by Ruth Dugdall
Pearl smiles manically. ‘I like to feel the pain.’
She means the dehydration, the way it intensifies everything, the dizziness and tingling. Looking at Pearl’s young, frail body, she seems so much sicker than I ever was. That can’t be true, though; it’s a distortion. I was very sick, only no one realised it. Not until afterwards, when it was too late.
When I arrive at his office, Clive is slumped in the chair. For the first time, he isn’t wearing his jacket; instead, it is strewn across the desk. His shirt has sweat stains under the arms, and his beard is straggly, in need of another trim. He looks like he slept at his desk, and I feel concern for him, a strange shifting of roles.
‘Clive?’ He rallies himself, and sits up, trying to put his professional mask on, but I still see he’s troubled. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. I’m just getting worried about the board meeting; I want this report to be right.’
I see then that the papers he is worrying over are my own case file notes. His jotter is full of scribbles, and on an A4 pad is a neater text.
‘Is that my report?’
‘Without the conclusion,’ he acknowledges. ‘I have to be honest with you, Sam. I want the best for you, and I want you to be free of this place, but I think we’ll have an uphill struggle. The judge who sentenced you said you showed no remorse, though at the time that was put down to your poor mental health. We need to demonstrate this has altered. If it has?’
I look out of the window, at the snowy beach beyond. ‘I don’t know if I’m sorry for what I did.’
He puts his face into his cupped hands. ‘That’s what I was afraid of. The condition of your release is sanity, and that would include remorse.’
‘Do you think I’m sane?’
Clive looks blankly out of the window, at the snow starting to fall.
‘I think you’re getting close. And I’ll have to submit my assessment by the end of tomorrow, so the other two board members have time to read it before the meeting. If you’re ready, you could go home.’
Home. I don’t respond to this. There aren’t words enough.
‘We don’t have long left. You need to finish your story.’
And, for the last time, he prepares to listen to me. The sky breaks open and snow taps the windows, closing us in.
Although I am not hopeful that it will make any difference, I talk anyway.
I arrived back home from Andy’s flat confused and upset.
Mum was in the kitchen, on her knees in front of the oven, her arm lost in its greasy depths, working the Brillo pad so hard her whole body was jiggling to the frantic rhythm of her scrubbing. The sound of it made me shudder.
‘I don’t feel so good, Mum.’
She came out of the oven then, her face dripping with sweat, concern in her eyes.
‘You’ve not been right for days.’
A stab of guilt shot into my heart; I’d been so angry with her recently, when none of this was her fault.
Arms hanging, head down, I burst into tears. She came to me, pressing her hand first to my forehead, then to my cheek.
‘Well, you’re not hot. Cold, if anything.’ She gave me a hug and I was enveloped in the scent of Mr Sheen oven cleaner and Yardley and her. ‘I’ll tell Dr Gregg the stress is making us all ill, and that’s why he needs to cancel the press conference.’
‘Oh Mum . . .’ I wanted to be protected, but my obsession had gone too far for that. It was time for the truth. ‘I think Andy attacked Jena.’
She sucked her teeth. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘Because he was leading her on, saying he loved her. Telling her they were getting married. But it was all a lie.’
Mum frowned. ‘He was just her boss, Sam. They were never getting married, that’s crazy.’
It didn’t make sense to me either. Why would this fantasy lead to my sister being broken on the ground?
‘But he’s sleazy. And he makes dodgy films.’
‘Stop!’ She gasped, confused and angry, with me, with all that had happened. I could hear the tension simmering beneath the words. ‘Andy has been a friend to this family for years, employing Jena, looking out for your dad. Your father would trust Andy with his life.’
Suddenly my head was against her chest, her heart pulsing in my ear. Then she placed a hand on each of my shoulders and pushed me back so she could see me. She looked close to tears too.
‘We need to focus on the future, on keeping this family together. That’s what matters. You’re so pale, Sam, so thin. You’re wasting away. Dad and me, we worry about you. It’s time we focused on you for a change. But first we need to make sure the press conference doesn’t happen.’
Defiance rose in me. Anger broke free into a moment of clarity.
‘I’m the only one who wants to find out who attacked Jena, aren’t I? You don’t even fucking care.’
Slap. Hard and fast, on my left cheek.
‘Shut up!’
There was stillness in her, in both of us. We were both stunned. She smoothed her dress, and breathed out.
‘Now, that’s an end to it. We are getting the next train to the hospital for the meeting with Dr Gregg, and we are going to stop the press conference taking place. Understand?’
Dr Gregg was behind his fortress of a desk; Mum, Dad and me on the low chairs in front. Dad hadn’t said much on the journey to the hospital; he’d just stared out of the window as the train sped down the track. I hadn’t forgiven Mum for slapping me, but I sat close to her side as she pretended to read a magazine.
Jena didn’t join us for the meeting. Whatever was about to be decided, she would not have a say.
Dr Gregg knew what was coming; he was prepared. He’d asked all staff to submit a mini-report stating if they believed Jena could cope with the stress of a press conference, and everyone was agreed she could.
He handed us the pile of papers to read, just like a bloody school report. Even the cook had written a comment: Jena’s not eating as much fruit as she should. What would she know about whether Jena could speak to a roomful of journalists?
‘It seems we have no choice, Kath,’ said Dad, after reading every slip painfully slowly, a finger under each word, taking it all in. ‘Everyone is against us.’
I flicked through until I found Flora’s slip and placed it in his hand. ‘This is more important than how many apples she eats.’
Dr Gregg pointed with a pencil to his copy. ‘Ah yes, Flora is really pleased with the progress Jena is making in art-therapy sessions and she thinks she’s closer than ever to being able to speak about the attack. She tells me that Jena has a natural gift.’
Dad breathed deeply. ‘She’s always been creative. You should have seen her performing at Pleasurepark; she’d sometimes get nervous, but she stole the show every time. She came alive on stage or in front of the camera.’
I felt irritated by this sentimental bullshit, though Mum was dabbing her eyes and Dr Gregg was smiling indulgently.
‘It’s what she’s painting that’s important. Her memory of the attack is returning. Which is why the press conference needs to happen,’ I said.
Mum frowned at me, a warning that I should shut up, then she gave Dr Gregg a meaningful glance. ‘Sam hasn’t been well recently. It’s the stress. I don’t think she could cope with Monday.’
He cleared his throat and peered over his glasses at me.
‘I’ll agree, Kath, that Sam’s obsession with retrieving Jena’s memory is upsetting, for both of them. But I think we have a solution for that.’
A cold thump of rage. ‘What?’
Mum took my hand firmly in hers, not for comfort but as a warning. With my free hand I lifted my hair to my mouth and chewed on the ends, staying silent as Dr Gregg lifted a cardboard box from under his desk. The Asda box, from the attic at home!
‘Sam, you’ve been seen going to the storage room with Jena. It was clear from the layout of the room, the TV being switched on standby and what-have-you, you’ve
been watching films with her, family films. Emotional jolts like that could set Jena back and should only be conducted under strict supervision.’
I turned to face Dad. No one else used that attic but him.
‘Why would you give him our family films? This meeting isn’t supposed to be about this!’
Dad looked at his hands. Mum cupped her hand over his, a sign of her support, their unity. I felt like a trapped animal, brought here to be neutered. My mission aborted.
Dr Gregg cleared his throat and tried to explain. ‘Samantha, your parents and I have talked about it and we’ve agreed. The box will be stored here, until such a time as Jena is well enough to view the films in a controlled therapeutic environment. It would be unethical to influence Jena’s memory just now. What she says on Monday must come from her own recollection; showing her films may influence her adversely.’
‘Bullshit!’ I reached for the battered lid and pulled the box towards me. ‘These can help her to remember. She should watch them this weekend.’
‘Sam, you need to stop. This is making you ill.’ Mum was getting weepy. As if I was the one in need of help.
‘I thought this was about Monday,’ I said. ‘Why has this become about what I’m doing with Jena?’
Dr Gregg exchanged a knowing look with Mum, then Dad, and I realised they thought I was a problem.
‘Jena is a special case, and her brain may be more suggestible than you realise. In patients with ante-retrograde amnesia we would expect to see evidence of hippocampal sclerosis, especially when Jena has experienced left-lobe seizures. But we found no evidence: hence, she is MRI negative.’
‘So, her brain is better?’
I thought of all the times I’d shown her a film or photos and saw genuine understanding on Jena’s face; all the times I’d felt that she was just pretending to be brain-damaged.
‘No, ah, no,’ Dr Gregg said, stifling a smile at my stupidity. ‘It’s simply an anomaly. Just one diagnostic tool that, in Jena’s case, is of no use, I’m afraid. I’m just trying to explain that her brain is still processing memory, and she is very vulnerable to current events.’
‘Her brain isn’t damaged!’ In a flash of inspiration, fully realising the truth finally, I was about to list everything that proved she wasn’t: the lace curtains; the dog; all the other things she had remembered.
Mum silenced me. ‘Shut up, Sam.’
It was always more frightening when she spoke quietly, seething underneath, her patience worn thin. I felt my cheek burn, as if re-experiencing the slap.
‘Listen to what Dr Gregg is saying. He’s confiscating the films for Jena’s – and your – own good.’
‘The press conference will go ahead, Kath,’ he empathised. ‘But we can agree on certain conditions. If you can sign here, to say so?’
Dad stood, bent over the desk with a pen in his grip and signed, then handed the pen to Mum. I was one of the conditions: I wasn’t allowed to do anything to influence Jena’s recollection before Monday.
I felt Dad was signing Jena’s death warrant, condemning her forever.
CHAPTER 31
27 January
I arrive late for breakfast, hung over from my dream, and take my seat wearily before noticing that Pearl’s place is empty. I rub my eyes and stretch, thinking that she doesn’t usually lie in, but then I see her. She’s at the blue table, sat as proud as punch, and she gives me a delicate wave with the tips of her fingers, grinning broadly.
The blue table is where unsupervised patients eat.
How has Pearl managed to get herself upgraded, when her weight is so low? When just a few days ago she was doing the Fire Exit marathon, and yesterday she was hiding food in her hair?
As we settle in for group therapy, Manda sighs. She checks the clock, which isn’t easy, as the shimmering numbers are glued to the wall in a giant collage. Funky and fun, but totally fucking useless.
Manda looks around her group, trying to think of something constructive to say. It must be hard, keeping positive, with a group of girls who want to disappear. Relief flowers on her face as she looks at Pearl, who is seated next to me on a green beanbag, looking as ethereal as a fairy on a leaf.
Unlike Sian, who prefers us to feel wretched, Manda likes her sessions to have a positive vibe.
‘I think this would be a good moment to focus on achievement, on the fact that each of you have a life to look forward to when you do leave here. Would you like to share your news with the group, Pearl?’
Pearl blushes, two pink apples on her cheekbones. She looks down at her bitten nails.
‘I got my period today.’
There is a hush in the room, then a ripple of whispers. A period is an elusive thing. Most of us, we haven’t menstruated for months, years. The return of blood is a sign of recovery.
Manda claps, and we all join in, the applause gathering pace as we share in Pearl’s happiness. Then she catches my eye, and my hands clasp together, refusing to clap anymore, because I don’t see triumph, I see fear.
I hurry to Clive’s office, and find him lost in a sea of paperwork. He smiles in greeting until he registers the panic on my face.
‘I want to tell you something.’
He puts his pen down, and asks me to sit. I see my case file is open on the desk, recognisable from the battered cover; I interrupted him when he was halfway through a sentence.
‘Okay. What’s wrong?’
I hesitate. I don’t believe Pearl got her period; she’s pretending. But to tell Clive so would be a betrayal of her, and the code we all live by here on Ana Unit.
‘If I tell you something, can we keep it secret?’
‘Sam, you know confidentiality is always limited. If you tell me something that means you or anyone else is at risk, I will have to act.’
‘Even if I tell you it’s a secret?’
His face crinkles with concern for me, and I see that he thinks I’m talking about my story, about something I’m about to reveal. I want to scream at him that Pearl needs him right now, more than I do.
‘There can be no secrets between us, Sam. I’m writing an assessment on you that must be defensible, and there’s a lot at stake. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell me.’
If I tell, he’ll leave me. He’ll go to Pearl and help her, and this session won’t happen. And I need it; I need him to listen. To finish what I started.
‘I’m nervous. About talking.’
‘Which is understandable. You’re uncovering so many layers of memory, and we’ve got to such a crucial point. Fear is very natural, given the board meeting in just a few days’ time. And, of course, the trauma of your mother’s death. It’s to be expected that you feel highly anxious.’
Fucking psycho-babble. ‘Clive, please. Will you listen?’
‘I am, Sam. I have every day for almost a month now. And we still have to finish.’
Maybe my worries over Pearl are displaced anxiety because I’m delving into the past, and I can’t remember to forget anymore. I don’t say her name, and I don’t tell him my concerns about her. I decide to keep him to myself.
Clive moves away from his desk, and sits beside me in the other armchair, looking out to sea, no longer as a therapist, but now simply an audience, as I continue my story.
‘So Dr Gregg and your parents had effectively stopped you using any films to help Jena remember, but you only had a few days until the press conference. What did you do next?’
I went back, to the person who I now believed was Jena’s attacker.
Just three days until the press conference, and the family films had been confiscated, and my own photos weren’t helping. But I had a better idea: a film that might help shift Jena’s memory once and for all.
‘I’m sorry about yesterday, Andy. Can we start again?’
He was surprised to see me, but stood aside so I could enter his flat, smoothing his hair as he did. He smelt clean, even from a distance, but there was a red spot on his chin from a shaving nick,
and it made me relax slightly, to think that he was vulnerable.
In the lounge, I tried to avoid looking at the cabinet, in case I gave away why I was there. Andy had said that if I watched those films I’d wish I hadn’t, but I didn’t believe that. Nothing was worse than ignorance.
He scratched his chin. ‘So, you came back. Why?’
It was a good question, one I had to give a believable answer to. Then I remembered Monica.
‘I was thinking about what you said, about me being in one of your films. My mate, Monica, told me about it. She says it’s cool and, y’know, fun.’ Even to my own ears it sounded phoney, but Andy was too sure of himself to notice.
‘Monica’s a good girl. And it’s decent pocket money for you girls too.’ He chuckled and made a gesture around the flat. ‘Think of all the nice things you could buy.’
He was so unfazed that I felt the futility of my task. Even if he was guilty of attacking Jena, he would never admit it. I’d have to force him into a corner, break him so he willingly confessed. Or get evidence of some kind, which would mean continuing to humour him.
‘What is it I’d have to do?’
‘Monica didn’t explain?’
I shrugged. I didn’t want to give myself away by saying the wrong thing.
‘First, we need to see if you’re photogenic.’ He looked at me hungrily; I could sense an eagerness being restrained. ‘We need to go to my studio for that. That’s where all my equipment is.’
‘Now? To Pleasurepark?’
He looked at his watch and smiled confidently; he was a man used to getting his own way.
‘Why not?’
Thirty minutes later we passed a huge plastic rabbit holding a sign: WELCOME TO PLEASUREPARK. Above, the big wheel drew a circle of screams in the air. I longed to feel like a child again, wanted so desperately to go back in time and be that happy kid who was brought here by her dad and big sister.
Andy led me through the turnstiles to the pay booth, where a woman with pink hair was chatting to a friend on her mobile. When she saw Andy, she put her phone down and touched the tips of her hair, face radiant with a smile as she passed two wristbands under the grille. Andy rewarded her with a cheeky wink. ‘Looking good today, Yvette. Catch ya later, babe.’
