The Invisible Code by Christopher Fowler Page B

have to. I’ve already got the linings from my carpet slippers tucked inside my boots. It’s not like this on the continent. Everyone’s in flip-flops and Bermuda shorts. They smile at each other and eat vegetables that still have earth on them. They’re happy. If I lived over there I’d have retired by now. I’d be living a life of luxury and deceit. Instead I’m stuck here with a pension that wouldn’t buy a beach hut. They have sunlight. What do we have? Sublight. D’you know, I accidentally caught sight of myself when I shaved this morning. I looked like a very old apple. Slightly green with a wrinkled skin, probably full of worms. I need a suntan.’
    ‘If you don’t stop complaining, I’ll leave you here.’
    ‘You couldn’t afford to.’
    ‘If you dressed smarter, you’d feel better about yourself.’
    ‘You can’t pour a pint of bitter into a cocktail glass.’
    May sighed. ‘I don’t know where you get these sayings.’
    The door was opened by one of the senior nurses, who introduced herself as Amelia Medway. She led them through to the wing where Sabira Kasavian had been settled. ‘The main thing is to ensure that you don’t upset her,’ she said as they passed the empty dining room. ‘We try to avoid medication wherever possible, preferring to encourage our guests to participate in holistic programmes and natural therapies.’
    ‘Is she allowed out?’ asked Bryant.
    ‘Sabira isn’t a prisoner, Mr Bryant. She is free to come and go as she pleases, although she is required to keep us informed of her whereabouts at all times.’
    ‘What’s to stop her from doing a runner?’
    ‘Her access to money is limited. Her credit cards have been put away, and she is provided with a daily cash allowance. There’s a wardrobe restriction, and for bigger trips she’s required to wear a bracelet that allows us to track her movements, although we find that’s rarely necessary. Most of our guests only go as far as the heath or the high street. They like to return in time for meals and special events; there’s always something going on. Many of our guests soon find they enjoy having a structure imposed on them, and try their best to maintain the regime, but it can prove challenging for some.’
    ‘You mean they either become institutionalized or they get stroppy with the staff. I suppose getting them into a load of smells-and-bells therapy is better than doping them up.’
    May could see the nurse was trying not to be defensive. Considering his partner believed in all manner of bizarre alternative practices, it surprised May that he was so sceptical about private clinics, but consistency had never been Bryant’s strong point.
    Inside, the atmosphere was calm, relaxed and low-key.There were no locks or bars, just carers and guests and a full schedule of daily activities with which to occupy fretful minds. Banning definitions like ‘nurses’ and ‘patients’ was meant to speed the journey to recovered health.
    Sabira Kasavian was sitting in the morning room wearing a thick white towelling robe. Without make-up she looked diminished and ghostlike. ‘They’re bringing you some herbal tea whether you want it or not,’ she whispered. ‘I’m going to be a model patient.’ She raised her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, I said the forbidden word – I keep forgetting we are all
guests
here, except guests don’t usually have to pay their hosts five hundred pounds a day.’
    ‘How are you feeling?’ asked May.
    ‘Fine for a woman who has just been locked away in a madhouse by her husband.’
    ‘It’s hardly a madhouse. It was your doctor who recommended your admission, and you agreed that it was a good idea.’
    ‘I met some of the inmates this morning and they are pretty crazy. There’s a TV talent-show winner who has to be kept out of the kitchens because he knows how to make drugs from household items, and some PR woman who had a screaming fit this morning because they took her mobile away