by J G Alva
Some moments later Dr Bodel entered the room, closing the door behind him. Again, he brought that well of calmness with him. It was hard to define what created this illusion of confidence: his slow easy movements, the softness of the expression on his face, the reverent way he spoke? But Sutton knew now that it was only artifice, that it had no more substance than any other trick by a second rate magician, just the same as pulling coins from behind ears and producing rabbits out of hats. That these tricks were only effective to the person who does not know how they are done is untrue; his manner still affected Sutton.
“Sutton Mills, I’m glad you could make it,” he said, and came forward to shake his hand.
“Not a problem,” Sutton heard himself say.
“Diane is not with you?” He asked, going around and sitting behind his desk. He seemed to be seeking reassurance that she wasn’t.
“No. Should she be?”
He shook his head.
“No. It’s because of her that I called you. I’m especially concerned about her, and because you were friends with both her and Gavin, I knew you would have more of an understanding of exactly what’s going on.”
Dr Bodel began opening and closing some of the drawers in his desk, looking for something. His personality was such that Sutton found himself doubting his suspicions about him. This man was kind and good, anyone could see that, and he had nothing but the patient’s wellbeing at heart. How could Sutton have gotten it so completely wrong? He had to struggle to hold on to the knowledge that whatever he was, kind and benevolent weren’t words you could really use to describe him.
“What exactly is going on?” Sutton asked.
Bodel paused and then said, “has Diane told you that she is on anti-depressants?”
Sutton sat back, but realised in that moment that he wasn’t altogether surprised. Some of the erratic behaviour and see-sawing emotions could be explained away, at least.
But he also realised in that moment that Bodel had violated Diane’s medical privacy…
Was it through concern for Diane that he was enlisting Sutton’s confidence?
It didn’t seem impossible.
And yet…
“No,” Sutton said, keeping his voice flat.
Bodel nodded.
“I also prescribed sleeping tablets, as she was suffering from insomnia, but I knew – as I am sure you do – that both of these are physical manifestations of grief…over the death of the man she loved.”
Sutton nodded. This was no surprise; he had already guessed as much.
But he was puzzled: where was Bodel going with this?
Bodel checked one more drawer and then apparently satisfied that whatever he was looking for was not there, closed it.
Standing upright, Bodel asked carefully, “do you know how their relationship started?”
Sutton had the uneasy impression that Bodel was trying to hypnotise him with his voice. He waited for Bodel to appear at the end of a long tunnel, as he had experienced when Grace had drugged him…but Bodel stayed firmly where he was: standing behind his desk, stiffly upright. Sutton didn’t think he would; he hadn’t drunk anything after all. But an echo of that moment, of that loss of control, was still with him…and he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
Bodel continued to talk.
He seemed perfectly comfortable with their conversation.
“Obviously they grew close after the death of Gavin’s wife,” the doctor continued. “I understand, from speaking to Gavin, that he took the death of his wife very hard. That he did not react well to it. Isolating oneself is not uncommon, when one is grieving. He spoke of you.”
At this, Sutton’s attention was peaked.
“You were very good friends. I’m told that you, too, were exorcised from his company. And he also told me why.”
Now Sutton was in turmoil. To hear this from Bodel, of all people…He wanted to tell him to shut up, but they both knew that he wouldn’t. That he couldn’t.
“What did he say?” Sutton asked. There was a croak in his voice.
Bodel paused before saying, “that he thought you blamed him for not looking after Rachel.”
“He didn’t say that,” Sutton said, but he didn’t sound like he believed his own words.
“There was a delay, at the hospital,” Bodel explained. “They were debating on whether to transport her here, to the BRI. It was crowded, they were busy, but she was stable. Nobody saw any need to be concerned. Gavin, however, was not convinced, and argued for proper care…and if that meant coming all the way to Bristol, then fine, they were to do that. Of course, they didn’t…and all the time they were arguing the clot was forming on her brain. He should have fought harder, Gavin told me. Sutton Mills would have fought harder.”
Jesus Christ.
Could it be true?
Bodel let that sink in before continuing.
“So after his wife’s death, his only real contact was with Diane, due to the very rituals of death. I suppose it is only natural for feelings to develop, between like-minded people of a similar age; both sexually active, both very lonely.” Bodel moved out from behind his desk. “We are, after all, biological organisms. In lieu of a life companion, it was only to be expected that Gavin would to come to see Diane as a replacement for that all important female figure…and as you know, Diane is a very serious young lady, and perhaps not the most confident of women in social situations. Knowing Diane’s character, as I do, from a very young age, I knew all too well that she would respond to Gavin’s emotional fragility. That empathy in her is not in short supply, and that she couldn’t fail to respond to someone so obviously in need of emotional healing.”
Bodel had stopped by the door. Did he mean to show Sutton out already? He crossed both hands behind his back, and then leant back against the doorframe. He smiled, but it was a sad smile.
“What I can’t understand,” he said, “is why she wants to get rid of the baby?”
Before Sutton had a chance to respond, the lights went out.
Sutton felt doubly disorientated, not just by the lights going out but also by Bodel’s revelation…and Sutton assumed that was exactly the point. He bolted out of his chair and moved back to the wall, or to where he thought the wall must be. He couldn’t see anything. He kicked something with his foot, a book perhaps. The room was completely black, completely silent…except for the sound of his pounding heart.
Nothing.
No sound.
The door was right in front of him, and slightly to the right, but Bodel would be in his way. Although Bodel was physically no match for him, Sutton suspected that he was armed, and that his shuffling through the drawers behind his desk had been his search for a weapon. What would he use? As a doctor, it could be anything, but his greatest chance of success was to try and sedate Sutton somehow. Once sedated, he could say whatever he liked about Sutton: a man gone mad with grief; a schizophrenic suffering a break. Anything.
He heard a noise suddenly, off to his right.
Sutton felt cold sweat pop out on his forehead. He needed to find a weapon himself. He stepped forward quickly and picked up the chair, holding it at waist height, the legs facing outward, as if to defend himself from a charging bull.
Another noise, to the left.
Sutton spun quickly in that direction, his heart beating wildly. This was no unthinking animal that he could outwit with his own set of cheap, penny-sweet tricks; this was a cold calculating killer, unlikely to make a mistake, or to give Sutton a second chance if he made one either.
And then, a knock at the door.
And a voice.
“Dr Bodel?”
A female voice.
A nurse?
Sutton heard soft padded footsteps, and then the light went on.
Dr Bodel stood by the door. The hypodermic needle – if there had been one – had vanished.
His expression chilled Sutton. It wasn’t that it was a mask of hate, or of evil intent, because that c
ould only be expected, that would be normal – if normal was a term that could be used in such strange circumstances – no, what chilled Sutton was that Dr Bodel’s expression was not evil at all, it was one of only mild appraisal, as if they had been discussing politics, and Sutton had raised a cantankerous point. This was a man with something missing in his emotional make up. Wires had gotten crossed, and he was little better than a flesh and blood robot. Nobody could be as real as him; no person or thing could ever be as important as his life’s work; anyone could be despatched with impunity in the name of his cause.
Would Sutton have been so suspicious of him had he not known more of his involvement in things? He didn’t know. But he did know that no one was going to believe him if he accused Dr Bodel of trying to kill him. He would find himself tackled to the floor by security, injected with a tranquilliser and wheeled out in restraints, only to wake up locked in a rubber room somewhere. And Sutton could only too clearly imagine what Dr Bodel would tell the attending physician.
“Grief at the loss of a dear friend,” he would say, shaking his head sadly. “It was just too much for him, I think. He went berserk.”
As he opened the door Sutton quickly put the chair down.
“What is it, Nurse Hatchet?” Dr Bodel asked.
Nurse Hatchet was in her forties, had brown hair streaked with grey, and lines around her mouth and eyes that told Sutton she was a lifelong smoker. She peered over Dr Bodel’s shoulder at him.
“Sean White’s blood pressure is dropping,” she said.
“Of course,” Dr Bodel said. “I’ll be right out.”
As he began to close the door, Sutton cleared his throat and, surprised that he could sound so calm after what had just happened, said, “I can see you’re busy, Dr Bodel. I’ll leave you to get back to work.”
Dr Bodel stopped with the door part way open and turned to stare at him. His eyes were dead. Whatever lived inside the skull behind them was not human, or at least bore no resemblance to anything human.
Nurse Hatchet waited.
“Very well,” Dr Bodel said, opening the door wider, and Sutton got the hell out of there.
*
CHAPTER 19
MONDAY
Sutton walked the corridors of the BRI, one part of him intently focused on finding his way out of that maze of corridors, another part of him frantically pawing through the events of the last twenty minutes, and torturing himself with how close it had been.
And then another thought stopped him in his tracks.
He found an innocuous alcove, away from any human traffic, took out his mobile and dialled Diane’s number.
In moments it was answered.
“Diane?”
“Yes? Sutton?”
“Did you talk to Bodel about me? Before I met him?”
There was a pause, and then Diane said, “yes, I think so. I saw him the day after I met you. I had to get a refill for my…prescription. Why?”
Sutton closed his eyes. He had been watched from the start.
“Listen to me, Diane. Are you listening?”
“Is something wrong? You sound strange-“
“Do not go to see Dr Bodel again.”
There was a pause.
“What happened?”
“Are you on anti-depressants?”
This stopped her cold, and he could feel her shock and outraged vibrating down the line.
“How can you-“
“He told me, Diane. Just now. Just before he tried to attack me.”
“I…I don’t…” She seemed breathless.
“Do not speak to him on the phone, do not visit him. I cannot stress enough how important this is. Do you understand?”
“Sutton-“
“Diane, Bodel is mad. And he will hurt you.”
There was another pause.
“Are you…are you sure?”
“Yes. He just tried to attack me in his office. I think he’s psychotic.”
Sutton began walking, his mind struggling to remember how to get out of this building, it was as skittish as a drop of water on a hot skillet. He began desperately trying to find some exit signs, or any signs for that matter.
“Diane, can I ask you something else?”
“Of course. What?”
He spotted a door leading to a stairway, banged through it, and started down. His voice echoed strangely in that concrete space.
“Something extremely personal.”
Less sure now: “okay…”
Sutton hesitated on a landing between floors and said carefully, “are you pregnant?”
There was a shocked silence.
“Pregnant?”
“Yes.”
Some shuffling in the background.
“It’s none of your business, but…no.”
Sutton nodded to himself; he just had to be sure.
“Okay. I’ve got to go now, but don’t forget: Bodel. Don’t go anywhere near him. He’s dangerous.”
There was a pause while Diane digested this and then she said, “alright. I won’t speak to Dr Bodel.”
“I’ll explain everything later. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay,” she said, “bye.”
He reached the ground floor and pushed through the door and found himself only a hall away from the front reception. He walked as casually as he could down the hallway, afraid at any moment that security guards would come rushing from somewhere to tackle him to the ground, or that a voice would call out his name, or that Dr Bodel would not advocate tact and caution but try to silence him there and then, even with a hospital floor full of witnesses. After all, he was insane. The double-doored exit crept agonisingly slowly towards him.
And then it happened.
“Sutton!”
A female voice, but a voice nonetheless.
He kept walking, a measured pace, his eyes fixed firmly on the door, as if by a force of will alone he could draw it toward him faster.
He had taken perhaps three steps before the peculiar timbre of the voice filtered in to his consciousness.
He turned, and saw the lovely figure of Janice coming toward him.
But he did not stop. He continued on out the door.
“Sutton!” Janice called again, her voice now tinged with confusion.
When he was outside he turned the corner, stopping in the shadow of that part of the building that passed over the access to the lower level car park.
Janice appeared moments later, stopping outside and looking around for him.
He reached forward and pulled her back, out of sight.
“Sutton,” Janice said, afraid in that moment.
“Sh.”
“God, you scared me.” She stopped, looking at his face. “What’s the matter? Are you alright? You’re as white as a sheet.”
“I’m fine,” he said, but the smile on his face felt like somebody had drawn it on with a child’s crayon. “Considering Dr Bodel just tried to attack me, I’m dandy.”
“What?”
He nodded.
“He’s mad, Janice. If I had any doubt before that he was in some way involved in what’s going on, then I don’t now.”
“But...why? Why would he attack you?”
“Because he’s got something to hide. Because he knows I’m getting too close.”
Janice’s eyes were wide. A hand went to her throat while she thought about that.
“What are you doing now?” He asked.
“Oh. I’m finished. I was just leaving.”
“Find out anything?”
“Yes.” Her eyes were haunted.
“Then you can tell me about it while we get something to eat.”
She smiled tremulously.
“Do you know what? I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.”
“Yes,” he admitted, with a small smile. “I’m not that hungry either.”
“Well,” she said deliberately. “Why don’t you come back to mine, and I’ll just fix us so
mething quick and easy. That way we won’t end up paying for a big meal that we’re never going to eat.” She leaned close. “It might be a good idea to have some privacy. This is not the sort of thing you want to talk about in a crowded restaurant.”
He nodded.
It was a plan.
*
There is something quite endearing about the nesting instinct.
Janice had filled her nest with all the things that reassured and occupied her. She lived in a small two bedroom house in Kingswood, and it was busy with books and ornaments and paintings and plants, but as Sutton wandered around it, the light pleasant sound of Janice attending to food in the kitchen, he began to get a sense that this was not as settled a home as it first appeared to be, or as Janice would have a visitor believe it to be. Nothing in it could not be taken down and packed away without the simplest of ease. No fixture was attached to the walls with anything more complicated than a nail, no piece of furniture was large enough to cause any removal men consternation. He began to get the idea that Janice was waiting for something, but he did not know what that something was.
Pink and white were the predominant colours, in reflection of Janice herself: she was neat and clean, and enough of a woman to give him a little thrill whenever she happened to be in the same room with him. The sofa was a comfortable, lumpy pale pink. A pink border ran along all the edges of the rooms. The bathroom had pink soap, pink towels, and pink bath mats. Every picture had a splash of pink in it somewhere. She had a good eye for colour, and it made the room harmonious and relaxing. Over all this was the soft flowery scent of soap, or some other cleaning product.
She kept a nice home, but it was solely the home of Woman. Sutton looked with interest for any sign of a male presence, a souvenir of a recent break up – a pair of men’s shoes in the hall, a newspaper rack stuffed with car magazines – but could find none. She had been single for some time.
A doorless opening led from the lounge to the dining room at the back of the house, another doorless opening connecting the dining room to the kitchen. The dining room itself was larger than the lounge, dominated by a dark wood table at its centre and a dark wood upright piano in the corner, the only things not to have that sense of transiency about them. A long row of windows looked out on to a small but tidy back garden where, sitting centre stage, an aerial-like washing line had been unfolded, and was presently busy drying out towels, blouses, and some intriguing pink underthings. He couldn’t help but speculate on what she might be wearing now.
