In The Garden Of Stones (19 page)

Mal’s
smile broadens into one of pure pleasure and he blushes. “Well…
I–”

“
But mostly it’s down to Colin. If it hadn’t been for him, I
really don’t think there would be any changes to speak of at
all.”

Mal’s
puff of pride vanishes. “I think you are giving too much credit to
the power of your imagination.”

“
It may have started off that way,” Grace says. “But now, of
the three of us, only
you–
” She jabs the air in front of him with a fork.
“–still believe he was ever made up. I know he’s as real as you or
I and that the persona I talk to is merely a projection of himself,
if that makes sense?”

“
I think we’ve had this discussion before,” Mal says.
“Remember when you came to me with those marks on your arm? You
claimed back then he was real, but we talked about it and decided
he
was
a figment of your imagination and the bruises were a result
of something you did to yourself by accident, the thing you thought
was nettle rash an allergic reaction to something.”

“
No.
You
decided that. I didn’t. I knew all the time how I got those
marks. I
knew
they were real, just as I
know
Colin is real.
He’s a wounded soldier with PTSD and he’s
in a residential care centre out by Kemnay,
and to prove I’m not crazy or
making things up …
as soon as I can arrange it, I’m going to see him. And
that’s not all–”

She
grabs Mal’s sleeve, drags him over to the French window and throws
back the drapes.

“
The house and grounds and cemetery, the ones I thought I
made up? Wrong again. They are real enough too, they are–. Oh, you
can’t see them now.”

It’s too
dark and foggy to see anything beyond the other side of the road,
made more difficult by the way the fog catches the sickly orange
light from the street lamp and turns it into a diffused
glow.

“
Grace–”

“
They are there,” she says, peering out. “Just beyond the
houses, you’ll have to take my word for it. There’s a big stone
wall with a set of wrought iron gates, and an old derelict house
called The Larches–”

“
Grace–”

“
I tried to get in, but the gates were locked and I couldn’t
climb over the wall, so I did the next best thing, I looked it up
at the library. There were some old photographs of the house and
the garden and the cemetery, and do you know what–”

“
GRACE!”

“
What?”

“
Stop this.”

“
Stop what? I’m telling you about the house and the gardens.
Right down to the last window pane they are exactly the
same–”

Mal
reaches past her, grabs the curtains and pulls them back together,
shutting out the night. “That’s enough!”

“
I was only showing you–”

“
No, Grace.”

“
But–”

“
I said no.” He stands with his back to the drapes,
scrubbing at his brow. “Sit down Grace, we need to talk about
this.”

“
There’s nothing to–”

“
Please, Grace, shut up and sit down!”

She
remains standing and their eyes lock on each other’s; Grace’s
bright and feverish, Mal’s filled with doubt and
disappointment.

“
Before you jump to conclusions with your size nines, I
am
not
drunk, nor am I having a manic episode,” she says. “So get
both those ideas right out of your head. I’m just excited at being
able to tell you the truth about what’s been going on at last. It’s
been a bit of a strain hiding things, but now I’ve told
you–”

“
I think you should take a break,” he says.

“
From what?”

“
From your therapy. From your … visitations.”

“
No.”

“
If you don’t, I’ll call a stop to it
altogether.”

“
What? No! You can’t!”

“
I can, and I will. I wanted it to work Grace, I really did,
but now … after this … I’m not so sure it’s the right thing for
you. I never intended for it to take over your life like
this.”

“
It hasn’t taken–”

“
You need to take a break and we’ll think of something
else.”

“
I can’t stop. I won’t stop. Colin needs me. I promised him
we were on a journey together. I can’t abandon him now.”

Mal’s
eyes flicker as they read her face and the earnest sincerity writ
large in it. “You really believe he is real, don’t you?”

“
I told you he’s an injured soldier with PTSD in a
residential care facility.”

“
How do you know?”

“
Because he told me.”

“
And you believe him?”

“
Why would I not? Why would he lie?”

“
Because Colin McLeod DOES NOT EXIST! You made him up. That
was the whole point of the therapy. You’ve simply taken it too far,
confusing your own imagination with items you’ve read in the paper
and seen on the news about disabled soldiers and the recovery
centres. There was a feature on Pelham Chase in the Examiner just
last weekend, about the work they do there and advertising a
fundraising Fun Run they were holding. You probably saw it and a
lot of other bits and pieces, and subconsciously put them all
together –”

“
I don’t read the –”

“
I also noticed when I came in that you have a Help for
Heroes catalogue on your side table. Did you know they partly fund
Pelham?”

“
They help a lot of places. Fisher House, Headley Court,
Tedworth … all over the country. And there are lots of other
charities helping too, so I don’t see how that–”

Mal puts
his hands on her shoulders. “Grace, you need to stop before you do
yourself some real harm!”

She
shrugs him off, eyes narrowed to determined slits. “This treatment,
this therapy was your idea in the first place, your pet project,”
she says. “I was just following your instructions. Doing what you
wanted me to do–”

“
I know, but–”

“
And now its working, going better than even you expected,
you want me to stop? To walk away–?”

“
Yes. I do, because I don’t think it’s doing
you
any
good.”

“
Two minutes ago it was the bees knees. I saw you swelling
with pride when you thought you’d performed a miracle and I was
getting better. Then I confide in you, as I am supposed to do,
because you are my therapist and I trust … trusted … you, and you
do a complete one eighty and tell me it would do me good to walk
away from someone else who is in trouble
.
Someone who can’t do anything for
themselves, who is frightened and lost and needs
me
.”

“
He’s nothing but a product of an overactive imagination,
Grace. As is the house, the gardens and the cemetery. All of
it.”

“
NO THEY ARE NOT!” She’s shouting now. She can’t help
herself. “Colin is as real as you or I, and now I know where he is,
I intend to go and see him–”

“
I really wouldn’t advise–”

“
And unless you’re going to invoke the Mental Health Act and
have me sectioned and locked up, there’s not a damned thing you can
do about it.” She marches to her front door and grabs the handle.
“You know what? I don’t care what you advise and–” She wrenches the
door open. “I think I would like you to leave now, Doctor Pettit. I
can’t talk to you any more.”

“
Grace–”

“
Please … go.”

He takes
his coat from the hook. “When you’ve calmed down and you’re ready
to talk, just pick up the phone and call me, eh?”

Grace bites into the inside of her cheek, tasting the sharp
coppery tang of blood, trying really,
really
hard not to tell him to go directly to
Hell, and follow it up with a smack in the face.

He
pauses at the doorway. “Goodnight, Grace.”

She
closes the door on him, falls back against it and slides down onto
her haunches. By the time he’s reached his car, she is on the
carpet, curled into a shivering ball of sobbing misery.

Chapter 20

Dawn has
barely cracked the sky, the sun little more than a red smear above
the horizon as Grace throws her little canvas rucksack onto the
sofa, grumbling to herself as she checks off each of the items
she’s throwing into it. Torch. Spare batteries. Camera.
Gloves.

“
I’ll show him what’s real and what’s not. Calling me a
liar. I’ll get him proof, then we’ll see who’s making things up.”
Her fully charged phone goes into the inside pocket of her jacket.
“I’ll show him.”

Now she
knows where it is, Grace finds her way back to the shackled gate of
the Larches with no trouble at all.

A notice
is fastened to it with cable ties – rectangular with a white
background. A yellow triangle encompasses a black exclamation mark.
Above it is a blue circle with a white exclamation point. Next to
both are warnings that this is a dangerous building and she should
keep out or risk serious injury.

The sign
is mud spattered and dented, having been used for target practice
with stones and bottles, and quite possibly an air gun.

She
takes hold of the chain holding the two gates together and rattles
the padlock. All are stained with rust, but are still strong and
unyielding. With no idea who would have the key, and sadly lacking
a set of bolt cutters, access this way is most definitely denied.
Alternatives?

The wall
is too high, too well built, with no obvious foot or hand holds.
Even if there were, the ivy and brambles would cut her to ribbons
before she got halfway up. There is no other choice, she has to
clamber over the gate.

It is a
struggle for her, being of a delicate build and blessed with no
more than average upper body strength.

She
puffs and strains and groans her way to the top, eases herself over
the pointed finials, taking care not to impale herself, and jumps
for it, landing with a jaunty bounce in a pile of dried leaves of
many years accumulation.

A bolt
of pain shoots up her leg from her ankle, making her wince and hop
and swear. It soon fades and she can stand on it. It was just a
jolt. She hasn’t broken anything, not even a sprain.

The walk
up the mossy leaf strewn path to the house takes no more than a few
minutes. The resemblance between this tumbledown pile and the
fantasy house is remarkable, same red brick construction, same
Georgian style sash windows, same elegant portico with ornate
Corinthian columns.

To see
whether the inside retains any of its original beauty will have to
wait. She has a detour to make first, to find the cemetery she
knows is there… somewhere. The Larches’ very own garden of
stones.

It
doesn’t take her long to find the small cluster of family plots
contained within a rectangle of iron railings.

The gate
into it is also chained, the links pitted with rust, but nowhere as
secure as the main gate. The chain has merely been draped round the
uprights, giving the illusion of being fastened. It comes apart
easily in her hand. The gate opens with a sickening squeal and she
is inside.

The
headstones are practically invisible, almost totally overgrown with
brambles, honeysuckle and wild roses.

Thorns
snatch at her clothes and sticky willies cling to her jeans as she
treads carefully between flat slabs, obelisks and upright markers,
seeking out names she might recognise.

She
finds a couple of likely candidates, pulls on her gloves and
wrestles the suffocating foliage away.

“
Victoria Alice St John,” she reads. “The same surname as
the one in Colin’s garden of stones, but a different Christian
name.”

She
tears at the greenery around another stone. Same surname, this one
a Frances. Soon the stone next to it is laid bare.

“
Florence Bertram, née St John.”

And then
she finds it, the flat slab marking the final resting place of the
St John children.

She
pulls out her camera and takes a snap of each of the stones. When
she has enough information to both prove their existence to the
non-believing Malcolm Pettit, and to begin her own planned
background research, she tucks the camera back into her
backpack.

She has
seen enough here. Time to get to the meat and potatoes of her
visit. The house itself.

The
sheets of plywood covering the window haven’t fared well. Warped
and watermarked, they are turned green and slick with
algae.

The
front door is hidden behind a rectangle of dulled aluminium,
fastened to the surrounding wall via struts and bolts. Lightweight
material it might be, but it’s not exactly tin foil and is
surprisingly solidly fixed, so little chance of ingress here
without the aid of an acetylene cutting torch, or at least a
spanner.