Алекс Михаэлидес - The Silent Patient

I would not let Kathy go. Instead I would say nothing. I would pretend I had never read those emails. Somehow, I’d forget. I’d bury it. I had no choice but to go on. I refused to give in to this; I refused to break down and fall apart.

After all, I wasn’t just responsible for myself. What about the patients in my care? Certain people depended on me.

I couldn’t let them down.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I’M LOOKING FOR ELIF, Any idea where I can find her?”

Yuri gave me a curious look. “Any reason you want her?”

“Just to say a quick hello. I want to meet all the patients—let them know who I am, that I’m here.”

Yuri looked doubtful. “Right. Well, don’t take it personally if she’s not very receptive.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s after half past, so she’s just out of art therapy. Your best bet is the recreation room.”

“Thanks.”

The recreation area was a large circular room furnished with battered couches, low tables, a bookcase full of tattered books no one wanted to read. It smelled of stale tea and old cigarette smoke that had stained the furnishings. A couple of patients were playing backgammon in a corner. Elif was alone at the pool table. I approached with a smile.

“Hello, Elif.”

She looked up with scared, mistrustful eyes. “What?”

“Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong. I just want a quick word.”

“You ain’t my doctor. I already got one.”

“I’m not a doctor. I’m a psychotherapist.”

Elif grunted contemptuously. “I got one of them too.”

I smiled, secretly relieved she was Indira’s patient and not mine. Up close Elif was even more intimidating. It wasn’t just her massive size, but also the rage etched deep into her face—a permanent scowl and angry black eyes, eyes that were quite clearly disturbed. She stank of sweat and the hand-rolled cigarettes she was always smoking, that had left her fingertips stained black and her nails and teeth a dark yellow.

“I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions, if that’s okay—about Alicia.”

Elif scowled and banged the cue on the table. She starting setting up the balls for another game. Then she stopped. She just stood there, looking distracted, in silence.

“Elif?”

She didn’t respond. I could tell from her expression what was wrong. “Are you hearing voices, Elif?”

A suspicious glance. A shrug.

“What are they saying?”

“You ain’t safe. Telling me to watch out.”

“I see. Quite right. You don’t know me—so it’s sensible not to trust me. Not yet. Perhaps, over time, that will change.”

Elif gave me a look that suggested she doubted it.

I nodded at the pool table. “Fancy a game?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “Other cue’s broke. They ain’t replaced it yet.”

“But I can share your cue, can’t I?”

The cue was resting on the table. I went to touch it—and she yanked it out of reach. “It’s my fuckin’ cue! Get your own!”

I stepped back, unnerved by the ferocity of her reaction. She played a shot with considerable force. I watched her play for a moment. Then I tried again.

“I was wondering if you could tell me about something that happened when Alicia was first admitted to the Grove. Do you remember?”

Elif shook her head.

“I read in her file that you had an altercation in the canteen. You were on the receiving end of an attack?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, she tried to kill me, innit? Tried to cut my fucking throat.”

“According to the handover notes, a nurse saw you whisper something to Alicia before the attack. I was wondering what it was?”

“No.” Elif shook her head furiously. “I didn’t say nothing.”

“I’m not trying to suggest you provoked her. I’m just curious. What was it?”

“I asked her something, so fucking what?”

“What did you ask?”

“I asked if he deserved it.”

“Who?”

“Him. Her bloke.” Elif smiled, although it wasn’t really a smile, more a misshapen grimace.

“You mean her husband?” I hesitated, unsure if I understood. “You asked Alicia if her husband deserved to be killed?”

Elif nodded and played a shot. “And I asked what he looked like. When she shot him and his skull was broke, and his brains all spilled out.” Elif laughed.

I felt a sudden wave of disgust—similar to the feelings I imagined Elif had provoked in Alicia. Elif made you feel repulsion and hatred—that was her pathology, that was how her mother had made her feel as a small child. Hateful and repulsive. So Elif unconsciously provoked you to hate her—and mostly she succeeded.

“And how are things now? Are you and Alicia on good terms?”

“Oh, yeah, mate. We’re real tight. Best mates.” Elif laughed again.

Before I could respond, I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. I checked it. I didn’t recognize the number.

“I should answer this. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

Elif muttered something unintelligible and went back to her game.

* * *

I walked into the corridor and answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Is that Theo Faber?”

“Speaking. Who’s this?”

“Max Berenson here, returning your call.”

“Oh, yes. Hi. Thanks for calling me back. I was wondering if we could have a conversation about Alicia?”

“Why? What’s happened? Is something wrong?”

“No. I mean, not exactly—I’m treating her, and I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about her. Whenever’s convenient.”

“I don’t suppose we could do it on the phone? I’m rather busy.”

“I’d rather talk in person, if possible.”

Max Berenson sighed and mumbled as he spoke to someone off the phone. And then: “Tomorrow evening, seven o’clock, my office.”

I was about to ask for the address—but he hung up.

CHAPTER TWELVE

MAX BERENSON’S RECEPTIONIST had a bad cold. She reached for a tissue, blew her nose, and gestured at me to wait.

“He’s on the phone. He’ll be out in a minute.”

I nodded and took a seat in the waiting area. A few uncomfortable upright chairs, a coffee table with a stack of out-of-date magazines. All waiting rooms looked alike, I thought; I could just as easily have been waiting to see a doctor or funeral director as a lawyer.

The door across the hallway opened. Max Berenson appeared and beckoned me over. He disappeared back into his office. I got up and followed him inside.

I expected the worst, given his gruff manner on the phone. But to my surprise, he began with an apology.

“I’m sorry if I was abrupt when we spoke. It’s been a long week and I’m a bit under the weather. Won’t you sit down?”

I sat on the chair on the other side of the desk. “Thanks. And thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure I should at first. I thought you were a journalist, trying to get me to talk about Alicia. But then I called the Grove and checked you worked there.”

“I see. Does that happen a lot? Journalists, I mean?”

“Not recently. It used to. I learned to be on my guard—” He was about to say something else, but a sneeze overtook him. He reached for a box of tissues. “Sorry—I have the family cold.”

He blew his nose. I glanced at him more closely. Unlike his younger brother, Max Berenson was not attractive. Max was imposing, balding, and his face was speckled with deep acne scars. He was wearing an old-fashioned spicy men’s cologne, the kind my father used to wear. His office was similarly traditional and had the reassuring smell of leather furniture, wood, books. It couldn’t be more different from the world inhabited by Gabriel—a world of color and beauty for beauty’s sake. He and Max were obviously nothing alike.