Relatively Strange (29 page)

Wise course of action or not, there was no time to put it into practise. The phone on the wall of the portakabin shrilled, summoning them back to the clinic where all hell, apparently was breaking loose. Glory heard Peter screaming in her head as Mrs Millsop grabbed her hand and, following fast on the heels of the Doctor and Miss Merry, hauled her along with none of the normal compassionate, mind there’s a step here dear. Peter must have had more of a conscience than he’d thought, because now, back into his head, stimulated by the drugs he’d been given, had marched his father, pink baby-dolled and fully made up and he’d brought along a few friends – eighty to be exact. Small, furry, long-tailed and actually not really very friendly at all.

In one corner of Peter’s room, Polly lay in an unconscious, ungraceful heap where she’d been flung and hit her head. Peter was wedged tightly into the opposite corner, knees to chest, heels of his rubber sneakers scrabbling and skidding against the floor as he attempted to push himself even further back. He was shivering so convulsively his head was banging an uneven syncopated rhythm on the wall behind and, blinder than Glory’s had ever been, his eyes were starting whitely out of his head. A trickle of blood and spittle snaked leisurely down his chin from a chewed lip and mangled tongue. He was screaming inwardly and out, a high, unbearable, unlistenable-to, keening shriek of a scream that lacerated ear and mind.

Outside, at the front of the building, two coaches bringing lots of excited children for their testing session at the Foundation had just drawn up.

The power of Peter’s projections as he tried to fling them from his mind broke through Glory’s shielding in a sickeningly overwhelming rush and for a moment, she too was face to face with the heavily eye-shadowed, sorrowful gaze of the late Mr Atkins as he flounced past. At the same time her skin was brushed in a dozen places by soft fur, scaled tails, sharp claws and, as she shrank away and drew breath, she smelt theirs, foetid and alien.

She didn’t know she was doing it but she too sank to the floor, an instinctive primitive move to protect herself – shut it out, curl up as small as possible. And in that instant, Peter became aware of her. Drowning in horror-fuelled panic, he desperately tried to scramble along that mental contact into her open mind, seeking sanctuary, looking for succour she didn’t have to give and pulling her under with him, until she too began to drown and scream.

Of those observing but thankfully not blessed with the ability to share, Mrs Millsop was the one whose instinctive and prompt reaction saved Glory’s sanity and probably her life. With a turn of speed, unexpected in one of her build and already separating the appropriate key from the bunch on the chain at her waist, she reached the locked drugs cabinet at the end of the corridor in record time and, with a steady hand, prepared a valium dose. Galloping back she leapt, like a chunky gazelle, over Glory writhing now on the floor and expertly plunged the needle deep into Peter’s quivering thigh.

Peter’s screaming subsided slowly, followed by Glory’s, as he lapsed into unconsciousness in Mrs Millsop’s arms and for a moment there was blessed silence, before everybody else belatedly remembered their professionalism and moved into action. Polly, coming round, shaken and bruised but otherwise apparently uninjured, was taken to be checked over. Glory was moved to another room where she lay, speechless and shivering despite the hot water bottles they packed round her. Then she felt the small cold bite of a needle in her arm and even as she was shaking her head to tell them that wasn’t what she wanted, she slipped under. Peter was undressed and put to bed. He never woke up.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“He
died
?”

“No,” said Glory, “He didn’t die.” I wet my lips with a dry tongue from an even dryer mouth. So evocative had been her re-telling, so strong her memories, I’d lived through them too. I could see the toll it had taken. Her normally even-coloured, milky-coffee skin was pale and blotchy, her lips tight. We’d pulled smoothly into a lay-by without my noticing, while Glory was talking. Ed and Hamlet had got out quietly to stretch their legs and Miss Peacock came round to the passenger door and slipped her grey cardigan gently over Glory’s shoulders.

Ruth stirred with a grunt of surprise to find us stationary and thrust a virulently orange clad arm between us, to distribute polystyrene cups. Ed, it seemed, had thought of everything and although rendered tasteless by the thermos, what could have been either coffee or tea was sweet, hot and wonderfully welcome, as were the bars of chocolate produced from a capacious bag between Ruth’s feet. I felt relieved to see Glory starting to look more normal, guilty because I desperately wanted to hear more.

It wasn’t until we were all back in our seats and Ed had re-started the van that she continued.

“He was in a coma, what they call a persistent vegetative state.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Alive, but totally unresponsive to outside stimuli.” I stared at her, aghast, “But that was …”

“Five years ago. Yes.” I was silent, recalling the image she’d shown me that day at the Foundation. The boy who I now knew was Peter, drips in his arms, tubes down his throat, more snaking from beneath the blankets, eyes open but as dreadfully blank as his mind.

“Was it the pill – the L/24?”

Glory shook her head slowly, “We never really knew.” Miss Peacock twisted round in her seat,

“We think the drug stimulated then magnified hallucinations to such an extent, his brain couldn’t take the strain – it blew. That sort of thing’s been known to happen with LSD, but in Peter’s case the damage was so catastrophic because of what he was.”

“What about you? Were you OK?” I turned to Glory.

“She was not,” Ruth leaned forward, “We wanted her out, right away, there and then, but couldn’t get through to her for three days. Didn’t know if she was alive or dead.”

“We were,” admitted Miss Peacock, “A little concerned.”

“I was unconscious for a long time,” Glory said, “Far longer than I should have been from the dose of tranquilliser they gave me, I suppose my head was just healing itself, then as soon as I did start to come round, I was nearly knocked out again by these two who were yammering away at me, long distance.” She grimaced, “One way and another I didn’t know whether I was Arthur, Martha or an iced tea cake. I had Mrs Millsop, who’d certainly saved my bacon, on one side of me slapping my face and pinching my hand to bring me out of it; bloody Doctor Doolittle on the other side shining a light in my eye, and pricking my arm with a pin; Miss Merry po-faced as ever writing up my chart and Ruth and Rachael like a couple of demented chipmunks in my mind – lucky I didn’t have a complete relapse.” She shook her head in disgust, drained her cup and followed it closely with a couple of squares of chocolate.

“And then,” Ruth took over again, “Began the battle to get the wretched girl out.”

“They wouldn’t let you go?” I asked. Ruth snorted,

“She wouldn’t come.”

“If I had,” Glory looked at me, “You mightn’t be here now, think on.” I was silent, of course she was right. Knowing what I did now, my own experience had taken on a very different and far more threatening dimension.

“There were things I had to do.” She said.

“Who,” humphed Miss Peacock, “Died and made you queen?” Glory laughed, this was obviously a well-chewed bone of contention.

Ed had, I realised turned off the main road now and we were, not altogether comfortably, bouncing down a narrow lane, hedges either side scraping the side of the van. He swung into an entrance almost totally obscured by a mature weeping willow, steered the van straight through the hanging fronds alongside a small stream and brought us to a halt in front of a cottage that looked as if it was auditioning for Hansel and Gretel.

“Only four rooms so you and Glory share.” Miss Peacock crunched across the gravel to unlock a solid wood front door, while Ed unloaded the bags from the back of the van. The cottage inside was deceptively spacious – all the Peacock residences seemed to have a Tardis factor. It had an instantly homely feel, generously deep fireplaces in every room and a large helping of beams, if it didn’t work for Hansel and Gretel, the Seven Dwarfs would snap it up.

Ruth started passing me provisions she’d brought with.

“We were spending so many weekends down here and a fortune in rent, so in the end we bought this,” she winked, “A bit of luck with some of my shares. It belonged to the farm up the road, they still keep an eye when we’re not here and leave milk and eggs when we are.”

The front door opened straight into the almost circular living room, dominated by the lovely red-brick fireplace with a fire already laid. At right angles to the fireplace was a large well sat-upon sofa and several comfortable-looking chairs in various shapes and sizes. Above the fireplace was an imposing portrait of Queen Elizabeth I with, on adjoining walls, various other framed prints and a number of black and white etchings, I spotted Churchill, Shakespeare, Victoria and, more up to date, H.M. and Prince Philip with the family and some corgis.

“Very patriotic.”

“They used to rent it out a lot to visiting Americans.” Miss Peacock said “And every time we’ve been here, décor’s been the last thing on our minds.”

There were two doors leading from the living room, one to a not unsurprisingly well equipped kitchen where I stacked Ruth’s provisions and the other to a narrow winding staircase with Nelson, Disraeli and Henry VIII all looking distinguished on the way up. The bedroom I was directed to was just big enough for both beds it held. A low, unpolished pine chest of drawers was set between them and a bay window overlooked a small but densely mature walled garden. There was a small window seat in the bay, cushioned in faded pink buttoned-velvet and ignoring Miss Peacock’s dulcet tones as she issued instructions to everyone, I slipped the catch and the mullioned windows swung wide. It was wonderfully peaceful, birds singing fit to bust and not a traffic sound to be heard, the sort of silence that’s a presence in itself. Kneeling on the window seat, hands on the low sill, I was inhaling the sweet heavy scent of a plump yellow climber rose and watching a bumble bee do his stuff when Miss Peacock came up behind me.

“Nice view.” she said and pushed me out the window.

Because the window opened directly above the cushioned bench on which I’d been kneeling, my centre of balance wasn’t anywhere useful and I shot outward like a startled bullet from a gun. I didn’t even have time to draw breath and probably still wore a dopey, smelling-the-roses look. If I’d harboured doubts about the aerodynamic soundness of a well-fed bee, this now applied to me in spades and I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember what was once so simple to do. I was also aware, time for rumination was running out.

“Sodding Ada.” I muttered – honestly it was amazing how much I’d picked up from the salty east-end lexicon of Grandma and the Aunts over the years and how very handy these pithy little phrases were now proving. Not the time though for reminiscing. If I was coming in to land, head down probably wasn’t ideal. I muscle-wrenched my body into a twist and grunting with effort, scarlet-faced with strain, hauled myself back up through air that in the good old days hadn’t seemed half so resistant. She was still standing at the open window and reached out a hand to help me in.

“Not bad” she said, “Bit of practice wouldn’t go amiss though.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Miss Peacock was coolly unrepentant.

“Had to find out if she could manage.” We were back in the living room and my anger was adrenaline fuelled.

“You could have killed me.” I sounded shrill and petulant which was precisely how I felt.

“Oh, I don’t think so dear,” Ruth was pragmatic, “She wouldn’t have let you hit the ground.”

“Well I didn’t know that.” I shrieked, certainly the old sang-froid had gone out the window around the same time I did.

“Shut up. Now.” said Miss P “We have a small boy in danger of losing his life his sanity or both, have you finished sulking or must we wait?” I glared at her, bloody woman.

“Right. This,” she settled back in her chair, “Is what we want you to do, should you agree to go in.” Wonderful, I thought, Mission Impossible.