Jake’s instinct was that Xavier wasn’t somebody who did a lot of entertaining at this house. In fact, it seemed he was barely living. Is this what happened to heartbroken fathers forced to live away from their child? Cut off from the world and left to die alone. It wasn’t an existence – if you could even call it that – which Jake wanted to experience.
He was about to leave the kitchen when he spotted a calendar hanging on the back of the kitchen door. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but now that he studied it closer, he could see it was open on April’s page. A picture of an Alsatian made up the top half, and beneath it square boxes for each day of the week. A large star had been drawn in the box for Sunday with the number 32 drawn within it, but no other notes to suggest what that meant. He had a recurring meeting with “DM” every second Friday at 3pm, and the only other entry had been for yesterday at midday with the initials “BS”. Not a lot to go on, but if he had planned to see “BS” yesterday and “DM” next Friday, why make the appointments if he was planning to kill himself on Sunday?
As Jake lifted the calendar off its hook to look through other pages, a yellow leaflet fluttered to the floor. Stooping, Jake picked it up and saw the large initials “BS”, only they were attached to the words “Bereavement” and “Support”. The leaflet was advertising a monthly support group meeting in Freemantle of all places. It said the group was open to all and appealed to anyone who had suffered loss and was looking for an open place to talk and support others. The leaflet listed the dates and times of the meetings, and judging by the calendar entry, Charles had planned to attend yesterday’s session.
A synapse fired at the back of Jake’s mind: Tosh had said something about a witness confirming Rita Enfield had attended some kind of support group yesterday. It could be pure coincidence, but Jake made a mental note to look into it.
He was about to leave when he remembered the cameras at the gates. Returning to the main room, he found a door he’d missed in the preliminary search. It was barely a box room, but inside he found a computer connected to an external hard drive. Waking the computer, he found himself staring at the locked gate, and the time in the corner confirmed the feed was live. Rewinding the footage, he saw himself waving stupidly at the screen from when he’d arrived. Disconnecting both devices, he carried them to his car, securing them in the boot to maintain the chain of evidence, and ready to deposit them with the science team for review.
Locking the house, Jake returned to his car, and was about to start the engine when his phone burst into life. Seeing Isabella’s profile on the screen he answered it.
‘Jake? Jake? Oh, thank God! You need to come quickly. I need you.’
THIRTY-TWO
Entering the waiting room was like stepping into an icy landscape, the air conditioning unit working overtime to maintain the cool, yet not unpleasant temperature. It certainly beat the thirty degree heat outside as the sun reach its peak for the day.
Megan was relieved that the usual receptionist wasn’t around, as the last thing she needed was another argument. Janice had tried to phone back twice, but having left a voice message, hadn’t tried again in nearly an hour.
Megan approached the desk, but didn’t recognise the white-haired woman behind it. The receptionist was busy reading something on the screen and hadn’t appeared to have noticed Megan’s eyes just above the level of the desk. Megan coughed, startling the woman who quickly apologised for not noticing her sooner. The badge identified her as Helen, Senior Administration Manager.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, revealing a smile stained yellow from nicotine. ‘Who are you here to see?’
‘Dr Patel,’ Megan replied, though swiftly added, ‘I don’t have an appointment, but I’m hoping by some miracle he might have had a cancellation.’
Helen moved the mouse around as she consulted the appointments diary on the screen. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Patel is full for the day. He has a free slot later tomorrow afternoon if that helps at all?’
‘I really need to speak to him urgently,’ Megan said, hoping to appeal to Helen’s better nature.
Helen frowned empathetically, removing her reading glasses as she did. ‘I’m sorry, there’s really nothing I can do,’ but then a fresh thought sparked and she quickly put her reading glasses back on and consulted the screen again. ‘I could fit you in with Dr Marshall, if that would be any good? Her one o’clock was cancelled.’
Megan hesitated, unsure that she wanted to share her disturbing past with yet another psychiatrist.
‘I appreciate Dr Patel is your regular doctor,’ Helen continued, ‘but if your need is as urgent as it appears, I think Dr Marshall would be only too happy to see you. I tell you what, I’ll book in the appointment for you with Dr Patel for Friday afternoon before it goes, and if Dr Marshall resolves whatever is troubling you, you can always cancel the other appointment on your way out.’
Megan still wasn’t sure about speaking with a different counsellor, but the thought of repeating the afternoon’s weird episode before she’d had chance to speak to Dr Patel filled her with greater dread.
Megan thanked her for the help and added, ‘You’re much kinder than the other woman who’s usually here.’
Helen gave an understanding nod, though she didn’t comment on Megan’s observation, simply adding, ‘She’s got the day off. I have to cover at all of the practices when a temp can’t be found in time.’
Megan glanced up at the sign above the desk, only now remembering that the group had practices in Poole, Bournemouth and Portsmouth, as well as Bursledon.
Megan remained at the desk while Helen called through to Dr Samantha Marshall, wondering whether Dr Patel would think less of her for seeing another psychiatrist behind his back, before dismissing the thought. If anything he’d probably be relieved he wouldn’t have to hear about her mental breakdown.
‘An anxiety attack?’ Megan repeated back to Dr Marshall, who was sat on a desk chair, her legs crossed, and the grey skirt hugging her svelte figure.
‘That’s what it sounds like. Tell me, Megan, what were you doing when the flashes and breathlessness started?’
‘I was on the phone with work.’
‘And what were you talking about?’
‘They want me to return to work, but I don’t feel ready yet.’
Dr Marshall’s long blonde hair fell effortlessly over her shoulders, what little makeup she wore served to accentuate her cheek bones, and the lipstick as red as the tight t-shirt covering her ample bosom. It was like having a counselling session with a walking, talking doll.
‘And is there anything else going on in your life to heighten stress levels?’
Megan snorted in derision. If only she knew!
‘I’m not privy to any conversations you’ve undertaken with Dr Patel,’ Dr Marshall said, focusing on Megan’s face. ‘It is entirely up to you whether you wish to share any more of your background with me, or whether you’d prefer to leave that for tomorrow’s appointment you have with him. All I will say is I can only make a prognosis on the information you give me. Based on how you described the episode this afternoon, it bares all the hallmarks of a panic or anxiety attack.’
Megan snorted sceptically. ‘A panic attack?’
Dr Marshall nodded reassuringly. ‘It’s surprisingly more common than you might think. In fact, given today’s culture for stress and pressure – particularly in the work place – more and more people are suffering as a result. Can I ask: when you say they want you to return to work, what is the reason you’re not there?’
Megan stared at her, wondering how much she should say. Rob would have fancied Dr Marshall. He’d always had a thing for blonde women with long legs, which made it all the more strange that he’d been with Megan. Not that he’d have ever admitted to fancying someone like Dr Marshall; he knew Megan wouldn’t have liked him to admit it. It was one of those things they both knew, but neither acknowledged.
‘My partner died in a fire at our home,’ Megan said, her eyes
welling up as she uttered the words formally for the first time, and feeling guilty for admitting it.
‘I see,’ said Dr Marshall, making that face they all made when they heard the news. The “half-pity-half-relieved-it’s-not-them” face. ‘How long ago was the fire?’
Megan sniffed. ‘Three months.’
‘And when you said you don’t feel ready, why is that?’
Megan stared at her blankly, before looking down at her hands. What exactly did she expect her to say? She wasn’t ready. That was that.
Dr Marshall picked up on Megan’s reluctance to speak. ‘Is it that you’re worried that returning to work will somehow mean you’re letting go of the life you had with your partner? Like you’re leaving him behind?’
Megan’s head snapped up.
Dr Marshall was scribbling something on the large pad on her lap. ‘Because that’s okay, Megan. It’s okay to be nervous about moving on. It’s all part of the grieving process. And it can be very stressful.’
Megan stared back at her hands as a fresh veil of tears filled her eyes.
‘Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look like you’ve been sleeping well. Based on appearance alone, I’d say you’re feeling very stressed at the moment, and if that is the case, you need to take steps to reduce that stress or today’s anxiety attack will affect you again at some point in the future.’
Dr Marshall reached across her desk and located a leaflet that she passed to Megan. What was it with medical professionals and their advice leaflets? It seemed they had one for every possible situation. Need to lose weight? Here’s a leaflet. Need to quit smoking? Here’s a leaflet. Your husband has run off with a man, leaving you to raise the kids and pay the rent on your own? Here’s a leaflet.
Megan accepted the paper, but didn’t look at it.
‘There are a number of steps you can take to reduce stress. Things like diet, improved sleep patterns, reduced alcohol, and exercise. And then there are exercises you can do when you feel things are getting too much, or if you feel another episode building.’ Dr Marshall noticed Megan hadn’t looked at the leaflet. ‘Listen, I know it’s easy for me to tell you what to do, but I’m not immune to stress and anxiety. What I’m telling you now isn’t something out of a book, it’s based on my own experiences.’
Megan frowned subconsciously. ‘You suffer with anxiety?’
Dr Marshall nodded. ‘Why do you find that so hard to believe?’
‘Look at you. What do you have to be anxious about?’
Dr Marshall’s face remained calm. ‘You think because I have a successful career, and I work out at the gym that I can’t suffer with anxiety? Do you really think my shit doesn’t smell too?’
Megan couldn’t help the giggle that escaped, and soon both women were snickering.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dr Marshall offered. ‘That was quite unprofessional of me, but hopefully you see my point. I have huge hang-ups about my appearance, which is why I spend every night pounding tread mills and doing cardio.’
Megan didn’t know how to respond, feeling guilty about being so judgemental herself.
Dr Marshall leaned forward, resting a cool hand on Megan’s. ‘The steps in the leaflet won’t solve the issues you’re dealing with, but you may just find they help you live with them better. Give them a go.’
Megan turned the leaflet over in her hands, promising she would at least try them once. The steps included black and white drawings of a faceless figure demonstrating the action. Megan couldn’t see how simple breathing would improve her sleep and grief, but anything was worth trying if it meant she could return to something resembling normality.
‘Is there anything else stopping you returning to work?’ Dr Marshall asked, tilting her head. ‘Or anything else that’s adding to your stress levels at the moment? Maybe some time away might help speed up the grieving process or lift the weight on your shoulders a fraction? Is there a friend or relative who could -’
Megan had heard enough and unlatched the brake holding her wheels in place. ‘Our time’s up,’ she said nodding towards the oversized clock on the wall.
Dr Marshall glanced back at the clock, and looked saddened that their session was ending. ‘Will you promise me you’ll look at those exercises?’
Megan said she would and thanked her, as she made her way back to the waiting room, but when Helen asked if she wanted to cancel Friday’s appointment with Dr Patel, Megan decided to err on the side of caution.
THIRTY-THREE
Thumping his hand against the car’s horn, Jake pushed his way out and around the idling car in front, whose driver didn’t seem to have a clue where he was going. All Jake had managed to get out of Isabella was that she was at the hospital, and that she needed picking up. Her voice had cracked under the strain of emotion as he had demanded answers, but she’d been unable to say. Jake’s mind raced with the worst possible scenarios of what might have happened.
Had Gabby been in an accident? Had Isabella been diagnosed with some incurable illness? Had one of her parents been rushed into Intensive Care following a stroke?
He needed answers, and the procession of slow cars clogging the route direct to the hospital only served to heighten his frustration.
He’d tried to call her back, but her phone was now off, which could mean she’d headed back into the hospital and onto a ward where phones were forbidden. Images of Gabby comatose on a stretcher with tubes hanging from her body filled his mind, and as he screeched to a stop outside A&E, he was practically in tears.
Isabella was sat on a bench to the side of the automatic doors, a cigarette delicately placed between her fingers. Jake leapt from the car, leaving his door open as he rushed to her side. It took her a moment to look up and realise he had arrived. He’d never seen her look so fragile, like the slightest whisper of breath would cause her skin and bone to crumble.
‘What’s happened?’ Jake managed to say, bracing himself for the response, and praying his imagination had just been playing cruel tricks. ‘Is it Gabby?’
She took a small drag on the cigarette, before slowly turning to look at him, like her mind was unable to process the answer. ‘I was in an accident.’
Jake glanced at his watch. It was only half past one, which meant Gabby would have still been in school, but he had to know for sure. ‘Were you alone?’
She nodded, and some of the ash from the cigarette dropped to the floor.
Jake allowed a small gasp of relief to escape, hoping his rapidly beating heart would now slow to a walking pace. ‘What happened? Are you okay?’
But rather than answer, she simply leaned in to him, burying her head in his shoulder. Her tears soaked through his shirt. Uncertain how to respond, he delicately placed his right arm around her. The cigarette dropped from her hand, as she put her other hand around his neck, pulling him down so his cheek was resting on the top of her head. And there they remained for several moments; her clinging to him for protection, and him ready to protect her from anything that dared to threaten.
‘Let’s go home,’ he eventually said, when he saw a hospital security guard shooting disapproving looks at the abandoned car, which was blocking potential access for ambulances.
The car was quiet as she stared absently out of the window, and he tried to find the words to ask what had happened and how she had ended up at the hospital. But she was still so vulnerable that he didn’t have the heart to invoke tears again. One of her cheeks looked rosier than the other, which could have been a result of her crying, or just as easily a bump to the face. She was holding her left arm close to her, but there was no obvious sign of a strapping around it, and she had walked freely to the car, so he couldn’t be certain what the outcome of the doctor’s examination had been.
As they pulled onto the driveway, he killed the engine but made no effort to exit the vehicle. ‘Are you ready to tell me what happened?’
She tensed at the sudden break in the silence, and dabbed her eye as she turned to face him. ‘I wa
s driving back along the motorway when this car came out of nowhere and forced me into the central reservation.’
‘Oh, Jesus!’ was all he could muster, understanding why the biggest impact appeared to be on her emotions. ‘And the car?’
She shrugged. ‘I think they said they were going to tow it somewhere, but might be a write-off.’
‘And are – are – are you okay? What did the doctors say?’
‘They said I was lucky to walk away with no broken bones. But the air bag caused me to bash the side of my head, and they said I shouldn’t be alone in case of concussion.’
Fresh tears were forming in her eyes, so Jake rested a hand on her cheek, and wiped them with the tip of his thumb. ‘I’m glad you called me.’
She nuzzled her face in his hand, kissing his palm. ‘I didn’t know who else to reach out to. You’ve always been my rock, Jacob.’
She kissed his palm, again, and as he continued to stare at her brilliant blue eyes, he could suddenly see the woman he’d fallen so hard for all those years ago. But for the first time he was seeing the Isabella hidden beneath the confident – almost cocky – shell that she’d projected for most of her life. Here was a delicate flower, yearning to be loved and protected, and in that moment he would have laid his life down for her.
It took all his will power not to lean forward and kiss her. Instead, he peeled his hand away, and pulled the keys from the ignition. ‘We should go in. I’ll fix you a sweet cup of tea for the shock.’
Déjà Vu Page 17
