Retribution (Sebastian Trilogy Book 3)

by Rosen, Janey

  “You silly girl.” He sighs. “It wasn’t me, Elizabeth. You saw Marcus with Scarlett.”

  Marcus? Do you think I’m stupid? I know what I saw. “It was you,” I say emphatically.

  “No, darling. It was Marcus. He and Scarlett have been play partners for a long time. Since shortly after Scarlett moved here, actually.”

  “But I saw you.”

  “No. What you saw was Marcus and…I have to say, he’s no longer my friend. I understand it’s all blurry to you, but you were hallucinating, Elizabeth. Ruth came and found me and together we tracked you down to the chamber. Thank God I got there in time. He was about to force you into a session knowing that you are mine. Knowing that you were sick.” He runs his hands through his dishevelled hair. He looks unkempt, still in his black suit trousers and white dress shirt, open necked, cuffs undone. He looks so forlorn and lost that my heart breaks all over again. “I’m afraid I punched him hard, he spent the rest of the night in hospital with a broken nose. Serves the fucker right.”

  Marcus? This can’t be true. I saw them with my own eyes.

  “I saw you, Sebastian.”

  “The man you saw was Marcus. Not me. You trust Ruth, don’t you?”

  “With my life. Yes. It’s you I don’t trust.”

  Sebastian takes a step back from the bed as Ruth appears by his side, her face etched with concern. She looks as though she’s been crying; her eyes are red-rimmed. “Hi, Beth, love. What Sebastian says is true. I was there when he hit Marcus. The scumbag had you by the hair and slapped you. If Sebastian hadn’t hit him, I’d have sodding killed him, I swear I would.”

  “Then…am I insane? What’s happening to me? It’s all so confusing, Ruth. I keep seeing things…terrible, weird things and they seem so real to me.”

  Joe was here and it was so real. Was he just a hallucination too? Or did he really come down from Heaven to warn me? Oh God, I hope he was real. But if he was real, then I’m truly in danger.

  “You’re going to have to see a doctor, Beth. Sebastian and I think that Joe and Alan’s deaths are really impacting you now. You’ve been so strong, too strong, and not grieved properly. It’s grief, we’re sure, and maybe you need some medication just to see you through this rough patch.” Ruth is stroking my hand as though I am a sick geriatric aunt. “You’re coming back to Dorset with me for a few days so that I can feed you up and get you better. Okay?”

  “I don’t want pills, Ruth. I’ve never heard of grief doing this to someone. But we did plan to go home for a few days. It would be nice to see everyone at work, and Mum. Bella is coming too, isn’t she?”

  “Bella is coming too. It’s her birthday this week, remember?”

  “Oh yes. Her birthday,” I reflect absently, my mind still focused on Sebastian. “Ruth, do you promise me that Sebastian has been faithful?”

  Ruth sighs deeply. “I know what I saw last night, Beth. It was Marcus, not Sebastian with Scarlett. Sebastian is a good man, aren’t you, Sebastian?”

  “Positively angelic, Ruth.” He grins, winking at me. A smile plays on my lips and a surge of relief courses through my body.

  “Though he’s into some seriously freaky kinkiness,” Ruth adds conspiratorially. “I do want a conversation with you about that, but not now.”

  “I’m not sure you could ever be called angelic, Sebastian, but I am sorry that I doubted you. I love you. It broke my heart to think you didn’t love me.” My hand strokes his rough unshaven jaw. He kisses my fingertips as they brush across his lower lip.

  “I love you with my heart and soul. We do need to get you well, though, Elizabeth. I can’t go through this again, not after Libby.”

  “After Libby went mad, you mean.”

  “She hallucinated. She was paranoid. I see the same pattern in your behaviours as in hers before she deteriorated beyond help. I don’t intend for you to slip away from me as she did.” He kisses my knuckles.

  “I think it’s Scarlett.”

  “You think what is Scarlett?” His eyes darken, his mouth setting in a firm line.

  “I think she’s poisoning me.” There, I’ve said it. The sinister thought now seems more credible as I think it through. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as goose bumps form on my arms.

  “For fuck’s sake, Elizabeth. She’s got a lot of issues, but she’s not malevolent. Why the hell would she poison you? You see what I mean about paranoia?” He rakes his hands through his hair as he always does when he’s angry.

  “Think about it. She’s been insistent on cooking every meal, when she knows I’ve wanted to cook for you. She’s had every opportunity to lace my food.”

  “Why? Why would she want to do that? You’re not making any sense. It’s irrational.” He shifts away from me, coldly.

  “Because of you, Sebastian,” I implore, my voice shrill. “She loves you, or thinks she does, and both Libby and I have gotten in her way. She told me she only encouraged me to move here for my children—some twisted idea of hers that my kids would become your heirs. Don’t you see? When Libby couldn’t have children, she no longer served a use for you. That’s the way Scarlett viewed it. It’s always about your happiness, your needs. She’s obsessed with you.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” he barks, rising from the bed. “Go to Dorset. Take some pills and come back when you’re rational. I do not want to go through this again, listening to the ranting of a lunatic. I’ve had enough!” He slams the bedroom door as I crumble into Ruth’s arms.

  “I’m not crazy, Ruth. It is her. I know it is. How do I prove it?” I sob.

  “Shh, love,” she soothes. “If Scarlett is poisoning you, and I’m not saying I agree with you—it’s very farfetched—but if she is, then when you leave here, you will get well. That will prove it. Also, a doctor will be able to tell if you’re being poisoned.”

  “Okay, but take me away today. Please. I’m so scared.”

  Ruth strokes my back, her voice calm but her underlying concern toward me is palpable. “We can’t leave today, love. Sebastian’s shrink is coming this afternoon. I think we should let him decide if what you’re experiencing is grief-related.”

  Sighing dejectedly, I move away from her, pulling the duvet up to my chin, the sting from her words hurting as severely as any pain inflicted upon me in the chamber. She thinks I’m crazy too. For the first time in our friendship, my best friend doubts me. “I’m not making this up, Ruth, and it’s not grief. Maybe when I’m poisoned to death, you will all believe me.”

  “I’m not doubting you, love.” Ruth closes the distance between us and tucks a stray curl behind my ear tenderly. I flinch at her touch; she pulls her hand back. “What I’m saying is, no one suffers a loss as profound as yours without some fallout. Grief festers, Beth, and it can’t do any harm in talking to the shrink so we can at least eradicate grief. That will leave two possible causes for your hallucinations. One: you have a virus or some hideous brain tumour. Two: you’re being poisoned. Simple.”

  “Brain tumour?” I gasp, wide-eyed. “Shit. Now you’re giving me more to worry about. Thanks for nothing.”

  “It’s a process of elimination is all I mean, silly.” Ruth rolls her eyes in exasperation. A psychiatrist. I have to talk to a damned shrink.

  Chapter 7

  I have never had the pleasure of being psycho-analysed before today. My personal view of psychiatrists is that they are all overpaid, dusty old men who are themselves as insane as those whom they treat. This preconception is shattered, at least in part, when I open the door to Sebastian’s study. Resting languidly against the oak bookcase to my right, arms folded, is a tall sandy-haired man about my age. He wears a crisp linen suit with white open necked shirt and pleasant smile which somewhat depletes my anxiety. He proffers a neatly manicured hand, his smile widening to show perfectly white teeth.

  “Psychiatrists don’t look like you.” I gush, my cheeks reddening as his almond eyes crinkle appreciatively at my compliment.

  “Apparently th
ey do,” he responds as I shake his hand. “Doctor Leo Fairfax. You must be Elizabeth.”

  I reluctantly retrieve my hand from his firm grasp. “Yes. Elizabeth Dove. Good to meet you, Doctor Fairfax.”

  “Please, call me Leo. Take a seat.” He sweeps his hand toward the chair onto which I compliantly perch while nervously biting my nails. Doctor Fairfax wheels Sebastian’s leather chair around his desk until it faces mine and sits, his knees inches from mine. Surprised at his nearness, I shuffle back to widen the distance between us, worrying that he may be interpreting my every move as part of his evaluation of me. The doctor evidently notices my nerves and rests back against his chair to mirror my action. “Elizabeth, I want to thank you for agreeing to see me today.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” I mumble. “It was arranged without discussion, so here I am.”

  “I see,” he replies, unperturbed by my rudeness. “Well then, let me reassure you that you don’t have to talk to me about anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. We can sit here for an hour and talk about music, the weather, or politics. Sebastian will never know.”

  My eyes widen in surprise. “How much is he paying you for this?” I ask sarcastically.

  “A great deal. I’m not cheap, Elizabeth. May I call you Elizabeth?” He’s smiling again.

  “Yes. That’s fine, as it’s my name.” I cross my arms, growing frustrated at the waste of my time and Sebastian’s money.

  “Thank you. As I was saying, my hourly rate is preposterously high but Sebastian clearly thinks that I’m worth it.” He pauses, studying my face but I intentionally give nothing away, maintaining a mask of disinterest. “I’m not some charlatan. To give you a little background on my qualifications, I am a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians and have a Masters in psychology. I’ve worked as a consultant psychiatrist for some years and specialise in bereavement and associated psychological disorders.”

  “Very impressive,” I huff. “Can you also juggle blindfolded?”

  Ignoring my sarcasm, he continues. “I only tell you this so that you know I am qualified and experienced, Elizabeth, and therefore someone who is consummately professional so that, if you did wish to explore your thoughts with me, you will know that you can trust the confidentiality and impartiality of our discussions.”

  “What you mean is, you won’t tell Sebastian what I say?” Perhaps I can talk to this stranger. Maybe he can tell me what’s happening to me.

  “That’s correct. Unless you give me permission to do so, nothing you say to me will be disclosed to Sebastian or to anyone else.” His index finger plays along his top lip as he studies me. “Unless of course you confess to committing murder, in which case I am duty bound to share that information with the relevant authorities. Rather like talking to a priest.” He chuckles.

  “What if I tell you about a murder that I didn’t commit?” I ask hesitantly. He doesn’t flinch. “Would you also share that information with the authorities?”

  “That would depend, Elizabeth. Are you going to tell me about a murder?” His finger stills on his lip, and his eyes lock onto mine. My breath catches. Can I trust him? I have to take that chance.

  “My son and husband were murdered.” The relief of sharing this burden is indescribable. As tension leaves my body with each word spoken, the knot in my stomach unwinds just a little. I have done the right thing. He will tell the police and they will believe him because he’s a professional doctor.

  “It’s interesting that you use the word murdered. My understanding is that your son and husband lost their lives in a tragic motor accident.” It’s a statement rather than a question.

  “No. That’s what she wants everyone to think. Poor Joe. Poor Alan. It was a car crash. Wicked Beth’s fault.”

  “Wicked Beth?” he repeats.

  “Yes. Wicked because of what I did.”

  “Which was?”

  “Cheated. I cheated on Alan. If I hadn’t cheated on him, he wouldn’t have left me, he wouldn’t have drunk that night, he wouldn’t have hit a tree and he and Joe would be alive today.” The doctor nods slightly, encouraging me to continue. “That’s not the whole story though, Doctor.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. It’s not.”

  “Are you comfortable continuing, Elizabeth?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I have to tell you what she said.”

  “What who said?” He picks up a pen and notebook and writes something on the page. “Please, don’t mind me, I just take a few notes for my own benefit. You don’t reach fifty-two and have the same memory as a youngster.”

  “You don’t look fifty-two,” I tell him, genuinely floored by his youthful looks which belie his advancing years.

  “Thank you.” He smiles. “I look after myself. A healthy body is a healthy mind. I need one of those in order to help those whose minds are poorly.”

  Like mine? He encourages me to continue.

  “What Scarlett said…she told me she’d been seeing Alan. My husband. She said she’d slept with him.” I try to recall my conversation with Scarlett with clarity but my head is foggy, my thoughts blur until I’m less sure what is factual and what I think she implied. I decide to tell Doctor Fairfax everything in the hope that he can piece together the real from the imagined and conclude that Scarlett did, indeed, murder my family and is trying to kill me too. He listens intently, making notes as I talk. When I have finished, I take a deep breath and hold it as I await his confirmation that Scarlett is a murderer and I’m not insane. He looks up from his notebook and frowns. I exhale dejectedly.

  “Elizabeth,” he says gently. “Ordinarily, I would have asked you to start at the beginning and explore your childhood. However, as you were eager to tell me about Scarlett, I felt it best to let you continue.”

  “My childhood has nothing to do with this,” I protest vehemently. “I had a happy childhood, got good grades at school, got married, and had kids. Insignificant compared to murder, I should think.”

  “Indeed,” he acquiesces. “I’ve taken on board your concerns regarding Scarlett. I’m not decrying them as inconsequential or unfounded. What I’d like to do now, though, is to focus on grief, if I may, so that you understand how bereavement can acutely affect your wellbeing…and your reasoning. Losing a child suddenly…is possibly one of the most painful losses that one could experience, Elizabeth.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I murmur.

  “Yes, truly. I believe that what you are experiencing is what we term grief-related major depression with psychosis.” He stops and observes my reaction, which is one of faked disinterest as I play with a lock of my hair. “It’s relatively rare, but it would explain your hallucinations, misplaced anger toward others, tiredness and paranoia—all of which Sebastian tells me you have been experiencing.” I want to protest but decide to allow him to continue. The clock on the mantelpiece indicates half his time is up; this will soon be over.

  “Bereavement such as yours is a major stress, Elizabeth. Studies link such bereavement to major depression. If I can explain…there are cognitive and behavioural adjustments, which the body automatically makes after such a profound loss so that one can reach a comfortable place where happy memories can sit alongside the feelings of loss. In your case, I don’t believe these adjustments have been made. Do you understand so far?”

  “No, but carry on.” I sigh.

  “Okay, I’ll try to explain. In grief alone, the intensely sad feelings begin to give way to more positive emotions. The sad feelings are still there, but they become less frequent. With major depression and grief together, there can be more debilitating symptoms such as impaired psychological functioning.” He takes in my blank expression with a frown. “Unless treated, it can lead to hallucinations, belief that your deceased loved one is around you, anxiety…I suspect you have developed delusional thoughts and paranoia because of the trauma that you suffered with Alan and Joe’s sudden passing. Do you recognise any of what I have just told you, in your own
behaviours of late?”

  “Joe came to see me.” My whispered words are written down. “He came to wish me a happy birthday. Are you saying that my son’s sweet words to me were my imagination?”

  “What do you think, Elizabeth?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore.” My eyes meet his and implore him to help me.

  “Shall I tell you what I think?” he asks quietly. “I think you would benefit from a course of bereavement counselling. In addition, I would like you to prescribe some medication that will help you in the short term.” He retrieves a prescription pad from the inside pocket of his jacket and scribbles something on the top sheet. I say nothing. Slumped dejectedly in the chair, I accept the prescription and fold it repeatedly until it’s as small as I can make it, a tiny square that seals my fate. He’s watching my fingers work. “Do you have concerns about taking this medication, Elizabeth?”

  “What ever gives you that idea?” I tuck the small square in the pocket of my jeans and rest my hands in my lap, my eyes meeting his. “In giving me the prescription, you are confirming that I am insane. It all seems so real to me, Doctor. Some of it I don’t want to believe, but Joe coming back…it would kill me not to believe that. I can just about cope if I think he’s happy and that I’ll see him again. If that’s all in my fucked up head, then it means everything is imagined including him. That means I won’t see him again. Do you get that?”

  “I understand. However, when you’re feeling well you’ll learn to cope with the separation from Joe. I’m not saying you’ll ever stop missing him, but you will start to let in the happy memories and they will balance the sad ones. Please trust me. Trust Sebastian and your friend Ruth. Do this for yourself and for them, and your daughter and mother. Everyone around you loves you, Elizabeth, but you have to love yourself and get well.”

  An alarming thought strikes me. “May I ask you something?” Doctor Fairfax nods. “Were you Libby’s psychiatrist?” When he nods in confirmation, I ask, “Did you prescribe medication for her?” I wonder if Libby was indeed mentally ill at all, or was Scarlett poisoning her too? It all begins to make sense to me, clarity of vision akin to regaining sight after a period of blindness. The correlation of our symptoms and Scarlett’s involvement, the diagnosis and Libby’s eventual demise are all too coincidental to be wretched misfortune.