Claire Seeber - Fragile Minds

But it wasn’t.

‘Claudia,’ the voice said, and I wasn’t sure I recognised it. It was low and threatening, angry even. ‘If you are there, you know you shouldn’t be. Time is running out.’

They hung up before I could reply.

With shaking hands, I tried to call the number back, but of course it was barred.

‘Who was that?’ Zoe asked, and I stared at her stupidly. Behind her the sky was melting into darkness.

‘Some complete nutter,’ I tried to joke but it didn’t seem very funny.

‘Are you OK?’ She peered at me, running hot water into the sink. ‘You’ve gone terribly white.’

That voice. I’d heard it in my dreams.

‘Yes I’m fine. I’m just going to wash my hands.’

I went in to the bathroom and leant my hot head against the cool bathroom tiles. Did I know that voice? It was probably someone just winding me up. My hands were trembling as I looked through the little basket on the shelf for my pills. What would Helen say? Breathe deep, breathe into the panic.

I held on to the basin, and looked into the mirror, shocked at the sight of me. My shoulder-length hair was unbrushed and rather like hay with roots; my eyes seemed a darker brown than normal, black almost, and slightly wild. Half my face was still hidden beneath a great plaster; I slowly peeled it off. The dirty marks from the tape made me look like a panda and my skin beneath the dressing was almost translucent. I stared at myself, trying to come back to the moment. I had the strange sensation I should be going somewhere right now. I shook my head and swallowed the pills, scooping water from the tap like a man in a desert.

Zoe was calling me from the other room.

‘Claudie. Listen. They’re saying someone has taken responsibility for the explosion.’

She’d switched the radio on whilst she did the washing-up; the Northern tones of the presenter were crisp and precise as he announced:

‘We can reveal that earlier today a letter was sent to the BBC claiming the explosion in Berkeley Square was entirely deliberate and down to their organisation, although no names were given. However, the package contained a banner that read DAUGHTERS OF LIGHT: FOR PURITY. New Scotland Yard have refused to comment at this juncture, saying only that they receive many numbers of false claims every day.’

‘Sounds pretty far-fetched to me.’ Zoe pulled the plug out with a resounding squelch. ‘Daughters of Light, my arse; creating mayhem and killing everyone.’ She dried her hands on the oven gloves for want of anything better. ‘I’d better get going, darling, if you’ll be all right? Said I’d Skype Pablo later.’

‘I’m fine,’ I mumbled. I looked down, clenched my fists, then unclenched them. I forced myself to speak. ‘Actually, I’m – I’m a bit scared, Zoe.’

‘Why?’ She stepped closer, peering into my face as if she could read my thoughts that way.

‘I think—’ I took a deep breath, ‘I’m worried it’s happening again.’

‘What’s happening?’ She took my hands in hers, her neat little nose slightly wrinkled with worry.

‘The splitting. I’m worried—’ I tried to smile. ‘I’m worried that I’m having – an episode.’

‘Like last time? I thought it was under control now?’

‘So did I.’ I freed my hands and busied myself with the dishwasher for a moment. Zoe waited patiently. ‘It sort of feels like that, but different.’

‘What does?’ I could sense her struggling to understand. ‘Tell me.’

‘It’s like – I had this weird thing last week. I found myself at Rafe’s and I – the thing is, I couldn’t remember how I’d got there.’

‘Have you told the doctors?’

I shook my head vehemently. ‘No. I don’t want to get locked up again. I’m not mad, Zoe, I know I’m not.’

‘Of course you’re not,’ she soothed me like a child.

‘But why can’t I remember?’ I frowned at her. ‘I know that the day before the explosion Tessa was panicked—’

‘Oh, bloody Tessa.’ Zoe had never gelled with Tessa, and I’d secretly always wondered if she was a little jealous of our friendship. ‘I mean, I’m sorry she’s dead – but she was a loose cannon, Claudie.’

‘A loose cannon?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe that’s harsh. But there was something not quite right about her, if you ask me.’

Which I hadn’t.

‘But she was trying to tell me something, Zoe, and I don’t know what. And then the explosion. I was in town and yet, it’s just so confused in my head.’

‘You’ll be telling me next that you did it,’ she joked.

I stared at her.

‘Claudie,’ there was an urgent note suddenly in Zoe’s voice. ‘You didn’t do it, for God’s sake. That was a joke. Not a very good one, admittedly.’

‘I know,’ I tried that smile again. ‘But something’s wrong somewhere.’

‘Look, perhaps you should see the doctors again.’ Zoe’s phone bleeped. ‘Tell them you’re worried.’

‘Perhaps.’ There was no way I was admitting this to the doctors. And anyway, confused as I felt, I knew this was not exactly the same as last time.

Zoe checked her message. ‘Pablo,’ she grinned ruefully, her face lighting up.

‘Ah, young love. Don’t let me keep you from Skype.’

‘If I can still speak after all the vino. My Spanish is still crap, though my swear words are coming on a storm.’

At the door, Zoe swung her wicker basket onto her arm like Little Red Riding Hood – though I imagined it was more Penélope Cruz she was channelling.

‘Let me know what they say, Claudie.’ She kissed me and took my hands in hers. ‘The doctors.’

‘I will.’

‘And talk to me, won’t you, if it gets really bad again.’

‘OK,’ I mumbled, trying to pull away.

‘And promise me one thing.’

‘What?’ but I already knew what Zoe was going to say.

‘Promise me you’ll call Will. I think you may need—’ she trailed off.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ She frowned. ‘It just worries me. You being alone again.’

I reached around her to open the front door. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I like being alone. And I’ll think about it.’

But right now, I had more pressing things on my mind.

Silver woke feeling hungover, which was ridiculous because he hadn’t had a drink for five years, three months, four weeks and – well. His fanatical counting of the days AA-style had dissipated a little in the past year or so, but old habits did die hard, it appeared.

Five minutes after arriving at work, Malloy called him in; bantered about the squash tournament briefly, and ‘that ponce Lonsdale’, and then asked Silver to head up part of what was now being referred to as Operation Nightingale.

‘You’ve probably heard, Al-Qaeda’s little friends have put up this new website since the explosion, celebrating the death toll. It’s a fucking travesty.’ The top of Malloy’s bullet-shaped head was practically quivering with outrage. ‘But the fucking knobs who run the worldwide web say they have no jurisdiction to shut it down. And the Muslims are not taking the rap for this, though they’re having a damn good laugh about it, so Counter Terrorism are about to pass it over. Got enough on their plate apparently; they’ll give us one dedicated officer to work with us and that’s it. And now we’ve got this fucking stupid “Purity” pony to deal with that’s been leaked to the press.’ Malloy flung a typewritten letter onto the desk in front of Silver; he scanned it quickly.

To those who perpetuate the suffering in this world:

It is time you saw that things must change, that we cannot continue ad nauseam to ruin our planet, to never take the blame. We need to purify: we are purifying for you all. Be warned, Berkeley Square is only the beginning.