My phone is vibrating in my coat pocket. I glance at the screen. Detective Superintendent Lenny Parvel has sent me a message:
You’re needed. Call me.
I ignore it. Carrying a mobile phone still feels foreign to me. Until Evie came to live with me, I used an old-fashioned pager that meant people couldn’t simply call me and talk. I didn’t want to carry a computer in my pocket or be instantly contactable. My job involves human interactions, speaking face to face and reading body language and picking up on physical clues, which can’t be done over the phone or in a text message.
Now, I have a phone that is smarter than me. It can calculate more quickly and knows where I am, and where I’m going, and when I’m looking at the screen. It keeps track of my likes and dislikes, and my Internet history, and can predict the words I’m about to type, which could be human progress or our surrender.
Judge Aimes pours himself a glass of water. He lifts the glass. Sips. Tastes. Sips again. Speaks.
‘We are here to consider an application by Elias David Haven who has been detained under the Mental Health Act since 2001, after his role in the deaths of four people, namely his parents and twin sisters.
‘Upon his arrival at Rampton Secure Hospital, he was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, and found to be suffering from antisocial and narcissistic personality disorders. It has only been in the past five years that Elias has come to terms with what he did that night. Psychotropic drugs have led to a considerable improvement, according to the testimony of his psychiatrist and case worker. Elias has also learned coping skills and behavioural modification strategies, which have seen a moderation of his psychosis, so much so that he now presents little or no management problem.’
He raises his head to look at Elias.
‘In the eyes of the justice system, Elias, you are innocent of any crime, and should only be detained until such time as the experts consider you are no longer a danger to the community. The question we must answer today is whether you have reached that point and if you are ready to take your place in society. The safety of the public is paramount, and our decisions must also respect the feelings and fears of those who were directly affected by your offences.
‘We on this tribunal panel are very aware that any decision we make today will be subjective. We are attempting to predict the future behaviours of a latently dangerous mental patient, relying on recommendations from psychiatrists and psychologists who acknowledge that the sciences they study are inexact. Not everybody managing your case has been in agreement. Dr Reid, a resident psychiatrist, expressed the view that you could be cold, distant and unemotional, with a perverted arrogance that is the basis of your paranoid thinking.
‘We have also heard oral evidence from two consultant psychiatrists and your case worker, Dr Baillie, who agree that your psychopathic disorder has been brought under control by medication and therapy.’
There is a pause and Judge Aimes glances along the table at his colleagues. Neither wants to add anything, but there is a trembling quality to the room, as though everything is poised to change. I’m nervous for Elias. I am nervous for myself.
The judge continues.
‘Long-term leave under Section 17 of the Mental Health Act must be approved by the Secretary of State. Our recommendation to the minister will be that you be allowed to leave the hospital grounds on unescorted day leave.’
Elias interrupts. ‘When can I go home?’
‘Overnight leave is the next step,’ says Judge Aimes. ‘Weekends. Holidays. Every stage will be a test.’
‘But I’m better. I’m no longer a danger.’
Dr Baillie leans forward, placing a hand on Elias’s forearm.
He shrugs it away. ‘They called me a model patient. You heard them. I’m cured.’
I hold my finger to my lips, urging him to be quiet. In the next breath, he cocks his head like a bird, watching something in the top corner of the room.
Judge Aimes finishes his statement.
‘The minister will receive our recommendation by close of business today. This is usually a formality and, unless he decides otherwise, you will be eligible for day release once he signs the necessary forms.’
Chairs are pushed back. The panellists rise as one and walk in single file out the side door.
Elias doesn’t react. Two orderlies appear. Big men in short-sleeved tops and dark trousers. They approach Elias carefully, telling him it’s time to go. I expect him to react, but his entire body settles into stillness. He collects his papers, straightens the edges, and tucks them beneath his arm, before turning and bowing to an imaginary audience.
Sounding every inch a lawyer, he says, ‘Thank you for coming. I appreciate your patience and diligence.’
4
Evie
My therapist, Veera Jaffrey, likes to be called by her initials, VJ, which gives me the giggles because I think of vajayjay. When I told her this, she couldn’t see the joke at all.
Veejay is in her early forties with a wonderfully deep voice and thick dark hair. She still has the faintest trace of a Pakistani accent because her parents moved to England when she was seven. They were very strict and wanted her to marry a Muslim boy, but she eloped with a saxophone player called Nigel and went into hiding because her parents threatened to kill her.
I have no idea if any of this is true, but it’s a good story. I like making up scenarios about people because the truth is either too boring, or I can’t find out what really happened. Veejay doesn’t talk about herself. I know that she has children because there are toys in her back garden. That’s where Poppy is now, sniffing at her compost heap and drinking out of her fishpond.
Whenever I ask Veejay about her family, she steers the conversation back to me. Each session begins the same way. Have I been sleeping? Any dreams? Nightmares? Panic attacks? Random thoughts? Flashbacks?
Veejay is one of the few people who knows who I am and where I came from. How my real name isn’t Evie Cormac; and that I was born in Albania and I came to Britain in the hull of a fishing boat with my mother and sister, who both died on the journey. Other people have fucked-up childhoods, but not like mine.
‘Last week you were talking about your sister,’ says Veejay, glancing at her notes. ‘Agnesa. She was how much older?’
‘Six years.’
‘What do you remember about her?’
‘She had lovely hair, a lot like yours, and she used to pay me to brush and braid it for her, or promise to buy me doughnuts.’
In that instant, I am transported back to my village, to a street-barrow beside the church, where a hanging spout is dropping balls of dough into hot oil. I can smell them cooking as they puff up and turn golden. The lady tosses them in icing sugar and puts them in a white paper bag, before squirting chocolate sauce over the top. Agnesa lets me have the top doughnuts, which have the most chocolate.
‘Do you miss her?’ asks Veejay.
‘Yes.’
‘How did she die?’
‘She drowned.’
‘Along with your mother.’
‘Yes.’
‘Were their bodies ever found?’
‘No.’
‘Tell me about your mother.’
‘She used to be a seamstress, before she grew sick. Papa called it melancholia, but I don’t know what that means. She spent most of the colder months in bed, but she cheered up when the weather grew warmer.’