Steven Dunne - The Reaper

Then a hand reached out from beyond the fixed camera position and Vicky swung her carpet bag into it as she walked off-screen. Brook surmised that a girl wouldn’t offer to carry another girl’s luggage. Vicky must have been met by a man.

Brook sauntered down the corridor, grinning inanely at the tide of revellers washing the other way. ‘Happy New Year,’ he mouthed for the thousandth time, doing his best impression of a bon viveur. He was tired and would have preferred to slink off to his room, but there was work to do. He’d left Derby after sifting through all the CCTV tapes, searching in vain for a better view of Vicky’s rendezvous, and had set off for London later than was wise, catching all the traffic rushing round to New Year party venues.

‘You’re going the wrong way, darling.’ A plump woman, mid-forties, in a French maid’s outfit barred his way with a generous show of bosom. ‘The party’s this way,’ she slurred, fixing Brook with her swaying proposition. ‘Come with me.’ She locked a flabby arm onto his and gripped him with her profiterole fingers. ‘I won’t see you all po-faced on the best night of the year. Molly’ll show you a good time, handsome.’

‘Well thanks, Molly. But I’m not allowed to drink…’ ‘Nor me, darling. But what’s one little drinkie on New Year’s Eve?’

Brook smiled. Belle Vue certainly wasn’t severe on its patients. Their wishes, or rather their money, seemed to override any consideration of clinical need. The place was little more than an expensive hotel, dressed up as a clinic to justify the kind of charges that hoodwinked guests into believing they were being treated. And at this time of year, peak time for self-loathing, the sky was the limit for fools and their money.

Brook himself had been relieved of?3,000 for a three-night stay. This included the fancy dress costume of his choice and a seven-course New Year dinner, with copious champagne. Carrot juice was available for those with a ‘problem’. Not that anyone was checking.

For?1,000 a night, medical rigour could be overlooked. It was a critical time of year for the ailments of those whose money couldn’t fill every demand they placed upon it, and at such a time of low self-esteem they required-at premium rates naturally-an uncommon amount of attention to see them through.

Perhaps the place had changed in the years since Sonja Sorenson had been a ‘guest’. Perhaps she’d been more than the pampered wife of a rich businessman. She’d been at the Retreat for four years, after all.

Assuming he could prise the flabby knuckles of the determined Molly from his arm, Brook was about to find out.

‘You can’t get away that easy, you naughty boy. I can see you need a good time.’

Brook decided to take the initiative and planted a huge kiss on her sloppy lips. ‘You said it, gorgeous. I’ll meet you in the bar in twenty minutes. I’m just going to get my Tarzan costume on.’

Molly stared, open-mouthed, then broke into a sly grin. ‘Me Jane. Me come. Help put costume on.’

‘No, wo-man. That spoil surprise. You go now. Tarzan change. Ungowa! Ungowa!’ Molly giggled as he shooed her along, stampeding the tottering beast towards the watering hole, tacking from wall to wall as she went.

When she was out of sight, Brook pulled a hand-drawn map from his pocket and studied it.

A few moments later he stood outside a solid panelled door in a deserted corridor. There was no light under the door and this part of the building was quiet. Only the faintest noise of celebration penetrated here.

Brook went to the far end of the corridor to see where it led. Whatever Thalassic Therapy was, it took place in the rooms leading off there. The rooms were in darkness so Brook returned to the first door and took out a small bunch of keys.

The attendant who’d drawn the map and given him his keys, for a large consideration, had told Brook that all patient records were secured in the computer and he couldn’t get access. However, any records over ten years old would be on paper in this rarely-used office.

Brook tried the keys. The first key turned the lock and he pushed back the door, closing it quickly behind him before snapping on the light.

He locked the door behind him, moved to the filing cabinet and produced a different instrument from his pocket, a thin metal probe like the blade of a hacksaw that he’d removed from a housebreaker a few years back.

After a few seconds probing at the lock, Brook heard a loud click then pulled open a drawer. He looked around. Footsteps outside. He scurried to the door to extinguish the light. The footsteps paused outside the office. Brook could see the shadow of two legs craning under the door.

A few seconds later the footsteps receded. Brook waited a moment longer to be on the safe side. Finally he returned to the cabinet and flicked on a small desk lamp nearby. He pulled open the S-Z drawer and found what he was looking for. There wasn’t much for four years of a life, just a few sheets.

He made a cursory inspection and slid the most relevant papers under his shirt, returning the folder to its drawer. He locked the cabinet, with more difficulty than he’d opened it, leaving heavy scratching around the lock. But it was unlikely to be noticed any time soon, if at all, given Belle Vue’s general lack of stringency.

He paused at the door to listen for human traffic, then locked up quickly and returned to his room by a circuitous route, to avoid bumping into Molly or anyone else trying too hard to enjoy the evening.

Back in his room Brook opened a complimentary bottle of champagne and sipped at a glass while he read Mrs Sorenson’s case notes.

12/11/88. The patient harbours deep feelings of worthlessness for herself. Her husband, Mr Stefan Sorenson, fears that she might harm herself or her children. These fears appear well-founded. She speaks in violent language to denounce her husband andchildren and has shown every indication of violent intent towards them.

Given her depleted self-esteem, I feel it necessary to admit Mrs Sorenson for an initial examination period of six weeks. Minimal medication is required at this point, though it may be worthwhile prescribing anti-depressants. The patient herself is in full agreement with her husband and has agreed to attend on a full-time basis on the grounds that she is allowed a visit by her children on a weekly basis. This visit will be subject to full supervision.

The entry was signed by Dr David Porcetti, as were the others.

15/12/88. Patient making excellent progress. Is able to talk extensively about her childhood without trauma. Her trouble appears to lie closer to home. She is calm, rational and more aware of her own value away from her own home. She is loving and attentive towards her children, who are always escorted by their uncle, Victor Sorenson. Mrs Sorensons husband does visit but thinks it best not to see his wife and upset her treatment.

3/1/89. Mrs Sorensons condition worsened on the day before her release. She flew into a rage at breakfast and smashed several plates and bowls and threw missiles at staff attempting to calm her. Patient had to be forcibly restrained and sedated to prevent threatened self-harm.

Mr Sorenson has asked Belle Vue to continue her treatment and has sent appropriate remuneration.

PS Must reiterate my suggestion of last year that all kitchenware should be plastic.

After the initial attempts at diagnosis, entries became more routine dealing with medication, dosage, occupational therapy and so on. It was as though the clinic had forgotten she was there for a purpose and just wrapped her into their inviolable daily routine. She became a paying guest, not a patient with needs.