by Ruth Dugdall
‘Mum! If we can help the police, if we could find that coat. Or if you know something . . .’
‘I know nothing!’ She breathed deeply, steadying herself.
‘I think Jena is starting to remember,’ I said, quietly. ‘I’ve thought of a way to help her. If I can take photos, and gather evidence—’
In a burst of energy she was away from the window and pushing me back on the bed, thrusting me down so fast my head knocked on the wall behind.
‘You have to stop!’ She leaned over me, her face so close to mine I could see the blood vessels in her eyes.
‘I can’t . . . I can’t . . .’ My head started throbbing. My lungs felt tight as the airways became straws; an asthma attack loomed.
‘You’re breathing funny, Sam,’ she said, her own breathing still laboured.
She grabbed my Ventolin from the desk, and shoved it in my mouth. I tried to get up, but she held the back of my head, pressing the spray so the drug fumes whooshed into my mouth.
‘Again.’
I struggled to free myself, but she forced another burst into me, making me gasp.
‘It’s my job to protect my family. It’s my duty.’
The drug made my head spin, and it hurt where I’d hit the wall. Mum held me, her sturdy arms around me, using all that strength she’d built up from carrying her lollipop around the estate. I could feel her shaking, and there was sweat on her upper lip.
‘Isn’t it enough, that Jena was hurt?’ She started to cry. ‘I can’t lose you as well. Look at me, Sam. I want you to swear that this ends right now.’
I looked into her eyes and lied.
I wait for Clive’s response. He seems lost for words, and then says, ‘So you decided to be a sort of private investigator? To help the police solve the case. You were a regular Nancy Drew.’
But this innocent interpretation is way off. I wanted to be a vigilante, to take control of the chaos that surrounded me. My poor sister, the nightmare of the weeks since the attack, felt like a problem I could fix. By making it my mission to solve the case, by using my camera, I gave myself the distance I needed to not be destroyed by it all.
I believed I was trying to save Jena, but I was trying to save myself too.
CHAPTER 9
6 January
Today, when Clive comes for me, he suggests that we take a walk to his office, which is in the main part of the hospital, beyond the locked ward of Ana Unit. I think he wants me to step outside, even if only to another part of the institution, or maybe he wants a change of scene from my dismal bedroom.
When we reach his office, I see why he brought me here. It’s grand, with a large arched window all to itself, and a balcony. What’s nice is that his desk is to one side, and in front of the window are comfy armchairs. On the low table is a box of tissues, ready for the next teary arrival, maybe. Did I cry when I arrived here, eighteen months ago? I can’t remember that I did, but then I can’t really remember feeling anything that day.
I must sit still, must say the right thing, must keep my wits about me, though the chair is soft, and I feel myself sinking into it.
He asked me to bring the Black Magic box with me. I slide it down the side of the chair, against my thigh, because I’m not sure I can bear for him to hear the rest of my story.
‘I was sorry about your room search, Sam.’
‘Not as sorry as I was!’ I turn my mouth up at one side. ‘Six thirty, Sian woke me up. And then I had to sit on that cold floor talking to you. I’m thinking of lodging a complaint with the NHS.’
Clive raises his eyebrows. ‘You could. But the staff are only doing their jobs. And what’s more to the point, we’re trying to help you, Sam. I was very sad to hear that Sian found a sachet of mustard, when you seem to be doing so much better. When did you last purge?’
‘Weeks ago.’
‘I hope so.’ He leans forward, placing his hand on my bony wrist. ‘You could make this your time for recovery. The board will be deciding where you go next, and it’s better if you are well.’
I know this, but I still hate being reminded that my future depends on two strangers and Clive.
‘Will I be at the meeting?’ I ask.
He’s looking out of the window to the sea beyond, and the frown on his face tells me. ‘Yes, you will. And it’s my hope that together we’ll convince the panel that your stay here has worked. But I can’t lie to them, Sam. And they will be told about the mustard, about all the setbacks.’
‘I’m going to stay here forever, aren’t I?’ My lungs tighten, and my breath shortens. An asthmatic most of my life, I know how quickly breathing can be a problem, and I try to slow down my heart. I thought I’d wanted to stay, but since Mum’s death that has changed.
Clive’s face in profile twitches, and I imagine that he’s longing for a comforting puff on his pipe. The view from here is so peaceful: the blue sky, the flat North Sea.
Turning back towards the room, Clive’s eyes are wet behind his glasses. When he speaks his voice is sad.
‘The board can only send you home if you are better, Sam.’
Home. A sudden need to recover feels so intense it winds me, this unreachable fantasy that I have never believed possible. The only release that ever felt real before was oblivion, but now there is the slim chance of freedom.
‘But I hope, I really hope, that our sessions will help. That if I can tell them how well you are doing, we can persuade them to look favourably on your case.’
I notice that he says ‘hope’ as if he’s not totally sure this photo therapy will work. Regardless, he places his watch on the desk and makes a note of the time. My fifteen minutes begins.
Jena’s phone. I hadn’t seen it since the day of the attack, hadn’t seen it around the house or at the hospital. It may have been lost during the attack, but there was one other option I needed to rule out: it could be at the flat. If I could find it, I could get her Facebook account re-set, then I could hack into it. The police had searched her flat and we’d been told not to go there, but no one had mentioned the phone, and this was a loose end I needed to explore.
I would have to break in.
It wasn’t difficult. The latch was old, and I’d brought a screwdriver from home. The only problem would be locking it when I left.
Opening the back door made my heart pulse with anxiety. Inside was luminous with new paint; a bedroom and a lounge, a small kitchen and an even smaller bathroom.
After she’d painted, Jena had started moving things in. I opened her bedroom door; a sunray glanced off the glass deer on the dressing table, its improbably long tail glittering with a greenish-purple mood ring, its china base full of hair elastics in gold and silver, silky ribbons and elaborate clips. Pretty things Jena liked to decorate her long dark hair with; she was clever with fancy braids.
Suddenly woozy, I sat heavily on the double bed she’d bought on eBay; the pillows were new, plump and soft as I rested against them. Gingerly, I massaged my temples, wincing as I touched the swelling at the back of my head. The pretty bedding was unslept in; the new clock told the correct time.
Everything was ready; she should have moved in the day after my birthday, on 26 April. Instead she had been on a life-support machine.
I searched everywhere for that phone, all the obvious places like the bedside table and kitchen cupboards, then I started rooting through everywhere else. Hanging in the wardrobe were Jena’s clothes, and I patted down the pockets trying to find her mobile. All of her comfortable clothes had been taken to the hospital, and what remained was a leather skirt with zips, a selection of cut-away tops and a red bandage dress. Clothes I couldn’t remember her wearing, and I wondered if Andy had bought them for her.
Then I saw it: her wedding dress, carefully hidden from Mum and Dad.
I touched the silk, the perfect bodice and full skirt, made by one of Jena’s mates from work who was handy with a needle. A lot of the entertainment staff were good at making things, and Jena was always being
fitted for a princess costume or, if it was Christmas, an elf outfit. She’d had this dress for a few months, and I’d only seen it fleetingly. At home, she’d kept it folded in a bag at the back of her wardrobe, and whispered about it when the house was quiet and she wanted to tell me her secrets, but here in her flat there was no need to hide it. I picked it from the rail and held it against me, the white heavy satin swishing as I moved, for a moment enjoying the sensation.
Then I saw the label, a tag that told me the dress was from Age Concern for £15.99. How could that be, when Jena had told me her work colleague had made it?
Confused, I placed it back where I found it and shut the wardrobe door.
There was a noise in the street, and I was worried it was the police, that someone had seen me break into the flat, but it was just teenagers hanging around, waiting for the chip shop to open.
I felt deflated. The phone wasn’t here; I’d looked everywhere. I imagined it lying on the ground, down the alleyway, covered in blood until somebody found it and took it. Maybe an opportunist, maybe the attacker. Either way, it was a piece of evidence that was lost to me. I would need something else if I was going to nail Douglas Campbell.
I looked desperately around for inspiration, and saw the trunk that Jena had put in the small lounge to use as a window seat. She’d taken it from home, and I’d always known it as somewhere that boring things were stored. Old Christmas cards and baby blankets, that kind of thing. I lifted the lid, and was stunned by the amount of stuff inside. I touched the neat piles, all belonging to the life Jena was planning: a box of wedding invites, yet to be filled in; an Ikea catalogue she’d scribbled ideas in for her new home. Her address book.
I picked it up, and found Andy’s name. I saw his address was a penthouse flat, on the docks. Why he’d move in here with Jena, rather than her moving there, was another mystery. I ripped the page from the book and placed it, folded neatly, into the Black Magic box.
Also in the trunk were things from when I was a kid that Mum must have stored in there. My baby record book, the Mother’s Day card I made at primary school and a brooch I painted with nail varnish. A clay flower.
And there, sat in a corner like it was being punished, was the Staffie dog. I lifted it out, and ran my hand over the china to check for chips. It was perfect, but was it too soon to show her something she had only just remembered having? I was pushing her, I knew, into an unknown world of hidden memories, and I didn’t know what the outcome might be.
But even that didn’t stop me.
I stop talking, heart racing, my breath on a loose tether within asthmatic lungs that I need medication to control.
Clive notices, collects his watch, straps it back on to his wrist. ‘Well done, Sam. But now I think we should find Manda and get your Ventolin.’ He hands me a tangerine. ‘Your reward,’ he says.
A tangerine that will take me an hour to eat, and I need medication in a hurry. He knows this; he helps me stand, and we begin to walk back to the unit. But Clive is still thinking of my tale; I can see it in his eyes, which are unfocused, as if seeing the pictures I painted in his mind.
‘I don’t quite understand, Sam; why was Jena’s relationship with Andy still a secret, when she’d gone as far as buying a wedding dress?’ he asks.
‘I need my Ventolin. Now.’
He clicks into now, and sees I’m right. We need to go to the unit, and in just a few puffs of medicine I’ll recover. If only my psychological recovery could be so easy. I concentrate on breathing, on keeping my chest large enough to hold the oxygen it needs. Sucking in air, each breath painful to me. But not as painful as the memories, now so close to the surface.
CHAPTER 10
7 January
Today is a group trip to the dentist. My asthmatic episode is under control now, an attack avoided in the night by a nebulised dose of salbutamol, gently administered by Birute, who held the mask in place, careful to mind my feeding tube, as I breathed in the cure. I still feel wobbly from the after-effects. That, and the fact that I managed to purge my breakfast without being caught. A small victory, which has left me raw with hunger.
I’m not the only one struggling today. Pearl is helped on to the minibus by Manda, and eased into the seat nearest the front. She’s panting from the effort of walking down the hill; as she catches her breath, circles of mist form on the window. She straightens the red beret on her head; so she’s French today, and I wonder how many hats she has, how many people she likes to be. She gives me a weak wave, and though my head tells me to look away because friendship isn’t worth the pain, I wave back.
Stacey gets on the bus and plops down beside me. She’s dressed in a tight black dress with a wide yellow plastic belt, matching patent heels and yellow bangles. Perfect for a trip to a retro nightclub, but over the top for a hospital group outing. She is equally unimpressed with my attire.
‘Why aren’t you dressed up, Sam?’
For Stacey, even this trip is an occasion. But I prefer not to engage with the world anymore. It’s pissed me off, and I’d rather be somewhere else.
‘I am.’ I gesture to my sweater, black with the pink swallow. Never worn till now, but it’s warm and the day is cold. I tell myself that’s the only reason I finally feel able to wear my birthday gift, when before I couldn’t even look at anything so associated with my sister. Whatever Clive is doing to me, whatever feelings Mum’s death released, big changes are happening.
‘Pretty. But you’ve got no make-up on. Or jewellery. Good job I’ve got some in my bag.’ She opens it up and starts to rouge my cheeks and, surprising myself, I let her.
We get settled in the minibus. Fiona is animated, leaning on the driver’s seat, flirting with him, chatting about how it’s so cold her skin is goosey, how weird it is that the Christmas lights are still hanging along the prom. Pony-club brat, she hasn’t even been ill long enough to have reason to fear the dentist. Finally, much to the driver’s relief, Manda tells her to take a seat beside Mina. Fiona then starts bombarding her with questions that Mina won’t answer. Joelle sits by herself, pensive. This outing is important for her; it’s not good for a model to have bad teeth.
After making us wait for what she deems long enough, Sian joins us on the bus and any chatter soon dries up. While she briefs the driver, poor bastard, I look back at the Bartlet Hospital, proud on the brow of the hill, and wonder how long it will continue to be my refuge from the world. If she were a person, the Bartlet would be anorexic; she’s so rigid, so angular and symmetrical. An obsessive building, everything in its place, standing facing the sea, very alone.
In her middle are four bay windows, and I imagine Clive seated in one of the armchairs, reading the files relating to my case, worrying his way through the report he must write for the board meeting on 1 February, to try and persuade them that I’m getting better. That I am no longer a risk to myself, or anyone else, and can be free. That’s the nub of it: the risk I represent. Because if there’s a danger, still, of me causing harm, to myself or others, I’ll be kept here.
And there, on the far left, is Ana Unit, the square rectangles of glass that I look out of during lectures, endless talks on how our anorexia is a form of female rebellion. The next window along is the dining room, place of my prolonged hunger strike: the weapon I have used to express my anger. Sure, I feel like Boudicca right now.
No, wait. I was wrong; the Bartlet wouldn’t be anorexic. Not with those curves and arches, deep-red bricks and pebble-dash. She would be a beautiful, curvaceous woman, fully in charge of her sexuality, loved by men. She wouldn’t be like me at all, with my orange palms and green-tinged face, and the tube taped to my cheek. She would be a woman I could never dream of being, a woman Jena was never allowed to become.
Both of us had our future selves stolen from us that day in April. Jena’s potential was ruined by someone else, a person who pounced on her in the rain. She was a victim.
But the person to blame for my pitiful condition is starting to look like mys
elf.
Finally, when Sian judges we are all present and correct and the driver is properly briefed, the minibus takes us the few miles to the dentist’s surgery in Walton, in a white building with a wide sweeping staircase and high ceilings. What would once have been a beautiful home for gentry has been taken over by the sound of tooth-drilling and the stench of mouthwash.
The waiting room is cold, as if its walls have been whitewashed with menthol, and we take up most of the seats. There is only one other person waiting, an elderly woman clutching a tissue. I see a gap in her teeth, and guess she is holding a lost crown, but we are entertaining enough to distract her from this, and her eyes slide over each of us in turn. She must know what we are, where we are from. Six sick girls.
Sian takes a magazine from the pile, Family & Home, and I see Joelle straining to see if she will turn to the recipe section. For us, cookbooks are pornography; we are all alert to the possibilities of food. Sian lingers over a travel piece on New England, lifting the page to see a crumble recipe, waiting until we have all noticed the apricots and biscuit topping, then dropping it back. Teasing us with our obsession.
‘Samantha Hoolihan? Follow me, please.’
Into her small room, where the dentist has framed photos of fish taken on her diving trips, making me feel like I’m underwater, which does nothing to soothe my anxiety.
I sit on the plastic couch, which she lowers so my head is down near her crotch, her face half-hidden behind a mask that puffs in and out as she breathes. She looks at my tube, the mask billows, then she asks me to open my mouth.
After eighteen months at the Bartlet, I know all the varying theories, about what the mouth represents and why I refuse food, Freudian bullshit, but right now I can’t even open it. My cracked lips refuse to budge; her silver spike comes closer.
‘Okay,’ she says, putting the implement down. ‘I won’t put anything inside, but just let me see.’
