Dylan walked tentatively to the lounge door and slowly opened it. The answer-phone was bleeping: a message waiting.
Hearing it, Kay rushed through the dining room, through the hall door and into the lounge. Dylan’s outstretched finger hovered over the ‘Play’ button. She watched as his finger hit the button, a look of angst on her face. ‘Were you expecting a call?’ Dylan asked.
Her heart was pounding so hard and fast in her chest that she feared Dylan would see it through her blouse. Was this Kenny’s doing? Suddenly, Kay feared that her whole world was about to come crashing down around her.
Chapter Six
The female voice on the answering machine brought a level of relief Kay had never previously experienced. However, it was short-lived when she heard Isla’s tutor, sounding concerned, asking them to contact her as soon as possible: Isla was facing immediate suspension.
Kay and Dylan stared at each other in disbelief as they considered the significance of what they had just heard. Kay didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing, leaving it up to Dylan to pick up the telephone to return the call. Her heart pounded.
‘God, please let Isla be all right,’ she whispered fervently.
Dylan listened to the phone ringing out, then heard a click followed by the voice of the professor.
‘Doctor Feather, Sheffield University.’
Kay’s ears strained to hear the muffled words in the background. She struggled to read Dylan’s facial expressions and work out what the professor was saying to afford such stilted replies from him. When he put the phone down his face was solemn.
‘What’s happened?’ Kay faltered. ‘Tell me …’ she asked.
‘We’ve got to go. Straight away,’ he answered, reaching for the car keys. ‘Isla’s been found in possession of drugs.’
‘Drugs? What drugs?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘But she’s okay?’
‘They’re extremely worried about her welfare.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Doctor Feather thinks she might be depressed: she’s lost weight and this morning she threatened suicide.’
‘But … I only spoke to her the other day … She sounded okay …’
‘Yes, so you said. But did you actually have a proper conversation with her, or just talk at her, like you usually do?’
Kay swallowed visibly.
‘She’s not a child, Kay. She’s a grown woman.’
‘Well, she’s certainly not acting like it if she’s threatening to kill herself. It sounds more like attention-seeking to me.’
From time-to-time Dylan looked sideways at Kay as she drove, offering her directions now and again. He knew she was upset, anxious. Now was certainly not the time to get into an argument.
Being summoned to the head’s office had the same effect on Dylan as it’d had twenty year’s previously. However, Dr Glenda Feather was nothing like the ermine-fur-gowned head of year of his day. Dr Feather was, Dylan guessed, in her late forties, petite and pretty, with enigmatic soft blue eyes. Her voice, although authoritative, had an air of calm about it; she wore her professional mask well. Her dark green, roll-neck dress clung snugly to her body and she wore a slim black leather belt tight round her waist and glasses dangling on a silver chain around her neck. After standing up to shake their hands, she offered them two chairs placed in front of the big, antique oak desk. Her colleague remained seated in the fourth chair between the bookshelf and her desk and nodded his greeting when he was introduced as Mr Paul, student welfare officer. A decade younger than Glenda Feather, Dylan guessed, and distinctly athletic-looking, David Paul was as dark as she was blonde.
‘I’m pleased that you could come so quickly, Mr and Mrs Dylan,’ said Dr Feather. She put on her glasses. Her concentration was strictly on the file in front of her. Opening it, she took a moment or two to consider it before speaking. Although her cheeks were flushed, when she looked up her face was grave.
‘Earlier today we were made aware by some of Isla’s friends that she has been, let’s say, living student life to the full. Her friends were concerned enough to speak to Mr Paul about her eating habits and weight loss. I’ve been reliably informed that she is binge drinking and is a regular user of recreational drugs. Uncharacteristically, she has recently shown signs of aggressive behaviour. And aggression and addiction, as we are well aware, are intertwined in many ways. She has, she tells me, been prescribed antidepressants by her general practitioner. When searching her room for the drugs, we also found evidence that she has been hoarding food and keeping a highly unusual quantity of laxatives.
‘Having found her in possession of illegal drugs, I’m afraid, I have no other option than to suspend your daughter with immediate effect. As I mentioned in our telephone conversation earlier Mr Dylan, the university has a duty of care to Isla and, although she is eighteen, we’ – Dr Feather nodded her head towards Mr Paul – ‘took the decision not to tell her that we were sending her home until you arrived. We have told her that you have been asked to come over to discuss these latest developments. Her response to that was to threaten suicide.’
Dylan heard Kay gasp and sniffle and, out of the corner of his eye, saw her wipe away a tear. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief which she gratefully accepted. In his own distressed state, it was as much comfort as he was able to offer.
‘Have you called the doctor?’ asked Dylan.
‘No,’ answered Dr Feather. ‘We think it best that she sees her GP at home. In my opinion, Isla needs long-term assistance and, as much as we’d like to help, this is beyond our capabilities on campus.’
‘With all due respect, I think we know our own daughter better than you,’ Kay said sharply. ‘My husband is a police officer, a negotiator no less, and I promise you that if we’d had an inkling that my daughter was involved with drugs, or needed any professional help, then I would have been the first to seek help for her.’ She turned to Dylan for support.
‘This is where confusion has set in …’ Mr Paul said, scratching his head. ‘You see, this is the first time that I’ve heard your daughter’s name mentioned. She has never exhibited any sort of aggressive behaviour here, to my knowledge, until now. Our previous experience has shown that if anger issues do manifest themselves, they are often the key to deeper and more longstanding problems which will need proper and thorough investigation.’
There was an awkward pause, followed by a loud tap at the door. All heads turned. Slowly, the door brushed across the woollen carpet and in stepped a gaunt, waif-like figure which Dylan hardly recognised as his beautiful Isla. The woman who followed her inside proffered a faint smile as she placed a guiding hand at the base of Isla’s bony back for encouragement. A smell of sweat and talcum powder wafted around the oak-panelled room.
Dylan stared down at the hand of his daughter, clasped tenderly in his own, running his finger over her calloused knuckles. Her cracked skin felt dry and the blood drying at the base of her nails made him wince. How could she have changed so much physically in such a short space of time? Flakes of dry skin were sprinkled across the shoulders and sleeves of her scruffy black jumper. Her jeans were far too big for her tiny frame. Crossing her legs as she slouched in the chair, a tatty, stained plimsoll dangled precariously from a trembling foot.
Isla stared down at the floor while the conversation between her mother, Glenda Feather and David Paul continued around her. Dylan thought that her hair had thinned and was falling out. He willed her to look up at him and, when she finally did, he winked at her. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ he whispered soothingly, at the same time instinctively squeezing her hand. She flinched and his eyes silently apologised for causing her pain.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mouthed to him. A lone tear trickled down her cheek and Dylan brushed it away gently with the tip of his finger.
They went to Isla’s room and Dylan’s eyes were drawn to the family photos displayed on the dressing table, a poignant reminder
of happier times. Discarded clothes lay strewn in every available space. Her precious record collection, accumulated since her early teens and formerly her pride and joy, was scattered across the floor, some records still in their sleeves, most uncovered and tossed aside. He glanced down at the turntable of the portable player they’d given her last Christmas. Soul diva Aretha Franklin’s ‘Respect’ stared ironically back up at him.
Most of all, he was sad to see her favourite childhood companion Pooh Bear, battered and bruised, lying abandoned in the farthest corner of the room. He picked him up and tucked him safely under one arm.
Quietly, Isla’s flatmates gathered her personal belongings together and helped Dylan carry them to the car. He thanked them, then he thanked Dr Feather, Mr Paul and the members of staff who had helped her, before joining Isla and Kay and escorting them back to their car.
It was apparent to Dylan that Kay was in no fit state to drive. He held out his hand for the keys and, for once, she gave them to him without any fuss. He looked in his rearview mirror to see the two of them staring blankly out of the side windows in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, no doubt still attempting to digest what had happened.
Pausing at the junction of the university entrance and the open road, he waited patiently for the oncoming traffic to pass. He checked his rearview mirror again, studying his daughter’s face for a moment or two: she looked desperately fragile, vulnerable and lost. Their eyes met briefly and he saw hers harden. Then the look of wilfulness that had crossed her face swiftly disappeared. Had he imagined that look in her eyes? He sincerely hoped so, because he’d seen eyes like that many times before: they held the emptiness of a ‘dead man walking’.
Instinctively, and without the others’ knowledge, he flipped on the child locks – a precautionary measure, but with Isla’s state of mind so much in question, travelling on the motorway without the lock on was not an option for the seasoned detective. Besides, he would be naïve not to put every precautionary measure that he had recently learned at Hendon into practice. Isla was in a dark place and he needed to concentrate on the road ahead while staying one step ahead of his daughter should she decide to attempt jumping out of the car.
The silence was suddenly broken by rushed outpourings from Isla.
‘For God’s sake, will someone say something? You don’t need to punish me with the silent treatment. I already know I’m a disappointment to you … But,’ she shrugged her shoulders, ‘if you want to tip me over the edge, you just carry on … You’re doing a great job, because you’re both doing my fuckin’ head in now.’
Her words tugged at Dylan’s heart strings, but it was Kay who spoke. ‘I don’t know what to say …’
Isla leaned towards her mother as if she was about to share a secret. ‘I’d have thought you’d want to reassure me that you didn’t take a blind bit of notice of Ma Fluff and her Casanova!’
Kay raised her eyebrows. ‘What do you mean?’
Isla sucked in her breath and widened her eyes. ‘Come on! Tell me, why on earth would the doctor come in on a Saturday to deal with insignificant little me, if she wasn’t hoping to get a bit on the side? Come on, Dad, you’re not stupid! You couldn’t miss those furtive looks and those puppy-dog eyes?’ She sniggered. ‘Bloody barefaced liars, the lot of ’em.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Ask yourself why they haven’t suspended Boo Boo then.’ Isla’s eyes glistened.
Kay’s eyebrows knitted together. ‘Boo Boo?’ she asked.
‘The drug dealer, I guess?’ said Dylan.
Isla lips were tight when she nodded to her mother. ‘Because Boo Boo knows … and they know he knows.’ She drew back, tilted her head and looked again. ‘Hey, Kay, come to think of it you’ve got a bit of a shifty look, too …’ She leaned forward towards Dylan. ‘Don’t you think she looks shifty, Dad? What you trying to hide, Mother?’ she said, putting a finger to her lips and chuckling to herself.
Kay reached out for Isla’s hand, which was swiftly snapped away. One of her daughter’s eyebrows rose and she stopped laughing and leaned forward. ‘Once a cheat, always a cheat, eh, Dad?’ she said.
Dylan’s eyes were fixed on the road as he manoeuvred the car onto the slip road at the next exit. He specifically steered clear of looking in the rear-view mirror, hoping to avoid the look on his wife’s face, until the moment passed.
‘Always trust your gut instincts,’ Isla spoke softly. ‘Isn’t that right, Dad? If something feels wrong, it usually is.’
Slowly, Isla unclenched her fingers. A trickle of blood ran down her right palm.
Dylan handed her a tissue. ‘Do you feel like talking yet?’ he asked as they sat side by side together on the plush sofa.
‘Later maybe,’ she said, dabbing at her puncture wound. She sniffed, as if a bad smell had wafted under her nose. ‘Would it be okay if I went up for a bath?’
‘Of course.’ Dylan forced a smile. ‘Just remember we’re here for you whenever you do feel like talking.’
Dylan watched Isla drag herself to the top of the stairs. At times the exertion seemed too much. ‘I’m going to make us something to eat. Shall I call you when it’s ready?’ he called after her.
Isla turned and looked down at him. Her voice was shaky. ‘No, but thanks anyway,’ she said. ‘I’ll get something later.’
Isla’s room was just as she had left it and for that, at least, she was very grateful.
‘Why did you let her go up without any dinner?’ asked Kay, when he joined her in the kitchen. With her head stuck in a black bag, she was sorting out Isla’s dirty clothes. She pulled a face, pulled the drawstring, opened the bin and dropped the bag inside.
‘Do you think that’s wise?’ questioned Dylan, sitting down and picking a newspaper up off the table.
The sound of a door banging upstairs and another one opening signified to Dylan and Kay that Isla had gone straight to her room and before long they could hear steady, laboured sobbing. Dylan’s head rose from the newspaper. Finally, he looked at his wife, who rolled her eyes.
‘What did you want me to do, tell her she couldn’t go upstairs in her own home?’
After a while Kay glanced up at the ceiling. ‘It’s all your fault,’ she hissed. ‘You’re too damn soft with her – always have been. What she needs now is a slap around the head, just like you’ve had. It’d knock a bit of common sense into her.’
‘Right now, all she needs is our love and support,’ said Dylan.
Kay shook her head. ‘Unbelievable. I mean, just look at the way she spoke to me in the car and you never said a word!’
There was a pause. Dylan stared at his wife. ‘What did you want me to say? Did you really think I’d be your knight in shining armour and defend your honour? Tell me, Kay, how could I, when I’m being forced to question it myself?’
‘I don’t know what you mean. You actually think what she suggested is true?’ Kay’s face flushed. ‘How could you?’ she snapped. Leaping up, she towered over him. ‘I’m going to put a stop to this self-serving, indulgent behaviour once and for all.’
‘You really don’t give a damn about anyone but yourself, do you?’
Kay moved quickly, but Dylan was quicker to reach up and catch her hand. ‘Not now, eh? Shouting at her isn’t going to do any good.’ When she looked down at him with her huge brown eyes he pulled his hand away, the ache in his heart simply too much to bear. His eyes reverted to his newspaper. ‘When she’s ready to talk to us, she will.’
Kay slumped into the chair opposite him. Her voice wobbled. ‘But she says she wants to kill herself. Don’t you care?’ she said softly. Again, she paused.
‘She’s only just got home. Do you think I like her talking about ending it all? We need to get her professional help and we will do that first thing tomorrow.’
Kay scoffed. ‘She doesn’t need professional help, that’s just silly talk. She’s just attention-seeking; isn’t that what they tell you on those courses of yours? Have they brainwashed you too? Being treated with kid
gloves hasn’t worked in the past, so what’s so different now? We need to be strict with her from now on, and you have to stop letting her wrap you around her little finger.’
Kay waited for a reaction, any reaction, but Dylan wouldn’t be drawn.
‘Let’s agree to differ, shall we? I’ve dealt with people who are depressed and desperate – so desperate that they act out of character and often take their lives without a second thought. This “attention-seeking”, as you like to call it, is not going to change overnight. She can’t help how she feels. She’s ill, Kay, and you’ve got to understand that, although you’re her mother, she may never talk to us about it.’
‘Isla’s not like that. She’s always talked to me, told me everything …’
‘I truly hope you’re right.’ Dylan’s stomach rumbled. He went to the fridge and opened the door. He held a milk carton up and looked at the date. He frowned. ‘This is over a week old!’ He looked for something else. On the shelves there was a lump of yellowing cheese that looked as if it had been there for some time and a small box of chocolates. Inside the door sat a lonely bottle of Cava. He groaned and ransacked the cupboards, to discover nothing more than a few tins of beans, a tub of dried milk they kept for emergencies, a crumpled box of cereals, half a bottle of vodka and a box of tea bags. Two stale bread crusts sat in the bread bin. His eyes looked questioningly at Kay.
‘Er, yes,’ she said. ‘I meant to call at the supermarket, but I didn’t have the time.’
Poetic Justice Page 5
