The Silent Patient (19 page)

“Oh, something will come of it. You’ll see. All I ask is you let me have a look at the finished paintings.”

A strange note of hunger was in his voice. I had a sudden image of Alicia’s pictures swaddled like babies in blankets in that storage room. Was he really keeping them safe for her? Or because he couldn’t bear to let go of them?

“Would you mind dropping off the materials to the Grove?” I said. “Would that be convenient?”

“Oh, I—” There was a moment’s hesitation. I felt his anxiety.

I found myself coming to his rescue. “Or I can pick them up from you if that’s easier?”

“Yes, yes, perhaps that would be better.”

Jean-Felix was scared of coming here, scared of seeing Alicia. Why? What was there between them?

What was it that he didn’t want to face?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“WHAT TIME ARE YOU MEETING YOUR FRIEND
?
”
I asked.

“Seven o’clock. After rehearsal.” Kathy handed me her coffee cup. “If you can’t remember her name, Theo, it’s Nicole.”

“Right.” I yawned.

Kathy gave me a stern look. “You know, it’s a little insulting that you don’t remember—she’s one of my best friends. You went to her going-away party for fuck’s sake.”

“Of course I remember Nicole. I just forgot her name, that’s all.”

Kathy rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Pothead. I’m having a shower.” She walked out of the kitchen.

I smiled to myself.

Seven o’clock.

*   *   *

At a quarter to seven I walked along the river toward Kathy’s rehearsal space on the South Bank.

I sat on a bench across the way from the rehearsal room, facing away from the entrance so Kathy wouldn’t immediately see me if she left early. Every so often I turned my head and glanced over my shoulder. But the door remained obstinately shut.

Then, at five minutes past seven, it opened. There was the sound of animated conversation and laughter as the actors left the building. They wandered out in groups of two or three. No sign of Kathy.

I waited five minutes. Ten minutes. The trickle of people stopped, and no one else came out. I must have missed her. She must have left before I arrived. Unless she hadn’t been here at all?

Had she been lying about the rehearsal?

I got up and made my way toward the entrance. I needed to be sure. If she was still inside and she saw me, what then? What excuse could I have for being here? I’d come to surprise her? Yes—I’d say I was here to take her and “Nicole” out for dinner. Kathy would squirm and lie her way out of it with some bullshit excuse—“Nicole is sick, Nicole has canceled”—so Kathy and I would end up spending an uncomfortable evening alone together. Another evening of long silences.

I reached the entrance. I hesitated, grabbed the rusted green handle, and pushed open the door. I went inside.

The bare concrete interior smelled damp. Kathy’s rehearsal space was on the fourth floor—she had moaned about having to climb the stairs every day—so I went up the main central staircase. I reached the first floor and was starting for the second when I heard a voice on the stairs, coming from the floor above. It was Kathy. She was on the phone:

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll see you soon. I won’t be long.… Okay, okay, bye.”

I froze—we were seconds away from colliding with each other. I dashed down the steps, hiding around the corner. Kathy walked past without seeing me. She went out the door. It slammed shut.

I hurried after her and left the building. Kathy was walking away, moving fast, toward the bridge. I followed, weaving between commuters and tourists, trying to keep a distance without losing sight of her.

She crossed the bridge and went down the steps into the Embankment tube station. I went after her, wondering which line she would take.

But she didn’t get on the tube. Instead she walked straight through the station and out the other side. She continued walking toward Charing Cross Road. I followed. I stood a few steps behind her at the traffic lights. We crossed Charing Cross Road and headed into Soho. I followed her along the narrow streets. She took a right turn, a left, another right. Then she abruptly stopped. She stood on the corner of Lexington Street. And waited.

So this was the meeting place. A good spot—central, busy, anonymous. I hesitated and slipped into a pub on the corner. I positioned myself at the bar. It offered a clear view through the window of Kathy across the road. The barman, bored, with an unruly beard, glanced at me. “Yeah?”

“A pint. Guinness.”

He yawned and went to the other side of the bar to pour the pint. I kept my eyes on Kathy. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to see me through the window even if she looked in this direction. At one point Kathy did look over—straight at me. My heart stopped for a second—I was sure she had noticed me—but no, her gaze drifted on.

The minutes passed, and still Kathy waited. So did I. I sipped my pint slowly, watching. He was taking his time, whoever he was. She wouldn’t like that. Kathy didn’t like to be kept waiting—even though she was perpetually late. I could see she was getting annoyed, frowning and checking her watch.

A man crossed the road toward her. In the few seconds he took to cross the street, I had already assessed him. He was well built. He had shoulder-length fair hair, which surprised me, as Kathy always said she only went for men with dark hair and eyes like mine—unless that was another lie.

But the man walked right by her. She didn’t even look at him. Soon he was out of sight. So it wasn’t him. I wondered if Kathy and I were both thinking the same thing—had she been stood up?

Then her eyes widened. She smiled. She waved across the street—at someone out of sight. At last, I thought. It’s him. I craned my neck to see—

To my surprise, a tarty-looking blonde, about thirty, wearing an impossibly short skirt and improbably high heels, tottered over to Kathy. I recognized her at once. Nicole. They greeted each other with hugs and kisses. They walked off, talking and laughing, arm in arm. So Kathy hadn’t been lying about meeting Nicole.

I registered my emotions with shock—I ought to have been hugely relieved that Kathy had been telling the truth. I ought to have been grateful. But I wasn’t.

I was disappointed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“WELL, WHAT DO YOU THINK, ALICIA
? Lots of light, eh? Do you like it?”

Yuri showed off the new studio proudly. It had been his idea to commandeer the unused room next to the goldfish bowl, and I agreed—it seemed a better idea than sharing Rowena’s art-therapy room, which, given her obvious hostility, would have created difficulties. Now Alicia could have a room of her own, where she’d be free to paint whenever she wished and without interruption.

Alicia looked around. Her easel had been unpacked and set up by the window, where there was the most light. Her box of oils was open on a table. Yuri winked at me as Alicia approached the table. He was enthusiastic about this painting scheme, and I was grateful for his support—Yuri was a useful ally, as he was by far the most popular member of the staff; with the patients, anyway. He gave me a nod, saying, “Good luck, you’re on your own now.” Then he left. The door closed after him with a bang. But Alicia didn’t seem to hear it.

She was in her own world, bent over the table, examining her paints with a small smile. She picked up the sable brushes and stroked them as if they were delicate flowers. She unpacked three tubes of oils—Prussian blue, Indian yellow, cadmium red—and lined them up. She turned to the blank canvas on the easel. She considered it. She stood there for a long time. She seemed to enter a trance, a reverie—her mind was elsewhere, having escaped somehow, traveled far beyond this cell—until finally she came out of it and turned back to the table. She squeezed some white paint onto the palette and combined it with a small amount of red. She had to mix the paints with a paintbrush: her palette knives had immediately been confiscated upon their arrival at the Grove by Stephanie, for obvious reasons.

Alicia lifted the brush to the canvas—and made a mark. A single red stroke of paint in the middle of the white space.

She considered it for a moment. Then made another mark. Another. Soon she was painting without pause or hesitation, with total fluidity of movement. It was a kind of dance between Alicia and the canvas. I stood there, watching the shapes she was creating.

I remained silent, scarcely daring to breathe. I felt as if I was present at an intimate moment, watching a wild animal give birth. Although Alicia was aware of my presence, she didn’t seem to mind. She occasionally looked up, while painting, and glanced at me.

Almost as if she was studying me.

*   *   *

Over the next few days the painting slowly took shape, roughly at first, sketchily, but with increasing clarity—then it emerged from the canvas with a burst of pristine photo-realistic brilliance.

Alicia had painted a redbrick building, a hospital—unmistakably the Grove. It was on fire, burning to the ground. Two figures were discernible on the fire escape. A man and a woman escaping the fire. The woman was unmistakably Alicia, her red hair the same color as the flames. I recognized the man as myself. I was carrying Alicia in my arms, holding her aloft while the fire licked at my ankles.

I couldn’t tell if I was depicted as rescuing Alicia—or about to throw her in the flames.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“THIS IS RIDICULOUS
. I’ve been coming here for years and nobody ever told me to call ahead before. I can’t stand around waiting all day. I’m an extremely busy person.”

An American woman was standing by the reception desk, complaining loudly to Stephanie Clarke. I recognized Barbie Hellmann from the newspapers and TV coverage of the murder. She was Alicia’s neighbor in Hampstead, who heard the gunshots the night of Gabriel’s murder and phoned the police.

Barbie was a Californian blonde in her mid-sixties, possibly older. She was drenched in Chanel No. 5, and she’d had considerable plastic surgery. Her name suited her—she looked a like a startled Barbie doll. She was obviously used to getting what she wanted—hence her loud protestations at the reception desk when she discovered she needed to make an appointment to visit a patient.

“Let me talk to the manager,” she said with a grand gesture, as if this were a restaurant, instead of a psychiatric unit. “This is absurd. Where is he?”

“I am the manager, Mrs. Hellmann,” said Stephanie. “We’ve met before.”

This was the first time I’d felt even vaguely sympathetic to Stephanie; it was hard not to pity her for being on the receiving end of Barbie’s onslaught. Barbie talked a lot and talked fast, leaving no pauses, giving her opponent no time to respond.

“Well, you never mentioned anything about making appointments before.” Barbie laughed loudly. “For Christ’s sake, it’s easier to get a table at the Ivy.”

I joined them and smiled at Stephanie innocently. “Can I help?”

Stephanie shot me an irritated look. “No, thanks. I can manage.”

Barbie looked me up and down with some interest. “Who are you?”

“I’m Theo Faber. Alicia’s therapist.”

“Oh, really?” Barbie said. “How interesting.” Therapists were obviously something she could relate to, unlike ward managers. From then on, she deferred solely to me, treating Stephanie as if she were nothing more than a receptionist, which I must admit rather wickedly amused me.

“You must be new, if we’ve not met?” I opened my mouth to reply, but Barbie got there first. “I usually come every couple of months or so. I left it a bit longer this time, as I’ve been in the States seeing my family, but as soon as I got back, I thought I must visit my Alicia—I miss her so much. Alicia was my best friend, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Oh, yeah. When they moved in next door, I was a great help in getting Alicia and Gabriel settled into the neighborhood. Alicia and I became extremely close. We’d confide in each other about
everything
.”

“I see.”

Yuri appeared in the reception, and I beckoned him over.

“Mrs. Hellmann is here to see Alicia,” I said.

“Call me Barbie, honey. Yuri and I are old friends.” She winked at Yuri. “We go way back. He’s not the problem. It’s this lady here—”

Barbie gestured dismissively at Stephanie, who finally found an opportunity to speak. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hellmann, but hospital policy has changed since you were here last year. We’ve tightened our security. From now on you’ll have to call before—”

“Oh God, do we have to go through this
again
? I’ll scream if I have to hear it one more time. As if life weren’t complicated enough.”

Stephanie gave up, and Yuri led off Barbie. I followed.

We entered the visitors’ room and waited for Alicia. The bare room had a table and two chairs, no windows, and a sickly yellow fluorescent light. I stood at the back and watched Alicia appear at the other door, accompanied by two nurses. Alicia didn’t betray any obvious reaction to seeing Barbie. She walked over to the table and sat down without looking up.

Barbie seemed much more emotional. “Alicia, darling, I’ve missed you. You’re so thin, there’s nothing left of you. I’m so jealous. How are you? That awful woman nearly didn’t let me see you. It’s been a
nightmare
—”

So it went, an endless stream of inane chatter from Barbie, details of her trip to San Diego to visit her mother and brother. Alicia just sat there, silent, her face a mask, betraying nothing, showing nothing. After about twenty minutes, the monologue mercifully ended. Alicia was led away by Yuri, as uninterested as she was when she had entered.

I approached Barbie as she was leaving the Grove. “Can I have a word?”

Barbie nodded, as if she had been expecting this. “You want to talk to me about Alicia? It’s about time somebody asked me some goddamn questions. The police didn’t want to hear anything—which was crazy, because Alicia confided in me all the time, you know? About everything. She told me things you wouldn’t
believe
.” Barbie said this with a definite emphasis and gave me a coy smile. She knew she had piqued my interest.