Read White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller Online
Authors: John Nicholl
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‘His name, Mike?’
‘Galbraith, David Galbraith, what’s it matter?’
‘Has Tony actually seen him yet?’
‘Yeah, he’s got a second appointment this Friday, as it happens. Mo’s going in with him this time. I’m just providing the transport. I can't see the point of it all myself, to be honest. Mo’s already said that Tony’s more his old self again. I'm only going along with it to win a few Brownie points.’
Beringer felt physically sick, his mind racing… Think! If Anthony’s mood had improved, it wasn't too late. Nothing had happened yet, but, it would. It definitely would. What the fuck could he say without breaking confidence and potentially jeopardising the investigation?
He stood up without speaking, ran out of the pub and threw up against a wall in a dark corner of the car park… What could he say? Time to think. He needed time to think.
Beringer reappeared a few minutes later, looking pale and drawn, with tears welling in his eyes. ‘I'm feeling like shit, Mike. Must be something I ate. I’m going to have to make a move, mate.’ He downed the dregs of his pint to wash the remaining vomit from his mouth. ‘Look, Mike, before I head off, I just wanted to say that it’s highly likely that Tony’s mood and behaviour has improved because you and Molly are on speaking terms again. It’s got fuck all to do with the doctor. Tony needs time, Mike, not a head doctor.’
‘We’ve been mates a long time, Phillip. Is there something you're not telling me?’
Should he tell him? Siân and Anthony were his Godchildren, after all. No, it was potential career suicide. ‘Kids get labelled, Mike. These things can follow them for their entire education. He needs his family. It really is that simple. I’d seriously think about knocking it on the head, if I were you. I just want what’s best for Tony, that’s all.’
‘I’m not arguing with you, Phil. But, Mo?’
‘Do you want me to talk to her?’
Mike nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yeah, thanks, Phil. Sounds like a plan. It’s appreciated. She’s not going to listen to a word I say.’ He checked his watch.
‘It’s only twenty-to-ten. Fancy another pint before you go?’
‘Not for me, thanks, mate. It’s time I headed off to get some shut eye. I’ll speak to you in a couple of days to see how things are going.’
Beringer drove home with unnecessary haste despite being well over the drink drive limit. When he eventually arrived at his third floor town centre flat, he made a mug of strong milky instant coffee with two large spoonfuls of white sugar, in a short lived attempt to sober up. He sat at his kitchen table, trying to get his thoughts together… Could he convince Molly that the clinic wasn't a good idea? She could be an extremely stubborn woman when she wanted to be. She’d take a lot of convincing, but it had to be worth a try. There was nothing to lose and everything to gain. He had to give it his best shot.
Beringer staggered into his lounge and picked up the phone before dialling Molly's number… He wouldn't be able to live with himself if Galbraith abused his Godson. His old friendships were well and truly on the line.
The ringtone sounded for what seemed like an age before Molly picked up the receiver and said, ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Molly. It’s Phil. Have you got time for a quick chat?’
‘Are you pissed?’
‘What a question! It’s nice to talk to you as well. No, Molly, honestly, I’ve had a couple of pints with Mike, but that’s all.’
‘If this is some pathetic attempt at marriage guidance on behalf of that weak willed mate of yours, you can tell him to leave that tart before talking to me about the future. He must think I’m a complete idiot.’
‘He does want you back as it happens, Molly. But I’m calling about Anthony’s appointment with Galbraith.’
‘What about it?’
‘You know I love Tony, don't you?’
‘I’m tired, Phil. If you've got something to say, just say it and let me get back to the television.’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, Molly. I really don't think Tony needs that kind of intervention.’
‘You've got no idea what he's been like, Phil. He needs help. The doctor’s making his case a priority.’
Beringer blew the air from his mouth with a barely audible whistle. ‘I work with children like Tony all the time, Molly. It’s what I do day in day out. He just needs some consistency and reassurance about the future. That would better come from you and Mike than a stranger, however well qualified. I can’t make it any clearer than that.’
‘I’m not so sure, Phil. The first appointment went a lot better than I could have hoped. I’ve seen positive changes in Tony. I don't know what the doctor did exactly, but whatever it was, it seems to be working.’
Beringer closed his eyes and searched for an adequate response… This wasn't going his way. ‘I don't think it’s got anything to do with the clinic, Molly. If Tony’s mood and behaviour has improved as much as Mike said it had, there’s no way that’s down to one appointment at the clinic. You and Mike seem to be addressing your differences at last. I’m certain Tony’s responding to that. Just give him time. That’s all he needs.’
‘I’m not so sure, Phil? I wasn't persuaded about going myself at first. But it really seems to be helping. The doctor’s a really nice guy: a bit odd I suppose, but he really seems to care about his patients. What harm can another appointment do?’
‘Promise me you’ll give it more thought, please.’
‘I don’t know what this is about, Phil. But, if it means that much to you, yes, I’ll think about it. Now go and sleep it off.’
I
t was chilly in the Mailer household at 6:30 a.m. on a frosty Welsh winter morning, and the central heating wouldn't be coming on for another half-hour. Molly shivered against the cold, and hurriedly pulled on one of Mike’s old red replica Wales rugby shirts and an unfashionable pink cardigan bought cheaply in the local market the previous week. She crept across the landing, holding her white Dunlop daps in one hand, and after a brief bathroom visit, headed downstairs to make herself some much needed breakfast. Molly had slept somewhat fitfully after Beringer’s phone call, and concluded that a mug of sweet peppermint tea and a large bowl of sugary Kellogg’s Frosties were entirely justified in the circumstances.
She sat at the kitchen table: trying not to think about the next morning’s appointment, trying not to think about the phone call, attempting to relax.
But she couldn't stop her mind racing… Had Mike put Phil up to it? He never did have a very high opinion of psychiatry or the people who required it. Psychobable for needy people, wasn't that what he’d called it when one of his colleagues saw a psychologist after a mugging? But, if that was the case, why had Phil been so willing to support him? He was a therapist himself, wasn't he? Not the same as the doctor, but similar? Was there something more to it? There had to be, surely. He'd sounded genuine. Or was she overthinking it and in danger of becoming paranoid? There was only one way to find out, and she needed answers.
Molly picked up the phone in the hall and dialled Mike’s number… What was she worrying about? If she woke her sleeping husband and his new love, that was all right with her.
Molly swore silently under her breath when she heard Tina’s chirpy girlish voice at the other end of the line. She grimaced, and spoke through gritted teeth, trying her utmost to sound suitably confident and assertive. ‘I need to speak to Mike. It's his wife.’
‘He's still asleep, Molly. I'll ask him to ring you later. Was it really necessary to phone so early?’
Molly bit the tip of her tongue, resisting the temptation to yell a stream of heart felt insults… How could anyone be so very irritating? ‘It's urgent, Tina. Just get him. Now, please.’
‘Molly?’
‘And a good morning to you as well, Mike. Tina sounded a little put out. I hope I haven't disturbed your domestic bliss?’
‘Why have you rung, Molly?’
‘I’ve had Phil on the phone last night, talking about Tony. Did you put him up to it?’
‘What? No! We had a game of squash after work as usual, but we didn't talk about Tony.’
‘You never were a very good liar, Mike. You might want to try being honest for once in your sad life. He was obviously pissed when he rang. How stupid do you think I am? Don't answer that by the way.’
‘We had a couple of pints after the game. That was all.’
‘Really? A couple? I’m sure you did, Mike. Now, what about Anthony?’
Mike listened intently for a second or two, confirmed that Tina was in the shower, and spoke in a quiet whisper. ‘Look, Mo. I told Phil about the clinic.’
‘So, why the denial?’
Mike sighed. ‘Phil sounded genuinely concerned. That’s the truth! I just didn't want you thinking that his call was down to me.’
‘So what exactly did he say?’
‘Um, something about children being labelled. He said it can follow kids when they go up to secondary school.’
‘Anything else?’
‘That any improvement in Tony’s behaviour can’t be down to one appointment at the clinic. I tend to agree with him to be honest, Mo. What did the doctor actually do after all? He talked, asked questions and handed out a few sweets. What did that achieve?’
‘Anything else, Mike? Anything at all?’
Should he say anything more? Phil had probably told her anyway. Of course he had. She was asking questions she already had the answer to. ‘He said that Tony was feeling better because we‘re talking again.’
‘Yeah, Phil said much the same thing to me. But, I’m not so sure, Mike. Why the sudden change in Tony? The more I think about it, the doctor must have helped. What other explanation is there? He seems like a different boy. I’m not saying Tony’s been the perfect child since the appointment. I wouldn't want that anyway. But he does seem happier. He really does. And Dr Galbraith seemed to think that he needs more help, not less. He said it’s urgent. Why would he say that if it wasn't true? What if I cancel, and Tony gets worse again? He obviously likes the doctor. Why not give it another go?’
‘Look, Mo. Phil should know about this stuff. But if you think it’s a good idea, I’m happy to go along with it.’
‘Anything for an easily life, eh, Mike?’
Mike scratched his head… She had it spot on as usual. Was he really that predictable? ‘It’s not like that, Mo. I just trust your judgement, love.’
‘You are seriously winding me up, Mike. Just pick us up in the morning if you can spare you're precious time? And don’t even think about being late.’
‘Bloody hell, Mo. I won’t be. See you in the morning.’
P
hillip Beringer dragged himself out of bed at 8:40 a.m. on Thursday 30, January. He cursed crudely, forcefully threw his box of herbal sleeping tablets across his bedroom, and headed downstairs to ring in sick for the first time in over three-years, feigning a severe migraine.
After a brief bathroom visit he headed to the kitchen to fetch some breakfast, and sat in the lounge come dining room in his striped flannelette pyjamas, drinking semi-skimmed milk from the carton, and chewing on a half cooked piece of stale toast that he’d smothered in Marmite from the distinctive bulbous glass pot balanced precariously on the grubby arm of his armchair.
Beringer gulped down the last of the milk, casually propelled the remaining bread-crust across the room into a waste paper bin located immediately next to the gas fire, and rose stiffly from his chair to switch on the television. He stood in front of the screen, pressed various buttons and reviewed the available channels, before quickly deciding than nothing on offer was going to distract him for very long. He switched the set off and picked up the phone… He’d been listening to other peoples problems for years. Where were they when he needed someone to talk to?
He placed the phone back on its receiver… Should he ring anybody at all?
Beringer balanced on a three legged stool next to the phone for almost five-minutes, trying to make a decision… What if Molly decided to take Anthony to his appointment despite his advice? It was a significant possibility. She seemed far from convinced by his argument. Perhaps he should have another word with Mike? No, that was completely pointless. It was Molly who made the decisions when it came to their children. He’d given it his best shot. But was that good enough? Was doing nothing more and living in hope really a viable option?
He stood up and kicked the stool over with the ball of his bare foot… Like fuck it was.
Beringer picked up the phone again, and tapped the handset repeatedly on his thigh… He’d already ruled out talking to Nicholson. Talking to someone within the area was always going to be potentially risky to the investigation, and to his career for that matter. What about someone from his old college days? He was still on speaking terms with one or two of them.
He weighed up his limited options… What about Bernie? He was in child protection in the north of England somewhere. He was a down to earth sort of bloke with a lot of relevant experience. They'd got pissed together a few times in the old days as young men, when blissfully oblivious to the future realities of the professional lives they’d so naively chosen. He may be worth talking to? Why not give it a try? There weren’t any other obvious candidates.
Beringer took his contacts book from the windowsill below the lounge window and flicked through the well thumbed pages until he eventually located Bernard Gormley’s work number.
‘Good morning, can I speak to Mr Gormley, please?’
‘I can put you through to the duty social worker, if that helps.’
‘It’s a personal call. I’m an old mate of Bern.’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Phillip Beringer.’
‘Thank you, Mr Beringer. I’ll see if he’s available.’
‘Hello, Phil, it’s Bern. You're a blast from the past.’
‘Yeah, it’s been a while, Bern. How's the wife and kids?’
‘Good, thanks. Are you still living the single life?’
‘Yeah, I’m afraid so, Mate. Who'd have me?’
‘You've got a point there, Phil.’
‘Look, Bern, this isn't a social call.’
Bernard Gormley laughed. ‘Yeah, I guessed that much, Phil. What can I do for you?’