by David James
He would have to be careful. So far he had kept a low profile, he had spoken to Sarah when he needed to. He had gleaned information by simply listening and observing. He had deliberately kept interaction to a minimum so as not to arouse suspicion. The more often he spoke the greater the chance of him being found out. If he was being instructed to get closer to her, he wondered how long his rudimentary knowledge of psychology would last.
But he realised that those journals might hold the key and he would have to fashion some way of getting Sarah to trust him enough to let him see them.
Chapter Seven
It was the end of the working day for the director and he was sitting at his desk at the institute again. It was a large and impressive desk, rosewood he believed. He also believed that it had been used by Carl Jung, the price tag had reflected his belief and the salesman had certainly been convinced of its authenticity. He chose to believe that it was true. He sometimes found himself touching the desk and trying to get inspiration from it. Imagining that Jung had produced some of his finest work at this desk.
He needed some inspiration now.
The gallery of the world's media confirmed every morning as he drove to work that they were all under the spotlight. This was the exact opposite of what they wanted. What they really wanted was to be able to quietly go about their work with the children, the more quietly the better. He had perfected the non committal smile. He hoped it looked knowledgeable and enigmatic. But when he had caught it on the television the other day, he came across more as grumpy and hungover.
As he admired the quality of the desk he took in the complementary surroundings of the office.
Most of the walls were covered in bookshelves, groaning under the weight of various leather bound tomes. He had all the usual titles that people would expect but he liked to sprinkle other books in as well. In amongst the psychology books were several books on chess and the occasional one on Medieval Castles. He rarely got to play chess anymore, his wife could always find something else more interesting to do and his son just looked at him like he had gone mad when he had suggested they play. So the books remained on the shelf.
The Apple computer and monitor that sat neatly on his desk seemed completely out of place in the wooden surroundings. But he could hardly have sat there with a pen and paper. He would have looked like a museum exhibit.
His old self would have looked on and mocked his taste as rampant consumerism. He used to use phrases like that a lot. Not so much nowadays.
His even older self would have called him a “square” and accused him of selling out to “the man”. Reaching down to the desk, first checking that no one could see, he opened the drawer and looked at the old photo inside. It reminded him of former days. He knew it was virtually a security blanket and as a senior psychologist he shouldn't need such childish things. But still, it reminded him of where he had come from.
He spent most of his life saying no to people nowadays as they wanted resources for a new treatment idea. He wondered exactly when he had gone from being the person to come up with the revolutionary ideas to becoming the one who said 'No' to them. His former self would take risks then and not worry about the consequences. Consequences were for other people to worry about. It had been a liberating feeling and in the early days he had made his reputation with some pretty wild punts. But out of them had come new treatments, people had been helped. His work with Sarah's father had been some of his finest. He missed Frank Stevens and he didn't mind admitting it.
He missed those more radical days. He had accepted the directorship of the institute and Frank had taken a very different route. Initially he hadn’t been quite sure what it had been but he was sure that it would have been cutting edge. He had heard some rumours early on, psychology is an insular field and it is difficult to do anything without someone hearing about it. But somehow Frank had managed it. They had both been interested in treating severe problems in people. Traumas mainly. He remembered that Frank had come up with some typically outlandish treatment ideas and he had been swept along, willingly he might add.
The children's folder was on the desk in front of him. Emblazoned across the front was Lead Psychologist: Sarah Stevens. It was almost like a warning that he shouldn't interfere. But he knew that wasn't possible.
If Sarah worried about her meetings with the director, then the director had his own meetings to worry about. Specifically the meeting that had been arranged for him this evening with his boss. He didn't want to use the word clandestine, after all they were psychologists not spies or dodgy financiers. But the meeting wasn't taking place on any official company premises; no minutes would be taken; no digital trail would be left.
His immediate boss was Sir Terrence Mandeville and the institute was essentially his baby and like any parent he liked to keep a close eye on his charge. Mostly this was fine with the director, he didn't interfere particularly and he seemed genuinely interested in what was going on. He had been a cutting edge psychologist himself before he founded the institute. In fact many people speculated that he had only set up the institute to allow him to continue with his experiments. There were rumours at the time that the big companies had taken fright at some of his more outlandish ideas. But you got a lot of that sort of speculation in the world of psychology. Behind all the suits, degrees and fancy buildings they could be as gossipy and bitchy as any playground. It was just a case of trying to steer a path between ground breaking and downright loopy. The director liked to think he had managed to navigate a reasonably safe path, but he did sometimes wonder whether there was any gossip swirling around about him.
The meeting had been arranged at a park not too far from the institute. He didn't want to be late for this meeting and decided to leave now.
As he drove his car out of the institute, with his high profile, he knew that he would receive attention from the media scrum camped outside. He knew that and he accepted it. Part of the territory. He had developed his non committal expression for the world of the media. Initially he had allowed himself to exhibit a pleasant smile. But he quickly realised that if something terrible happened at the institute and they ran some appalling headline, it might be accompanied by his smiling face alongside the headline. So non committal it was then, but hopefully not grumpy, or looking hungover.
The ladies and gentlemen of the press dutifully took their photos and thrust their microphones at the car, and he drove slowly past them. And then he pressed the accelerator after he had cleared them and set off away from the institute.
Soon the park was approaching in the distance, there were several entrances, but the director's boss always preferred the South Entrance. If they were truly spies then the director supposed that they should vary their routines. But as if to emphasise the fact that they were not, he pulled into exactly the same parking spot that he always parked in. He recognised Sir Terrence's car immediately. There weren't that many of them in existence now. The car was empty and as he looked into the distance, he could see a figure seated on a bench at the top of the small hill.
Even at this distance he could recognise him, his trademark hat was unmistakeable.
Sir Terrence Mandeville stood up as the director approached. He was tall, distinguished and his hair had turned grey, but it had only added to the distinguished effect. The director always felt as if he was visiting the headmaster when he met him.
'Robert, so glad you could make it,' he said as he offered out his hand.
'I needed the fresh air anyway,' replied the director, his hand being grasped in a firm handshake.
Sir Terrence stood looking out at the view which was displayed in front of him.
'How are the children Robert?'
'Fine, they are doing well at school.'
'And Lillian?'
'Fine, she's started a part time course in psychology actually.'
Terrence turned towards the director and smilingly said 'And you couldn’t dissuade her from it?'
'No, she seems determined
. Perhaps she sees me and thinks she could do a better job!'
Terrence laughed out loud, 'Well let me know when she wants a job, I'm sure the institute could use her. If only to keep you in line.'
The director was still maintaining his smile. If he was down the pub he would have felt more comfortable with the conversation and would probably have joined in wholeheartedly. But Sir Terrence was his boss. And when you are talking to your boss, even if it is light hearted, you are always aware that they are your boss. Besides, he wasn't sure if he was actually being criticised here, despite the smiles.
Thankfully, Sir Terrence moved the subject along. 'And Sarah, how is she doing with our little charges?'
The director recognised that this was the meat of the conversation. He was also aware that he would have to tread a fine line. He prided himself on the protective feeling he felt towards all of his employees. But he was aware of his own delicate position as he stood here with the creator and owner of the institute.
'Sarah is beginning to make progress I feel,' said the director cautiously.
'Are they talking yet?'
'No not yet, but they are communicating now,' replied the director, keen to deflect any potential criticism before it arrived.
The director thought it odd that Sir Terrence didn’t react in a surprised way to this news and didn’t ask how they were communicating.
The director continued slightly defensively. 'They are starting to communicate through the Journals. I think that is tremendous progress.'
'Ah yes, the Journals.'
And then Sir Terrence turned to face the director and he felt suddenly nervous. His eyes seemed to freeze him to the spot.
'I trust that they are kept safely under lock and key. I can't stress how important it is that whatever they divulge, they do so to us alone.'
'Of course, we have them securely housed,' said the director, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.
Sir Terrence smiled and turned back to look at the view.
'How is little Sarah coping with it all?'
The director thought about their previous meeting with Sarah and said cautiously 'I think she is coping. She misses her father though.’
Now Sir Terrence turned and looked directly at the director, he seemed very interested in what he had said, ‘How so?’
He was feeling defensive now and chose his words carefully and replied ‘She misses having him around.’
Sir Terrence nodded. ‘She is living in his old house isn’t she? It must be quite difficult with all the reminders of him around, quite unsettling I would imagine.’
He leant towards the director and said 'If you think there might be any problems with Sarah, I'd like to hear about them before they happen. Especially if they begin to affect her work.'
'Of course, I'll keep in regular touch.'
Sir Terrence released the director from his gaze and turned towards the view again.
'How do the children relate to her?'
'I think they relate to her very well. In so far as we can tell,' replied the director.
Sir Terrence said 'I wonder what her father would think of it all.'
The director knew a little about the history of the institute and he knew that there was some relationship between Sir Terrence and Sarah’s father. But he had no idea what it was. He hoped that he wasn't expected to provide a reply. As he looked at Sir Terrence, he noted that his expression looked more thoughtful and he wondered if he was aware of the director’s existence at all at the moment.
Finally Sir Terrence straightened up and said 'There may be alternative treatments available, if the current treatment doesn't progress as we hoped.'
Sir Terrence was clearly now fully focussed in the here and now as he said 'I could point you in the direction of some very exciting experimental drugs that are showing great promise, and could be of use for your particular requirements,' he paused for a moment, 'but of course it would only be a suggestion.'
The director was slightly taken aback. 'I really don't think we need to resort to that just yet,' he replied defensively.
'I didn't want to interfere with the treatment, they are after all your patients. I just wanted to give you an alternative if things don't progress as fast as we hoped.'
'I appreciate that and we will bear your suggestion in mind,' said the director.
'Good, that's all I ask,' and with that the conversation appeared to be finished.
'I think I'll just take in a little more air up here before I go home. But don't let me keep you Robert. Pass on my regards to Lillian won't you. And I'll speak with you soon no doubt.'
The director turned away and started to walk back down the hill towards his car.
As he opened the door and settled into the seat he realised that his next meeting with Sarah might have to be a little more forceful than he liked. He was convinced that she was on the right track with the treatment, but he was now acutely aware that they needed to show real progress, and soon.
Sarah arrived home, parked the car and went into the house. She almost found herself announcing that she was home and waiting to be greeted by a mixture of her brother and sister, large amounts of frenzied fur and teeth called Siegfried and eventually a rather distracted but smiling father emerging from his study. As she stood there alone in the hallway she would give anything to experience that again. She looked across at the study door, waiting for it to open. But the door remained shut.
Down the end of the hallway she caught sight of the other door. It was a door that looked slightly at odds with the rest of the house. It appeared to come from a previous century to its surroundings; the darkly studded panels and large round door handle looked completely out of place. It was a door that still had the power to disturb her, even now. She hadn’t been in there for several years and she didn’t want to open it now. It represented the darkest time of her childhood and she didn’t want to be reminded of it now. She only wanted to remember the happy memories of her father after all.
It had been her father’s private room, away from prying eyes of the rest of the household. She had toyed with the idea of having it boarded up, but she had satisfied herself with simply trying to ignore it. Anyway, she was an adult now and she had to banish such childish thoughts. They were a distant memory now and she hardly thought of them as real anymore.
With a shrug she walked into the front room.
Her social life had been pretty much nonexistent for a while now. She had appreciated the kind expressions of support and the condolences after her father had died. But eventually that all faded away. She supposed that she hadn’t been much company for other people and they had slowly drifted away until she finally found herself alone in the house. Which, if she was honest with herself, was how she wanted to be. She never felt truly alone in the house with the memories of her father all around her.
She attempted to while away the evening trying, and failing, to avoid thinking about the children all the time. The television didn’t help much; she found herself avoiding the news channels. The children were no longer the lead news item – there hadn’t been any developments for them to report – but they still showed enough interest to mention them at times. One channel even had a helpful graphic in the corner of the screen that showed the number of days since they had appeared. Sarah took it as a personal criticism of her treatment. They seemed to be mocking her for her lack of progress.
What would her father do?
It wasn’t the first time that she had wondered that.
Maybe she could get his advice, he would know what to do. She stood up and walked across to the study door. She unlocked and opened the door.
As it swung open she felt almost disappointed that it was empty, again. She sat down in the large leather chair and placed her hands firmly on the desk in front of her. But maybe, just maybe, in what had been his inner sanctum, if she concentrated very hard then some of his inspiration would flow into her.
She sat there for several min
utes until, slightly exasperated, she opened her eyes again, turning her head away in irritation at her own weakness. And then her eyes alighted on a folder that was sitting on the shelf. She only saw one word of the title but it was enough to plant an idea in her mind. She reached up, placed the folder on the desk and started to read.
Chapter Eight
The morning sun rose slowly but determinedly over the horizon. Its early morning efforts picked out the aerials, dishes and masts that sprouted upwards seemingly nourished by the sun's rays.
This was proving rather annoying to Karen Archer. She didn't really need this. What was wrong with a dull, overcast beginning to the day? They hurt the eyes less.
'Great morning isn't it?' said an unnaturally cheerful and neat and tidy figure.
'If you say so,' was the politest reply she could mange and was considerably cleaner than the reply she really wanted to give.
Karen was an old school reporter. She had come up through the ranks of journalism in what used to be the usual route. She looked scornfully at the array of pretty things that seemed to sprout up on television nowadays. Needless to say her attitude was partly down to jealousy. Her looks were thankfully not her best feature. In a decent light, not too bright, she was “striking”. When she was much younger this had bothered her, she didn't deny it. But looking back she realised that it had worked to her advantage. It had meant that she had to let her work do the talking. She had no doubt that she had missed out on some opportunities because she didn’t have that look. The look that apparently enabled people to read the news.
Of course it all meant that she was stood here early in the morning in a muddy field getting annoyed at how bright the sun was, and not sitting in the warmth of a comfortable studio with lackeys bringing her tea.
'This'll get you moving Karen,' a cup of tea was being thrust in front of her. It slightly ruined her point, but the warmth percolated her hands and she forgave the person.
