The Sister (11 page)

"Good, this will take around two hours. You can wait for him here, or you might like to take a walk. My secretary can tell you where all the best shops are; there's a High Street not half a mile away." He pushed the paperwork across the desk in her direction. "If I can just ask you to check all the details are correct . . .?"

She pulled a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses from her handbag and put them on.

"Yes…" She sounded unsure. "Except for the surname, it's spelt wrong, there's only one L in it."

"I'll get that changed. Can I get you to sign the consent forms?" He passed them to her; she read them carefully, and placed them on the desk.

"You won't be prescribing any drugs for him, will you? I'm dead against them."

"For me, that's the last resort. As I said just now, we tend to concentrate on therapy."

She made small circles above the paper, holding an invisible pen between her thumb and forefinger.

He handed her a pen.

"You'll be able to help him, won't you Dr Ryan?" she said anxiously, pen poised above the page as if it were a condition of her signing.

"We'll do our best."

Reassured, she signed quickly with a flourish, her large signature stylish, yet utterly illegible.

"Mrs Milowski," he waited at the door, holding it open for her, "we'll see you in two hours." As she passed him, he bowed slightly.

Sitting back down, he traced his cheekbone with the edge of his finger. "It's hot isn't it?" He poured two glasses of water and held one out to his patient. "Would you like a drink, Bruce?"

"There's nothing wrong with me," he said, eyes sullen.

Ryan raised an eyebrow at him, tapping his notepad. "It says here, you've become withdrawn and forgetful." He traced his finger across the paper. "And here - that you are now prone to losing your temper," Ryan leaned back in his chair. "It also says you've been having trouble sleeping . . . keep waking up with nightmares…" The boy's head drooped onto his chest. "Would you like to tell me about that?" he said evenly.

Bruce shook his head.

"Mm-m, so let's talk about the accident," Ryan's voice lowered, becoming gentler. With his right hand insistently clicking the lead out of his silver pencil, it sounded like a miniature metronome. Milowski squinted at it. The metal was polished, shiny from everyday use. It caught a flare of sunshine, which illuminated its whole length, radiating a beam so bright, everything else paled against it; the desk and then even Ryan himself, began to fade.

All he could see was the pencil and Ryan's face hovering above it. He found himself drawn ever closer into the miniature elongated reflection of the window.

Something changed in his perception; he felt that he was looking out through the mirrored image, at himself.

In the distance, he heard Ryan's voice; he felt as if he were floating a few inches above where he sat, detached, but still aware. Bruce heard his own voice speaking, disembodied and distant . . . present at the accident scene once more. Milowski's recollections unfurled, rolled out like a tapestry.

"We let the others go snaking up the hill, the line of them thinned as it stretched out. When we realised we were going to get away with it, we moved further down the hill. Jones was on the other side of a mass of ferns that swayed like the sea. I think he was tempted by the dark shade of the copse of trees beyond. 'Look down there! Let's go and see,' he shouted. His pale blue eyes brimmed full of excitement. 'That little stream we saw earlier, does anyone else remember it? I wouldn't mind betting that it opens out in those woods. That's why it's so green down there. I don't know about anyone else, but I'm so hot I wouldn't mind a swim if I can get one, or even just a paddle. Come on!'" He hesitated, clearly immersed in his recollections.

"You followed him?" Ryan prompted.

The question took a moment to filter through. "Yes, he charged off downhill. We shrugged at each other, and then raced after him. The others ducked beneath the top strand of the barbed wire fence. There was an old white tin sign with faded red letters swinging from the top wire, bent out of shape, by a blast of shotgun pellets. None of us bothered to try and work out what it said. I was always the hesitant one. I parted the strands, and dipped under behind the others, careful not to catch my clothes. The quiet was overwhelming; hardly any light under the thick canopy of the trees. When I first saw it, the water didn't seem real. Chickweed grew all over the top, covering most of the surface in a green and black mosaic. The sky, reflected in the patches of exposed black water, looked like an oil painting." He tilted his head to one side and dipped it as if looking down, staring intently, he had become inanimate.

"Bruce . . . Bruce?" Ryan tapped his pencil gently on the desk until the boy had half turned towards the sound. "What happened next, Bruce?"

Concentrating harder, he said, "I had this weird sense of
recognition,
and it slowed me down . . . I tried to focus on what it was . . . where it came from. I can't quite put my finger on it . . ." he hesitated, biting his lip and then he exclaimed. "I knew I'd been there before! I didn't recognise it, not from where I was then.

"I was back in a place I last saw when I was a seven-year-old boy standing a couple of hundred yards up the hill and I saw me gazing down to where I was standing then . . . my head's spinning . . . I can't remember what it was my grandfather had warned me about the place . . . I sprinted to catch up. Jones was hopping about, frantically removing his trousers and shirt, getting ready to dive in. The other boys shook their heads, plainly thinking that even
he
couldn't be that crazy . . . and then he charged towards the pond in his underpants.
He's actually going to do it!

"Just at the very last possible point he could stop - he
did
stop; he was in the process of turning round to face us all with a gleeful smile, arms outstretched as if to say voila . . . 'I fooled y . . . ' he never finished what he started to say. He looked in disbelief at his foot as the ankle twisted and gave way, tipping him off balance. Panicking, he flailed his arms, wildly grasping at anything, reaching for a handhold,
anywhere
. . . grabbing at the air. He teetered on the edge, too far gone to come back, and plunged backwards into the water.

Clouds passed over; shadows formed in the corners of my eyes.
I knew this feeling.
Something was wrong. I should have realised. I was too slow making the connection. Then I remembered what my grandfather said . . . that it was a bad place. By then, it was too late."

Ryan observed the boy's eye movements, adding to his notes.
It's as if he is watching a film.
"What do you see, Bruce?" he prompted gently.

Confusion furrowed his brow as he continued, "It was as if I was standing outside myself. I watched my mouth as it shaped the word . . .
Nooo!
But nothing came out. I
might
have shouted it afterwards . . . I can't be sure. None of us could quite believe it. I stared down at where he'd lost his footing. Sticking out from the long grass, were the remains of an old boot lying on its side, the leather upper had cracked and blackened with age. The sole, wet and shiny, could have been new.

"In those few moments, the part of me that was observing, latched on to every detail, as if my life depended on it. The deep, double splosh Jones made falling in, showed how deep the water was . . . and the stench that came up was worse than rotten eggs. The others were laughing and shouting. 'That will teach you, you crazy son of a bitch!' 'You can keep away from
me
when you get out of there, Jones!' Brookes cried, clapping his hands together with glee at the thought of this particular campfire tale. It all seemed to occur in slow motion, Brookes saw it first; the smile disappeared from his face, the same with Watson. Jones' chickweed covered face was a mask of horror; the light in his eyes disappeared—" Milowski snapped his fingers. "Switched off just like that."

"He stopped moving - just stopped, and then he slid below the black waters. Watson jumped in first, and a second later, Brookes plunged in too. The strongest swimmer in the whole school, he turned to me, and he never said a word, but the look
. . .
the burning eyes
. . .
the jerky left-right-left movements of his head
. . .
each carried a warning.
He seemed to say.
Whatever you do . . . don't jump in!

"Something was very, very badly wrong down there. I became even more detached than before, and I saw myself struggling with the urge to jump in after them, moving this way and that, two or three paces left, two, three paces right. In my head, I knew I couldn't swim. That day, my fear of water saved my life. The scene was now a deadly play, and I - not knowing what else to do - stood watching, as the fight for life took centre stage. I watched myself, as in desperation, I threw my magic seashell to Brookes, and he caught it!

"For a split second, our eyes locked onto each other, united by the power of the shell. I saw myself as I punched the air and exclaimed.
Yes!
One millisecond . . . and then he slipped under, silently, a look of disappointment on his face. He looked as if he wanted to ask me something. The black water swallowed him and three large bubbles of air broke the surface, before the carpet of weed covered it over again. Apart from the smell, there was no sign anyone had been in the water at all. I watched myself as I sank to my knees; a shrill, unearthly wail cut through the silence . . . I wondered who was screaming and then I realised.
It was me."

When Mrs Milowski returned just under two hours later, she walked into the reception, and sorted through the magazines on the side table, selecting the most recent, a five-year-old National Geographic magazine. She was much more comfortable leafing through it here than she would have been at the doctor's or even the dentist's. She was paranoid about germs and infections; she thought it less likely she would pick up anything in a psychiatrist's waiting room.

There was an article about the plight of Native American Indians, and the reported high incidence of alcoholism among them. She began reading it, quickly becoming engrossed. Over the page, someone had written in light pencil, 'low self-esteem'. A short electronic buzz snapped her attention back into the room. She saw the red indicator light outside the door change to green. The receptionist was just returning with a small plastic watering can. She started watering all the plants that decorated the waiting area.

"Excuse me," Mrs Milowski pointed at the green light. "Does that mean he's finished?"

The receptionist, half-surprised at the interruption of her duties, said, "He'll be out in a minute," her smile was thin. "You can't beat some nice foliage to brighten a place up can you?" she added as an afterthought.

"No, you can't," she said, putting the magazine back onto the table. She pointed at the lights outside Ryan's door. "They're like traffic lights, I suppose . . ." She observed from the name displayed on the counter top that the receptionist's name was Penny.

"Sorry?" Penny said, "Oh no, not quite; there's no amber, you see? Just stop or go. I'll let you in on a little secret," Penny whispered, beckoning her closer. "He had that put in after I walked in once while he was treating a lady." She winked theatrically. "When he's with a patient, he doesn't like to be disturbed, if you know what I mean."

The casual way Penny breached Ryan's confidentiality bothered Mrs Milowski. The two women eyed each other briefly; Penny was about to speak when the door opened, and Ryan brought Bruce out. They shook hands. The firmness of the boy's grip surprised the psychiatrist, crushing his arthritic finger. He winced.

On the way back to the station, she tentatively started a conversation, without expecting much in return. She'd grown accustomed to his silences. "So, how did it go?"

"He's a really nice bloke, Mum. It wasn't what I thought it would be, although he did try to hypnotise me, and I wasn't having any of that."

Mrs Milowski couldn't hide her surprise. "He tried to hypnotise you? He never said he was going to do that . . ."

"It doesn't matter. He tried, but he didn't."

She gauged her voice so that it sounded normal; a little scared of what his reaction might be. "What did you talk about?"

He frowned; suddenly he couldn't remember much about the session at all. "Not a lot, just . . . Mum can we leave it for now?"

"Not a lot… Bruce, you were in there for over two hours! You must have talked about lots of things."

"Mum!" he said firmly. "I've just had hours of soul-baring or whatever; I can't remember. Right now I feel drained," The crease in his forehead deepened. "Although I do remember something . . . he wanted to know why I threw my seashell to Chris."

Chris Brookes, one of the dead boys - this was a new development.
When she'd realised his shell was missing - he'd treasured it since he was a small boy as if his life depended on it – she'd asked him where it was. He'd flown into a rage. Choosing her words carefully now, she asked, "
Why
did you throw it at him? Did you tell the doctor?"