Relatively Strange (19 page)

“Hello again.” she said. I hadn’t thought about her in a long time but her voice was unmistakable, sharp, authoritative and now I heard it again, faintly accented. Someone accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. She was as thin as I remembered, although seeing her now, face to face I realized she was younger than I’d thought, early forties maybe. Her knee-length pleated grey skirt was topped with a crisply white blouse, a slightly chipped black and white cameo on the revere. A lighter grey cardigan, slung over narrow shoulders matched grey hair, cut in no particular style to just below her ears and brushed back from a widow-peaked, pale-skinned finely lined high forehead.

Behind tortoiseshell-framed glasses, on an aquiline nose her eyes were the only other colour in that angular face, a bright, deep hazel. Anger wasn’t what I’d expected, but it surfaced immediately I saw her. I remembered all too clearly our encounter on the bus nearly five years before, my bewilderment and sense of loss when she snubbed me so firmly. The first person I’d ever met who could have answered some of my questions – and wouldn’t.

She swept through my defences, swiftly peppermint and impatient, as naturally and as easily as before, a knife through butter. That made me even angrier. My carefully nurtured blocks obviously counted for nothing and she made no attempt to hide the fact, although at the same time I wanted fiercely for her to know exactly how I felt.

“Control.” she remarked coolly “Is something you need to cultivate.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“You need to sort your shielding.”

“I manage.”

“Not very well.”

“Shame then you didn’t have any tips, when we last met.” Fury was rising.

“Careful.” she said softly and into my head shot Chief Inspector Brackman’s dead blue gaze. “Never forget how easy that was to do.” She moved to the coffee table and decisively halved the pile of books that was threatening to topple.

“Point taken. But you haven’t answered my question.” I was deliberately insolent.

“You surprised me – on the bus. It was unexpected.”

“All the more reason to have stopped and listened?” At my raised voice Hamlet lifted his head.

“I’m not good with surprises.” She said, “Or post-mortems!”

“Ah Rachael, on a charm offensive as usual, I see.”

Another woman had come in quietly and was pausing now to scratch Hamlet under the chin. Miss Peacock inclined her head,

“My sister Ruth.” ‘My sister Ruth’ was a couple of years younger, several inches shorter and a great deal rounder than her sibling. She was wearing bright red stirrup trousers and a psychedelically colourful jumper that appeared made for a taller person altogether, stretching as it did down to her knees and overlapping plump be-ringed hands almost down to pearlised pink nails. Brown hair was liberally silver stranded and untidy, held away from her face by a pink velvet alice band. While I was still taking her in, she was moving toward me, smiling, both hands outstretched, I rose automatically to take them.

“My dear, welcome. Take no notice whatsoever of my sister, she didn’t handle things well when she met you – oh yes we heard all about it – and that makes her snappy and rude, well snappier than usual! I’m delighted though to finally make your acquaintance. Now, can I get you a cup of tea? Are you hungry? Supper won’t be too long, we eat early here.”

“Ruth, we don’t need tea now.” Miss P the first, was impatient and her sister subsided, much as had Hamlet and I, landing on the sofa next to me with a resigned thump that shook its frame and shot fine dust motes into the air. Her eyes, I saw, confirmed the relationship the rest of their physical appearance denied, they were the same bright hazel, sharp with intelligence and much more.

I was by that time so mixed up, I didn’t even particularly warm to Ruth although she was certainly an improvement on her tersely rude sister. It didn’t help that whilst I couldn’t read a thing from either of them, Miss Peacock could obviously stroll in and out of my head as she chose. As could Ruth also I assumed. Her mind was as smooth-walled and impenetrable as her sister’s and Glory’s. Whilst I was reflecting on this Glory came back in followed by Ed who didn’t return my tentative smile. She elegantly settled herself on the second sofa, the other side of the coffee table from Ruth and I – she obviously knew the room well because she made her way through with no faltering. Ed brought up a solid wood-framed chair to sit beside her and everybody looked at me.

*

There was an energy vibrating in the room, the like of which I’d never come across before but at the same time, none of the normal background babble which was as much part of my daily existence as breathing. I thought I could hear faint Frank Sinatra – Ed, I presumed – but other than that, nothing. Despite my mixed emotions, it was, I had to confess, a uniquely blissful quiet and one I’d have been mad not to savour.

“So?” Miss Peacock had perched on the arm of Glory’s sofa.

“I’ve told her a bit, shown her. Had to otherwise she wouldn’t have come.”

“She’s not got much shielding.” Miss Peacock complained.

“We can sort that.”

“Quickly enough?”

“Absolutely.”

“Hey,” I interrupted sharply, “I am here you know, talk to me not about me.”

“Take no offence dear,” Ruth placed on a hand on my arm for an instant, “My sister gets carried away, leaves her manners behind completely.”

“Sorry.” Miss Peacock smiled briefly at her. It was a quite astonishing smile which lit up her sallow features with unexpected depths of warmth and humour. However, I was in no mood to be charmed, neither by Ruth’s ostensible concern nor by one unexpected smile. Miss Peacock turned back to me.

“We asked you here because we need your help.”

“I’ll want to know a lot more than I do already.”

“She’s got a lot of questions.” Glory confirmed. Ruth snorted,

“She’s entitled.”

“I’m not arguing.” Miss Peacock pointed out. “Ask away.” I hesitated, it was like being handed a big box of chocolates, way too many choices – and I couldn’t be certain I was going to like everything I picked.

“Can we start with this child, I’ve forgotten his name. I’ll ask other questions as we go along.”

“Agreed and it’s Sam.” Miss Peacock moved off the arm of the sofa and slipped down next to Glory who eased over to make room. “He’s six years old, we think he may be autistic he’s certainly very withdrawn, although that’s hardly surprising. He’s very frightened and he’s very dangerous.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s killed.” I digested this.

“Who?”

“A nurse.”

“How?”

“Very easily.”

“I didn’t mean that. Did he mean to?”

“Who knows? I told you, he’s terrified. She was clumsy with a needle, kept trying over and over to take blood, she hurt him. He hurt her back.” There was silence for a moment. Poor little boy was my first thought and then a shocked second later, poor nurse too of course. I glanced up, appalled, but there was no judgement on their faces. Maybe I’d have preferred it if there had been. I cleared my throat,

“What about his parents?” Ruth shook her head,

“No parents. Foster-care from a baby. Father unknown. His mother abandoned him at a few weeks, probably frightened of him, it’s a familiar pattern.”

“Familiar?”

“Of course. Those of us who are different …” she paused, “I don’t know how you term it?”

“Strange,” I said, “I … we, my family I mean, we’ve always just called it Strange.” She chuckled,

“I like that – Strange, yes, a good word, and you’re comfortable with it. Not just the word, your family have much to be proud of my dear, they’ve done a sterling job with you. Now where was I?”

“Ruth
,
for goodness sake.” Miss Peacock obviously felt any niceties were a waste of everyone’s time, her sister ignored her.

“Those who are – Strange are just born like that, but sometimes it doesn’t surface until around five or six years of age – sometimes not until puberty. Occasionally an ability remains latent for nearly a whole lifetime and is only brought to the fore by some overwhelming injury or deep psychological trauma. But in children like Sam, the abilities are there from the start and that’s an alarming and dangerous combination.” She paused, “With me so far?” I nodded, I was way ahead. I could clearly remember the strength of emotions in my baby sister.

Miss Peacock opened her mouth to take over again but I interrupted,

“Why’s he at the Foundation?” Ruth slipped in,

“In addition to supervising the research project there, which, as you may recall, is not all above board as regards its aims, Dr. Karl W. Dreck,” she rolled the syllables around her mouth and spat them out as if they’d gone off, “Has developed a high-profile practice, dealing with severely disturbed and disabled children. Sam was referred there because his foster parents were having so many inexplicable problems. When Dreck suggested he hospitalise the boy for observation and treatment the foster parents and Social Services were only too pleased to hand over responsibility.” Her mouth tightened, “If there’s one thing they can’t abide, it’s children who make their case-books look untidy. The clinic is run on the same premises and under the auspices of the Foundation, it’s earned itself a considerable reputation for successful treatment.”

“But don’t people know?”

“What?”

“What goes on there?” She arched an eyebrow,

“Research. What could be wrong with that?”

“But they can’t keep him sedated forever.” I said, “What then?” Miss Peacock and her sister exchanged the briefest of glances and Miss Peacock took over,

“You need to be quite clear. Dreck is a man obsessed. He knows there are people out there with different abilities. In years of searching, he’s only been able to identify one or two who’re this naturally talented. Sam’s his Holy Grail, he can’t and won’t miss the opportunity of taking him to pieces bit by bit to find what makes him tick. There are no parents to interfere and the social workers are being fed a steadily deteriorating case progress. If a death were to occur, there would be no undue investigation.” What should have sounded melodramatic somehow, in her evenly neutral tone, merely sounded factually accurate.

“What can you do?”

“Get him out.”

“How?”

“We need to move swiftly. As you point out, they can’t keep him sedated forever, his system won’t take it. But they’re scared to death of what he’ll do if they bring him out of it – you’ve seen the protective clothing.” She snorted, “Goodness knows what good they think that’s going to do. The point is, someone has to go in there and get him.” There was a pause, they all looked at me, I looked back.

“Surely, you can find someone better than me?” For just a second I felt the lash of her restrained fierce irritation, before she masked it.

“Unfortunately not. You look younger than you are, we hope he’ll see you as another child, far less threatening.”

“There must be someone else, surely?”

“You’re our best chance. He’s learnt, the hard way, not to put his trust in any adult he’s ever met.”

I’d inched forward during this exchange so I was sitting on the very edge of the sofa. Now I pushed myself back into its comfortable depths and shut my eyes for a moment. They waited while I mulled over what I’d been told. I opened them again.