There was a silence and I felt a bit embarrassed by my outburst. But she didn't look too disconcerted.
"Your flat," she said. "Where's that?"
"It's not exactly mine," I said. "It actually belongs to my ... to the guy I live with. Terry."
"Has he been in to see you?"
"He's away. I've tried calling but he must be working somewhere he travels a lot."
"Have you seen anyone else? Family or friends?"
"No. I just want to get out of here and then I'll call them." She looked at me and I felt a need to explain. "I guess I'm putting off telling my story," I admitted. "I don't know where to begin. I don't know how to tell it because it's still not finished. I want there to be a proper ending to it before I begin, if you see what I mean."
"You want him to be caught first?"
"Yes."
"But maybe, in the meantime, you could talk to me."
"Maybe," I said cautiously. "What I really want to do, though -the one thing I know I need is to get out of here. It's as if this hospital is a half-way house between being in prison and being free. I'm in limbo here."
Dr. Beddoes contemplated me for a moment. "Something terrible happened to you, Abbie. You're being dealt with by about five different speciali ties at the hospital and that's not to mention the police. It's quite a logistical struggle to get everybody to communicate. But as far as I understand there is a general agreement that you should stay here for at least a couple more days. For a start, I know that the neurologists want to keep you under observation for a time, just in case. And the police obviously are very worried indeed. The man you encountered must be exceptionally dangerous and they would rather have you in a more secure environment while they make certain decisions."
"Do they think I might be under threat?"
"I can't speak for them, but I think it's extremely difficult to assess. That's part of the problem. What I want to say is that I would like to use the next couple of days to talk to you. Obviously it's up to you but I think I could be helpful to you. Not just that. It's possible that if we talk things over we might come up with details that could assist the police, but that would only be by the way. You talk about just wanting to get back to your normal life." There was now a sudden, long pause that I found disconcerting. "I'm thinking about how to put this. You might not find it as easy to return to your life as you assume. It may be that you take things with you from an experience like this."
"You think I'm contaminated by it?"
"Contaminated?" She looked for a moment as if she were smelling the contamination, or trying to sniff it out. "No. But you had a normal life, then suddenly you were thrown out of it into a terrible horror. Now you have to return to normality. You have to decide what to do with this thing that happened. We all need to find ways of accommodating things that have happened to us. I think that if we talked, I could help you do that."
I looked away from her and I saw the greyness of the world again. When I spoke it was as much to myself as to her. "I don't know how I'm supposed to accommodate someone wanting to kidnap and kill me. That's the first thing. The second is that my life wasn't as smooth as all that before it happened. But I'll give it a try."
"We'll meet for a chat," she said. "And you aren't going to have to lie on a couch. We can do it in more pleasant surroundings, if you like."
"That would be great."
"I may even be able to find somewhere that serves proper coffee."
"That would be the most therapeutic thing of all."
She smiled and stood up and shook my hand and left. When Dr. Beddoes arrived, I had wanted to turn my back to her and close my eyes. Now that she had gone, I was shocked to realize that I already missed her.
"Sadie?"
"Abbie!" Her voice was warm and clear, and relief spread through me. "Where are you calling from?" she said. "Are you still on holiday?"
"Holiday? No. No, I'm in hospital, Sadie."
"My God! What's wrong?"
"Can you come and see me? I can't talk about it over the phone."
"How do I know he didn't rape me?"
Jack Cross was sitting on the chair by my bed, fiddling with the tight knot of his tie. He nodded at the question, then said: "We can't know for sure, but there's no suggestion of that."
"How do you know?"
"When you were admitted to hospital, you were, well, examined, et cetera, et cetera."
"And?"
"And there was no evidence of sexual assault."
"That's something, at least." I felt curiously blank. "So what else has happened?"
"We're building up a picture," he said carefully.
"But.. ."
"One of the people we obviously want to talk to is your boyfriend, Terence Wilmott."
"And?"
"How would you describe your relationship with him?"
"Why on earth should I say anything about it at all? What's Terry got to do with anything?"
"As I said, we're building up a picture."
"Well, we're fine," I said defensively. "We have our ups and downs, of course."
"What sort of downs?"
"It wasn't Terry, if that's what you're thinking."
"What?"
"He didn't do this. I know the man concealed his voice and I didn't see him but it wasn't Terry. I know Terry's smell. I know him backwards and forwards. He'll be back soon from wherever he's gone off to and then you can talk to him."
"He's not abroad."
"Oh?" I looked at him then. "Why do you say that?"
"His passport's still in his flat."
"Is it? Well, he must be in the UK, then."
"Yes. Somewhere."
I stood in front of the mirror and saw a stranger there. I was no longer me. I was someone else. A thin woman with matted hair and a bruised face. Chalky-grey skin. Sharp bones. Glassy, frightened eyes. I looked like a dead person.
I met Dr. Beddoes in a courtyard in the hospital because, although it was so cold, I had a longing to be outside. The nurses had found me a giant strawberry-pink quilted coat. The courtyard had clearly been designed to be soothing to neurotic patients. It was too shady for grass, but there were plants with huge dark green fronds and the centrepiece was a water feature. A large bronze pot was full and permanently overflowing with water running down the outside. I was alone for a few minutes, so I wandered over and examined it. It looked like a machine for wasting water but I noticed an opening around the base, so I supposed that it was sucked back up again. Round and round for ever.
Irene Beddoes had brought us both mugs of coffee and biscuits wrapped in Cellophane. We sat on a slightly damp wooden bench. She gestured at the wet ornament.
"They got that because I thought it would be relaxing in a Japanese, Zen sort of way," she said. "I find it rather creepy."
"Why?"
"Wasn't there someone in hell who was condemned to spend the whole of eternity trying to fill a huge earthenware jar with water a jar that had a hole in it?"
"I didn't know that."
"I shouldn't have told you. I may have spoiled it for you."
"I like it; I like the sound. It's a happy sound."
"That's the spirit," she said.
It felt wonderful but a bit strange to be sitting outside on this sunny winter day. I only sipped at my mug of coffee. I had to be careful. I already felt on edge. Too much caffeine would turn me into a basket case.
"How are you doing?" she asked. It seemed a fairly inept beginning.
"You know what I hate about being in hospital? People are being nice and everything and I've got my own room and a T V, but still there's something about being in a room where people don't have to knock before they come in. People I've never seen before come in and clean or bring food and the nice ones give me a nod and the others just get on with it."