The Woodcutter (51 page)

‘And then he died. And I became his replacement. A bit of a shock for you, I seem to recall, George.’

‘Maybe, at first, but when I came to think of it . . .’ he tailed off.

‘What?’

‘Look, miss, don’t be offended. At first I thought, bloody political correctness and all that garbage. Appoint a young woman and if she happens to be black, that’s even better. But later I got to thinking . . .’

‘What did you get to thinking, George?’

‘I got to thinking if they’d just got shot of a shrink who turned out to be a trouble maker and hard to control, well, they wouldn’t want another one of the same, would they?’

This was getting worse!

‘You mean, they wouldn’t want another independently minded, experienced, middle-aged man, they’d much prefer a young, inexperienced girl who’d be frightened to make waves, and would be more likely to get blamed than listened to if she did.’

Proctor looked rather sheepish.

‘Yeah, that’s about it, miss. But when I started to see they’d picked wrong, that was when I got worried.’

‘Because you felt I might end up having an accident like Ruskin?’

He looked alarmed and shook his head vigorously.

‘Don’t put words into my mouth, miss. I’m not saying for one moment there was a connection between him handing in his notice and what happened. I mean, the state of mind he was in, he was an accident ready to happen. But when I started worrying you were going down the same road . . .’

He stopped, as if fearful he might be straying into some unmasculine area like compassion. Or maybe the black humour of his metaphor had just occurred to him.

Alva stepped in.

‘And this week, after thinking about it, you came to the conclusion that maybe the simplest thing would be to go along with seeing me edged out as not up to the job, an experiment that failed? Make your life a lot easier, would it?’

The bitterness she was feeling wasn’t directed at him, but she couldn’t keep it out of her voice.

He said stolidly, ‘That’s right, miss. Pure self-interest. Seeing you on your way, safe and free, that would suit me down to the ground. Thing is, I know accidents happen, we’ve all got to live with that. But an accident happens twice and I’d have to speak up. Don’t know what good it would do, but I’m pretty sure it would be the end of my career. I’ll say good night, miss.’

He turned away and started to walk back to his car.

Suddenly Alva felt ashamed of herself.

She called after him, ‘George!’

He halted and looked back.

‘Yes, miss?’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve no right to say anything to you except thanks. You’ve acted like a friend. I’ll not forget that. But I won’t mention it, not unless they use the thumbscrews.’

That brought a smile.

‘I reckon they’d need to screw them down real tight to make you talk, miss. You take care now.’

Alva watched him get into his car and drive away.

We probably disagree on most of the major political and social issues of the day, she thought. But there goes a truly moral man!

Whereas Homewood, with whom she’d have said she was in almost perfect philosophical agreement, and John Childs whom she’d come to respect and admire, these two had vetted her, not because she represented a new generation of psychiatrist, young, vital, open-minded, forward-looking, but because she was a novice, easy to influence and divert, easy too to dispose of, if push came to shove . . .

Something in her demeanour at Childs’s house must have warned him that she was starting to ask questions. He’d know about her special interest in Hadda from Homewood and perhaps she’d left some evidence that she’d found the photo. At the very least her prevarications when he made enquiry about the urgent matter she wanted to discuss with him must have rung false. She’d tried to pretend it was all about the danger of Homewood making an open pass at her now that his marriage was in trouble, and the problem this might cause in their working relationship. Treating him like a Lonely Hearts consultant! Jesus!

A chat with Homewood had probably confirmed his unease. Maybe Childs’s queries had prompted the Director to realize he might have revealed a greater knowledge of her dealings with Hadda than he should have had.

Whatever, the very next day Homewood had started making enquiries about her job performance. He must have got a shock when Proctor hadn’t given her an emphatic thumbs-down! At least it appeared they felt they could deal with the situation by terminating her contract rather than her life . . .

She pulled herself up short.

Without concrete evidence, she couldn’t just make the leap from accepting Joe Ruskin’s death as tragic accident to believing it was murder!

What kind of people were capable of treating human life so casually?

And in what capacity had Childs employed the young Hadda,
the woodcutter
?

I’m not cut out to be a PI! she told herself.

In fact she was beginning to wonder if she was really cut out to be a psychiatrist. She suddenly felt weary of being the seeker after hidden truths, the recipient of shadowy and sometimes shameful secrets. How much better if she’d followed in her mother’s footsteps, exploring only fictional characters and wiping off their traumas with the greasepaint. Or her father’s, getting your hands bloody from time to time but washing it off at the end of the day.

Suddenly she found herself fantasizing about life without Parkleigh. Walking away from the prison without looking back. Taking a long break with her family, then looking for some cosy teaching job in a university somewhere a long way from England, somewhere that they had real summers for a start!

But she wasn’t going to turn her back on Wolf Hadda. She didn’t know what he was planning but, whatever it was, one way or another she was involved in it.

She went back to her car. She’d left the engine running and the heater was full on.

Eventually she stopped shivering but as she drove away she felt that deep inside her being there was a coldness no amount of hot air could reach.

10

The following morning Simon Homewood called Alva into his office.

There was a severe-looking young woman there with a notepad. She wasn’t the Director’s regular secretary and Alva looked at her queryingly.

‘This is Miss Leslie from the Home Office,’ said Homewood. ‘She’ll be keeping a minute of our meeting.’

‘That sounds ominous,’ murmured Alva.

‘Just bureaucracy,’ said Homewood with an attempt at lightness. ‘As you know, Dr Ozigbo, like everyone else on contract, your work is subject to an annual review process, and yours is due this month.’

‘Yes, I know. The review happened last year too, but I don’t recall this rigmarole.’

‘No? Well, procedures are constantly updated, particularly in sensitive areas. So let’s start, shall we?’

For the next half hour she was subjected to a barrage of questions about her work. Their tone was unremittingly polite but their unmistakable aim was to get her to admit to problems and confess difficulties. She fielded them with some ease but also with growing irritation. If they were trying to get her out, they would have to do a lot better than this!

Finally Homewood glanced at his watch and said, ‘Let’s take a break. Miss Leslie, perhaps you could have a word with my secretary and see if you can rustle up some coffee and a few choc biscuits to keep up our energy level.’

Miss Leslie did not look like the kind of woman who included waitressing in her job description but she rose without demur and left the room.

This is part of the game, thought Alva. In fact, this is probably where the game really starts.

She was right. But she was unprepared for just how brutal a game it was.

Homewood said, ‘Alva, this is difficult, but I think we know each other well enough to be frank. Yours was always a somewhat controversial appointment and the opposition never really went away. I’ve always fought your corner, of course, and I’ll continue to give you my full support. But sometimes in public life one has to box clever. A wise man picks his battles and only picks those he knows he can win.’

He paused. Alva had been listening with growing concern. This parade of clichés was, if anything, a greater insult to her intelligence than the unsubtle line of the official questioning. But Homewood was no fool and he was speaking with the quiet confidence of one who is certain of winning an argument.

She said, ‘That may be what a wise man does. But I fight my own battles, Simon. And you ought to know, win, lose, I’ll be fighting this one to the bitter end!’

She spoke with a confidence she no longer felt.

He said, ‘I understand. I would expect no less. But there is something else you should know.’

She was experiencing once more the bone-deep chill that her conversation with Proctor had left her with the previous night. Now they were getting to it, the clinching argument, or threat, or bribe that would confirm her suspicions.

He had paused as if inviting her to prompt him with a question.

She kept silent and forced him to speak.

He said, ‘Somehow one of the people who opposed your appointment has picked up a rumour about you and Hadda. An inappropriate relationship.’

‘
What?
’

He gave her a reassuring smile.

‘It’s all right, I know it’s absurd. But you did visit him in Cumbria. And spent the night at his house, too, I believe. I’ve told them I have no problem with that, perfectly understandable in the circumstances, but these things tend to develop a momentum of their own unless halted at the start . . .’

‘Then let’s halt it!’ she exploded. ‘This is outrageous. Who’s saying this? Let me meet them face to face . . .’

‘I don’t think that would help,’ said Homewood smoothly. ‘In fact, it might be provocative. Look, the point I’m making is that nobody is using this ridiculous allegation as a reason for terminating your contract. Not yet, anyway. But look at it from the opposition’s point of view. Your annual review provides an opportunity for you to withdraw with honour and dignity and professional reputation intact. But if this opportunity isn’t taken, who can say what kind of allegations might fly around? You see where it might go? An improper relationship between a prisoner and the psychiatrist who is then almost single-handedly responsible for persuading the parole hearing to turn him loose . . . Everything would be cast in doubt. At the very least there would have to be a full-scale enquiry. God knows how long that might drag on – I’m sure you wouldn’t take it lying down . . .’

‘Of course I wouldn’t!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’d fight it through every court in the land!’

‘I’d expect no less. And you’d have my full support. But . . .’

She’d been fighting to control her feelings of outrage. That
but
did the job for her. Again she had a sense that, like the questions and the clichés, this was still a preliminary to the main event.

Now she was impatient to get to it and she gave him his prompt.

‘But what?’ she snapped.

‘But,’ he went on quietly, ‘obviously, in view of the nature of the allegation, Hadda’s parole would have to be revoked and until the enquiry, however prolonged, had reached its conclusion, he would be returned to custody.’

She opened her mouth to cry, ‘But he is innocent.’ And shut it.

The bastard was smiling at her sympathetically. He understood her dilemma. Any opposition she offered to the move to oust her was going to result in the revoking of Hadda’s parole. And any protestations she made now of Hadda’s innocence were just going to sound like confirmation of the improper relationship!

Homewood said urgently, ‘Alva, the world of national security is a murkier place than even a criminal psychiatrist can know. Sometimes grim necessity overrides everything else: laws, loyalties, morality. I am your friend. I would have liked, as you know, to be more than your friend. That, I suspect, is going to be impossible now. But I hope something of our friendship can survive. And as a friend I say to you, there is no shame in moving on from this job. The pressures here are huge. And the external pressures you have been experiencing from your family situation can only have added to them. Spend some quality time with your father. Professionally the world is your oyster. And I promise you that any testimonial from me will do nothing but sing your praises. Now, shall we have our coffee and then get back to your review?’

Alva didn’t reply. It was hard for a psychiatrist to admit it, but sometimes words are inadequate, only a blow will do.

After a couple of moments Miss Leslie returned with the coffee tray.

Has the bitch been listening? she wondered.

She realized she didn’t care.

For suddenly her anger was swept away by a huge surge of euphoria! It took only a few seconds to identify its source.

Without any effort on her part she was going to get what nearly every inmate of Parkleigh dreamt of, what she herself had fantasized about the previous night – release! This place with all its restraints, its fears, its secrets, its sounds, its smells, its monstrous looming presence, would be behind her. She knew she would take some of it with her, in fact she wanted to take some of it with her. But where it mattered, in her power of decision, her freedom of choice, she would be her own mistress again.

She gulped down her coffee, smiled sweetly at Homewood, and said, ‘Let’s get to it.’

Book Five
A Shocking Light

. . . then it befell that as they drew near safety, in the night’s most secret hour, some hand in an upper chamber lit a shocking light, lit it and made no sound.

For a moment it might have been an ordinary light, fatal as even that could very well be at such a moment as this; but when it began to follow them like an eye and to grow redder and redder as it watched them, then even optimism despaired.

And Sippy very unwisely attempted flight, and Slorg even as unwisely tried to hide . . .

Lord Dunsany:
Probable Adventure of the Three Literary Men