by A B Morgan
‘Why did you call me a horny old goat?’ he asked.
‘Because what you said, in your biggest boomiest voice, made it seem as if you were in dire need of an emergency afternoon romp. That’s when you usually ask me to brace myself. I’m sure they heard every word at the other end of the phone. How embarrassing.’
Konrad licked his lips. ‘Afternoon delight, eh? Fair enough if you’re offering, but really, Lorna… is sex all you think about?’
Her withering stare admirably conveyed her feelings as she folded her arms. ‘Stop it now,’ Konrad chortled, ‘you know that headmistress look makes me go unnecessary and I don’t have time for your nonsense, you sex-crazed harlot. We’ve work to do.’ He grabbed her shoulders, twisted her and slapped her firmly on one buttock as he pushed his now giggling wife towards her desk.
Settled into her office chair she swung it rhythmically left and right as Konrad told her about his meeting with Ella. He chose a rose-tinted version of what really happened, and never once mentioned his sighting of Abigail Nithercott. But when it came to Ella’s request for help to appeal against her section, to check out the consultant in charge of her care and be sent to mainstream prison, he was very frank.
Perturbed, Lorna stopped seat-swinging and interrupted. ‘I can,’ she said.
‘You can what?’
‘I can help her. Because I passed my City and Guilds and my enhanced DBS has been approved, at last, so I don’t have to be accompanied anymore.’
Konrad faced her, trying to look interested. He had only a vague recollection of what her most recent studies entailed. If he remembered correctly, which was by no means certain, she’d been attending a course to do with advocacy. Prison visiting, wasn’t it? ‘That’s nice,’ he said without thinking.
‘Nice?’ Her incredulous look was unmistakable. ‘Is that all you can say? Don’t you realise what it means?’
Konrad admitted defeat and shook his head in shame. ‘Sorry, I didn’t really grasp what the course was about. Which prison is it?’
Lorna bent double. Her head on her knees, she let out a long groan which had a certain animal quality to it, like a deflating bear. ‘I despair,’ she said, righting herself. ‘You don’t take any interest in anything I do. I’ve been volunteering for months, almost ever since Ella was arrested.’ She shot him a foul look. ‘Not to atone for what you did to her, by the way, just in case you thought I was making amends for what you did.’
She rubbed fingers into her unruly hair. ‘If you’d been listening then you would know that what happened to Ella really got to me. You and I, of all people, know what it’s like not to be believed.’
This was a topic not often referred to in the Neale household and Lorna hated being reminded that their relationship had been cemented by grievous events, devastating grief and the loss of Konrad’s eye. During the whole appalling episode, they’d been accused of lying; by the public, by the police, and by their own family members. Sheer determination to prove the facts saved them from personal and professional ruin.
‘We were sane, and it nearly finished us off,’ she continued. ‘Imagine what it’s like for anyone labelled as mentally ill and not being believed because everyone thinks them incapable or stupid.’
Konrad gulped. It was coming back to him. Lorna had been volunteering at the nearest psychiatric inpatient unit and she was training with a local organisation. If only he could bring to mind the name of the bloody people he might redeem himself. His efforts were pathetic.
‘That’s right, you sit there and wrack your brains. I see your cogs whirring, Kon, but you’re too late. You blew it.’ His wife was simmering with hurt. ‘I resent how you expect my undying, unwavering adoration. The great Konrad Neale whose next award-winning documentary has to take precedence over everything else.’
She jumped to her feet. Konrad remained seated, mouth agape. ‘Right. I’m off,’ she said. Then with a second thought wagged a finger dangerously close to his one remaining eye.
‘I know you’re up to something. I don’t know what it is yet, but if I find out you’re using Ella for your own despicable ends… I’ll… I’ll think of suitable punishment,’ she ended lamely. Plainly, she’d run out of ideas for a threat. ‘In the meantime, I’m going to make certain Ella has the support of an independent advocate and to tell her she can request a Mental Health Act review. I’m going to dig like a child at the seaside until I come up with a legal way of getting her out of there.’
Lately, Konrad thought, Lorna had become over-emotional and, at times, downright irritable for no apparent reason. Not like her at all. Despite being aware of this, he made matters considerably worse as she grabbed her handbag from the floor. ‘What’s up with you? The menopause struck early has it?’ he asked without using any safety filter. When he heard the front door slam, he conceded that his tactless humour may have backfired.
In an attempt to calm the tempest, he opened the window of her office to blast out a few pacifying words. ‘She accepted my apology, by the way. Did you hear me, Lorna?’
His wife stomped down the driveway, hair bouncing, arms swinging with more energy and precision than a soldier on parade. She raised two fingers and marched on towards the lane, handbag over one shoulder.
‘I suppose that means yes,’ Konrad said quietly to himself.
Pulling the window closed he secured the latch, then wandered over to her desk and picked up the certificate lying next to the phone. Yes, she’d passed her City and Guilds.
Not wanting to grapple with his reading glasses, he read the letter that lay underneath, at arm's length. Lorna Yates had been accepted onto the level-three course starting in four months’ time. The college were delighted to hear she’d been accepted by Independent Advocate Representatives as a regular volunteer and were wishing Miss Lorna Yates well in her efforts to explore new career opportunities once accredited.
So, she was avoiding use of her married name. His shoulders dropped. Despite a little pang of disappointment, he didn’t blame her; being the second Mrs Konrad Neale was a tough gig.
When he placed the certificate and letter back where he’d found them, his eye alighted upon a narrow velvet collar about eight inches in length. A tiny silver bell was attached to it, along with a tag bearing the name of its old wearer. “Mr Jinx”.
‘Ah …’ Konrad said, somewhat embarrassed as the truth about Lorna’s odd moods slotted into place inside his self-absorbed brain. Her beloved old cat had died only two weeks ago. He was fond enough of Mr Jinx, but Lorna had been besotted. Making a mental note to be more considerate of her grief, he phoned the number for Channel 7 reception.
‘Good evening, George, glad I caught you. Can you double-check what time I’m needed tomorrow for the Logan Peplow interview?’ He moved the phone away from the side of his head to reduce damage to his eardrum. The squeal of delight made him grin. ‘Now try to control yourself, George. Like me, the handsome Mr Peplow does not swing your way and well you know it.’
George was a loyal employee, and he was devoted to Konrad who accepted his theatrics with endless good humour.
Konrad paused, then laughed heartily. ‘Yes, very funny, I’ll make sure to tell Mr Peplow’s agent that you’ve offered his client a chance to enter via the rear. Oh, and make sure his visit is kept top secret. No press. No sneaky paparazzi pictures, nothing. Do I make myself clear?’
When the reply came, his face fell, the silly grin sliding away. ‘What do you mean there’s a parcel for him? What bloody parcel, George? How did it get there? What was the name of the damned courier? … No, I’m not shouting at you, George, but how the hell did anyone know he was going to be coming to the offices? We’ve only arranged it in the last few hours. Christ.’
Konrad rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. ‘Lock it away for now, George. I’ll see you tomorrow and not a word to anyone about that damned parcel.’
Flipping up his eye patch he scratched at the scarred socket beneath. After only a moment’s hesi
tation he searched his mobile for recent call history and phoned Waveney Bisset.
The man always sounded like a frog.
‘Any number of people will know where to send that parcel. What are you fretting for?’ Waveney said.
Konrad gave this more thought. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. You, me, Logan himself, his girlfriend Katrina Chandler, George and Lillian on reception, the studio team, the producer, my film editor Netty, probably her husband… Loads of possibilities.’ Konrad looked up, seeking inspiration from a plain plastered ceiling. ‘Has he had to rearrange any work schedule to meet me tomorrow?’
Waveney Bisset gave him an answer and Konrad choked and coughed into the phone. ‘I didn’t realise they both worked for Global Enterprises.’ He could barely speak such was the rush of endorphins making his brain fizz. ‘No indeed, my discretion goes without saying. I’ve no current interest in the Nithercotts,’ he lied. ‘The documentary is purely focussed on the impact of female stalkers on male celebrities, so you needn’t worry on that score,’ he lied again.
Ending the call, he sank into Lorna’s office chair, his palms together as if in prayer. ‘One more call,’ he said aloud.
The ringing tone was annoying.
‘For God’s sake, man, answer the bastard phone.’ Then he heard the pompous voice of Rupert Van Dahl, barrister and renowned inebriate. Rupert could be relied upon, when sober enough, to steer him clear of legal trouble, but in this instance Konrad resorted to leaving a message.
‘Rupert, old bean, can you check the exact wording on the injunction against me by the Nithercotts and get back to me. I may be about to inadvertently breach the confines of the bloody thing. Thanks. Speak soon.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Meanwhile, back at St Cuthbert’s
‘So, what did Evanora want with you?’ Crystal asked in her rasping Estuary English. Ella had returned to the communal social room in time to be offered the last chocolate and help pack away the bingo equipment.
‘The great and mighty Konrad Neale came to apologise for having me locked up for the rest of my life.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Crystal mocked. ‘Did you punch the fucker in the face for his trouble?’
‘I thought about it.’
‘Should’ve done it. They can’t make your sentence any longer.’
‘Yeah, that’s true.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
Crystal could be a real bitch at times, but she wasn’t as unhinged as some of the other patients, and now and again a half-reasonable conversation could be held with her. Ella stared back at the doorway. Hairy Celeste was hobbling arm in arm towards the exit with Meg. Weaving its way through the stubble on Celeste’s chin was a snail-trail of dribble caused by the medication she was required to take. She drooled as she spoke almost incoherently about needing the toilet. ‘Don’t leave me in there,’ she begged. ‘I can’t pull up me pants if someone don’t help me. Them nurses say I ’ave to do it meself, but I caaaan’t.’
‘I’ll help you, love. Don’t you fret, mind.’ Meg was scowling at the staff member who lurked in the doorway. ‘She doesn’t count. They’re not real nurses. Private agency nurses. They’re two-faced Nazi’s that’s what they are.’ She thrust her chin out in disgust. ‘Geoffrey, piss off, will you?’ she added, firing a look over her shoulder.
‘No, Meg. She can’t be two faced,’ Crystal bellowed from across the room. ‘She’d be wearing the other one if she was. That face is too fuckin’ ugly.’
The nurse seemed immune to the insult. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to be involved. I’m only here to escort Abigail back to her room.’
‘Yeah, whatever. Two faced, that’s what they are. Two levels of care and treatment; one for the rich and one for the poor. Good luck with the sniffy stiff, she’s a bundle of laughs,’ Crystal said.
Ella felt sorry for the agency nurse. She walked up to her, a box of board games in her arms, and checked out her name badge. ‘You’re new aren’t you, Isla? Well, be careful, don’t get too close to the knitting needles and don’t contradict her. Other than that, no need to panic. She’s harmless unless you’re a man, and even then she’s fairly picky about who she sets her sights on, or so she tells us.’
Abigail, aware she was the subject of discussion, stopped knitting.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ Crystal said. ‘The never-ending clickety-click was driving me round the bend, and you know what happens when I lose the plot.’ All the patients knew what Crystal was capable of. Some of them had the bite marks to prove it. ‘I eat little nurses like you for breakfast, but as luck would have it, I’m not very hungry.’ She winked at the agency nurse and waved a hand toward Abigail. ‘Take her away, Fugly.’
‘I’m ready to return to my apartment now,’ Abigail announced, ignoring the derisive laughter. Tucking her knitting into a large tote bag, she made no eye contact with anyone. She stood, smoothed her skirt and patted the crown of her ash-blonde hair. Once satisfied, she pulled at her fringe, delicately manipulating a few strands into place. ‘Has the post arrived? Where is my phone? Did you bring it with you?’
Crystal, who didn’t live up to her name – for there was nothing glittering or transparent about her – caught up with Ella at a tall cupboard. She was forcing a box of board games onto a shelf already packed with plastic skittles, Ping-Pong bats, a couple of oversized foam dice, and badminton equipment.
‘Well? Why didn’t you twat the wanker?’ Crystal asked.
‘The delightful Mr Konrad Neale?’ Ella slapped the front of the cardboard box with the flat of her right hand, following it up with a jab from her left fist. She looked about her, making sure neither of the supervising support workers noticed this act of minor aggression.
Demoralised and demotivated, the middle-aged healthcare assistants only engaged with patients if anything went badly awry. Apart from that, they watched from afar and jangled their passkeys out of sheer boredom. Crystal raised one corner of her thin top lip and blew, spraying Ella with nicotine-tainted spit.
‘Lazy fuckers wouldn’t bother getting off their lardy fat African arses even if you stabbed me in the neck with one of those,’ she said, poking at a battered biscuit tin containing colouring pencils. ‘Why they employ ’em beats me. The private agencies never send in the blackies. Dear me, no. The Wicked Witch makes sure that white nurses wait on her white paying guests, you’ll notice. They say I’m racist but, Jesus, that is downright blatant racial discrimination if you ask me. The whites get the best paid jobs and we get the dregs.’
It was easier to let Crystal rant than to challenge her, so Ella allowed the uncomfortable tide of hatred to flow, until she sensed that Crystal had satisfied her need to vent. Crystal told everyone she had a diagnosis of schizophrenia, but Ella wasn’t convinced. Ignorance and a personality disorder were far more likely to be the cause.
‘I didn’t punch Mr Neale in the mouth, like I wanted to, because I’ve a better way to make him suffer,’ Ella confided.
Crystal hoiked up her shapeless grey tracksuit bottoms and pretended to assist Ella in making space for the box of games to fit more neatly onto the middle shelf. She raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘Oh yeah,’ Ella hummed with satisfaction. ‘I’ve information he badly wants, and I hold a big eff-off ace up my sleeve.’
‘You do?’
‘And I’ll be holding it for another two weeks at least. Abigail. Recognise her?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘Not many people would, I suppose. But Mr Wankypants Neale saw her, and he knows exactly who she is.’
Crystal shrugged. ‘I don’t know who she is. Don’t care. The snooty bitch can piss off back to where she came from as far as I’m concerned. And she can take her stupid fucking knitting with her.’
Ella smiled to herself. ‘Her husband’s family is gloriously awash with scandal. Konrad – “I’m so wonderful, look at me” – Neale has been trying to uncover the family secrets for years. But he can’t, because they g
ot cheesed off with him snooping around, sending undercover journalists in, bribing staff, and all that nonsense. Not long ago they took him to court for breach of civil liberties or right to a private life. One of the two.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I used to waitress for a couple of corporate catering firms. You know my friend Ada who visits me? She and I worked the big charity functions and we did three, I think, for Global Enterprises. Signed contracts, got vetted, paid well above the normal rate, and we listened to the gossip.’
‘Fuck me. You were a waitress?’ Crystal looked Ella up and down ‘What happened, did you eat all the pies? When you say scandal, what sort of scandal are we talking about?’
Used to absorbing jibes about her weight, Ella let the pie comment pass. ‘There was a documentary, one of Konrad Neale’s less convincing ones, about who murdered Abigail’s in-laws years ago. They were shot. The housekeeper was attacked and ended up spending the rest of her life in a wheelchair. She was the only one to survive – the housekeeper … can’t remember what her name was.’
Ella didn’t get chance to continue, which was fortunate because she’d already said far too much. Crystal was prone to taking advantage of personal information to make her own life more interesting by using it to bully others. A form of psycho sports and entertainment.
Mercy, one of the support workers, interrupted their tête-a-tête. ‘It is time to go. You leave now,’ she grunted as she rose to her feet. The chair she’d been sitting on creaked loudly. Like a sharpshooter in a spaghetti western, she reached to her hip and jiggled a set of keys and fobs attached by a long chain to a leather belt at her waist.
Crystal bridled with irritation at the command. ‘You lock cupboard door.’ She mimicked Mercy’s Nigerian monotone. ‘We go when you learn…’ she paused as her jaw tightened. The next words were said with such venom that Ella feared reprisals would be inevitable.
‘…When you learn to say fucking “please and thank you”, you inbred, half-wit. How many more times do we need to remind you that in this country we say, “excuse me, ladies” or “please can you finish what you are doing as we need to return to the ward now”. It’s not fucking difficult and it will go a long way to changing my opinion of you laz—’
