by A J Waines
‘Of course it was important. It was mine, for a start.’
‘We can mend it with sticky tape.’
She snatched it away and instantly ripped it into tiny pieces. ‘Of course, we can’t mend it with sticky tape,’ she hissed. ‘It’s ruined.’ She tossed the pieces in the air and the kitchen became the inside of a Christmas snow globe. Only without the magic and good cheer.
‘Even when I was well, you hated me,’ she snapped.
I stared at the white scraps scattered on the lino. ‘That’s not true.’
She buried her fists in the pockets of the apron. ‘I couldn’t help it,’ she whispered.
‘It was never-ending, Miranda. The havoc you left behind. We all had to pick up the pieces.’ I kicked a layer of torn scraps under my foot as if to demonstrate my point.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘You stole my things. You cut the hair off my dolls. Ripped pages out of my books. Smashed my CDs…’
‘I was ill.’
‘That’s true – but you’ve never acknowledged all the upset you caused me.’
‘It was an illness,’ she insisted – the perennial windbreak she’d always hidden behind.
‘I know,’ I relented, ‘but you weren’t diagnosed until you were twenty. We had years before that dealing with a wayward, unmanageable child. No one knew why. It wasn’t easy.’
‘I didn’t want to be like that. I didn’t want to push everyone away. It was like there was someone else inside my body running my life for me, right from when I was little. I couldn’t breathe or think for myself. I just reacted all the time. I was scared. I didn’t understand anything.’
I looked at my sister’s face; lost and vacant. The face I remembered when we were growing up.
Being with Miranda was like being forced to step off dry land onto a plank floating on choppy water and having to keep my balance. I felt I was about to be tipped off into the rapids at any moment. It had been like that every single day I’d lived with her. How could I possibly explain that to her?
‘You don’t know the whole story,’ she said ominously.
‘Well, tell me then.’ I looked up to see her face, but she was staring at her nails.
I’d always had the feeling my parents had hidden a great deal about Miranda’s past from me. The day after she’d been sent permanently into care I’d had a row with my mother about the decision they’d made. I was eighteen at the time.
‘You have no idea what a nightmare she is,’ my mother had barked. ‘Your father is useless at keeping her in check. Useless! He’s all for hugs, pandering to her and second chances. That sort of approach doesn’t teach anybody anything. He’s never taken charge of the situation – it’s always been down to me.’
I’d rarely seen my mother so enraged. ‘Someone has to step in and prevent Mimi from destroying our lives,’ she yelled. ‘I am the only one with enough guts around here. She’s going into a home and that’s that.’
It was a long time ago, but I still winced at the memory of my mother’s fierce words punching the air.
Miranda leant over me, placing the knives and forks beside the plates with painstaking symmetry.
‘I want to get married one day,’ she said casually, as if the squabble over the drawing had never happened. ‘I liked a guy at Linden Manor, but I couldn’t cope with his depression.’
She returned to the hob and had her back to me, stirring the stew. ‘Well – you never know,’ I said, trying to make my words sound light.
Miranda turned, sucking on the spoon. ‘I’d like children, as well – you know, one day.’
I opened my mouth and closed it again.
She started humming and poked the potatoes in the pan with a fork.
‘You said I don’t know the whole story, so why don’t you tell me?’ I asked, keeping my voice soft.
She acted like she hadn’t heard me, so I checked my phone again. Nothing. I thought Con might have called. We needed to resolve the friction between us, get it out in the open and find a way through it. It was one small graze in the skin of our relationship that I didn’t want turning into a gaping wound. Problem was, Con couldn’t see there was an issue at all.
I knew actors could be insecure, but Con’s attitude around other men seemed extreme. When we were on our own he was brilliant, but as soon as we were in public, he could get tetchy, controlling. It became clear that every social event was to be followed by a gruelling postmortem. Instead of a cosy nightcap and the delight of being alone with each other, I’d be in for a grilling. Who was I talking to? Why had I spent so long with the guy? I’d tried to discuss it with him, but every time Con claimed he didn’t know what I was talking about.
The evening at the theatre had started well. We stayed for a drink in the bar afterwards and Con suggested our first ‘holiday’ together – a weekend in Brighton. I wanted to throw out my arms and scream YES! but managed to curb myself.
When he went to buy another round of drinks, a man sitting on the next table turned round and asked me what I’d thought of the performance. We were still discussing the third act when Con came back.
I knew before he sat down. Con’s face was set in a scowl and his eyes flickered like he was seeing flames. The other guy nodded and turned away; even he was picking up the vibes. Then the interrogation started. Who was he? Did I know him? Why had I spoken to him? What did he say?
I answered calmly, but without showing any signs I’d done anything wrong. He was just a friendly guy. He’d seen the same play. We were just talking. I felt like I was falling from a tall building, waiting for the awful crash when I hit the ground. Shortly afterwards, Con took a call on his mobile and said he had to go. Just like that, he was gone.
Miranda clunked the pan lid down on the draining board bringing me abruptly back to the kitchen. She started serving the meal.
‘I’m not all bad, am I?’ she said, as she sat down, as though our conversation had been carrying on inside her head. I fastened on her sad eyes for as long as she’d let me.
‘Why don’t you tell me everything,’ I said evenly. ‘Tell me your side of things.’
‘My side of things?’ She stiffened. ‘Like that wouldn’t be the truth – just my version that I’ve made up.’
‘No – I didn’t mean—’
She dropped her knife and fork so they clanged loudly against the plate, snatched the apron from her waist and flung it at me. ‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ she said.
‘Look, Miranda, you don’t have to—’
She spun round. ‘I’m in charge of my life now. I can do what I want.’
Her hands were shaking. I had a sudden panic that she might have stopped taking her medication. She pushed past me, grabbed her jacket and stormed out of the flat.
Chapter 10
One week earlier
I’m outside the church behind St Pancras. I don’t know why I’ve come here again. This place has no significance for me.
I go inside the gate and start walking. Why is everything so difficult? I’m trying my best – I really am. Can’t people see that? Why can’t some greater force come and resolve this. I’m sick of struggling with it all by myself.
I sit down on the nearest bench scaring the pigeons away. I’ve gone past the point of no return. I’m in it for the long haul, now.
A rush of air rips into my lungs and races back out again, gaining in speed and intensity – faster, deeper – taking me with it. Don’t lose control, whatever you do. Hold it. You must contain this. Don’t let the anger get the better of you. USE it instead. That’s what my therapist said.
I had to do something – that was clear. I couldn’t let it go. Every action has a reaction. I admit I’ve made mistakes, but other people have committed far greater sins right under my nose.
I flex my fingers and feel a bolt of energy charge through them. There’s a pulsing under the surface of my skin, bubbling, determined to get out. In that moment, I feel like I could crush a man’s head with
my bare hands.
I’ve taken all the steps I could, but I’m swimming against the tide and feel acutely alone. No one knows the truth and it’s obvious now that no one is going to step in and stop the worst from happening. No one.
Chapter 11
Present Day
Miranda had got up early; I found her laying out all her tubes of oil paint on the kitchen table. She was wearing a bikini and nothing else.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked lightly, as I poured myself a glass of juice. I thought she was leaving today; I’d expected to see her bags packed.
‘I’m thinking of doing some body painting.’
I blinked fast. ‘What, here?’
‘Don’t be silly!’ she sniggered, ‘I’m looking for the right colours.’ She took the cap off the cadmium yellow and sniffed it.
‘Only, I thought…’ I glanced down at her bare flesh, already bronzed with the good start to summer.
‘Oh, I see. The bikini.’ She wafted her hand in front of her. ‘It’s so warm, don’t you think?’ She sniffed the air. ‘It’s going to rain later though – I’d enjoy it while you can.’ She leant forward and squeezed my nose like I was a toddler. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be gone by the time you come back.’ She wandered into the bathroom and shut the door.
I finished my toast and as I tossed a thin burnt crust into the bin I thought about Jake, and his story about the Tube fire. Not for the first time, I wondered about Jane and Terry too. They both said they’d been there.
I’d never come across a patient faking it before and wanted to know more. I’d heard something about false witness claims connected to 9/11, but I didn’t know the details. Miranda, however, had taken my laptop and was sitting on the edge of the bath glued to YouTube and I couldn’t face the hassle of asking for it back.
I left sooner than I needed to, once again dreading what I was going to come home to.
Miranda was right about the weather. The temperature felt close to boiling point when I got outside. It was like stepping into the kitchen of a busy restaurant. Perfect for lolling on the grass in a park somewhere, but not ideal for cycling. As soon as I set off, heat seemed to seek out all the folds of my skin: my eyelids, under my arms, behind my knees. Before long I was bordering on meltdown, with bands of dark sweat seeping through my T-shirt. I decided to dismount and walk the last part alongside the Thames. A couple walked past me; one was holding an ice-cream cornet and the other was trying to knock it out of her hand. I thought of Con and just then my phone buzzed.
‘Morning gorgeous – at work?’
‘Not quite. I got off my bike. It’s too hot.’
‘Fancy meeting for lunch?’
‘I’d love to.’ He seemed to have forgotten all about his outburst at the theatre. I scrolled through that day’s appointments. ‘I’ve got a gap between one and two o’clock – any good?’
‘Not long enough – but I’ll take it. How about I meet you at Hebdon Street and we go to that old pub under the arches.’ Before I could answer, two lads on skateboards came out of nowhere, hurtling towards me. I was forced to take the phone away from my ear to steer my bike out of their way.
‘…talk about it, then,’ he said.
‘Sorry – I didn’t catch that.’
‘See you later.’ He’d gone.
I had no option but to take a quick shower at work in the few spare minutes before my patients arrived, but as soon as my morning appointments were over, I logged on to my computer, my mind on Jake. Why would he pretend to be involved in a terrible disaster? Was it a cheap dare with his mates…or a sign of mental illness?
I found the references to fake survivors from 9/11 straight away. A woman had told her poignant and distressing story for years until it became clear she hadn’t even been in New York at the time. Gradual inconsistencies in her reports had emerged and it was strangely comforting to read that she’d even fooled her own therapist.
I pulled my copy of DSM-V from the shelf behind me. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders is the psychologists’ bible. I found that neither pathological lying nor compulsive lying were listed as distinct disorders. My training had led me to believe that compulsive liars tended to lie habitually, about everything. They don’t deliberately try to mislead, but find the intrusiveness of the truth too much for them. They lie because it feels safer. Pathological liars, however, are a different kettle of fish. They tend to lie to manipulate with cunning forethought and often have a Borderline Personality Disorder – close to, but not quite, psychotic.
Having spoken to Jake, he didn’t appear to be a compulsive liar, but I didn’t know him well enough yet to know whether he showed other symptoms of BPD. I needed to know more about his history.
It was usual practice with a new referral to get a medical report sent over from a GP, but I hadn’t received any such documents for my recent patients. I made a quick call to reception to request Jake’s as a matter of urgency.
I had to work out what I was going to do about him. Jake’s next appointment would come around soon and I needed to be clear about how to handle it. It could be that faking his involvement was an extreme form of seeking attention. He hadn’t done so yet, but if this was the case, I would expect him to start making out he was ‘special’, having been ‘chosen’ to survive. Until I’d digested the notes about his history, I wouldn’t know what other issues might be pertinent.
I could be wrong about him, of course, Jake might simply have got himself terribly mixed up after the trauma, confused about where he’d been and what he’d drawn on his little scraps of paper.
Just as I was setting out to meet Con my phone buzzed with a text.
Really sorry, lunch is off. Got to see Agent. Will call later. xx
This tended to happen with Con. I had a string of broken dates with him crossed out in my diary. I was beginning to wonder if this was simple disorganisation, or whether there was something more underhand going on. Apart from anything else, I’d been looking forward to a tasty pork pie and chips.
I dropped into my office chair and pondered my choices. I didn’t fancy either the canteen food or the long queue to get to it, so I left the hospital, found the nearest sandwich bar and sat on a wall soaking up the sun.
By the time my final consultation finished at 6pm, the weather had completely shifted and it was pelting down. Hard, violent rain that was intent on boring holes in everything. It struck my head and arms like stabbing needles as I ran to the bike shed. I knew exactly where all my waterproof gear was – hanging behind the bathroom door at home. Miranda had said it might rain and I’d ignored her. Since when had my sister ever been a reliable source of information?
Already soaked, I clipped on my helmet and hauled myself onto the saddle. The tyres made a squelching sound as I pushed against the pedals. I had to press down hard to make progress and the wheels felt laboured and heavy. When I got to the gate, I realised why. The metal rim of the front one was grating against the tarmac. I’d got a puncture. I got off, avoiding the row of drivers, dry and cosy inside their cars, and wheeled it back to the shed.
My first thought was that I was glad I hadn’t arranged to meet Con straight after work. I had a flat tyre sounded like one of those feeble and unimaginative excuses no one ever believed.
My alternative plan was to head for the train station. Without an umbrella. I loitered for a few minutes under the shelter of the corrugated roof, the rain making it rattle and shake. It was verging on hailstones and wouldn’t ease off anytime soon. It was early summer, but one of those inhospitable days that could have belonged to any other season. I’d just have to make a run for it.
I bolted towards the gate, dodging the queue of vehicles waiting to leave. Without warning, in a bid to jump the queue, an impatient driver shot out of the line just ahead of me. I couldn’t avoid the car in time and the side of the bumper rammed straight into my knee, then screeched to a halt with a jerk.
‘Oh, my God, I’m so sorry…’
/> I recognised the slight foreign edge to the voice. It was Dr Hansson. He was out of the car in a flash, bending over me.
‘Are you okay?’ He seemed genuinely concerned.
The car had knocked me off balance rather than run me over and I was left sitting in a puddle, more shocked and mortified than injured.
I rubbed my knee, but knew instantly that the worst I could expect were a few bruises. There was no blood; I hadn’t even broken the skin. Dr Hansson’s reactions controlling the brakes had been incredibly fast.
He helped me to my feet and I feigned a limp just to make him feel guilty.
‘Let me take a look.’ He glanced up at the sky and the row of vehicles behind us. ‘Why don’t you get in the car? Can you manage that? Or do I need to call an ambulance?’
I almost sniggered at his suggestion, but played it cool. ‘I think I’ll be okay,’ I replied, with a wince.
A horn tooted behind us, then another and Dr Hansson waved his hand by way of apology. He guided me towards the car – a navy Jaguar saloon, I noticed – and opened the passenger door. I was soaked by now, but there comes a point when you’re so wet that you barely notice any more. I was, however, secretly pleased to see from his dripping hair and speckled shirt, that the doctor was wet too.
He eased me inside the car, water flying everywhere: over the pale blue leather upholstery, the dashboard, the handbrake. A Beethoven symphony was playing on the radio. He hurried round to the driver’s side and we pulled out of everyone’s way, heading towards the spaces reserved for taxis. He stopped and switched off the engine.
‘Can I take a look at your leg?’ He sounded genuinely polite and respectful.
I played along and rolled up the leg of my trousers, sucking in a sharp breath for good measure when he touched my knee cap. His fingers were warm and supple, well-practised at exploring skin. After various tender prods and strokes that felt more pleasant than I’d anticipated, he looked up and smiled.
