sex.”
I raised my eyebrows.
I thought of Adam Reeve, sitting on the bench. No mates, plenty of spots. Was he brooding about sex? I wasn’t convinced.
Chapter Twenty-three
Hattie Baker had known Miriam for years.
“We met back in 1987,” she said. “In hospital.”
“You worked at Saint Mary’s too?”
“No, no. We were patients. Mental patients.” She said it gently as if she was taking the sting out of it for me, followed it with a small smile.
She was a tiny, birdlike woman, with an enormous beaky nose, warm brown eyes and a scrawny frame. She wore lurid orange lipstick which more or less matched her tousled dyed hair. I guessed that she was in her sixties.
We were in Hattie’s lounge, a real fire blazed in the hearth and I suspected that the central heating was on too, as the room was incredibly hot. The decor and furniture was a complete mismatch of styles; a traditional richly patterned carpet, Turkish style, the main colour was burgundy, a black leather three piece suite, an Indian rosewood coffee table, ornately carved, an incongruous computer station in one corner and garish geometric wallpaper in brown, orange and beige. Thankfully most of the latter was covered with a plethora of prints and paintings, mainly landscapes and street scenes.
There was the tang of satsumas in the air, a bowlful sat beside Hattie and the peel from several lay on the occasional table.
“Miriam wasn’t there long. She responded well to the shock treatments. But she’d come back and visit me, you see. And when they finally let me come home, she’d come here. Funny, really. Most of the people you meet in hospital ... well, it’s not a happy time, you don’t want reminding. You never see them again. We just clicked. I do miss her.” She gave a sigh, turned the ring on her finger. “Oh, I do miss her. I could rely on Miriam. She always came, without fail. Didn’t mind that it was always here.”
I must have looked puzzled because she leant towards me to explain. “I don’t go out. Agoraphobic. So she always came to me. And the fun we’d have,” she smiled. “I manage. But there are times, like the funeral,” she winced, “if only I could have been there. I sent a letter of course. Times like that, it makes me think what a stupid, scared, silly woman I am. But I can’t ...” She stopped talking.
I waited.
“She seemed to be so well. I never imagined ... You never really know anybody do you?” She turned her gaze on the fire. “Just the surface. We barely know ourselves. I do miss her. And those lovely children,” she looked at me, “how are they bearing up?”
“It’s hard.”
She nodded.
“When did you last see Miriam?”
“September the thirtieth. My birthday. She brought me that.” She pointed to a watercolour above the fireplace. It was a Manchester scene, St Ann’s Square looking towards the church. Springtime. Trees in blossom, shoppers, a fire-eater entertaining the crowd. “Someone in her art club did it.” I stood to peer at the signature. Dolly B.
“These are my substitutes,” she waved at the pictures, “for the real world. Of course now with the Internet, I go all over the place, marvellous,” she beamed. Then pulled herself back to my question. “So, Miriam. She came on the thirtieth but I spoke to her after that. She rang me.” Her eyes watered. “I’m sorry,” she said. She pulled a tissue from the box beside her. “I do miss her. It was the day she died.”
I felt a squirt of adrenalin tighten my concentration, speed up my pulse.
“She was in a bad way, panicky, raving. I couldn’t do anything. All I could do was listen. I felt so ... bloody useless,” she said bitterly.
“What time was this?”
“About two o’ clock.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing that made any sense. Something about being put in hospital again, if she told them.”
“Told them what?”
“I don’t know. And she said it was awful and he’d punish her.”
“Who
I raised my eyebrows.
I thought of Adam Reeve, sitting on the bench. No mates, plenty of spots. Was he brooding about sex? I wasn’t convinced.
Chapter Twenty-three
Hattie Baker had known Miriam for years.
“We met back in 1987,” she said. “In hospital.”
“You worked at Saint Mary’s too?”
“No, no. We were patients. Mental patients.” She said it gently as if she was taking the sting out of it for me, followed it with a small smile.
She was a tiny, birdlike woman, with an enormous beaky nose, warm brown eyes and a scrawny frame. She wore lurid orange lipstick which more or less matched her tousled dyed hair. I guessed that she was in her sixties.
We were in Hattie’s lounge, a real fire blazed in the hearth and I suspected that the central heating was on too, as the room was incredibly hot. The decor and furniture was a complete mismatch of styles; a traditional richly patterned carpet, Turkish style, the main colour was burgundy, a black leather three piece suite, an Indian rosewood coffee table, ornately carved, an incongruous computer station in one corner and garish geometric wallpaper in brown, orange and beige. Thankfully most of the latter was covered with a plethora of prints and paintings, mainly landscapes and street scenes.
There was the tang of satsumas in the air, a bowlful sat beside Hattie and the peel from several lay on the occasional table.
“Miriam wasn’t there long. She responded well to the shock treatments. But she’d come back and visit me, you see. And when they finally let me come home, she’d come here. Funny, really. Most of the people you meet in hospital ... well, it’s not a happy time, you don’t want reminding. You never see them again. We just clicked. I do miss her.” She gave a sigh, turned the ring on her finger. “Oh, I do miss her. I could rely on Miriam. She always came, without fail. Didn’t mind that it was always here.”
I must have looked puzzled because she leant towards me to explain. “I don’t go out. Agoraphobic. So she always came to me. And the fun we’d have,” she smiled. “I manage. But there are times, like the funeral,” she winced, “if only I could have been there. I sent a letter of course. Times like that, it makes me think what a stupid, scared, silly woman I am. But I can’t ...” She stopped talking.
I waited.
“She seemed to be so well. I never imagined ... You never really know anybody do you?” She turned her gaze on the fire. “Just the surface. We barely know ourselves. I do miss her. And those lovely children,” she looked at me, “how are they bearing up?”
“It’s hard.”
She nodded.
“When did you last see Miriam?”
“September the thirtieth. My birthday. She brought me that.” She pointed to a watercolour above the fireplace. It was a Manchester scene, St Ann’s Square looking towards the church. Springtime. Trees in blossom, shoppers, a fire-eater entertaining the crowd. “Someone in her art club did it.” I stood to peer at the signature. Dolly B.
“These are my substitutes,” she waved at the pictures, “for the real world. Of course now with the Internet, I go all over the place, marvellous,” she beamed. Then pulled herself back to my question. “So, Miriam. She came on the thirtieth but I spoke to her after that. She rang me.” Her eyes watered. “I’m sorry,” she said. She pulled a tissue from the box beside her. “I do miss her. It was the day she died.”
I felt a squirt of adrenalin tighten my concentration, speed up my pulse.
“She was in a bad way, panicky, raving. I couldn’t do anything. All I could do was listen. I felt so ... bloody useless,” she said bitterly.
“What time was this?”
“About two o’ clock.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing that made any sense. Something about being put in hospital again, if she told them.”
“Told them what?”
“I don’t know. And she said it was awful and he’d punish her.”
“Who
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