by Marjorie Orr
‘Don’t pick fights you can’t win,’ she responded with a rueful smile. ‘I’ve had a few of those. Trouble is, I didn’t find that out until I’d lifted a few stones. But hey, you win some, you lose some. This is for Erica. I’ve got to try.’
‘You’re feeling guilty you didn’t save her.’ His comment caught her off balance. She massaged her leg, sending pain shooting down to her ankle.
‘You mean because I didn’t know in advance from her astrology? It won’t tell you. And wouldn’t be helpful if it was. Do you want to know when you’re going to die?’
‘No way.’ He shuddered. ‘My old sergeant used to say fight today with an eye on tomorrow. I’m a tomorrow kind of guy.’ He half-smiled, then looked down, rubbing the heel of one boot on his other foot. ‘Mind you, so were the mates I lost.’
‘And you’re feeling guilty you’re here and they aren’t?’ The words were no sooner out than she regretted them. She was intruding on his private life and trying to distract attention from her own muddled feelings. Before she could apologise, he stood up and walked towards the kitchen with his mug, saying over his shoulder: ‘You’ll be needing a car to get to this showdown with the posh barrister tonight.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘What time?’
She shook her head in amusement, relieved he had brushed off her question without recrimination. Cornering London’s top commercial barrister at a cocktail party wasn’t going to be the most dangerous thing she’d ever done.
‘6.30 pm there,’ she called after him.
CHAPTER 10
The vaulted stone ceiling of the medieval crypt was tastefully illuminated by the best of modern technology at the head of each of the central pillars. The patches of stone nearest the uplighters dissolved into white nothingness, while shadows spread further afield tracing the branches of roof supports, giving the air of ghostly, fossilised trees.
Beneath was a sea of black, navy blue and pinstripe, through which glided waiters with trays of champagne and wine. Tire, in slate grey velvet trousers and jacket, stood beside the pillar nearest the door nursing a glass, trying to look inconspicuous. Conversation drifted over from the nearest group.
‘You’re quite wrong, Nicholas. He was taking the woodwind far too fast during the overture. I knew then it would be a disaster. And it was. If the tickets hadn’t cost a fortune we would have left.’
Suppressing a groan, she slipped down the wall to her right, murmuring an apology as she squeezed past a trio of women, dressed identically in navy, their skirts extending a regulation two inches below their sturdy knees. They were discussing a recent Barnardo’s report on child sex trafficking. Probably judges, she thought.
The invitees were substantially legal types with a sprinkling of City men and their wives, plus a couple of MPs she recognised. All about their charitable business of making themselves feel good while staying a million miles away from the poor, bruised, battered and unwashed kids who were the raison d’être of this elite gathering.
Then she spotted him, standing in the centre. Justin Burgoyne – grey hair slicked back, lightly tanned face, expensive dark suit, striped shirt and regimental tie. Next to him was an anxious woman, stick thin, in a silk maroon dress that did nothing for the pallor of her face despite layers of make-up.
That would be the wife Janice he was going to leave for Erica. Chance would be a fine thing. She was heiress to the Maxted money. No way he was ever going to bale, which was what she had told Erica having looked up the marital relationship chart. It was a match of convenience and commerce and would hold forever. She edged her way across.
‘Mrs Burgoyne, isn’t it? We met at a previous function.’ Tire offered her free hand, to be met with a look of flustered alarm and a limp palm that barely made contact. After a few gushed sentiments about the good work of the NSPCC, which elicited panicky nods, Tire noticed out of the corner of her eye that Justin was taking the opportunity to move to another group.
Over the next ten minutes she tracked him across the room, pausing to attach herself with a bright smile and few words to whichever clutch of worthies was in her path. A familiar face off to her left tugged at her memory. Not someone she’d met. Seen a photograph of. Late sixties, well preserved, high cheekbones that accentuated deep-set eyes, aquiline nose, black eyebrows and white hair. Not handsome exactly, but striking. Paul Stone, that’s who it was, father of Harman, who owned the company Greengate had worked for. He was talking to a ruddy-faced Tory MP and his blonde wife, who were both laughing with forced politeness at something he said. Sensing that he’d noticed her, she turned back to see Burgoyne walking back towards her so she made a move, hand extended.
‘Justin Burgoyne, isn’t it? Wonder if I could have a word?’ She steered him by one elbow to an alcove with a stained glass window. His indulgent expression and appreciative glance down her body made it clear why he’d allowed himself to be shepherded.
‘I’m a friend of Erica Smythson.’ A flicker of alarm lit up his eyes and he stiffened. ‘You had a long affair and promised to leave your wife for her.’
He practically hissed in her face.
‘Cut the crap. I’m not here to blackmail you. I just want some information. Maybe outside would suit you better.’ She indicated a door nearby, re-establishing her grip on his elbow.
Once out in the fresh air, he wrenched himself free and glanced over his shoulder before saying with a vicious edge in his voice: ‘You’re lying. There is not a shred of evidence of any such thing. I could sue you for slander.’
‘Oh, please. I heard blow-by-blow accounts of the whole sordid episode for a year. I’m not interested in your love life. And don’t worry, your wife isn’t going to leave you. I’ve seen that type before. Martyrs to the end. I just want to know why Erica was in Hammersmith in the middle of the night.’
‘How the fuck would I know?’ He accepted a cigarette with ill grace, used his own gold-plated lighter and returned it to his pocket without offering, breathing heavily.
‘Erica’s old cases where threats were made. She discussed them with you?’
A look of puzzlement was accompanied by a gesture of incredulity. ‘No. Yes. But so what? You can’t possibly imagine it was deliberate?’
She nodded. ‘Rupert Wrighton?’
‘Now, look.’ His face was three inches away from hers. ‘You cannot go around alleging murder, for heaven’s sake.’
‘I’m not accusing anyone of anything,’ she said, standing her ground. ‘Yet.’
‘I’m not putting up with this,’ he said in a savage tone, dropping his cigarette and stamping on it.
‘You can’t have forgotten our deal this fast.’ She inclined her head and gave a taut smile.
‘Deal?’
‘I keep my mouth shut and you help me with Erica’s cases.’
He turned away and stared out across the yard, his shoulders pulling at the expensive fabric of his jacket.
‘Human rights case?’
‘That’s more likely,’ he answered, still with his back to her. ‘I told her not to get involved with the Kubek activist. No hope of winning and it would put the hounds of hell on her tail.’
‘Let’s get back to Wrighton.’
‘Why?’ He spun round, his mouth extended in irritation, his white crowns catching the light from a nearby window, glowing like alabaster carvings. ‘You think he’d risk his public reputation…’
She cut him off. ‘Maybe to protect his image, given all I hear.’ A dismissive hand nearly swiped her across the face, so she leant back without moving her feet.
‘I always thought that allegation of his daughter was ridiculous. He’s not the sort. He went to Cambridge.’
‘Precisely.’ She gave him a withering smile. His patience was clearly at snapping point but she thought she’d try one more. ‘Harman Stone.’
‘What?’
‘The Greengate case.’
‘You are completely insane.’ One arm clamped across his chest, the other hand went up to protect his
throat.
‘Justin, you’re wanted for photographs, old chap.’ A voice floated across from the door. The fear in his eyes gave way to relief and he started to move. She thrust her card into his top pocket behind the silk handkerchief, leaning close enough to kiss him and whispered.
‘A deal’s a deal. If I find out you’ve been holding back, I’ll spill. Phone me when you’ve had time to consider.’
The door banged shut behind him.
A phone call brought the car to the front entrance with Herk at the wheel, still dressed in T-shirt and jeans. She climbed in beside him.
‘Any joy there?’ he asked, pulling out onto Gresham Street.
‘Rattled his tin. We’ll see what falls out when he gets back to me.’
‘Cooperative then?’
The elation of the spat began to recede and she ran her fingers along the seat belt.
‘No. He’s a self-righteous hypocrite. Worst sort of Sagittarius. But he’s vulnerable and he knows more than he’s saying.’
‘So you do the simple stuff as well?’
She nudged the back of the driver’s seat with her boot and laughed. ‘Not too often. Otherwise I sound like Mystic Meg, but, hey, it works well enough. Lawyers are often Sagittarius or Gemini – know a little about a lot and can talk for England. Hot air balloons most of them, not much grounding in the real world.’
‘Your friend Erica wasn’t like that?’
‘No. Libra with Saturn in Libra as well – fair-minded, meticulous about sticking to the rules. Although she had Venus and her Moon in Pisces so she was gullible, believed the best in people, which was a major difference between us. I don’t.’
‘Maybe that’s what called her out that night. Someone leant on her sympathy.’
‘For sure. She always said her emotions were her weak spot. My money would still be on Wrighton. His daughter would tug at her heart strings. No way she’d walk away from a situation like that, even if the girl backed out publicly. She’d never have left her trapped, no matter what she had to do.’
CHAPTER 11
Three men and a youngish woman sat on easy chairs round a low table looking at several drawings scattered across the surface. The room, glass-walled on three sides, was flooded with light, although the grey drizzle outside softened any glare. The older man had an abundance of untidy ginger hair above a ruddy complexion and was dressed in slacks and a coloured jumper. The dark-haired woman was more severely turned out in a white blouse over black pants. They smiled reassuringly at Jimmy, who sat hunched inside his coat, nervously playing with the end of his long, green scarf. Beside him in anorak and trainers was Len, his social worker, who once in a while put a supportive hand on his arm.
‘It’s great the gallery are putting on an exhibition for you,’ Len said. ‘Really great.’
‘Aye, aye. But Elly was asking. Will it not affect my benefits?’ Jimmy asked anxiously.
Len laughed and tapped his shoulder. ‘Come on. You’re going to be a success. It’s just a paying hobby at the moment. If you do make more, then you won’t need the benefits, will you? Just stop worrying about it.’
‘You’ve no idea where you learned to draw, Jimmy?’ The young woman cut in eagerly. Jimmy regarded her doubtfully and shook his head. ‘Or play the piano? I gather you do that without music. I’d love to hear you play.’
Jimmy, feeling uncomfortable with the attention of more than one person, tried to steady his jittery knee with one hand and continued to look puzzled as the older man said: ‘Len has explained to you what we’re trying to do?’
Jimmy drew a deep breath and said softly: ‘Find out who that man in my head is.’ Then added sheepishly: ‘I’m sorry, I forgot your names.’
‘I’m Dr – well, John Donaghue. Call me John. And this is Janet Birch. I’m a psychiatrist and she’s a psychologist.’
‘Aye.’ Jimmy didn’t sound impressed. ‘But my doctor is Dr McIntyre. Has he gone away, then?’
‘No, not at all. He’ll still be looking after you. We’re just involved in a project trying to find out the background of people like you who were in Dunlothian Hall. But you must understand I can’t promise that we’ll be able to lay all your ghosts to rest.’
‘And Elly,’ Jimmy said insistently. ‘You can’t forget Elly. She was with me all these years.’
‘That’s very true, Jimmy.’ Janet Birch leant forward with a tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘She knits, doesn’t she? You live together. Do you know when you first met?’
A pause followed as Jimmy stared at his knees and John Donaghue raised a warning eyebrow at his colleague.
Jimmy was not sure when he had met Elly since he was hazy about his early years. He was told by the social workers that he had arrived in Dunlothian Hall in Lanarkshire at twelve years old, labelled mentally disturbed and was given ECT for several years, so he had gaps in his memory. The Hall was set up for mental defectives as they were called back then, but children with behavioural problems, classed as moral imbeciles, also ended up there, quarantined away from the world in a bleak Victorian asylum sitting in its own grounds and surrounded by a high wall.
Elly came in when she was seventeen suffering severe depression after the birth of a stillborn, illegitimate baby. Both had remained there for the next four decades, surviving the spartan regime of bad food, cruel staff and hard labour, living in vast, soulless dormitories, cleaning the Hall and the grounds. The final ten years saw huge improvements with better care, a nourishing diet and fun activities as well as kindly therapists keen to hear them talk.
As the effects of living in an institutional gulag gradually eased, they were slowly introduced to the frightening notion of moving back into the outside world. That they would stay together was never questioned, since they had been a couple for almost three decades. For the first twenty years only secretly, since liaisons were forbidden. But they found chances to sneak away to be together, clinging to each other like survivors on a life raft.
Many of the other inmates had learning difficulties but they were both smart, although badly educated and cowed into compliance by a system that robbed them of their identity. Jimmy had recognised a kindred spirit in Elly, helping her through her suicidal first few years. In return, as she became more stable, she pulled him out of his periodic confusions and depression. With much trepidation, ten years ago they had moved into sheltered housing and were now living in their own council flat.
John Donaghue broke the silence. ‘I know it will be difficult for you going back into memories of bad times. But it will help us – and you. Janet will spend time with you maybe once a week, just talking. And there’s no rush over this at all. It’s rather like peeling an onion, taking it layer by layer and finding out what’s underneath. Then Janet can tell Dr McIntyre what she finds out, so he’ll know how to treat you better.’
‘He’s treating me OK at the moment,’ Jimmy said, wrinkling his brow, his eyes fixed on the floor.
‘And in the meantime,’ Len said hurriedly, ‘you can keep drawing and painting. Ricky at the gallery said after they show your work he’d like to see some acrylics and maybe even oils as well as water colours.’
Jimmy stared unhappily out of the window, his eyes roaming across the neatly landscaped green space, trimmed grass curving round a central rockery, with plants spilling over half-buried chunks of granite and a few upright grasses waving in the wind. He would have liked to stay to sketch the garden, especially the lake beyond.
He loved watching the fallen leaves floating on the surface, then submerging in slow stages. The leafy branches of the trees at the edge reflected on the water, so often he couldn’t tell what was a mirror image and what was not. Layer upon layer of copper-coloured shapes, lazily moving, changing places as the water rippled in the slight breeze. The cast-off leaves sank slowly out of sight to a muddy end while the trees continued to throw shadows, occasionally shrugging off another abandoned leaf to keep the pattern repeating.
But he had a
stronger urge to get away. Years of imprisonment had taught him that invisibility was safer. Attention from doctors and staff usually meant trouble. He wrapped himself deeper into his coat. He did not want to relive those grey decades, to remind himself of what he had lost. Especially he did not like the woman, didn’t trust her.
Len suddenly jumped up. ‘Come on Jimmy, we’ll off and leave the docs to it.’ Jimmy smiled wanly at them and followed Len to the door.
‘Now,’ said Donaghue to the woman beside him who was looking thoughtfully at the departing figures, ‘Janet, you must remember he’s very fragile. So you need to build up his trust before you start digging. And you may never find out everything. He had ECT early on, which was a sin, frankly, quite inhumane. That will have wiped out some memories for good. So you’ll need to tread warily. Are you clear on that?’
‘Of course. I did my MPhil in trauma.’
‘This isn’t out of a textbook,’ he said sharply. ‘You have no idea what that place was like. It wouldn’t have gone amiss in Soviet Russia. The doctors who oversaw it should have been shot in my opinion. But then it started life as an asylum for imbeciles, so what can you expect?’
‘Like the Magdalene laundries.’
‘Exactly. What would you remember if you’d been trapped in one of those places for decades? In the Hall Jimmy would have been starved, drugged, forcibly shocked, brutalised and stripped of his identity. The mind just shuts down in those circumstances, which is a mercy. The question is, what does he gain from you trying to open it up?’
She sat up straight and said with arched eyebrows: ‘This study is enormously important. What we learn about memory will help countless others.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but will it help him? That’s what you have to ask yourself every step of the way. The poor blighter has suffered quite enough. I know he’s more interesting than some of them, but you need not to get too hooked into that.’
