The Silent Patient Page 24

  I watched his wife through the windows. As I watched, I felt increasingly sure I had to do something to help her. She was me, and I was her: we were two innocent victims, deceived and betrayed. She believed this man loved her—but he didn’t.

  Perhaps I was wrong, assuming she knew nothing about the affair? Perhaps she did know. Perhaps they enjoyed a sexually open relationship and she was equally promiscuous? But somehow I didn’t think so. She looked innocent, as I had once looked. It was my duty to enlighten her. I could reveal the truth about the man she was living with, whose bed she shared. I had no choice. I had to help her.

  Over the next few days, I kept returning. One day, she left the house and went for a walk. I followed her, keeping my distance. I was worried she saw me at one point, but even if she did, I was just a stranger to her. For the moment.

  I went away and made a couple of purchases. I came back again. I stood across the road, watching the house. I saw her again, standing by the window.

  I didn’t have a plan, as such, just a vague, unformed idea of what I needed to accomplish. Rather like an inexperienced artist, I knew the result I wanted—without knowing quite how to achieve it. I waited awhile, then walked up to the house. I tried the gate—it was unlocked. It swung open and I stepped into the garden. I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. An illicit thrill at being an intruder on someone else’s property.

  Then I saw the back door opening. I looked for somewhere to hide. I noticed the little summerhouse across the grass. I raced silently across the lawn and slipped inside. I stood there for a second, catching my breath. My heart was pounding. Had she seen me? I heard her footsteps approaching. Too late to back out now. I reached into my back pocket and took out the black balaclava I’d bought. I pulled it over my head. I put on a pair of gloves.

  She walked in. She was on the phone: “Okay, darling. I’ll see you at eight. Yes … I love you too.”

  She ended the call and switched on an electric fan. She stood in front of the fan, her hair blowing in the breeze. She picked up a paintbrush and approached a canvas on an easel. She stood with her back to me. Then she caught sight of my reflection in the window. I think she saw my knife first. She stiffened and slowly turned around. Her eyes were wide with fear. We stared at each other in silence.

  This was the first time I came face-to-face with Alicia Berenson.

  The rest, as they say, is history.

  PART FIVE

  If I justify myself, mine own mouth shall condemn me.

  —Job 9:20

  CHAPTER ONE

  Alicia Berenson’s Diary

  FEBRUARY 23

  Theo just left. I am alone. I’m writing this as fast as I can. I haven’t got much time. I’ve got to get this down while I still have the strength.

  I thought I was crazy at first. It was easier to think I was crazy than believe it was true. But I’m not crazy. I’m not.

  That first time I met him in the therapy room, I wasn’t sure—there was something familiar about him, but different—I recognized his eyes, not just the color but the shape. And the same smell of cigarettes and smoky aftershave. And the way he formed words, and the rhythm of his speech—but not the tone of his voice, it seemed different somehow. So I wasn’t sure—but the next time we met, he gave himself away. He said the same words—the exact same phrase he’d used at the house, burned into my memory:

  “I want to help you—I want to help you see clearly.”

  As soon as I heard that, something in my brain clicked and the jigsaw came together—the picture was complete.

  It was him.

  And something in me took over, some kind of wild animal instinct. I wanted to kill him, kill or be killed—I leaped on him and tried to strangle him and scratch his eyes out, bash his skull to pieces on the floor. But I didn’t succeed in killing him, and they held me down and drugged me and locked me up. And then—after that I lost my nerve. I started to doubt myself again—maybe I’d made a mistake, maybe I was imagining it, maybe it wasn’t him.

  How could it possibly be Theo? What purpose could he have in coming here to taunt me like this? And then I understood. All that bullshit about wanting to help me—that was the sickest part of it. He was getting a kick out of it, he was getting off on it—that’s why he was here. He had come back to gloat.

  “I want to help you—I want to help you see clearly.”

  Well, now I saw. I saw clearly. I wanted him to know that I knew. So I lied about the way Gabriel died. As I was talking, I could see he knew I was lying. We looked at each other and he saw it—that I had recognized him. And there was something in his eyes I’d never seen before. Fear. He was afraid of me—of what I might say. He was scared—of the sound of my voice.

  That’s why he came back a few minutes ago. He didn’t say anything this time. No more words. He grabbed my wrist and stuck a needle in my vein. I didn’t struggle. I didn’t fight back. I let him do it. I deserve it—I deserve this punishment. I am guilty—but so is he. That’s why I’m writing this—so he won’t get away with it. So he will be punished.

  I’ve got to be quick. I can feel it now—the stuff he injected me with is working. I’m so drowsy. I want to lie down. I want to sleep.… But no—not yet. I’ve got to stay awake. I’ve got to finish the story. And this time, I’ll tell the truth.

  That night, Theo broke into the house and tied me up—and when Gabriel came home, Theo knocked him out. At first I thought he’d killed him—but then I saw Gabriel was breathing. Theo pulled him up and tied him to the chair. He moved it so Gabriel and I were sitting back-to-back, and I couldn’t see his face.

  “Please,” I said. “Please don’t hurt him. I’m begging you—I’ll do anything, anything you want.”

  Theo laughed. I’d come to hate his laugh so much—it was cold, empty. Heartless. “Hurt him?” He shook his head. “I’m going to kill him.”

  He meant it. I felt such terror, I lost control of my tears. I wept and pleaded. “I’ll do anything you want, anything—please, please let him live—he deserves to live. He’s the kindest and the best of men—and I love him, I love him so much—”

  “Tell me, Alicia. Tell me about your love for him. Tell me, do you think he loves you?”

  “He loves me,” I said.

  I heard the clock ticking in the background. There seemed to be an age before he replied. “We’ll see,” he said. His black eyes stared at me for a second and I felt consumed by darkness. I was in the presence of a creature that wasn’t even human. He was evil.

  He walked around the chair and faced Gabriel. I turned my head as far as I could, but I couldn’t see them. There was a horrible dull thud—I flinched as I heard him strike Gabriel across the face. He hit him again and again, until Gabriel started spluttering and woke up.

  “Hello, Gabriel,” he said.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m a married man. So I know what it’s like to love someone. And I know what it’s like to be let down.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Only cowards betray the people who love them. Are you a coward, Gabriel?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I was going to kill you. But Alicia pleaded for your life. So instead, I’m going to give you a choice. Either you die—or Alicia does. You decide.”

  The way he spoke was so cool and calm and in control. No emotion. Gabriel didn’t reply for a second. He sounded out of breath, like he’d been punched.

  “No—”

  “Yes. Alicia dies, or you die. Your choice, Gabriel. Let’s find out how much you love her. Would you die for her? You have ten seconds to decide.… Ten … nine—”

  “Don’t believe him,” I said. “He’s going to kill us both—I love you—”

  “—eight … seven—”

  “I know you love me, Gabriel—”

  “—six … five—”

  “You love me—”

  “—four … three—”

  “Gabriel, say you love me—”

  “—two—”

  And then Gabriel spoke. I didn’t recognize his voice at first. Such a tiny voice, so far away—a little boy’s voice. A small child—with the power of life and death at his fingertips.

  “I don’t want to die,” he said.

  Then there was silence. Everything stopped. Inside my body, every cell deflated; wilting cells, like dead petals falling from a flower. Jasmine flowers floating to the ground. Can I smell jasmine somewhere? Yes, yes, sweet jasmine—on the windowsill perhaps …

  Theo stepped away from Gabriel and started talking to me. I found it hard to focus on his words. “You see, Alicia? I knew Gabriel was a coward—fucking my wife behind my back. He destroyed the only happiness I’ve ever had.” Theo leaned forward, right in my face. “I’m sorry to do this. But quite frankly, now you know the truth … you’re better off dead.”

  He raised the gun and pointed it at my head. I shut my eyes. I heard Gabriel screaming—“Don’t shoot don’t shoot don’t—”

  A click. And then a gunshot—so loud that it blew away all other sound. There was silence for a few seconds. I thought I was dead.

  But I wasn’t so lucky.

  I opened my eyes. Theo was still there—pointing the gun at the ceiling. He smiled. He put his finger to his lips, telling me to keep quiet.

  “Alicia?” Gabriel shouted. “Alicia?”

  I could hear Gabriel writhing in his chair, trying to turn around to see what had happened.

  “What did you do to her, you bastard? You fucking bastard. Oh, Jesus—”

  Theo untied my wrists. He dropped the gun to the floor. Then he kissed me, ever so gently, on the cheek. He walked out, and the front door slammed after him.

  Gabriel and I were alone. He was sobbing, crying, barely able to form words. He just kept calling my name, wailing, “Alicia, Alicia—”

  I remained silent.

  “Alicia? Fuck, fuck, oh, fuck—”

  I remained silent.

  “Alicia, answer me, Alicia—oh, God—”

  I remained silent. How could I talk? Gabriel had sentenced me to death.

  The dead don’t talk.

  I untied the wire around my ankles. I got up from the chair. I reached down to the floor. My fingers closed around the gun. It was hot and heavy in my hand. I walked around the chair, and I faced Gabriel. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. His eyes widened.

  “Alicia? You’re alive—thank God you’re—”

  I wish I could say I struck a blow for the defeated—that I was standing up for the betrayed and brokenhearted—that Gabriel had a tyrant’s eyes, my father’s eyes. But I’m past lying now. The truth is Gabriel had my eyes, suddenly—and I had his. Somewhere along the way we had swapped places.

  I saw it now. I would never be safe. Never be loved. All my hopes, dashed—all my dreams, shattered—leaving nothing, nothing. My father was right—I didn’t deserve to live. I was—nothing. That’s what Gabriel did to me.

  That’s the truth. I didn’t kill Gabriel. He killed me.

  All I did was pull the trigger.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “THERE IS NOTHING SO PITIFUL,” Indira said, “as seeing all someone’s possessions in a cardboard box.”

  I nodded. I looked around the room sadly.

  “Surprising, really,” Indira went on, “how few things Alicia had. When you think how much junk the other patients accumulate … All she had were some books, a few drawings, her clothes.”

  Indira and I were clearing out Alicia’s room on Stephanie’s instructions. “It’s unlikely she’ll ever wake up,” Stephanie had said, “and quite frankly we need the bed.” We worked in silence mostly, deciding what to put in storage and what to throw away. I carefully looked through her belongings. I wanted to make sure there was nothing incriminating—nothing that might trip me up.

  I wondered how Alicia had managed to keep her diary hidden and out of sight for so long. Each patient was allowed to bring a small amount of personal items with them upon admittance to the Grove. Alicia had brought a portfolio of sketches, which I presume was how she had smuggled in the diary. I opened the portfolio and flicked through the drawings—they were mostly unfinished pencil sketches and studies. A few casual lines thrown onto a page, immediately coming to life, brilliantly evocative, capturing an unmistakable likeness.

  I showed a sketch to Indira. “It’s you.”

  “What? It’s not.”

  “It is.”

  “Is it?” Indira looked delighted and studied it closely. “Do you think so? I never noticed her drawing me. I wonder when she did it. It’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. You should keep it.”

  Indira pulled a face and handed it back. “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Of course you can. She wouldn’t mind.” I smiled. “No one will ever know.”

  “I suppose—I suppose not.” She glanced at the painting upright on the floor, leaning against the wall—the painting of me and Alicia on the fire escape of the burning building, which had been defaced by Elif.

  “What about that?” Indira asked. “Will you take it?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll call Jean-Felix. He can take charge of it.”

  Indira nodded. “Shame you can’t keep it.”

  I looked at it for a moment. I didn’t like it. Of all of Alicia’s paintings, it was the only one I didn’t like. Strange, considering it had me as its subject.

  I want to be clear—I never thought Alicia would shoot Gabriel. This is an important point. I never intended nor expected her to kill him. All I wanted was to awaken Alicia to the truth about her marriage, as I had been awakened. I intended to show her that Gabriel didn’t love her, that her life was a lie, their marriage a sham. Only then would she have a chance, as I had, to build a new life from the rubble; a life based on truth, not lies.

  I had no idea about Alicia’s history of instability. Had I known, I never would have pushed things so far. I had no idea she would react like that. And when the story was all over the press and Alicia was on trial for murder, I felt a deep sense of personal responsibility, and the desire to expiate my guilt and prove that I was not responsible for what had happened. So I applied for the job at the Grove. I wanted to help her through the aftermath of the murder—help her understand what had happened, work through it—and be free. If you were cynical, you might say I revisited the scene of the crime, so to speak, to cover my tracks. That’s not true. Even though I knew the risks of such an endeavor, the real possibility that I might get caught, that it might end in disaster, I had no choice—because of who I am.

  I am a psychotherapist, remember. Alicia needed help—and only I knew how to help her.

  I was nervous she might know me, despite my having worn the mask and disguised my voice. But Alicia didn’t seem to recognize me, and I was able to play a new part in her life. Then, that night in Cambridge, I finally understood what I had unwittingly reenacted, the long-forgotten land mine on which I had trodden. Gabriel was the second man to condemn Alicia to death; bringing up this original trauma was more than she could bear—which is why she picked up the gun and visited her long-awaited revenge not upon her father, but upon her husband. As I suspected, the murder had much older, deeper origins than my actions.

  But when she lied to me about how Gabriel died, it was obvious Alicia had recognized me and she was testing me. I was forced to take action, to silence Alicia forever. I had Christian take the blame—a poetic justice, I felt. I had no qualms about framing him. Christian had failed Alicia when she needed him the most; he deserved to be punished.

  Silencing Alicia wasn’t so easy. Injecting her with morphine was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. That she didn’t die, but is asleep, is better—this way, I can still visit her every day and sit by her bed and hold her hand. I haven’t lost her.

  “Are we done?” asked Indira, interrupting my thoughts.

  “I think so.”

  “Good. I have to go, I have a patient at twelve.”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “See you at lunch?”

  “Yes.”

  Indira gave my arm a squeeze and left.

  I looked at my watch. I thought about leaving early, going home. I felt exhausted. I was about to turn off the light and leave when a thought occurred to me and I felt my body stiffen.

  The diary. Where was it?

  My eyes flickered around the room, neatly packed and boxed up. We’d gone through it all. I had looked at and considered each and every one of her personal items.

  And it wasn’t there.

  How could I have been so careless? Indira and her fucking endless inane chatter had distracted me and made me lose focus.

  Where was it? It had to be here. Without the diary there was precious little evidence to convict Christian. I had to find it.

  I searched the room, feeling increasingly frantic. I turned the cardboard boxes upside down, scattering their contents on the floor. I rummaged through the debris, but it wasn’t there. I tore apart her clothing but found nothing. I ripped open the art portfolio, shaking the sketches to the floor, but the diary wasn’t among them. Then I went through the cupboards and pulled out all the drawers, checking that they were empty, then hurling them aside.

  But it wasn’t there.

  CHAPTER THREE

  JULIAN MCMAHON FROM THE TRUST was waiting for me in reception. He had a big build, curly ginger hair, and a fondness for phrases such as between you and me or at the end of the day or the bottom line, which frequently popped up in his conversation, often in the same sentence. He was essentially a benign figure—the friendly face of the Trust. He wanted to have a word with me before I went home.

  “I’ve just come from Professor Diomedes. I thought you should know—he’s resigned.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “He took early retirement. Between you and me, it was either that or face an inquiry into this mess.” Julian shrugged. “I can’t help but feel sorry for him—not a particularly glorious end to a long and distinguished career. But at least this way he’ll be spared the press and all the hoo-ha. Incidentally, he mentioned you.”

  -->