Dr Samantha Willerby Box Set

by A J Waines

  She led me through to a studio that was out of bounds to the public. The strong smell of glue made my eyes water. A handful of people were working; one using his fingers to pummel clay, another bending a long coil of wire into a shape that looked like a bicycle frame.

  She showed me a row of shiny limes and lemons made of melted wax on copper mesh. ‘These are nearly finished. I’ve sold two “still lifes” in the last month.’

  ‘Wow, they’re good enough to eat,’ I said, in genuine awe.

  ‘Everyone says that,’ she laughed, looking pleased. She leant against the bench waiting for me to explain the real reason I’d turned up.

  I caught her cagey stare and cleared my throat. ‘I wanted to ask how Miranda was getting on. How she’s been lately?’

  She folded her arms. ‘Checking up on her.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. She doesn’t tell me much at all these days. I want to make sure she’s okay.’

  She looked me steadily in the eye. ‘To be honest, she seems to have had a new lease of life lately. I’ve known her since she started here and she’s the happiest I’ve seen her.’

  ‘That’s…good.’

  ‘She’s had a real surge in her painting. She’s been trying new techniques. Mac, her tutor, is very pleased with her.’

  I decided it was best to come clean.

  ‘This is going to sound like a terrible betrayal, but I found a syringe in Miranda’s flat…she said she uses it for painting…’

  Her expression didn’t change. She looked like she was used to prying family members trying to rock the boat.

  ‘Don’t jump to conclusions,’ she said. ‘Believe it or not, some artists do use clean syringes. It’s not something we do here, with ex-users around, but I know artists in other studios who use them to soften oil paint, especially white.’ She lifted an oily rag to wipe her fingers. ‘For some reason white gets lumpy and dries out quickly and you can easily control the consistency on the palette with a syringe.’

  ‘Wouldn’t a bottle with a rubber dropper work better?’

  ‘Oil rots the rubber.’ Kora raised her eyebrows. ‘Perhaps if you’d looked closer you’d have seen paint on the syringe.’

  I nodded with a wince.

  ‘I’m so paranoid about what Miranda might be up to next that I didn’t stop to look properly.’

  She twisted her mouth into an expression of contempt. ‘Miranda’s newfound enthusiasm for life has nothing to do with drugs…’ She hesitated. A brief acknowledgment of confidentiality. ‘I’m not sure I should tell you.’

  I gave her a look which said she’d gone too far to backtrack.

  ‘I might be wrong – but I’m pretty sure she’s got a new man in her life.’

  My eyes widened. ‘Someone from here?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. You’ll have to ask her.’ She began walking away. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’

  I managed to find both Sponge, Kora’s boyfriend, and Mac, Miranda’s tutor, and both were adamant that Miranda wasn’t using.

  ‘According to her medical records, she’s never been into drugs,’ said Mac. ‘I thought you’d know that.’

  ‘I did. I do…it’s just…’ My sentence fizzled out into a sigh.

  It made sense. Miranda had started taking medication for schizophrenia when she was twenty and hated it. It was years before her doctors got the dose just right and she’d always loathed taking the stuff. The idea that she’d play around with her dosage or mix her prescribed drugs with any illicit substances was entirely out of character. I should have realised.

  I thanked him and came away with a weight lifted from my shoulders. One less thing to worry about. I was intrigued, however, by the new boyfriend. Why hadn’t she told me?

  Chapter 16

  Sam

  By the time Rosie arrived for her next session, I was feeling a bizarre mixture of confusion and compassion. Rosie had claimed that I was the ‘only person to ever understand her’, but in the recording at the lecture, she’d made exactly the same claim about her previous therapist. Presumably, she made desperate bids to ingratiate herself with anyone who would listen. Maybe she was even more fragile and damaged than I’d thought.

  I didn’t want to bombard Rosie with questions about it, but I did want to know how Erica’s death had affected her. It must have been a nasty shock to lose someone she trusted.

  But before she sat down, Rosie launched straight in with an update on the crash. She was clearly obsessed with Max’s empty violin case showing up and had been trying to work out what it meant. I’d already assumed that musical instruments and water didn’t mix, but I’d done a little research of my own and discovered that all the joints in a stringed instrument are water soluble, so even busking in the rain is risky. If a violin is immersed in water, the damage can range from discolouration, to the whole instrument coming apart at the seams, beyond repair.

  Rosie hitched her seat a few inches closer to mine. ‘Something doesn’t add up,’ she said defiantly. ‘It’s about the case.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I mentioned when I rang you that Max’s violin case came from a company in Naples called Xenara,’ she explained. ‘They claim to be the best in the business. Typical. Nothing but the finest for wonder-boy.’ She tutted. ‘The company have run tests by sending a violin inside one of their cases into the Gulf of Naples.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Can you believe it? It stayed afloat for hours and because of the waterproof coating, neither the inside of the case nor the violin got wet.’

  I raised my eyebrows, taking it in.

  ‘There’s something else – even more significant. There’s a pull-down lock system on this type of case that makes it watertight. The makers say it’s “almost impossible” for it to be opened accidentally.’ She paused, bit her lip. ‘I’m sure the case was shut properly when we got in the van. Max always made a point of locking it, too, even if he only had a short trip to make. Habit, I suppose.’

  That was interesting.

  She carried on. ‘It makes me think it couldn’t have broken open accidentally. What do you reckon?’

  I blinked fast. ‘I really don’t know, Rosie. I think we should try to stay focused on what you can remember. We’ll have to let the police sort out the rest.’

  ‘Can you take me back again? I’d like to try to catch more of the lost pieces. My memories are like dandelion clocks. I’m trying to snatch at them, but most of the time I’m not quick enough and they float away.’

  I smiled at the image she portrayed. ‘The way you describe things…’ I said, as I invited her to lie down, ‘it’s striking. I’m not saying you’re deliberately trying to keep me entertained, but if you are, you really don’t need to. I’m listening, no matter what.’

  Her cheeks flared up into a sharp pink colour. ‘I didn’t realise…’ She sounded chuffed rather than embarrassed.

  She closed her eyes as I pulled the blanket up to her chin. I gently led her back to those scenes in the Lake District, starting a little earlier on, when the quartet were packing up the van.

  ‘Was it just the four of you or did any of Hinds’ people help you with the instruments?’

  ‘It was just us. Max wouldn’t let anyone touch his violin. He wanted to keep it in the front beside him, but there wasn’t room. He even suggested Stephanie give up her seat for it and she went in the back with me, but Richard wasn’t having that.’

  ‘Richard stuck up for Stephanie?’

  ‘Yeah. The others took their seats and there was only one place I could go.’ She blew out a long breath. ‘Like I said before, being in the back saved my life.’

  ‘I’d like to try something, Rosie. Do you drive?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. Have you passed your test?’

  ‘No. I had some driving lessons when I left college, but…I wasn’t… I never…’

  ‘That’s okay. You know how a car works, that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Yeah. Sort of.’

  She tried
to extend her hand towards mine, but I tucked the blanket around her in a measured and firm stroke, keeping her arms inside. The whole ‘holding hands’ business had started to become a habit and I wanted to break it.

  ‘Can we run the incident from the time you got into the van, but can you describe it as if you were in the front, in the driver’s seat?’

  ‘From Richard’s position?’ She cleared her throat. ‘I’ll try.’

  I helped set the scene. ‘So you’re getting into the driver’s side, sliding on to the seat. Are Max and Stephanie already in? Is Rosie in the back with the instruments?’

  ‘Er, yeah. Max is just clicking his seatbelt.’ Her voice became a slow monotone as she began to relive the events. ‘Stephanie is wriggling about, because it’s a tight fit in the front…I’m behind her…’ She ground to a halt and opened her eyes. ‘Sorry…’

  ‘It’s okay. Try to stay with Richard’s point of view from now on. I know it’s weird, but tell me everything from his perspective. You’re Richard, behind the wheel. Feel your feet on the pedals, touch the handbrake, check the rear-view mirror…can you carry on?’

  ‘I’m Richard…I’m…behind the wheel. I put the key in the ignition and the engine groans. It’s slow to get started. I try again. Then we’re off. We pull out of the Hinds’ gravel drive and head down the track towards the lane that leads to the lakeside road.’

  ‘As Richard, what do you see, how do you feel?’

  ‘I’m quite hot, I’ve got my sleeves rolled up. Stephanie hands me a bottle of water, but I don’t want it. She hands it to...Rosie in the back…no, hang on, that’s later…’

  All of a sudden, she stopped and shot upright as if she’d been stung by an insect.

  ‘I can remember something,’ she said, dragging the blanket into her mouth, her eyes wide. ‘It was Richard. Before the crash. We were in the pub – it must have been the night we got there.

  ‘“Wouldn’t you love to see the look on his face?” he’d said. “It would be worth it just for that.”’

  Memory recall is like that at times. Things jump around, come back in the wrong order. I went with it.

  ‘Was it just you and Richard in the pub, or was anyone else with you?’

  ‘No, it was just me…and Richard.’

  I waited. She sank back down again, closed her eyes.

  ‘He was talking about Max’s violin.’ I watched her eyelids flutter. I imagined the pictures inside her head coming to life, like photographs emerging in a developing tray. ‘He put his hand over mine and then he asked me.’

  She waited, as if she was listening for his words.

  ‘He said, “Are you in?”’

  ‘Are you in?’ I repeated neutrally.

  ‘And I said, “How? What do you mean?”’

  ‘“We steal it,” Richard said. “Are you in?”’

  She made a little snoring sound followed by a sigh. I was aching to prompt her. I didn’t want her to lose the thread, but I didn’t want to distract her, either.

  She sat up, alert, and pulled out of the trance. ‘It’s gone. I can’t remember what I said. But it would have been no, of course.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘He can’t have been serious anyway. He would have known, like we said before, that there was no way it could be sold on. Unless…’ She stopped, seeming to think about it. ‘Could Richard have set up other avenues for fencing it, do you think?’

  We tried revisiting the memories several more times, but got no further.

  ‘Why would Richard run the van off the road deliberately and risk killing himself?’ she pondered out loud. ‘He’d have had plenty of other opportunities to make Max’s violin disappear, wouldn’t he?’

  She took a sip of water and waited for me to say something.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to wait and see if you get any answers to that.’

  I’d been itching to ask her a question, and with a few moments left I finally managed it.

  ‘When we first met, you said you hadn’t had any therapy for about six months, is that right?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘Is it okay to ask how long you’d been seeing your previous therapist?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. About…’ she appeared to count in her head, ‘eighteen months.’

  ‘That’s quite some time. And…you decided to end the sessions?’ I felt a twitch of guilt for putting her to the test.

  Her eyes dodged across the room. ‘No. She died.’

  ‘Wow – that must have been really hard for you. You didn’t say…’

  ‘I didn’t know you at first. I was too upset to talk about it. I would have told you eventually. Bit of a shock, actually. You get to depend on someone always being there. Then, out of the blue, they’re gone.’

  It was hard to imagine what impact Erica’s death must have had on Rosie, given her unstable background and lack of formative attachments.

  ‘Did you…did you get on well with her?’

  She sniffed. I could see she was aiming at nonchalance. ‘Yeah. Not bad.’ She glanced up at the clock. ‘My time’s finished now. I’d better go.’ She got up and left before I could pry any further.

  Chapter 17

  Rosie

  She thinks I’m special. Okay – to be honest, she didn’t actually use that word, but she seems to like the way I describe things. She thinks it’s unusual. It’s probably about as close to feeling special as I’m going to get.

  She’s asking a lot of questions about the accident, so I know she’s intrigued by the mystery of it. We pass ideas back and forth; sometimes, it’s like sharing gossip with a proper friend.

  She’s even done some research herself. I’m impressed by that – really chuffed. Erica would never have gone that far. She only ever asked me how I felt about things, how I was coping. Sam seems to want to be involved. It’s as if we’re a team, trying to solve the mystery together. And that’s exactly how I want it to be.

  She was really sensitive about Erica when I told her she’d died. I bet she was wondering whether I liked Erica better than her.

  I couldn’t see the thank you card I sent anywhere – I was disappointed about that. Maybe it’s by her bed or amongst her private things, so that no one else can see it. Yes, that would explain it.

  It’s quite relaxing lying there on her special couch, only I didn’t get to hold her hand this time. I don’t need to hold her hand, of course – maybe just that first time, but it’s wonderful when it happens. I think she’d have liked to, this time, only we had work to do and she seemed to respect that. I’m hoping we’ll get the balance right soon and we can show affection for each other without her feeling so awkward. It must be hard for her when she’s used to seeing me at the hospital.

  It’s brilliant to have her hanging on my every word when she uses the memory trick that helps me access my subconscious. It makes me feel all warm inside. And I don’t have to tell her everything I remember either. In fact, for all she knows, I could be making it all up. She’s only got my word for it.

  The following week sank into a pointless, grey wasteland until I got to see her again. As soon as Thursday came around the world was worth being a part of once more.

  Sam and I did the trance thing again, but this time it wasn’t so comforting. Quite scary, to be honest.

  I was lying down under the blanket, away with the fairies, talking through who did what – and I’m not sure what happened next. One minute I was listening to Sam’s voice guiding me along the road beside the lake, the next I was gasping for breath, with great swelling sobs jerking my body like jolts from a defibrillator. All of a sudden the horror of it overwhelmed me. Richard trying to take evasive action even though we were already airborne. Stephanie wailing in the brief moment before we hit the water. Max frantically trying to wriggle out of his seat belt.

  I shot up on the couch, my hands clawing the air, my nose running, and I couldn’t see a thing. My eyes were pumping out tears like a burst water main. Sam held me. I couldn’t believe i
t. It was like being lifted up to heaven with my angel of deliverance. She wrapped her arms around me and stayed still. Like that was okay. Nothing out of the ordinary. Like I deserved it. I had to practically peel her arms away from me; she didn’t want to let me go.

  ‘I can see blurred images of their terrified faces.’ My voice came in short bursts, between ugly snorts. ‘But I couldn’t have seen them…I was behind them…I could only have seen the backs of their heads.’

  ‘It’s your imagination playing tricks on you,’ Sam reassured me. She gave my arms a rub and finally let go.

  ‘Why is my brain trying to give me nightmares?’ I cried.

  ‘It wants to fill in the gaps. It’s trying to create its own video of the event. It’s what our brains do.’

  Sam retreated to her chair and I pulled my knees in to my chest, shivering under the blanket. My tears had left damp patches on the pillow and the side table. I felt stupid, a bit like I’d wet myself.

  ‘Why am I crying when I was the one who came out alive?’

  ‘I’ve been expecting this,’ Sam said calmly. ‘It’s a perfectly normal reaction. It’s partly the shock; you’re still trying to process what happened and why.’

  ‘It’s over nine weeks since we went down, since they went missing. Why now?’

  ‘Take your time,’ she said, waiting for more.

  ‘I keep going through the normal routine of my life, then remembering that Richard won’t ever down a pint of real ale again, Max won’t ever play the Tchaikovsky or tune up his beloved violin. Stephanie won’t see her kids going up a shoe size. I want them to have those things again. It’s like I’m trying to live their lives for them inside my head, because they can’t.’

  ‘It’s partly survivor’s guilt,’ Sam reassured me. ‘You might feel a range of strange feelings and reactions as part of that. I’d like you to know that you can talk about all of those confusing feelings here.’

  ‘Am I having a breakdown?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s completely normal after what you’ve been through.’