by Jean Levy
‘I’m just thawing them out. I haven’t had my lunch yet. But there’s plenty there if you’d like to stay for something to eat.’
She smirked. Then she slotted a packet of cigarettes and a thin lighter out of her pocket. ‘I’ve already eaten. Do you mind if I smoke?’ She was already removing a cigarette and placing it in her mouth.
Did people still do that in other people’s houses? I shook my head. ‘No, I don’t mind. I think I’ve seen an ash tray in one of the cupboards.’ I took a deep breath, headed over and pulled a tall door open wide: ‘Oh no, this is the cereal cupboard. It must be somewhere else. Perhaps they put it away.’
I paused then turned as I closed the door. Della Brown was staring at me, her lighter frozen in the air awaiting the opportunity to ignite. She recovered, lit her cigarette and inhaled a lungful of fumes.
‘Not to worry. I’ll use the sink.’ Another smirk. ‘You eat cornflakes, then?’
‘They’re really good for you.’
‘I’m sure they are. Did your husband, Jeff Blake used to smoke?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’ve got a photo of him if you’d like to see it. I fussed around opening drawers and finally pulled out a pile of tea towels with my wedding photo resting on top. I placed the pile on the work surface and handed her the photo. ‘That’s me and my husband. Jeff Blake. Shall I make the tea now?’
Detective Brown flicked her ash into the sink then took a step back. ‘No, I had better be getting back.’ She handed me the photo.
‘Oh, all right. It’s been nice to see you again. Thank you for bringing these things.’
Della Brown took a last critical look around her then walked through to open the front door. ‘Thank goodness it’s not raining!’ she said as she stepped outside. ‘Bye, Sarah. Enjoy your lunch.’
I stood on the step and watched her get into her silver-grey car, holding her cigarette in her mouth as she fastened her seatbelt and drove away.
Episode Forty-nine
I heard the front door close and Matthew walk through into the kitchen. I ran through and found him standing beside Alfie staring at the things on the table. ‘Where’d all this come from?’ He looked worried. ‘Are you OK? What’s wrong? What happened?’
I sobbed out a jumbled account of Detective Brown’s visit while Matthew made toast and forced me to sit and eat it. He tried to reassure me that I was worrying unnecessarily, that she probably was just returning Jeff’s things. My head wobbled hysterically. ‘She thinks I murdered Jeff. I know she does.’
‘Nobody murdered Jeff. If she thought you were guilty of anything she would have had you arrested.’
Arrested. That word spiked through me, made me feel like a criminal, a proper criminal that has to leave home and go and live in a jail. I looked around my kitchen at the everyday things that I would have to leave behind me. ‘If I go to prison, you’ll …’
‘Sarah, stop! This is ridiculous. Jeff fell down stairs. It was an accident. Nobody would ever be able to say otherwise.’
‘Except me. If I remember. If, after this evening, I remember.’
‘We can still cancel the others, if you’re not up for it.’
I shook my head. ‘I need to know the truth, Matthew.’
I paced up and down as six o’clock drew nearer.
‘Have you told Anabelle and Poppy everything?’
‘Mostly. Obviously, I haven’t told them about the phone call and moving your car. Sarah, calm down.’
The doorbell rang. My stomach took a dive. Matthew hurried through to relieve Poppy of a vast bunch of red roses so that he was free to embrace me unencumbered by foliage. Momentarily forgetful of my fears, I pulled him into the lounge and waited for his reaction to my stripped-down home. He looked around.
‘Darling, where is everything?’
‘Deadly, isn’t it? They piled everything upstairs, so I could bring it down at my leisure. Apart from the husband. He’s permanently gone.’
Poppy threw his hand across his mouth. ‘Are you sad about that?’
‘Don’t know. I need to know what happened before I can decide what I feel about it.’
‘Matthew said we have to help you remember.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Well, thank you for still coming. And Poppy, I’m sorry you had to lie to the police about being with Matthew.’
The bell sounded again. Matthew pulled open the door and Annabelle strode in and smirked at the flowers he was clutching.
‘Those for me, Matthew?’ She hugged me and noticed Poppy. ‘Hello, Poppy. Do you remember me?’
‘Annabelle, darling, how could I ever forget you?’
‘True, true!’ She turned her attention back to me. ‘Matthew said we’re going to brainstorm. So I brought supplies.’ She delved into her bag and pulled out a giant packet of chocolate buttons and a small foil-wrapped package, tied with a yellow ribbon; she handed them to me. ‘No expense spared!’
I puzzled over the yellow bow. ‘What’s this?’
‘Skunk.’
‘For God’s sake,’ said Matthew. ‘Annabelle, can’t you grow up! We don’t need any of that crap to add to our problems!’
‘Speak for yourself, gorgeous,’ said Poppy.
I lifted the small package to my nose, sniffed it and recoiled slightly, before passing it to Poppy. I nudged Matthew’s arm. ‘Shall I put those in water or do you want to do it?’
He handed me the roses. ‘I doubt Sam will approve of people rotting their brains with that stuff.’
‘Who’s Sam?’ said Annabelle. ‘Is he the guy who phoned me? Is he married?’
‘Is he gay?’ asked Poppy.
Matthew rolled his eyes. ‘He’s a research psychologist. And yes, he did phone you, he’s not married and he’s definitely not gay. He’s coming over to make sure things go smoothly. Poppy, there’s wine in the fridge.’
We settled in the lounge, drinking chardonnay, chatting awkwardly and avoiding the matter at hand. They watched me kneeling at the coffee table, arranging my roses. Cutting and snipping. The activity was calming.
‘At least they give the place a bit of colour,’ said Annabelle. ‘It’s like a mausoleum in here. Did they throw all your stuff away?’
‘They stacked it upstairs,’ explained Poppy.
‘What, in Jeff’s kitchen?’ Annabelle caught her breath. ‘I can mention Jeff, can I?’
‘Sarah’s all right about it,’ said Poppy, ‘but any mention of him makes me nauseous.’
I carried my flowers over to my desk and prodded a single leaf towards perfection. ‘Shall we go up and collect some of my things? You can warn me if anything’s likely to make me mental.’
So the Klimt, the fairies and the fat woman with a cream cake, a large cardboard box containing my collection of snow globes, the photo of me and Matthew, and a bin bag full of red and green cushions were hauled downstairs and reinstated. And I felt strangely OK about it. In fact, it was with a thrill of excitement that I started to unwrap the snow globes: a wrong-coloured Tower of London, a crinoline princess inappropriately dressed for a snowstorm, an old, scratched Snow White and her faded dwarfs.
‘They used to stand on the bookcase and all along the mantelpiece,’ said Matthew. ‘Jeff hated them. Poppy, help Sarah arrange them. And make sure none of them are leaking. That stuff inside is probably toxic.’
Poppy plucked out a watery Bambi. ‘These are really naff, Sarah.’
*
At seven-twenty, a large box of Indian takeaway and Sam’s cab arrived together. Matthew attempted introductions. Annabelle nudged him aside.
‘Hi, I’m Annabelle, we spoke on the phone. You look nothing like I imagined you.’
Sam laughed. ‘Is that a good or a bad thing?’
‘In Annabelle’s case, it’s meaningless,’ said Poppy.
Over supper, Matthew tried to lighten the deepening anxiety that was overtaking our guests. By dessert I had joined in the reassurances.
‘It’s OK, guys, if I start to freak,
Sam’s probably brought something along that will calm me down.’
‘Absolutely! I go everywhere with a pocket full of happiness. And a mallet.’
‘Well, if they fail,’ suggested Annabelle, ‘there’s always the skunk.’
Sam’s spoonful of frozen yoghurt came to a halt. ‘Skunk?’
Matthew sighed. ‘Sam, not only have we asked you to pilfer medical documents and come here, risking your entire career, but just to add to the nightmare, Sarah’s insane friend has brought illegal shit with her.’
‘Chocolate buttons aren’t illegal!’ protested Annabelle through a mouthful of yoghurt.
Matthew put his head into his hands. I looked at Sam begging support. He lowered his spoon. ‘Matthew, mate, you need to calm down. Bob knows I’m here. We discussed contingencies. And, yes, he did give me permission to bring some emergency supplies. But nothing quite as interesting as skunk.’
Matthew bristled at his response. ‘Well, if we hear a truncheon rapping on the window, we’ll bundle you out the back door, shall we?’
‘I’d argue I was using it therapeutically.’
‘Do you prescribe it for lunatics?’ asked Annabelle.
Sam laughed. ‘We do use cannabis occasionally, but nothing as strong and random as skunk. But it’s a bit of a double-edged sword. It can help, but it can also induce psychosis.’
‘That’s probablywhat happened to Annabelle,’ said Matthew.
Things were cleared away, glasses replenished, crisps and chocolate buttons were poured into bowls. I rearranged cushions in an attempt to create a relaxed atmosphere then sat down beside Matthew with my fists clenched in my lap. I felt his arm around me and felt worse.
‘We don’t have to do this now,’ I whispered. ‘We could wait until Wednesday.’
Sam sat down on the coffee table opposite me, the folder in his hands. ‘Do you want to wait until Wednesday?’
I wanted to say yes, leave it, but I could see Annabelle and Poppy, together on the smaller sofa, their faces deliberately relaxed, their eyes betraying anxieties.
‘No, I’m OK. Let’s get on with it.’ So Sam handed me the folder. I turned the first few pages and revisited my years on the Kent coast, the years before my unremembered relocation to the emotional turmoil of my mother’s house in Hornsey. I passed the folder to Annabelle and Poppy so they’d feel included. Annabelle contributed by remembering things I’d told her over the years, childhood memories, including a muddled memory about fossils.
‘Fossils?’
‘Yes, you remembered collecting fossils. On a beach, I think.’
‘Are there fossils on the beach in Margate?’ asked Poppy.
Sam shook his head. ‘Do you remember that, Sarah?’
‘I’m not sure. Annabelle, when was I talking about?’
‘When you were small. I remember you telling me you found fossils and in the evening you looked at stars through a telescope.’
‘Hang on a sec!’ Sam took out his notepad and flicked through the pages. ‘Sarah, do you remember, two weeks ago I asked you to introduce a character into a remembered day. You imagined a crazy astronomer. Is that just a coincidence?’
‘I remember you asking me to do that. But I thought I was inventing an imaginary person. I don’t remember anything about an astronomer from when I was little. Or fossils.’
Sam nodded. The pages turned. I arrived at the photo of my mother with the new baby. I remembered the possessive fingers, but this time the laughter failed to approach. I hoped this meant I was winning by degree, achieving small incursions into my own life, undertaken so gradually that my mind was failing to notice. I touched the photo and felt nothing, turned the page: school photos; then one of a girl, who I recognised as me. I was pushing a toddler along in a stroller. She had a mass of blonde curls pulled into bunches.
‘Is that Arachne?’
‘It says Sarah and Arachne 1992,’ said Sam. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Almost.’ I glanced over at Annabelle and Poppy and smiled.
The next page had a studio photograph of me, perhaps fourteen years old, seated, my blonde sister beside me. We were holding hands. I shook my head, surprised that I felt nothing. The opposite page had several sheets attached.
‘They detail periods of foster care,’ Sam explained, ‘when Diana was institutionalised. You and Arachne were placed together until you were seventeen. Then Arachne was placed alone while you remained at home with visits from a social worker. I’d guess that this enforced separation exacerbated the rift between you and your sister. Annabelle remembers you telling her about it.’
‘That’s terrible,’ I said.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Sam. ‘In fact, you deferred your place at university for two years to look after Arachne when Diana suffered a serious relapse, rather than have her taken into care again.’
‘She didn’t seem to have been grateful for that,’ said Matthew.
‘There were other underlying issues,’ said Sam. ‘We’ve accessed Arachne’s medical files.’ He paused. ‘Actually, we already had her files.’
I looked up from the photo: ‘How come?’
‘Because Arachne was Geraint’s patient long before all this happened.’
Episode Fifty
Matthew sat forward: ‘Nobody told me that!’
‘It would have been a breach of patient confidentiality.’ Sam’s brief show of professional detachment seemed incongruous against his jeans and sweatshirt. ‘It would have been confidential.’
‘What even after she died?’
Sam ignored Matthew’s jibe and turned to me.
‘You agreed to an interview. Last August. With Geraint.’
‘I met Geraint Williams before?’ I could feel myself gaping.
‘It was an attempt at family therapy. Yourself and Arachne in the presence of Geraint and an observing counsellor.’ He forced a smile. ‘Not Mrs Parkin! It ended in chaos. Arachne had to be restrained. Geraint concluded that her accusations were delusional.’
‘What accusations?’
She accused you of physically abusing her during childhood. She was close to being sectioned on that occasion but, since her outrage was directed specifically at you, Geraint proposed that, if you avoided contact, sectioning might not be necessary.’
‘Sarah, you didn’t tell me any of this at the time,’ said Matthew.
‘Perhaps I didn’t want you to know. But, Sam, Arachne was living with my mother. Was he suggesting I should avoid contact with her as well?’
‘I think, with the rapid decline in Diana’s mental state, some kind of institutionalisation was on the agenda. So avoiding contact with your sister would not have been that much of a problem.’
I looked down at the photo: ‘So did Geraint Williams take an interest in me because of Arachne?’
‘Yes. It was his decision to move you to the National then, when they discovered your persistent memory loss, he handed the case over to Bob, although he asked if he could use you in his MRI trials. Are you OK about this, Sarah?’
‘Not really. Why was Arachne his patient?’
‘Paranoid schizophrenia. Functional. There’d been two unconvincing suicide attempts. On both occasions she phoned you to tell you what she’d done. Her focus of anxiety was always resentment of you. She was jealous of your normal life.’
‘My normal life? Abandoned by my alcoholic mother, married to a serial adulterer?’
‘The most recent interview suggested she was controlling the resentment.’
‘Perhaps that’s because she was screwing my husband!’ I sighed at Sam’s expression. ‘Matthew told me. Do you think she was doing that to spite me? Or do you think they were actually attracted to each other?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sam. ‘Jeff doesn’t figure in Arachne’s case notes. It might have been vindictive.’ He glanced at Matthew. ‘Matthew thinks, in Jeff’s case, it had a lot to do with the fact that Arachne was due to inherit Diana’s estate.’
I tur
ned to Matthew and wondered at these conversations that had been going on in my absence. Secrets and lies. Things untold. I looked back at the image of my sister, perhaps five years old, her time just beginning. There was nothing there that might reveal the seeds of psychosis, suicide attempts, hatred of the sister who was holding her hand.
‘Does any of this ring any bells?’ asked Sam.
I stroked my sister’s blonde curls. ‘Nothing. No bells. No memories. Just years and years filled with nothing. Perhaps my memories really are gone.’
‘What about the laughter, is it there at the moment?’
‘It’s a long way away. I don’t even know whether I’m hearing it or imagining it, although I suppose I’m imagining it either way. But I think that every time I learn things about the past, I’m able to retain a little more. Like I’m burrowing into forbidden territory, one step at a time.’
