The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  As he filtered into the sparse late-night traffic, he felt a dreadful sense of anticlimax and his dry eyes made it hard to focus. The memories ricocheted back and forth across his line of vision and a couple of times he swerved out of the way of oncoming traffic. Short of killing Beverley, he didn’t think he’d ever be free of her. Winding her up with a taste of her own medicine no longer seemed such a wise move; schoolboy tit for tat was never going to cut it. She’d probably see it as attention; flattery. It might even spur her on to hound him more. Shit. What was he doing? What could he do? His mind skittered.

  Then there was Cosette. He had to keep her safe, and he didn’t dare tell her what a mad, sad, evil psychotic monster his ex-girlfriend was. No one knew Beverley like he did. She had seemed so likeable and innocent which didn’t make it easy, his fears falling on deaf ears. The therapy which she’d been forced into after Danielle’s accident didn’t seem to be working and he had no idea how to make her back off.

  As he parked up outside his flat, he slumped back and let his face fall into his palms. One thing he knew for sure. The meeting in Covent Garden had been no accident and Beverley had used the coincidental angle once too often. She was one clever, scheming, conniving bitch.

  6

  We’re like a group of alcoholics, seated in a circle, perched uncomfortably on the edge of red plastic chairs, and each of us waiting our turn to speak.

  Addicts have the most unattractive personalities. Secretly they feel cleverer, superior to everyone else and use well-rehearsed storylines to cover their deadly neuroses and addictions but they kid no one but themselves. I scan the group and know I don’t belong. I’ve nothing to own up to as I’m here under duress, legally obliged to attend, all my sessions paid for by someone else. For the life of me, I can’t help wondering who is footing their bills as the Abbott Hospital doesn’t come cheap. A five-star hotel in Majorca could match it, same price, less hassle, and a swimming pool thrown in.

  There are six of us in the circle, including, of course, Ms Evans, whose hands tap up and down on her thighs in time to a restless right leg. She’s wearing navy linen slacks today and a starchy buttoned-up white shirt, the epitome of bureaucratic efficiency although I’m not sure the see-through fabric was a wise choice as her lacy pop-up bra leaves little to the imagination.

  This is my first inclusion into a group session at the Abbott Hospital. Bob Pratchett assures me such sessions are less intense than the one-on-one probing and much more fun. I’m hoping that by listening to other patients’ stories that my own sanity will stand out. To be honest, even before we’ve started, I think the small group of participants look quite mad but I must remember to use the word ‘sick’. Ms Evans stares me down when I use the ‘m’ word on purpose, she’s that easy to bait.

  ‘We’ll go round the circle in turn and each of you can tell the others why you’re here,’ our leader begins, her hands and legs steady now the ship’s about to sail. This will be fun, like a day trip to the seaside.

  Bob smiles at me and winks. I raise my eyes heavenward while he silently runs the side of his hand across his throat in a knife-slitting gesture. We’re careful though that Ms Evans doesn’t see as our irreverence might be construed as disrespectful. We smother our giggles like naughty schoolchildren.

  ‘Bob. Perhaps you’d like to begin. Give us your background.’

  I’ve heard his story first-hand, but I’m intrigued to hear how he’ll tell it to the group. The other three patients watch him intently, keen to forget their own torment for a few minutes, in the hope of finding comfort in a story worse than theirs.

  ‘There’s not much to tell,’ he says. ‘My wife has thrown me out and won’t let me see my daughter unless I take my meds and come for counselling. She says I’m sick.’ He smiles, a broad comforting grin, in an effort to assert his sanity. I do wonder though, if he’s trying to reassure us that he isn’t hiding a shotgun under his belt. His eyes have it. The iris is indistinguishable from the pupil, the black moon eclipsing the piercing sun and the blue rims have completely disappeared. The blackness matches his madness and the next comments don’t help.

  ‘Problem is, she doesn’t believe me when I tell her our neighbour is trying to kill me.’ No one moves. ‘About a week ago I caught him in the back garden holding a garden spade. When I approached him he wielded it high in the air. It was well past midnight. Now is that normal?’

  We all simultaneously shift in our seats as if about to participate in a Mexican wave, but embarrassment gives way to stony silence. A nervous cough breaks the deadlock.

  ‘Bob. Why do you think he’s trying to kill you? Last month it was the local shopkeeper. Is there a pattern here?’

  Cool, calm and collected. Good old clichéd Ms Evans; always one to ‘hit the nail on the head’. Patterns. She’s always harping on about behavioural patterns.

  Bob laughs a little too loudly for such a quiet ensemble, lashing his wet lips, top and bottom, with a slithery tongue.

  ‘You might find this hard to believe, Justine,’ he says, daring us to admonish him for the use of her Christian name, ‘but I have this effect on people. People walk past me with hatred in their eyes. I don’t mind. Jesus was persecuted in the same way and rose to tell the tale and people sense my power.’ This time the hush is even more acute. Christ, he’s a lunatic, certified, and I realise I’d be wise to keep a wide berth. I’ve googled his issues and he has the textbook characteristics of a paranoid schizophrenic.

  ‘Thank you, Bob.’ Ms Evans calmly moves on. ‘Tamsin. It’s now your turn to tell us why you’re here.’

  Tamsin’s gaunt, skeletal appearance makes it obvious why she’s here, but we listen. Tamsin is a young anorexic who hasn’t had a meal for three weeks but is soon trying to convince us that she had a full English breakfast this morning: bacon, eggs, sausage; the works.

  Our leader, Ms Evans, times the session nicely. Five patients, one hour. That gives us all about ten minutes to speak. Actually, the time’s passing quite quickly and I’m starting to look forward to my turn as I have a few clangers to share with the circle.

  There are exactly ten minutes to go when all eyes and ears turn in my direction.

  ‘Beverley. In your own words tell us why you’re here.’ Ms Evans nods encouragement.

  ‘In a nutshell? I fell in love. Scott was his name, actually it still is. His name I mean,’ I say, raising quiet appreciative laughs. ‘The problem is that he met someone else and I still don’t get why he preferred her.’

  Danielle was slightly older than me, but only by a year. She was pretty, but nothing special, with an amazingly flat chest and, at five feet five, a couple of inches shorter. ‘Also I got pregnant and he forced me to have an abortion.’ I swallow. It’s tougher than I thought to regurgitate the facts.

  ‘Did you not want to keep the baby?’ Tamsin asks.

  ‘Of course I did, but he lied. Scott said if we lived together for a year or two longer we could start a family when he was more financially secure. We would buy a house together. Ha. I believed him. How stupid was I?’

  ‘When did he meet his new girlfriend?’ Bob asks.

  ‘A couple of months before my abortion. He never intended for us to have a future together but I didn’t realise it at the time. Danielle was her name.’ I lower my eyes, lending my story gravitas. Although I’m not after sympathy, it’s hard being so honest and the concerned looks make me falter.

  ‘Tell the group why you’re here,’ Ms Evans prompts.

  I let my eyes work the circle; I’m ready.

  ‘My name is Beverley and I’m a stalker.’ I pretend to own up to having an obsessive compulsive disorder and reintroduce myself like an alcoholic determined to come clean. This will impress Ms Evans and hopefully will go some way in helping convince her of my determination to beat the demons. The sooner the better.

  ‘Danielle turned out to be pregnant at the same time as me and also lost her baby. She fell down a concrete flight of stairs and nearly bled
to death. I happened to be in the vicinity at the time and Scott tried to link my beady vigilance to her accident. You see, I couldn’t help following Scott and Danielle around. I didn’t think of it as stalking but I couldn’t let go. I think lots of jilted lovers would do the same.’

  ‘That’s so sad. I’m really sorry,’ says Dave, the nervous chain-smoking alcoholic sitting between Tamsin and Bob. Dave clutches a packet of tobacco, scrunched tightly in his hand like a security blanket, and his thumb is red and bulbous from incessant sucking. Childhood has beckoned him back.

  Manuel is the fifth patient in our circle, and he just tuts. He’s been excused from sharing on the grounds that his English makes storytelling difficult. Ms Evans likes to keep him involved though, drip feeding him little titbits in Spanish. We learn today that she has multilingual skills that complement her astute powers of deduction.

  ‘Yes. But there’ll be other times. I don’t think kids with that guy would have been a good idea,’ Tamsin says. Her jaw creaks, bone on bone.

  ‘That’s the problem. I now can’t have children. There were complications with the abortion. Anyway, I’m here to try to change my behaviour. The therapy is to help deal with my stalking issues.’ I make a final nod as my lips snap shut.

  I don’t mention the endless grilling by the police and the lack of evidence that narrowly kept me out of prison. There was nothing directly to link me with Danielle’s tumble down the stairs and the subsequent loss of her unborn baby. But, in case the police got it wrong, and because of Scott’s absolute insistence that I was somehow culpable, someone with clout felt it best I get treated for a seemingly unhealthy inability to move on. Only Ms Evans can sign me off, and only when she is convinced that I’m no longer stalking Scott, will I be released from therapy.

  There is a sudden loud knock at the door. Everyone sighs, relieved to have somewhere else to look other than at me.

  ‘We’re coming!’ Ms Evans glances at the clock to confirm that our time is up. ‘Just rounding off.’

  As we all stand up and push the chairs back against the wall, Ms Evans says a big collective ‘well done’. She’s like a primary school teacher, savouring the pleasure over her charges’ achievements. Dave lingers, unwilling to face the world again, his thumb stuck fast between his lips. His front teeth protrude slightly, buck teeth we used to call them.

  When I reach the door I smile at Ms Evans. Didn’t I do well? I’m hoping to get an extra pat on the back and she doesn’t disappoint. Encouragement with a capital E is her mantra.

  ‘Well done, Beverley. I know it’s not easy telling everyone about what happened but I think you’re making good progress. I hope opening up to the others helped.’

  Ms Evans is pleased that I owned up to stalking habits, although I’m a bit annoyed with myself that I didn’t use the past tense when talking about my vigilance as I don’t want her to think it’s still going on. But it’s too late. I can’t take it back. ‘I was a stalker’ might have been more astute. I need to measure my words more carefully.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say as I close the door behind me.

  I know she’ll soon push me to talk about Travis, or Terence as I’ve called him to protect his identity. I don’t want to name him, in case. Southgate isn’t a very large place and you never know who might get wind of our affair if I use his real name. Travis is the new man in my life and we’re moving forward nicely. I won’t mention the fact, when I start to open up, that I’m already working on a plan that will help make his decision to move in with me easier. That’s none of my therapist’s business.

  Travis and his wife Queenie sleep in separate bedrooms, a fact he hasn’t yet shared with me. I don’t like secrets but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt as he’s probably trying to protect my feelings by not discussing his marriage. Queenie’s bedroom is at the back of the house and she keeps her window open every night, the slightest chink letting in fresh air. She goes to bed on work nights at ten sharp, ever the consummate professional but indulges at weekends by staying up until eleven and drinking a couple of glasses of Merlot.

  Travis is a late-to-bed person and climbs the stairs much later, finishing off the weekend Merlot long after his wife has retired. I do wonder though why he sometimes sleeps downstairs when they have four large bedrooms upstairs.

  I head back home, still feeling slightly edgy after the pizza incident. When I awoke this morning, in the cold light of day, I wondered what I’d been so afraid of. It was probably a childish prank by someone who got the wrong address, or Scott making an ineffectual attempt to wind me up. If it was Scott, it was a pretty imaginative ploy by his standards. Perhaps he has a spine after all.

  When I’m within sight of my front door I see a black cat sitting astride the bin bag into which I stashed the empty boxes. It’s scratching furiously.

  ‘Shoo. Shoo!’ I yell, running the last few steps flapping my hands in the air. The animal shoots off but not before I spot the slimy rubbery length hanging from its mouth. It has managed to find the fried tail of the dead mouse.

  7

  Everyone I meet asks me what I do for a living. Where do I work? When they hear I’m taking time out from being a teaching assistant, a TA, they ask me when I’ll be going back. I tell them I’m not sure as I’m busy gutting and renovating the house. Truth is, keeping tabs on Scott and Travis, maintaining control, takes up most of my time. I experiment with colour co-ordination and room layouts while I plan coincidental meetings. Ms Evans calls it stalking, but for me it’s a way of life.

  Like Dave’s tobacco and Tamsin’s diet plan, surveillance has become my security blanket. A comfort, something to cling to that reminds me constantly that I’ll never be ignored or treated badly. I do it for Mum and me, something to help me stay afloat and it helps keep her memory alive. It’s not the caresses and bedtime stories that I want to remember but rather her weaknesses and inability to fend off violence. You see, I don’t ever want to be like her as she took the beatings lying down.

  And of course there are now the Spanish lessons. Adding positive activities into my schedule is turning out to be very therapeutic.

  I stare at diamond rings and gold necklaces in the jeweller’s shop window, pressing my nose hard up against the glass in feigned concentration as I wait for the small group across the road to disband. The ongoing action is reflected in the window. As a shop assistant approaches me I notice Cosette’s friends get up and start to move away and I’m in luck, because she stays put and in the shimmering reflection I see her reach down for a mobile phone.

  I must say she’s a pretty young thing, the emphasis definitely being on the young. She’s all giggles and curls, and as she talks into the handset her spare hand swishes hair from one side to the other, skinny little fingers tousling the ends. I wonder if the caller is watching her too. Maybe they’re FaceTiming.

  ‘Can I help you, madam? Is it the rings you’re interested in?’

  I jump and narrowly miss bumping into the smartly dressed sales assistant who has appeared alongside.

  ‘No, just having a look thanks.’ I hesitate and throw her a bone. ‘But I’ve made my choice.’ I smile and point at the obscenely large diamond and sapphire ring glittering in the centre of the window display. As I move off I add, ‘I’ll be back.’

  I won’t be back, of course, as I much prefer West End jewellers but the small shop is the best Edmonton has to offer. Also the covered entrance has provided the perfect lookout location as the language college is directly across the road. I’m soon making my way over towards the wooden bench where Cosette is sitting.

  ‘No, I won’t be late,’ I hear her say into the phone.

  I hover by the end of the bench but am near enough to listen in. Cosette’s legs stretch out along the bench slats. She’s been looking forward to the phone call; the way I used to. Scott is probably checking where she is, keeping tabs on her and she’s flattered. The rapt attention of a well-heeled older man has sucked her in and she doesn’t know yet that he�
�s a control freak. More to the point, she doesn’t yet know about me.

  ‘What are you cooking?’ she asks.

  Scott is good in the kitchen, it’s his thing. His specialties are all things Italian. Bolognaise, lasagne and spicy gnocchi. The tiramisu and panna cotta had been my downfall and a knot tightens in my stomach when I remember the comments.

  ‘I think you need to cut back on the calories. The wine’s giving you a spare tyre.’

  He thought his teasing was fun but it soon hurt as our relationship became less intense. The wild passion seemed to abate too suddenly and his words played havoc with my insecurities.

  But it hadn’t been the wine. It had been the obscene portions he had piled on my plate and I didn’t like to refuse after all his effort. That’s the thing about Scott; he likes to blame other people. Perhaps I tried too hard to please him. I threw up the desserts into the toilet bowl on more than one occasion, like Tamsin still does, clearing out the stomach to cleanse the soul but instead it only left a gnawing emptiness.

  ‘Sounds lovely.’ Cosette simpers into her pink sparkly mobile which is stuck over with small silver stars. ‘Yes, it’s free,’ she whispers, covering the mouthpiece and nodding at the other end of the bench. Her long legs unravel.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mouth back. I set my phone down, close my eyes and breathe deeply. The midday sun is high in the sky and I feel the welcome rays on my face but am soon itching to sit up straighter.

  Ms Evans has suggested ‘mindfulness’ to help me unwind. Or yoga. I don’t think she understands me at all. Even after all the soul-searching, down and dirty little secret sharing, she hasn’t worked out that I don’t need ‘mindfulness’. I need to keep busy, keep on top of things and settling old scores is much more therapeutic than the holistic arts.

  I’m surprised my therapist hasn’t yet connected my restless activity to the trauma of my father’s abusive habits, my mother’s suicide, and all the negative implications. It’s a pretty simple algorithm for a psychoanalyst.