The Deceiver

by Priscilla Masters

  There was no answer. No response. Not even fiction. Wary-eyed, Heather had shut down, so Claire left the question dangling in the air, spinning like a corpse on a gibbet, a warning to others.

  To her, Heather was still a puzzle. She didn’t quite fit into the criteria, though the borders of psychiatric problems are invariably blurred. Most people who experience erotomania are basically conceited. They have wrapped themselves up in shiny bubble wrap. Heather was certainly displaying that. Erotomaniacs do not tell lies but the truth as they see it. The trouble is that their version of the truth is distorted by a kind of dysmorphia. But, unlike anorexia, dysmorphia is a halo of irresistibility that shines around them, drawing suitors in, moths to the flame. Iron filings to a magnet. A natural force. In Heather’s mind, these bald statements were the truth. She was irresistible, which patently was a fantasy. What Claire had to find were the borders of Heather’s psychosis. Did it make her a danger to herself, the wider community, the unborn child, or even to Charles himself when he continued to deny his role in the conception of the baby?

  If Heather was a danger to anyone, including herself, Claire’s role was clear. Heather Krimble should be admitted, detained and observed, and when the infant was delivered it should be kept under surveillance. She had to consider this option and make a decision. She focused back on her patient.

  Heather was leaning back, eyes half closed, inhabiting some place of her own where she was Queen Bee. As Claire watched, her lips moved, forming words as her hands stroked her pregnant abdomen as though reassuring the child inside. And then her right hand reached out and stroked her left upper arm and her gaze flirted up sideways to her imaginary lover. At the same time, her legs parted and she licked her lips. The whole tableaux was strange, unreal and felt on the edge. Erotic. She gave a little curvy smile downwards, looked up through her eyelashes. Her hand stole up to her shoulder, fingers outstretched, weaving in with an invisible another’s so convincingly that Claire could picture him. Charles Tissot, big, burly, looking down as Heather continued to tease and play as their hands slid down to her engorged breast.

  Claire watched her for a while, noting that Ruth appeared excluded from the inner tableaux, looked uncomfortable and a little scared.

  And Claire felt the same. Heather’s actions spoke of psychosis. Claire tried to draw her back to reality by focusing on detail. ‘Where did you and Tim Cartwright have sex?’

  Heather didn’t even hesitate, stop to think or look at her. ‘In his office, of course.’

  ‘What about his other staff?’

  This earned her a look of pure contempt. ‘After hours,’ she said heavily.

  ‘But physically …?’

  ‘He has a sofa. It’s red. Small but big enough. And there’s always the desk.’ Heather leaned in, spoke in a hoarse whisper, eyes flirtatious, right hand now dropped to her legs. Then, in a sudden and graceful movement, her back arched. ‘You know? Legs apart, like this, and I lean back, like this.’

  ‘And the window cleaner? How exactly did that happen?’

  Initially, again, no response, so Claire tried a little harder to flush out the truth. ‘You’re aware that the window cleaner says he never came inside the house, Heather. So where are you claiming you and he had sex?’ She leaned forward to press for an answer. ‘Through glass?’

  She received a look of contempt.

  ‘In the garden? Did you go out to the garden?’

  No response except a wary look.

  ‘Is your garden overlooked?’

  ‘In some parts,’ she said haughtily.

  Claire pressed again. ‘So was it in the garden or in the house? Did Sam, whatever he said, come in the house? Was he lying?’

  ‘Men always lie.’ It was said contemptuously.

  ‘In the bedroom? Is that where you had sex? In the bedroom? In the very bed where you and your husband slept?’

  Heather was silent, eyes still wary as she thought about this one.

  ‘To your husband’s knowledge, you were at home for most of the time. Not gallivanting around the town, so if Geoff’s …’

  A little flicker at the mention of her husband’s name.

  ‘So if Geoff’s right, sex must have taken place either in the house or in the garden, or else in his car – or van. What does he drive?’

  ‘A van.’ Her response was sullen. She hadn’t wanted to give this detail.

  ‘How many times did you make love? Often? Did he come round when he wasn’t cleaning your windows?’

  Heather frowned in anger, then drew in breath as though preparing her answer. But none came. Her frown deepened – as she struggled to remember? Or more likely hunt through her catalogue of fantasy to find a suitable response?

  Claire prompted her again. ‘Your time was largely accounted for. So …?’

  Heather’s eyes lifted and then her shoulders drooped. Answer? She didn’t have one.

  ‘Doesn’t Geoff get cross with you for telling these tales?’

  ‘He’s always cross.’ The statement had spilled out before Heather had had time to think. This then, Claire sensed, was the truth.

  ‘Is he violent? Like your father?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not like my father. Not in the same way. Father was strict, wasn’t he, Ruth?’

  Her sister heaved out a big sigh. ‘Oh, yes. Dad was strict all right.’

  ‘In what way?’ Claire addressed both sisters.

  Ruth answered. ‘Very religious,’ she said. ‘He had – rules.’

  ‘So in what way is Geoff similar?’

  ‘He’s not above raising his fist to me if he doesn’t like something I say.’

  Alarm bells sounded, accompanied by a possible explanation for Heather’s fantasy. Geoff? Violent? A man selected by her father? This could be the reason why she had to invent another father for her child. Ruth was looking troubled. Her hand reached out to touch her sister’s arm The two women exchanged glances. Ruth was warning her sister to be guarded, stopping her from saying something. What? Whatever it was, Heather had read the message and taken heed.

  ‘Heather,’ Claire said gently. ‘Are you saying that your husband is violent towards you?’

  She was wondering about the two dead children.

  Annoyingly, Heather’s concentration seemed to drift away again. She opened her eyes wide to stare into space.

  ‘Because if he is,’ Claire continued, ‘you should report it.’

  No response.

  She pursued the point. ‘He can be charged.’ This was useless. ‘Was he ever like that to your babies?’

  No response. Not even a flicker of a muscle. Just a strange, steady smile.

  ‘Do you think your new baby could be in danger from Geoff?’

  Heather relaxed and shook her head. ‘Charles,’ she said, ‘will look after us. Protect us. He won’t let anything happen to either me or our child.’

  Claire almost groaned. So it was back to Charles again, was it?

  She paused, sensing she was peering over the edge of a precipice, about to make a big, big leap. She had to tread carefully here. Maybe it was too soon, but she sensed she was getting somewhere. ‘Do you think that is why you claim the baby is not your husband’s, because you fear for the child’s safety?’

  Heather’s eyes flickered in her direction.

  And Claire was aware that she had just provided too neat and tidy an explanation, one which fitted the facts like a handmade glove. Of course damaged Heather would look to her boss, the kind window cleaner, the obstetrician she had fleetingly met at a party. They would protect her children from her husband who was not above raising his fist to her.

  But there is a danger that, when you have provided an account, however well it fits, it doesn’t necessarily mean it is the truth.

  Heather stared out of the window and declined to respond now. But there was a new dignity in her silence, a squaring of the shoulders, a lengthening of her neck, a tilt of her head. An awareness that up until now had been missin
g.

  It emboldened Claire. ‘So,’ she picked up briskly, ‘let’s talk about Mr Tissot. Charles.’

  At this Ruth stepped in, vinegar in her voice. ‘We know you’re bound to stick up for one of your own profession.’

  Claire turned her attention to her now. Two days ago, when I questioned you, you said nothing about domestic violence, which gives us a more logical and less psychotic reason behind your sister’s behaviour. You kept that back, didn’t you, little sister?

  She addressed her in a low voice. ‘Have you ever witnessed Geoff assault your sister?’

  Hesitation. A fraction too long. Surely just a simple yes or no?

  Finally Claire got her answer. A reluctant but emphatic shake of the head.

  Heather spoke, picking up on the subject. ‘Charles,’ she said dreamily. ‘It was fate that I went with my sister to the party and he was there. Fate drove us together. He was unhappy because his wife was being a shit about the divorce.’

  How did she know that? Had it been common knowledge around the hospital, gossip her sister had picked up and passed on?

  This is the danger. The fantasist weaves small truths into the fabric of their story. It throws you because then you have to unpick every single stitch to know which is authentic and which simply a story.

  ‘I knew it was fate when he started kissing me. He has big, soft lips.’

  THIRTEEN

  Claire stared at her. After all these years she could still taste them, almost feel them, those big, soft lips pressing down on hers.

  But surely these days Charles would not just dive in with a kiss when so much would be at stake? He would be subtler than that? But then Heather provided an explanation – of sorts.

  ‘He was pretty drunk.’

  And a drunk man is less predictable.

  She was enjoying this reliving of her quite detailed fantasy. ‘He pulled my knickers down. I wasn’t wearing any tights.’

  ‘Even though it was November and you’d been invited to a bonfire party?’ Claire frowned. ‘So what were you wearing?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’ She was cross at the interruption and continued without answering.

  ‘We had sex. It was …’ lazy smile, ‘… enjoyable. He knew all the right places to touch.’

  He would. He’s an obstetrician. Oh, yes, Charles had the knack all right.

  By her sister’s side, Ruth was looking distinctly uncomfortable at this detail.

  ‘And then? Afterwards?’

  ‘I went back to the party. I knew I had him hooked.’ She continued without prompting, ‘When I missed a period, I waited for a while, and then I asked Doctor Sylas to put me under him. I pretended. I said that I’d heard he was very good and this time I wanted my baby to live.’ She looked pleased with her performance. ‘He pretended not to recognize me.’ Now she was affronted.

  ‘And since then?’

  Heather stared.

  ‘Since then, have you had much contact with Mr Tissot?’

  Heather bit her lower lip in a gesture she might have imagined was coquettish. ‘We’ve had to keep our distance,’ she said. ‘Now he’s my doctor, we have to be ve-ery careful.’

  Play along with this, Claire. ‘At the party, did he know your name?’

  Heather shook her head, smiling.

  ‘Did he recognize you when you turned up at his clinic?’

  ‘Of course he did.’ Her eyes were wide open. ‘But he had to pretend I was a complete stranger.’

  ‘You realize if all this is true he could be struck off? Do you want Charles Tissot to be stopped from practising?’

  A shake of the head. ‘That won’t do me any good,’ she said, smiling. ‘Or the baby. What would we live on if Charles doesn’t carry on working?’

  She had it all planned out. Every step of the way. ‘But you understand that if your story is true he must be stopped? The Medical Defence Union will stop him practising while they investigate.’

  She was watching Heather’s face for a trace of realization at how the walls would come tumbling down. There was none. Only this evangelical conviction.

  ‘I don’t see what he’s done wrong,’ she protested. ‘He just fell in love.’

  ‘A relationship between a doctor and his patient is …’

  Heather stood up then, fury steaming out of her nostrils while her sister watched with a wary eye, tension in her neck. Ready to duck?

  ‘You’re just jealous. You wish it was you he was madly in love with …’

  The phrase jarred with Claire. Charles didn’t do ‘madly in love’. He did cynical, manipulative, careless sex with no payback.

  Her patient ranted on while her sister played no part in the proceedings, just watched from the sidelines. ‘You just wish a clever, rich, handsome man wanted you …’ she jabbed her index finger towards Claire, ‘… instead of me.’ Heather was panting now with the effort and emotion, her hand sliding over her breasts. ‘I wasn’t his patient then. It was only later when I knew I was pregnant with his child that we decided he was the best person to make sure I kept well and that our baby was born healthy.’

  We decided? Our baby? The phrases found their target like a stiletto blade. And Claire almost felt like a knife-thrower’s assistant. Standing there, waiting for the knives to miss – or else.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me,’ Claire asked very carefully, ‘that the request for you to be put under his care was something you cooked up between you?’

  The snooty, nose-in-the-air pose, pointy chin tilted back. ‘I don’t like the fact that you said cooked up, as though you don’t believe me. As though it was a sort of fantasy game.’

  Claire hesitated. This is the trouble. When you don’t enter the fantasy world sometimes your patient becomes angry. And, in the psychotic, anger to violence is a very short step.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have said “decided”.’

  Heather accepted the apology with a regal bend of her head.

  ‘How?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How did you communicate? Did you speak on the phone? Internet? Facebook? Skype?’

  Anything that can be checked on. ‘How did you and he keep in contact?’

  Heather folded her arms and pressed her lips together. She didn’t answer.

  She had taken refuge again in her own little world where she was adored by all, men falling at her feet, women green with envy at her irresistible charms. She was peering down at her swollen abdomen and then she appeared to jerk and freeze, leaning back in her chair, distancing herself from the pregnancy, making a face of sudden revulsion as though she saw something evil in there, behind the billow of flowered material. Her head shot up, eyes bulging, so she was facing Claire, and she appeared to have a moment of blind panic. Then she started to smack it. Punish it. ‘Bad. Bad. Bad baby.’

  Was this reality knocking at her door? Her husband’s baby rather than Charles’s?

  Claire responded quietly and calmly, at the same time starting to fix her mind that this infant could well be in danger already. ‘Don’t do that, Heather. You don’t want to hurt it, do you?’

  ‘I do when it kicks. Too hard.’

  ‘But it can hurt the child. You wouldn’t want to do that, would you?’

  Instantly, Heather’s head shot up and she gave her a look of pure vitriol.

  Claire simply observed, not reacting. The violence and suddenness of the action was concerning. And gave her good reason to admit her. To observe. Protect.

  But she needed to play this her way and she’d come to a decision. ‘You need to be under an obstetrician,’ Claire said. ‘And it shouldn’t really be Mr Tissot if you’re having a relationship with him.’ She could have added that if Charles had acknowledged the child as his he would have had every right to be in the labour ward.

  But, interestingly, Heather hadn’t responded to this. Claire persisted. ‘And you also need to continue to see me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, two of your b
abies have died. And I think we should keep an eye on your mental state as well as your physical state.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you and I’ll see Charles,’ she snapped.

  ‘I’ve already said it wouldn’t be appropriate and I’m not sure he’d want to continue to be your obstetrician in view of the circumstances.’

  ‘If you say so.’ The resignation made her voice flat.

  Heather glanced across her sister, and in that look Claire read complete complicity. A conspiratorial exchange. These two were thick, in it together. All the way, right up to the hilt.

  ‘So what next, Heather?’

  ‘What next?’ She gave a small, private little giggle, then put her hand in front of her face to hide it. ‘Charles will deliver the baby. Our baby,’ she corrected. ‘And then we can be together. At last, without all this interference.’

  ‘And the baby?’ Claire asked quietly.

  ‘Oh.’ In her excitement, she had obviously forgotten about it. Her eyes dropped to the bulge. ‘Well, of course,’ she said, looking a little defensive. ‘That too. He is divorced, you know. He is free to marry me. And I know that’s what he wants.’

  Ri-i-ght.

  ‘I know,’ she repeated with even more certainty.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Heather looked bemused. ‘I’m not following you.’

  ‘What then?’ Claire repeated. ‘Two of your children have died as cot deaths. Do you think this baby will be all right?’

  Heather had her answer ready. ‘Charles is a big, strong man,’ she said. It was no answer, or else an answer of sorts.

  Now Claire had to make a decision. There were no winners here. Heather was vulnerable, her sister colluding, Charles in trouble, the baby possibly in danger.

  ‘You must understand, Heather. Mr Tissot denies …’

  She got no further. Heather’s eyes burned. ‘But he has to say that, hasn’t he? He can’t admit it.’ She laughed. ‘You can see that, can’t you? He just has to pretend it didn’t happen or he’d lose his job.’

  Her eyes narrowed then, cat-like, sharp and spiteful, gleaming as she mused over the point. ‘He might still lose his job.’