Dangerous Minds

by Priscilla Masters

  There was always a sombre feeling on this particular date, 9/11, the anniversary of the day the world had changed for ever as the storm clouds had broken over the twin towers. Everyone was aware of it, and even here, in Staffordshire, the heart of the UK, 3,346 miles away from New York City, Claire stopped and remembered those terrible sights, planes piercing buildings, the knowledge that as you watched people were dying horribly, people jumping like film stuntmen – only this was real. Armageddon. How would it feel if the attacks had been directed at The Shard or The Gherkin? Just as terrible, was her guess. Only nearer.

  But she had work to do. Siona stopped her in the corridor and brought another patient to her attention. ‘Hayley’s put on a bit of weight,’ he said.

  Claire was instantly suspicious. ‘How?’

  Siona grinned. ‘Good food,’ he said, ‘and plenty of it.’

  Which didn’t allay Claire’s suspicions one little bit. Hayley Price was fourteen years old and had suffered from anorexia nervosa for the last four years. She had teetered on the very edge of life and death and had been forcefully tube- and drip-fed to preserve her life whenever her weight dropped to a critical level. Most anorexic patients are devious and deceitful and Hayley was no exception. She had tried every trick in the book to avoid eating. It had become a lethal game with her, to exist on a starvation diet. To hoodwink the staff she’d done it all; concealed weights on her tiny body, under the armpits or once in a sanitary towel which hadn’t fooled the nurses for a second. Patients whose weight has dropped that low cease to have periods. The sanitary towel had contained a small weight she’d filched from the nurses’ station. This is why patients with anorexia are always weighed naked.

  So, instead of feeling reassured that Hayley was genuinely putting on weight, Claire was suspicious. What trick was Hayley up to now?

  ‘How much weight?’

  ‘Well, only a pound,’ he said, ‘but at least she’s not still losing it.’

  ‘I won’t have time to see her this afternoon, Siona. I’ve a busy afternoon ahead. I’ll try to get to see her tomorrow. In the meantime keep an eye on her, will you? Just be watchful.’

  He grinned. ‘Will do. But I do think we’re winning this time.’

  ‘I hope so, Siona.’ She patted his shoulder. A bluff Welshman. Although he had been a psychiatric nurse almost all his life, he’d never quite lost the gift of optimism. She couldn’t help smiling after him. He was a good sort. She’d miss him when he retired, which would be soon.

  ‘Keep an eye on Hayley, let me know if you have any concerns and tell her I’ll see her tomorrow.’

  ‘Will do,’ he promised.

  It was almost lunchtime now. She completed her ward round, seeing the other patients, and went to eat in the canteen.

  She would look into little Miss Price when she had time. For now she had a few things on her mind, which her registrar quickly picked up on as she joined her at the table. ‘Claire,’ she said, ‘you look preoccupied.’

  Salena Urbi was a beautiful Egyptian doctor, who wore the hijab with deft elegance. She had a mischievous sense of humour but also an incisive wit, as well as sharp intuition when something was wrong.

  But Claire didn’t want to confide her misgivings about Jerome Barclay – didn’t want to tell her that his infiltration of her home made her feel as though worms were crawling inside her head, that he made her feel vulnerable and alone. A psychiatrist with mental problems? Help. Salena reached out and touched her hand. ‘Claire,’ she said, ‘what’s wrong?’

  And then it came out limply, baldly. ‘My boyfriend’s walked out on me.’

  The brown eyes met hers. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘Had you had a row or …?’

  Claire simply shook her head. ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  Again Claire shook her head.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Nearly six months.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Salena said. ‘You’ve kept that well-hidden.’

  At that Claire managed a smile. ‘Separating work from personal life?’

  ‘Yeah. But … Hey – you know where I am. If you want to talk …’ Again that mischievous smile broke out, ‘or do a bit of undercover spying on him.’

  Claire laughed out loud. Salena was about as surreptitious as a fire engine in full pelt, siren blasting. She was – to say the least – noticeable.

  ‘I don’t even know if he’s anywhere round Stoke,’ she said, ‘so it’d be a bit hard.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose so.’

  They ate in companionable silence until Salena excused herself and Claire was left on her own in the busy canteen, people jostling all around her. But she was unaware of them. Grant’s abandonment had proved useful to divert her attention from her pressing problem. But now she was still chewing over the wedding invitation, her mind flicking back to the last time she had seen Jerome Barclay, searching for some clue as to what was his intent. There was another possibility why Barclay might have wanted her to be at his wedding that she hadn’t considered. People do grow out of personality disorders. Was it possible that he had changed and was no longer the complete bloody psycho he had been? Was that why he wanted her there – to witness something? What? His epiphany? His conversion? His St-Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus moment? Not judging by the phone call the other night. He’d sounded just the same: arrogant, attention seeking, without conscience. The hints he had dropped about his future in-laws and his bride-to-be had been at best disparaging. At worst, downright nasty. Or dangerous – for them. The question rankled. Why was he taking this step? She puzzled before coming to the conclusion. There is nothing like a face-to-face meeting to judge intent. Maybe she should invite him in, make him an appointment. She considered this option for no more than a moment. Remembering their last encounter she shied away from this step.

  It had been two years ago. As usual he had swaggered in, sat down without being invited and asked her how she was. Neat.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she’d said shortly. ‘And you?’

  ‘Not so bad,’ he’d said, fixing into her eyes.

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What?’ She hadn’t meant it to come out quite so harshly.

  ‘Got my own business,’ he said.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Marketing.’ They’d both been aware that his responses were answering nothing.

  ‘Relationships?’ They were the key to what was really going on in this psycho’s life.

  ‘Got a girlfriend. And before you ask, we’ve been together six months now.’ But his facial expression was all wrong. He should have looked pleased with himself, maybe a little smug, but he didn’t. He looked challenging, mouth slack, eyes watchful, unblinking. It was an insolent look waiting for a response.

  ‘And you’re living where?’

  ‘Got a flat,’ he’d said, ‘in Hanley.’

  ‘We’ll need the address.’

  He gave a comfortable grin. ‘Why, Claire? So you can look me up?’ His eyes flickered a challenge as dangerous as a lit match about to be thrown into a petrol can.

  ‘We need to keep our records up to date,’ she’d said smoothly.

  He’d stood up then, leaned right over her desk. ‘You don’t need to keep an eye on me at all, Claire,’ he said.

  Oh but I do, was her thought response. Out loud she said nothing. He would understand her disagreement with that statement.

  He continued. ‘I’ve never done anything.’ He was still leaning over her, still with that cocky smile. ‘Not that you can prove, anyway. I’m clean. I don’t do drugs. So what …’ He shrugged. ‘What’s your problem, Claire?’

  ‘I don’t have a problem, Jerome,’ she’d said steadily. ‘But I do have a job to do.’

  ‘Then do it—’ a dismissive wave of the hand – ‘by all means, but leave me alone.’ Then he’d leaned in even closer and she’d smelt the cinnamon on his breath. ‘I’m bored with coming here. Bored with seeing y
ou. Discharge me, Claire.’

  And she had. It was all smoke and mirrors, suspicions and imaginings. It was only after he’d left that she’d realized how completely he’d orchestrated the entire interview. She felt cross with herself. She was the psychiatrist, for goodness’ sake. She’d wanted to discharge him, but in the end he’d as good as discharged himself. Then she felt crosser. What difference did it make? Really.

  At the end of the clinic she went to the receptionist’s desk. ‘Jerome Barclay,’ she said. ‘Did he change his address to his new one?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘No.’

  So now she didn’t even know where he lived.

  But now he knew where she lived.

  SIX

  Thursday, 11 September, 4 p.m.

  For once she finished clinic early, but instead of visiting Hayley she wanted to get to the bottom of David Gad’s story. It was too early to go home to the empty house; besides, she felt she had unfinished business with the elderly man who was trying to conceal such turmoil. She found him in his room, studying a card he had been sent. She stood in the doorway and watched him for a moment. His face was worse than troubled. It was anguished, unhappy, the card held tight in his hand. With a shock she realized that on the front was a swastika. He finally looked up; didn’t speak for a full, long minute. Then, finally, he gave another great long sigh and shrugged as though to say, why not? He set the card, face down, on his bedside table, as though he did not want her to see it.

  She settled down in one of the two armchairs that faced the window, the view a panoramic vista of Hanley rising up towards the ridge, the high-rise flats crenellating the skyline like medieval castle walls.

  ‘Confide in me, David,’ she urged. There was a moment’s silence. Then his eyes met hers but he shook his head, frowning.

  ‘How can I inflict it on you?’

  ‘It’s my job, David,’ she said gently. ‘I can’t treat you properly unless you confide in me. I need you to trust me.’

  She waited, giving him the chance to consider the options. She saw his face calm as he came to a decision. ‘Have you the time, Claire?’

  ‘Of course.’ She knew if she let him down now he would never confide in her – and his next attempt at suicide might well be successful.

  He leaned forward, touched her hand, smiled and said, half mockingly. ‘Ready for my life story?’

  She smiled back and nodded.

  ‘Well then,’ he said. ‘I was born in Aachen.’ He gave a little smile. ‘A spa town, the westernmost town in Germany, with borders to Belgium and the Netherlands. My father was a baker in the town.’ Another little smile. ‘Not really just a baker, Claire. The baker. He was very successful. His bread and cakes were renowned. He made the best.’

  His eyes clouded. ‘As you know I was born in 1930. And we were Jewish. With ’38 came Kristallnacht. We should have left then, but like many Jewish families we did not believe it would get any worse. We thought there might be a bit of bullying, that we Jews would be singled out for adverse treatment.’ He raised sad eyes. ‘Nothing more. We could not believe that our German friends and neighbours would turn against us. But they did, and those that did not, in their hearts, had to bury their friendship deep and pretend they hated, despised us. Or else face death.’ Another sad smile. ‘A friend of a Jew was treated as though they were Jewish by blood.’

  Claire was sitting perfectly still, not wanting to break the spell.

  ‘By 1939, war was declared, and we were quickly herded up and made to wear the Star of David. I remember my mother stitching them on and telling myself and my sister that we should be proud to wear this emblem, that it was a sign of our ancient race.’ He smiled at her again, this time the memory of his mother tingeing his face with some happiness.

  ‘My surname,’ he said, ‘Gad. One of the twelve tribes of Israel.’ He laughed, enjoying telling the story of happier times. ‘I’m afraid one of my forefathers was partly responsible for the sale of Joseph into slavery.’ His face softened. ‘But he was forgiven …’ A toss of the head. ‘And it was a long time ago. Anyway …’ He waved the distant past away as though it was an unwelcome intruder. ‘In 1940 we were taken to Buchenwald where my father continued his bakery business, but not for the townsfolk of Aachen any more. He cooked for the camp guards. Hmm.’ He gave a cynical laugh. ‘They didn’t mind a Jew cooking for them.

  ‘My sister and mother were taken away. I never saw them again …’ He paused, this memory frozen into his mind. ‘I was spared, but only because my father begged that I would be allowed to help him in the bakery.’

  He looked at her, anguish in his eyes. ‘In 1944 one day I was helping my father and I allowed the oven to get too hot. The bread burnt. The guards came in and accused my father of having burnt the bread deliberately …’ An expression of disgust twisted his face. ‘They accused him of trying to sabotage the Third Reich. My father said it was his fault that the bread was burnt. He wanted to protect me. They took him outside and shot him.’ His eyes clouded. ‘It was a bright day. The sun hot in a blue sky. My father’s shadow fell across the floor of the bakery. I saw his hands up. I heard his words. “I apologize for burning your bread.” I saw him crumple when they shot him. I saw his shadow shrink to that of a dead man lying in a pool of blood. Blut,’ he said, his eyes haunted and damaged. ‘Claire, that shadow that fell across me is still here. Touching me. Here …’ He tapped his left shoulder. ‘Here. It has never left me, my father’s shadow. As I get older it engulfs me.’ He was silent for a moment, his hand still resting on his shoulder. Then he looked up. ‘They left his body lying there, on the floor, in the mud and sand. They told us all not to touch his body but to leave it there.’ He paused. ‘Claire, do you know anything about the way Jews treat their dead?’

  ‘A little,’ she said. ‘Enough.’

  ‘So you know that we Jews bury bodies quickly, only touched by another Jew’s hand. To see him lying there made it so much worse. When they had murdered my father they came back into the bakery and, laughing, slapped me on the back. Some of them still had my father’s blood on their clothes. They told me that was what happened to a careless baker who tried to poison the German people with burnt bread. I could not breathe for terror. I wanted to tell them it had not been my father who had burnt the bread but I. They would have shot me too. And I was frightened. They were noisy – pleased, no doubt, with what they had done, and they said that I was chief baker now. They clapped their hands on my shoulder; put a cap on my head and an apron around my waist. Claire,’ he said, ‘it reached to the floor. They told me to be careful not to burn the bread like my father. They left my father’s body to rot outside until the dogs took him. Have you any idea, Claire, what that means to a Jew?’

  She couldn’t find the words.

  He leaned forward. ‘Claire, do you understand now why I do not want to live this guilty life any longer. I close my eyes and I see my father. His shadow falls over me but he is not even reproachful. No one has ever been charged with that crime.’ His eyes were closed now and she had a glimpse of the burden he had carried for more than sixty years.

  She was silent for a minute. She knew full well that it was pointless reminding him that he had a family, a daughter, grandchildren: people who loved him. He already knew that, but she must find a way to break through this or he would, at some point, one day in the not-too-distant future, succeed in his attempts to obliterate the past. She could see now why his suicide attempts had been repeated and increasingly determined. She was silent for a while.

  Then spoke. ‘David,’ she said, ‘will you give me some time to think about this?’

  His mouth was cynical. ‘You think you can help? You …?’ His voice faded. And then, ‘I will give you the time until you, inevitably, send me home.’ Then he leaned forward and patted her hand. ‘You are a good doctor, Claire. But don’t set yourself problems you are not able to solve.’

  She was so deep in thought as she drove home that evening that the
journey seemed short. It was only as she inserted her key into her front door that she realized: the roadworks on the A500 were not there, so the traffic had flowed like clockwork cars in a miniature town. The advice he had given her – Don’t set yourself problems you are not able to solve – rang like a bell, resonating inside her head. David Gad was an intelligent man. How could she possibly solve his dreadful guilt? What hope did she have?

  But, once inside, the front door closing behind her, the emptiness of the house hit her like a hammer blow spreading apathy and inactivity. David Gad had a grandson he was close to. At least he had someone. Whom did she have? Adam, her half-brother, and Grant. She needed to speak to him, without rancour or blame. She needed an explanation of why he had gone. Her girlfriend’s comment that men ‘didn’t do explanations’ was not enough for her. It still left her with a black hole, quite apart from the practical considerations – a half-finished house. Only his sitting down and talking rationally to her would help her find some sort of settlement. But without seeing him, how would she ever hope to achieve this? Sadly, mentally she ticked another day off.

  Didn’t phone Grant!

  But it didn’t make her feel triumphant. Just sad and confused and lonely. And vulnerable. She walked to the window which overlooked her drive and the street. Was Barclay out there, somewhere, watching her? Cars moved past, a few pedestrians chatting, speaking into mobile phones. Everyone walking, going somewhere. But one person was standing at her gatepost. She tried to tell herself that it was a kerb crawler. Nothing to do with her, but underneath her fear was that it was him. Barclay, watching and waiting for an opportunity.

  Heidi Faro, her predecessor, had once told her always to face your fears and then you watch them shrink.

  Not tonight, she thought, and drew the curtains tight shut.

  She made herself a cup of tea and sank into the armchair, tucking her feet beneath her. She looked up and saw the wedding invitation propped on the mantelpiece and remembered the idea she had had. ‘Face your fears,’ she recalled. Then decided. She would do it. Soon.