Black Valley (35 page)

It was nice of Barbara to visit, Jess thought, but she couldn’t help feeling irritated by her advice.

‘How did you know I was in here?’

‘Bob gave me a call. He thought it would be a good idea if I could pop by and have a chat.’

Jess’s irritation increased. What was Bob doing poking his nose into this? He hardly knew Barbara. They’d met at various social functions to do with work, but that was all.

‘The thing is,’ Barbara went on, ‘you do seem to be a little confused at the moment. That’s completely consistent with the nature of your injury. MTBI – concussion
– can be caused by nearby explosions, as well as a blow to the head.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me. The scans have shown that.’

‘Scans don’t pick up everything. With diffuse injury—’

‘Look, as I keep saying, my memory of what happened in the mine is perfectly clear. One of my patients, Elinor Powell, took me into the tunnel at Bryn Cau to see her paintings. While we
were in the mine, her sister Isobel turned up. They argued, Isobel sprayed mace into my eyes, and then they ran off, leaving me there. I wandered around down there for hours. I could have
died.’

‘Yes, we know.’ Barbara adopted the patient, understanding voice that Jess had heard her use so many times with her clients. ‘You told the police that. And they told you
they’d sent a search team down the mine but there was no evidence of any paintings, anywhere. Neither was there any sign of mace in or on your body when you were tested.’

‘Well, the test must have been wrong.’

Barbara looked sceptical. ‘Whatever the explanation, the fact is you were found alone in a shaft by the quarry. You had no business to be there. I know it was a Sunday, but blasting
sometimes goes on there at the weekends. You were taking a huge risk.’

‘You haven’t been listening.’ Jess tried to control her irritation. ‘I had no intention of doing anything dangerous. I was abandoned in the mine. And that shaft was the
only way out.’

‘OK.’ Barbara nodded her head in agreement, in that way psychiatrists do when they realize their patient has completely lost contact with reality. ‘I understand.’

Jess stopped talking. There was no point in continuing the discussion.

Silence fell. Barbara fiddled with her glasses, which hung on a string around her neck.

‘I expect you’re bored stiff in here,’ she remarked after a while.

‘I am. They don’t like you to read too much, or watch the box. Taxes the brain too much, apparently. Even daytime TV.’

Barbara laughed.

‘Listen, Jess. Take advantage of the situation. Get some rest.’ She paused. ‘You’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Bob told me you and he had parted. I was sorry to
hear that.’

Jess shrugged, but she was annoyed. Why Bob had to go around telling anyone and everyone about their separation, she didn’t know.

‘This has nothing to do with that. I’m coping fine.’

‘Of course you are.’ Barbara was tactful. ‘But it must be a lot of work looking after the girls on your own. And then there’s this client, Elinor Powell, isn’t
there? The twin. It sounds as if she’s been quite demanding. Getting you down to the tunnel to come and look at her paintings . . . and, what was it, running off and leaving you
there?’

Jess knew that technique, as well. Going along with your patients’ deluded stories, so as to gain more insights into their mental condition.

‘I’ve dealt with a number of twins myself,’ Barbara went on. ‘They’re quite complex individuals to deal with, in my experience. In fact, it’s frustrating that
there are so few clinical studies on the subject. Heaps of stuff about genetics, as if twins are just there to be used as guinea pigs to tell us about “normal” people. But nothing about
the twin relationship as such.’

Jess thought of mentioning
The Twin in the Transference
but decided instead to rest her brain, as she’d been ordered to.

‘I had one patient who had a breakdown after his twin brother married and moved away.’ Barbara fiddled with her glasses again. ‘He used to look in the mirror and see no one
there. It was very strange. And what was also strange was how quickly I became drawn into his world. He treated me as if I were his twin, and I found myself responding to that.’ She
hesitated. ‘You have to be very careful, don’t you? Not to get too close.’

Jess didn’t reply. She was trying not to get angry. She didn’t want to be told how to handle her client. And she didn’t like the implication that she’d lost control of
the situation, either.

Barbara sighed and stopped fiddling with her glasses. Then she changed the subject.

They made small talk for a while, and at last she shifted on her chair, as if getting ready to leave.

‘Listen,’ she said, ‘when you get out of here, don’t go straight back to work. Take a few weeks off. Your patients can wait. You need time to get well yourself.
You’re a good therapist, Jess. We don’t want to lose you.’

Was that a veiled threat? Jess wondered.

‘If you want some proper R & R, I could have a word with the people at The Grange, if you like. It might be better than going home, where you’ll have the girls to deal
with.’

The Grange was a private mental hospital – mental health rehabilitation centre, as it called itself – where Barbara often sent patients to recuperate. Some of Jess’s own
clients had come from there, continuing their therapy with her after their stay at the hospital. It was a pleasant enough place, a country mansion on the outskirts of Cardiff, overlooking the
Bristol Channel. But the fact that Barbara was recommending it as a place for her to recuperate offended her greatly.

‘No thanks. I’ll sort myself out.’

‘I’m sure you will.’ Barbara got up to go. ‘But whatever you do, don’t rush back into action, will you.’

Jess didn’t respond.

‘Promise me.’

Jess gave a vague nod.

‘OK.’ Barbara sighed. ‘Well, let me know how you get on.’

‘I will.’

‘Bye, then.’ Barbara gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Good luck.’

Jess did her best to smile back, but failed.

Barbara walked over to the door. Before she opened it, she turned to Jess, a look of concern on her face.

Jess gave her an airy wave. ‘Thanks for dropping by.’

Barbara sighed again, opened the door, and left, shutting it quietly behind her.

When she was gone, Jess leaned over and picked up the remote control on the bedside table. She’d been told not to read, text, or watch television, but none of the nurses
were looking. In fact, they never came near her, except to serve her meals. There was a small glass panel in the door, and from time to time, a face would peer in, but it happened less and less
often as the days passed.

She flicked through the channels: news, pop, chat. A panel of middle-aged women discussed the contents of their knicker drawer. One of them kept theirs in a mess, the knickers all jumbled up;
another made sure that each pair was neatly folded and ranged by colour. Chat, pop, news. As she switched back to the news, she was confronted by Tegan Davies, sitting in front of the Pierhead
building in the Bay.

Tegan was looking immaculate, as usual. The cream outfit was spotless, her hair was carefully sprayed into place, and her make-up was perfect.

‘A press conference was called today at Blackwood Miners’ Institute to announce a new site-specific work by local painter Hefin Morris.’ There was a smug lilt to her voice that
irritated Jess. ‘Mr Morris, an ex-miner from the Rhondda, is making a name for himself nationally with a series of paintings based on his former work in the mines. A self-taught artist, Mr
Morris has in the past declined to appear in public, and his identity has remained something of a mystery, but today, he surprised onlookers by making an unscheduled appearance, as Betsan Evans
reports.’

Jess turned up the volume, as the scene switched from the studio to the museum. There, sitting behind a battery of microphones, was Dresler. He looked much the same as ever, dressed in a dusky
blue cord jacket that matched his eyes, a striped scarf round his neck, and a self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. Beside him was a man in a peaked cap and a T-shirt. There was a streak of
green in his hair, his nose was pierced, and both his arms were covered in tattoos.

For a moment, Jess didn’t recognize him. Then she realized he was Nathan, the man she and Dresler had followed in the van the day they’d gone up to Bryn Cau to find Morris.

The reporter burbled on, but Jess wasn’t listening. So that was the latest scam Dresler and Isobel had cooked up together, was it? To present Nathan, the guy who’d supposedly first
brought the paintings in to the Powell Gallery, as Hefin Morris. Evidently, in reality, Nathan was Elinor and Isobel’s factotum; and now he’d got the job of actually pretending to be
Hefin. His was a rather limited approach to the role, Jess thought, consisting mostly of grunting his agreement to whatever art world verbiage Dresler came out with. On the other hand, his tattoos
did give him the air of an authentic radical.

Jess watched as Dresler continued to do the talking. The phrases tripped off his tongue – political engagement, cultural philistinism, savage cutbacks, social deprivation – but she
didn’t follow what he was saying. There was no need to. Because he was lying through his teeth. He knew full well that Elinor was the real Hefin Morris; he was simply going along with the
twins’ scam, using Nathan to pose as Morris in a last-ditch attempt to save his reputation.

As he chuntered on, Jess felt a surge of fury rise up into her chest. Fury, and humiliation. Dresler had blatantly lied to her, lied to himself. How could she have trusted such a man, believed
for a moment that she could make a life with him? He’d called her several times since they’d last met, but she hadn’t responded; she never wanted to see him again. Perhaps, she
mused, in the wake of the separation from Bob, she really was losing her judgement. Even now, watching him speak, she found she couldn’t tell what kind of a person he really was. Vain,
ambitious, deceitful, yes; willing to put his career before his relationship with her, yes. But a party to attempted murder? She wasn’t sure. Did he know that the twins had tried to kill her,
lured her down to the mine and left her there to die? And if he did, was he turning a blind eye to that, as well?

Surely not, but the thought frightened her. She wouldn’t put it past him to collude with the twins, now that she knew how many other lies he’d told on their behalf, and his own.
While she doubted he’d known what Elinor was planning, he was certainly playing with fire. The twins were dangerous. They had to be stopped.

Nathan began to mumble a few words, the lights of the cameras popping. Once again, Jess wasn’t listening. She was looking at his face, trying to work out whether he, too, was involved in
perpetrating the scam, or just doing his bosses’ bidding. She suspected the latter.

As the questions continued, Dresler took over again, and Nathan relapsed into silence, a look of mute hostility on his face, as befitted the new
enfant terrible
of the contemporary art
world. Then the scene switched back to Tegan in the studio.

A face appeared in the glass panel of the door. It was one of the nurses, peering in at her. Jess leaned her head back on her pillow and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the face was
gone.

She picked up the remote control, and switched the television off. Then she reached for her mobile phone and keyed in a number.

‘Dragon Taxis.’

‘Yes, I’d like a taxi to St Fagan’s, please.’ Jess paused. ‘I’m at the Heath. I’ll be waiting outside the main entrance in ten minutes.’

The taxi dropped Jess off outside her house. She stood for a moment looking at the front door, holding her overnight bag, feeling like a visitor, a stranger, come to spend the
night. Such odd thoughts seemed to flit across her mind quite often since the incident in the mine. Maybe there really was something wrong with her brain. Or perhaps it was just the emotional
aftershock of what had happened, still shuddering through her, destabilizing the foundations of her life, just as the explosions in the quarry had rumbled through the tunnel, causing the rock to
crack.

She let herself in, dumped her stuff in the hallway, and walked down to the kitchen. She needed to call Lauren Bonetti and tell her she had a plan. It was a simple one, but she was convinced she
could make it work. She’d need help, but if Bonetti couldn’t give it, she’d be able to carry it out on her own – though it would be more dangerous. Brain fog or not, she
could see quite clearly what she had to do, and she was determined to do it.

To her surprise, Nella was in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table among a pile of books, her laptop open, deep in concentration.

‘Mum.’ She looked up, confused. ‘What are you doing here? I was going to come in and visit you today.’

‘I checked myself out. There’s nothing wrong with me, so I decided to come home.’

Jess walked over to the kettle, filled it up from the tap, and switched it on to boil.

Nella jumped up from her chair. ‘I’ll do that. You sit down.’

She came over and enveloped her mother in a hug. Then she led her to a chair, as if she were an invalid, sat her down, and busied herself with making the tea.

Damn, thought Jess. She was pleased to see her daughter, but she needed to get on and phone Bonetti.

‘I thought they were keeping you in for observation. I thought—’

‘They were fine about it.’ In actual fact, she’d slipped out without anyone noticing she was leaving, but she wasn’t going to tell Nella that. The hospital had left a
message on the mobile asking for her whereabouts, but she hadn’t replied to it.

‘Are you hungry? I could make some toast? Scrambled eggs?’

‘No, no. I had breakfast ages ago.’

‘Biscuit, then?’

Nella brought over the tea and sat down. She looked different, Jess thought. She’d tied her hair back, and her clothes were dark and neat. Her figure was filling out, and she moved around
the kitchen quietly and gracefully, like a young woman, rather than a girl.