No Escape (6 page)

“You
do
know him?” Jane asked gently, puzzled by the unexpected and violent response.

Sheila nodded.

“He said he knew your family. Is that true, too?”

With an effort the girl murmured, “He's met them, yes.”

“But he's not an old friend of theirs?”

“Is that what he said?”

“Not exactly. Not in so many words. But I gathered he meant it. Was he making it up to impress me?”

“No. Why should he?”

Sheila's hand dropped back on to the bed. The look of hopeless despair was on her face again and for the first time Jane began to have serious doubts of her sanity. But she attempted once more to get at the real cause of the girl's condition.

“I wish you could trust us here,” she began. “You know we only want to help you. At least you could tell
me
. You know me. I don't live in the hospital. I'm sure I could help you if you'd let me.”

“No one can help me,” said Sheila, dully. In the same quiet voice she went on, “I'll be all right when I get home. I'll go for a job in Reading and live with Mum and Dad. If they'll only leave me alone.”

“Who? Your Mum and Dad? Or the Press? You mean the newspapers, I suppose?”

“The newspapers?”

“You said ‘If they'll only leave me alone.' Did you mean journalists or who did you mean? Tell me, Sheila! Please, please
tell
me!”

They were back where they started, with Sheila cowering on the pillows, speechless, shaking.

Jane gave up. She had learned nothing and she no longer trusted Sheila to speak the truth, even about her immediate plans. If they let her go tomorrow, would she travel to Reading or would she dive straight back into her bedsitter in Shepherd's Bush? She might even dive straight back into the Thames.

As she left the cubicle, she saw Sister at the end of the ward and went up to her. Sister was not helpful. She was a plump, motherly-looking person, but she clearly had no maternal feelings for Bed 12.

“You can tear yourself to pieces for that type of girl,” she said, “but you get nowhere in the end. Nowhere at all.”

“But surely she isn't fit to leave hospital?”

“I thought you disagreed with me when I said so just now? Not that I want to keep her in my ward. We aren't a psychiatric unit. Physically she's fit enough. Or as fit as many are that do leave.”

“Her strapping isn't off yet.” Jane was now convinced that Sheila ought to stay where she was.

“Her strapping came off this morning. A good old strapping rash right round to her back.” Sister gave a short laugh. “Trust her to be allergic.”

“You don't like her, do you? I think she's the most pathetic thing I've ever seen.”

Sister sighed.

“You know her, of course. I've got three genuinely pathetic cases in this ward. Tragedies, all of them. They don't compare with Miss Burgess. They want to live, for one thing, and they won't be able to.”

It was what Miss Gleaning had said. Jane only felt the more obstinate.

“I still think she needs to stay a bit longer.”

“It rests with her as much as anything,” Sister said. “We can't hold her, you realise that? She wants to go, there's nothing wrong with her now physically, her mental state isn't extreme enough for a compulsion order, so there's nothing we can do, is there?”

Still hating Sister's complacent tone, Jane had to agree. She looked back down the ward. Sheila, her curtains drawn back again, was beckoning to her with an agitated hand. She went to her and as soon as she reached Bed 12 Sheila caught hold of her, drew her down close and asked in a whisper, “Where are my things? You didn't give me my things!”

“Your clothes for wearing tomorrow are in the small suitcase I've left with Sister. The rest of your clothes and the things out of your top drawer are in the big suitcase. It's in charge of the head porter at the main entrance. It'll be quite safe there.”

“I thought you were going to put it in the left luggage at Paddington and bring me the ticket.”

“Well, as Mr Stone was driving me back from your place I didn't like to ask him to go so far out of his way. Besides, you didn't want anyone to know where you were going.”

“He'd know,” she said. “You told him I was going home.”

“Because he knew where your home was.”

“So of course it'd be Paddington. He'd know,” she repeated, “but thanks all the same.” She looked sadly into Jane's face. “That other case of mine. Where exactly has the porter got it? Will it be absolutely safe?”

“It isn't locked,” Jane said, truthfully, “because you haven't got your keys. But it ought to be all right.”

She regretted this speech immediately. Sheila pushed her away in one convulsive movement. Oh God, Jane thought, these crackpots! You never knew—

“Please, Jane, bring it up here! I won't feel safe with it down there near the entrance, not locked. Anyone could get at it. I daren't leave it there! Please!”

Jane was exasperated, but she clung to what patience she had left.

“All right, I'll get it. I don't know what Sister will say. But I'll bring it up. Do stop being so upset, Sheila. You'll make yourself really ill if you go on fussing about nothing at all.”

“
Nothing
! I only wish to God it
was
nothing!”

Jane went away again and spent a little time finding out where Timothy was likely to be that afternoon. He was not operating, she discovered, so he might be anywhere, possibly not in the hospital at all. After several attempts to find him had failed she went down to the entrance hall.

Here another obstacle checked her. The head porter was off duty and his substitute did not know where he had put Miss Burgess's case.

“But you must know were he's
likely
to have put it?” Jane said, desperately.

The man looked vaguely round the office. It was small, square and box-like, the side facing into the hall entirely made up of glass sliding windows, a long table under them, a bank of telephones, a letter rack, a few chairs. No place, Jane realised in which to keep, far less to hide, a rather large suitcase.

“I don't see it anywhere, miss,” the porter said, picking up the receiver on a ringing telephone.

Jane waited for the call to finish.

‘Then where
can
it have gone?” she asked beginning to be really anxious now.

“If you ask me—” the man began, picking up the receiver again.

“I just have,” Jane breathed, not loud enough for him to hear.

“If you ask me,” he repeated, as soon as he could, “I wouldn't wonder if it's been sent up to the ward.”

“Alexandra?” cried Jane. “But I've just come down from there. It wasn't there when I left.”

“When would that be?”

How long had she spent looking for Tim?

“About fifteen minutes, I should think.”

“Ah. He'd have disposed of it when he went off, I should think. Say ten minutes ago. I think you may find it up there, miss.”

“You couldn't ring them and find out, could you?”

The porter smiled, his hand moving automatically to plug in the house telephone. After a few seconds he came back to Jane.

“Yes miss. It's up there all right. I understand Sister isn't too pleased.”

“I bet she's hopping mad. Thanks a lot,” Jane said, happily as she turned away.

Back to Alexandra, she sighed. Another small basinful of Sheila's woes and then home, a solitary, blessed solitary, late tea at her flat in front of the fire, toast and honey and a new novel from the Public Library. She found that Sister had gone off for her own tea but Staff Nurse gave her permission to take the big suitcase into the ward, just to convince the scatty girl in Bed 12 that it had not been stolen. As she staggered in with it she saw the cubicle curtains were closed again. She kept going, however, and pushing her way in heard Tim saying—” it's for your own safety, Miss Burgess. You
will
do as I ask, won't you? Say yes! Let me hear you say yes!”

Then Jane was inside, Tim had sprung to his feet and Sheila who had been sitting upright, leaned forward with a flushed face and said, “Oh Jane, you angel! You found it. I was so afraid someone—” She broke off, turned to Timothy and went on, eagerly, “I've got to clear out! You understand, don't you? I'm all set to leave— All my things— All that matters Jane's been wonderful. So I'll go home tomorrow. Dr Long. Thank you for all you've done, but I just have to go home.”

Jane backed away, stammering apologies. She wanted to get out of the ward, more particularly to get away from the picture of Timothy leaning forward, one of Sheila's hands between both of his gazing into her eyes and saying, “You
will
do as I ask, won't you?” and Sheila gazing back, melting rapidly, on the very point of agreeing. She was furious with Tim; she was furious with herself for interrupting him.

“Don't go, Miss Wheelan!”

It was an order, given in a voice of suppressed fury, quite equal to her own, Jane thought miserably. She made an effort to defend herself, however.

“I understood that Sheila was to be discharged tomorrow and as she asked me to go to her room and bring her things here, I just did that. Was it wrong?”

Tim shook his head, hopelessly.

“Not really, I suppose. But actually since you came back with some of the luggage, Miss Burgess has been in such a disturbed condition—”

Jane protested, but he went on, disregarding her, “So very much worse that we are now advising her to have further treatment—specialist treatment.”

“You know what he means, don't you, Jane?” Sheila insisted on being heard. “The luny-bin—that awful shock treatment or something.”

“I'm sure rest and a few talks with the doctor will do the trick,” Tim told her.

“I can get that at home. My mother has a very good doctor. I've been to him myself sometimes. He'll do for the talks and I'm going home for the rest. So what more do you want?”

Her attitude and appearance had changed profoundly since Jane's arrival. She was lively and confident where before she had been apathetic and fearful. While Tim considered that this was an added proof of her instability, he had to acknowledge that it gave him no grounds for pressing her to sign a form to admit her to a mental hospital as a voluntary patient.

All the same he could not forgive Jane for interrupting him at the moment of success. So he got up from his chair, shook hands with Sheila, nodded to Jane and left the cubicle. Sheila immediately burst into tears.

“He's gone and he won't see me again!” she wailed.

“Does that matter? You weren't exactly co-operative, were you?”

“I never even thanked him properly for helping me.”

Jane began to feel immensely, overwhelmingly bored with the whole business.

“You can write him a nice letter when you get home,” she said.

Unconscious of the intended irony, Sheila nodded. Jane lifted the suitcase on to the empty chair.

“Do you want it here or shall I take it out again to Sister's room, now you've seen it?”

“Leave it here, please. But put it under the bed.”

“They won't let you keep it there.”

“Only till tomorrow. They may not notice it if you push it well under.”

Jane did as she was asked to avoid argument and as Sheila now appeared to be fully satisfied, sinking back on her pillows and smiling, Jane left her, picked up her own outdoor things and handbag in the X-ray Department and left the hospital by a side door.

She came out into the road by a small gate a short distance from the main entrance. Cars were parked on both sides of this approach. Walking rapidly, she suddenly heard her name called and turning saw that the car directly behind her on the other side was Mr Stone's and the man himself was leaning from the driver's seat to open the passenger door.

She walked back slowly, wondering what he was doing there, over an hour since he had left her at the main hospital entrance.

Her surprise must have shown plainly in her face, for Stone said, smiling, “Why am I here? Yes. Well, I just wanted to know the latest about Sheila.”

“We're worried about her,” Jane said simply.

He frowned, turned to look up and down the road, then said, “Why not hop in and let me take you wherever you're going? Then you can tell me.”

His manner was very soothing, coming as it did so soon after her uncomfortable brush with Tim. This man was not at all excited, but calm and wise and helpful. Sheila needed a friend and surely this was one; he had already proved it by his solicitude.

So Jane got into the car and gave her address in Arcadia Road, that lay between Olympia and Shepherd's Bush.

“Not so far from Sheila's place,” Stone said, as they moved off. “But a different kind of set-up, I'm sure.”

“I share a flat with a girl who's at the L.S.E.”

“What was that?”

“The London School of Economics” Jane told him, put out a little by his ignorance, which did not match the impression she already had of him.

“Mr Stone.” she began, formally.

“Gerry,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Gerry's the name, Jane.”

“I said I was anxious about Sheila,” she went on, ignoring this interruption, though it pleased her. “You see I don't think the hospital people understand her. I mean the nurse and—and the doctors.”

All her resentment, her anger with Tim, rose up again.

“Go on, tell me,” Gerry said, quietly.

“Particularly Tim—I mean Dr Long. He seems to think now she's having a real mental breakdown. He wants her to go to a mental hospital for treatment.”

She saw Gerry's hands tighten on the wheel, and went on, “He's furious with me because—” She stopped. Sheila had begged her to say nothing about her immediate plans. It would he a gross breach of confidence to describe the fuss over the suitcases. Besides, she did not really know the man beside her, whose profile just now was far from prepossessing.