The Stranger Came (54 page)

'Oh,
these
fathers,'
Anne
Macleod
said,
not
sounding
like
a
doctor
at
all.

'I
was
with
my
mother
when
she
died.
Not
that
they
would
have
let
me
if
they
had
known.
But
she
wasn't
supposed
to,
she
had
been
ill
for
such
a
little
while.
And
so
they
took
me
in
to
say
good-night.
Her
eyes
were
closed.
I
thought
she
was
pretending
so
I
didn't
want
to
kiss
her,
and
Daddy
said
I
had
to.
I
bent
over
to
kiss
her.
Her
eyes
were
still
closed.
And
then
she
sighed.
I
felt
her
breath
going
out,
it
touched
me.’
Lucy
put
her
hand
to
her
cheek.

Anne
left
the
path
and
led
the
way
across
the
grass.
She was
the
one
who
had
suggested
walking
outside,
not
caring
any
longer
it
seemed
about
the
bank
of
hospital
windows
looking
down
on
them.

'I
screamed
because
she
was
dead.’

'And
afterwards
for
a
time
you
couldn't
speak.’

'No.
Afterwards
I
was
mad.’

Anne
Macleod
stopped
and
stared
at
her.
'Do
you mean –?'

The
boy's head pressing between the girl's thighs as she slid down in the chair. Horrible.
But
it
wasn't
that
which
had
driven
her
mad.
'Just
a
little
sigh,
but
I
heard
it
under
all
the
noise,'
Lucy
said.
'I
must
have
known
at
once
what
it
was,
because
of
my
mother.
Sophie
Lindgren
was
in
the seat
beside
me
and
she
sighed
and
then
she
got
up
although
she
was
dead.
She
stood
up
and
walked.
She
went
up
on
to
the
stage.
And
I
saw
her
up
there
and
I
knew.
She
had
died
in
the
seat
beside
me.
That's
when
I
began
to
scream.’

'But
have
you
told
this
to
Dr
Cadell?'

'He
tells
me
to
go
to
sleep,'
Lucy
said.
'And
when
I
wake
up
I
can
tell
by
the
way
he
looks
at
me
that
he
knows
everything.’

Chapter
18

'I
don't
know
why
you
should
say
such
things
to
me,'
she
objected.
'You
have
no
right.’ But
knew
that
he
had.
Wasn't
that
the
nature
of
Doctor
Cadell's
business?
What
else
was
he
paid
for?
There
was
a
game
she
played
in
her
head
in
which
he
was
a
tradesman
taken
on
for
the
job
of
reordering
her
thoughts
as
someone
else
might
be
hired
to
clean
out
gutters.

She
was
not
as
fragile
as
he
might
imagine,
as
they
might
imagine.

'Because
your
husband's
here?'

Yes.
That
was
his
offence.

'It
isn't
true,
you
know,'
Maitland
said.
'There
isn't
anything
like
that
between
Janet
and
me.’

'I
didn't –’
but
she
had
said
it,
shouted
it
one
morning here
to
Dr Cadell,
who
loomed
behind
the
desk
waiting
to
call
himself
as
a
witness.
And
so,
whispering,
'Yes.’
Yes,
she
believed
Maitland,
which
didn't
prevent
the
disappointment
that
he
should
be
there
at
all
and
willing
to
discuss
the
unlit
corners
of
their
life
together.
He
had
never
had
any
patience
for
the
gratuitous
confidences
and
smutty
hints
even
people
who
should
know
better
seemed
to
go
in
for
nowadays;
she
had
been
embarrassed
by
how
openly
he
despised
the
slack
flirtatiousness
of
faculty
parties.
Maitland
had
dignity.

She
wanted
to
put
out
her
hand
and
touch
him,
but
their
chairs
were
set
apart
in
line
with
either
edge
of
the
desk
where
Cadell
sat
like
a
judge
on
a
bench.
Judge.
Witness.
Prosecutor.

'I'm
sorry,'
she
said.

In
the
silence,
Maitland
turned
his
face
to
her.
What
else
could
he
be
assuming
but
that
she
wanted
forgiveness
for
the
sick
images
of
him
and
Janet
together
in
bed,
and
the
bed
theirs,
the
bed
in
which
he
should
struggle
only
with
her?
The
regret
she
felt,
in
fact,
was
vaguer
than
that,
and
for
something
more
encompassing.

It
seemed
to
her
that
Maitland
knowing
her
so
well should
feel
how
sorry
she
was
for
bringing
them
to
this
indignity.

The
angle
of
the
winter
morning
sun
left
one
side
of
his face
in
shadow,
distracting
her.
When
she
was
shown
in
by
the
nurse,
why
had
he
given
no
sign
of
recognising
how
great
was
the
shock
of
her
surprise?
Not
to
have
been
told
he
was
going
to
be
there
was
so
unfair.
If
she
had
lost
the
right
to
the
courtesy
of
being
asked,
then
not
even
to
be
warned
that
he
would
be
there.
'I
felt
it
was
better
that
your
husband
should
be
here
this
morning,'
and
Maitland
not
saying
a
word.
The
moment
reran
in
her
head,
but
this
time
Maitland
held
out
his
hands
to
her,
kissed
her
on
the
cheek.

This
time
he
stood
up.

This
time
he
stood
up
to
welcome
her.
To
comfort
her.

This
time
he
stood
up.

'There
comes
a
time,'
Dr
Cadell
was
saying,
'when
the
barriers
have
to
be
broken
down.
Afterwards
the
healing,
but
first
the
breaking
down.
I
explained
to
your
husband
why
it
would
be
helpful
if
he
was
present
when
I
played
the
tape
to
you.
He
agreed.’

There
was
a
tape
recorder
on
the
desk.
She
had
not
seen
it
before.

'This
comes
from
our
most
recent
sessions,'
Dr
Cadell
said,
'when
you
were
under
hypnosis.’

'You
didn't
say
anything
to
me
about
a
tape.’

He
shook
his
head
at
that,
glancing
towards
Maitland.
But you didn't! You didn't!
She
had
to
restrain
herself
from
crying
that
out,
in
frustration
like
a
child.
You must have begun each time after I had gone to sleep; taking the machine from wherever it was concealed, perhaps from out of a drawer in the desk.

'Have
you
heard
it
already?'
she
asked
Maitland.

Instead
of
answering
he
looked
to
Dr
Cadell,
who
after
the
briefest
of
hesitations
said,
'What
you're
going
to
hear
is
edited.
It
would
take
hours
to
play
the
full
record,
as
many
hours
as
the
sessions
lasted.’

It
was
obvious
that
he
had
already
played
the
tape
to
Maitland.
No
doubt
of
that
at
all.
She
could
understand
the
usefulness
of
being
able
to
play
back
what
had
been
said,
could
see
it
was
no
different
in
principle
from
taking
notes
on
a
case;
but
she
felt
it,
in
some
kind,
as
a
betrayal.
If
the
act
they
were
engaged
in
was
whatever
else
also
and
as
well
only
two
people
talking
together,
then
what
had
been
betrayed
was
trust.
And
why
shouldn't
there
be
a
second
recorder
hidden
and
taping
everything
they
said
at
this
moment?
Had
Maitland
thought
of
that?