth to say something else, but she beat him to it. “Don’t talk here, Em. There are cameras in the corridors: I don’t know how well they pick up sound, but they’re monitored, and the staff can lip-read.”

In different circumstances it would have sounded paranoid, but he was feeling pretty paranoid himself these days. “Okay, Mum,” he murmured.

“We’ll go to my room,” his mother said. “No cameras there, and I can’t find any bugs.”

Her room was small, but tastefully furnished with a bed, a couch, two chairs, a built-in wardrobe, and a compact writing desk. There was even a bathroom en suite, shower, and loo. He was about to say something as they walked in, but his mother put a finger to her lips and led him straight through into the bathroom. She turned on every tap and the shower, then leaned forward until her lips were close to his ear so he could hear her above the sound of gushing water. “I couldn’t find bugs, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. I think we should be okay now so long as we keep our voices down.”

“Mum,” Em said, “what’s going on here?” Before she could answer, he added, “Do you know this Mrs. Harlingford person? The one who had you sectioned?”

She shook her head. “No, not at all. But she’s obviously one of
them.
” She spat the final word fiercely.

He wanted to ask who
them
was, but more than that he wanted to make sure Mum hadn’t brought this on herself somehow. All his old suspicions came flooding back as he said, “Mum, you didn’t make a scene, did you? In a shop or somewhere? You weren’t drinking and this woman happened to come past?”

She gave him a withering look. “Look, I never saw her in my life before, not until she turned up at the university. She was trying to get into our home, Em. And she had the committal papers with her. Signed by a doctor I’ve never seen in my life either. And by Alexander Hollis, who didn’t examine me for anything since I picked up that foot fungus eighteen months ago. He never
examined
me! That man was a friend of your father. I swear, Em, I’ll never forgive him for what he’s done.”