‘Diagnosed, labelled, whatever. He’d be taking medication, right? Psychotropic drugs?’
‘It’s likely with that diagnosis, yes. Louise, in spite of what I told you about Veil, I’m not against psychiatry in principle. There are good shrinks and bad shrinks, same as there a good pathologists and bad pathologists. It’s a prescribing science as much as anything. Some of the new drugs treatments are working miracles, even on former basket cases. A hundred years ago these patients would have been in straightjackets. Brain chemistry is fascinating. Behaviour can be regulated chemically …’
‘You would say that,’ I said dismissively. ‘It’s your preserve. You’ve got the piece of paper.’
‘Instead of debating this here,’ he said suddenly, ‘why don’t you get dressed properly and come and eat with me?’
‘It’s your preserve,’ I said doggedly.
He sighed. ‘I just touch the tip of the iceberg.’
‘Whatever. Your answer is to give these people a pill and turn them into nice little socialised zombies. But that’s not getting to the bottom of the problem, is it? That’s not dealing with the mess.’
‘I don’t know what you mean by mess, but if it’s psychotic symptoms you are talking about, like hearing voices and seeing devils with red hot pokers under the bed and getting messages from God to slay the wicked, then better the pills than the straightjacket, wouldn’t you say?’
‘What about listening to them for a start? Anyone can think they’re something they’re not. If you’ve got your family down on you all the time – some mother telling you you don’t shape up, it’s logical you might react … it could just be desperation.’
‘Most normal people learn to deal with negative reactions. You can’t be liked by all of the people all of the time. Did you ever meet any really psychotic people, Louise? I mean, real sufferers?’
‘The woman on the bus maybe,’ I said. ‘Margaret Thatcher.’
‘Be serious.’
‘I met Roy Woods. He’s meant to be psychotic. He said he can’t get a job because he’d been labelled schizophrenic.’
‘When did he tell you that?’ Chas asked sharply. ‘I thought he scared the hell out of you the other night?’
‘Dr Veil found him a bed in Hammond House. I went to see Roy there, to apologise for injuring his hand. I’d been sold on the scary label, what other people told me about him. He’s no more barmy than I am – maybe a little strange, but I’ve met worse.’
‘You shouldn’t have gone to see him, Louise.’
‘Why not?’
‘Do you really need me to spell it out?’
‘Not really, but I’m sure you will.’
‘Have you heard of the term remission? Besides, you’re exceeding your brief, aren’t you?’
‘I may have given in my notice,’ I said, ‘but technically, Edith Woods is still my case.’
‘But she’s dead and buried.’
‘Cremated, remember. They gave Roy her ashes in a Tesco bag.’
‘That’s tough and unwarranted and inhumane, maybe, but there’s nothing you can do about it now. It’s not your responsibility, Louise. When exactly are you seeing the neurologist?’
‘Not for a couple of weeks,’ I said wearily.
‘A bruise on the brain is not like a bruise on your knee.’ Chas was pulling at his fingers till the knuckles cracked. ‘The last thing you need to be doing right now is haring around Hammond House with a schizophrenic in remission. Let me bring the appointment forward.’
‘I really don’t deserve a friend like you,’ I said shortly.
‘No you don’t.’ He looked at me narrowly. ‘Just come out and eat something. Or shall I bring it over here?’
‘Chas, I haven’t the energy.’
‘But you’ve got the energy to go interfering round at Hammond House.’
‘It was fine,’ I said. ‘Roy Woods was fine. I feel sorry for him.’
‘Don’t tell me there’s going to be another meeting …’
‘I want to help him fix a memorial for his mother.’
‘That’s a terrible idea,’ Chas said. ‘Oh, in principle, of course, it’s a beautiful, humanistic gesture. But I know you, Louise.’
‘Know what – that I’m not capable of beautiful humanistic gestures?’
‘I can see I’m getting nowhere fast,’ he said, getting up. ‘I’ll fix your appointment and call you tomorrow.’
‘You just can’t see why I would want to put this right, can you?’ I said. ‘I mean with Roy Woods. I’m grateful for your help with his mother, if grateful’s the word for something like that, but this isn’t over yet for Roy, you must see that.’
‘Why don’t you call your friend, Sammy Shrink? See what he feels about your going to see his patient in Hammond House.’
‘I might just do that, thanks.’
When he had gone, I did just that. I picked up the phone and called Dr Veil. The number rang and rang, and I was just about to hang up, but then a cross and sleepy voice came on the line. When I told him I’d been to see Roy, the psychiatrist sharpened up, as though I had just doused him with the contents of his bedside water jug.
‘You take the biscuit,’ he said.
‘I just wanted to congratulate you on your show,’ I murmured. ‘And I want to help Roy in a practical way, with his plans for a memorial. I feel really bad about the way my colleagues treated him. He had his mother’s ashes there in the carrier, just like you said. How long can he stay in Hammond House?’
Veil sounded coldly evasive. ‘They only book the men in for a week at a time. That’s not to say there haven’t been people in there for years, but it is strictly on a week to week basis.’
‘I can’t imagine that,’ I murmured. ‘I mean, not knowing when they’re going to turf you out.’
‘I can assure you I’ll do my best to have him stay there medium to long term. He shouldn’t be out on the streets at the moment. It was not a good idea of yours to go and see him.’
‘He shouldn’t be out on the streets at all,’ I said. ‘You certified him insane.’
I heard the lighter snap shut. ‘You work for the City, Miss Moon. If you and your colleagues hadn’t been so precipitate, Roy might have had rights to the tenancy of his mother’s flat.’
I passed my hand across my eyes. I hadn’t even bothered to check the tenancy agreement with that landlord. He had probably destroyed it now, along with all the old furniture he had said belonged to the house. Maybe some of it belonged to Edith, what should now have constituted Roy’s inheritance. Precipitate was the word. A precipitate removal, the police aiding and abetting. A precipitate autopsy. Chas’s precipitate rush down to Brighton. His precipitate meeting with Fat Boy woman.
‘I wanted to consult you, as his doctor,’ I said amiably. ‘Do you think this memorial will help? I mean, I wouldn’t want to make things worse for him.’
‘Well, I don’t see what harm that could do in principle,’ Veil conceded. ‘But frankly, I don’t like the idea of your messing Roy around to salve your own conscience. He can be volatile, especially …’
‘I was impressed with Roy,’ I cut in.
‘What’s that got to do with it? Don’t think you can do anything for him. Do-gooders are the last thing that man needs.’
‘You said he needed asylum.’
‘I said no such thing. I said he wanted asylum, which is not the same thing at all. There are plenty of people in his situation, without anywhere to go. I should have thought you’d know that, from your work.’
‘I work with the dead.’
‘A far easier task, let me tell you.’
‘Can I, should I pursue this?’ I asked flatly. Because this was the bottom line.
Veil sucked in a mouthful of smoke. ‘I am going to see Roy myself on Monday,’ he said. ‘I think it best if you let me deal with it. Assuming, of course, you can come through with this memorial idea.’
‘The last thing I want is to let him down.’ But cou
ld I come through with it, the way Roy wanted? ‘I can fix something up with the undertaker,’ I said cautiously.
‘Well, if you’re sure of that. I suppose it might help.’ There was a pause. ‘Look, I appreciate what you are trying to do for Roy, Miss Moon, whatever the reason. If every one like you did a little something for every one like him – but that would be too, too utopian.’
‘I like him,’ I said simply.
‘Roy is a patient, Miss Moon, my patient. Look, I’d rather you didn’t make contact with him again.’
‘But …’
‘You wanted my opinion. Leave Roy to me.’
‘You mean nobody can befriend him, just because he’s been a mental patient?’ I said. ‘What kind of sentence is that?’
‘You wanted my opinion,’ Veil repeated. So that was the bottom line.
***
Chapter 11
It didn’t stop me, of course. It didn’t stop me seeking Roy out. I set my alarm for eight on Monday morning, took a careful shower, and dressed warmly for the walk across the park, even putting on a red scarf to add colour to my outfit, as he had suggested. There was every chance he wouldn’t be there, of course, especially if Samuel Veil was going to visit him today, to make his assessment. But I pressed on regardless to the point where the Broadwalk intersected with the Inner Circle road, then turned left towards Queen Mary’s Gardens.
He was there, unmistakably there, seated on a stone bench in an arbour at the far end of the rose garden. He was wearing all his outer layers, the parka topping making him look like a bug half cracked from its casing. By his side was an upturned cap, the sort old men used to wear. I saw a gleam of silver in it. Was this his line then, was he begging? Drawing my shoulders back in a vain attempt to ease the ache at the top of my spine, I continued towards him, passing an old couple on a wooden bench, one of the kind that has a memorial plaque affixed to the back. This spiked my hope that I could fix up Roy’s mother’s floral tribute after all.
An old woman, a mean-eyed tricoteuse, was watching my progress from one of the benches, her husband at her side, at least I assumed he was her husband from the hangdog look on his face, even though the counselling training warned of the dangers of pigeonholing people too soon. Roy had spotted me now and shifted slightly on his seat, the rustle of his clothes launching the smell of things composting on the still autumn air. He was larger built than I remembered, but that must have been the layers. In the daylight, his hair was glossier than Chas’s hair, but not so black. His cheeks were hale and stage-paint red, like those of a garden gnome. He bent down stiffly and pocketed the coins from inside his cap. Then he put this on – a mistake, since it was far too small for him.
‘Time for the cup that cheers,’ he said by way of acknowledging me.
I followed him to the café on the other side of the garden, where he entered the gate to the café and peered dubiously round at the well dressed ladies of a certain age taking tea in the September sunshine. I took the initiative here, offering to fetch the tea while he chose a table.
‘Sugar’s sweet but not for me,’ he said as I came back. He pushed away the sachets of powdered sweetener I’d brought and drank half of the scalding tea in one gulp. ‘Asbestos lining,’ he gasped. ‘That’s what my mam used to say.’
‘Has Dr Veil been to see you yet?’ I asked. ‘He said he was going to today.’
A shadow seemed to fall on him again. ‘Been talking about me behind my back, have you? I thought my ears were burning.’
‘No, no,’ I lied. ‘I called him about something else.’
‘Sam’s washed his hands of me. You’re all the same.’
‘He got you the hostel place. I heard him play Blackbird for you.’
‘What about my mam then? What I want for her is a place right here.’ He gestured towards the roses. ‘I want a rose for her, and they should call it Edith Mary.’
‘We can work it out.’ I smiled thinly. ‘No need for fussing and fighting, my friend.’
He looked irritated by this. ‘You do understand me, don’t you, Louise?’ he said. ‘You do understand?’ He thumped the table. ‘I don’t want her dirty washing. You can give that to the Sally Army. I want her commended. She was a trooper, my mam, ask anybody. She shouldn’t have died like that. She shouldn’t have died.’
‘I haven’t spoke to the park authority yet,’ I said. ‘But now you’ve shown me where you want it, it’s just a question of fixing it up.’ I stared into my cup. There were gritty pieces at the bottom, like ash. I had a vision of the cardboard box in the Tesco carrier, and wondered if it was still in the same spot, in the middle of his hostel room.
‘You must think I’m daft or something. Mad, right? Mad Rob Roy.’ He dashed the cup to the ground where it rolled under the adjacent empty table. The well dressed ladies gasped collectively.
‘If all else fails, I can arrange a memorial for you at Byrne & Co’s,’ I said, reddening. ‘They have a lovely garden of remembrance, really beautiful and so well cared for. I know Mr Byrne. He has a soft spot for me.’
Roy was shifting back and forwards in his seat now. ‘The man who consigned her to the flames of woe?’ he said. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. She should never have been cremated. Mam and cremation …’ He drew his finger across his throat. ‘And you cut her open. I don’t know what was worse.’
‘If you mean the post-mortem exam, there’s nothing to fear in that,’ I said brightly. ‘It’s just like a surgical operation. They take the greatest care …’
He waved his big hand in my face. ‘You cut her up and threw her in the fire. Never more come back again. No Auld Lang Syne for you Roy-Boy.’ A strange expression crept over his face. ‘I suppose there were no traces, except what I’ve got in the box?’
I looked down at my bitten fingernails. ‘Her friends didn’t object to the cremation. They seemed to think it was all right.’
‘Oh well that’s all right then, isn’t it.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Jolly jolly well done, Louise. Jolly well done.’
‘There’s no need to get angry …’
‘Oh, isn’t there? No, no, there’s no need to get angry, Roy-boy. Fuck off.’ He rose up, knocking the tin table over. One of the well dressed ladies was making for the café, a determined expression on her face: I’m going to fetch the manager. My cup had rolled into a clump of yellow roses. I sat, not knowing how to deal with this explosion, not knowing how to deal with Roy, a patient. I was out of my depth.
‘They shouldn’t be out on the streets,’ I heard a woman say loudly. ‘They should lock them up.’ I saw a man in a white overall approaching, but he wasn’t quick enough to catch Roy, who now stomped off in the direction of the rose garden. Not daring to look behind me, I bent to retrieve the stray cup, placed it neatly back on the tray, and followed the path he had taken, but there was no sign of him back at the bench. What did I say? I thought. Was that madness in action? Was Roy really mad after all? He was stewing in feelings I couldn’t fathom – grief, anger, helplessness, despair, an unknown quantity, a land-mine, waiting to blow. I had no right to interfere with him. This was rudimentary, the first rule of engagement in my line of work. Chas had spelled it out for me, Doctor Veil had given me the bottom line. But I had promised Roy, or made him something very like a promise.
It took ages to get put through to someone at the Park Authority who understood what I wanted, then this someone put me on hold further by saying I would have to make any such requests in writing for consideration by someone else, who convened the necessary panel only at certain times, like when the moon was full or there was no r in the month. It was the story of bureaucracy, the old old story. Still, I noted the name of the person to whom I should address the request to plant a rose and left it at that. Then I called Mr Byrne. He was out conducting an early funeral but Joan, his office manager, promised he would call me back as soon as he returned. I told her I’d be at home.
I unlocked all the windows in the flat to get rid of the damp smell, wh
ich lingered, even in the hottest part of summer. The house had been built for some Pooterish railway official in the nineteenth century, when the area was filling up with migrant workers. I occupied what had been the old servant’s quarters, a single servant, a maid of all works. There were three floors on top of me, all with three rooms, except the first floor, which had two. All of these had now been converted into flats, or flatlets, really, the thin partition walls enabling an easy intimacy with the personal habits of the various tenants. I knew that the sounds from my bedroom could be heard on the ground floor above, and vice versa. Below me rumbled the underground trains. Behind, beyond a thick brick wall, passed the express trains of the Euston main line. I sat on my bed and felt depression creep over me like the abiding gloom of this place. I heard the Bubba’s disapproval in my head. It’s not Sex and the City, is it? You live in a basement, Moonshine. A flatlet for a ratlet. What does that do to you over the years? How must that cramp your sad little life?
Mr Byrne called me back just after two o’clock.
‘Would you know how I could fix a memorial up in the Royal Parks?’ I asked, but he was doubtful. It looked as though a rose for Edith Mary might be a rose too many.
‘What about our own memorial garden?’ he suggested, as I knew he would. ‘I’d be happy to plant one there.’
‘I’d pick up the cost,’ I said. ‘If I can only persuade the son. You see, he specified the park,’ I told the undertaker. ‘He has his spot marked out. He’s not very well, you know – psychiatric problems.’
There was a pause. ‘Now think about this, Louise,’ Mr Byrne went on, in a kindly way, like he was lecturing a child. ‘You think about this statistically now. If everybody wanted to plant a memorial tribute in the park, there’d be no pleasure garden, would there? They don’t want the park turned into a garden of remembrance. It would upset too many people.’
‘People have benches inscribed.’
‘Yes, indeed, but it takes a while to fix and the numbers are capped. And it’s very expensive.’
‘It would mean a lot to Roy if you could fix it up somehow,’ I said. ‘Maybe with one of the gardeners? He missed his mother’s funeral because he’s homeless and we couldn’t find him in time, and I’m sorry to say he wasn’t treated very well by some of my colleagues.’ I paused. ‘They gave him his mother’s ashes in a Tesco carrier.’
Grave Truths Page 10
