“You accused your husband of sexually abusing Bobby.”
She shrugs. “I just loaded the gun. I didn’t fire it. People like you did that. Doctors, social workers, schoolteachers, lawyers, do-gooders…”
“Did we get it wrong?”
“The judge didn’t think so.”
“What do you think?”
“I think that sometimes you can forget what the truth is if you hear a lie often enough.” She reaches up and pushes the buzzer above her head.
I can’t leave yet. “Why does your son hate you?”
“We all end up hating our parents.”
“You feel guilty.”
She clenches her fists and laughs hoarsely. A chrome stand holding a morphine drip swings back and forth. “I’m forty-three years old and I’m dying. I’m paying the price for anything I’ve done. Can you say the same?”
The nurse arrives looking pissed off at being summoned. One of the monitor leads has come loose. Bridget holds up her arm to have it reconnected. In the same motion she dismissively waves her hand. The conversation is over.
It has grown dark outside. I follow the path lights between the trees until I reach the car park. Taking the thermos from the bag, I swig from it greedily. The whiskey tastes fiery and warm. I want to keep drinking until I can’t feel the cold or notice my arm trembling.
4
Melinda Cossimo answers the door reluctantly. Visitors this late on a Sunday night are rarely good news for a social worker. I don’t give her time to speak. “The police are looking for me. I need your help.”
She blinks at me wide-eyed, but looks almost calm. Her hair is swept up and pinned high on her head with a large tortoise-shell clip. Wispy strands have escaped to stroke her cheeks and neck. As the door closes, she motions me onward, telling me to march straight up the stairs to the bathroom. She waits outside the door while I pass her my clothes.
I protest about not having the time, but she doesn’t react to the urgency in my voice. It won’t take long to wash a few things, she says.
I stare at the naked stranger in the mirror. He has lost weight. That can happen when you don’t eat. I know what Julianne would say: “Why can’t I lose weight that easily?” The stranger in the mirror smiles at me.
I come downstairs wearing a robe and hear Mel hang up the phone. By the time I reach the kitchen she has opened a bottle of wine and is filling two glasses.
“Who did you call?”
“Nobody important.”
She curls up in a large armchair, with the stem of her wineglass slotted between the first and second fingers of her outspread hand. Her other hand rests on the back of an open book, lying facedown across the armrest. The reading lamp above her casts a shadow beneath her eyes and gives her mouth a harsh downward curve.
This has always been a house I associate with laughter and good times, but now it seems too quiet. One of Boyd’s paintings hangs above the mantelpiece and another on the opposite wall. There is a photograph of him and his motorbike at the Isle of Man TT track.
“So what have you done?”
“The police think I killed Catherine McBride, among others.”
“Among others?” One eyebrow arches like an oxbow.
“Well, just one ‘other.’ A former patient.”
“You’re going to tell me that you’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Not unless being foolish is a crime.”
“Why are you running?”
“Because someone wants to frame me…”
“Bobby Morgan.”
“Yes.”
She raises her hand. “I don’t want to know any more. I’m in enough trouble for showing you the files.”
“We got it wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just talked to Bridget Morgan. I don’t think Bobby’s father abused him.”
“She told you that!”
“She wanted out of the marriage. He wouldn’t give her a divorce.”
“He left a suicide note.”
“One word.”
“An apology.”
“Yes, but for what?”
Mel’s voice is cold. “This is ancient history, Joe. Leave it alone. You know the unwritten rule— never go back, never reopen a case. I have enough lawyers looking over my shoulder without another bloody lawsuit…”
“What happened to Erskine’s notes? They weren’t in the files.”
She hesitates. “He might have asked to have them excluded.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps Bobby asked to see his file. He’s allowed to do that. A ward can see the write-ups by the duty social worker and some of the minutes of the meetings. Third party submissions like doctor’s notes and psych reports are different. We need to get permission from the specialist to release them…”
“Are you saying that Bobby saw his file?”
“Maybe.” In the same breath she dismisses the idea. “It’s an old file. Things get misplaced.”
“Could Bobby have removed the notes?”
She whispers angrily, “You can’t be serious, Joe! Worry about yourself.”
“Could he have seen the video?”
She shakes her head, refusing to say anything more. I can’t let it go. Without her help my frail improbable theory goes south. Talking quickly, as though afraid she might stop me, I tell her about the chloroform, the whales and the windmills: how Bobby has stalked me for months, infiltrating the lives of everyone around me.
At some point she puts my washed clothes in the dryer and refills my wineglass. I follow her to the kitchen and shout over the whine of the blender as it pulverizes warm chickpeas. She puts a dollop of humus on slices of toast, seasoned with crushed black pepper.
“So that’s why I need to find Rupert Erskine. I need his notes or his memories.”
“I can’t help you anymore. I’ve done enough.” She glances at the clock on the stove.
“Are you expecting someone?”
“No.”
“Who did you call earlier?”
“A friend.”
“Did you call the police?”
She hesitates. “No. I left instructions with my secretary. If I didn’t call her back in an hour she had to contact the police.”
I glance at the same clock, counting backward. “Christ, Mel!”
“I’m sorry. I have my career to think about.”
“Thanks for nothing.” My clothes aren’t quite dry, but I wrestle on the trousers and shirt. She grabs at my sleeve. “Give yourself up.”
I brush her hand aside. “You don’t understand.”
My left leg is swinging as I try to move quickly. My hand is on the front door.
“Erskine. You wanted to find him.” She blurts it out. “He retired ten years ago. Last I heard he was living near Chester. Someone from the department contacted him a while back. We had a chat… caught up.”
She remembers the address— a village called Hatchmere. Vicarage Cottage. I scribble the details on a scrap of paper balanced on the hallway table. My left hand refuses to budge. My right hand will have to do.
All mornings should be so bright and clear. The sun angles through the cracked back window of the Land Rover, fracturing into a disco ball of beams. With two hands on the handle, I force a side window open and peer outside. Someone has painted the world white; turned color into monochrome.
Cursing the stiffness of the door, I shove it open and swing my legs outside. The air smells of dirt and wood smoke. Scooping a handful of snow, I rub it into my face, trying to wake up. Then I undo my fly and pee on the base of a tree, painting it a darker brown. How far did I travel last night? I wanted to keep going, but the headlights on the Land Rover kept cutting out and plunging me into darkness. Twice I nearly finished up in a ditch.