The Silent Patient (18 page)

“I can see that. Why are you showing it to me?”

“Well, it’s the
Alcestis
—the title Alicia gave her self-portrait, painted after Gabriel’s murder.”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course.” Diomedes looked at it with more interest. “Casting herself as a tragic heroine.”

“Possibly. I must admit, I’m rather stumped. I thought you might have a better handle on it than me.”

“Because I’m Greek?” He laughed. “You assume I will have an intimate knowledge of every Greek tragedy?”

“Well, better than me, at any rate.”

“I don’t see why. It’s like assuming every Englishman is familiar with the works of Shakespeare.” He gave me a pitying smile. “Fortunately for you, that is the difference between our countries. Every Greek knows his tragedies. The tragedies are our myths, our history—our blood.”

“Then you’ll be able to help me with this one.”

Diomedes picked it up and flicked through it. “And what is your difficulty?”

“My difficulty is the fact she doesn’t speak. Alcestis dies for her husband. And at the end, she comes back to life—but remains silent.”

“Ah. Like Alicia.”

“Yes.”

“Again, I pose the question—what is your difficulty?”

“Well, obviously there’s a link—but I don’t understand it. Why doesn’t Alcestis speak at the end?”

“Well, why do you think?”

“I don’t know. She’s overcome with emotion, possibly?”

“Possibly. What kind of emotion?”

“Joy?”

“Joy?” He laughed. “Theo, think. How would you feel? The person you love most in the world has condemned you to die, through their own cowardice. That’s quite a betrayal.”

“You’re saying she was upset?”

“Have you never been betrayed?”

The question cut through me like a knife. I felt my face go red. My lips moved but no sound came out.

Diomedes smiled. “I can see that you have. So … tell me. How does Alcestis feel?”

I knew the answer this time. “Angry. She’s … angry.”

“Yes.” Diomedes nodded. “More than angry. She’s murderous—with rage.” He chuckled. “One can’t help but wonder what their relationship will be like in the future, Alcestis and Admetus. Trust, once lost, is hard to recover.”

It took a few seconds before I trusted myself to speak. “And Alicia?”

“What about her?”

“Alcestis was condemned to die by her husband’s cowardice. And Alicia—”

“No, Alicia didn’t die … not physically.” He left the word hanging. “
Psychically
, on the other hand…”

“You mean something happened—to kill her spirit … to kill her sense of being alive?”

“Possibly.”

I felt dissatisfied. I picked up the play and looked at it. On the cover was a classical statue—a beautiful woman immortalized in marble. I stared at it, thinking of what Jean-Felix had said to me. “If Alicia is dead … like Alcestis, then we need to bring her back to life.”

“Correct.”

“It occurs to me that if Alicia’s art is her means of expression, how about we provide her with a voice?”

“And how do we do that?”

“How about we let her paint?”

Diomedes gave me a surprised look, followed by a dismissive wave of his hand. “She already has art therapy.”

“I’m not talking about art therapy. I’m talking about Alicia working on her own terms—alone, with her own space to create. Let her express herself, free up her emotions. It might work wonders.”

Diomedes didn’t reply for a moment. He mulled it over. “You’ll have to square it with her art therapist. Have you come across her yet? Rowena Hart? She’s no pushover.”

“I’ll talk to her. But I have your blessing?”

Diomedes shrugged. “If you can persuade Rowena, go ahead. I can tell you now—she won’t like the idea. She won’t like it one bit.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“I THINK IT’S A GREAT IDEA,”
said Rowena.

“You do?” I tried not to look surprised. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. Only problem is, Alicia won’t go for it.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Rowena gave a derisive snort. “Because Alicia’s the least responsive, most uncommunicative bitch I’ve ever worked with.”

“Ah.”

I followed Rowena into the art room. The floor was splashed with paint like an abstract mosaic, and the walls were covered with artwork—some of it good, most just weird. Rowena had short blond hair, a deep-etched frown, and a weary put-upon manner, doubtless due to her endless sea of uncooperative patients. Alicia was clearly one such disappointment.

“She doesn’t participate in art therapy?” I said.

“She does not.” Rowena continued stacking artwork on a shelf as she spoke. “I had high hopes when she joined the group—I did everything I could to make her feel welcome—but she just sits there, staring at the blank page. Nothing will induce her to paint or even pick up a pencil and draw. Terrible example to the others.”

I nodded sympathetically. The purpose of art therapy is to get the patients drawing and painting and, more important, talking about their artwork, linking it to their emotional state. It’s a great way to literally get their unconscious onto the page, where it can be thought about and talked about. As always, it comes down to the individual skill of the therapist. Ruth used to say that too few therapists were skilled or intuitive—most were just plumbers. Rowena was, in my opinion, very much a plumber. She obviously felt snubbed by Alicia. I tried to be as placating as possible. “Perhaps it’s painful for her,” I suggested gently.

“Painful?”

“Well, it can’t be easy for an artist of her ability to sit and paint with the other patients.”

“Why not? Because she’s above it? I’ve seen her work. I don’t rate her highly at all.” Rowena sucked in her mouth as if she had tasted something unpleasant.

So that was why Rowena disliked Alicia—jealousy.

“Anyone can paint like that,” Rowena said. “It’s not difficult to represent something photo-realistically—what’s harder is to have point of view about it.”

I didn’t want to get into a debate about Alicia’s art. “So what you’re saying is you’ll be relieved if I take her off your hands?”

Rowena shot me a sharp look. “You’re welcome to her.”

“Thank you. I’m grateful.”

Rowena sniffed contemptuously. “You’ll need to supply the art materials. My budget doesn’t stretch to oils.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“I HAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE.”

Alicia didn’t look at me.

I went on, watching her carefully, “I happened to pass your old gallery the other day when I was in Soho. So I went inside. The manager was kind enough to show me some of your work. He’s an old friend of yours? Jean-Felix Martin?”

I waited for a response. None came.

“I hope you don’t think it was an invasion of your privacy. Perhaps I should have consulted you first. I hope you don’t mind.”

No response.

“I saw a couple of paintings I’d not seen before. The one of your mother … And the one of your aunt, Lydia Rose.”

Alicia slowly raised her head and looked at me. An expression was in her eyes I’d not seen before. I couldn’t quite place it. Was it … amusement?

“Quite apart from the obvious interest for me—as your therapist, I mean—I found the paintings affecting on a personal level. They’re extremely powerful pieces.”

Alicia eyes lowered. She was losing interest.

I persevered quickly. “A couple of things struck me. In the painting of your mother’s car accident, there’s something missing from the picture. You. You didn’t paint yourself in the car, even though you were there.”

No reaction.

“I wondered if that means you’re only able to think of it as her tragedy? Because she died? But in fact there was also a little girl in that car. A girl whose feelings of loss were I suspect neither validated nor fully experienced.”

Alicia’s head moved. She glanced at me. It was a challenging look. I was onto something. I kept going.

“I asked Jean-Felix about your self-portrait,
Alcestis
. About its meaning. And he suggested I have a look at this.”

I pulled out the copy of the play,
Alcestis
. I slid it across the coffee table. Alicia glanced at it.

“‘Why does she not speak?’ That’s what Admetus asks. And I’m asking you the same question, Alicia. What is it that you can’t say? Why do you have to keep silent?”

Alicia closed her eyes—making me disappear. Conversation over. I glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. The session was nearly finished. A couple of minutes remained.

I had been saving my trump card until now. And I played it, with a feeling of nervousness that I hoped wasn’t apparent.

“Jean-Felix made a suggestion. I thought it was rather a good one. He thought you should be allowed to paint. Would you like that? We could provide you with a private space, with canvases and brushes and paints.”

Alicia blinked. Her eyes opened. It was as if a light had been switched on inside them. They were the eyes of a child, wide and innocent, free of scorn or suspicion. Color seemed to come into her face. Suddenly she seemed wonderfully alive.

“I had a word with Professor Diomedes—he’s agreed to it, and so has Rowena.… So it’s up to you, really, Alicia. What do you think?”

I waited. She stared at me.

And then, finally, I got what I wanted—a definite reaction—a sign that told me I was on the right track.

It was a small movement. Tiny, really. Nonetheless, it spoke volumes.

Alicia smiled.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE CANTEEN WAS THE WARMEST ROOM
at the Grove. Piping-hot radiators lined the walls, and the benches closest to them were always filled first. Lunch was the busiest meal, with staff and patients eating side by side. The raised voices of the diners created a cacophony of noise, born from an uncomfortable excitement when all the patients were in the same space.

A couple of jolly Caribbean dinner ladies laughed and chatted as they served up bangers and mash, fish-and-chips, chicken curry, all of which smelled better than they tasted. I selected fish-and-chips as the lesser of three evils. On my way to sit down, I passed Elif. She was surrounded by her gang, a surly-looking crew of the toughest patients. She was complaining about the food as I walked by her table.

“I’m not eating this shit.” She pushed away her tray.

The patient to her right pulled the tray toward her, preparing to take it off Elif’s hands, but Elif whacked her across the head.

“Greedy bitch!” Elif shouted. “Give that back.”

This prompted a guffaw of laughter around the table. Elif pulled back her plate and tucked into her meal with renewed relish.

Alicia was sitting alone, I noticed, at the back of the room. She was picking at a meager bit of fish like an anorexic bird, moving it around the plate but not bringing it to her mouth. I was half tempted to sit with her but decided against it. Perhaps if she had looked up and made eye contact, I would have walked over. But she kept her gaze lowered, as if attempting to block out her surroundings and those around her. It felt like an invasion of privacy to intrude, so I sat at the end of another table, a few spaces away from any patients, and started eating my fish-and-chips. I ate just a mouthful of the soggy fish, which was tasteless, reheated but still cold in the center. I concurred with Elif’s appraisal. I was about to throw it in the bin when someone sat down opposite me.

To my surprise, it was Christian.

“All right?” he said with a nod.

“Yeah, you?”

Christian didn’t reply. He hacked with determination through the rock-solid rice and curry. “I heard about your plan to get Alicia painting,” he said between mouthfuls.

“I see news travels fast.”

“It does in this place. Your idea?”

I hesitated. “It was, yes. I think it’ll be good for her.”

Christian gave me a doubtful look. “Be careful, mate.”

“Thanks for the warning. But it’s rather unnecessary.”

“I’m just saying. Borderlines are seductive. That’s what’s going on here. I don’t think you fully get that.”

“She’s not going to seduce me, Christian.”

He laughed. “I think she already has. You’re giving her just what she wants.”

“I’m giving her what she needs. There’s a difference.”

“How do you know what she needs? You’re overidentifying with her. It’s obvious. She’s the patient, you know—not you.”

I looked at my watch in an attempt to disguise my anger. “I have to go.”

I stood and picked up my tray. I started walking away, but Christian called after me, “She’ll turn on you, Theo. Just wait. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I felt annoyed. And the annoyance stayed with me for the rest of the day.

*   *   *

After work, I left the Grove and went to the small shop at the end of the road, to buy a pack of cigarettes. I put a cigarette in my mouth, lit it, and inhaled deeply, barely conscious of my actions. I was thinking about what Christian had said, going over it in my mind while the cars sped past.
Borderlines are seductive,
I heard him saying.

Was it true? Was that why I was so annoyed? Had Alicia emotionally seduced me? Christian clearly thought so, and I had no doubt Diomedes suspected it. Were they right?

Searching my conscience, I felt confident the answer was no. I wanted to help Alicia, yes—but I was also perfectly able to remain objective about her, stay vigilant, tread carefully, and keep firm boundaries.

I was wrong. It was already too late, though I wouldn’t admit this, even to myself.

*   *   *

I called Jean-Felix at the gallery. I asked what had happened to Alicia’s art materials—her paints, brushes, and canvases. “Is it all in storage?”

After a slight pause he answered, “Well, no, actually … I have all her stuff.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I cleared out her studio after the trial—and got hold of everything worth keeping—all her preliminary sketches, notebooks, her easel, her oils. I’m storing it all for her.”

“How nice of you.”

“So you’re following my advice? Letting Alicia paint?”

“Yes. Whether anything will come of it remains to be seen.”