Shell House (22 page)

       
She had ventured out of bed and downstairs a couple of times when she’d felt like she was getting back to normal. She’d been quickly marched back to her room, having been found rifling through the drawers in her father’s desk, intent on looking for something but unable to tell anyone what. It felt dreamlike as though she were sleep walking and in her saner moments it left her wondering if she’d actually gone anywhere physically at all, and this scared her. She felt like she had no control over her mind, as though it had shifted into another dimension; a kind of hypnosis she couldn’t pull it back from.

       
As she slowly let go of the urge to be consciously aware, she began to have no idea what was going on and no will to care. It was as though she’d taken all the memories of everything she’d ever experienced and thrown them in the sea, closing the door behind her. She didn’t want to fight, analyze or question her feelings anymore and in some ways it felt liberating.

       
She spent many hours reminiscing her time at Hellesdown Secure Unit where she’d been most happy. Sometimes she actually felt she was physically there again, instead of just visiting a memory. It felt so real that when she came back to the present she thought she’d been out for the day. So that’s where she spent most hours in her mind, the place she’d felt the safest.

       
She remembered when she’d arrived there, how frightened and homesick she was. She’d been brought straight to her room and she recalled being so rigid from fear and cold that she’d just sat on the bed for what seemed like hours.

       
There had been many days that passed like that; she couldn’t remember how long exactly, but time is distorted when you’re a child. Then one day she realised that no one had hurt her or been cruel and that actually the staff were all quite nice. Even the other children weren’t too bad, although most kept themselves to themselves. She realised later that a couple of them were new too. Anyone else who was remotely chatty or loud she stayed away from for fear of becoming a target to be bullied. Time passed and before she knew it she’d made a couple of friends.

       
Most of the teachers liked her and she had fond memories of a couple who became particularly close to her. The main thread running through Hellesdown was education and they were all expected to work hard. The whole unit had been set up for them to accept whatever crimes they had committed and education was seen as the key therapy in their healing process. Proper therapy wasn’t available when Gabrielle was there and many professionals felt that the children may have suffered because of this. But they were all getting the best education and looking back now Gabrielle knew it hadn’t been dissimilar to private education; something which most of them would never have received at home.

       
The education as therapy system worked in Gabrielle’s case but it in no way dealt directly with what had happened in her past. It was discussed on rare occasions when psychologists called in but apart from that it was seemingly ignored. So, Gabrielle had spent most of her life avoiding it, having been conditioned to deal with it that way.

       
And now, she was facing it properly for the first time in her life and it was as though she’d released a big piñata of memories in her head, and it had exploded, splattering the recesses of her mind with all sorts of things she’d forgotten or chosen to store away.

       
She spent hours writing whilst she was in bed in her room and Harry and Jonathan had thought this was a good thing and a sign she was recovering.

       
After what felt like a week but was in fact three she tried to get out of bed, get dressed and make herself look fairly normal. She knew something wasn’t quite right but she thought by making herself do it she’d feel better.

       
She combed her hair, found some clothes which were hung over a chair in her room and made her way downstairs with Bruce in tow and what felt like a bag on her shoulders full of something she was fed up of carrying.

       
She was surprised to find that Harry and Jonathan weren’t shocked to see her when she entered the sitting room.

       
“How are you feeling, dear heart?” Harry tried to sound bright and unperturbed by the sight of her.

       
She sat down on the sofa before she answered him. “Not too bad. I don’t think I’m right but definitely better. I’d quite like to have dinner down here this evening.”

       
Jonathan and Harry looked at one another.

       
“Do you think it’s a good idea just yet?”

       
“You can’t keep me in confinement forever, Dr. Jeffers. I know I shouldn’t have hit Fiona but she stole my diary and read it.”

       
Harry made a move to get up from his chair but Jonathan reached across from where he was sitting and put his hand on his knee to still him.

       
“I know, Gabrielle. How about you eat your supper in the kitchen this evening?”

       
Gabrielle turned to look behind her, a puzzled look on her face. “Are you talking to me? I’m not Gabrielle. My name’s Rebecca.” She stared at Jonathan, waiting for an answer, and then she turned to Harry as though she was seeing him for the very first time. “Are you one of those psychiatric people?”

       
Jonathan jumped in quickly before Harry could answer, not that he looked for a minute like he was going to… he was absolutely lost for words.

       
“He’s a colleague of mine; nothing for you to worry about.”

       
“Why did you call me Gabrielle then? Are you trying to catch me out?”

       
“Not at all. Sorry Rebecca, I got into a muddle for a minute there. You look like a patient I used to know.” Jonathan looked to his father, his eyes pleading with him to go along with it.

       
“Oh. Am I really allowed to sit in the kitchen and have supper? Won’t I get into trouble?”

       
“No, I’ll make sure you don’t. You can do it just this once Rebecca.”

       
Harry got up slowly from his chair, unable to listen to anymore and at a loss to know how to control his emotions. Jonathan didn’t stop him from leaving and stayed behind to keep an eye on Gabrielle. A few minutes later he heard the front door close and knew his father had gone to visit the sea.

        Harry was glad of the early spring wind hitting his face. It seemed to blow life back into him again; he’d barely been able to breathe at home. He pulled the brim of his cap further down his face and his scarf and the brim of his coat up around his chin to hide the tears that were streaming from his eyes.

       
The pain in his chest was threatening to engulf him but as he took in great gasps of air he began to feel it subside.

       
He couldn’t believe it had come to this and the enormity of it all had suddenly become apparent to him. So much had happened in such a short space of time and Harry reflected on this now as he sat on his bench. Not that he’d had much to do with the events − he’d been more of a bystander than anything else, and had allowed Jonathan to take the lead on it all.

       
Jonathan had finally rung the police after much discussion, and they’d called round to take a statement from him. He’d asked for more compassionate leave from the surgery in order to help Harry with Gabrielle, for which Harry was extremely grateful. They’d agreed it was best they stayed away from everyone and everything as much as possible while the police conducted their investigation. The last thing they’d been told by the police was that the case was definitely being re-opened and they needed time to follow up their enquiries. Harry couldn’t see what they would uncover evidence-wise and he didn’t feel terribly optimistic about any of it. One person’s word against another didn’t really stand for much.

       
All had seemed quiet for a few days and Harry had thought Gabrielle was getting better. She’d seemed to awaken from the strange state she’d been in, which was neither conscious nor unconscious. But her behaviour was peculiar and grew worse as the days went on. She often spoke as though she were back in Hellesdown and she frequently talked of a Mr. Jim and a Doctor Jeffers, neither of whom they had ever heard of but then Harry thought, well why would they? They knew nothing about her past, not really.

       
When they tried to get her to have a bath or a shower she behaved like a petulant child and refused to wash for days. They regularly found her rifling through drawers, humming or muttering whilst emptying the contents all over the floor. During the evening she would come downstairs half dressed, her skin clammy and hair greasy from lack of washing; it broke Harry’s heart to see her like this.

       
Harry had insisted she have a private nurse in the end, to at least keep on top of her personal hygiene, something they both felt too embarrassed to deal with regardless of her resistance.

       
He’d imagined she’d battle with the nurse when she first arrived purely because she was a stranger to her, but to their surprise she allowed her to take care of her as though she’d known her for years. The nurse made sure she showered daily and if she wasn’t well enough to get out of bed, that she had a bed bath and clean night wear.

       
Harry thought, and it was so trivial, that this must have helped her mental state even just a tiny bit. She began to write again, albeit in bed, but it was a sign to Harry that she was beginning to recover. She was awake more often than asleep and the half dressed confused visits downstairs seemed to becoming a distant memory.

       
But then the nurse had been unable to come for a few days because she was going on holiday and Gabrielle went downhill rapidly, back to the point where she’d been that moment before he’d walked down to the sea, with his hopes dashed again.

        He sca
lded himself now for thinking that a nurse keeping her clean and getting her dressed had been any sign of her recovery as it could just have been a coincidence or a brief glimmer of sanity in her peculiar world. This was quite apparent to both of them having just seen her come downstairs again, half dressed, her greasy hair pinned back in the fashion she used to do it as a child.

       
Jonathan had gently suggested having her sectioned under the Mental Health Act which was his professional recommendation, and Harry knew that’s what he’d be organising now while he was out.

       
He rubbed the soft, smooth wooden arm of the bench where he sat, his heart tightening as he thought about it now. He’d become irate when it had first been suggested to him. Visions of straitjackets, graffiti covered walls in cold cells and patients rocking in chairs like imbeciles had flashed through his mind. When he’d eventually calmed down and listened to what Jonathan had to say he realised it wasn’t like that at all. He knew it would be the best thing for her, to be looked after by professionals who’d make sure she was set on the right road to recovery. It didn’t stop it hurting though and he’d hoped beyond hope she’d show some signs of recovery before it came to that. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being sent away again under such similar circumstances as the last time.

       
He also didn’t want to lose her again but thinking on it now, he had lost her anyway. Her mind had wandered off somewhere else for the time being and Gabrielle had been replaced with a damaged young girl called Rebecca.

       
He patted the arm of the bench as though it were a dear old friend and then felt around in his pockets for his gloves. He looked up at the sea as if noticing it for the first time; his vision had been clouded by memories of the past few weeks. The sea was calm, unperturbed. The tide was in at its highest and it heaved in all its magnificence, not breaking the water.

       
He saw someone approaching the bench out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t look around until he felt their weight as they sat next to him a little too closely. At first glance he didn’t recognise the man, and then he turned back quickly as the realisation dawned on him.

       
John Tailby leaned into him, his face distorted with bitterness. Harry stared straight ahead, his heart pounding and his mind racing at what to say or do next. There was a time he’d have stood up to him but he knew his limits.   He was old and more fearful, especially of an aggressive man almost twenty years younger than him.

       
John tightly gripped Harry’s arm causing him to flinch.

       
“Listen to me carefully, Harry. Your daughter is a murderer and that’s how it’s going to stay. I don’t care if she didn’t do it. She did. That’s what everyone knows around here and that’s not going to change. Do you understand me?”

       
“Get your hand off me and leave me alone,” Harry hissed, anger welling inside him.

       
John moved in closer causing Harry to lean away, reeking of the smell of stale whiskey, which seemed to be oozing from every pore. His grip tightened on Harry’s arm.