by Penny Kline
An hour later I tossed two bags into the boot of the car and set off. The ruthless clearing-out had been more difficult than I anticipated. Drawers full of old photos that I couldn’t bring myself to throw away. A picture of my parents on their wedding day, my mother with a hairstyle similar to the one I had at present, as though things had come full circle. Then I found one of me and Steven in a bumper car at the fair, and another which must have been taken by a stranger, with all four of us in swimming costumes, screwing up our eyes against the sun.
In the end the amount of stuff I unearthed was hardly enough to warrant a visit to the tip — old notes from my degree course, some second-hand curtains I had bought which turned out to be several inches shorter than the bedroom window, a broken cuckoo clock — but I decided to go all the same. It was nearly one o’clock. I might reach the place and discover it closed at midday on Saturdays. If the gates were locked I would leave the rubbish in the car and drive somewhere, anywhere, round and round until I was so tired that nothing really mattered.
When I reached the tip it was deserted but the gates were still open. Out on the edge of the city the wind was stronger than it had been when I left home. Paper sacks were being lifted in the air. A rusty piece of corrugated iron flapped up and down on the edge of a skip.
I drove slowly, carefully, looking out for broken glass or sharp pieces of metal, winding down the window to get a better look, and letting in the rancid, rotten smell that all rubbish dumps have in common.
The place was not quite empty. As I dragged the polythene bags out of the boot I noticed a man in the far corner poking about with a piece of wood, peering at a pile of cardboard boxes. A newly painted noticeboard warned of dire penalties awaiting anyone who removed anything from the skip. I drew closer and the man looked up, surprised that he no longer had the place to himself. Hurling my bags into a metal skip I walked slowly towards him, rather as someone might approach a large unpredictable dog. Then I called his name.
‘Rob?’
He didn’t jump. He had known who I was all along. I watched him stroll towards me, carrying a couple of old aluminium pans, grinning nervously.
We stared at each other for a moment, then he started giggling.
‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘All right. Could be worse. Might be going on a course in Electronics.’
‘Good. When does it start?’
He shrugged. ‘In a week or two.’
He was dressed in his usual black leather jacket and grey jeans. Under the jacket was a white T-shirt with a design in red and black depicting a woman with a knife in her hand standing over the body of what looked like a hare.
His eyes followed my gaze but he made no comment. I noticed that his shoes were new. Expensive top-quality leather of the kind that cost seventy or eighty pounds. He had told me in the past how easy it was to shoplift, how it wasn’t really stealing since the profit margins themselves were a form of theft.
‘How are you, then?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
He stared at me. His hair had grown since we last met. It hung over his shoulders and he had dyed it a deep blue-black. He flicked it back, muttering some remark about the wind and how it was getting him down.
I had expected a certain amount of hostility — we had not parted on the best of terms — but he seemed quite pleased to see me. Perhaps the resentment he had felt in the past had been replaced by guilt about the way he had been plaguing me during the last few weeks.
‘I tried to find you,’ I said. ‘About ten days ago it was. I went to your house but you were out. An old woman on the ground floor let me in.’
He nodded. ‘That’s Gladys. She smells a bit funny but she’s OK when you get to know her and she’s got this little dog that pees if you pick it up.’
He giggled, lifting one of his blackened hands to his mouth, then wiping his lips on the sleeve of his jacket.
‘You knew I’d been round, did you?’
‘Thought it might be you,’ he said. ‘One of the other blokes described you. Got it about right, apart from your hair.’
I put my hand up to my head self-consciously.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ I said. ‘I tried the door to the room — in case you were in there asleep. I’m sorry. I should have left a note.’
He giggled again. ‘Bit of a tip, my room. Doesn’t seem a lot of point cleaning it up, not with the state of the ceiling and bits of plaster falling into everything.’
‘Look, Rob, the reason I wanted to see you. I know you felt bad about not coming to see me anymore.’
‘Asked for it, didn’t I?’
‘Well, yes, in a way, but — ’
‘You knew it was me.’
‘You mean the post cards?’
He looked puzzled. ‘Eh?’
‘The picture post cards you sent.’
‘Not me, mate.’ He bent down to inspect a box of broken china.
‘I saw you several times, near my flat.’
He relaxed a little, put down his stick, and started rolling a cigarette.
‘Yeah, but I don’t know anything about post cards.’
‘You’re sure.’
‘Sure I’m sure.’ He hesitated, then starting talking fast, not looking at me, concentrating on his cigarette. ‘Thing is, after you said I wasn’t to see you any more I got this kind of obsession. Crazy. Madness. Couldn’t think of anything else. I don’t mean dirty stuff. I mean, you were like some sort of ideal woman. I thought about you all the time, had to see you, watch where you went. It was like I hadn’t a life of my own. You were my life, d’you know what I mean?’
‘Yes, I know what you mean. But you didn’t send any cards?’
He shook his head. It was starting to rain, just a light drizzle, but I would have preferred to have the conversation sitting in the warmth of the car. I decided against it.
‘And you haven’t been up to my flat?’
‘Eh?’
‘If you wanted to see me I wish you’d just walked up to me and — ’
‘Yeah, but that would’ve spoiled it.’
He looked at me, narrowing his eyes until they were like dark slits. He had wanted me to remain a fantasy. Now, face to face, he had been forced back to reality.
‘Your job,’ he said, ‘it’s not right. The way you sit there, you lot, like giant spiders catching poor little flies in their webs.’
‘You should have told me before — when you were coming to see me.’
‘What’s the point? Anyway, I only thought of it after. It’s not your fault, just the whole set up. I read a book about it. Transference, it’s called.’ He put on a high-pitched upper-class accent. ‘Feelings from early childhood are transformed to the new object of — ’
‘Yes, well perhaps if you come and see me some time, then we could talk about it, and about the course you’re going on and — ’
He laughed. ‘Didn’t know I was allowed in your office. One day maybe.’ And he turned and strolled away, searching for a suitable box to hold his pans. ‘Get money for these,’ he called, looking back over his shoulder, grinning.
I was almost out of earshot when he raised his head and shouted against the wind.
‘Watch out for yourself. I said — watch out for yourself, there’s funny people around. I could tell you about one I know that’s right out of order.’
*
On the way home I drove past the police station, turned left by the Greek restaurant, then looped back searching for somewhere to park. The shoppers had thinned out and I found a space without too much difficulty and sat staring at the steering-wheel, trying to make up my mind what to do next.
As long as I thought the intruder was Rob I had managed, more or less, to keep my anxiety under control. In any case, I had no wish to get him into trouble. Or perhaps I thought that when the police found out he was an ex-client they would raise their eyebrows and imply I had only myself to blame. But Rob had convinced me — well, I w
as ninety-five per cent certain — that he wasn’t the intruder. The post cards I was not so sure about, but in any case it would be better not to mention them to the police. If I did they would assume that they came from a disturbed client and were something I should take in my stride if I wanted to do that kind of a job.
I climbed out of the car, checked both doors, and started walking before I could change my mind. Then, remembering it was Saturday, I hesitated. But that was ridiculous. Police stations, like hospitals, stay open twenty-four hours, three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. Of course, weekends might be their busiest time, in which case it would be better to put off the visit and return on Monday.
I was looking for excuses. Having got this far it would be stupid to turn back.
I ran up the stone steps two at a time and pushed open the swing door. The desk sergeant, a heavily built man with grey hair and a pale complexion, looked up and put a hand over his mouth to cover a yawn.
‘Yes, madam, what can I do for you?’
‘Inspector Fry, I wondered … Is he here this afternoon?’
‘Did you have an appointment?’
‘No, but a friend — Martin Wheeler — he knows Inspector Fry and he suggested I come and talk to him about — well, it’s all rather complicated.’
‘If you could let me have your name.’
‘Anna McColl.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
The sergeant disappeared and I waited, leaning on the desk. The place was quieter than I had expected. A policewoman was attending to a youngish man, who seemed to be out on bail, and had come to sign his name in a book. In a dark corner a tramp with matted hair and a long black coat encrusted with filth sat by himself inspecting an empty lemonade bottle, holding it up to the light. The youngish man left and the policewoman glanced at me and smiled.
‘Rain held off, has it?’
‘More or less. It’s windy though and quite cold.’
She nodded, glanced at the tramp, who seemed to be a familiar fixture, then returned to her work. A few moments later the sergeant came back and invited me to follow him down the corridor. Walking carefully, afraid of losing my balance on the highly polished linoleum, I began working out what I was going to say. Explain that I was only there because Martin had suggested it, apologize for reporting something so trivial but …
The sergeant knocked on a door, then held it open for me to enter.
‘Ms McColl, sir.’
Inspector Fry stepped forward holding out his hand. He was tall and looked more like an accountant than a policeman. Thick reddish-brown hair, parted on the left. Grey suit, white shirt, blue and red tie.
‘Hallo. You’re a friend of Martin Wheeler?’
‘We work together.’
‘Another psychologist?’
I nodded.
‘Good. Right then, how can I help?’
He pointed to a chair but didn’t ask if I wanted to take off my coat.
‘Martin suggested I came and saw you,’ I said. ‘It’s about — well, I think someone may have been in my flat.’
‘And you live … ’
‘Cliftonwood.’ I told him the name of my road. ‘Number twenty-eight, the first-floor flat.’
‘Anything been stolen?’
‘No. Just a coffee mug not in its usual place. And a plant — someone watered it. The earth was completely sodden.’
It sounded absurd. Wasn’t it common folklore that only slightly crazy people become psychiatrists and psychologists? But Inspector Fry was writing on a pad and there was no hint of scepticism in his expression.
He raised his head, waiting for me to elaborate and I looked away, painfully aware that I was in more or less the same situation as one of my clients wondering how to put her problem into words.
‘That’s about it really. Oh, there was a pink tissue pushed down behind my bed. Not one of mine. Actually that was the first thing I found but I just assumed I must have dropped it there myself. I mean someone must have given it to me and I hadn’t noticed the colour.’
‘And all this was fairly recent, was it?’
‘Yes, during the last few weeks. Look, I don’t actually expect you to do anything about it.’
He smiled, just a slight movement at the corners of his mouth. ‘Best to let us know, then if you have any further trouble … ’
‘It’s the kind of thing where you’re not sure if it’s all in your imagination or — ’
‘Is there anyone you have in mind? Someone who might have a key? I assume there was no sign of a break-in.’
‘No, nothing. No, I can’t think of anyone. That’s why it all seems so peculiar.’
‘Any domestic trouble? An ex-husband — ’
‘I’m not married. I mean, no, nothing like that.’
‘Money owing? I’m sorry, but we have to check.’
I shook my head.
Inspector Fry put down his pen and rested his chin on his hand. His little finger moved backwards and forwards across his lips. Then he undid the leather strap on his watch and started rubbing at his wrist.
‘An allergic reaction. Or maybe you’d interpret it as something psychological.’
‘I wouldn’t.’
He laughed, laid his watch on the desk and sat up straight.
‘Could it have been one of your patients? Someone with a grievance — or just curious to see where you live.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. I don’t know.’
‘Anyway, I’ll make a note of what you’ve told me and you’ll let me know if you find anything else disturbed.’ He stood up and held out his hand once again. I was wasting his time but he was too polite to say so. After I left he would phone Martin to enquire if I was under some particular strain. Then he would put a few notes on files and forget all about it.
The desk sergeant glanced at me as I was leaving the building. I called out to thank him and he raised an arm. An old woman was telling him about a parcel she’d left on the bus and he was trying to calm her down so he could give her directions to the Lost Property office.
I walked slowly back to the car, feeling slightly guilty that I had told Inspector Fry nothing about Rob Starkey. But then if I had I would have felt guilty on Rob’s behalf and it wasn’t as though I expected anyone to take any action. Lies of omission. I hadn’t mentioned David or Iris either. Or Diane Easby and Karen Plant. Was it because I was afraid Inspector Fry would lose interest in the intruder and start accusing me of withholding information about a murder case? But there was no information. Nothing that would be of interest to the police.
I relaxed and started humming under my breath. I felt better, light-hearted, almost euphoric. Perhaps, in some illogical way, just by visiting the police station I had got rid of the intruder, persuaded him to leave me in peace. To celebrate I would drive out to the hypermarket on the by-pass and buy myself a new vacuum cleaner.
Chapter Eighteen
I had sent Owen Hughes the research proposal and he had phoned to ask if I could drop by at the end of the week to discuss a few points. Why had I thought research into hypochondria was such a good idea? I remembered discussing it with David, who was all for the project and had promised to help with the analysis of the data. Had I suggested it as a way of flattering his ego, of uniting us in a common activity?
I began creating an imaginary scenario in my head. Owen Hughes, polite, apologetic, explaining that unfortunately he would be going abroad in a few months’ time. An exchange with another academic or a lecture tour of America. He could ask someone else to supervise my work but perhaps in the circumstances it would be better to put it off for a year. In the meantime I could always do some preliminary reading. Gradually, the whole project would sink without trace.
I was so absorbed in my daydream that when the phone rang I was sure it would be Owen Hughes cancelling our meeting. It was Val Weir.
‘I know you’re expecting Jenny in half an hour but I’m afraid she’s got one of her heads.’
; ‘Oh, I’m sorry about that.’
I had assumed that the times of Jenny’s appointments coincided with her mother being out at work. Otherwise surely Val would have known she was staying at home.
But perhaps Jenny left the house, as though she were coming to see me, then went somewhere entirely different.
‘The thing is,’ said Val, ‘I hate to ask you but could you possibly come round to the house?’
I hesitated.
‘Just for ten minutes or so,’ she urged, ‘only it seems such a shame for her to miss one of her sessions.’
‘Yes. Well, yes, all right.’ I had no wish to go to the house. On the other hand, seeing Jenny in her home environment would be a chance to re-establish contact. Also, she would be afraid I had told her mother about the missed appointments. When she discovered I had kept her secret she might feel more well-disposed towards me.
‘I’ll drop round at lunch-time,’ I said, ‘only I won’t be able to stay very long I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, that is kind. I hate putting you to all this trouble.’
‘No trouble, Mrs Weir. I’ll see you at one o’clock.’
In the meantime Mr and Mrs Sherrin were coming to see me, a retired couple with a familiar problem. On giving up his business Mr Sherrin had turned his hand to reorganizing the household that Mrs Sherrin had been running single-handed for the last forty years.
On their first visit Enid Sherrin had been at breaking point. ‘He stands over me when I’m clearing away the breakfast things. He says there’s no method in the way I go about things.’
But last time I saw them they had found a way of working towards some kind of compromise and so pleased were they with their new way of living that they had ganged up against me and accused me of finding problems where none existed. This week would probably mean more of the same.
I walked slowly down the stairs and opened the waiting-room door. They were sitting side by side, holding hands.
When they saw me they stood up, both beaming. Mrs Sherrin had a small parcel in her hand, gift wrapped in white tissue paper with a large pale blue bow.
