by Tim Weaver
‘And what reaction’s that?’
‘Don’t play me. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Anything I say gets treated with immediate suspicion. Anything McMillan says – or this woman – is taken as cast-iron fact.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Isn’t it? Are you even looking into McMillan?’
‘Looking into him how?’
‘He’s lying about me.’
‘He’s an eminent psychiatrist, Mr Raker.’
I stared Field down, saw I wasn’t going to get anywhere, and then turned my attention to Carson: ‘When I blacked out three years ago, that was stress, exhaustion, whatever you want to call it. A friend of mine …’ My words dropped away and I gave myself a moment, thinking of Kennedy, needing to pick my words carefully. It was the search for him that had almost broken me. ‘Eventually, I found him,’ I said, ‘but he was dead.’
Another lie.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Carson replied.
‘This isn’t the same. I didn’t black out due to some biological defect; I blacked out because McMillan put something in my coffee.’
‘Why the hell would he do that?’ Kent asked. He was off his phone now, his arms in a downward V in front of him, his left hand gripping the RSI bandage on his right wrist.
‘Maybe the same reason he’s lying about my wife.’
‘That’s a very serious charge.’
‘It’s not a charge, it’s the truth.’
‘How can we trust someone who lies to us?’
‘You seem to have trusted McMillan.’
‘Okay,’ Carson said, looking between us all, holding a hand up. ‘Okay, maybe we should all calm down for a moment.’
‘Take my blood,’ I said to him.
‘Why?’
‘Because then you’ll be able to see if I’m right.’
‘About what?’
‘About whether McMillan drugged me.’
Carson looked at Field and Kent, as if seeking permission, and when neither reacted, he said softly, ‘David, do you ever find it difficult concentrating on things for long periods?’
‘What?’ The change of direction had thrown me. ‘No.’
‘Have there been any changes to your sleep patterns?’
‘Well, I was roofied two nights ago …’
‘What about before all of this?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t have trouble sleeping normally?’
‘No,’ I said, but that was just another lie to add to the others: even now, even eight years on, I’d sometimes lay awake all night.
‘How do you feel about leaving the house?’
I looked at him. ‘How do I feel about it?’
‘Does the thought seem unappealing?’
‘No.’
‘What about being around people? Do you like interacting socially?’
‘It depends who with,’ I said, and glanced at Field and Kent. Kent stared at me hard, but just for a second Field’s mouth twitched, as if she’d seen the humour in it.
‘Do you feel unusually anxious?’
‘Yeah, you could say that.’
‘What about outside of the current situation?’
I looked at him again: this was going somewhere and I wasn’t sure where. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t generally get anxious unless people are actively trying to ruin my life.’
‘Do you ever feel like you’re being watched?’
‘Watched?’
‘Watched, or maybe followed, or harassed by someone.’
An image filled my head: standing out in the alley beyond the garden, the path shrouded in darkness – and thinking that I’d seen someone there.
A face.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Have you ever had hallucinations?’
I swallowed. The face that hadn’t been there. The heart on the window that left no trace of itself afterwards. The woman in my house – all her clothes, her things – and waking up and finding nothing of her left. Could they have been hallucinations?
‘David?’ Carson prompted. ‘Do you ever get anything like that?’
‘No,’ I said, deliberately trying to keep my voice composed this time – because I knew exactly where this was heading now. All his questions, all those symptoms, were pointing to one thing.
Schizophrenia.
Carson kept going, pushing me with variations on the same themes, but this time I was much less expressive, conscious of giving him too much or too little.
‘Take my blood,’ I demanded as soon as we were finished.
He didn’t wait for permission. Instead, he reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of gloves and a syringe. While he was finding a vein, Field took a couple of steps forward and said, ‘If, like you say, you were drugged, there may still be traces of it in your bloodstream. But I need you to be honest with me, Mr Raker. I need you to tell me, if you remember, exactly where you’ve been over the last twenty-four hours.’
I looked at her. Was telling her the truth better than lying? If I lied, I’d have to pluck something out of the air and precisely recall the lie every time we spoke from here on in, but it would, at least, lead me away from this diagnosis they were trying to make fit. If I told her the truth, I had to admit I didn’t know. I couldn’t say for sure where I’d been for the last twenty-four hours – for the past thirty-five – apart from the few short hours I’d spent with the woman. And telling Field that would only make things worse.
Because the woman was supposed to be missing.
That was the other thing. That was the anchor chained to my ankle. Two nights ago, when I’d been to see McMillan in his office, he’d asked me if I was responsible for her disappearance. The police couldn’t find her and no one had seen her since the night she went to the flat.
No one except me.
‘Mr Raker?’
‘I’ve been at home,’ I reiterated.
‘You’ve been at home since yesterday?’
‘Yes.’
Field and Kent looked at one another, something unspoken passing between them. Alarm bells started going off in my head.
‘Have you found the woman yet?’ I asked, unsure if I was heading off whatever was coming, or creating new problems for myself.
‘No,’ Field said.
‘You didn’t go to see Dr McMillan yesterday?’ Kent asked, still in the same position, his fingers at his wrist. ‘That would have been Saturday the 30th of December in case you’re struggling to keep up.’
‘No. I told you, I saw him the day before – Friday.’
His eyes stayed on me as if he were trying to read my thoughts, and then he readjusted himself and said, ‘You’re absolutely positive about that?’
‘Yes.’
Or maybe I’m not.
Kent got out his leather notebook.
Beside him, Field came further forward: ‘So, just to be clear, the last time you spoke to Dr McMillan was Friday night when you went to his office?’
‘Yes.’ I looked between them. ‘Why?’
‘Because we have a separate problem now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ Field said, ‘that we can’t locate Dr McMillan now either.’
37
McMillan was missing now too.
As Carson packed up his things, I felt a thick sludge move through my stomach. Was this another part of the game for McMillan? Was this his latest effort to keep the focus on me? I thought of everything that had already happened: the death certificate I couldn’t find; the funeral paperwork I didn’t have; the column that had run in FeedMe; having to admit to following the woman to the flat in Chalk Farm just before she disappeared; McMillan inviting me to see him at the hospital; the message he’d left on my voicemail about how he’d tried to get me to A&E, about how – disorientated, agitated – I’d refused, and about how my illness could eventually get someone hurt; and the way he’d subsequently told the same story to Field on the phone, in all likeli
hood emphasizing the risk that I posed.
Now, like the woman, he’d disappeared.
Then there was my blackout.
He’d been utterly relentless in pushing the idea that I was sick, and the blackout was the perfect way to illustrate it; all I’d been able to come up with in return was a vague, essentially baseless accusation – at least until the blood tests came back – about him spiking my coffee. I had no proof. It was simply a hunch. I could only remember a couple of hours, maybe less, in almost thirty-five. I didn’t even remember how I’d got home from St Augustine’s. And so – even when, in my strongest and most lucid moments, I was able to deny it – some small part of what he was saying still hung on: a contaminant, an infection I couldn’t shift. And the more it hung on, the more the same old questions kept resurfacing. What if I had been hallucinating? What if I really was ill? Why could I remember a red door? And what if I’d done something terrible during my blackout?
‘Mr Raker?’
I looked up, found Field and Kent standing either side of me, like they were about to arrest me, and realized I’d totally zoned out. Carson had already gone out to the car. It was just the three of us, the room suddenly claustrophobic.
‘Have you got any idea where Dr McMillan is?’ Field asked.
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘Now would be the time to tell us.’
‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘I say “now would be the time to tell us” because you’ve already admitted to lying to us this morning, and any more lies …’ She rocked her head from side to side as if weighing up what she was about to say. ‘Any more lies would make it very hard for us to believe what you’re telling us. So I implore you to be honest with us.’
I tried to think. ‘He’s got a daughter, right? She’s studying up in Edinburgh. Maybe he decided to go and see her?’
Field shook her head. ‘We’ve already spoken to her. She was with him over Christmas – he stayed with her in Scotland – and then he flew back to London on the 28th. He hasn’t returned there.’
The day before he arrived home from Edinburgh, I’d still been at Annabel’s, still been with my family, comfortable, happy – not alone and attacked.
‘She hasn’t spoken to her father since he vanished,’ Field added. She flicked a look at Kent, who was making some notes, and said, ‘I feel it fair for us to update you on a couple of things. You’ll be pleased to hear that the blood we tested from the flat in Chalk Farm isn’t a match to your DNA.’
I felt some of the weight shift.
‘So who does it belong to?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘Is it hers?’
‘Whose?’
‘You know who I mean. The woman pretending to be my wife.’
She didn’t respond, but her silence seemed to be pregnant with something and I wondered for a moment if she was telling me yes without having to voice it. Even if she was, why would she choose to do that? Why would she tell me anything, especially after everything that had happened since she’d arrived? Kent looked up from his notes, as if he sensed something was up, but Field simply kept her gaze on mine.
‘There’s something else,’ she said.
It was only three words, but they sounded severe, uncompromising and sharp coming out of her mouth, and any relief I’d felt a moment ago vanished like smoke.
‘You said you were at home yesterday.’
I looked between them. I’d told them I was, but now it was obvious where they were going. They had something; something they could use to contradict my claims.
‘You were at home yesterday?’ she repeated.
I had no choice now. I had to tell her.
‘As far as I know,’ I said.
Field stiffened, but Kent actually stepped away from me, as if I were infected and he might catch something. He crossed his arms in front of himself again, adopting the same position as before: arms in a V, left hand on his right wrist.
‘As far as you know?’ he said.
‘I can’t remember most of it.’
Kent looked at Field. She was on the opposite side of me, perched on the edge of the living-room table, her arms crossed.
‘Why not?’ Kent pressed.
‘Whatever McMillan gave me, it knocked me out.’
‘You mean, this drug he dropped in your coffee?’
I could hear the scepticism in his voice.
‘Yes,’ I said simply.
Field interjected: ‘You believe you were at home yesterday?’
‘I know I was at home for some of the time.’
‘What time would that have been?’
I knew exactly: I’d woken up in bed and seen the time on the alarm clock – 11.57 a.m. 11.57 on 14 July. I glanced out of the windows and saw the flash of Christmas lights in adjacent houses.
‘Mr Raker?’
‘Around midday,’ I said, keeping it broad.
‘Until when?’
‘I didn’t look. Maybe a couple of hours. Maybe less.’
‘So you only remember being conscious for a few hours yesterday?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did you do during that time?’
I watched her cook me a meal.
I let her hold me, and I held her back.
I cried.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I didn’t feel well.’
She nodded and, finally, looked towards Kent.
‘We pulled footage from the streets around 2 Sovereign House in Chalk Farm,’ he said, ‘the night the woman claiming to be your wife called to say you followed her there.’ He stopped again, watching me. Inside, it felt like a storm was raging, but I tried not to show it. After a moment, he continued: ‘We believe that we may have evidence she went to that flat and was subsequently taken against her will.’
It wasn’t my blood on the door and I could account for my whereabouts during that entire evening. Unlike yesterday, I knew for sure what my movements had been. So, whoever took her, it wasn’t me.
‘She was kidnapped?’ I said.
Neither of them responded.
Instead, Field said, ‘I’d like to discuss Dr McMillan with you.’ She reached into her inside jacket pocket, took out a folded piece of card and began unfurling it. Very quickly, I realized it wasn’t card but glossy printer paper. ‘What can you tell us about this?’
It was a printout of a photograph.
It had been taken from one of the CCTV cameras at the front of St Augustine’s, close to the first security gate. It was dark, already evening, the street lamps nearby casting a pale glow across the entrance, and the road leading to it. Vaguely, in the background, I could make out dots of light from boats passing on the river, and the rest of the new hospital buildings across to the far right of the picture.
But there was really only one thing to focus on.
I was sitting on the ground outside the front gate, my back against it, my knees scooped up to my chest. The quality of the shot wasn’t great, but it was good enough.
I was crying.
‘What can you tell us about that?’ Field repeated.
She was pointing to the timecode in the bottom left. It was marked with yesterday’s date – and the time was listed as 18.49.
Twenty-two hours after I’d blacked out in McMillan’s office, only hours after I’d woken up at home and found the woman in my house, I’d returned to the hospital.
And I didn’t remember any of it.
38
‘I, uh …’ I paused, my eyes fixed on the picture. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You can’t tell us anything about this photograph?’ Field said.
‘I don’t remember being at the hospital.’
‘At all?’
‘No.’
Field moved, pulling a chair out from the living-room table and sitting down opposite me. She bent her head slightly, ensuring she was in my eyeline, and then said very softly, ‘We’ve known each other for a few days now, Mr Raker,
so would you mind if we just switched to “David” instead?’
I studied her. What was she doing?
The room was so quiet that I could hear the scratch of Kent’s pencil. He’d started writing again, head bent, at the very edges of my peripheral vision.
‘David,’ she said, her voice still at the same volume, ‘let me tell you what I’m seeing from my side, okay? I’ve got a woman claiming to be your wife – who seems to know things about your marriage she shouldn’t, and who looks enough like your wife to have turned even your head initially – and now she’s missing. I’ve got a respected doctor supporting her claims, who you say drugged you two nights ago, who is now also missing. There are question marks in both their stories, I’m certainly willing to admit that, but the one constant in all of this is you. You were one of the last people to see the woman before she disappeared on Thursday night. You followed her to that flat in Chalk Farm. And now’ – she placed a hand at the corner of the CCTV shot – ‘it’s clear that you were one of the last people to speak to Erik McMillan as well. We got in touch with the staff at the hospital and they checked McMillan’s security card for us, and they confirmed that he came in on his day off yesterday. They said he left at 7 p.m., eleven minutes after this image was taken.’
‘You think I was waiting there for him?’
‘Evidently you were,’ she said, pressing a finger to the photograph, to my face, the pale pink of her nail contrasting against the whiteness of my skin in the picture.
‘How do you even know he’s missing?’
Field’s head tilted slightly; Kent stopped writing.
‘It’s New Year’s Eve,’ I continued. ‘He’s on holiday until Wednesday. And even if he changed his plans, it’s not 9 a.m. yet so no one in his office is likely to have called this in. Plus, as far as I know, he lives alone, doesn’t he? So there’s no wife at home, his daughter’s in Scotland – there’s no one to notice that he didn’t come back to the house last night. What makes you think that McMillan’s disappeared?’
I thought I’d managed to corner them, but Field turned everything on its head: ‘We asked him to come to the station last night.’
I jerked, as if I’d been hit.
Field didn’t seem to notice, but Kent did: he was absolutely still, pen poised above his notebook, eyes drifting from one side of my face to the other, my shoulders, my chest, trying to read more into my physical reaction.
