House of Silence (28 page)

‘Yes, I would rather not talk about it,
Gwen, but unless you leave soon, I think we could end up in bed
together. If that were to happen, I’d like you to know who you’d be
getting into bed with.’

‘Because, of course, I
have
known who
I’ve been sleeping with for the last five months!’

‘That seems like all the more reason for me
to be straight with you. I imagine you feel in need of some
authenticity. Isn’t that why you’re here?’

‘Yes... It is.’

Marek went to the table and re-filled his
glass. He turned to me. ‘None for you, right?’

‘No, thanks.’

He sat down in an armchair and studied his
glass. Eventually he drank. He still said nothing but, watching his
hands, I feared for the glass. I was about to speak when Marek said
in a clear voice that shattered the silence, ‘I killed a child. She
was called Anna. She was five years old.’

After an eternity of silence, I said, ‘It
was an accident?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was she... your daughter?’

‘No.’ He raised the glass to his lips and
drank again. ‘If she’d been my daughter it might have been easier.
That would have been crime and punishment in one. Anna was just a
little girl I hardly knew. A neighbour’s child. In the wrong place,
at the wrong time.’

I waited but when he said nothing more, I
asked, ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’

‘If you’re prepared to listen.’

‘Yes, I am.’

He stared at the wine in his glass. ‘It
happened in 1996. August. I was driving home. I hadn’t been
drinking. I wasn’t using a mobile. I wasn’t even talking to a
passenger... I was almost home, doing about forty. And Anna ran out
into the road. Right in front of me. I braked, but I didn’t stand a
chance. Nor did she. I hit her and she flew up into the air.
Spinning... The car was still moving and she came down on top of
the bonnet. I watched it dent with her weight... Then she hit the
windscreen... She looked at me through the glass. She was still
alive and her eyes were open. She looked...
astonished
. The
car came to a halt and she was thrown off the bonnet, on to the
road. She was dead by the time they got her to hospital.’

A log shifted in the wood-burning stove and
Marek turned his head towards the glow of the fire. As he
continued, his face was as expressionless as his voice.

‘She was being chased by a dog. Anna’s older
sister said she’d been teasing a neighbour’s dog. It turned nasty
and she ran away. The dog ran after her and Anna ran in to the road
to get away... There were several witnesses and they all said there
was nothing I could have done. She just... ran out in front of the
car. I was exonerated from all blame.

‘I knew the family slightly. My wife was a
nursery teacher and taught Anna, so we used to see them at school
events, sometimes at the supermarket. But I didn’t know anything
about her when I killed her. I couldn’t even remember her name...
But I know a lot about her now. I made it my business to find
out... She would be seventeen now. She would have been seventeen on
April 3
^rd
. She liked swimming and ballet and had a cat
called Twinkle. Her baby brother was called Andrew and her sister
was called Sophie... My wife told me all this. She didn’t want to,
but I insisted. Sarah - my wife - knew all about Anna. And I wanted
to know. I
needed
to know. And Sarah thought it might help.
It didn’t.’ He swallowed some more wine. ‘The family never spoke to
us again. They moved from the area as soon as they could. I took
time off work, then I went back. Too soon probably. I didn’t cope
well. Everyone was very understanding. Even the papers had pointed
out I wasn’t to blame, but I still felt guilty. Anna was dead
because of me. If I’d taken a different route home, if I’d left
work earlier or later, if I’d been driving slower, Anna would still
be alive.

‘In the end I cracked up. So did my
marriage. Sarah needed to move on. She wanted kids. And I didn’t. I
wouldn’t allow myself that. She said it was a form of
self-inflicted punishment and I suppose it was, but it punished her
too. I knew what I was doing to Sarah, but I couldn’t face having a
child. What if we’d had a daughter? What right had I to a child
when I’d killed someone else’s? Sarah said I was irrational.
Eventually she said I was mad. I knew she was right, but it didn’t
affect how I felt. The only way I could live with what I’d done was
to punish myself. Make sure I never forgot Anna. It felt like the
least I could do. Honour her memory. Keep it alive.’

He leaned forward, set his glass down on the
coffee table, then sat with his hands clasped, his shoulders
hunched.

‘I had a breakdown. When I recovered I knew
I couldn’t go back to psychiatry. I felt a fraud. So I told
Sarah... She said she needed to make a fresh start too. And she’d
met somebody else... I totally understood. She was only
thirty-three. And she’d stood by me for four years. The split was
amicable. She married again and had twins. Two boys. I re-trained
as a gardener and moved to Norfolk. I met Viv at a horticultural
show and we got talking. She asked me if I wanted to work at Creake
Hall. It was a bigger job than I’d ever done, more responsibility,
but I liked Viv and she liked me. I felt ready for a challenge. And
having the mill thrown in with the job made it easier to make ends
meet.’

‘Does Viv know? About your past?’

‘She knows I used to be a psychiatrist,
nothing more. She’ll have guessed about the breakdown from the
gaping hole in my CV, but she probably assumes that practising
psychiatry within the NHS is enough to drive a man to the brink.
And I wouldn’t say she was wrong... Viv doesn’t ask questions. And
I don’t ask
them
any questions. But if the brother died and
they felt they had to keep him alive somehow... well, I wouldn’t be
all that surprised.’ He turned his head and watched a guttering
candle as it flickered, then went out. ‘The dead don’t let go
easily.’ He looked at me and added, ‘You know that yourself.’

The wind had got up and was howling round
the mill. The candle flames shuddered in the draught from the
window and another went out. When I finally spoke I was surprised
to find my voice sounded quite steady - as calmly dispassionate as
Marek’s. ‘After my mother died, I used to think about how things
might have turned out differently. If I’d woken up sooner... If I’d
rung for the ambulance instead of screaming the place down. She
seemed dead to me when I found her, but maybe she was still
alive... If I’d had a nightmare on Christmas Eve and woken up and
gone to find her, maybe she wouldn’t have taken the drugs that
killed her... In the end I felt responsible for her death - still
do, in a way - simply because I didn’t prevent it.’

‘You were how old? Twelve?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a typical reaction. A bright
twelve-year-old would blame her mother or herself, not the dealer,
or the culture that makes drug-taking socially acceptable in some
circles. And a bright twelve-year-old with an over-developed sense
of responsibility would blame herself, not her mother. But blaming
yourself for her death didn’t stop you feeling abandoned, did it?
The usual game the mind plays in these circumstances is, “If my
mother had really loved me, if I’d been
enough
for her, she
wouldn’t have needed the drugs.” Right?’

I nodded, unable to speak.

‘What the brain knows and what the heart
feels, are two completely different things. Often irreconcilable.
But both are true. I knew I wasn’t to blame for Anna’s death but I
felt I should have been punished. So for years I punished myself.
Now I’m on parole, I suppose, but my mind makes sure I never
forget. I have flashbacks... Every April I remember Anna’s birth
and every July I remember her death. They’re events on my calendar.
She lives on in my head. Her
death
lives on in my head. It’s
a life sentence.’

‘But that’s not the whole story, is it? I
mean, how many lives did you
save
?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When you were a psychiatrist, how many
patients did you save from suicide?’

His shrug was dismissive. ‘You never know.
You only know about the ones you lose. Occasionally people recover
and keep in touch. Send you photos of their graduation or their
kids. But most people just want to move on. They want to forget the
hell they’ve been through. Understandably.’

‘But can you try to estimate? How many lives
do you
think
you saved during your working life?’

He looked at me and smiled. ‘I see what
you’re driving at. Very clever... But you can never really say. A
correct diagnosis of manic depression could save a life. ECT saves
lives. A strong therapeutic relationship with a doctor can be the
difference between a patient living and dying.’

‘A conservative estimate, Marek. How
many?’

He sighed and ran an exasperated hand over
his head, leaving his short white hair standing up on end. He
looked years younger, almost boyish. ‘I practised for ten years. I
suppose I was instrumental in saving a few lives a year.’

‘Three? Five?’

‘More like five. But there are so many
different factors!’ he added hurriedly. ‘So many different agencies
are involved. It’s never down to one person.’

‘But,’ I persisted, ‘your conservative
estimate is that you were instrumental in saving maybe five lives a
year for ten years?’

‘Fifty lives don’t cancel out Anna’s
death.’

‘Of course not! But you must see her death -
which wasn’t your fault - in the context of the big picture. People
die
. Some take their lives, some die in accidents, like
Anna, like my mother. If you
really
want to beat yourself
up, you could dwell on the fact that when you gave up psychiatry,
you stopped saving lives at the rate of about five a year. When did
you give up?’

‘Eight years ago.’

‘So perhaps forty people have died as a
consequence of you abandoning your work as a psychiatrist.’ He
opened his eyes and fixed me with a look that alarmed me, but I
pressed on. ‘Do you beat yourself up about that?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because another psychiatrist took on my
caseload. My patients weren’t just abandoned.’

‘But can’t you see, Marek? Anna might have
died in some other way. She might have contracted meningitis. She
might have been abducted by a paedophile and murdered. She might
have grown up to be a junkie and died on the kitchen floor while
her child slept... Life is terminal!
All
life! But your
sense of guilt has blinded you to the bigger picture. You were
responsible for a death
and
you’ve saved many lives. And
improved the quality of many more. I’m not saying the books
balance, but a lifetime of guilt isn’t going to make them balance.
It’s never going to confer any kind of
meaning
on Anna’s
death.’

‘What would?’

‘
Nothing!
It was an appalling
accident that wrecked several lives, including yours. You can’t
forget it and you shouldn’t try, but you should show the same
compassion to yourself that you’d show to a twelve-year-old girl
who didn’t wake up in time to save her mother’s life. Time and
kindness, Marek - you said it! That’s all there is to help us get
over these terrible, meaningless things. And that means being kind
to
yourself
. Seeing yourself as others see you. As
I
see you.’

‘And how do you see me, Gwen?’

‘As a good man. An unlucky man. And a man
who has suffered enough.’

He shook his head. ‘There’s no end to
it.’

‘I know. But if the wounds start to heal,
there’s surely no need to tear them open again. That’s not heroism,
that’s
masochism
.’

His eyes widened and he laughed. ‘You’re one
hell of a girl, Gwen! You take no prisoners.’ He looked at me and a
weary smile lingered on his lips.

‘Marek, you told me your story because you
thought it would make a difference. A difference to how I felt
about you.’

‘Does it?’

‘No. None at all. If anything it makes me
care even more. I hate to see you suffer like this!’

He didn’t reply for a long time, then he
emptied his wine glass and said, ‘Thank you. I really appreciate
all that you’ve said.’ He got up and set the glass down on the
table, then glanced at his watch. He turned and stood looking down
at me. ’It’s late. Shall I walk you back to Creake Hall?’

I looked up and stared at his face, trying
to find the answer to his question, then said, ‘No. I don’t want to
go yet.’ Reaching up, I took his hand in mine. I tugged at the
coarse woollen mitten, slid it off and let it fall to the floor. I
pressed his warm palm against my cheek, then took his other hand
and removed the second mitten. Marek said nothing and he didn’t
move. I rose to my feet and found myself standing very close to
him, so close I could feel his breath on my face. I shrugged off my
coat and let it fall back onto the sofa behind me, then I began to
unwind the long woollen scarf that encircled his neck, exposing his
throat, swarthy with black stubble. I dropped the scarf on to the
floor and placed my palms on his chest, feeling it rise and fall as
he breathed unevenly. I moved a hand to where I could feel his
heart beating and laid my head on his chest.

‘You’re alive, Marek... And I’m alive...
We’ve surely had enough to do with death.’

I raised my head to look at him. After a
moment I felt his long fingers cradle my head, threading themselves
through my hair. Then Marek bent and kissed me, a bruising kiss
that knocked me off-balance, so that I might perhaps have staggered
if his arms hadn’t gone round me and held me tight against him, as
if he never wanted to let me go.