by Jean Levy
I was angry on Matthew’s behalf. ‘Matthew does want me to remember. He’s upset that I’ve forgotten our time together.’
Mrs Parkin shook her head. ‘My dear, you have a lot to learn about people. At times I think you must have always been as gullible as this.’ She cast a last disapproving glance at the leather holdall. ‘We need to discuss Dr Williams’ contingency plan.’ She turned and left the room. Before following her, I stooped to pick up Matthew’s scarf and folded it flat on my pillow. Then I braced myself for whatever was to follow, knowing that before all this I would have known what contingency plan meant.
Mrs Parkin had taken it upon herself to put the kettle on. I walked over to organise mugs but she snapped at me to sit down. ‘We have a lot to discuss. Dr Williams has recommended …’
‘Mrs Parkin, I’m not sure what contingency plan means.’
She gave me a look of exasperation. ‘It’s a back-up plan if circumstances change. Now, sit down and focus. I’ll do the tea!’
I sat down. Mrs Parkin took mugs from the cupboard. ‘Dr Williams has recommended that you return urgently to Greystone Park for reassessment, initially Thursday to Saturday this week. Dr Gray is in agreement.’
‘He wants me to go back to the clinic?’
‘You’ll have your own room and en-suite.’
‘What about Matthew?’
‘I’m sure Dr Gray will allow visitors.’
‘But will he be able to stay?’
‘Clearly not!’
‘In that case, I’m not doing it! I’m not going back into hospital without him!’
‘It is not a hospital. It’s a private clinic.’
‘I don’t care what it’s called, I’m not going!’
‘You have agreed to this treatment.’
‘I’ll cancel my agreement.’
Mrs Parkin paused to pour. ‘Sarah, I’m afraid that we can insist upon re-admittance, whether you agree to it or not.’
‘How can you insist?’
She took a deep breath. ‘The Mental Health Act 1983 provides for the detention of patients if two or more doctors consider incarceration … hospitalisation necessary to the patient, for the purposes of assessment or treatment. It is sometimes referred to as sectioning.’ She handed me a mug.
‘What does all that mean? What’s the point of explaining things to me with words I don’t understand? What does incarceration mean?’
‘It means that it would be better for you if you agree to come to the clinic and stay for the recommended period. Under Section Two of the Act, you may be forced to do so and then kept under assessment for up to twenty-eight days. So clearly, the voluntary visit is your best option.’
‘No! You can’t make me!’ I banged down my mug and tea slopped on to the table: ‘Matthew won’t let you!’
‘Mr Parry is not in a position to overrule medical professionals.’
I caught my breath. Uninvited thoughts began to invade my mind: footprints in the wet sand, seagulls screeching, the scream of brakes, a child laughing. My head was becoming heavy with the weight of sounds and images. Too heavy.
A crash brought me to my senses. My cheek was against the wet surface of the table. I pushed myself up, caught sight of my mug smashed on the floor. Tea was everywhere, cold across my face, down my legs, splashed across Mrs Parkin’s shoes.
‘Sarah!’ snapped Mrs Parkin. ‘There’s absolutely no point in behaving like this. It’s for your own good.’ She looked down at her feet. ‘My goodness, look at this mess! We’d better get it cleaned up. Where do you keep your paper towels these days?’ She pulled open a cupboard and froze. Slowly she turned. I watched her looming there, perfectly framed by cereal, her face revealing a trace of bewilderment, a trace of panic. I watched her walk over and pick up her tea and stand drinking it, staring at the multitude of cornflake boxes. Finally, she spoke.
‘You’ve collected these since arriving home. What, eight weeks, is it? Why have you done this, Sarah? This is not normal behaviour. Does Mr Parry know about this?’
I nodded. Felt myself start to snigger.
‘Yet he saw fit not to mention this behaviour to anyone?’
‘He said if we eat them every day, they’ll be gone by Christmas.’
Mrs Parkin was clearly appalled by this response. ‘This is no laughing matter, Sarah! If you ask me, I think the pair of you should be sectioned.’
‘Good! Then Matthew would be able to stay at the clinic with me.’
Mrs Parkin gasped. ‘Sarah, I sometimes think you are treating this whole situation far too flippantly, but then I remind myself that most of your adult experience is compromised and that I am talking to an irresponsible child. Of course, this behaviour …’ she indicated the cereal cupboard, ‘… is absolute confirmation that you need to be reassessed straightaway. I will have to make a full report of what I’ve seen today. Now, go and change out of those trousers and I’ll mop up.’
When I stepped back into the kitchen, Mrs Parkin was tipping broken china into the bin.
I took a deep breath. ‘Was that mine?’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘The mug. If it belongs to the landlord, I ought to replace it.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that right now. There are plenty of mugs to be getting on with.’
‘Is any of the furniture mine?’
‘The furniture?’
‘In this flat. I hope the sofas are mine.’
Mrs Parkin rolled her eyes. ‘Sarah, let’s not discuss the furniture right now. I assure you it will all be sorted out in due course.’ She walked over to wash her hands.
‘Is the landlord leaving the upstairs flat empty because of me? Are both flats being paid for out of the funds?’
‘Not now, Sarah! Right now we need to discuss your stay at the clinic.’
‘OK. I’ll want Matthew to drive me there. And visit me. And drive me home.’ I checked the chair for tea and sat down.
‘I’m sure that will be acceptable. And I’m glad that you seem to be coming to terms with your stay. Now, can we discuss …?’
‘I’m not coming to terms with it, but it seems to me that I have no choice. And I’m not like an irresponsible child. I’ve just forgotten how to react in certain situations. But I haven’t forgotten about being responsible. And Matthew is helping me more than anyone and I don’t think it can be in the least constructive for me to be away from him. And he did phone Dr Gray about visiting Annabelle. He told me so. And I believe him.’
Mrs Parkin shook her head. ‘Well, we’ll have to work around Mr Parry then, won’t we? It’s your choice. And so long as you agree to this voluntary stay, it will remain your choice.’
Episode Twenty-seven
When Mrs Parkin finally left, after what seemed like hours, I took a moment to arrange my thoughts: three days was definitely better than twenty-eight days, but I couldn’t bear to think of being apart from Matthew for even that long. I decided to take my mind off my return to the clinic by choosing the sketching things I would take with me. I remembered a large pencil tin in my desk drawer, located it straightaway and started to fill it with coloured pencils. I poked around in the depths of the pencil pot for the metal sharpener I knew was there, tipped its contents onto my desk, picked out the sharpener then loaded everything back into the pot. Drawing pins, paper clips, buttons. I paused over a key, tried it in the front door. But it wasn’t a key to the front door. I returned it to the pot, rechecked the tin. Now this first preparation had been undertaken, I felt a little more relaxed about my no-choice stay at the clinic. By the time Matthew phoned mid-afternoon, I was able not to mention it. So after an awkward conversation involving many pauses, a conversation which proved to me that I was able to filter what I did and didn’t say, he asked me if I would drive over to the supermarket and choose fish for supper because he was stuck in a meeting. He reminded me to check sell-by-dates. My concerns over the clinic were instantly displaced by the burden of choosing an evening meal and affirming dat
es beyond which fish became deadly.
*
Footsteps approached and passed by. None of them belonged to Matthew. Finally, I saw him walk past the window and veer towards the door. I had opened it before he was able to insert Peggy’s key. He stepped inside.
‘Hello, crazy person. Have you been waiting for me? Did you make it to the supermarket?’
‘I bought salmon and chilli prawns.’
‘Sounds great!’ He pushed the door closed with his elbow and stooped to kiss me.
‘I checked the dates. They probably won’t kill us.’
‘Well done!’ He threw his bag against my desk.
‘And I’ve got to go back to the clinic for reassessment.’
He stared at me. ‘What? Who decided you needed reassessment?’
‘Mrs Parkin said the doctors. But I think it was mostly Dr Williams.’
‘Bob Gray never mentioned anything about it. I phoned him this morning to tell him the trip to Annabelle’s went OK. Tell them you won’t go.’
‘I can’t. They’ll section me.’
‘What? Who told you that?’
‘Mrs Parkin.’
‘Right!’ He pulled out his phone. ‘Let’s see what Bob Gray has to say about this reassessment!’
I listened from the kitchen and, from what I could hear, Matthew raised his voice only twice, when he said, ‘This has been badly handled’ and ‘He sees her as nothing more than a lab rat.’ But mostly he said ‘yes’ and ‘no’ quietly, and ‘I don’t want to be restricted to visiting hours’very quietly indeed. When he joined me in the kitchen he was smiling but I knew he was upset. His green eyes always revealed more about his thoughts than his expression ever did.
‘How’s dinner progressing?’ he asked.
‘I’ve put the oven on. What did Dr Gray say?’
‘He said don’t worry. It will be mostly interviews. I don’t think this reassessment was his decision. I got the impression he’d only just found out about it. I didn’t want to mention the sectioning over the phone, but he did reassure me he’ll have the final word with anything they choose to do to you. We’ll check you in Thursday morning and bring you home Saturday afternoon. And, if you want, I can be there all the time.’
‘All the time?’
‘Yes, although I don’t think they do doubles in clinics. And he said no need to attend your appointment with Williams this week. But he’d like us both to nip over for a chat on Wednesday.’ His face broke into a smile this time reflected in his eyes. ‘So, why don’t you come into the office tomorrow? They can’t wait to see you.’
‘Will Annie be there?’
‘Of course she will. She brings flapjacks in on Tuesdays.’
*
After supper I decided to visit my wardrobe and chose something to wear to meet a group of strangers I had known for four years. I left Matthew grovelling under my desk trying to untangle cables and locate a free socket for the CD player. He had decided not to re-watch any more of his favourite movies, since they were invariably better the first time around. The cursing drifted through to the bedroom.
‘You’d think they would have sorted this out for you. This is a fire hazard!’
I walked back into the lounge. ‘Shall I wear a skirt?’
Matthew turned to answer and banged his head on the underside of the desk drawer.
‘Ouch! You can wear whatever you want. There’s a disconnected router under here. They obviously don’t want you to be in contact with cyberspace.’
I went back to sorting through my clothes. Finally, after further cursing, Matthew called to ask what music I wanted to listen to. I called back, ‘You choose, I’ve lost my memory, remember?’
Moments later, I stepped out of my room to demonstrate my outfit and found Matthew kneeling next to the CD box holding my hidden cache of pornography.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I forgot about those!’
His expression was a mixture of amusement and disbelief. ‘What in God’s name … Are these part of Mrs P’s rehabilitation programme?’ He carried the magazines over to the table.
‘I bought them so I didn’t make a fool of myself when we made love.’
He thumbed through a few pages. ‘I’ve been wondering where all the innovation has been coming from.’ He snorted. ‘Good God!’
‘Matthew, is this all right?’
‘What?’ He glanced up. ‘Hey, you look gorgeous! Have you read these?’
‘Mostly. Matthew, is this all right for tomorrow?’
‘Yes! I already said yes. Although you ought to wear shoes as well.’
I rolled my eyes with exasperation then nudged a magazine towards him.
‘Turn to page forty-six, and put some music on.’
Westcourt Police Station
At a table just inside the door, a woman was sitting alone, checking her mobile. She looked up as her senior colleague stepped into the room, slapped a file onto the table then heaved himself into the seat opposite her.
‘Della?’
‘Mike, thanks for making time. How’s prostitution?’
He pushed the file towards her. ‘Awaiting your contribution.’
She laughed. ‘Any time now. Royston’s pulling the plug on the Hornsey case. And Robert Gray’s making moves to obstruct any further questioning of Sarah Blake, on the basis that it might tip the stupid bitch completely over the edge.’
‘What about Williams? I thought you’d managed to …’
‘There was an incident involving Matthew Parry. He’s back on the scene. Prancing around like some kind of demented knight in shining armour. If Sarah Blake actually has lost her memory, the situation might well have been compromised by now. She’s possibly been told about Jeff Blake.’
‘And Arachne Dawson?’
‘Who knows. Either way, the situation’s become more difficult.’
‘What about the mother?’
‘Still drifting with the fairies. I’ve contacted Robert Gray to arrange another interview.’
‘From what I saw, I wouldn’t bother.’
‘You’re probably right. I’m also going to request a controlled interview with Sarah Blake in the presence of a physician and counsellor. I might get away with it. I’ve just had a call from Shoumi Mustafa. Apparently she’s being pulled back into Greystone for reassessment over the next few days. So I might try and kill two birds with one stone.’
‘Sounds familiar.’
‘Yeah. Or I might just nip round and pay her a visit. Catch her when she’s on her own. And I’ll take another stab at Abercrombie. Check whether Parry’s alibi is still holding up. Someone knows something and I’ve got until the end of the week to find out what it is.’ She indicated the file in front of her. ‘So, Mike, this is the story so far, is it?’
‘Yep. The third body’s confirmed. The network seems to be bigger than we thought. So, something for you to get your teeth into, Sergeant Brown. Some good old-fashioned pimps and gangsters. A fuck load easier to deal with than a bunch of hysterical lunatics. Fancy a beer?’
Episode Twenty-eight
I woke with the breaking light. I could hear the town birds organising their day, issuing instructions to avoid the black and white cat. I moved closer to Matthew so I could feel his breathing. I wanted to ask him more about the people at the office. I was nervous about meeting them. But it would have been wrong to wake him. He must have been so tired with all the worry I had caused him, was still causing him. And something else was bothering me …
‘Are you watching me?’ His eyes were still closed.
I slid my arm across his chest. ‘Yes.’
He opened his eyes. ‘Are you worried about coming into the office?’
‘A bit.’
‘Don’t be. It’ll be OK.’
I wriggled closer and my lips tingled as they contacted the light stubble along the bottom of his jaw. Then suddenly I remembered what was bothering me.
‘Matthew, why would Della Brown think I’d lie about losing
my memory? What does she think I’m trying to hide?’
He was suddenly wide awake. ‘I don’t know, Sarah. I don’t know what she thinks.’
*
The offices of Parry & Ashdown Literary Agency were situated in a 1990s-renovated office block, just east of Tottenham Court Road. Matthew suggested we took a cab there because parking was near to impossible and extortionate. So, after a tedious half hour in traffic, the cabbie deposited us outside the agency offices just before ten thirty, accepted a generous tip and disappeared behind a massive construction site. I stared up at a lone workman many feet above us.
‘How can he work up there? I’d be scared that high up.’
‘Well, I hope you’re all right on the inside. Because the agency’s on the top floor.’
