Girl on the Landing

by Paul Torday

  Members of Grouchers needed to know who they really were. It was my duty to tell them, and I would find an opportunity to do so. It would be my gift to them before I finally severed my association with the club. The Extraordinary General Meeting, held to debate the candidacy of Mr Patel, was in a few days’ time. I would be there, if my luck held out.

  I could not tell them tonight. It needed thought and preparation, and all of a sudden I was weary to death. It had been a busy three days, and I was exhausted. I made an excuse to my neighbours and left.

  As I lie in my bed I can hear the waves singing on the beach again. The tide is in, but now the sound of the waves gives me no peace. In the crash and music of the surf I think I can hear the Lamia, calling to me. She howls for me as she once howled in the ruins of Babylon. She is wandering on the beach somewhere, a demon of the night with whom I am somehow joined. She is no delusion: I wish she were. The Lamia is enraptured with me now. She is a creature that needs blood, and I have begun to feed her.

  I understand my purpose now, to become what I was born to become, to hunt and to kill. I have already done such things as will ensure I never know peace again, that I in turn will now be hunted for ever. Like the old fox I once saw on the hill, I must find my secret ways if I am to avoid the bullets and the snares. All I wanted to do was recover my identity, to escape from the prison of my medication, to know love, to experience again what human emotions feel like, to know the love of another person, and to survive. For a few weeks I was on the cusp, between the life of the chemical ghost that I was, and whatever I am now becoming. In that short time, I have been happy. That is to say, I believe that I have been happy. I believe I have understood what it must be like to be human: to be loved, and to love another person.

  It is no longer safe for Elizabeth to be with me now. The thought that I must separate myself from her hurts me more deeply than I could ever have imagined. That is what the Lamia warned me: that I must learn to separate myself from the things I love.

  ‘You cannot really feel love,’ she told me. ‘You have no real emotions.’

  But I have. I am two people: human; and whatever else I must become. But I do have emotions. I remember what love is.

  Stephen Gunnerton once told me that I might be a genetic anomaly, the result of some ancient interbreeding between our species and another manlike species. An extra gene has been added or else a gene is missing, producing what Stephen called ‘schizotypy’, a predisposition to psychosis, an abnormality of the brain. My brain has grown in a different way. My reality is different to other people’s: as a child I saw people among the trees at Glen Gala that no one else could see, and their voices were in my head. As I grew from childhood to adolescence, and from adolescence to manhood, they showed me the choices I had to make if I was to survive. Now I don’t just hear voices no one else can hear: I see things that no one else can see. For me they are as real as Elizabeth, or Verey-Jones, or the man next door. The Lamia is real enough.

  My nature is what I was born with. I am an evolutionary step behind, or an evolutionary step ahead, of the human race. It doesn’t matter which, only that I am out of step and so will not be allowed to roam freely, undrugged and unrestrained. A thousand years ago I might have been accepted as someone touched with divine madness, like a shaman. Now I will be thought of as a rogue, a predator: a bear or a wolf that has developed a taste for human flesh, and has to be hunted down. No drugs can cure me now. No drugs can undo the things I have done. Nothing except my own death can prevent me from doing the things I am going to do.

  I am desperate to see Elizabeth again, if only I can keep the Lamia from her. I cannot bear the idea that we will never meet, and never speak, again. I want her to know how much I have loved her; I want her to understand, as far as she is capable of understanding, what my story is. I know how dangerous it is for us to meet, dangerous for me, and dangerous for her. But I will find a way. I must find a way.

  14

  While the Cat’s Away

  As soon as Mikey drove off in the Range Rover, with his golf clubs on the back seat, and his evening clothes still in the bag from the dry cleaners hanging from a grab handle, I burst into tears.

  I couldn’t explain why I did that. There was something so touching about the way Mikey looked as he said goodbye. He hugged me for a moment and I felt the current pass between us. As soon as he had gone I thought, Supposing I never see him again?

  I don’t know why I thought that, either.

  I managed to calm myself down and then sat down by the phone and looked through the old address book that lay beside it on the table. After a while I found the number I wanted and dialled it.

  ‘Bridge of Gala Health Centre,’ said a voice.

  ‘It’s Elizabeth Gascoigne calling for Dr Alex Grant, please,’ I said, expecting to be told he was away, or out on a call, or in surgery. To my surprise I was put through almost straight away. Although we had rarely met since he turned up unexpectedly on the day of my wedding, his voice was familiar and full of warmth.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘Good morning. How nice to hear from you. I didn’t know you were in Glen Gala. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m not calling from Glen Gala, Alex,’ I told him. ‘I’m in London. I’m ringing you about Mikey - about Michael. Please don’t hang up or start telling me about medical ethics like that other man. Please listen to me for just a minute.’

  There was a pause and then Alex Grant said, ‘Is Michael ill? Don’t worry, I’m listening.’

  ‘Michael has stopped taking his Serendipozan. I think he’s been off it for quite a while now. I saw him throw a packet away and I didn’t think much about it until I went to see Stephen Gunnerton.’

  ‘You went to see Stephen Gunnerton?’ said Alex Grant in a surprised voice. ‘You did well to get an appointment with him. I’m a GP and even I had to use all my ingenuity to get him on the phone, on the rare occasions I had to speak to him. I don’t suppose he told you much, did he?’

  ‘Not really. It was what he didn’t tell me that’s made me so worried.’

  There was a long silence at the other end.

  ‘Hello, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here. Wait a moment.’

  There was a rustling noise in the background, and then Alex Grant said, ‘Elizabeth, I’ve got Michael’s file in front of me now. I don’t really need it because I have known Michael since he was a boy. He was born with an illness. You know that.’

  ‘He’s schizophrenic, isn’t he?’ I whispered.

  Alex Grant said gently, ‘We can call it that if you like. We both know what you mean. Has he never said anything about his condition?’

  ‘He just said that he used to have behavioural problems.’

  ‘Behavioural problems? Has his behaviour altered in any way recently?’

  Then I described how Michael had changed, and as I talked about him I found myself calling him Mikey, even though I had promised myself that name would remain private between Mikey and me. I described how much more outgoing and alive he had become in the last few weeks, and how much our relationship had improved. Alex Grant listened and then said, ‘We haven’t seen all that much of you since you got married. You don’t come up to Beinn Caorrun frequently, do you? And when you do, we don’t often meet. Have you ever wondered why?’

  ‘Well, no, but I don’t quite see what—’

  ‘Michael is wary of me, Elizabeth. For him, I’m the man who has been prescribing him drugs ever since he can remember, who used to go up to see his parents and recommend that they consider putting him in a secure institution, a decision that, regrettably, they never made.’

  ‘Put him in an institution?’ I said indignantly. ‘Whatever for? Just for hearing voices? For being a bit eccentric?’

  Alex Grant did not answer me at once. He was clearly a man who thought before he spoke, not a type I was terribly familiar with.

  ‘I tried to persuade John Gascoigne to have his son sectioned,�
�� he said.

  Sectioned? It must have been the stress, but for a moment I really thought he meant cutting poor Mikey into slices like a Swiss roll, and the backs of my eyes began to prickle. Then it dawned on me what he meant.

  ‘You mean put away?’

  ‘I mean detained in a mental health establishment for his own safety, and the safety of others, until a proper diagnosis could be made under controlled conditions. Then a decision could be taken as to whether it was safe to release him back into the community. Don’t misunderstand me: I feel deeply, deeply sorry for Michael. I also felt sorry, and very concerned, for his parents at the time. It would have been much better for him to have been born with some more obvious physical defect which everyone could see, and understand. Very few people really do understand what is wrong with someone like Michael. I’m not an expert in this myself. I’m not a psychiatrist. But I do think Michael, for a very long time, has been a great danger both to himself and others. The Serendipozan was prescribed to keep those aspects of his personality subdued and under control.’

  This was ridiculous.

  ‘Michael is the kindest, gentlest man on the planet,’ I said with some heat. ‘He wouldn’t harm anyone.’

  ‘People like Michael develop enormous skills to conceal how different they are. They can be very manipulative, very controlling, even charming. But their nature never changes. It can’t. They are almost without any form of social brain.’

  I could think of nothing to say. This was getting worse and worse. After years of insipid marriage to someone who barely spoke, I had now rediscovered my husband and fallen in love with him. Now all these hints were being dropped that he was quite different to the man I knew. What was I meant to think? That he was a monster?

  ‘Can you come up to Glen Gala?’ said Alex Grant, in a different voice. ‘I mean now, today?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said ‘I’m supposed to be in the office in a quarter of an hour and I’m late already. I’ll probably get the sack if I don’t turn up. What’s the urgency?’

  ‘How long did you say he has been off the Serendipozan?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it must be a month or two at least.’

  ‘That’s why it’s urgent,’ said Alex Grant. ‘He will be regressing straight back to where he came from, clinically and psychologically. You might be in considerable danger. I might be. Stephen Gunnerton might be. A perfect stranger in the street might be. I’ll check our records to see when he last reordered his prescription, but if he’s been off it for more than a month, it is not good news.’ I heard him say ‘I’m coming,’ and then he put his hand over the phone for a moment. Then he was back.

  ‘I’m sorry, I have a patient waiting. Elizabeth, I think it is vital that you come and see me. There are things I can tell you about Michael that I think you need to know. In fact, I think it is essential. It’s quite out of the question to have that kind of conversation over the phone. In any case, when I’ve told you the full story, I need you to be there with me because I’m going to ask you to help me fill in a form under Section Four of the Mental Health Act. That will allow us to detain Michael for seventy-two hours, so that we can make a proper assessment of his condition and his medication requirements. We must get him back on Serendipozan, to stabilise the situation. If he is as safe as you say, then he will be released at the end of that period, and no one will be more delighted than I will be - except perhaps you,’ he added, as an afterthought. ‘Will you come?’

  I had to say yes. I just had to; how could I not after that?

  ‘But I’m not promising to sign anything,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t have to. But you will want to, when you’ve heard what I have to say. It’s probably not realistic that you get here today. Could you be at Beinn Caorrun tomorrow morning around ten, at the lodge?’

  ‘I suppose I could get the shuttle up to Edinburgh and hire a car.’

  ‘That’s an excellent plan. One other thought, Elizabeth.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you’ve got a friend - a girlfriend, I mean, someone you can really trust, then try to bring her with you. I’m thinking it would be good for you to have some support tomorrow.’

  We hung up. For a long time I sat gazing at nothing in particular. I wondered whether I was the one who had gone mad. My darling, gentle Mikey - how could he harm anyone? Who could possibly believe that, once they had met him?

  Then I remembered Michael at Beinn Caorrun that night, not so long ago, when the Martins and the Robinsons had been staying and Michael had snarled, ‘Just listen’ or something like that. It wasn’t the words: it had been the voice, the expression, as if a wolf was sitting next to us at the table. I remembered how frightened I had been as I lay beside him in bed that night - frightened of what, I did not know, except the strangeness of it all.

  A great calmness overtook me. I reached for the phone and rang the office, and asked to be put through to Celia.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, when she came on the line. There was no ‘How are you?’ or ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Celia, I know you won’t be happy about this but I need two days off, today and tomorrow. I’ve got a real problem and I have to deal with it.’

  ‘And I’ve got a real problem, too, darling. I’m paying someone to do a job and they are never there to do it.’

  ‘Please, Celia. You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency.’

  ‘Take two days off,’ said Celia. ‘In fact, take the next two hundred days off and start looking for another job.’

  She hung up. I wasn’t certain whether I’d just been fired. Probably not - even Celia knew that you couldn’t just dismiss people over the phone. But I felt fairly sure she would be on the line to the ghastly little man called Lionel in Human Resources, to make sure that my dismissal proceedings were put in motion.

  The next call was to Mary Robinson. Again I got hold of her straight away - at least it was a good day for making phone calls - and I told her I wanted her to come up to Beinn Caorrun with me.

  ‘Oh, how nice. Were you thinking about spring some time? I’ll get the diary. Peter’s already bought next year’s. Isn’t that organised of him?’

  ‘No, I don’t mean next year, Mary. I mean today. And don’t say you can’t come, because I know Peter’s up in North Berwick playing golf with Michael.’

  There was a silence, then Mary said, ‘But Elizabeth, that is quite out of the question. I’m giving a book club lunch here, tomorrow. It’s my turn. I couldn’t possibly miss it.’

  She sounded very firm, so I replied, ‘Mary, do you remember we talked about Mikey - Michael’s illness?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do. Then you went to see Peter without telling me.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, I know I should have said something. But Michael’s illness has come back. I’ve just finished having the most horrible phone call with his doctor. He wants me to go up to see him. He said I should bring a friend I could trust. Mary, I’m dreading it.’

  I dried up. I simply couldn’t speak any more. Then Mary said, in a quite different voice, ‘Of course I’ll come, darling. When do we go?’

  After that a sort of fever of truancy overtook us both. Mary got on the phone to her book club friends, cancelling the lunch, no doubt enjoying being very mysterious about why. I checked flight times and in the end we decided we would fly up to Edinburgh late that afternoon, stop in an airport hotel, and then rent a car and drive up to Glen Gala first thing the next morning.

  We agreed, too, on a cover story in case either of our husbands rang home - we were off on a shopping trip to Bath. Not that either Peter or Mikey rang home much when they were away, but no one ever asks questions about a shopping trip, at least until the credit card statement comes in.

  I had finished packing and was waiting for the doorbell to ring. Mary was due any moment, and then we were going to take a taxi to Paddington and get the Heathrow Express. Instead the phone rang. I hesitated for a moment, then picked it up.
It was my mother.

  ‘Mummy,’ I said, ‘I’ve got to be quick, I’m just dashing out of the door.’

  My mother ignored this.

  ‘Charlie’s left me,’ she wailed. ‘He’s disappeared.’

  I couldn’t get her off the phone. Charlie Summers, the dog food salesman, had suddenly absconded, owing six months on the house he had rented in Stanton St Mary and not insubstantial sums at the village shop and the Stanton Arms. Other unpaid debts were emerging with every day that passed. Then I heard a yapping in the background.

  ‘What on earth’s that?’

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘It’s our dog, darling. We bought a dog, the sweetest little chihuahua you ever saw. He’s called Ned and he—’