“I’m frightened that he’ll harm himself.”
“Tell Drury.”
“He won’t listen to me.”
She glances at my left hand. My thumb and forefinger are brushing together in a pill-rolling motion.
“Do I make you nervous?” she asks.
“I have Parkinson’s.”
Her mouth forms a lipstick circle. She tries to apologize.
“You weren’t to know,” I say.
“I’m doing everything wrong today. Can we start again? I could buy you lunch.”
“Or we could go halves.”
A smile this time… dimples.
“I know just the place,” she says, marching ahead of me. I check out her figure, forever hopeful. She takes me to the Head of the River, a pub alongside Folly Bridge. Pushing open the heavy door, she takes my coat and hangs it on a hook. Then she chooses a table away from the fire. Orders mineral water. Asks about wine.
“I don’t drink.”
“Your medication.”
“Yes.”
“What are you on?”
“Levodopa for the symptoms, carbidopa for the nausea, Prozac to stop me being depressed about having a major degenerative illness.”
“How bad does it get?”
“This is a good day…”
We sit a bit, staring at the table as though fascinated by each other’s cutlery.
Victoria Naparstek is a little different from what I remember. Her clothes are less feminine, more practical. A string of pearls makes her look older. Maybe she grew tired of being objectified, which would make her unusual among women.
“Are you here alone?” she asks.
“With my eldest daughter Charlie… she’s out somewhere spending my money.”
“You’re married?”
“Separated. Three years. Two girls. Fifteen and seven. They live with their mother, but I see them quite a bit; less now that I’m in London.”
“Mmm.”
“What?”
“It’s interesting.”
“What is?”
“I asked a simple question and you gave me your entire life story-everything except your favorite color.”
“Blue.”
“Sorry?”
“My favorite color is blue.”
I look at the menu. Victoria orders the soup. I do the same. Terrible choice. My left arm trembles.
I change the subject and ask about her practice. She lives in west London, but travels to Oxford two days a week, working mainly for the NHS.
“How did you come to treat Augie Shaw?”
“He turned up at a police station two years ago and confessed to raping a woman, but it was a false complaint.”
“She wouldn’t press charges?”
“She’d never seen him before. Augie fantasized about raping her. I think he genuinely believed that he’d done it. He was mortified. Shocked. Angry at himself.”
“You stopped him in time.”
“He stopped himself.” She runs her finger around the edge of her glass. “Augie started having problems in his late teens. Auditory hallucinations. Blackouts. Disorganized thinking. Chronic headaches. Insomnia. He claimed to get contrary messages whenever he had to make an important decision.”
“Messages?”
“From his twin brother.”
“Drury said he doesn’t have a brother.”
“His twin died at birth but Augie believes he’s still corded with his brother’s soul. He says it’s like his twin is trapped inside him and won’t leave.”
“Paranoid schizophrenia.”
“Delusional ideas-some grandiose, others paranoid.”
“Medication?”
“Anti-psychotics: olanzapine fifteen milligrams and sleeping tablets. During our sessions, I tried to get Augie to mentally cut the cord, but he’s resistant. He thinks half his personality will disappear if he loses contact with his brother.”
“You mentioned claustrophobia?”
“Augie’s father used to lock him in a cupboard when he was a boy. He still suffers nightmares. He hates confined spaces. He also believes that inside air is poisonous and that’s why his brother died in the womb.”
“You said he had no history of aggression.”
“He doesn’t.”
“He fantasized about raping a woman.”
“He was delusional.”
“He was sacked by the Heymans for going through their daughter’s underwear.”
“Augie said that was a misunderstanding.”
“His fingerprints are all over the murder scene. His hands were burned. He didn’t report the fire. Instead, he went home to bed.”
Her eyes have narrowed. “He panicked.”
“And that’s your explanation?”
“He’s a schizophrenic. He’s convinced he’s done bad things, but he hasn’t.”
She hears me sigh.
“You should talk to his lawyer,” I say. “Surrender your clinical notes.”
“He’ll have to share them with the prosecution.”
“You’re hiding behind protocol.”
“I’m trying to save Augie.”
“The police can get a court order.”
“Fine. When that happens I’ll abide by the law. Until then I’ll be siding with the angels.”
Our meals have arrived. I choose the bread roll, not willing to tackle the soup.
“You’re not hungry.”
“Not really.”
She signals the waitress, whispers something. Moments later another serving of soup arrives, this time in a mug. I should feel embarrassed, but I have gone beyond feeling self-conscious.
“Will you interview him again?”
“Who?”
“Augie. Talk to him.”
“I don’t see the point.”
“You’ll see I’m right. I’ve worked with him. He’s harmless.”
There’s something she’s not telling me; some other reason that Augie Shaw went to the Heymans’ house that night. He lost his job for inappropriate conduct. He was found in the daughter’s bedroom going through her things.
“Is this about the daughter?” I ask.
Victoria Naparstek shakes her head.
“Not the daughter… the wife.”
I often wonder what I look like now.
I can see bits of me: my hands, my feet, my stomach and my knees, but not my face. We used to have a mirror but Tash broke it and tried to cut her wrists so George took it away.
She didn’t cut very deeply, but that’s only because she couldn’t find a sharp enough edge. We also lost our only pair of scissors because Tash hacked off my hair. She was trying to make me look ugly. Uglier.
Knives, nail-clippers, all the sharps have been taken away like we’re living in some mental asylum. He even took the can-opener because he thought she might use the edge of the baked bean tin, but he gave it back again because we had to eat.
If I lean close to the tap I can see my reflection in the stainless steel, but the curve makes my head look like a squash. It’s like one of those funfair mirrors or the weird pictures you can make using Photo Booth on a Mac.
Tash will be back soon. She’ll bring the police… my mum and dad… the army, the navy, the Queen’s Guard. Every time I look at the window above the sink, I think about her. Every time I close my eyes.
The reason George hasn’t come is because the police must have arrested him. They’ve locked him up and I hope they beat the shit out of him or he gets raped with a broom handle in prison.
I’m sorry about my swearing. I have a potty mouth. I once overheard my mum telling my Aunt Jean that I might have Tourette’s Syndrome so I looked it up on Google and I found out it’s when you say fuck at inappropriate times and you do lots of eye-blinking and facial gymnastics. Gordon Ramsay does that all the fucking time, I thought, and I don’t swear at the wrong times, I just swear a lot.
I’m curled up on the bunk, wearing all my clothes. When Tash was here we used to lie together to keep warm and tell each other stories. We’d imagine eating make-believe meals like fish and chips, bread and butter pudding and chicken korma, Tash’s favorite.
After she cut off my hair, I offered to do hers, but she said it didn’t matter because it was falling out anyway. She could pull out chunks like it was some party trick.
When I was a little girl I used to wet my hair and flatten it with a comb, parading in front of the mirror pretending that I had straight hair. I did a lot of embarrassing things, which don’t seem so bad any more.