‘You don’t need to tell me,’ Howard said.
‘There’s people talking about a return to the English system,’ she said, ‘when addicts were registered and managed by the doctor, they weren’t forced onto other drugs or weaned off stuff too quickly. They lived with the addiction, safely. It worked. They weren’t out robbing and mugging people to buy drugs. In Portugal they’ve legalised drugs, all drugs, ten years it’s been like that and addiction rates have fallen.’ Adele realised her voice had risen and Howard was looking at her with a half-smile on his lips.
‘You go girl,’ he said.
‘You watch me,’ she said.
Chapter 46
The wind was cold, coming from the east. It made his eyes water. The priest finished the final prayer and sprinkled more holy water down onto the coffin. There had been a fantastic turnout at the mass and maybe half had come on for the burial. The programme made it clear that there’d be no gathering afterwards. It had all happened so quickly that people probably imagined Roy hadn’t been able to hire a venue, though the church hall might have been available at short notice. Anyway there would be no tea and finger buffet, no sherry and swapping of shared memories and words of comfort.
He took the box of earth and picked up a handful, let it fall into the grave, and passed the box on. When everyone had taken their turn, the priest blessed them and sent them on their way.
People came to him, taking leave, hands grasping his, or touching his arm. Finally the priest left and Roy stood alone.
He saw the cars arrive, sensed they were here for him, surprised, if he were honest, that they had put it all together so quickly. He hadn’t wanted witnesses. If they’d only taken half an hour longer. No one should have to witness this.
When Simon died, when the police came with that dreadful news Roy had felt anger and grief, but more than that he felt awash with guilt. Because he’d not fought harder for his son, because when he challenged Don Halliwell about the treatment, about the known dangers of that medication and Halliwell had dismissed him, Roy had not done more.
Peggy hated the strife between them. ‘He’s a doctor, Roy, we have to trust him.’ Even when Roy had shown her the evidence, the headlines, the cries for reclassification, the stories of teenagers made even more sick by this very same medicine, Peggy had said, ‘Well, he knows now, and if he thinks it’s not working, surely he’ll change it.’
But he wouldn’t, Roy realized when it was too late. He wouldn’t because the man was stubborn and arrogant and he would rather sacrifice a child’s life than admit he was fallible.
It had just happened again with Adele Young’s daughter. The man had learned nothing. What good were complaints procedures and inquests in the light of such a wilful disregard for other opinions?
Halliwell would not listen, he would not learn. He set himself up as being above all that. Better than his patients. Always right. And he never said sorry, not once in all the horror of Simon’s death had Halliwell ever taken them aside or stopped for a moment to say, I am sorry, you tried to tell me.
He accepted not one shred of responsibility but acted as though Simon’s desperation, his paranoia, his desire to die, to escape it all, was some force of nature. Random and inexplicable. Not directly linked to the drug he prescribed. Never mind the fact that Roy had run himself ragged before it happened trying to get Halliwell just to look at the studies, begging him to consider the concerns, warning him that lives had been lost.
Halliwell had fobbed Roy off and sent him home where a look at Peggy’s face confirmed his fears. Simon was worse.
Now at the cemetery, a gust of wind blew and Roy felt it cold against the back of his neck, on his ears, nipping at his shins.
That last time, after Halliwell had almost lost his temper, snapping, ‘For God’s sake, Roy, we’ve been over this. I’m Simon’s doctor. There is frequently a period of adjustment and if things have not levelled out in another week I will be happy to review the prescription then. Now, please, I have work to do.’ Roy saw that Halliwell was immovable. Roy could not bear the prospect of another week with Simon living in terror, seeing demons and hearing voices, rocking and sobbing. Simon, so scared that he bought a gun. It was a situation, a world, that Roy could barely comprehend. His boy with a gun in his bedroom. What would he shoot with it? The monsters that his illness had conjured up?
Roy found it by accident when Simon was in the bathroom. Peggy had been persuading him to have a shower or at least a wash. Simon said he couldn’t. He asked Roy to cover the mirror up. Roy was exasperated. What should he do? If he went along with this latest delusion, would he be reinforcing it? Should he refuse, insist that there was nothing sinister in the mirror, or behind the shower curtain? In the end he ran some hot water, so the steam covered the glass.
‘It’s all right, Simon,’ he said, ‘you’ll be all right. I’ll just be here, I’ll wait here.’
‘But Dad-’
‘Go on now. You’ll feel better for a wash.’
The boy smelled of sweat and tobacco. His hair was messy, his face angry with spots. Simon had gone into the bathroom and Roy went to change his bed and found the gun under his pillow. He felt a shock, like a blow to the heart, as he saw it and understood that it was real, that his son had brought a gun into the house. Roy picked it up. It was heavy, cold to touch, hard. Roy had never seen a gun close up before. He wrapped it in a small towel and put it on top of the wardrobe in his and Peggy’s bedroom. Then he stripped Simon’s bed and made it up new.
He went to the bathroom and knocked and passed Simon some clean jeans and underwear and a T-shirt.
Roy sat on the edge of the bed and waited. He could hear water running in the sink, and Peggy moving about downstairs. When Simon came back in, shivering, his arms thin sticks poking out of the T-shirt, Roy patted the bed beside him. ‘Sit down.’
Simon did.
‘I found the gun,’ Roy said.
‘What?’ Simon looked alarmed.
‘I put it somewhere safe,’ Roy said.
‘I need it.’
‘No. You’ll hurt yourself or someone else.’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Simon said, his voice louder, eyes frantic, ‘You don’t understand.’
‘I know this is hard,’ Roy said.
Simon was crying again.
Roy moved to put an arm around him, miserable himself.
‘Don’t!’ Simon flinched away.
‘Your mum and I-’
‘Just go. Leave me alone.’ Simon’s knee was jerking up and down, a measure of the anxiety.
‘Simon?’
‘Go away!’
Roy sighed and got to his feet. He thought about telling Simon what the doctor had said, that another week might see a change in his mood and they could try another drug if not. Was that offering false hope? Roy didn’t believe things would improve. Should he tell Simon what he thought they should do in the meanwhile?
He said nothing.
Peggy was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. The washing machine was on, the spin part of the cycle, deafening. She looked at Roy, eyes busy with questions and gestured for him to come in the other room to talk. When he told her about the gun she lost her breath and had to use her inhaler.
‘Listen,’ he said as soon as her breathing had eased, ‘I’ve had an idea. Dr Halliwell wants to leave it another week. I don’t think- look, we could see about getting him in somewhere.’
‘Mental hospital? How?’
‘I don’t know, but I can find out.’ Did you call the police or an ambulance? He feared it would need a referral from Simon’s own GP. ‘If it was an emergency,’ Roy said, ‘which it is…’
‘Have him committed, sectioned?’ Peggy said.
Roy took her hand. ‘He’s not safe,’ he said, ‘he’s getting worse, Peggy.’
‘I don’t know,’ Peggy said.