In The Garden Of Stones (4 page)

Grace
thinks she can see where he’s going with this.

“
Because the voice talking back to me will be me, but
another part of me,” she says. “In essence I’ll be giving myself a
good talking to. When I have a problem I can’t sort out, or a
decision I can’t make, or feelings that don’t make sense, and I ask
my new best friend what I should do about them, it will be the
rational, thinking, sensible part of me helping me
decide.”

“
Got it in one.”

“
Makes sense, except … if he, or she, tells me to go buy
anchovies, they can take a running jump. Can’t stand ‘em, little
hairy fish. Bleuch.”

Mal
chuckles quietly. “Me neither.”

They
drink their coffees and Grace munches at the other biscuit. Crumbs
tumble down the front of her sweater and onto the rug and she makes
a soft keening noise. Mal has either not heard it, or chosen to
ignore it.

“
So what do you think of my grand plan for you,” he says.
“It’s a bit radical, a bit unorthodox, a bit –” He makes quote
bunnies with his fingers, “– out of the box, but I really do think
it might do you some good.”

“
Is it something you came up with all by yourself?” Grace
asks.

“
Actually, no. It’s something I read about in an obscure
magazine a couple of years ago. It really piqued my interest, but
until now I haven’t had the opportunity to try it out.”

“
So I’m still some kind of guinea pig to be experimented
on?”

“
Not at all. I’m simply looking for the best treatment for
you, to help you, and I think this will turn out to be ideal. What
are you doing?”

Grace is
on her knees picking biscuit fragments out of the rug’s patterned
pile. “I spilled crumbs on your rug. I’ve got to pick them
up.”

“
It’s okay. Leave them.”

“
You know I can’t. One ruined rug is more than enough.” She
teases the last of the crumbs from the rug’s pile and scrambles
back into her chair with them in her hand as if she were cradling a
baby bird, and tips them out onto the plate.

“
All done. Where were we?”

“
I want to know your observations on the idea,” says Mal.
“So… what do you think?”

What do
I
think?

Is he really asking her opinion? He can’t be. Nobody ever
asks Grace Dove what she thinks. They
tell
her what to think, what to say, how to
feel and what to do and when to do it, and she goes along with it.
That’s the way it’s always been.

Dr Pettit is leaning forward in his chair, eyes sparkling
with boyish enthusiasm, and she can see from the look on his face,
from his body language and the way he runs his fingers through his
hair and licks his lips in what some might take as eager
anticipation, that he wants her to do this. Whether it’s truly
because he wants what’s best for her, to help
her
, or to make use of her experience to
write an insightful paper for a professional publication in order
to further his career, she doesn’t care.
Her
opinion is important to him, what she has
to say matters.

So what
if his crackpot idea is untried and unproved, there’s a first time
for everything, and really, what harm can it do? Nothing else has
worked and they might be doing each other a favour.

She
sighs. “Well...”

The
briefest shadow of disappointment dulls the keenness as he expects
her to turn him down flat.

She
stretches out the pause just a little bit further, teasing him some
more.

That’s enough, Gracie. Put the poor sod out of his misery
before he has apoplexy.

“
I think it sounds a most intriguing exercise and … I’d very
much like to try it,” she says, and grins at him.

A full
toothsome smile divides his face, and behind his neatly trimmed
goatee and his rimless spectacles she sees the relief wash across
his face. “Splendid!”

“
However –”

The
smile drops. “Here comes the big but.”

“
You leave my backside out of this.” Nope. Right over his
head. “It all sounds very good in theory,” she says, “but I’d like
to sleep on it if that’s alright? To work out the implications
fully in my mind?”

The
smile returns. “Yes. Do. Of course. Take as long as you
need.”

He picks
up her folder from the coffee table and opens it, flicking through
to the first blank page. “I tell you what we’ll do. I’ll pencil you
in for another appointment at eleven tomorrow morning. How will
that do? You can have a good long think about it overnight and then
we’ll have a really good in depth chat, and if you’re still
agreeable, we’ll sort it all out and get you going, eh?”

“
Okey doke. No pressure though?”

“
No. None. Absolutely not.”

“
I can change my mind if I want?”

“
Certainly. At any time.”

“
That’s alright then.”

He holds
out his hand again. “Perfect!”

It would
be churlish to reject him a second time, she thinks, and takes it.
A perfunctory shake, and then, without thinking, she wipes her hand
down the leg of her trousers.

Oh God! What’s he going to think –?

“
Erm … it’s not a germ thing if that’s what you’re
thinking,” she says. “I once shook hands with someone and it was
like grabbing a handful of dead fish - cold and wet and slippery,
and it made me want to vomit. Ever since then, shaking hands with a
stranger just makes me…very uncomfortable. It’s nothing
personal.”

“
There’s no need to explain. I understand completely
–”

“
You have nice skin, soft and smooth and warm, not at all
fishlike –”

“
Glad to hear it –”

“
And we’re not really strangers are we? Any
more?”

“
Not really –”

“
But it’s still … skin. No offence?”

“
Absolutely none taken,” he says. “And thank
you.”

“
What for?”

“
For making the effort. I can appreciate how hard it must
have been. Well done.”

From
anyone else that 'well done' might seem patronising, but not from
him because she knows he means it.

She
doesn’t know what else to say and so stays silent, although she can
feel an uncomfortable hot redness creeping up her neck. That’s all
she needs, to turn tomato and make a complete fool of herself. She
should leave while she has some dignity intact, but not before she
asks one last question.

“
When can I go home?”

Mal
pulls on an exaggerated faux pained expression. “You want to leave
us already?” he says. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like our five
star en-sweety accommodation with twenty-four hour room
service?”

She
smiles. “I’d like it better if the food was actually edible, or if
you had a pool.”

“
Can’t do anything about the food I’m afraid,” he says.
“It’s been rubbish since they contracted out to that private
caterer, that’s why I bring my own, but there is a hydrotherapy
pool down in Physio you might be able to use after hours. It’s not
huge, but it’s warm and they have one of those continuous current
systems to swim against. There’s a jacuzzi too, and if you ask him
nicely Steven might give you a massage.”

“
You make it sound like some kind of private
club.”

Mal put
his fingers to his lips. “Shhhhh. Members only.” They laugh
together until seriousness crosses his face. “Give it a few days
more, Grace. Just to be on the safe side, eh? We’ll talk some more
tomorrow and see where we need to go. We can’t rush these things.
Try and be a patient, patient. Okay?”

His hand
touches the small of her back to guide her to the door.

Her
escort, Nurse Candice, is waiting for her in the outer office. She
breaks off her conversation with the secretary Denise, puts down
her magazine, smiles a greeting to Grace and walks with her to the
lift which will take them back up three floors to Grace’s temporary
home: Ward 12 – Secure Psychiatric.

Chapter 3

The
woman in the next bed is flat on her back fast asleep, mouth wide
open, driving them home.

The one
in the bed opposite has her sheet drawn up over her head, moaning
and groaning as she masturbates herself to a climax. The fourth bed
is empty, but as it’s a full moon tonight it is almost guaranteed
to be occupied by morning.

Grace is
lying on her bed in the small side ward, staring at the shadows
dancing on the ceiling, trying to block out the disturbing noises
around her, thinking back over her chat with Dr Mal and the bundle
of lies she told, because if you can’t lie to your
therapist…

The real reason she aborted her baby had nothing to do with
business or timing. She did it because her lying cheating boyfriend
ordered her to, because
he
didn’t want
his
offspring to be tainted by
her
mental deficiencies. And he didn’t rely entirely
on cruel words either. Grace knew full well that if she hadn’t
agreed to the abortion, he would have beaten the baby out of her,
and then made damned sure she could never have any more... for the
child’s sake of course.

And then
he left her, claiming the stress of living with the equivalent of
an unexploded emotional bomb with the fuse ticking had driven him
to seek comfort in the ever open legs of the perfectly normal
Natalie.

Luckily for Grace both the business and the flat were in
her name, and she had all the rights and the deeds, else he would
have been the one to throw
her
out and sell it all out from under her, leaving
her penniless and homeless, her punishment for being … defective,
disobedient, different.

Two
weeks after his departure, in the fruit and veg section of
Sainsbury’s, she had a full on breakdown and had to be taken home
in the back of a police car.

A year
on and everything is gone; the flat, the business, the baby, the
future, all safely beyond Connor’s grasping reach, beyond hers too
now, leaving behind nothing but a formless pile of inadequate
uselessness watching shadows on the ceiling in a psychiatric side
ward.

Is it
any wonder she tried to kill herself after all that? What sane
person wouldn’t?

Don’t look back … you’re not going that way.

Where
did that thought spring from? She has no idea, but it sounds
fair.

“
Here and now is what counts,” she tells herself. “As for
tomorrow… we’ll have to wait and see what we can conjure
up.”

She
shifts on the bed, makes herself comfortable, closes her eyes and
tries to concentrate on somewhere far away from everything and
everyone, aiming for somewhere nice and quiet, tranquil, harmonious
to the soul. An image begins to form in her head. Soft dappled
light, cool mist, the smell of honeysuckle and roses.

What is
this place? A cemetery? God no! Too depressing. Who wants to go to
a cemetery? She wants a lovely beach with soft white sand, palm
trees, and gently lapping turquoise waves.

In the
distance a bird caws. A parrot maybe?

“
Grace? You okay?”

A
talking parrot?

“
Grace, love.”

No. It
is definitely human, and close by. She opens her eyes and gazes up
into the round chocolate brown face of Nurse Muriel looking down on
her.

“
Are you okay, lovey?” she says.

Grace
nods. “Yeah.”

“
You were lying there so still for so long, I was beginning
to worry.”

Grace
sits up and looks at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes have
passed during which the snorer has turned over and gone quiet,
drooling from the corner of her mouth, and Miss Sexaholic has
fallen into a post orgasmic stupor.

“
I’m fine,” she says, and pats the bed. Muriel takes a
seat.

“
So where did you go? Anywhere nice?” she says, her broad
smile so wide and white in her face that it looks to be illuminated
from within.

Grace
rolls her neck feeling it pop and crackle. “Nowhere in particular.
Just trying to find a quiet place.”

“
Did you find it?”

“
I was getting there.”

“
I envy you, being able to shut yourself off like that. How
was your meeting with Dr Mal?”

“
He was pretty good … as psychotherapists go.”

“
I don’t know how you managed to get in to see him so
quickly. Dr Mal is an amazing therapist and usually he has a
waiting list a mile long.”

“
Perhaps he had a last minute cancellation.”

“
Perhaps.” Muriel leans close. “You should count your lucky
stars you didn’t get the other one.”

“
Who’s that?”