Spider Light (20 page)

By the fourth session with Don Robards, Antonia was starting to feel very uneasy.

She could not immediately pinpoint the reason for this uneasiness, but it was a little to do with the straight blue stare he gave her when they talked, and a great deal to do with the growing conviction that there was something very dark and very complex beneath the too facile charm. It was, of course, absurd to feel this nervous apprehension, because she was very used to the strange and often twisted things that lay deeply buried in people’s minds.

On the surface Don was a model patient. He attended all the appointments made for him, and talked with apparent openness about his childhood. It had been normal and unremarkable, he said, although the death of his parents had been a dreadful blow. But he had got over it–well, as much as you did get over that kind of thing. No, there was no other family, he said–absolutely none at all. But friends had helped out; he had good friends.

No, he had not got a girlfriend at present, although there had been girlfriends over the years, of course. He had only just returned from three or four years living in France, so he was still picking up the threads of his English life.

Antonia, listening carefully for clues as to what lay beneath this apparent normality, wondered if he might be gay, and if that might be his problem. But she thought not, although you could never be entirely sure.

Don stuck to his story about finding the idea of youthful death romantic and tempting, but denied having said he had discovered something so appalling he did not want to live. Dr Weston must have misheard or misunderstood.

My good young man, thought Antonia, I neither misheard nor misunderstood. And I don’t think I’m misunderstanding that come-to-bed look you’re giving me now, and if I’m right about it, we may have a problem ahead of us.

It was shortly after the fourth session that she became aware of the dark blue hatchback with the distinctive chipped number plate. It always seemed to be around, parked near her space at the hospital or driving behind her as she went to or from the clinic. It was not an especially remarkable occurrence, until she realized it was Don driving the car.

‘He could be simply visiting someone in one of the wards and using the staff car park,’ she said to Jonathan. ‘But I think there’s more to it.’

‘Why?’

Antonia hesitated, and then said, ‘Because during the last fortnight I’ve seen him too many times. In the supermarket and in the street near my home. Last week he was two rows behind me at the cinema.’

‘Does he speak to you?’ said Jonathan.

‘Mostly he pretends he hasn’t seen me. I know it could all be coincidence, but it’s starting to spook me a bit.’

‘Have you mentioned it to him? When he comes into the clinic?’

‘No.’

‘Hm. Is he becoming fixated on you?’

Antonia heard with gratitude the doctor speaking, the real Jonathan who cared very deeply about people and their tangled
minds, rather than the frivolous flirt which was all most people saw. She said, ‘I don’t know. It happens sometimes.’

‘Yes, it does. One of the occupational hazards. What treatment are you trying?’

‘Mostly talking at the moment–you know how it goes. Winning confidence, implanting ideas, trying to get through the layers of protective armour to the real problem. I haven’t prescribed anything, and I shan’t unless things suddenly change. I’ve had him checked regularly for drugs, of course.’

‘Good.’

‘He’s clean every time. He tested clean the night of the suicide bid, as well. So whatever triggered it wasn’t drugs. He’s covering up the real reason, and whatever it is, it’s so deeply buried I’m nowhere near reaching it.’

‘D’you want to switch him to me?’

‘Not yet,’ said Antonia, frowning. ‘I’ll see if I can get him to join a group session and you can sit in and make your own assessment.’

‘All right.’ He looked at her. ‘Have you told Richard about this?’

‘No, I haven’t. I can’t, can I?’

They looked at one another. ‘No,’ said Jonathan slowly. ‘No, you can’t, I can see that.’

‘I don’t think he’s dangerous,’ Jonathan said, after two of the group sessions. ‘And at the moment I don’t think he’s
in
danger.’

Antonia had not thought so either, but she was glad to have it confirmed.

‘But what I do think,’ said Jonathan, thoughtfully, ‘is that he’s heading for a full-blown fantasy with you in the leading role, and that worries me. I have an idea he’s visualizing the two of you in some close and rather emotional environment–maybe something like a humanitarian expedition to take medical aid to one of the third world countries, or something of that kind.’

Antonia supposed that as fantasies went, this might be just about credible.

‘It is credible, and that’s going to make it more difficult to dislodge. He’s only a few steps away from imagining torrid nights of passion in deserts or mountains, or one of you dying heroically to save the other from a mercenary’s bullet—’

‘You’re getting into the fantasy yourself now.’

‘It’s the black humour of the medical profession.’ He smiled, and the familiar flippancy was back. ‘I wouldn’t entirely blame the boy for wondering about a torrid night of passion with you, though. I’ve wondered about it myself more than once.’

‘Let’s keep this professional,’ said Antonia automatically.

‘Well then, professionally speaking, on present evidence I don’t think he wants to hurt you. He’s more likely focusing on some visionary Utopia or Shangri-la–roses round a cottage door, or an island retreat. Like a 1940s film, with gauze over the camera for the final scene, and the strong rugged hero going hand in hand into the sunset with the grateful heroine.’

Shangri-la and torrid passion in the desert did not exactly fit with Antonia’s work with the NHS which was infuriating and exhausting by turns, but which was a deep and integral part of her. They did not fit, either, with the modest social life she managed to have outside the hospital and they certainly did not fit with the presence of Richard in her life.

‘I still think you should tell Richard,’ said Jonathan, with his disconcerting trick of picking up a thought. ‘But you’re the judge of that. I don’t think Don has any paranoia or any confusing of reality and fantasy. I don’t think he believes any of his fantasies have actually happened, although I suspect he’s writing the script for them.’ He frowned. ‘But there’s no guarantee he won’t turn psychotic, or that there won’t be another suicide bid.’

‘I do know that.’ Antonia hesitated and then said, ‘Jonathan, he knows where I live.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I’ve seen him outside the bungalow.’

There was no need to tell Jonathan about the silent, motionless figure standing beneath the tree outside her home, sometimes
well after midnight, watching the windows with such intensity that several times Antonia was aware of a compulsion to walk out of the bungalow towards him.

‘In that case I’d better take over his treatment, hadn’t I?’ said Jonathan after a moment.

‘I think so. Yes, please.’

‘I do understand that it’s a–a delicate situation with Richard,’ he said. ‘But if Don really is going to your home, oughtn’t you to talk to the police? At least alert them in case something goes wrong.’

‘If I tell the police Richard will find out. I can’t risk it.’

‘Would you like me to tell Richard?’

‘No.’ It came out more sharply than Antonia had intended, but Jonathan only said quite peaceably, ‘All right. But what will you do if Robards breaks in?’

‘I don’t know.’

A week later she had had a drink with Jonathan after work and phoned Richard to say she would be a bit late. He had said he would have supper ready.

Antonia put the car in the garage at the side of the bungalow, locked it, and went along the path to the front door. She’d only had one glass of wine because of driving, but she was pleasurably relaxed. She had enjoyed parrying Jonathan’s outrageous flirting, which he did not mean her to take seriously but which had still been fun. It was unusual not to see any lights on in the bungalow, but Richard was most likely in the kitchen at the rear, perhaps stirring a pan of risotto–he did a terrific seafood risotto.

She was hoping he had finally managed to master the difficult fingering of the Paganini
Caprice
–he had been working at one of the adaptations for piano over the last week and it had absorbed him almost to the exclusion of everything else. Antonia, whose tastes ran conventionally to Mozart and Beethoven, and who often played pop music from the seventies, especially during a housecleaning blitz, knew the piece in a general way, mostly because
it, or a version of it, introduced the
South Bank Show
. Still, since he had offered to cook tonight it probably meant the
Caprice
was finally sorted out and that he was rejoining the sentient world.

As she stepped into the porch, she heard and felt the crunch of splintered glass under her feet. Damn. Broken milk bottle, most likely. But a faint prickle of apprehension brushed against her. It looked as if the entire bungalow was in darkness, and unless Richard was absorbed in playing, when he was apt to forget everything, he hated the dark. He always said it became filled up with too many despairing memories. Antonia, who liked such things as firelight and moonlight, had always given way to Richard’s need for light, because she understood only too well about his bouts of despair and his memories.

There was something wrong with the front door, something different. The glass panel, was it? Oh God, the glass panel had been smashed–that was why there was glass all over the ground–which could only mean someone had broken in. Her mind went instantly to the silent watcher, and there was a moment when she thought–Don? And then the thought was crowded out in the desperate concern for Richard.

She could never afterwards recall if she had shouted Richard’s name as she stepped into the hall. She went straight to the music room–Richard’s beloved sanctum sanctorum where he worked and planned and dreamed–and she knew she had not cared whether the burglars might still be in there.

There was a sliver of light in the room, because the street lamp outside shone in through the big uncurtained windows. It illuminated the overturned furniture, smashed ornaments and rucked-up Chinese rug near the fire. There was a puddle of red wine on the edge of the rug: Richard sometimes had a glass of wine around half past seven. He must have done so tonight.

Then she saw him. He was lying on the floor, near the glossily dark piano–the baby grand that had been lover and child and parent to him for as long as Antonia could remember–and it was not red wine on the carpet after all, it was blood…
Someone had stabbed him, using a kitchen knife, driving it into his neck–she could see the dreadful gaping wound. She could see where blood had sprayed onto the wall, and she could see the knife lying on the floor. Richard’s hands were covered in blood, and Antonia had a swift, dreadful image of him struggling to pull the knife free, and trying to stop the spurting blood. But he would have been dead inside a couple of minutes. Even so she bent over the still form, feeling for a pulse, praying to find one. Nothing. Of course there was not. Even a cursory glance showed that his killer had stabbed straight into the carotid artery.

His killer. There was a movement from the deep bay window, and a dark figure stepped from the shadows. Antonia gasped and instinctively stepped back to the door, one hand going to her mouth. Whoever broke in, whoever killed Richard was still there. She sent a quick glance towards the half-open door. If she was quick, could she get down the hall and be out into the garden before he reached her?

The figure moved again, and Antonia saw who it was. Don Robards.

Fury rose up in her so overwhelmingly that she forgot about her own danger, forgot Don was a patient, a recovering suicide, and forgot Jonathan’s belief that he was on the verge of delusional behaviour. She went across the room, grabbed his arms and shook him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘You evil bastard!’ shouted Antonia. ‘You’ve killed him! You’ve killed Richard!’

‘I didn’t kill him,’ said Don, but even in the dimness Antonia could see he was staring at Richard’s body. ‘I didn’t,’ he said again, more loudly this time. His hands curled around Antonia’s wrists, frighteningly strong. ‘I don’t understand what happened–I came in here–I had to see you, Antonia. And then I realized he was lying on the floor—’

‘You killed him!’ cried Antonia. ‘Of course you did. You’re blacking it out.’

‘I came to see you,’ he said, and even in the dim room the vivid eyes were hurt and puzzled. ‘I thought you had abandoned me. You stopped seeing me–I couldn’t bear it. You made me go to that man at your clinic. Dr Saxon.’

He pulled her against him; Antonia fought like a wildcat, but his hands were like steel clamps. ‘Let me go!’ she said.

‘I thought at first you’d done it deliberately,’ he said, as if she had not spoken. ‘So I wouldn’t be your patient any longer. So we could be together.’

‘We’d never have been together! You’ve been fantasizing about me–you’ve been following me—’

‘But then I realized we couldn’t be together while you lived with someone,’ he said, as if she had not spoken. ‘I thought you lived on your own, and then last week I saw that man. I was watching from the road. The lights were switched on because it was getting dark, and he was sitting at the piano. I watched him for ages–he was playing, but he kept breaking off to write something on the music. And then I saw you come into the room, and he smiled at you, and I saw he wasn’t just a friend.’ A note of almost childlike hurt came into his voice. ‘How could you do that to me, Antonia?’ he said, and began to drag her across the room. For a nightmare moment Antonia thought they were going to trip over Richard’s body, lying in its own blood.

‘But it’s all right now,’ Don was saying, ‘because he’s dead. He is dead, isn’t he?’ He stopped and looked down at Richard’s sprawled body. ‘I don’t think,’ he said, in a conversational tone, ‘he put up much of a fight. Bit of a weakling, really. How could you be in love with a weakling, Antonia?’