by Jodi Taylor
‘Does everyone know?’
‘No. The Open Day carried on around you.’
‘Did we make any money?’
‘Yes.’
I ran out of questions I could use to avoid the issue.
He waited.
‘Who found me?’
‘Van Owen. You didn’t turn up for the musical ride. She came looking.’
I nodded carefully.
He waited some more.
Finally, since I obviously wasn’t going to say anything, he said, ‘What happened, Max? Tell me. How did you and Barclay get into that barn? I assume she shot you. Who shot her?’
I shook my head. ‘The shooter was behind me. I never saw him.’
‘Do you remember what happened?’
Reluctantly, I nodded. I wasn’t going to lie to him, but if he didn’t ask the right questions, then I wasn’t going to put him right.
He waited. He was doing a lot of that. Where to begin? What to say? How could I possibly deal with the guilt, the self-blame? How could anyone manage to get her whole life so wrong?
‘She ambushed me while I was watching the race. She had a gun. We went to the barn. She shot me. Someone shot her.’
‘She shot you in the back. At close range. You turned your back on her, Max. What aren’t you telling me?’
I drew a deep ragged breath that hurt my chest and still couldn’t get enough oxygen into my lungs.
‘We promised we would always talk to each other, Max. You and I have been through a great deal together and I know this is difficult for you, so I’m saying this. Tell me now and I’ll tell those that need to know. You won’t ever have to say another word if you don’t want to. Helen won’t like it, but I’ll make everything right with her. And Dr Bairstow. So tell me what happened and then we’ll never speak of it again.’
I still couldn’t breathe properly. Somewhere, something bleeped. I heard the door open.
‘Not now,’ he said, quietly enough, but with that note in his voice, and the door closed again.
He smiled reassuringly. ‘Well, that’s both of us in trouble, now.’
I gripped his hand. Hard.
‘I thought I’d got through to her. I really did think I had got through to her. I thought it was over. I thought she would go away and start a new life. That because I had done that, she could too. It was her chance to start all over again. To leave everything behind her. To go away. I really thought she would do it, because her hatred was consuming her. It was burning her up. She said I ruined her life and she was right. Only I had it wrong because I never listen properly and it wasn’t you she was talking about. But I never knew. Until she told me, I had no idea. And then she told me and everything changed.’
He said carefully, ‘I think I got most of that but I need clues. What did she tell you?
‘That … that she was my sister.’
There. It was out. What would happen now?
He wrapped both his warm hands around mine.
‘No, she wasn’t.’
‘Yes, she was. And as soon as she said it, I could see …’
‘No, sweetheart, she wasn’t. She was not your sister. She never was your sister. Isabella Barclay is – was – the only daughter of prosperous parents, Patricia and Robert Barclay. She went to school in Stoke-on-Trent and from there she studied computer sciences at the London College of Computer Technology. She spent a few years in the private sector and then came to St Mary’s. Don’t you think Dr Bairstow does an extensive background check on everyone here? There is no way she could be your sister and he not know about it. It was just something she said to mess with your head and it worked. You turned your back on her, just as she planned, and she shot you, and if that other, unknown person hadn’t been there, she would have got away with it. The final victory would have been hers.’
I stared at him. ‘Not …?’
‘Not your sister, no.’
‘She said …’
‘All lies.’
All … lies. The words drummed in my head. All … lies. Picking up speed. All lies. I’d been manipulated. How she must have laughed inside as I sat before her, earnestly imploring her to leave it all behind and start again. I’d bared my soul to her. Told her my secrets. And that tentative little smile she’d given me as I got up to go … the one that convinced me she had heard my words … So that I would turn to go … She’d staged the whole thing and I’d made it easy for her and it was … all … lies. Something was building inside me. Something that had been lying dormant for years and was big and ugly and looking for something to hurt …
‘Leon, you should leave now.’
All lies.
‘No.’
All lies.
‘I mean it. You must go.’
‘No.’
Lies. Lies. Lies.’
He got up off the bed and walked to the door. He was leaving after all. No, he wasn’t. He locked the door and returned to the bed.
All the time, something was coming. Something was coming fast. Something red and hot and huge and all-consuming and uncontrollable … Doors that had remained safely closed for years were flying open …
‘Here.’ He handed me the water jug.
And then – suddenly – it was here.
Rage. Pure and primal. A desire for violence …
I screamed. It hurt my throat and I didn’t care. I hurled the water jug across the room. It shattered against the wall and made a satisfying dent in the plaster, too. But not satisfying enough for me.
I’ve had one or two occasions in my life when the proverbial red mist has descended. I’m not proud of them, but they happen occasionally. This was one of those occasions. I have no memory of getting out of bed, or even of the next few minutes at all, but when, finally, I came to rest, I was standing, panting and in pain, by the window, tangled in tubes, with IV drips on the floor, the fruit bowl in tiny fragments, the window broken, the bedclothes on the floor, and one of the pillows ripped to shreds and bits of it floating everywhere.
Silence settled along with the filling.
I slowly became aware of people pounding on the door.
Leon approached, holding a blanket, although a chair and whip might have been more appropriate.
‘Better now?’ he said, calmly.
I was still shaking in the aftermath, although whether with shock, cold, or relief, I couldn’t have said. He wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and I sat on the window seat, exhausted.
He opened the door. I braced myself because this was unacceptable behaviour and God knows what was going to happen now, but he simply picked me up and carried me into the empty isolation ward down the corridor. The bed was warm and soft. I vaguely remember people disentangling tubes and things, and drawing the curtains. Voices came and went. I lay for a while with my eyes closed, gently closing the doors on now empty rooms as silence finally fell.
I felt Leon curl himself around me and knew I was safe.
‘No hanky-panky,’ said Helen’s voice from a million miles away. ‘We’re not licenced.’
I slept.
He was as good as his word. I don’t know what he did or what he said, but with one exception, no one ever mentioned Isabella Barclay in my hearing ever again.
Kal and Dieter came to visit and we all pretended everything was normal.
I had important questions. ‘Did we make any money?’
‘Masses,’ said Kal, writing ‘NIL BY MOUTH’ and pasting it over the bed. ‘Apparently we could have made even more, but Dr Bairstow vetoed the plan to charge people to view your body. We did suggest a chalk outline and letting people visit the crime scene but he said it would be in poor taste, and I suppose what with the Chief Constable being there we had to behave ourselves …’
She tailed off.
‘Shame,’ I said.
Dieter nodded. ‘We thought so, yes.’
My next visitor was Markham. I was so pleased to see him.
‘Hey!’
He deposi
ted the entire supply of chocolate for the northern hemisphere on my bed. ‘There! That should see you through to lunchtime.’
I laughed for the first time in what seemed like ages. ‘Good to see you’
‘Good to see you, too.’
He sat on the bed and smacked me a huge kiss, just as Leon entered.
He shot to his feet. ‘Whoops. Here’s Chief Farrell. Do you think he saw anything?’
‘No, you’re quite safe. He never notices when other men kiss me.’
Leon sighed. ‘I’m almost afraid of the answer, but might I enquire why you are kissing the Chief Operations Officer?
Markham beamed, unabashed. ‘Sorry, Chief. I didn’t mean to make you feel left out. Deepest apologies.’
He threw his arms around Leon, kissed him soundly on the cheek, and released him.
I stared at the pattern on the curtains. Blue stripe, green stripe, cream stripe, don’t laugh …
Leon stood stunned. In fact, he made Mrs Lot look like bowl of quivering jelly.
Cream stripe, green stripe …
He dropped his flowers on the bedside table and turned to Markham. ‘Seriously, is that the best you can do? No wonder Hunter won’t give you the time of day. This is how you really kiss a girl.’
I smiled and lifted up my face, but he seized Markham in his arms, bent him over backwards, planted him one firmly on the lips, and in walked Nurse Hunter.
I waited with interest to see what would happen next.
She said, ‘For God’s sake, you two, get a room,’ and walked out. Markham tore himself free and raced after her.
Leon called after him. ‘Don’t tell me the magic’s worn off already.’ He turned to me. ‘What are you laughing at?’
‘Well, if you don’t know the answer to that one …’
That evening, Hunter turned up with double-strength Horlicks and a selection of films.
‘Eat, Pray, Love?’
‘Dear God, no.’
‘The Haunting of Hill House? Original version.’
‘Maybe …’
‘Tremors?’
That’s the one.’
Barely had the first giant slug eaten his first victim, however, when I had a visitor. Van Owen. My heart sank. This couldn’t possibly be good.
Hunter switched off the TV, glanced at both of us, and quietly disappeared.
We looked at each other. She looked dreadful. I was supposed to be the invalid and she looked far worse than I did. She’d cut off her long hair and looked, at the same time, both younger and older. Her pansy-purple eyes had matching shadows underneath. She was seeing things she would rather forget. Gentle, pretty Van Owen. Who would have thought?
Why had she done it? I wouldn’t have thought her capable of such savagery. If she’d just shot Barclay once or twice then she’d have got away with saving my life as her defence, but sending all those bullets into a body – to keep firing long after life had departed – it hadn’t been a pretty sight.
I checked no one could possibly overhear and then said, urgently, ‘Where’s the gun?’
‘Middle of the lake.’
‘You’re sure it’s safe?’
‘Yes. It’s in pieces. No one will ever find it.’
I let my head fall back on the pillows. ‘I have to thank you, Greta.’
‘No need. I’m just sorry I didn’t get there sooner.’
‘How did you know she was here?’
‘I didn’t. I thought I saw her in the crowd. I didn’t believe it at first, because … well because I was convinced I was imagining it. That I was seeing what I wanted to see. Then I saw her again and it was definitely her. Then I had to acquire a weapon.’
I didn’t ask from where she’d got it. Ignorance is bliss. For the first time, I noticed her clothes. Jeans and boots. A long parka. Backpack by the door.
‘Are you going away?’
‘I’m leaving St Mary’s.’
‘Greta, no, there’s no need.’ I said with careful emphasis, ‘I don’t remember a thing that happened.’
She shook her head. ‘Sadly, I can remember everything. I can’t stay. Too many memories.’ She smiled. ‘Sorry to leave you with no senior historians.’
‘If you don’t go then I won’t be without any senior historians.’
She carried on as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘My time here was … golden. Whatever happens to me next, nothing in my life will ever be this good again. To have been here – to have found love – to have fitted in … I’ll always look back on these years … I’ll miss it dreadfully. And all the people. But I can’t stay. New start. New life. You understand?’
I nodded. I did understand.
‘I’m sorry, Greta. It’s my fault. I believed every word she said. And then, just for a moment at the end, when she smiled at me I really thought that perhaps …’
‘Don’t waste your thoughts on her, Max. She was pure evil. What she did to Schiller was inhuman. She deserved to die and when I saw her standing over you … Thank God she never was a very good shot.’
I saw the scene again. Barclay’s body, jerking and jumping as bullet after bullet thudded into her. Even after she was dead, they still kept coming, showering me with warm blood …
I sighed. She was dead and still causing grief. I changed the subject. ‘What does Dr Bairstow say about you leaving?’
Her chin wobbled. ‘Oh, Max. He was so very kind. He said just the right things. I’m afraid I cried all over him. He’s sending me to Thirsk for three months as a research assistant while I look around and decide what to do next. He told me I could come back anytime. That there will always be a place for me.’
‘And will you?’
‘I don’t know. I might. I just don’t know.’
‘Do you need anything?’
‘No. He’s given me six months’ pay. I nearly fell over. And then he thanked me for my service.’
‘As do I.’ I held out my hand. ‘I owe you, Greta. I won’t forget.’
‘Goodbye, Max. I know you’ll struggle with the concept, but take care of yourself. And thanks for everything.’
I swallowed hard. ‘An honour and a privilege.’
She heaved her pack onto her shoulder and walked out of the door.
I appreciated that Hunter left me alone for an hour.
Two weeks later, I thought I was ready to go back to work and found that actually, I wasn’t.
I stood in the gallery for a long time, looking down on the historians working below in the Hall. Prentiss and Roberts stood at a whiteboard, prioritising bullet points. Clerk and Sands were building a data stack. They all had their heads down. I’d never known the place to be so quiet.
No Schiller. No Van Owen.
I should move. I really should go down there and face them.
‘Are you going to stand here all day?’ said a voice behind me, shaving several decades off my life expectancy.
When I was certain I could present a reasonably normal exterior, I turned to confront Miss Lee, on her way around the gallery with an armful of files and just for one brief moment, looking like a real admin assistant.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Lee. I didn’t recognise you. You’re working and it confused me.’
‘Everything confuses you. And yes, one of us is working while the other is just standing around staring into space. Let’s see if we can work out which one is which, shall we?’ She looked down at her armful of files. ‘Oh yes, now I’ve got it.’
I really didn’t need this.
She scowled. ‘So – are you going to stand there all day?’
‘I might,’ I said, quietly and for a moment, I actually contemplated doing just that. Spending the rest of my life here, between two worlds – no stress, no decisions to make, no friends to grieve for.
She shifted her position and I braced myself for whatever was coming next.
‘No you won’t,’ she said. ‘I’m fed up with doing all the work around here. I don’t think you realise how difficult it is to do tw
o people’s work.’
‘How would you know? You struggle to do any work at all.’
‘Here are last month’s time-sheets for you to sign. Professor Rapson has requisitioned twenty-five dead rabbits and three cowhides and I’m not getting involved in any of that. Chief Farrell is requesting your comments on next month’s pod schedule. Major Guthrie wants a word about your entire department’s failure to submit their form 23Bs. Mrs Enderby says …’
‘Go away,’ I said.
She heaved the sigh of the oppressed and shifted her weight to her other hip.
‘Listen. If I can face them on a daily basis then you can do the same.’
‘What?’ What did that mean?
‘If you want my advice …’
Oh God, I was taking crisis management tips from Rosie Lee. For a moment, I wondered if I was still back in Sick Bay, sitting on my pink, fluffy cloud of confusion.
‘What’s that, then?’
She grinned and suddenly was a different person altogether.
‘Whatever it is, you need to face it down. You give it a good kicking, because that’s what you have to do. Then you walk away. And then you turn around, walk back and give it an even bigger one, just because you can.’
She heaved her files into my arms and I sagged under the weight.
‘I’m an invalid, you know.’
She snorted rudely. ‘I’m going now. Unlike you, I’m quite busy this morning.’
‘Are you sure you can remember where my office is. Should I get someone to show you the way?’
I was wasting my breath.
‘Dr Bairstow wants to see you. I’m going for my lunch now.’
Then she was gone.
I hadn’t been the only one keeping secrets. Dr Bairstow had bad news for me.
He asked me how I was and I said fine, and then, having exhausted his tiny Caring Manager repertoire, he brought me up to speed.
Things were not going well for St Mary’s. Schiller’s death, our recent spectacular failure at rescuing the treasures of Old St Paul’s, me being shot, Van Owen’s sudden departure – no one was very happy with us at the moment. I was instructed to get us back on track and to be quick about it.
