Odette was oblivious to the water still running over her palm. The temperature rose, until her father – who had entered the room without her realising – snatched her hand from the stream.
‘Midge,’ he said quietly. ‘Midge, come back.’
Her childhood nickname reached her. She stared at the red mark on her hand.
‘Oh, God,’ she groaned.
‘I came to say don’t use the softener.’
‘Too late.’
‘Is this happening to you a lot?’
‘Laundry mishaps?’
‘No. You… disappearing.’
‘I knew what you meant. Sorry, Papi.’ Odette breathed deeply. ‘It’s happening some of the time. Especially at night. It’s the strangest thing – every so often I forget where I am and really believe I’m back in the museum basement. This time it was the sound of the boiler that set me off. It reminded me too much of the museum boiler, I think. You won’t tell Maman, will you? You know how anxious she gets.’
‘I’ll keep quiet on one condition. You need someone to talk to.’
Odette was tiring of people telling her she needed support. The psychologist; Stuart Yelland; her father. And now Papi had her in a corner – either she must find someone to talk to, or worry her mother unduly.
‘So you’re giving me an ultimatum?’ she checked.
‘Yes. Now let me put you in touch with a professional.’ Papi was a GP.
‘No. I don’t want to see one of your friends. Maman might still find out if you do that and I really don’t want to worry her.’
‘Odette…’
‘I’ll find my own counsellor… I promise. You don’t need to arrange it.’
Papi nodded, grudgingly.
They went back upstairs. Maman was uncorking Prosecco in the kitchen.
‘Let’s watch the sunset while we eat,’ she said.
Odette accepted a glass gratefully. They dined outside, on the decking, while the clouds turned the colour of Odette’s scalded palm. Enough time passed for her wine to dull the sting. Sunsets were always so slow in England. That was one of the things Odette remembered about Seychelles; the way the sun went instantly, like the flicking of a switch, at the end of the day.
*
For months Dr Rebello’s number had lain undisturbed behind a bank card in Odette’s purse. But with Papi’s threat hanging over her, Odette knew she had to ring. She hoped there would be a long waiting list. That might be enough to get her off the hook with Papi; she could at least say she tried. Unfortunately her telephone call was answered within three rings and an appointment was available the following day.
She turned up as arranged. The clinic was in a Victorian townhouse; Odette could picture it as the workplace of a gruff Austrian, dispensing treatments for neurosis and hysteria. She peered at the panel of buttons on the intercom and pressed the one labelled Dr Ruby Rebello.
‘My name’s Odette,’ she said to the speaker. ‘I have an appointment with—’
The intercom buzzed before she had completed her sentence. Odette stepped into a plain corridor with a stairway. She was about to knock on the nearest door when it swung open – to reveal the young, dark-haired woman Odette had met on the motorbike. Dr Rebello.
‘Come in, Odette.’ Dr Rebello smiled. She was olive-skinned and quiet-voiced, with a diamond nose-stud, a lumberjack shirt, and twelve-hole Docs.
She led Odette into a room with white walls and a beige carpet. Two chairs were arranged opposite each other. A coffee table, bearing a cactus and a box of tissues, was placed between them.
Dr Rebello sat down, and placed a notebook on her knee. She gestured to the other seat and invited Odette to explain why she’d come.
‘Back in January – when you gave me your card – I’d just discovered a body in the toy museum. I suppose the police told you that much?’
Dr Rebello made a note. She hesitated, then said: ‘Let’s concentrate on what you have to say, shall we? We needn’t concern ourselves with the police’s account right now.’
This comment reassured Odette. She had found the police subtly discrediting. They had implied she was lying or mistaken about the basement being locked from the inside. The officer’s focus on her birthplace told her they thought she didn’t belong there – in their eyes she was out of place, and because of this she might be unreliable or even suspect. To hear that Dr Rebello was more interested in Odette’s own version of events made her more willing to open up.
‘Since January, I’ve been having flashbacks,’ she said.
‘What kind of flashbacks?’
‘Vivid. I feel like I’m there.’ Odette described her experience at the coroner’s court, and her parents’ house, and all the other occasions in between when she had lost track of her real surroundings. Dr Rebello asked questions at intervals, continuing to take notes until Odette had finished, then put down her pen.
‘During a traumatic event, memories aren’t recorded normally,’ Dr Rebello remarked. ‘One theory for why this happens is that stress suppresses the hippocampus. I think you may have been traumatised – and that’s affected how you’re recalling the event. You’re re-experiencing the moment that you found the body, rather than remembering it. To your mind, finding the corpse isn’t something that happened in the past. You keep reliving it.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘We’re going to construct a narrative of what happened when you found the body. As we do that, you’ll probably feel you’re slipping back in time, but I’ll keep you in this room by asking questions about what you notice in the here and now. Piecing together your story will allow you to lay down proper memories, so that you can recollect the incident without panicking you’re still there.’
This sounded a sensible course of action. Dr Rebello’s calmness was what Odette needed. If Odette had confided in Maman, nobody would have stayed calm. Despite Odette’s resistance, Papi had been right to say she should talk to a professional.
Yet one thing troubled her.
‘I can’t tell a story of what happened,’ she said. ‘Because I don’t know why it happened.’
Dr Rebello put aside her notebook and studied Odette before speaking.
‘Explain to me what you mean,’ she asked.
‘I want to think this woman killed herself,’ Odette said. ‘It’s terrible, but it’s better than the alternative. Because if it was homicide – if someone murdered her – the killer escaped an underground room without unlocking the door, and they’re still free. How does that story make any sense? I have so many questions. About what happened. About why.’
Dr Rebello picked up her notebook again and wrote something down.
‘The why doesn’t matter,’ she said quietly, without looking Odette in the eye.
And Odette thought: she doesn’t believe that. She’s lying. She doesn’t believe that at all.
10
JUNE 1969
Angharad and Barbara
Angharad Mills, the medical engineer who had advised Margaret, was still working for the space programme. But there were no other senior women on staff, and she was tiring of her employers’ chauvinism. She was therefore intrigued when she received an invitation to the Conclave. At their previous meeting, Margaret had hinted that a job might be available. Angharad didn’t hesitate before accepting the invitation.