The Possessions of Doctor Forrest

by Richard T. Kelly

  Hagen’s gaze had strayed over my shoulder. I turned to see Steven, a study in unease, framed by the doorway into Blakedene, its surrounding walls dense with crimson-flowered Virginia creeper. The sun was behind the clouds again. I asked Hagen for a moment, joined Steven, rummaged for my red Marlboros, offered him one that he seized upon.

  ‘Ghastly business …’, he shuddered.

  ‘Aye. You have any feeling about it, Steve? Any sense of what went on?’

  He shrugged, drew on the smoke. ‘I’m as much in the dark as you. As if I didn’t have enough to contend with.’

  ‘The Keaton girl. Has she any possible part in this, you think?’

  ‘Oh Christ, no. It’s grossly unfair she’s even being brought into it. Pointless, interfering …’

  ‘Steven,’ I pressed quietly, ‘another man is dead. Something is happening here. It came to my door, now it’s at yours.’

  ‘I’m not blind, Grey. We’ve all had some nasty surprises. But, there you have it. It’s done now, over. Dead.’

  I found his language perturbing. ‘You say that. I’ve begun to wonder – whether what dies might not return, somehow. Or not leave us, at any rate.’

  Steven flinched – in annoyance. ‘Ach Grey, for crying out loud. Get a grip. We should just look to get over this, move on – we all of us need to move on.’

  A striking volte-face in our relations, I suppose – Steve now the would-be hard-nosed man of conviction, me seeming to thrash about in two-minded disarray. But I know I’ve got my feet on the ground, no question. It’s Steven who’s floundering – not quite stable – ‘not the same man’.

  18

  Dr Hartford’s Journal

  Dispossession

  September 17th

  His name was Darren Carver. He was 25. His last known address was the Hoddesdon home of his mother and stepfather, which he left in angry circumstances four years ago, thereafter finding work and lodging through the construction industry. It was by medical and police records that he was traced. Two years ago the burns unit at Chelsea and Westminster treated him after an accident at a squatter-dwelling, the butane canister of a portable stove having exploded in his face. Last year he was arrested and spent a night in a Paddington Green cell on suspicion of ‘aggressive begging’, charges subsequently dropped. A week ago, it now seems clear, he witnessed Killian MacCabe die.

  I can only assume he stole from the dead man some scraps of information, themselves stolen, that he believed he could turn into money. In doing so he exhibited a level of initiative evident nowhere else in his unhappy CV. All I can say is I wanted him gone, and from the moment his body was bagged and removed from our woods, God help me, I began to breathe easier.

  Goran, alas, looks disquieted for having been party to a minor deception, since he kept his silence with the police over last week’s nocturnal ‘episode’. I have reiterated, there was no need for our rare lapse, our atypical ill discipline, to be dragged into this, or that two difficult patients be disturbed any further. It is an internal matter. Still, Goran respects me just a little less, I think. But for me it’s worth everything to feel that a danger has passed.

  Last night I went to Bishop’s Wood, found all as I had left it, took back what was mine.

  September 18th

  If I have overprotected her, shielded her too closely, I thought it was my duty. And I will do it a while longer, for her own good, whatever her newly minted views on the matter. My concern – as must be hers, unless I’ve been blind – is this unwelcome new zeal of David Tregaskis.

  Despite the virulence he sometimes exudes, David has never posed me any problems in his behaviour toward women, whether staff or fellow patients. But now he is dogging Eloise’s steps, really – at mealtimes, before and after group sessions, about the common parts, the veranda and the grounds, art room and canteen … I had only just persuaded Eloise to participate more in the shared life of Blakedene; now, for her pains, she’s being stalked. Still, when I raised it with her, she only laughed softly. ‘He’s harmless. To me, at any rate.’

  She has given me worries of her own over recent days. Her interactions in those group sessions to which I reintroduced her have been fitful. Having broken her ‘frozen sea within’, I thought group could allow Eloise to express herself in a safe environment, including other survivors, familiar with the tumult of emotion, there to let her know she’s not alone. Listening to the others I heard so much that I felt sure Eloise would recognise and respond to. Yet she appeared bored, remote.

  My problem is that her mind feels closed to me, there is a new opacity there. For sure she is improved, and I take such credit as I’m entitled to. But I hoped, intended, that the past cease to have its throttling hold on her; not that she should now present this rather odd, quasi-repressive avoidance of all we went through together in my office.

  Today’s was a curious session. The tone of her voice sounds a little different, also the range of her reference. She seems to have matured, somehow, the slight jadedness no longer so affected, rather more ‘earned’: she has grown into that rasp in her voice. There is the strangest poise about her, a self-command behind her eyes, in the way she stands. And she sits upright, posture open, hands on her thighs, rather casual, as though ‘dealing’ with me.

  ‘Am I done here, would you say?’ she asked, quite abruptly.

  It was she, originally, who had wanted another week’s stay beyond the end of the optical therapy, and I had been happy to concur. Now all of a sudden she is itchy to move on.

  ‘I would be glad if you feel so. But I think, to be honest, I’d like you to remain an outpatient for this week.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you trust your clinical judgement more than that? Why hesitate? Go with it.’

  ‘I’m not one to be hurried.’ I felt I had to say it another way. ‘I am your friend in this, Ellie.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I have been less of a friend in return.’

  I was startled by wherever that came from. I can’t even attribute it to nicotine withdrawal, as she seems to have ditched that habit with an extraordinary despatch.

  ‘Can I trust you’, I ventured, ‘not to slip back to your hard-living ways? On the outside?’

  ‘You have my word,’ she said airily. ‘I intend to treat this septum more kindly …’ Beautiful women are accomplished liars, if they can be bothered, though of course they benefit from your wanting to believe them. Eloise, though, exuded the glow of candour. ‘I would like a good glass of wine … Maybe a taste of Mary-Jane. You know what Picasso said about the intelligence of cannabis. That princely high.’

  I didn’t intend to be over-censorious, but I may have looked so, whereupon she leaned forward. ‘Steven, trust me, you don’t need to worry. Life is precious – I’ve got that, I understand. I’m not going to waste another moment. I’ve no interest in artificial stimulants. Just to be able-bodied, vigorous. While the blood runs warm in my veins.’

  Her avidity had me speechless for a short while. ‘Well, yes, you’ve only got one life,’ I managed, and she smiled a little wearily at my cliché. ‘I suppose you’re anxious to have your phone back?’

  ‘I can wait. I wondered, though, if you would make a call for me? I’d like to ask Leon for a visit. Would you do that for me?’

  The freakish episode of Leon’s previous ‘visit’, tearing up the driveway, shouting the place down – not a scene we cared to repeat, and Eloise’s behaviour at the time spoke volumes for her state. But today, she was lucid, composed, clear-headed. A new Eloise seems to have emerged: a young woman newly appreciative of the world and its possibilities.

  ‘Of course’, I said. ‘Gladly. He’ll be pleased, he’s asked us before.’

  If, then, I am some sort of relationship counsellor manqué … Wasn’t that what I had intended here? To encourage, enable her acceptance of love? To join her hand, after a fashion, with a man who cares for her and for whom she will care? I do assert that I’m a romantic, whether or not anybody believes me. E
loise’s progress does my heart good, restores my battered spirits. I don’t pretend this is momentous work on my part, nonetheless a young life appears to have been salvaged, set back upright and on course.

  As such, I feel myself free of what, I can see, was probably a slightly obsessive concern with her. We have to live the life that’s in front of us, not in some figment of an overheated brain. With Eloise returned to the community I will make better use of time, review my priorities, get properly focused on my fractured relationship with Andrew Gillon. My position here must be defended: I must show a strong hand to any prospective new owner.

  September 19th

  These, the reflections of a voyeur … acutely aware of the ironies in his position, only ‘doing his job’.

  Today was surprisingly exquisite outdoors, the garden pleasant with daisies and butterflies, the air bearing a languid, spiced sort of aroma more appropriate to July. Leon arrived at the given hour, submitted affably to Goran’s swift pat-down – ‘Oh, I’ve been handled worse,’ he said with a coolness that showed he meant it – and handed over his car keys compliantly. The waiting Eloise also seemed calm, content, all fragrant and hair-brushed, lips lightly painted. She wore some jade-coloured cotton summer dress, strappy and full-skirted, under a denim jacket – she ‘looked like someone’s girlfriend’, as the song goes. Leon’s gaze was warm with appreciation.

  I put them together in the reading room, ‘alone’ as such, but observable from the foyer. Jana was manning the desk, Dr Yang was flipping the index files, so I was quite assured they were under watch. Their conversation looked to be hushed and serious. I was due to call Marcia Fallow’s mother concerning her unfortunate lapse, the agreed hour clear in my mind. Still, I dithered and dallied, wound up making the call from the front desk a little ahead of schedule. By now Eloise and Leon had joined their hands over the table, he stroking her knuckles with his thumb.

  Then Eloise came out to me. A problem? No, the pair of them wanted to take a walk in the back of the grounds. It felt silly not to permit this on such a fine day, everything going so well. But twenty minutes, tops, I told her. I wanted to see her in group at 11am.

  They crunched off across the gravel, toward the side-path. Our new communications woman was showing a Swedish journalist the lawns, Goran and Lawrence were stood in conference by the art pavilion. Again, my need for surveillance was striking me as officious. I left the lovers to it, went back up the steps and through the door.

  Why, then, did I choose to wend my way through the ground floor and out the back, surreptitious? I suppose – I considered myself their ‘sponsor’, wanted to be sure my instincts were right. I could see they were still dawdling down the paved walkway between the beds to my right, headed to the furthest corner of the grounds, the perimeter boundary by Lawrence’s shed. I felt the absurdity of my half-walk, half-dash across the lawn, glancing behind me to check if any eyes followed me from the building. Realising these two had a destination in mind and would be checking behind them too, I broke off left to the opposite path, took the counter-route to the back of the grounds, treading lightly, managing my breath.

  Moving up behind the lilac bushes I first heard the rustle and the low, urgent exchanges from the vicinity of the tree by the dry-stone wall. Then her low, throaty laughter. And I saw them, or parts of them – her sandals kicked loose at a distance, she pressed up yet supported against a pine trunk, his faded jeans loose at his knees, her thighs hugging his hips – enough to see they had wasted not a moment of ‘precious time’. I stole away as fast as I could manage.

  From the kitchen window I watched, checked the time, saw them re-emerge, hand in hand and beaming, swinging down the lawn. Leave them alone and they’ll come home … It’s good, natural, my part in this is precisely what I should be doing. I had time to shake Leon’s hand, be briskly pleasant to them both. While I retrieved Leon’s keys they stood close and spoke to each other with an obvious fondness, indeed a distinct intensity. It seemed a golden thing to observe, this closeness.

  Eventually I squired Eloise to group. She wandered along at my shoulder, a little dazedly, dreamily. I was treading a thin line, silly of me to expect that everything should thereafter run smooth. Tregaskis’s odd behaviour manifested itself, he caused a minor disturbance. As requested, everyone had brought along a Shakespeare soliloquy or sonnet of their choice: Eloise gave a charmingly brief rendition of Caliban’s ‘Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises’. But Tregaskis made a quite lunatic Puck: ‘My mistress with a monster is in love.’ It was directed shamelessly at Eloise, and I could feel my nails digging my palms in annoyance.

  September 20th

  This morning I had to confront Tregaskis. I was stung, seething.

  SH: David, why are you so interested in Eloise all of a sudden?

  DT: Hello Mister Pot. My name’s Kettle.

  […]

  DT: I’m not ‘interested’ in Eloise. Never have been, you know that. But didn’t I always say she was in need of something? A bit of self-improvement? Well, she’s had it. Oh yes.

  SH: We’re certainly happy here about how she’s responded to treatment.

  DT: Oh, I see. You think you’ve ‘saved’ her?

  SH: No, she has done everything for herself, with our help. That is what we do here, David. Or we try to.

  DT: Huh. Yes. In her case, though, your treatment came a little late, I fear … Anyhow, it’s ceased to matter. Eloise in essence? Pah. A mere bagatelle. Eloise as a vessel? Now that is of interest. I wouldn’t have wanted to waste a moment with a girl of her – what should we say? – profile? But she’s not the same girl any more. And that’s all to the good. She’s part of something immeasurably greater. Extraordinary. I couldn’t believe it at first, of course, one wouldn’t – you certainly wouldn’t. When she began to speak to me. Speak to me and her lips weren’t moving, see? I’ve waited all my life, Steven, to achieve telepathy with a woman, I hadn’t thought it was possible, not neurally, physiologically, biochemically. And then, wham, out of the blue … Wasn’t her, of course. Men and women, we’ll remain different, not the slightest natural communion there. No, she was already gone. Away with the fairies, sweet Eloise. The bond we were negotiating was … stranger. And yet more familiar. I should have seen it far quicker – took me a few beats to accept it – the master’s hand in all of this.

  SH: The master? Oh David …

  DT: Call it what you want. There’s a higher power, Steven. I know we can’t imagine beyond ourselves without it being … hopelessly infected, by our own sorry limits. But isn’t it absurd to imagine that this, this … physical morass, is the sum of our being? That nothing could fly free of the body? It’s a stretch, I know, and I needed proof, but I got it. With mine own eyes.

  SH: What proof? What did you see?

  […]

  DT: I don’t really want to talk to you any more, Steven. I mean, not to say that won’t change, in time, once I understand more about this journey I’m on. Once I’m out of here. But not for now. You’re a negligible figure, in my context, our context.

  SH: David – I can’t say at this precise moment that I’m comfortable with the thought of you going anywhere.

  DT: Oh I’m not leaving yet. Not for the minute. When things are at this pitch …

  There is a striking level of instability, a clear undercurrent of threat. The lithium is not doing its job, not in light of this mania. An atypical antipsychotic needs to be considered – Seroquel, I think. And I am going to need to keep David away from Eloise.

  September 21st

  A good and frank discussion with Ellie today, she wants to get going and I won’t stop her now. I felt I could ask her if she was feeling fully committed to her relationship with Leon. Her answer did hint at an ongoing effort to convince herself.

  ‘Yes. Yeah. I can make this work, I know.’

  ‘You’re sure? All the doubts of the past? Your different stations in life, that temper of his …?’

  ‘My own temper’s no
t so placido … No, it has to work, Steven, it just has to. I have a chance here. I’m not sure I get another. So I’m going to try, God help me.’

  That sounded a little more fraught than I would have wished. ‘Ellie, I— I know I’ve encouraged you, to reach out this way. I don’t mean for you to plunge into something just as a— test of strength. I want you to build your confidence, as gradually as you have to.’

  ‘Steven, like you said, I’ve only got one life. Understand, I’m aware of the consequences – I won’t do anything just for the hell of it.’

  I knew then, I was more than happy to sign this woman out of my care. She saw as much; asked if I would call Leon to come and collect her. This, though, posed a fresh dilemma, and an acute one. The formidable Sir James, her real sponsor here, was entitled to be advised first of her intended departure. But Eloise was adamant.

  ‘I’d like to … make good my escape.’

  ‘Ellie, am I meant to be helping the two of you elope? Is it the Gretna Green option? Because if you were to get hitched, I’d expect an invitation to the ceremony, you know.’

  She didn’t disdain my lame segue into humour. ‘No, no, I just need to get my bearings. I think I deserve that now. Don’t you?’

  I nodded. ‘But you’ll head back to Holland Park?’

  ‘I suppose …’

  ‘You think Leon can bear it?’

  ‘It’ll be good for him. I’ve had to adapt to altered circumstances, he ought to … shift a little too. Actually I’ve been thinking we might have a night away before we head for London. On the road. Just as respite.’

  ‘Anywhere in mind?’

  She nodded. ‘I know a little hideaway hotel close to Blenheim.’