Krysalis: Krysalis (13 page)

The bay was wedge-shaped, with the house perched halfway up the bluff to one side of it. Gerhard’s domain faced a densely wooded hill on the other side of the wedge. His gaze swept the bay’s far shore, seeking his favorite landmark: a chapel. Its white cupola gleamed in the fading light, a bell hung outside in the tower at one end, and Gerhard wished it would ring. This evening he could imagine nothing more beautiful than its clean, clear note summoning to prayer. But since his last visit, the chapel had fallen into disuse; Yorgos had told him that, apart from himself, no one ever went there now.

He knew he could not afford to go on drinking in the landscape indefinitely. There was work to be done, hard, finicky work, as dangerous as any he had ever attempted in his long career.

“How are you?” he said quietly, and Anna slowly lifted her head.

“Wretched. Why do I feel so ill?”

Gerhard said nothing.

“I can’t remember much about today. Just like yesterday. There’re these … gaps.”

He knew he must reassure her, but not too much. “Things will come back to you, once you’ve rested. Yorgos has left now. Hungry?”

“I don’t want anything.” She rubbed her upper right arm. “Gerhard, did you give me one injection or two? It aches so much, but I can’t remember …”

“One mild sedative, that’s all.” He had given her two shots of narcotic, but the lie slotted seamlessly into their conversation. “You were looking green and I thought you could probably use some sleep.”

She rummaged in her handbag, looking for a tissue. Something bristly grazed against her hand; she pulled it out with a wan smile, her first that day. “Miss Cuppidge.”

“What?”

She held up a tatty corn dolly, some three inches long. “Juliet’s. Do you know, I put this in my bag six years ago. She’d left it somewhere and I meant to take it to her, but somehow I never managed to part with Miss Cuppidge.”

Gerhard was glad to see her spirits lift a little. “What a funny name,” he said.

“A raspy name for a raspy toy, that’s what I used to say.” Again the tired smile. “Pathetic, aren’t I?”

He perched on the balustrade wall and studied her. The ravages of flight had done a bit to mar her beauty, but pathetic was not a word to describe Anna Lescombe. Normally there was something helpless, a little
wistful about that childlike face, which brought men to her side at parties, bearing tacit promises of love, although as far as he could tell she never appreciated them. Unwitting loveliness was, he felt, one of the most attractive human qualities.

Looking at her now, he remembered why he had fallen in love with Anna. More than that, he understood why the love had never died. No, you mustn’t dwell on that, he reminded himself. She can destroy you. Take your life, without even thinking, or knowing what she’s done.

He followed her gaze to where two elfin boats progressed calmly toward the yellow horizon, tiny puffs of foam at the stern. “Sailing …” he murmured.

“Do you remember that weekend at Yarmouth?” Anna grimaced. “Our one and only sailing trip.”

“A disaster.”

“You’d never
been
sailing before, you told me afterward.”

“I’m a believer in trying out new things. And at least you did meet one real sailor—David.”

“Yes. There’s that. Gerhard, where are we?”

“This place?” He felt secretly pleased that she didn’t know. “The island of Paxos.”

“It’s so peaceful here.”

“I don’t even have a phone. The nearest one’s in the port.”

“But I thought I saw wires …”

“Electricity.”

Another lie. No way to win her to his side, but she would never understand the truth. “There’s a small tourist trade,” he went on. “I hope it won’t grow too big.”

“It won’t. This island’s too hard to get to.”

“Like you?”

Anna nodded. Gerhard pulled up another wicker chair beside her and sat down. Now he had to begin the infinitely perilous operation that had consumed him totally ever since reading Krysalis. But how? What words to use?

“If we use the time wisely,” he said, “perhaps we can do something to solve your problems.”

She allowed her head to loll around until she could see him properly. “I’m cured, that’s what you told me. Often.”

“I believed you were.”

“Even though I kept coming back to you?”

“I’ve told you many times, patients frequently come back. There was nothing unusual in it.”

“But we became lovers. Sometimes I wonder if maybe you cured me of depression but not of Gerhard Kleist.”

Good, good, he told himself. “Ah, no—you love David now, not me. But professionally you’ve become a major challenge. So what about it, Anna? A spell of intensive, one-on-one therapy here, while I arrange things in London?”

“No time. First I must sort out what I’m going to say, then get back to London. Start putting things right.”

He felt his fear come back. “But why? Are you changing your mind?”

“Changing …?”

“You asked to come.” He paused, trying to still the rapid beating of his heart. “And when David agreed it was a good idea, that was obviously the logical—”

He could see how he’d shocked her. Her vision clouded while she gaped at him. “David …
knows
where I am?”

“Of course. When I explained what had happened, about your breakdown and so on, he agreed…. Look, Anna, just how much
do
you remember?”

But she continued to stare at him as if he were a phantom, making him tremble inwardly. “No, wait,” she said. “Please wait. You … you’ve
met
David? Actually talked to him?”

“Yes.”

“When?” she wailed.

“He found me in the house, after you’d left to go and sit in my car. Of course, I had no choice but to tell him everything. The three of us sat in the car and talked, don’t you remember?”

She shook her head violently. Don’t stop, Gerhard told himself, don’t hesitate, don’t falter,
press on!

“You got very upset at one point. That’s when I gave you the sedative. David held your hand while I did the injection, you must remember that, surely?”

Her face was bloodless. “No,” she whispered.

“Well, you went out like a light, so perhaps that’s not so surprising.”

“Gerhard.” Her voice suddenly turned hoarse, as if all her saliva had dried up. “Tell me the truth. Please. Am I going insane?”

He laughed. “Good God, no. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“I can’t remember anything about today. You … you really talked to David?”

“Yes. I had to. It’s utterly inconceivable that I should bring you here without his consent.”

“What did you … I mean, did you tell him anything?”

“Only what was necessary for professional purposes. Your taking the file, of course.”

Anna made a strange sound, halfway between a groan and a croak, but by now Gerhard was too far in to retreat.

“I had to tell him that, when I gave Krysalis back to him. I didn’t attempt to cover your entire history, but he did understand what you needed to be cured.”

She banged the arms of her chair and cried, “Why can’t I remember?
Why!
There’s this voice inside my head …”

“Voice?”

“More than one. Telling me such strange things … I think one of them’s David’s … yes, maybe he did say that I needed a holiday, I’m almost sure … David

knows?”

“Yes.”

“How did he take it?”

“Very well. I’d say that, of the three of us, he was the keenest on your going abroad while he and I sort things out.”

“I must phone him. Talk to him.”

“Certainly you must, it’s essential.” Oh dear God, he thought frantically, no, don’t worry,
keep going!
“But it’s far too late for that this evening.”

Gerhard watched her closely. Had the suggestions that he had hypnotically implanted in the course of their journey taken root? He couldn’t dare let her go, now. “How much of today can you actually remember?” he asked casually.

Anna made a great effort. “I remember… oh, I don’t know … a ship?”

“That’s it. We drove out through Dover.” Anna asleep on the back seat, lax passport officers, harassed by thousands of tourists passing through every day, yes, Dover had been an inspiration. “And the flight here?”

“No.”

Once in France, he’d chartered a plane, which had cost him the earth, although from the moment he’d opened the Krysalis file he’d seen a way of doing far more than just covering his expenses. His plan was so ambitious that at times it made his stomach churn, but he’d committed himself to it and now he thought of how much, of how
everything
depended on keeping this woman quiet….

“Gerhard, did you say … I’d had a breakdown?”

He nodded heavily. “I’m afraid so. A very serious one. As David was quick to appreciate, what you need now, more than anything, is rest.”

“But … my work.”

“You’d already arranged to take a few days off, remember? David will see to that side of things. And he’ll be coming here at the weekend.”

“He will?” She eyed him anxiously, wanting to believe his reassurances.

“Yes. It’s Monday now, so it sounds a long time, but if you rest and don’t worry, it’ll pass quickly, you’ll see.”

“Is he angry with me?”

“Not at all. Just concerned for your welfare.”

“I always wanted to tell him about you,” she said, after a pause. “Right from the start.” Some of the lines had been smoothed away from her face; she looked less troubled. “If only you hadn’t—”

“Ah, yes, well, plenty of time for that tomorrow. Now, shall we go in? I can’t hypnotize you out here, and I think that would do you good, don’t you?”

To his immense relief, she nodded; if she’d refused he would have been obliged to use drugs, possibly administered by force, and he dreaded the thought of that.

A fire of olive logs crackled on the hearth of the largest room, filling the air with its pungency. There was a lute here, too. Now Gerhard picked it up and sat by the fire, tuning it. What to play? Ah, yes, Dowland’s “Forlorne Hope.”

He watched her from under lowered eyelids. The music, coupled no doubt with the realization that David at last knew everything, seemed to have given her a lift. After a while, when she was peaceful, he laid aside the lute and brushed the top of each hand in a gesture he knew she would recognize as comforting, familiar.

“Close your eyes, why don’t you?” he murmured, and soon he was counting her down to oblivion, “Deeper and deeper, more and more tired,” then she was under.

“Tonight, I want us to go back to the beginning.”

“No. Please …”

But Gerhard could not afford to let her dictate. When she was under, he likened their link to elastic: one day it must lose its tension, its effectiveness, and then his power would be gone. If that happened now, he was finished. He urgently needed to test how far she had built up resistance, so it had to be the event she dreaded most, the adoption. If he could take her back and hold her
there,
he could do anything with her.

“We must take a fresh look at the moment when the pain began,” he emphasized, “so that we can make yet another attempt to heal it. Then later, on other evenings, we shall come forward until we arrive in the present.”

She stirred uneasily.

“How old are you, Anna?” Sensing her unwillingness to answer, he prompted her gently. “How old …?”

“Six months.” A childlike voice, unnaturally high.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m lying in my pram.”

“What can you hear?”

“Voices.”

“Do you know the voices, who they belong to?”

Another long pause. “One.”

“Yes. And that one belongs to …?”

“My …”

“Yes?”

“Mother.”

“And the other voice?”

“Another woman.”

“They’re talking about …?”

“Me.”

They had been here many times before. The scene had no surprises for Kleist the skilled physician, although Gerhard the man sometimes found it a touch fey, this easy backward transference almost to the gate of the womb.

“And so, Anna … what are they saying? About you?”

“My … mother. She says, ‘She’s adopted, you know.’”

The pause was again a long one, but Gerhard said nothing.

“Then … then the other woman, she just walks away, I can hear her footsteps.”

The last word came out on a rising tone, halfway to a gulp. Anna chewed her lower lip to stop it from trembling. He watched her face carefully, waiting for the crying to begin. But today there were just two tears; she was letting him look inside so far and no further, so as
to give him the most meager satisfaction, enough only to ensure he did not delve any deeper.

He knew then that his instincts had been right, she would be difficult to control. His heart sank and he felt the cold fear begin to creep through him. But he made himself go on.

“Why did the woman walk away, do you think?”

“Because I’m illegitimate. A bastard. No good.”

“And do you think of yourself as no good?”

“No. Then I was a baby. But now I’m strong. The woman who spoke to my mother has no power over me. She was bigoted, deliberately unkind, but above all she was jealous.”

“Wait a moment …”

“Because no one had ever loved her enough to pick her up and say, ‘Even though your own mother doesn’t want you, even though she’s thrown you away like—’”

“Anna.”

“‘Though she’s betrayed you, I won’t betray you. I won’t leave you.’” Suddenly the monotonous child’s voice changed. It began to fall, become mellow, adult. “‘I won’t …
ever
… let you go.’”

“Rest. Peace …”

Still distraught, he waited until she had once again become calm. “Deeper and deeper now,” he managed to say at last. “Into the cool, dark depths, where all is stillness, down and down, further down, you can feel your shoulders becoming lighter, all that weight, all that burden, falling, falling …”

Eventually she was on the verge of sleep. Everything seemed to take twice as long as usual, and that too worried him.

“Anna,” he said softly. “Can you hear me?”

She was breathing very deeply and slowly; Gerhard had to repeat the question before her lips moved. “Yes.”