I go to the window to check, pulling back the curtains. Two hands pummel the glass from the other side, trying to smash it. I scream. He vanishes into the darkness.
21
When I get there, I am glad for the crush in the lift but anxious, as usual, that my pager and mobile don’t get reception and it’ll get stuck and Kasia won’t be able to get hold of me.
As soon as I’m spat out onto the third floor, I check that they’re both working. I didn’t tell her about the man at the window last night; I didn’t want to frighten her. Or to admit the other possibility—that it’s not just my body that is deteriorating but my mind too. I know that I am physically unwell but never thought I might be mentally unwell too. Is he simply a delusion, a product of a diseased mind? Maybe you need physical strength, which I no longer have, to keep a grip on sanity. Going mad is the thing I fear the most, even more than him, because it destroys who you are inside a body that somehow, grotesquely, survives you. I know you must have been afraid too. And I wish that you’d known it was PCP—not some weakness or disease in your own mind—that threatened your sanity.
Maybe I’ve been given PCP too. Has that thought crossed your mind before it has mine? Perhaps a hallucinogenic is responsible for creating the evil that stalks me. But no one could have given it to me. I’ve only been at the CPS offices, the Coyote and the flat, where no one wishes me harm.
I won’t tell Mr. Wright about the murderer at the window, not yet, nor my fear of going mad. If I don’t tell him, then he’ll treat me normally, and I will behave that way in return. He has expectations of me to be completely sane and I will rise to meet them. Besides, at least for the hours I’m with him, I know that I am safe. So I’ll wait till the end of the day and tell him then.
This morning, Mr. Wright’s office is no longer bright; there’s darkness around the edges, which I try to blink away. As I start talking to him, I hear my words slur a little and it’s an effort to remember. But Mr. Wright has said we may be able to finish my statement today, so I will just have to push myself on.
Mr. Wright doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong. Maybe I’ve become adept at hiding it, or he’s just totally focused on getting through the last part of my statement. He recaps the last part of our interview.
“Hattie Sim told you that the man who gave her the injection and delivered her baby wore a mask?”
“Yes. I asked her if it was the same person and she said it was. But she couldn’t remember any more—voice or hair color or height. She was trying to blank out the whole experience and I couldn’t blame her.”
“Did you think that the man who delivered her baby also delivered Tess’s?”
“Yes. And I was sure he was the man who murdered her. But I needed more before going to the police.”
“Heavy counterbalancing facts?” asks Mr. Wright.
“Yes. I needed to prove that he wore a mask to hide his identity. I hadn’t been able to find out who had delivered Tess’s baby—deliberately, I realized. But maybe I could find out who had given Tess and Hattie the injections.”
“Can I speak to the senior midwife? I think her name is Cressida.”
“She’s at home. Her shift finished six hours ago. She’ll be back tomorrow.”
But I couldn’t wait till then.
“Is William Saunders here?” I asked.
“You’re a patient?”
“No.” I hesitated a moment. “A friend.”
I heard the sound of a baby crying, then more joining in. A buzzer went. The young nurse grimaced and I saw how stressed she looked.
“Okay. He’s in the on-call room. Third door on the right.”
I knocked on the door, the nurse watching me, and then I went in. The room was in semidarkness, just lit by the open doorway. William woke up instantly, fully alert, presumably because he was on call and was expected to be functioning at 100 percent immediately.
“What are you doing here, Bee?”
No one but you has ever called me that and it was as if you’d lent him some of our closeness. He got out of bed and I saw that he was fully dressed in blue scrubs. His hair was tangled from where it had been on the pillow. I was conscious of the smallness of the room, the single bed.
“Do you know who gives the women on the CF trial their injection?” I asked.
“No. Do you want me to try to find out?”
That simple. “Yes.”
