A Psychiatrist, Screams

by Simon Parke

  Sixty Eight

  Uncle? How strange that sounded on Tamsin’s lips. So long in the world alone and now the hint of connection, the rumour of belonging.

  ‘I have twenty five years to let go of,’ said Peter, regarding his whisky as though it was a prism of revelation. ‘That’s a lot of existence, and it takes time to pass through, even amid the undoubted wonders of Stormhaven.’

  Tamsin was looking at some notes.

  ‘Not that he’d ever shown any affection for the place himself.’

  ‘Who?’

  Peter had been back in the desert.

  ‘Virgil,’ said Tamsin, getting them back on track.

  ‘No, that’s right. From the notes left by Barnabus, he hated his childhood from beginning to end, left Henry House as soon as he could, and never returned.’

  Tamsin questioned why he should now change his mind and Peter said it was called ambivalence, longing for something we hate, hating something we long for. And then along comes Mind Gains and cuts off the path to resolution, the path back home.

  ‘So rage at his parents is now transferred onto the Mind Gains staff,’ says Peter.

  ‘Skull-fracturing rage?’

  ‘He enjoyed rugby as a boy.’

  They pondered the flames before Tamsin moved on.

  ‘And then there’s Bella: the heart of the place or a nosy busybody?’

  Peter was putting a couple more logs on the fire, driftwood from the beach. He also splashed a little more whisky into both glasses.

  ‘She intimated to me,’ he said, ‘that she’d enjoyed a “close friendship” with Pat.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I don’t know much about these things. I saw it expressed only in a concern for her safety.’

  ‘No one saw her from the beginning of the event to the end, and for some of the time at least, she sat and read in the pub.’

  ‘Slightly alibi-seeking behaviour, don’t you think?’

  ‘What if it is just an alibi, pure and simple?’

  ‘Possible, obviously. She didn’t ask the landlord for the time after spilling her drink over his head?’

  They both chuckled. The deliberate creation of alibis remained a surprisingly unsubtle business.

  ‘It wasn’t unusual for her to sit in the pub apparently. She has a seat in the corner and reads romances with a gin and tonic and a “do not disturb” aura.’

  ‘She’d organised the Feast of Fools and wanted to be the Lord of Misrule, but Frances wouldn’t have it,’ said Peter, as much to himself as his companion.

  ‘Frances said the appointment must be left to chance to maximise the psychological chaos - which makes sense of a sort.’

  ‘But Frances must have felt very strongly about this, to alienate the wonderful Bella over the matter. Bella was very much her appointment according to Barnabus.’

  ‘And of course no one has admitted to being the Lord of Misrule; and in a way, why would you?’

  ‘The Lord of Misrule was the murderer,’ said Peter.

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘By some means,’ continued Peter, ‘the supposedly anonymous figure of Barnabus was isolated in the office by our mystery Lord during the game of Sardines, where he was stabbed - but possibly not killed. Strange.’

  ‘People do all agree that the disguises were good.’

  ‘Blood stains show he was attacked by the desk and fell to the floor there.’

  ‘And Frances says there was no one in the office when she left. I think you’d notice a body on the floor, even after a glass or three of wine.’

  ‘So the body was in the cupboard by then, though not dead, still able to write.’

  ‘Your thousand limbs rend my body this is the way. He was killed later.’

  ‘Sometime around midnight.’

  ‘So someone came back to finish off the job - or never left the building.’

  ‘Everyone was seen leaving, except for Pat, the cleaner, who disappeared and Frances, who locked up by herself - though with the Reverend Ezekiel St Paul in attendance somewhere, warming up the car.’

  ‘And presumably Bella wasn’t still reading in the pub at midnight?’

  ‘No one can quite remember when she left, but it was some time before then.’

  There was a pause. Tamsin yawned followed by Peter, and with permission given, both suddenly felt tired.

  ‘It’s late,’ she said.

  ‘It is,’ said Peter.

  ‘Can I stay the night?’

  These were not words he wanted to hear.

  ‘Two whiskies in a car could threaten my career,’ she explained. Peter noted that it wasn’t her life she was worried about, but her career.

  ‘You’re very welcome to stay,’ said Peter. ‘The spare room is as you left it, I believe.’

  ‘But that was eleven months ago. Has no one been since?’

  ‘You may be mistaking me for a guest house.’

  Her last stay at Sandy View had been something of a camping experience, after which she’d brought both sheets and a bedside lamp for the spare room. But apparently the floodgates of hospitality hadn’t opened since. With sleeping arrangements sorted, however, the two made their plans for the following day as teeth were cleaned and hot water bottles filled. Abbot Peter would start with Ezekiel, and Tamsin would catch up with Bella. She wanted to hear more about her relationship with Pat, professional interest only. Abbot Peter’s first meeting, however, was with Poppy - and he wanted Tamsin out of the house before she came.

  ‘She’s quite unsettled by visitors.’

  ‘Then this is a good place for her,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘You have a cruel streak.’

  ‘That’s no streak, that’s all of me.’

  ‘I beg to differ.’

  Abbot Peter was not keen on self-condemnation. It was always destructive and always mistaken.

  ‘I’ll be gone early anyway. I have a meeting with Chief Inspector Wonder at 9.00 a.m.’

  ‘Something I know you’ll be looking forward to.’

  ‘He’s an idiot.’

  ‘And we can meet again tomorrow evening.’

  ‘It’ll have to be late. I’m at a leaving bash, pretending I care about the departing Mick Norman, a revolting man.’

  ‘That’s the good thing about monasteries.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘People didn’t leave - they just died.’

  ‘How cheering.’

  ‘I’d take a funeral over a leaving party every time.’

  ‘I almost agree. It - and he - will be appalling.’

  ‘Then perhaps we’ll make other plans.’

  ‘You could stay up until it’s over.’

  ‘No, there’s little I can sensibly do after 10.00 p.m. on Guy Fawkes Night, other than go to bed and long for the first light of dawn.’

  Sixty Nine

  At about the same time as Peter and Tamsin talked, there was a knock on a door across town. It was answered by Ezekiel St Paul.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ said a well-wrapped Kate Karter, ‘but can I come inside a moment?’ Ezekiel looked bemused.

  ‘You may remember me from the Feast of Fools? Kate Karter?’

  ‘We will do our business where we stand,’ said Ezekiel, barring her way. ‘It’s late, and I don’t want my household disturbed.’

  ‘Absolutely, Ezekiel.’

  It would have been wise to call him Reverend, if she’d wanted to progress further.

  ‘It was just that I was passing and I know a bible has been found at Henry House with no name inside - and I wondered if it might be yours.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘Whether you’d perhaps left
one there inadvertently? Are you sure I can’t come in?’

  ‘I would know if I had lost my bible, Mrs Karter; and I would have noticed it rather sooner than this.’

  ‘Of course, a treasured possession... or perhaps one of your family? Your wife, son or daughter? It couldn’t be one of theirs, could it? No one can think who it belongs to!’

  ‘It does not belong here, Mrs Karter, that I know - but I hope it’s returned to its owner soon. It is God’s word that they have lost!’

  ‘Indeed, God’s word, as you say.’

  ‘And now, good night to you.’

  ‘Yes, yes, good night Ezekiel.’

  And with that, Kate hurried away into the night.

  ‘Mad as a hatter,’ she thought.

  But it hadn’t gone as planned. She’d failed.

  Seventy

  Wednesday 5 November

  ‘The Sussex Silt seems damn quiet on the matter!’

  Chief Inspector Wonder exuded bluff jollity behind his desk in the Police headquarters at Lewes. Tamsin had no interest in this overweight man being happy; but she’d take this, over his nervous insecure carping when a case was taking its time.

  ‘That may be because the editor, Martin Channing, is one of the suspects.’

  ‘Martin Channing caught up in this malarkey?’ Tamsin nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s a turn-up! Oh, that’s very good, that is.’

  ‘There are six other suspects.’

  ‘Well, we must all hope it’s him.’

  ‘You don’t like the man?’

  Tamsin managed to sound suitably distant, as one who lived above the rough and tumble of human conflict and transcended the daily spite.

  ‘That man, Tamsin, is a slimeball. And don’t tell me you don’t agree.’

  ‘People do what they can until they can do it no longer.’ Wonder’s head turned.

  ‘And what in Beelzebub’s name is that supposed to mean?’

  Tamsin couldn’t remember what it meant, if she ever knew; the Abbot had explained, but she hadn’t listened and didn’t care now anyway - the effect was achieved.

  ‘So is it him?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s all smoke and mirrors at the moment. Everyone saw the murderer at work but no one saw them, if that makes any sense.’

  ‘None at all.’

  Tamsin explained events around the Feast of Fools, an event which left the Chief Inspector baffled.

  ‘You couldn’t make it up!’ he said. ‘I mean, what did they think they were doing?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Well, all of them. I mean, what d’you reckon to this therapy stuff?’ he asked leaning back in his chair and bursting one of his shirt buttons.

  ‘I don’t use it myself.’

  ‘I’ve got this psychotic fellow asking if he can offer half hour sessions to people who work here at HQ.’

  ‘I think you mean psychotherapist.’

  ‘Possibly. I’m not up on all the terms, old school me. He says they’ll benefit from a listening ear amid the strains of life, that it will help them to be more motivated. Of course I just say, “Problems? Man up and grow a chin, you big girl’s blouse!”.’

  Wonder enjoyed his comedy while Tamsin wanted to cut the chummy chat and get back to the case. But both Wonder and his chest were in expansive mood:

  ‘And then what will the unintended consequences be?’

  ‘The psychotherapist?’

  ‘The psycho bloke, yes. Have you thought of that?’

  ‘Why would I? It’s not my job.’

  ‘Very nice for the officers to have free therapy in company time and all that, but what if they suddenly “find themselves” and want to go off and start a donkey refuge in Venezuela? What then?’

  Tamsin felt this was unlikely.

  ‘Knowing your officers as I do, Chief Inspector, I don’t think there’s great danger of that. The donkeys in Venezuela may need to struggle on alone for a while longer.’

  ‘No, but it makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  It made Tamsin think her boss was a waste of her time.

  ‘Well, keep me in the loop, Tamsin.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And the old monk fellow’s helping, is he?’

  ‘An extra pair of hands, certainly.’

  ‘The Special Witness post is meant to be a little more than that, Tamsin. It’s about value added. Are you getting value added?’

  Tamsin struggled to offer a complimentary word about Abbot Peter. The traditional motivational sandwich of ‘praise, reproof, praise,’ was simply not her bag. She tended to offer just the filling while keeping the praise for herself.

  ‘It was a good choice of mine to appoint him, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Then I’m not sure anything else is relevant right now.’ Tamsin sometimes forgot that this man was her boss.

  Seventy One

  ‘Now that is a wondrous thing, Poppy!’

  Abbot Peter gazed with awe at the computer screen in his study... while Poppy considered an empty milk carton on the carpet.

  Wondrous: it wasn’t something he often said about e mails, but today was an exception. Here was a wondrous email, one of two missives waiting for him on this Guy Fawkes Day morning. The first came from a Paul Heron who wrote to ask him if he was the same ‘Abbot Peter’ who used to teach Maths and occasionally PE at Winter Hill Court Preparatory School? Sensing a court case in the air, Peter was relieved to be able to reply in the negative. He’d been 4000 miles away during the decade in question. But it was the second email which gripped him, an email covered in sand and bringing to his dark study - the builder of this extension had not been a fan of natural light - a most precious desert cargo.

  In theory, Poppy’s presence in the study made her a trespasser. It was a house rule at Sandy View: wherever else they went in the house, no one was allowed in Abbot Peter’s study. But he’d bent the rules for his small companion and Poppy seemed to understand, seemed to grasp that here was a place of quiet. She sat now on the blue carpet in a state of enchantment with the recycling box, brought in from the kitchen for this very purpose. Peter had quickly noticed that whatever toys her mother left for her - colourful toys, clever toys, cuddly toys - she’d gravitate with strong inevitability towards the recycling, an ever-changing treasure trove of cereal packets, plastic bottles, old marmite jars and tin foil.

  ‘But obviously you must tell no one,’ he’d warned her, ‘no one, you understand? Or they’ll think I’m going soft and start imagining they’re allowed in my study as well... and they’re not, you see - only you.’

  And if Poppy had treasure, so did Peter, as with one click on the keyboard, he opened up a library of poems by his old friend Hafiz.

  They’d been delivered to St James-the-Less by his copyist, Behrouz Gul, fearful for their survival in Shiraz. And there they’d sat for 600 years, largely ignored, but occasionally discovered and one of the explorers had been Barnabus Hope, who’d never been the same thereafter.

  ‘He cracked the world open for me,’ Barnabus had said. ‘And light flooded in!’

  But it was only last year, and how fortunate, that these poems had been digitalised by the thrusting new Abbot. Abbot Donaldo may be destroying the place, but he understood technology and, in his words, was ‘keen to make St James-the-Less a global influence.’ It would no doubt be called St James-the-More soon in a further re-branding exercise. But, in the meantime, he’d been only too pleased to send Peter some of the monastery’s treasures - and what strong feelings arose inside him as he read.

  Peter had been moved by these poems twenty five years ago... no, melted - better by far than moved. Moved is some brief emotion quickly left behind, but melting is change, reconfi
guration with nothing the same thereafter. These poems had melted Peter all those years ago, but can you be melted twice? And perhaps more pressingly, would these lines shed light on the one who smashed the skull of his friend? Yes, perhaps friend was the word, he still wasn’t sure, but before starting on the poetry, Peter read through Abbot Donaldo’s brief message. Greetings in Christ’s name, brotherly love from the desert, blah blah blah, and then he signed off with St Paul’s famous lines from the book of Corinthians, popular for royal weddings, he’d heard: ‘And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.’ And of course being Donaldo, and being eager to show how much he knew, he’d had to write them in Egyptian.

  Always the showman.

  ‘Here goes, Poppy!’ said Peter, scooping her up in response to her outstretched arms. ‘Do you want to read the first poem with me? Yes? And don’t panic, they’re all sensibly short. Hafiz knew we’d be busy people. And then we’ll get straight back to the Owl in the Tree.’

  With Poppy settled on his lap, he started to scroll down to the first piece of verse. And as he did so, something leapt like fire into his consciousness.

  When the hounds see the fox, and Peter just had, the chase is nearing its end... and all thanks to Donaldo.

  Act Four

  What we call happiness in the strictest sense comes from the (preferably sudden) satisfaction of needs which have been dammed up to a high degree.

  Sigmund Freud

  Seventy Two

  Peter took the phone call at 7.00 p.m., as the first of the fireworks fizzed into the night air. By 7.20 p.m. he was in a taxi. He’d tried to call Tamsin but her phone was turned off. He then remembered the leaving do, an appalling policeman’s send-off , with Tamsin pretending to care... it wouldn’t be a great impression. Peter had left a message - though who could tell when she’d pick it up?

  Kate Karter had sounded distressed on the phone, genuinely distressed, and begged him to come quickly. No doubt she’d already tried Tamsin and had no luck. She was at Henry House, she said. Why Henry House? asked Peter. She would explain everything, she said, it was a long story but he must hurry, ‘Everything depends on it, Abbot, everything!’