بخش 5

PART FIVE

If I justify myself, mine own mouth shall condemn me.

—Job 9:20

CHAPTER ONE

Alicia Berenson’s Diary

FEBRUARY 23

Theo just left. I am alone. I’m writing this as fast as I can. I haven’t got much time. I’ve got to get this down while I still have the strength.

I thought I was crazy at first. It was easier to think I was crazy than believe it was true. But I’m not crazy. I’m not.

That first time I met him in the therapy room, I wasn’t sure—there was something familiar about him, but different—I recognized his eyes, not just the color but the shape. And the same smell of cigarettes and smoky aftershave. And the way he formed words, and the rhythm of his speech—but not the tone of his voice, it seemed different somehow. So I wasn’t sure—but the next time we met, he gave himself away. He said the same words—the exact same phrase he’d used at the house, burned into my memory: “I want to help you—I want to help you see clearly.”

As soon as I heard that, something in my brain clicked and the jigsaw came together—the picture was complete.

It was him.

And something in me took over, some kind of wild animal instinct. I wanted to kill him, kill or be killed—I leaped on him and tried to strangle him and scratch his eyes out, bash his skull to pieces on the floor. But I didn’t succeed in killing him, and they held me down and drugged me and locked me up. And then—after that I lost my nerve. I started to doubt myself again—maybe I’d made a mistake, maybe I was imagining it, maybe it wasn’t him.

How could it possibly be Theo? What purpose could he have in coming here to taunt me like this? And then I understood. All that bullshit about wanting to help me—that was the sickest part of it. He was getting a kick out of it, he was getting off on it—that’s why he was here. He had come back to gloat.

“I want to help you—I want to help you see clearly.”

Well, now I saw. I saw clearly. I wanted him to know that I knew. So I lied about the way Gabriel died. As I was talking, I could see he knew I was lying. We looked at each other and he saw it—that I had recognized him. And there was something in his eyes I’d never seen before. Fear. He was afraid of me—of what I might say. He was scared—of the sound of my voice.

That’s why he came back a few minutes ago. He didn’t say anything this time. No more words. He grabbed my wrist and stuck a needle in my vein. I didn’t struggle. I didn’t fight back. I let him do it. I deserve it—I deserve this punishment. I am guilty—but so is he. That’s why I’m writing this—so he won’t get away with it. So he will be punished.

I’ve got to be quick. I can feel it now—the stuff he injected me with is working. I’m so drowsy. I want to lie down. I want to sleep.… But no—not yet. I’ve got to stay awake. I’ve got to finish the story. And this time, I’ll tell the truth.

That night, Theo broke into the house and tied me up—and when Gabriel came home, Theo knocked him out. At first I thought he’d killed him—but then I saw Gabriel was breathing. Theo pulled him up and tied him to the chair. He moved it so Gabriel and I were sitting back-to-back, and I couldn’t see his face.

“Please,” I said. “Please don’t hurt him. I’m begging you—I’ll do anything, anything you want.” Theo laughed. I’d come to hate his laugh so much—it was cold, empty. Heartless. “Hurt him?” He shook his head. “I’m going to kill him.” He meant it. I felt such terror, I lost control of my tears. I wept and pleaded. “I’ll do anything you want, anything—please, please let him live—he deserves to live. He’s the kindest and the best of men—and I love him, I love him so much—” “Tell me, Alicia. Tell me about your love for him. Tell me, do you think he loves you?” “He loves me,” I said.

I heard the clock ticking in the background. There seemed to be an age before he replied. “We’ll see,” he said. His black eyes stared at me for a second and I felt consumed by darkness. I was in the presence of a creature that wasn’t even human. He was evil.

He walked around the chair and faced Gabriel. I turned my head as far as I could, but I couldn’t see them. There was a horrible dull thud—I flinched as I heard him strike Gabriel across the face. He hit him again and again, until Gabriel started spluttering and woke up.

“Hello, Gabriel,” he said.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m a married man. So I know what it’s like to love someone. And I know what it’s like to be let down.” “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Only cowards betray the people who love them. Are you a coward, Gabriel?” “Fuck you.”

“I was going to kill you. But Alicia pleaded for your life. So instead, I’m going to give you a choice. Either you die—or Alicia does. You decide.” The way he spoke was so cool and calm and in control. No emotion. Gabriel didn’t reply for a second. He sounded out of breath, like he’d been punched.

“No—”

“Yes. Alicia dies, or you die. Your choice, Gabriel. Let’s find out how much you love her. Would you die for her? You have ten seconds to decide.… Ten … nine—” “Don’t believe him,” I said. “He’s going to kill us both—I love you—” “—eight … seven—”

“I know you love me, Gabriel—”

“—six … five—”

“You love me—”

“—four … three—”

“Gabriel, say you love me—”

“—two—”

And then Gabriel spoke. I didn’t recognize his voice at first. Such a tiny voice, so far away—a little boy’s voice. A small child—with the power of life and death at his fingertips.

“I don’t want to die,” he said.

Then there was silence. Everything stopped. Inside my body, every cell deflated; wilting cells, like dead petals falling from a flower. Jasmine flowers floating to the ground. Can I smell jasmine somewhere? Yes, yes, sweet jasmine—on the windowsill perhaps … Theo stepped away from Gabriel and started talking to me. I found it hard to focus on his words. “You see, Alicia? I knew Gabriel was a coward—fucking my wife behind my back. He destroyed the only happiness I’ve ever had.” Theo leaned forward, right in my face. “I’m sorry to do this. But quite frankly, now you know the truth … you’re better off dead.” He raised the gun and pointed it at my head. I shut my eyes. I heard Gabriel screaming—“Don’t shoot don’t shoot don’t—” A click. And then a gunshot—so loud that it blew away all other sound. There was silence for a few seconds. I thought I was dead.

But I wasn’t so lucky.

I opened my eyes. Theo was still there—pointing the gun at the ceiling. He smiled. He put his finger to his lips, telling me to keep quiet.

“Alicia?” Gabriel shouted. “Alicia?”

I could hear Gabriel writhing in his chair, trying to turn around to see what had happened.

“What did you do to her, you bastard? You fucking bastard. Oh, Jesus—” Theo untied my wrists. He dropped the gun to the floor. Then he kissed me, ever so gently, on the cheek. He walked out, and the front door slammed after him.

Gabriel and I were alone. He was sobbing, crying, barely able to form words. He just kept calling my name, wailing, “Alicia, Alicia—” I remained silent.

“Alicia? Fuck, fuck, oh, fuck—”

I remained silent.

“Alicia, answer me, Alicia—oh, God—”

I remained silent. How could I talk? Gabriel had sentenced me to death.

The dead don’t talk.

I untied the wire around my ankles. I got up from the chair. I reached down to the floor. My fingers closed around the gun. It was hot and heavy in my hand. I walked around the chair, and I faced Gabriel. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. His eyes widened.

“Alicia? You’re alive—thank God you’re—”

I wish I could say I struck a blow for the defeated—that I was standing up for the betrayed and brokenhearted—that Gabriel had a tyrant’s eyes, my father’s eyes. But I’m past lying now. The truth is Gabriel had my eyes, suddenly—and I had his. Somewhere along the way we had swapped places.

I saw it now. I would never be safe. Never be loved. All my hopes, dashed—all my dreams, shattered—leaving nothing, nothing. My father was right—I didn’t deserve to live. I was—nothing. That’s what Gabriel did to me.

That’s the truth. I didn’t kill Gabriel. He killed me.

All I did was pull the trigger.

CHAPTER TWO

“THERE IS NOTHING SO PITIFUL,” Indira said, “as seeing all someone’s possessions in a cardboard box.” I nodded. I looked around the room sadly.

“Surprising, really,” Indira went on, “how few things Alicia had. When you think how much junk the other patients accumulate … All she had were some books, a few drawings, her clothes.” Indira and I were clearing out Alicia’s room on Stephanie’s instructions. “It’s unlikely she’ll ever wake up,” Stephanie had said, “and quite frankly we need the bed.” We worked in silence mostly, deciding what to put in storage and what to throw away. I carefully looked through her belongings. I wanted to make sure there was nothing incriminating—nothing that might trip me up.

I wondered how Alicia had managed to keep her diary hidden and out of sight for so long. Each patient was allowed to bring a small amount of personal items with them upon admittance to the Grove. Alicia had brought a portfolio of sketches, which I presume was how she had smuggled in the diary. I opened the portfolio and flicked through the drawings—they were mostly unfinished pencil sketches and studies. A few casual lines thrown onto a page, immediately coming to life, brilliantly evocative, capturing an unmistakable likeness.

I showed a sketch to Indira. “It’s you.”

“What? It’s not.”

“It is.”

“Is it?” Indira looked delighted and studied it closely. “Do you think so? I never noticed her drawing me. I wonder when she did it. It’s good, isn’t it?” “Yes, it is. You should keep it.”

Indira pulled a face and handed it back. “I couldn’t do that.” “Of course you can. She wouldn’t mind.” I smiled. “No one will ever know.” “I suppose—I suppose not.” She glanced at the painting upright on the floor, leaning against the wall—the painting of me and Alicia on the fire escape of the burning building, which had been defaced by Elif.

“What about that?” Indira asked. “Will you take it?”

I shook my head. “I’ll call Jean-Felix. He can take charge of it.” Indira nodded. “Shame you can’t keep it.”

I looked at it for a moment. I didn’t like it. Of all of Alicia’s paintings, it was the only one I didn’t like. Strange, considering it had me as its subject.

I want to be clear—I never thought Alicia would shoot Gabriel. This is an important point. I never intended nor expected her to kill him. All I wanted was to awaken Alicia to the truth about her marriage, as I had been awakened. I intended to show her that Gabriel didn’t love her, that her life was a lie, their marriage a sham. Only then would she have a chance, as I had, to build a new life from the rubble; a life based on truth, not lies.

I had no idea about Alicia’s history of instability. Had I known, I never would have pushed things so far. I had no idea she would react like that. And when the story was all over the press and Alicia was on trial for murder, I felt a deep sense of personal responsibility, and the desire to expiate my guilt and prove that I was not responsible for what had happened. So I applied for the job at the Grove. I wanted to help her through the aftermath of the murder—help her understand what had happened, work through it—and be free. If you were cynical, you might say I revisited the scene of the crime, so to speak, to cover my tracks. That’s not true. Even though I knew the risks of such an endeavor, the real possibility that I might get caught, that it might end in disaster, I had no choice—because of who I am.

I am a psychotherapist, remember. Alicia needed help—and only I knew how to help her.

I was nervous she might know me, despite my having worn the mask and disguised my voice. But Alicia didn’t seem to recognize me, and I was able to play a new part in her life. Then, that night in Cambridge, I finally understood what I had unwittingly reenacted, the long-forgotten land mine on which I had trodden. Gabriel was the second man to condemn Alicia to death; bringing up this original trauma was more than she could bear—which is why she picked up the gun and visited her long-awaited revenge not upon her father, but upon her husband. As I suspected, the murder had much older, deeper origins than my actions.

But when she lied to me about how Gabriel died, it was obvious Alicia had recognized me and she was testing me. I was forced to take action, to silence Alicia forever. I had Christian take the blame—a poetic justice, I felt. I had no qualms about framing him. Christian had failed Alicia when she needed him the most; he deserved to be punished.

Silencing Alicia wasn’t so easy. Injecting her with morphine was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. That she didn’t die, but is asleep, is better—this way, I can still visit her every day and sit by her bed and hold her hand. I haven’t lost her.

“Are we done?” asked Indira, interrupting my thoughts.

“I think so.”

“Good. I have to go, I have a patient at twelve.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“See you at lunch?”

“Yes.”

Indira gave my arm a squeeze and left.

I looked at my watch. I thought about leaving early, going home. I felt exhausted. I was about to turn off the light and leave when a thought occurred to me and I felt my body stiffen.

The diary. Where was it?

My eyes flickered around the room, neatly packed and boxed up. We’d gone through it all. I had looked at and considered each and every one of her personal items.

And it wasn’t there.

How could I have been so careless? Indira and her fucking endless inane chatter had distracted me and made me lose focus.

Where was it? It had to be here. Without the diary there was precious little evidence to convict Christian. I had to find it.

I searched the room, feeling increasingly frantic. I turned the cardboard boxes upside down, scattering their contents on the floor. I rummaged through the debris, but it wasn’t there. I tore apart her clothing but found nothing. I ripped open the art portfolio, shaking the sketches to the floor, but the diary wasn’t among them. Then I went through the cupboards and pulled out all the drawers, checking that they were empty, then hurling them aside.

But it wasn’t there.

CHAPTER THREE

JULIAN MCMAHON FROM THE TRUST was waiting for me in reception. He had a big build, curly ginger hair, and a fondness for phrases such as between you and me or at the end of the day or the bottom line, which frequently popped up in his conversation, often in the same sentence. He was essentially a benign figure—the friendly face of the Trust. He wanted to have a word with me before I went home.

“I’ve just come from Professor Diomedes. I thought you should know—he’s resigned.” “Ah. I see.”

“He took early retirement. Between you and me, it was either that or face an inquiry into this mess.” Julian shrugged. “I can’t help but feel sorry for him—not a particularly glorious end to a long and distinguished career. But at least this way he’ll be spared the press and all the hoo-ha. Incidentally, he mentioned you.” “Diomedes?”

“Yes. He suggested we give you his job.” Julian winked. “He said you were the perfect man for it.” I smiled. “That’s very kind.”

“Unfortunately, at the end of the day, given what happened to Alicia, and Christian’s arrest, there’s simply no question of keeping the Grove open. We’re closing it down permanently.” “I can’t say I’m surprised. So in fact there’s no job to be had?” “Well, the bottom line is this—we’re planning to open a new, much more cost-effective psychiatric service here in the next few months. And we’d like you to consider running it, Theo.” It was hard to conceal my excitement. I agreed with pleasure. “Between you and me,” I said, borrowing one of his phrases, “it’s the kind of opportunity that I dream about.” And it was—a chance to actually help people, not just medicate them; help them the way I believe they should be helped. The way Ruth helped me. The way I tried to help Alicia.

Things have worked out well for me—I’d be ungrateful not to acknowledge that.

It seems I’ve gotten everything I wanted. Well, almost.

Last year, Kathy and I moved out of central London to Surrey—back to where I grew up. After my father died, he left me the house; although it remained my mother’s to live in until she died, she decided to give it to us, and she moved into a care facility.

Kathy and I thought the extra space and a garden would be worth the commute into London. I thought it would be good for us. We promised ourselves we would transform the house and made plans to redecorate and exorcise. But nearly a year since we moved in, the place remains unfinished, half-decorated, the pictures and convex mirror we bought in Portobello Market still propped up against unpainted walls. It remains very much the house I grew up in. But I don’t mind the way I thought I would. In fact, I feel quite at home, which is ironic.

I arrived at the house and let myself in. I quickly took off my coat—it was sweltering, like a greenhouse. I turned down the thermostat in the hallway. Kathy loves being hot, while I much prefer being cold, so temperature is one of our little battlegrounds. I could hear the TV from the hallway. Kathy seems to watch a lot of TV these days. A never-ending sound track of garbage that underscores our life in this house.

I found her in the living room, curled up on the sofa. She had a giant bag of prawn cocktail crisps on her lap and was fishing them out with sticky red fingers and shoveling them into her mouth. She’s always eating crap like that; it’s not surprising she’s gained weight recently. She hasn’t been working much in the past couple of years, and she’s become quite withdrawn, depressed even. Her doctor wanted to put her on antidepressants, but I discouraged it. Instead I advocated her getting a therapist and talking through her feelings; I even offered to find her a shrink myself. But Kathy doesn’t want to talk, it seems.

Sometimes I catch her looking at me strangely—and wonder what she’s thinking. Is she trying to summon up the courage to tell me about Gabriel and the affair? But she doesn’t say a word. She just sits in silence, the way Alicia used to. I wish I could help her—but I can’t seem to reach her.

That’s the terrible irony: I did all this to keep Kathy—and I’ve lost her anyway.

I perched on the armrest and watched her a moment. “A patient of mine took an overdose. She’s in a coma.” No reaction. “It looks as though another member of the staff may have administered the overdose deliberately. A colleague.” No reaction. “Are you listening to me?” Kathy gave a brief shrug. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Some sympathy might be nice.”

“For who? For you?”

“For her. I’ve been seeing her for a while, in individual therapy. Her name is Alicia Berenson.” I glanced at Kathy as I said this.

She didn’t react. Not even a flicker of emotion.

“She’s famous, or infamous. Everyone was talking about her a few years ago. She killed her husband … remember?” “No, not really.” Kathy shrugged and changed the channel.

So we continue our game of “let’s pretend.”

I seem to do a lot of pretending, these days—for a lot of people, including myself. Which is why I’m writing this, I suppose. An attempt to bypass my monstrous ego and access the truth about myself—if that’s possible.

I needed a drink. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a shot of vodka from the freezer. It burned my throat as I swallowed it. I poured another.

I wondered what Ruth would say if I went to find her again—as I did six years ago—and confessed all this to her? But I knew it was impossible. That I was altogether a different creature now, a guiltier thing, less capable of honesty. How could I sit opposite that frail old lady and look into those watery blue eyes that held me safe for so long—and gave me nothing but decency, kindness, truth—and reveal how foul I am, how cruel, how vengeful and perverse, how unworthy I am of Ruth and everything she tried to do for me? How could I tell her that I have destroyed three lives? That I have no moral code, that I’m capable of the worst kind of acts without remorse, and my only concern is for my own skin?

Even worse than the shock or repulsion, or possibly even fear, in Ruth’s eyes as I told her this would be the look of sadness, disappointment, and self-reproach. Because not only had I let her down, I know she would be thinking she had let me down—and not just me, but the talking cure itself. For no therapist ever had a better shot at it than Ruth—she had years to work with someone who was damaged, yes, but so young, just a boy, and so willing to change, to get better, to heal. Yet, despite hundreds of hours of psychotherapy, talking and listening and analyzing, she was unable to save his soul.

The doorbell rang, rousing me from my thoughts. It wasn’t a common occurrence, an evening visitor, not since we moved to Surrey; I couldn’t even remember the last time we’d had friends over.

“Are you expecting someone?” I called out, but there was no reply. Kathy probably couldn’t hear me over the TV.

I went to the front door and opened it. To my surprise, it was Chief Inspector Allen. He was wrapped up in a scarf and coat, and his cheeks were flushed.

“Good evening, Mr. Faber.”

“Inspector Allen? What are you doing here?”

“I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d pop in. A couple of developments I wanted to tell you about. Is now convenient?” I hesitated. “To be honest, I’m just about to cook dinner, so—” “This won’t take long.”

Allen smiled. He clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so I stepped aside and let him enter. He looked happy to be inside. He pulled off his gloves and his coat. “It’s getting bloody cold out there. Cold enough to snow, I’d bet.” His glasses had steamed up and he took them off and wiped them with his handkerchief.

“I’m afraid it’s rather warm in here,” I said.

“Not for me. Can’t be too warm for my liking.”

“You’d get on with my wife.”

Right on cue, Kathy appeared in the hallway. She looked from me to the inspector quizzically. “What’s going on?” “Kathy, this is Chief Inspector Allen. He’s in charge of the investigation about the patient I mentioned.” “Good evening, Mrs. Faber.”

“Inspector Allen wants to talk to me about something. We won’t be long. Go upstairs and have your bath, and I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.” I nodded at the inspector to go into the kitchen. “After you.” Inspector Allen glanced at Kathy again before he turned and went into the kitchen. I followed, leaving Kathy lingering in the hallway, before I heard her footsteps slowly going upstairs.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Thank you. That’s very kind. A cup of tea would be lovely.” I saw his eyes go to the bottle of vodka on the counter.

I smiled. “Or something stronger if you prefer?”

“No, thank you. A cup of tea suits me just fine.”

“How do you take it?”

“Strong, please. Just enough milk to color it. No sugar, I’m trying to give it up.” As he spoke, my mind drifted—wondering what he was doing here, and if I should be nervous. His manner was so genial it was hard not to feel safe. Besides, there was nothing that could trip me up, was there?

I switched on the kettle and turned to face him.

“So, Inspector? What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” “Well, about Mr. Martin, mainly.”

“Jean-Felix? Really?” That surprised me. “What about him?” “Well, he came to the Grove to collect Alicia’s art materials, and we got talking about one thing and another. Interesting man, Mr. Martin. He’s planning a retrospective of Alicia’s work. He seems to think now is a good time to reevaluate her as an artist. Given all the publicity, I daresay he’s right.” Allen gave me an appraising look. “You might want to write about her, sir. I’m sure there’ll be interest in a book, or something like that.” “I hadn’t considered it.… What exactly has Jean-Felix’s retrospective got to do with me, Inspector?” “Well, Mr. Martin was particularly excited to see the new painting—he didn’t seem concerned that Elif defaced it. He said it added a special quality to it—I can’t remember the exact words he used—I don’t know much about art myself. Do you?” “Not really.” I wondered how long it was going to take the inspector to get to the point, and why I was feeling increasingly uneasy.

“Anyway, Mr. Martin was admiring the picture. And he picked it up to look at it more closely, and there it was.” “What was?”

“This.”

The inspector pulled out something from inside his jacket. I recognized it at once.

The diary.

The kettle boiled and a shriek filled the air. I switched it off and poured some boiling water into the mug. I stirred it and noticed my hand was trembling slightly.

“Oh, good. I wondered where it was.”

“Wedged in the back of the painting, in the top-left corner of the frame. It was jammed in tight.” So that’s where she hid it, I thought. The back of the painting that I hated. The one place I didn’t look.

The inspector stroked the creased, faded black cover and smiled. He opened it and looked through the pages. “Fascinating. The arrows, the confusion.” I nodded. “A portrait of a disturbed mind.”

Inspector Allen flicked through the pages to the end. He started reading from it aloud: “’… he was scared—of the sound of my voice.… He grabbed my wrist and stuck a needle in my vein.’” I felt a sudden rising panic. I didn’t know those words. I hadn’t read that entry. It was the incriminating evidence I had been looking for—and it was in the wrong hands. I wanted to snatch the diary from Allen and tear out the pages—but I couldn’t move. I was trapped. I started stammering— “I—I really think it’s better if I—”

I spoke too nervously, and he heard the fear in my voice. “Yes?” “Nothing.”

I made no further attempt to stop him. Any action I took would be viewed as incriminating anyway. There was no way out. And the strangest thing is, I felt relieved.

“You know, I don’t believe you happened to be in my neighborhood at all, Inspector.” I handed him his tea.

“Ah. No, you’re quite right. I thought it best not to announce the intention of my visit on the doorstep. But the fact is, this puts things in rather a different light.” “I’m curious to hear it,” I heard myself saying. “Will you read it aloud?” “Very well.”

I felt strangely calm as I sat in the chair by the window.

He cleared his throat and began. “’Theo just left. I am alone. I’m writing this as fast as I can.…’” As I listened, I looked up at the white clouds drifting past. Finally, they had opened—it had started to snow—snowflakes were falling outside. I opened the window and reached out my hand. I caught a snowflake. I watched it disappear, vanish from my fingertip. I smiled.

And I went to catch another one.