In The Garden Of Stones (29 page)

“
Are you a professional in the field?”

“
No… I was… am a patient.”

Gibbs’
open mouth furls into a perfectly round O. A pause. A nod. “I see,”
he says, swallows, licks his lips, and then stretches his face into
an overly ingratiating smile; a combination of actions Grace has
seen so many times before that she lumps them together under the
umbrella title of The Look.

“
I think I’m right in saying that catatonic depression can
lead on to cataleptic stupor, a condition whereby the patient might
not move, speak or respond to external stimulus for periods at a
time,” she says. “It can last for hours, days, weeks
even.”

“
Erm… yes, you are.”

“
Some, however, may exhibit involuntary movements or mimic
other people’s actions or speech, or make strange unnecessary
movements, but they are not aware of doing it. My money is on Colin
exhibiting plenty of the former, but none of the latter, so neither
true catalepsy or catatonia.”

“
And do you have a theory as to why that might be
so?”

“
Yes.”

“
Care to share?”

“
That depends.”

“
On what?”

“
On what
you
can tell
me
.
Quid pro quo, Mr Gibbs.”

“
Okay. As this conversation isn’t happening…” Gibbs leans
forward, feet planted firmly on the floor, elbows on his knees,
hands clasped together, ready to deliver his information, and Grace
mirrors his stance, ready to receive it.

“
Apart from the initial trauma, Captain McLeod has undergone
quite a catalogue of surgical events,” he says. “Not life
threatening, but certainly life changing. Amputations,
debridements, skin grafts, you name it. His last was six months
ago, which resulted in the removal of the distal portion of his
right femur. He came through it okay and everything seemed to be
healing as well as could be expected, good clean wound, no
infection. He seemed fine in himself, chipper almost, and we
thought there was a good chance he would adapt to his condition, to
being disabled, pretty well. He started physiotherapy and was
progressing nicely, even got so far as the list to be measured up
to have a pair of artificial limbs fitted in due course. Then,
without warning, he went into a decline. He stopped co-operating
with the staff, stopped eating, stopped talking, becoming more and
more withdrawn. And then came the first period of complete
catatonia, total shutdown. It only lasted for a day before he came
out of it, seemingly none the worse for the experience.”

“
And then it happened again?”

“
Yeah. More than once, and each period would be longer than
the last. We had him on Midazolam at one time, but it didn’t do any
good, in fact it seemed to be making him worse, slipping him deeper
out of our reach.”

“
You shouldn’t be surprised. Benzos are muscle relaxant
sedatives. Knock you right out.”

“
True. Then the periods began to stretch out to a week or
ten days at a time. This time, however–” He puffs out his cheeks.
“Too long.”

Before
Grace can ask how long, the door to the lounge pushes open and a
man bustles in. He is dressed the same as Gibbs, in navy top and
track suit pants, white trainers, his ID badge swinging around his
neck.

“
Don’t mind me,” he says. “I’m not stopping, just need
coffee. My blood caffeine level’s in danger of falling below
critical mass.”

They sit
in silence as he helps himself to a brew, takes a couple of
biscuits from a tin, and leaves.

“
You didn’t say there were biscuits,” says Grace.

A cherry
flush colours Gibbs’ cheeks.

“
It’s alright, I don’t want one,” she says. “But I wouldn’t
mind a refill.”

She
holds up her cup. Gibbs takes it, tops it up with more coffee, and
hands it back.

“
Before someone else comes in and interrupts us, Miss Dove…
Grace I mean, can you possibly shed any light on why this could
have happened. Why Colin should be doing so well one day and then
go into a complete reverse the next, because we haven’t got a
sodding clue. God only knows, and he’s not telling us. “

“
Ah, that’s what GOK stands for,” Grace says. “God. Only.
Knows. Good one.”

She
turns her mug around in her hands, takes a drink, and sits with the
rim pressed against her lips.

“
If, as you say, you have already grasped at every other
straw to hand and got nowhere,” she says, “any explanation I put
forward, no matter how loony toons it sounds, can’t make things any
worse, can it?”

“
I don’t care if it involves Mr Magoo and Huckleberry Hound
in a threesome with Olive Oyl. Just give me something.”

Grace
tries very hard not to visualise such gruesome cartoon antics,
keeping her face steady as she sits back in her chair.

“
Okay, here’s what I think. Colin is very depressed
certainly, no argument there, I mean who wouldn’t be in his
situation? But as far as the hard and fast definition of catatonia
goes, no.”

“
What then?”

“
The best description would be an extreme form of
dissociation.”

“
Extreme how?”

“
Total separation.”

Gibbs’
eyebrows rise, inviting elucidation.

“
With everything that’s happened to him, the pain and the
suffering his body has gone through, the stress and trauma he’s had
to endure, it’s more than his flesh and blood can stand,” she says.
“He’s finally hit absolute overload and taken himself off to
somewhere quiet and still where he feels safe and in control, and
not in any pain. To put it at its simplest, his body is here, but
he’s not in it. The reason why the drugs don’t work is because
there is nothing for them to fix. True catatonic depression is a
neurological disorder over which there is no control. Colin has
shut down by choice. He chooses to be absent.”

Gibbs
clears his throat, fixes on that simpering smile again. “So... if
he’s not here, if he has as you say left his body, gone
somewhere... else, where is it you think he’s gone?”

How that
flat measured tone grates on her, the one that’s supposed to be
inoffensive, yet offends her totally, it and the smile so
patronising of the total idiot he thinks he’s talking to, so much
so that she finds the urge to punch him in the face almost
irresistible. She stays firm, however, eye to eye with Gibbs, not
even blinking.

“
No
thinking
required, Mr Gibbs. I
know
exactly where he is.”

Gibbs
gives way under the unwavering gaze. “And where would that be?” he
says.

“
Like I already said, in a safe place.”

“
I’m going to need a little more than that.”

“
It’s a special place he created in his mind where it’s
quiet and peaceful. An escape. A sanctuary. It’s where he goes to
get away from people like you.”

Gibbs’
eyebrows rise again. “People like me? All I’ve ever did is try and
help him.”

“
You and I both know that, and deep down he knows it too,
but you’re part of the system that’s made him the way he is, the
military and medical machinery working together, and he’s sick of
being messed about with. He just wants to be left alone by
everybody.”

“
Except you? Why are you so special?”

She
takes a rapid sip from her cup. The coffee has gone tepid and
bitter, not a patch on Dr Mal’s splendid brew.

“
Me too, at first, so I’m not special at all. The first time
I went there I certainly wasn’t welcome. In fact he tried to throw
me out. Gave me a fine set of bruises. When I went back, we talked
and he realised I wasn’t there to cause him any hurt because I
needed to be there just as much as he did. He relented, and I’ve
been going regularly ever since.”

Gibbs tries to keep his face impassive and fails
spectacularly. His mouth falls open a full inch, then snaps back
closed with an audible
c
lack
, his sharp grey eyes bugging so wide they are in danger of
falling out of their sockets.

“
You… went there?”

“
Yes.”

“
To this fantasy place… inside
his
head?”

“
Yes.”

“
But… how could you–?”

“
It defies explanation, Mr Gibbs, and to be honest, I don’t
even think about it any more. One thing that might have something
to do with it is –” A pause. “A few weeks ago, I did something
silly and had a near death experience and I think some kind of
connection was made–” She wafts her hand. “–out there. Somehow our
lost and wandering consciousnesses got pushed together. Don’t ask
me to explain it any further, because I simply can’t.”

And The
Look is back.

Is that
confused enthusiasm or fear she can see in his eyes? They flicker,
measuring out the distance between them and the long strip of red
rubber running around the wall of the room at approximately waist
height, and she has her answer.

“
Press it if you must,” she says. “I’ll go
quietly.”

Gibbs
feigns surprise. “Sorry?”

“
The panic button,” she says. “Press it and call in the
straitjacket and white van mob. Have me carted off to the funny
farm for my own safety. That’s what you’re thinking isn’t it? Go
ahead, do it.” She leans forward in her chair. “But before you do,
I swear to you Simon Gibbs, that I Grace Dove am telling you the
absolute truth as I know it.”

A long
and difficult silence ensues. Twice Gibbs opens his mouth as if to
speak and closes it again.

“
I peered through the door when you were visiting with
Colin,” he says on his third attempt. “To make sure you were
behaving yourself. The whole time I was watching, he never moved a
muscle, didn’t even open his eyes. As for conversation, he never
spoke. Not one word. I heard only
you
talking to
him
, only your voice, your laughter. It was all totally one
sided. It was all
you.
And yet…” He trails off. “And yet if anyone were to ask me
if I thought he was talking back to you, if you were chatting like
two normal people, I would have to say … yes.”

“
What else did you expect us to do? Sit there in stony
silence like a pair of bookends for the whole time? That would have
been a waste of a visit, wouldn’t it–?”

Gibbs
bounces a forefinger against his lips, closes his eyes and makes a
rapid shushing sound. He’s thinking and needs her to be quiet. His
jaw moves from side to side, as if he’s chewing on a live wasp,
then he sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out in a
slow, steady stream, as if using it to balance himself.

He opens
his eyes and looks at her.

“
It occurs to me, Grace Dove,” he says, slowly, “That you
are about as nutty as a Dundee fruit cake with about a pound of
extra almonds. A bona fide headcase. A delusional fantasist who is
quite possibly deranged–”

“
Please, try telling me something I don’t already know,”
Grace says. Gibbs pays her no heed.

“
And don’t ask me how, or why, but–” He mutters something
under his breath that sounds a lot like 'God help me'. “I think I
believe you.”

Now it’s
her turn to stare. “You do?”

His
eyebrows come together, rising over his nose to create curved
furrows in his brow, giving him the look of a perplexed pug dog.
“Does that make me as potty as you?”

Grace
smiles broadly. “Very probably.” She tilts her cup in a mock toast.
“Welcome to the club.”

They
clink pottery.

“
Sláinte mhath.
”

The next
pause draws on and on until, like a piece of overstretched
elastic, it snaps.

“
You going to tell me
why
you believe me, if you think I’m so monkey nuts?”
Grace says.

Gibbs
sits up and rolls his neck as if trying to ward off a cramp, head
moving from side to side. “Can’t,” he says, and he sounds defeated,
exhausted.

Grace
gazes at him, a soft smile on her lips, and an expression of
innocent expectation on her face.

“
This discussion hasn’t cleared up anything at all, has it?”
she says. “If anything, I’ve just added to your pot of
confusion.”

“
You’ve gone and stirred it all to buggery is what you’ve
done. Sorry, shouldn’t swear. It’s unprofessional. Fuck, what am I
saying?”

Gibbs
covers his face with his hands, sliding them down over his nose and
his mouth, dragging them over his cheeks and chin, pulling down the
corners of his mouth into a mask of theatrical tragedy.

“
Okay, time for the bottom line,” he says. “Firstly, I’m not
going to pretend for one minute that I understand anything we’ve
just talked about, because if I think about it too much I’m going
to be in need of some therapy myself. Second, and I can’t believe
I’m saying this, but as our most experienced psychiatrists,
psychologists, psychotherapists and Uncle Tom Cobleigh have come up
with precisely zero, zilch, nothing to rationally explicate Colin’s
condition, your account, your outlandish, fantastical Cloud Cuckoo
Land babblings, as hare-brained as they sound, deserve at least a
passing consideration. As Shakespeare said, there are more things
in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy,
so who the hell are we mere mortals to argue?”