The Rapture (22 page)

'You ready there, madam?'

Five minutes is never five minutes.

And less than five minutes -I reckon two - is not a long time in which to make a very crucial decision.

But it's long enough.

Chapter Nine

There are certain people who, despite being relatively young, convey the knowingness of a nonagenarian without ever being charmed or moved to tears by anything the world has to offer. Detective Trevor Kavanagh, thirty-something, sits with his legs spread apart, because the thickness of his thighs ordains it. I am helping the police with their enquiries in a bare room with a tiny digital tape machine which is recording our conversation for legal posterity.

The story of Bethany's abduction has been on the local radio news all morning. Have I heard it? No: unlike my landlady, I do not listen to Sunshine FM or BBC Southern Counties from morning till night. In that case, for my benefit, Detective Kavanagh will recap. A teenage girl known publicly as Child B, a psychotic minor, was left unattended in hospital for a period of four minutes. The system failure that led to this is an issue which falls in another category and is being 'indexed separately'. In that crucial period, CCTV footage shows a figure - probably male, age unclear - in green surgeon's overalls and face-mask, freeing Bethany Krall. That Bethany left the hospital with this 'individual' without a struggle would seem attributable to either collusion or - can I comment on this? - a random symptom of her mental unbalance. Kavanagh does not add that as Bethany's most recent therapist, I am an inherent part of this procedural shambles. But the thought hangs between us.

Detective Kavanagh's hands, laid on the desk, are as strong and clean as an orthopaedic surgeon's. You could put your life in them. He tells me there were no signs of a struggle, so the likelihood is that Bethany's abductor was somebody known to her.

'Can I ask, how long have you been, er, confined to . . .' he nods at it. I roll a millimetre back.

'One year, ten months and three days. And it's permanent. I can't walk, if that's what you're getting at. As for where I was last night,' I tell him, anticipating where this is going, 'I don't have an alibi. At least, not one I can prove. I was at home, alone. Just me and my titanium friend here.' I pat a wheel.

The detective tells me that Dr Frazer Melville's name appears in the visitors' log at Oxsmith. He has taken time off work at very short notice. What is our relationship, what was his interest in Bethany, and where has he gone?

'We're acquaintances rather than close friends. As far as I know he's away on a field trip.'

'Well, he
has
gone abroad,' Kavanagh says. He presents the information like it's a poker stake. Responding in kind, I do not allow my features to move. 'And we're concerned, naturally, at the coincidence.'

'Where is he?'

'We have a record of his having arrived in Thailand yesterday.'

The detective is reading my face, so I try to keep my shock hidden while I work out the maths, and the implications, of what he has just said. If Bethany was taken early this morning, Frazer Melville didn't do it. He was in Thailand. Nothing fits. So who took Bethany? Is it possible that he has actually done what he said he was going to do, and is currently taking nature photographs in south-east Asia? With a methane disaster unleashing itself in five days?

Today never happened.
And nor did Kristin Jons dottir. I will grit my teeth and play my part in the game. But not for her sake.

'You are acquaintances with Dr Melville, you say? Rather than close friends? According to Dr Sheldon-Gray, you met at a charity function here in Hadport. Which you both left early, missing the buffet and the prize raffle.' It's clear where this is heading.

'I always get indigestion the next day with those buffets. And I'm never lucky with raffles. Dr Melville showed an interest in Bethany.'

'So you told him all about her?'

'I didn't breach patient confidentiality, if that's what you mean.' This is not strictly speaking the truth. 'He met her once, that's all. At my suggestion. He wanted to encourage her interest in natural science. I didn't realise what it would lead to.' I am not much of an actress: my experience as the religiously-confused Penny showed me that much. But I tell him anxiously that I want to help find Bethany, and that he can - he must - ask me anything.

'Are you aware that Dr Melville took Bethany's psychotic visions seriously enough to contact scientist colleagues about them, and this caused his superiors alarm on his behalf?'

I nod in shame, and tell him I blame myself for that. I should have spotted that Frazer's preoccupation with Bethany's ideas was unhealthy. Especially because my predecessor Joy McConey fell into the same . . . here I search for the word, and come up with 'trap'. 'Bethany's very convincing,' I insist. 'Her delusions seem to be infectious. It's easy to over-identify with a case like hers.' I study the floor and take my time before looking up. It feels as though we are both caught in a bell-jar. 'Dr Sheldon-Gray thinks I've succumbed to that too.' He looks interested. 'Though that's something I'd deny.' He can't have been expecting this. I wait for him to absorb my flood of honesty, my fervent desire to help the police unravel the mystery of the rogue physicist. 'Dr Melville was going through a very tough time, personally,' I venture. 'His mother died not long ago, and it distressed him more than he let on. Things got out of hand. And psychologists don't always see the obvious. Even when it's staring them in the face.'

'So how do you account for his taking off, just before Bethany was abducted? Coincidence?'

'Well, certainly it's no surprise. He needed a complete break. He said something about wanting to go on a field trip. His mother died, he got frozen out of his job, he was confused about Bethany. I said, for God's sake, go. I'm glad he took my advice.'

'So have you any idea what Dr Melville is actually doing in Thailand? On this field trip?'

I concentrate on the table. It's wood-laminate. They take a photograph of wood and project it on to plastic. The realism is heartbreaking. The detective shifts impatiently. Men of action do not like being trapped behind desks.

'I'm sorry to say this. But guessing at Frazer's . . . proclivities, I'm afraid that "field trip" might be something of a euphemism.' The detective's eyebrows shoot upward. I am savouring my small act of revenge. 'Your field is crime, and mine is the psyche,' I continue. 'Unhealthy impulses are part of the territory we both inhabit. Personally, I don't like a lot of what I encounter in the human condition. That doesn't mean it doesn't exist.'

'Can you clarify that for me, Ms Fox?'

'Come on, do I need to?' I accuse. Calling my bluff, he thrusts his chin up in affirmation. 'OK. Frazer Melville is a lonely, overweight, middle-aged single man who is going through a difficult phase in the wake of his mother's death.'

'Mrs Zarnac, your landlady, seemed to think . . .'

I laugh and shake my head. 'Mrs Zarnac has too much time on her hands and a rampant romantic imagination. She's a devoted subscriber to
True Life
magazine. Which as you know specialises in stories of the fiscally and physically disadvantaged overcoming the mountainous odds stacked against them, and discovering eternal love. I'm sorry to disappoint her. Do I honestly look like I'd have a sex life?'

This seems to stump him. 'Dr Melville was married once,' he warns, as if I'm about to attempt what he might call 'some funny business'.

'To a lesbian. You can check it.'

With interesting predictability, this seems to put a lid on that line of questioning. Together, in the silence that follows, we picture Frazer Melville buying a ladyboy a fruity cocktail in a Bangkok bar. Do we both see a frangipani flower in her hair, and the sadness of a pair of tilted underage eyes? I make a regretful face, and we allow ourselves a knowing quirk of the mouth, silently agreeing that it takes all sorts but we do not approve. Perhaps we are both regretful, too, that I count a man like Dr Frazer Melville among my acquaintances - but then I am a cripple and probably can't be choosy. The detective shrugs, shaking off the distaste conjured by our Thai vision.

'What about Bethany's father?' I ask, shifting gear. 'I presume he was informed about the electrocution, and he would have known she was in hospital?'

Detective Kavanagh scrutinises his hands, as though they are beings more intelligent than he, which require consultation. 'Dr Sheldon-Gray has told me about your unusual intervention with Leonard Krall.' He waits for me to speak, but the wood-laminate has regained my attention. 'As it happens, the reverend has an alibi. But let's discuss your meeting with him. Do you normally visit the parents of your patients, incognito?'

'No.'

'So why on this occasion?'

'Because Bethany Krall is a highly unusual case. I suppose I thought that her father might hold some sort of clue to her recovery.'

He studies his hands again. I can picture them flexed around some weights in a gym. 'And did he?'

He looks up sharply and I meet his stare. The flush that spreads upwards from my chest and ignites my face is the real thing because it reflects my definitive and absolute failure. 'He didn't.

No.'

When I get home, there is a letter from the Regional Authority on the mat along with a huge sprawl of junk mail. Its contents come as no surprise, but I still feel a sharp tug of professional indignation when I read the careful paragraphs of sub-divisional personnel administrator Ms Stephanie Buckton. It reminds me of the school reports I used to get from the convent:
Gabrielle is a skilled and insightful pupil but she has a tendency to make life difficult for herself
. Is that what's happened now? Have I pushed things too far yet again?

Apparently I have.

I have been suspended from my post. With immediate effect.

Indignation swiftly gives way to anger. If Ms Stephanie Buck-ton were here, she would meet my thunder egg at close range.

I fling the letter in the bin and wheel myself into the kitchen to splash my face with cold water. A moment later I'm throwing out the junk mail with extra fury when I see the postcard. I almost miss it. No one I know sends postcards: they belong to a bygone era of great-aunts, paper doilies, coffee-thermoses. But there it is, a colourful rectangle. It shows Edinburgh Castle with a kilted and sporraned bagpiper in the foreground, his knees proud and hairy, his cheeks bulging comically for the big push. I flip it. On the back, familiar handwriting. Handwriting I first saw in my office, on Joy McConey's leaving card.

Hi Wheels

Looks like I had to leave without saying goodbye. But stay chilled, I'm doing fine.

Yours electrically,

Child B.

Sometimes, an instinct makes you swerve. Blink and it's done. Upon which a new map of the world unveils itself before you, with roads you didn't know about. Roads you might have to stake your life on.

Trusting that my instinct is the right one, I drive to the police station - where having handed the card to a duty officer, I wait for half an hour to see Detective Kavanagh in a poky cubicle decorated with posters about crime figures, fraud hotlines and victim support. Far from being relieved at the new development, he seems annoyed, almost to the point of gracelessness. Bethany's postcard from Edinburgh has 'thrown a spanner in the works,' he tells me severely. 'It may be a false lead.'

'I suppose in your line of business you are hard-wired for mistrust.'

'You're sure it's Bethany's handwriting?'

'Positive. But you can have it verified.'

His look is withering: clearly that process is already underway. 'Did she ever mention friends or relatives in Scotland?'

'Bethany isn't a friends-and-relatives kind of girl. Scotland never cropped up.'

'Do you sense there might be some kind of message encoded in this?'

I tell him that 'yours electrically' is a humorous reference to her ECT, and Wheels is her typically tasteless nickname for me, and Child B speaks for itself. Apart from that, no. But tell me. How can I help?

He sighs. 'I suggest that you just go home, and wait. If there's any other contact from her, ring this number.'

He hands me a card. 'If you leave Hadport for any reason, call me first, and let me know where you'll be. If she turns up, we may need you again at short notice.'

Back home, the phone is ringing. I reach it too late to answer, but I can see there have been ten missed calls, all from the same number. Clearly, some hard-core psychopathology is at work. But whose? Seconds later, it rings again. It's Joy. She is frantic. She has heard the news about Bethany's abduction. But the word she uses is escape.

'If you helped her get out, you don't know what you've done. I warned you.'

'I didn't help her.'

'Don't you see, the whole world's in danger now? Don't you get it?' Her agitation is palpable. 'I was like you once. I didn't believe people could be evil. But I do now. She'd destroy the whole planet if she could.' Joy's need to cling to a notion that eliminates the random stirs a weary pity in me. But I can do nothing to help her. 'If you know where she is '

I interrupt her and snap, 'I wish I did. But the fact is, I don't. Then a man's voice - sharp - can be heard in the background, appealing to her. A second later Joy yells, 'Get off me!' There's a clatter in my ear, as though the phone has been dropped to the floor. I can still hear her raging. 'Hello?' says the man. Her poor husband. 'Who is this I'm speaking to?'

'Gabrielle Fox. We met at the restaurant.'

'Oh God. I must apologise for Joy. The drugs she's on -'

I tell him there's no need to explain. Or apologise. That I completely understand. That Joy is blessed to have him. And that I wish him luck.

He will be needing enormous quantities of it.

After the car smash upended my life, I made the assumption that my thoughts would forever revolve around the aftermath and constraints of my injury, that no outside factor would diminish my enforced solipsism, and that this exhausting preoccupation with myself would carry on, like the low-level hum of tinnitus, ad nauseam, until the day I died. That I would continue to wake every morning to the reality of a life chopped down. But now -It seems I am living in times so charged with grotesque momentum, that there are whole minutes in which I forget the mess that I am - and when I remember, can forgive it. When a text message signals itself on my mobile as I prepare for bed, I know that I have been waiting for it. It's from an unknown caller.