Sister: A Novel Part 11

'And be emasculated?'

For a moment I think I just stared at him, too astonished by his gross selfishness to respond. He thought I didn't understand.

'The only reason she wanted to be with me was because she was terrified witless. How do you think that made me feel?'

'Terrified witless?'

'I exaggerated, I meant-'

'You said "frightened" before, now it's "terrified witless"?'

'OK. She said she thought a man had followed her into the park.'

I forced my voice into neutral. 'Did she tell you who the man was?'

'No. I searched for him. Even went sc.r.a.pping around in the bushes, getting covered in snow and frozen dog t.u.r.ds. No one.'

'You have to go to the police. Talk to an officer called DS Finborough. He's at the Notting Hill police station, I'll give you the number.'

'There's no point. She committed suicide. It was on the local news.'

'But you were there. You know more than the TV, don't you?' I was talking as I would to a child, trying to coax, trying to hide my desperation. 'She told you about the man following her. You know she was frightened.'

'He was probably just a paranoid delusion. They said post-natal psychosis makes women go completely crazy.'

'Who said that?'

'Must have been the TV.'

He heard how lame that sounded. He met my eye, casually unconcerned. 'OK. Dad found out for me. I hardly ever ask anything of him, so when I do . . .'

He trailed off, as if he couldn't be bothered to complete the sentence. He took a step closer towards me and I smelled his aftershave, pungent in the overly warm flat. It brought into sharp sensory focus the first sight I'd had of him, sitting in the snow outside your flat, holding a bouquet, smelling of the same aftershave despite the cold air. I hadn't taken it in then, but why the flowers and the aftershave when you'd only ever offered him the consolation prize of friendship? And now, when I knew you'd turned him down outright?

'You had a bouquet when I found you waiting for her. You smelled of aftershave.'

'So?'

'You thought you'd try it again, didn't you? Maybe she'd be desperate enough by then to accept your conditions.'

He shrugged, not finding fault with himself. Spoilt since the time he was born; spoiling him so that he'd turned into this man rather than the person he may once have had the potential to become.

I turned away from him, to see his enormous collage of babies' faces making up a picture of a prison.

I flinched from it and went to the door.

As I opened it, I felt tears on my face before realising I was crying.

'How could you have just left her there?'

'It wasn't my fault she killed herself.'

'Is anything ever your fault?'

I am back with Mr Wright, the smell of Simon and his flat still pungent in my memory. I am grateful for the open window, the faint scent of newly mown gra.s.s reaching us from the park.

'Did you tell the police what Simon had told you?' Mr Wright asks.

'Yes, a junior of DS Finborough's. He was polite but I knew it would do no good. The man following her was her murderer but he could also have been a product of her supposed paranoia. The facts which pointed to murder also backed up the diagnosis of psychosis.'

Mr Wright looks at his watch, five fifteen. 'Shall we call it a day?'

I nod. Somewhere at the back of my nose and throat linger the remembered particles of dope and aftershave and I am grateful that I can go outside and breathe the fresh air first hand.

I walk across St James's Park then get a bus to the Coyote. I know you're curious about how I've come to be working there. Initially I went to question the people you worked with, hoping someone could give me a clue about your death. But no one could help, they hadn't seen you since the Sunday before you'd had Xavier and they didn't know much about your life outside the Coyote. Meanwhile, my boss in the States had, with great reluctance, Beatrice, 'let me go' and I had no idea when I'd get another job. I knew my share of the mortgage for the New York apartment would soon eat up all my savings. I needed to earn something to live on, so I went back to ask Bettina for a job.

I was wearing my only clean clothes, which were a MaxMara trouser suit, and Bettina thought I was joking to start with but then realised I was genuine.

'OK. I could do with an extra pair of hands, two shifts at weekends and three during the week. You can start this evening. Six pounds per hour plus free dinner cooked by me if you're doing a shift longer than three hours.'

I must have looked a little startled that she had offered me such immediate work.

'The truth is,' said Bettina, 'I just really fancy you.' She giggled at my horror-struck face. 'Sorry, I couldn't resist.' Her laughter at my shockability reminded me of you; there was no cruelty in it.

As I did my shift that evening, I thought that as you had died there was, of course, a part-time position that had needed filling. But recently I discovered someone else had already taken the job so she'd hired me out of loyalty to you and sympathy for me.

I get home from the Coyote at almost midnight and don't expect many, if any, press. It's too late and in any case after the frenzy of the last few days they must have got all the pictures and footage they need. But I was wrong; as I get near I see there's a gang of them, their huge lights shining, and illuminated in the middle is Kasia. She's been at a friend's house for the last two days, until I thought the press attack would have died down enough for her to return. She's living with me now, which I think you're pleased about but curious about how we fit. Well, she has your bed and I have a futon in the sitting room, which I unroll out each night, and we somehow squash in.

As I get closer I see how shy she looks, anxious about the attention, and exhausted. Feeling furiously protective, I shoo photographers and journalists out of the way.

'How long have you been waiting?' I ask her.

'Hours.'

For Kasia that could mean ten minutes upwards.

'What happened to your key?'

She shrugs, embarra.s.sed. 'Sorry.' She's always losing something and this reminds me of you. Sometimes I find her scattiness endearing. This evening, I have to admit to being a little irritated. (Old habits die hard and to be fair I'm exhausted after a long stint at the CPS, a shift as a barmaid, and now I've got the press shoving cameras into my face for what I imagine to be a poignant moment shot.) 'Come on, you need something to eat.'

She's only a week away from her due date now and she shouldn't go too long without food. She gets faint and I'm sure it can't be good for the baby.

I put my arm around her to usher her inside and the cameras click in synch.

Tomorrow, next to the picture of me with my arm around Kasia, will be articles as there were today about me 'saving' Kasia. They actually use words like that, 'saving' and 'owing her life to'; comic-book words that are in danger of turning me into someone who wears pants on the outside of her tights, switches outfits and personas in a telephone box and has web coming out of my wrists. They will write that I was too late to save you (that telephone box change just not quite quick enough), but how because of me Kasia and her baby will live. Like all of us, their readers want a happy ending to the story. It's just not my story. And my ending was a strand of hair caught in a zip.

8.

Thursday.

I am walking across St James's park towards the CPS offices. The sky is blue again today, pantone PMS 635 to be precise, a hopeful sky. This morning Mr Wright is going to ask me about the next instalment in your story, which is my meeting with your psychiatrist. But still half-asleep, my mind lacks the necessary clarity so I will run through it out here first, a mental dress rehearsal before I tell Mr Wright.

Dr Nichols' NHS waiting list was four months, so I paid to see him. His private patients' waiting room looked more upmarket hairdressing salon than anything remotely medical: vases of lilies; glossy magazines; a mineral water dispenser. The young receptionist had the same de rigueur disdainful look, lording her keeper-to-the-gate power over the clients waiting. As I waited, I flicked through a magazine (I've inherited Mum's anxiety about looking 'at a loose end'). It had the next month's date on the cover and I remembered you laughing at time-travelling fashion mags, saying the date on the cover should alert people to their absurdity inside. Nervous mental chatter because there was so much riding on this meeting. It was because of Dr Nichols that the police were convinced you had post-natal psychosis; because of him that they were sure you committed suicide. It was because of Dr Nichols that no one was looking for your murderer.

The receptionist glanced at me. 'What time did you say your appointment was?'

'Two thirty.'

'You were fortunate Dr Nichols made a s.p.a.ce to see you.'

'I'm sure I'll be charged accordingly.'

I was limbering up for a little more confrontation. She sounded irritated. 'Have you completed the form?'

I gave her back the form, blank apart from my credit card details. She took it from me, voice snide, eyes scornful. 'You haven't filled in any of your medical history.'

I thought of people coming here who were depressed, or anxious, or losing their grip on reality and falling into the void of madness; fragile, vulnerable people who were owed at least a little civility by the first person they would have to talk to.

'I'm not here for a medical consultation.'

She didn't want to show me she was interested. Or maybe she thought I was just another barmy patient, not worth the bother.

'I'm here because my sister was murdered and Dr Nichols was her psychiatrist.'

For a moment I had her attention. She took in my greasy hair (hair washing is one of the first corner cuttings of grief), my lack of make-up and the bags under my eyes. She saw the markers of grief but interpreted them as signs of madness. I wondered if, in a larger way, this was what happened to you - your signals of fear being interpreted as insanity. She took the form back from me without another word.

As I waited, I remembered our emails when I told you once that I was thinking of seeing a therapist.

From: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming's iPhone A shrink?! Why on earth do you want one of them, Bee? If you want to talk about something, why not talk to me or to one of your friends? T xox From: Beatrice Hemming's iPhone To: [email protected] I just thought it would be interesting, valuable even, to see a psychiatrist. It's completely different to talking to a friend. lol Bee XX PS They're not called shrinks any more.

From: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming's iPhone But talking to me comes free and I'd have your best interests at heart, and I wouldn't limit you to an hour time slot. T x o x o PS They're a hot cycle for the personality, shrinking you down to something that fits a category in a textbook.

From: Beatrice Hemming's iPhone To: [email protected] They're highly trained. A psychiatrist (rather than a psychologist) is a fully qualified medical doctor who then specialises. You wouldn't say they were washing machines if you were bipolar or demented or schizophrenic would you?

Lol Bee From: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming's iPhone Fair point. But you're not.

T X.

Ps I'll shout that a bit louder in case it didn't reach you up on that podium From: Beatrice Hemming's iPhone To: [email protected] I wasn't just talking about the severely mentally ill needing a psychiatrist; the walking wounded sometimes need professional help too. Lol Bee x From: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming's iPhone Bee, I'm sorry. Can you tell me about it?

T X x.x.xX.

From: Beatrice Hemming's iPhone To: [email protected] I have to go to a v. important meeting, talk later. Bee x From: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming's iPhone And I'm meant to be waitressing not emailing you from Bettina's computer and table four's still waiting for their cheese but I'm not budging till you reply.

T x.x.xx From: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming's iPhone Table four's gone home cheese-less.

Give me a break here will you? I'm even using Americanisms, so you can see how desperate I am for you to forgive me.

T XOX.

From: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming's iPhone My shift's over now Bee-bean, and I'm still at Bettina's computer, so email back as soon as you get this will you? Please?

T x.x.xOOOO.

From: Beatrice Hemming's iPhone To: [email protected] I wasn't avoiding you, I was just in a meeting that ran on. Don't read anything into this shrink business. It's just a case of when in New York, do as New Yorkers . . . It must be past midnight in London so go home and get some sleep.

lol Bee X From: [email protected] To: Beatrice Hemming@'s iPhone If you don't want to tell me, that's OK. I'm guessing that your wound is to do with Leo? Or Dad? lol T X.

The receptionist looked up at me from her desk. 'Dr Nichols can see you now.'

As I walked to his room I remembered our phone call that evening (my time; two in the morning your time). I still didn't tell you why I wanted to see a psychiatrist but you explained why you didn't think it was useful.

'Our mind is who we are; it's where we feel and think and believe. It's where we have love and hate and faith and pa.s.sion.'

I was getting a little embarra.s.sed by your earnestness but you continued, 'How can someone hope to treat another person's mind unless they are also a theologian and a philosopher and a poet?'

I opened the door to Dr Nichols consulting room and went in.

When you saw Dr Nichols in his NHS clinic he would have worn a white coat, but in his private consulting room he was in faded corduroys and old lambswool sweater, looking scruffy against the regency striped wallpaper. I put him in his late thirties, do you think that's about right?

He got up from his chair and I thought I saw compa.s.sion in his rumpled face.

'Miss Hemming? I am so very sorry about your sister.'

I heard the sound of thumping from beneath his desk and saw an ancient Labrador dozily chasing rabbits in her sleep, tail wagging onto the floor. I realised that his office smelled slightly of dog, which I liked more than the lilies of the waiting room. I imagined the receptionist dashing in between patients with air-freshener.

He gestured to a chair near his own. 'Please take a seat.'

As I sat down I saw a photo of a little girl in a wheelchair prominently displayed and I liked Dr Nichols for being unconditionally proud.

'How can I help you?' he asked.

'Did Tess tell you who was frightening her?'

Clearly taken aback by my question, he shook his head.

'But she did tell you that she was getting threatening phone calls?' I asked.

'Distressing phone calls, yes.'

'Did she tell you who made them? Or what the person said to her?'

'No. She was reluctant to tell me about them and I didn't think it helpful to pursue it. At the time, I a.s.sumed they were most likely a cold caller or someone phoning a wrong number and it was because of her depressed state of mind that she felt victimised by them.'