Brook sauntered down the corridor, grinning inanely at the tide of revellers washing the other way. ‘Happy New Year,’ he mouthed for the thousandth time, doing his best impression of a bon viveur. He was tired and would have preferred to slink off to his room, but there was work to do. He’d left Derby after sifting through all the CCTV tapes, searching in vain for a better view of Vicky’s rendezvous, and had set off for London later than was wise, catching all the traffic rushing round to New Year party venues.
‘You’re going the wrong way, darling.’ A plump woman, mid-forties, in a French maid’s outfit barred his way with a generous show of bosom. ‘The party’s this way,’ she slurred, fixing Brook with her swaying proposition. ‘Come with me.’ She locked a flabby arm onto his and gripped him with her profiterole fingers. ‘I won’t see you all po-faced on the best night of the year. Molly’ll show you a good time, handsome.’
‘Well thanks, Molly. But I’m not allowed to drink…’ ‘Nor me, darling. But what’s one little drinkie on New Year’s Eve?’
Brook smiled. Belle Vue certainly wasn’t severe on its patients. Their wishes, or rather their money, seemed to override any consideration of clinical need. The place was little more than an expensive hotel, dressed up as a clinic to justify the kind of charges that hoodwinked guests into believing they were being treated. And at this time of year, peak time for self-loathing, the sky was the limit for fools and their money.
Brook himself had been relieved of £3,000 for a three-night stay. This included the fancy dress costume of his choice and a seven-course New Year dinner, with copious champagne. Carrot juice was available for those with a ‘problem’. Not that anyone was checking.
For £1,000 a night, medical rigour could be overlooked. It was a critical time of year for the ailments of those whose money couldn’t fill every demand they placed upon it, and at such a time of low self-esteem they required–at premium rates naturally–an uncommon amount of attention to see them through.
Perhaps the place had changed in the years since Sonja Sorenson had been a ‘guest’. Perhaps she’d been more than the pampered wife of a rich businessman. She’d been at the Retreat for four years, after all.
Assuming he could prise the flabby knuckles of the determined Molly from his arm, Brook was about to find out.
‘You can’t get away that easy, you naughty boy. I can see you need a good time.’
Brook decided to take the initiative and planted a huge kiss on her sloppy lips. ‘You said it, gorgeous. I’ll meet you in the bar in twenty minutes. I’m just going to get my Tarzan costume on.’
Molly stared, open-mouthed, then broke into a sly grin. ‘Me Jane. Me come. Help put costume on.’
‘No, wo-man. That spoil surprise. You go now. Tarzan change. Ungowa! Ungowa!’ Molly giggled as he shooed her along, stampeding the tottering beast towards the watering hole, tacking from wall to wall as she went.
When she was out of sight, Brook pulled a hand-drawn map from his pocket and studied it.
A few moments later he stood outside a solid panelled door in a deserted corridor. There was no light under the door and this part of the building was quiet. Only the faintest noise of celebration penetrated here.
Brook went to the far end of the corridor to see where it led. Whatever Thalassic Therapy was, it took place in the rooms leading off there. The rooms were in darkness so Brook returned to the first door and took out a small bunch of keys.
The attendant who’d drawn the map and given him his keys, for a large consideration, had told Brook that all patient records were secured in the computer and he couldn’t get access. However, any records over ten years old would be on paper in this rarely-used office.
Brook tried the keys. The first key turned the lock and he pushed back the door, closing it quickly behind him before snapping on the light.
He locked the door behind him, moved to the filing cabinet and produced a different instrument from his pocket, a thin metal probe like the blade of a hacksaw that he’d removed from a housebreaker a few years back.
After a few seconds probing at the lock, Brook heard a loud click then pulled open a drawer. He looked
around. Footsteps outside. He scurried to the door to extinguish the light. The footsteps paused outside the office. Brook could see the shadow of two legs craning under the door.
A few seconds later the footsteps receded. Brook waited a moment longer to be on the safe side. Finally he returned to the cabinet and flicked on a small desk lamp nearby. He pulled open the S-Z drawer and found what he was looking for. There wasn’t much for four years of a life, just a few sheets.
He made a cursory inspection and slid the most relevant papers under his shirt, returning the folder to its drawer. He locked the cabinet, with more difficulty than he’d opened it, leaving heavy scratching around the lock. But it was unlikely to be noticed any time soon, if at all, given Belle Vue’s general lack of stringency.
He paused at the door to listen for human traffic, then locked up quickly and returned to his room by a circuitous route, to avoid bumping into Molly or anyone else trying too hard to enjoy the evening.
Back in his room Brook opened a complimentary bottle of champagne and sipped at a glass while he read Mrs Sorenson’s case notes.
12/11/88. The patient harbours deep feelings of worthlessness for herself. Her husband, Mr Stefan Sorenson, fears that she might harm herself or her children. These fears appear well-founded. She speaks in violent language to denounce her husband and
children and has shown every indication of violent intent towards them.Given her depleted self-esteem, I feel it necessary to admit Mrs Sorenson for an initial examination period of six weeks. Minimal medication is required at this point, though it may be worthwhile prescribing anti-depressants. The patient herself is in full agreement with her husband and has agreed to attend on a full-time basis on the grounds that she is allowed a visit by her children on a weekly basis. This visit will be subject to full supervision.
The entry was signed by Dr David Porcetti, as were the others.
15/12/88. Patient making excellent progress. Is able to talk extensively about her childhood without trauma. Her trouble appears to lie closer to home. She is calm, rational and more aware of her own value away from her own home. She is loving and attentive towards her children, who are always escorted by their uncle, Victor Sorenson. Mrs Sorensons husband does visit but thinks it best not to see his wife and upset her treatment.
3/1/89. Mrs Sorensons condition worsened on the day before her release. She flew into a rage at breakfast and smashed several plates and bowls and threw missiles at staff attempting to calm her. Patient had to be forcibly restrained and sedated to prevent threatened self-harm.
Mr Sorenson has asked Belle Vue to continue her treatment and has sent appropriate remuneration.
PS Must reiterate my suggestion of last year that all kitchenware should be plastic.
After the initial attempts at diagnosis, entries became more routine dealing with medication, dosage, occupational therapy and so on. It was as though the clinic had forgotten she was there for a purpose and just wrapped her into their inviolable daily routine. She became a paying guest, not a patient with needs.
Brook was puzzled. Surely someone as successful as Stefan Sorenson would know what kind of place Belle Vue was. Surely he’d have done his homework, found a place where his wife’s mental problems could have been properly addressed. It didn’t make sense, unless her problems were so bad they couldn’t be resolved. Could it be that Sonja Sorenson was being confined, hidden away for a reason? What had she done? Why was she such a threat that she needed to be removed from decent society, from her family?
Brook continued to skim until he came to Stefan Sorenson’s murder, what should have been a seismic event in Mrs Sorenson’s treatment.
The patient seems to be in shock. Minimal medication required, however. Shows no emotion at all. Her husband’s death leaves her numb. Questionable whether she understands the fact. Has become almost catatonic and refuses, or is unable, to speak. Patient’s
brother-in-law, Victor Sorenson, has requested that she no longer be medicated with a view to her release but we have advised strongly against this.3/6/89. Prof Sorenson has continued to insist on no medication for his sister-in-law and has retained his own psychiatrist, Dr Lilley, who has endorsed his view. Dr Lilley has also agreed with his client that Mrs Sorenson should be on selective home release to which we strongly object. He believes that regular exposure to home life and her children will have a beneficial effect. We feel that the patient still represents a small, but active threat to her family and should be confined.
Unfortunately Mrs Sorenson is effectively a voluntary patient and our hands are tied.
We have put on record our objections.
CONFIDENTIAL
! It is also our view that the reductions in charges, resulting from Mrs Sorenson becoming an intermittent resident, can only affect the quality of her care here.
And that was that. Over the next three years, Sonja Sorenson was effectively an outpatient, having decreasing contact with Belle Vue and virtually no clinical assessment. It was no surprise to Brook that Mrs Sorenson recovered without the expert care of its doctors, becoming no threat to society, herself or her children. All contact ceased in 1992. Brook nodded. 1992–The Reaper’s gap year. Maybe Sorenson was too
preoccupied with Sonja’s recovery to scope out appropriate victims.
Brook drained his glass and refilled it, deep in thought. The place suddenly disgusted him and he resolved to leave the next day–New Year’s Day.
Then another thought struck him. This time last year Brook and Wendy Jones…it was their anniversary. One year ago.
If Brook closed his eyes he could almost smell the perfume of her hair as she chewed urgently at his chest. He could feel the smoothness of her pale skin and the violence of her passion, all her sinews girding themselves to the rhythms of his lust.
On an impulse he rang her. He regretted it at once. No reply. Even though it was a night when the whole world was out enjoying themselves, Brook burned inside. Where was she? Gone out to find some solace amongst the emptiness, with another, more eligible, man? Maybe. Who could blame her?
He drank some more and rang Amy.
‘Happy New Year, Amy.’ It was the best he could come up with.
‘Damen? I told you never to ring again. Ever.’
‘Just want to wish you a Happy New Year.’
‘What?’
‘I know you’re upset, darling…’
‘Don’t call me that. How dare you after what you’ve done?’
‘What have I done?’
‘You know damn well. Leave my family alone…’
‘Family?’
‘What?’
‘You said
family’
There was a pause at the other end of the line.
‘Yes. Terri and me.’
‘So Tony came back.’ No answer–confirmation in itself. ‘He came back and you let him in. Tell me Amy. Did he come back with his tail between
his
legs or Terri’s?’
‘Leave us alone, you sick bastard.’
‘What’s happened to you?’
‘To me? That’s fucking rich.’
‘Your husband is having sex with our daughter.’
‘He said you’d say this. You’re sick, Damen. Do you know that? Do you know what he’s going through at work after what you did? Have you any idea? I had to go in and assure the partners at the firm that I have a mentally unstable ex-husband. And as for Tony, he can barely speak to us. His own family.’
‘Good.’
‘He’s at the end of his rope.’
‘Best place for him.’
‘I should have you arrested for what you’ve done to me and our daughter, you bastard. I hate you! It makes me sick to think I was ever married to you.’
There was a stunned silence at Brook’s end of the receiver. He suddenly felt physically ill. ‘My God! You’ve known all along. Haven’t you? Amy. Tell me you didn’t know. Did you think you’d never get another man…?’
There was a scream of pain from the other end of the line, then a click.
Brook replaced the receiver and sat motionless on the bed for several minutes. He poured himself another
drink. He felt nothing beyond his usual vague confusion at the ways of the world–nothing. Life was like a gunshot wound but suddenly it had ceased to hurt. Perhaps now was the time to worry.
He jumped off the bed and packed for something to do. He couldn’t stay. The sooner he left this place the better he’d feel. Like Sonja. Better. He spied the empty champagne bottle lying on the floor and was tempted to order another. Strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ filtered up from below and he looked at his watch. Midnight.
Brook needed some air so he opened a window. The grounds below were large and inviting. He’d go for a walk. Or perhaps a drive. The roads would be empty. Now was a good time. He took his case to put in the car, all the better for a quick getaway in the morning.
Brook pulled his jacket tight against the cold as he stalked along the damp pavement of Electric Avenue. The detritus of the market was everywhere. Rotten fruit and vegetables had been squashed underfoot by the day’s pedestrian traffic and the ground was slimy and treacherous and, as he walked along the crescent-shaped street, Brook had to divide his attention between examining the shop fronts and picking his way along the pavement.
When he reached the junction with Brixton High Street, Brook turned back to walk on the other side of the avenue towards his car. He was deflated now. There was nothing to be seen and the adrenaline of the chase was spent. All he wanted to do now was sleep.