An Intertwining Of Fates

Befriending Her

“... Of course befriending her is only the first stage, but easily the most important; gaining her trust is absolutely key.” The doctor was leaning forward across the tooled- leather bounded blotter that dominated the desktop, hands clasped and fingers interlinked, her thumbs tapping together with an excited rapidity that only transiently paused and even then only to be replaced by a circular rubbing of their pads; the latter signalling a pause for thought, the selection of some particularly carefully considered phrasing or, perhaps, an attempt to stall her enthusiasm. If the latter then failure was destined; the mask of professionalism had long since cracked, excitement secretly glinted through fissures and chinks, digits of guilt tentatively probing for a kindred soul.

In Mary Stringer welled up evidence that her enthusiasm had not been misdirected; the woman was clearly intrigued. “And then?” It was not the words, sparse and concise as they were, but rather the delivery that evinced the woman’s concordance.

The doctor continued, her intensely blue eyes glittering from behind severe horn-rimmed glasses to betray her further. “Well, if skilfully embedded in everyday conversation, the use of suggestion runs beneath notice, at least at the conscious level, yet through the use of suggestion one can wield great influence. It is insidious and subtle. I can slip seemingly innocuous phrases into casual conversation; you’re looking tired, the crowd can be worrying, I can’t help but notice that you have a problem with being outdoors don’t you? I really think you rather lack in confidence you know.”

Mary was trying hard not to seem out of her depth; if her meetings with Marion Marchment and Dr Ecclestone had been a revelation then her introduction to this woman had almost been a religious experience, although in truth she could not but entertain a certain scepticism. “And that is enough, simply words and phrases?”

“Yes indeed, that sort of thing, but over time, as I build on the relationship, as her confidence and trust are gained, repeated again and again and developed upon”

“And then what”. There was a certain note of incredulity, a cynicism betrayed in her voice, perhaps even impatience, that she hoped wasn’t too obvious while knowing the futility of disguise before a psychiatrist of such undoubted talent and experience.

“Well, later one can feign concern, worried that her agoraphobia is developing, worsening.”

“Are you really saying that you could convince someone that they suffer some illness, some condition, where none exists?”

“Yes of course, but not to just think they have a problem. Given time and patience the condition can actually be made manifest in the subject, as real and as debilitating as in any sufferer. Believe me, I can integrate phrases into everyday conversations designed to nourish those seeds of doubt once sown. I use phrases such as: ‘I really can see that you’re having problems sweetheart’, ‘is it that feeling of panic again?’ ‘I’m really quite worried that if this continues you will become housebound sweetheart,’ ‘‘I can only help you if you help your self and the first stage in any programme of help is to acknowledge your own problems your limitations’.

In these conversations with the subject my intention is always the same; to gently induce self-doubt, plant little seedlings to grow larger and take root in the subconscious to be gradually accepted as fact.

In a similar way a friendly request may be worded in such a way so as to mask what in actuality is an order: ‘I’m not at all sure that jeans really do your figure justice’ or ‘I think a skirt would be more appropriate don’t you, sweetheart?’.

An introduction to Dr Anne Ecclestone would be the next logical step. She is a great friend of mine as well as a respected colleague and one that shares our common interest as it were. She would be an obvious introduction to professional help. Anne has developed a technique, based on the combined use of hypnosis, relaxation techniques and manipulated film images, that she has used to great effect to treat the most deep seated, intractable and debilitating of phobias. She has become a world renown expert, but without a rather, shall we say, cavalier, attitude to certain ethical considerations, and the provision of private financial support, her research would have long ago stagnated.”

Mary Stringer was puzzled; clearly this woman had not been told of her previous making of Dr Ecclestone’s acquaintance and yet the good doctor herself had arranged this meeting. From her appraisal of the doctor’s character at the time she would have said that such an oversight was unlikely in the extreme; a more professional personage she could not imagine. Mary was intrigued; the doctor must have had good reason for not having previously briefed the woman, that much was obvious, but as to her intentions, therein lay the puzzle. She would not interrupt, she might well learn more through a different perspective of the doctor’s work. Quite what went on in that clinic of hers? She would learn more: “How so?”

“Well it is well known that multiple phobias can arise in certain individuals, sometimes seeming to extend from some originating seed phobia. In the absence of ethical considerations the best way to investigate the aetiology of such a condition, as I see it, is probably to attempt to induce it artificially. This has been pretty much Anne’s approach, for example by exposing her subjects to images calculated to trigger a pre-existing phobia, spiders for example, arachnophobia, cut together and associated with flashes of an otherwise neutral situation, for example an open corn field, a market or perhaps, say, a crowded shopping mall. This, she has shown, can propagate the original concern into the new situation.”

“But what possible relevance has this to my stepdaughter?” True, she could guess, she could certainly see the potential, or so she thought, but she wanted it from the doctor’s mouth, she wanted it laid out explicitly before her.

“Imagine, if you will, such an approach applied so as to reinforce the spoken suggestions she would be exposed to in her everyday experience. Agoraphobia taken to the extreme, encouraged, reinforced, well this is tantamount to bondage for the mind if you will. I know for a fact that Anne would like to investigate other ideas.

For example, once convinced of the reality of her panic attacks, the girl could be reminded of times, perhaps, when deciding what to wear has seemed quite impossible, when her inability to make a decision has brought about the build-up of that awful panic. Anne is quite interested in the way that some people naturally seem to develop such false memories. I know it is something she would love to investigate by the approach of actually implanting such memories. It has only been ethical considerations that have held back that part of her research but now, thanks to Lady Marchment’s support, such limitations are in the past.

But research aside I am sure you can imagine how powerful a technique this could be in developing the sort of mind-set that I am sure you would like to see the young lady adopting. Recognizing and accepting the problems that she would be increasingly encountering with her panic attacks she would gradually become desperate to avoid such attacks at all costs. She would begin to seek to avoid situations which she has learnt are likely to bring about such an attack.”

“What sort of situations, what is the point?”

“Well, I would like to start with a programme of suggestions aimed at developing some sort of agoraphobic leanings, I am sure you can imagine the scope for control under such circumstances. Similarly in connection with such common situations as having to decide what to wear. And, of course, each bad experience she suffers consistently reinforces the ideas forming within her mind; Ideas that I will have seeded.

One can imagine her standing before her wardrobe, heart pounding, head spinning, the awful flood of panic filling her every fibre; would this not be something to be avoided at all costs. Likewise the crowded streets, the open fields. Her room, of course, feels safe, perhaps even the corridor beyond, if holding the hand of her nurse or guardian. But walking outside, alone? This has become unthinkable, something filled with dread. In this you can understand my eventual aim; to see the young lady reduced to a childlike dependence, eventually unable to make even the slightest decision for herself.”

Mary shuddered; there was something terrible, almost insane here. Fantasy had been one thing, and that was how all this had started out in truth, but this woman was serious, Marion Marchment had been serious when she had recommended her. What she was suggesting was horrific, but what if... The woman was still talking, Mary had to force herself to concentrate, bring herself back to the here and now.

“Place her In my hands, our hands, and she is going to have to admit to herself, and others, that she is sick. I would want her to state it herself, in her own voice, that she is mentally ill. My intention would be to eventually progress her until she is ready to join one of Dr Ecclestone’s experimental groups, I believed you have been shown around her facility.”

“Oh yes, very impressive.” She hoped that she wasn’t giving away the state of numb shock that was slowly spreading through her being.

The facility had indeed been impressive but had filled her with trepidation, chilled her to the bone with a Gothic dismay worthy of Poe himself.

The woman went on with an ever-building fervour; there was no stopping her now. “With my guidance, my governance, she will readily come to admit to herself that she needs, so desperately needs, the security that only such an institutionalised and disciplined environment can offer her. The rigid routines, the conditioning, the isolation even the uniform, no matter how humiliating, and believe me, Anne knows all about humiliation.”

Was this woman insane? Were they both insane? Mary found herself questioning reality, was this real? A dream? A subconscious representation of her darkest fantasies? Well perhaps it was.

“She is a brilliant intellect, don’t get me wrong, but at the end of the day I’m not sure that even Anne herself really understands her own motivations at times. There are an awful lot of procedures in her establishment that seem to me to be more about humiliation than having any real therapeutic or scientific relevance.

But let’s be quite clear about this, you have to imagine your stepdaughter basically imprisoned in a psychiatric ward, trapped in a regime that can do nothing other than break her completely. Are you really OK with that, do you really understand the implications and repercussions? Personally I think that is exactly what you’d like to see, am I right?”

Mary was numb, yet excited, embarrassingly so, she hoped it didn’t show. Finally she nodded, dumbly, almost afraid to speak lest she should somehow incriminate herself.

First Impressions

The dark brown leather upholstery, darkened, softened and veined with age, yielded to accept her with the comfort and friendship of a childhood bed. That very comfort and warmth initiated from her a deep yawn, prompting her aunt to suggest that she might recline the seat. As she had to often in the past she demurred; despite the underlying feelings of unease and panic she customarily experienced away from the familiarity of the house she disliked just as much, if not more so, the disorientation and confusion of awakening at some destination or other with little no recollection of the journey having slept throughout. Of late, though, more often than not the latter had been her experience; that her doctor had recently begun to prescribe a stronger sedative played no small part in this and yet without it her agitation would have been so great as to preclude her crossing the threshold of the front door let alone that she might venture further abroad, even in the company of her aunt and even if cocooned within the car. That this particular trip was to be so long, was to terminate in a region of Britain unfamiliar to her and at an establishment the details of which were known to her in only the vaguest manner made her more determined than usual to remain sensible throughout.

The clinic was located in the West Country. That much she knew, Devon or Cornwall, she was uncertain which. Her doctor had been vague, or at least she had thought so but then again she could just as easily have missed or misunderstood something, either way she hadn’t pressed the point for fear of appearing ‘woolly headed’, naive or both.

After all, her doctor knew of the problems she was having, her inability to concentrate, her short attention span - they formed a large part of the diagnosis, embarrassed her immensely, and she was loath to appear any worse than she actually was, even to herself. Then again, denial was all part of it, something she had to face up to, admit to.

Despite her fear of an impending panic attack, her trepidation in the face of the journey ahead, a numb relaxation had begun to settle on her, calming and yet, in cleansing her mind of concern, granting a peculiar clarity of thought and a sharpening of her resolve while at the same time releasing her from her fear of failure in fulfilling that resolution. There was a warm sense of gratitude, gratitude for her aunt’s insistence that she preface the excursion with a warm mug of cocoa and an extra diazepam pill and gratitude for the loving and merciful legacy of the latter. Softly, warmly, calmly, she sank lower in the seat’s familiar and friendly embrace. The gravel of the short curving drive crunched under wheel and she watched as the lawn and neatly bedded roses drifted by, the procession ending with the passing of the two red brick pillars marking the interface between house and garden and the minor public road that ran past. They turned left passing rapidly along a canopy tunnel of curving and kissing treetops in the direction of the town centre; they would meet more major roads well before the latter’s bustle and then would come the monotony of the motorway.

She knew this part of their route well, she could afford to shut her eyes for a while, just for a while, she could listen to the passing road through the soft drone of the engine she knew this road well enough to keep track, she could always look around from time to time... just let her eyes close, just for a while...

Whether through the sedative, the soft music floating from the CD player, the mature song of the classic Bentley’s engine or through some combination she couldn’t be sure but that she had fallen asleep, and a deep slumber at that, she could be certain; the glowing green hands on the walnut surrounded dashboard clock showed 12 o’clock, it was midnight, she had been asleep for over six hours! Her seat had been reclined at some point; it had been its restoration and the accompanying enforced posture change that had aroused her.

Awakened and startled she made a grab for the thick red tartan blanket that still partially covered her yet had slipped down to her lap, gathering it about her shoulders, not against the chill of the air but rather as a self-conscious reflex. The car was quite warm enough, there was no need for outerwear, for cardigans or coats; as her aunt was apt to say “you won’t get the benefit when you get out”. She was never allowed her cape in the car, it travelled occupying its own seat at the back in a neatly folded grey pile surmounted by her beribboned boater. In a logic-defying twist she was always offered the blanket and had ever gratefully accepted; even though seated within the protection of the car she little welcomed the public’s gaze, even if incomplete and fleeting. This was especially the case on this trip, her aunt having insisted that her ‘indoor dress’ be the more comfortable option for such a long journey. Bad enough that she might be seen head and shoulders, ribbon-bowed plaited pigtails, gymslip yoke and school tie, but, although less likely observable from the outside, the frilled legs of her, near knee-length, bloomers peeped well below the hem of the pleated skirt when seated.

Strangely enough, despite the embarrassment she felt, there was nevertheless something reassuring about that uniform and her aunt’s enforcement of it; true it sapped her confidence, seemed to dissolve her will, yet somehow it calmed her. She was hard-pressed to put her finger on it; perhaps it was the symbolism, of being under control, her life under guidance, discipline replacing decision making and lifting the responsibility of an awkward adulthood from her softly sculpted young shoulders. Whatever it was it soothed her and along with the comforting blanket and deep soft seat the outcome was forgone.

The gates lying ahead were an ornate insurmountable range of black spike-topped iron, floodlit from either side from where they were noticeably under the observation of a pair of closed-circuit security cameras. They were already smoothly gliding open as they approached, the car slowing to cruise through and doing so well before the gates had reached the limit of the travel such was their breadth and that of the grand driveway beyond.

Ahead lay a gravel road, for the term, driveway, really did not do justice. There was a tight curving bend to the left and then one to the right, the route meandering through a forest of tall pine backlit by glistening shafts of frosty moonlight. Somewhere in the distance a fox barked, clearly audible over the quiet engine’s hum and the soft hiss of tires on gravel so fine as to be perhaps better described as coarse sand.

In due course the wood land opened out revealing the night sky to be of the densest black velvet, stained silver by the half-moon’s smile and studded with diamond-sharp stars massed in a density of constellations that she had never before seen, certainly not in the city, not even in the countryside, not really; clearly they were a very long way from the nearest town or even village. Ahead lay a final straight section cutting across an open field of shimmering silver waves that suggested, as far as could be perceived in the moonlight, wheat balanced on the very edge of harvest. Only in the far distance was the pristine sky disturbed; the source of this sacrilegious pollution, in due course, revealed as the floodlit glare of a second set of gates every bit as imposing as the first but of a more modernistic functional appearance.

The flanking walls of dark stone were surmounted by brick and then in turn by an array of radially arranged iron security spikes, the whole being of perhaps 4 m in height. As before so did these gates swing open upon their approach but did so with an unhurried relaxed attitude requiring that they momentarily halt, granting the travellers a little time to absorb their surroundings before moving on. In contrast with the first set through which they had passed and that had seemed strangely un-remarked of by either name or notice, here there stood to either side a pair of large illuminated signboards proudly displaying an heraldic shield device, like some early-age logo, surrounded by an ornate arcing script of black edged gold lettering proclaiming: St Mary’s retreat and private sanatorium.

Beyond that shifting forest of black steel bars lay the discreetly lit facade of the main building, as imposing as it was bizarre. Standing a fair four stories of red brick, much of it ornamental, the facade was intersected vertically at regular intervals by fluted, semi-circular, white marble pillars standing proud from the surrounding brickwork with Norman-arched stained-glass windows nestling between, each framed in carved barley sugar twist sandstone surrounds.

Ivy clothed much of the facade, climbing pillars apparently willy-nilly and yet intentionally, having been carefully trained around each window and notable architectural feature. From beneath the gabled eaves gargoyles bled with menacing intent yet diligently kept guard, as at the upper corners of each window and above the main entrance. The latter, hidden in shadow and recessed back in a stepped stone-arched portico, symmetrically occupied the centre of the first floor and was reached by way of two flights of brick framed marble staircases that swept symmetrically up either side of the facade from the curving terminus of the driveway at ground-level. Their, still distant, impression was of some Victorian neo-Gothic folly, the whim of some long dead eccentric benefactor; a hospital for the needy, perhaps, built as much as an egotistical memorial as to fulfil any truly altruistic leaning.

The final 200 metres or so passed between neat hedges and conifers: A grand avenue of topiary that could only hint at the formal gardens beyond and around which they now skirted. Those symmetrical forms, so beloved of the 17th and 18th centuries, presently lay unseen and secret yet nary a car’s length to either side; each radiating from an identically ornate fountain-centred fish pond and each nested, private and protected, safe from the eye of any new arrival or visitor.

Directly ahead and looming increasingly large, emerging slowly from within the shadows cast by the surmounting monumental stone staircase, double gates of dark oak began to dominate the ground-level façade. Lying central to the approaching building these lay beneath the curves of the twin marble staircases that arose from either side to meet at a pillar flanked terrace where upon opened out the grand doors of the main entrance.

The drive way took on a gentle decline, curving down to meet the gated archway at a point sufficiently lowered, the girl guessed, as to provide sufficient clearance for a coach and horses in days gone by. They came smoothly to a halt, the dark oak panels dew-glistening in the headlights and the whole taking on an unsettling impression of prison gates, a vision made all the more concrete by the opening of a door hidden inset within the left-hand gate revealing to the probing fan of light the figure of a woman dressed in the immaculate trim-belted and white piped navy blue dress of a hospital matron. Her appearance was particularly poignant to the girl, the woman’s status instantly recognisable by comparison with her aunt’s own uniform that she had seemed to have become so fond of wearing in recent times. Blonde hair was neatly pinned in an austere bun above a face perhaps best described as handsome rather than beautiful and possessed of an aspect at first worryingly stern but that quickly dissolved into a reassuringly welcoming smile, instantaneously shifting the scene far removed from the sinister overtones that had seemed so tangible only moments previously.

The woman disappeared back inside. The sharp slam of the door was immediately followed by the deeply-resonant hollow-trunked sound of a lock releasing. The panelled gates swung inwards admitting both car and occupants into a white flagstone courtyard centred on a golden floodlit fountain. The latter being in the form of a pair of affectionately-embracing and entangled angels, one with wings spread, the other with wings folded, each with one arm held erect, the two coming together overhead with intertwined fingers from where issued a golden umbrella of water reaching up perhaps a further metre or so in height.

They glided to a halt alongside a softly illuminated carved oak door, the uniformed woman, who had been following briskly behind, coming up alongside the passenger door as they did so. Behind them the gates, presumably electrically operated, had resumed their protective embrace leaving, upon the cutting of the engine, only the fountain’s rainfall and a peaceful seclusion attainable only in such a privately enclosed world-space as this.

Leaning forward, ducking down a little to improve her view, the nervous passenger was looking up and around through the windscreen and side windows, cautiously relieved that this new world should be so safely swaddled and nested. The courtyard was flanked on all sides by four ivy clad stories rising cliff-like in brick and stone and overseen at the rear centre by a green-spired clock tower; the burnished copper of youth having long surrendered to verdigris in maturity.

The woman leant forward, opening the door while simultaneously offering the support of her arm, with an accompanying lost-friend smile and warm words of welcome. Apparently oblivious to the girl’s floundering and embarrassed scrabbling for her cape on the back seat, she insistently yet gently ushered her from the car. Briskly she shepherded the flustered and still disorientated girl the short distance to the mediaeval styled arched door, adding voiced agreement to her aunt’s view that, notwithstanding the night’s chill, the few metres to be traversed did not warrant the added complication of outerwear so soon to be discarded, seemingly insensitive that the girl’s motive might be other than to gain the additional warmth.

A couple of paces beyond the iron-furnished oaken door lay one of more modern design, realised in smoked glass, and beyond that, tastefully and extensively lit in softly subdued tones, lay an expanse of white marble tiled flooring a large proportion of which was taken up by a mosaic depicting the coat of arms that she had seen on the signs upon their approach but here including a Latin motto above and below: St Mary’s asylum, 1858. That this latter came into view side-on confirmed the impression of their entrance having been by way of some minor side door. Rich oak panelling seemed to cover every surface bar floor and ceiling, they were within a balconied atrium of three stories surveyed all about by the eyes of rather officious portraiture - men and women of stature and of a bygone age their importance writ large in their grace and style.

To their right the party passed one wing of an impressive dark oak staircase, that swept majestically and symmetrically from either side of the hall, swathed in ruby red carpeting and guarded by two imposing oak carved griffins. This wooden alp, in actuality being situated to the rear of the space, presented a dramatic enough backdrop to greet any entering, more conventionally, through the main doors, yet was no less imposing when approached from there, more oblique, angle.

Straight ahead, positioned centrally in front of the grand staircase, the horseshoe desk both commanded the space and by dint of the computer screens, keyboards and telephones situated behind it, represented the only visible concession to modernity. Hanging directly above the latter, and of a curvature to match, a gently illuminated glass panel hung from discreet chains or wires, it proved impossible to discern which, this spelling out in glowing blue letters: Reception.

Despite the late hour two young women sat illuminated by the side light issuing from curved brass desk lamps.

Each wore the light-blue dress typifying a British nurse’s uniform, the details of which, though, spoke of an expensive exclusivity far removed from a typical hospital of the day. Both nurses had stood upon the party’s approach, the careful detailed tailoring of their dresses being apparent even in that half-light. Waists were neatly cinched by elasticated nurse’s belts of the self-same blue fastening by an elaborate silver buckle rather than by the usual simple clasp, long sleeves were terminated in neat white cuffs edged with blue piping, nurses caps of white were perched on neatly pinned hair and around the shoulders each wore a matching blue tippet against the chill of the night air, this being trimmed with white piping.

If not for the medical uniforms and a certain atmosphere of professional efficiency there was brought to mind the impression of a high-class hotel, a celebrity-ridden ‘character’ retreat of impeccable stately home or castle pedigree and suitably exclusive - mere wealth in itself would not suffice to give entry here.

That this establishment was, indeed, every bit as celebrity-ridden and exclusive as it appeared she knew from what the doctor had told her and yet the opulence of the interior, the imposing architecture without, the security precautions, all were far beyond the images that had been conjured in her mind’s eye all those weeks before. A retreat for the rich and famous, those with problems real or imaginary, offering cosseting where necessary, pandering to foibles but nevertheless offering rehabilitation for those abusing, and abused by, various substances and all vouchsafed beyond the prying eyes and lenses of even the most determined paparazzo.

The girl could feel herself physically shrinking as they approached the desk; yet another two pairs of eyes now swept her up and down, were regarding her, appraising her, from her bizarrely high-heeled and silver buckled ‘Mary-Janes’ to her childishly beribboned and pigtailed hair. She could feel their eyes pausing and lingering around the fleetingly step-synchronised flashes of bloomer-flounces around her skirt hem, could feel her heavy heart further petrified, could feel the fireside-burning spreading further across her cheeks. One of the nurses, the dark eyed one, stifled a giggle, she was sure of it. The other looked up and smiled and then just as quickly looked away only to reface the approaching group with a sort of poorly controlled condescending poker face, the ‘tell’ visible as a twitching in the corners of her generously lipped mouth as if to give into a smile, even the slightest, would be to give away too much.

From behind her a woman’s voice, cultured, educated, addressed her aunt. Words of greeting and other pleasantries were exchanged, then there were inquiries as to the ease or otherwise of their journey. Throughout there was the betrayal of a certain familiarity that she found surprising, although such surprise was reassuringly tempered by the inference that this familiarity had been mostly mediated through a third-party, being her doctor, and developed further through the various telephone arrangements that had had to be made. Quite why she should have been unsettled by this she couldn’t say, it was something buried deep in her subconscious, some kind of primal alarm, some hunch that all was not quit right.

Then a note of concern: “We were expecting her to be somewhat older, her application stated that she is eighteen years and six months. Forgive my asking but there are strict lower age limits legally applicable to medical research subjects. How old is she precisely? I take it that you can confirm that she is over eighteen?”

“Yes of course I can, I have all of the legal documentation with me here; I always have her passport and identity card with me for safe keeping, she is so woolly headed she’d only go and lose them if it were left to her.”

She couldn’t help but be miffed at this inference not to mention being put out by the way the woman continually seemed to insist on directing all enquiries about her through her aunt, as if she were somehow too stupid to answer for herself.

“Oh, that’s just fine”, the woman was examining the proffered passport. “It’s just that she looks so young, I guess it is the school uniform. One doesn’t come across many girls of her age still in school uniform these days. So few schools even have a uniform nowadays and fewer still enforce it for their older pupils, how standards have slipped over the years.” There came a subtle clearing of the throat, faintly indicative of embarrassment. “I’m not at all familiar with that particular uniform; it is a trifle unusual, if you don’t me saying so. Where does she attend, somewhere quite exclusive one would imagine, is she a boarder?”

“Strictly speaking she left school two years ago but, what with her illness and the fraught family circumstances that I spoke to you about on the ‘phone, we have had to postpone her university placement for the time being. As an interim measure I have been continuing her education at home, to a limited extent you must understand. She is not particularly gifted academically, personally I would question the wisdom behind her being offered a place to begin with but we are doing our best to bring her along, within her limitations of course.”

“And the uniform?”

“At her psychiatrist’s suggestion; she felt it would be of benefit to all concerned. She is of the belief that, in some such cases, the trauma, the suffering through which the girl has so recently passed and, in some senses, is still passing, may best be relieved by what she describes as ‘total care’. Apparently the problem stems from modern society’s insistence on the assumption of the mantle of adulthood at an ever decreasing age; not everyone is quite ready to grow up, are they sweetheart?” She turned to face the shrinking-violet girl, the last comment having clearly been aimed squarely at her.

There was a short teetering embarrassed pause before a tiny voice came with an uncertainty and hesitancy suggestive of one well below her biological age: “Y,yes, I,I mean n,no aunty.”

The girl’s aunt smiled back her approval before returning her focus to the uniformed woman walking alongside; reinforcement was important, she had always to be consistent. She went on: “With such cases she believes that discipline and restriction, in freeing the patient from the burden of choice, can, ironically, in the long-term be emancipating. In freeing her of the yoke of responsibility we are allowing her to reclaim a modicum of the carelessness of childhood, releasing her from the stranglehold of marketing manipulation, the slavery that is ‘peer pressure’ not to mention the mindless indenture to fashion one so often sees these days.”

The matron was nodding enthusiastically. “And very good to see it is too! Please forgive me if I sounded critical in any way, I was merely intrigued. Believe me, I wholeheartedly agree with your decision. We get young women coming here from a variety of backgrounds and virtually all seem to share in common a particular attitude. It is clearly evident of the failure of modern society to place sufficient emphasis on standards of behaviour, decorum and discipline.

Not that they don’t quickly show improvement once in our hands of course, but it is reassuring to come across a young lady so conspicuously kept under control, I feel I really must congratulate you. “

“Thank you”

Having reached the reception desk and acknowledge the nurses, both of whom greeted her with a smart “good evening, Matron” their guide turned to address then both, reclining back slightly against the desk front, her right forearm resting on the desktop for support.

“I think it will stand her in good stead when she comes under the research protocols in operation here. I’m not sure what the doctor has told you in this regard but the range of behavioural and psychological research projects carried out here involve quite exquisitely delicate experimental manipulations that can easily be disturbed by external influences.

We have to control against introducing any confounding variables that might mask or invalidate otherwise valuable results. We try to take into account, and control for, all foreseeable sources of ‘noise’ in the data, I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, of course.”

The girl was looking lost now, she was not at all sure that she understood; her interest had ever been in the arts; painting, drawing, design and avant-garde dance were her world. Such terms as had just been used were totally nonsensical to her and had swept past her like the will-o’-the-wisp. Her aunt on the other hand was nodding with a smile of enlightened agreement.

The woman went on: “The basic framework is an extension of the so-called ‘Stanford Experiment’ but here the exploration is more keenly focused and targeted at just one side of the equation. The test subjects comprise a single group that we like to refer to as ‘the patients’, volunteers that have been recruited through a variety of paths. The staff on the other hand, in contrast to the Stanford protocol, are all professionals, screened and hand-picked by way of an entire battery of psychometric testing, interviews, personality profiling and, quite intrusive, personal background checks.”

The girl shot her aunt a nervous sideways glance, the latter again nodding her knowing agreement, her continued smile buoying the girls trust, lifting the moment of uncertainty.

A pause had arisen whether by chance or by design, so as to encourage interrogation; it was duly filled by her aunt’s softly-cultured tones and informed query: “I’m intrigued, what were your criteria?”

“Without betraying confidentiality I cannot go into much detail but suffice it to say that areas such as sexual predilection, ethical standpoint and moral framework were extensively probed. In addition we were looking for a natural propensity towards dominance in both working and personal relationships and, of course, a solid background in psychiatric nursing.”

The girl was beginning to feel not a little afraid, what had she let herself in for? She was not at all sure she liked the sound of any of this, she again glanced nervously at her aunt and, seeing the latter’s smile broadening still further, in her trusting way, decided that the two women were sharing a joke at her expense.

To say that they were sharing some amusement would not have been an untruth, that it was at her expense was doubly true, that it was a joke per se would depend on one’s standpoint. Indeed her aunt had known something of all of this beforehand of course but she had wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. In her mind, her internal dialogue voiced what the matron had only been able to infer: They had assembled a hand-picked team of dominant lesbian sociopaths. They had placed, in a world designed around their darkest fantasies, a group of women totally lacking of conscience, morals and ethics yet skilled in manipulation and control and allowed them the total and unopposed control of a group of attractive adolescent girls. Of such material Gothic horrors are made, but this was a terror so beautifully crafted as to be considered no less than a work of art.

The issue of social compliance in this connection was still to be fully explored but this most definitely went far beyond the scope of the original Stanford experiment and it certainly wasn’t going to be interrupted after a mere few days. Her thoughts were interrupted by Matron’s continuance of her explanation.

“Of course within the basic scaffold small subgroups exist through which much of our work in such areas as the pathogenesis of phobias and the problems of institutionalisation in the long term mentally ill are carried out.

Tonight you can both stay in a guest rooms here in the main building.” Then, turning to the girl with a warm smile of welcome: “Tomorrow you will be transferred to the experimental suite, a room is already for you.” Returning her attention to the girl’s aunt she went on: “The measurements you sent us looked to have been just fine. As I believe I explained in the letter I sent you, we require all our test subjects to wear a uniform. She can try on hers in the morning before you leave, we generally prefer the subjects to be in their uniform before entering the unit if at all possible.” Her attention having once again swung back to the girl she continued: “Some of our subjects have had a problem with this part of the protocol in the past but you must try to understand, it really is a very necessary component. for one, it helps ensure that the staff treat all of the subjects equally. We find it reduces the problems associated with favouritism and bias, eliminates intra-group competition and aids group cohesion and identity.

They had begun walking again now, towards, then up, the imposing height of the broad winding staircase. The matron was still talking, although clearly now addressing the girls aunt: “Of course the other advantage inherent in our adoption of uniforms for both test subjects and staff is in highlighting the limits of social compliance when taken to an extreme extent, that is, in an environment wherein the distinction and contrast between two groups has been deliberately sharpened well beyond that ever encountered in the outside world.

All our staff members, Matron and the nurses, wear uniforms fairly typical of a medical institution such as this and that are generally accepted to endow and represent some level of authority. It must be said, though, that we have made some stylistic changes above and beyond that encountered in the usual day-to-day nursing uniforms specifically in order to enhance the authoritative attributes. By way of contrast, the uniform that has been developed for our test subjects, our patients as we like to think of them, has been designed and styled so as to strongly suggest, both to the wearer and those around them, an element of subservience.”

Somehow the girl, following behind the two women, had missed entirely the gist of this last statement. Tiredness had again overcome her and, despite her novel surroundings, she was finding herself trudging up the long flight through a fog of exhaustion and confusion. In this, at least, there was some mercy; she had been spared the anxiety that might otherwise so easily have her overcome her.

The hotel atmosphere, the ‘feel’, extended into and throughout the corridors. Dark oak doors lined either side, each numbered and richly decorated with the carefully carved counterparts of the Ivy that clung to the exterior, and each separated from the next by a series of, obviously original, oils and watercolours depicting various country scenes. Although her aunt was clearly taken by many of the works that they passed, the girl, on the other hand, found herself shying away from those depicting open panoramas and landscapes. She hated herself for it, felt faintly ridiculous that she should have let her agoraphobia get to this point, to get the better of her to such an extent she couldn’t even bear to look at a painting.

Her room was situated next to her aunt’s; there was a connecting door should she become upset at any point and both rooms were en suite. As always the more exclusive clients had to have their anonymity protected, there could be no wandering around in the corridors; the outside door to her room was to be locked until morning. Left alone she looked about her; the room was spacious yet not so large as to risk unnerving her. The pink satin covered four-poster called to her of the welcome of its luxuriant softness and she went to sit on its edge, the material’s soft chill apparent through the thin fabric of her bloomers, her short skirt having ridden up. A long white satin nightdress was laid out across the bottom of the bed and on the floor a wicker laundry basket waited hungrily. She was alone, but that was a blessing, there were no longer the appraising laughing eyes and she could at last discard that ridiculous ‘school’ uniform that her aunt always insisted she wear.

She kept her shower short, a heavy tiredness still threatening to overcome her. Having dried herself she slipped the nightdress over her head, shimmying it down over her slender shoulders, a shiver of delight running down her spine at the cool caress of the fabric where it flowed languidly across her rapidly stiffening nipples. Despite everything, despite her customary appearance, she was a woman and a highly sensual one at that; a woman with a woman’s needs.

Instinctively her hands reached behind her. Nimble fingers ran gingerly across and around the curvature of her buttocks where thin lines of tender wheal-raised flesh quivered at the juxtaposition of inflamed heat against the cold slippery touch of the fabric, inducing a sensual metamorphosis; the legacy of near-unbearable pain transformed as if by some cast spell. The raised edges of each wheal, a parallel band of three curving across and around each buttock cheek, stood out through the fine fabric, each being of perhaps one and a half times the width of a pencil, but certainly no greater. As she had once heard her aunt comment to one of her acquaintances with a particularly mortifying clarity; “...a thin cane is a flexible cane and a flexible cane is key to a more complete punishment”, how true indeed. Either side of this band of chastisement she could make out less defined, less tender swellings of more historic origin. She traced each sensually to and fro; there it was again, that excitement, building. Each wheal was a reminder that she was under control, that her life was controlled, that she was controlled.

She was becoming breathless, had to stop, perhaps in bed, later, mustn’t get caught; her aunt would be horrified, she didn’t allow such things. That last thought itself, that she wasn’t allowed the release she so desperately craved, that the decision wasn’t hers, was almost enough in itself to push her over the top. Reluctantly she shifted her attention elsewhere; it would be safer later.

She explored the room further, taking care not to trip on the minor train of fabric that trailed behind her. Everything was there, television, radio, music centre, all of it top-flight equipment. By the bed an extra CD layer had been added and was connected to a pillow speaker much as she used at home. She had previously voiced concern that she might not be able to sleep without her doctor’s relaxation recordings.

She did momentarily try the television, it had been so long, she could find nothing but static on any channel yet her tiredness blunted her disappointment. She settled down under the covers, turned on the CD player and clicked off the bedside lamp. Her doctor’s familiar, cooing, voice drifted with her across the floating landscape of clouds, dreams and warm comfort. There would be some bad moments, they always were; sometimes there were fields, spiders scurried in those fields, sometimes crowds scurried like those spiders, crowds in streets, crowds in shops and market places. But mostly there would be a soft cocooning, small comforting and safe bedrooms, all girlish and cradled in safety. Home was safe, her room was safe. She would dream of being warm, safe and alone in her room, that was what the recording would ensure, what her doctor would ensure, that was why she needed it so much. Once she used to fear sleep, fear the dreams, but not any more, not once her recording was playing.

The morning bloomed brightly through the stained glass of the window, the multi-hued shafts segregating the room with an arbitrarily shifting kaleidoscopic colour coding. She stretched out, the space around her, the king-size bed, momentarily disconcerting. Something had roused her, of that much she was certain, quite what it had been she knew not. There was some residual half-dredged recollection of a ringing bell yet she could see no source and all was now quiet save a general hubbub background of birdsong and the occasional raucous call of what she took to be a peacock. There was a confused grogginess about her, a mental fog, she almost felt hung-over, almost, but not quite, that was not quite it; it was more a weary, heavy, wooliness. Where what she?

As if in answer a nurse floated in through the shimmering coloured haze, an apparition in blue and white proffering a breakfast of fantastic proportion and variety. Figs, mangoes and fresh yoghurt vied with steaming scrambled egg, bacon and black pudding for her attention and all laid out on the glass top of an ornately carved wooden tray.

Breakfasted and having attended to her usual morning ablutions she found herself at a loss as to how to progress. The laundry basket had long gone on its way and she realised that she had not brought her suitcase from the car the previous night. She had the nightdress they had provided her with but little else. Again an answer had come to her unspoken question. It was uncanny; it was almost as if someone were reading her mind!

There were two sharp raps upon her door and then there was yet another nurse, this one accompanying a wheelchair and proffering a bottle-green quilted housecoat that she carried draped over one arm and that, even in that position, as practical as it undoubtedly was, appeared quite hideous through her adolescent eyes. With what rapidity that teenage sensibility was to be expanded and challenged further we can only guess at. Suffice it to say that in quick succession she was to learn of her aunt’s unexpectedly early departure, necessitated by the pressure of business, her eminent transferral to the experimental unit and the hospital’s ruling that all patients be transferred by wheelchair regardless of their apparent fortitude.

The pep-talk took up the time; she was fortunate indeed to get accepted on such a program, she was to both confront and overcome her limitations and then, with their help, she would undoubtedly be offered a place at a much more prestigious university, when the time came, than the one to which she was originally destined. Moreover she would be leaving financially secure, she would be far more advantageously placed than the average student.

They had seemed to have traversed the network of affluent richly decorated passageways in mere moments, they had reached the lift and with the bleeping acceptance of a multi-digit code, preceded by the turning of a key, they were inside, the doors gliding closed with the faintest of clicks. A key was inserted into a control panel and turned. There came the gentlest of movements, barely a shudder and then only initially, then faint droning hum. There seemed no perception of movement. Ascending? Descending? She had no idea.

The nurse had come to the close of her little presentation as they had arrived at the lift and now stood silently alongside the wheelchair, the girl having been left facing the rear wall, there being insufficient room to manoeuvre the chair around once the doors had shut. She tried looking back over her shoulder, oddly there appeared to be no floor indicator, in fact there appeared to be no indicator of any sort. The inside of the lift appear to be featureless apart from the keyhole in the control panel and even that lacked any sort of indication or markings. The floor was covered in a thick white carpet, the walls and ceiling were every bit as white but with the appearance of some softly padded plastic material or fabric. How she was to come to dread this monotony of white she had as yet had little conception.

The nurse had simply inserted a key and turned it clockwise, perhaps a quarter turn. There was something about the movement, a certain discontinuity encoded as little time-lapses of hesitation, that suggested a series of alternative orientations were available, perhaps representing different floors. She decided that it must be the case but it was impossible to be sure. For while she mused over the rationale behind such a poorly designed and ambiguous system, for how long she couldn’t tell, she always seemed to be in such a fog these days, calm, true, but muddled. Time often seemed to ebb and flow around her these days, it went quickly, it went slowly. What had she been thinking about? What was it? It was so annoying; she couldn’t quite recollect, something to do with the lift controls? She just couldn’t quite recall ...

The door hissed open. A nurse seemed to emerged from the adjacent wall like a ghost, her white uniform blurring the boundary between woman and structure. To some degree she had expected the clinical whiteness, just not to this extent, not taken to such sense-distorting perfection.

To her left the gently curving reception desk hid yet another nurse, as equally white-camouflaged as the first and appearing to almost to float like some apparition, discorporate within the contrast-impoverished landscape that was her habitat.

Pleasantries were minimal, a clipboard was handed to the reception desk nurse, her soft peach complexion exaggerated by the framing of her nun-like headdress, and duly signed. With that, her escort departed.

The girl had gone to stand but was asked to stay seated. Moments later they were on the move, the reception desk nurse pushing, her companion taking up the lead, perhaps two paces ahead. All around a silence reigned beyond any she had ever heard, if such an observation could ever be sensible. It was silent yet not quite silent. As she became acclimatised so she became aware of the soft rustle of the nurses’ dresses, the rhythmic swish of nylon-clad legs. Tiny, insignificant, details assumed greater stature and new worth. She was learning the importance of observation; in time such minutiae would become an obsession.

Ahead, the nurse’s full hips swung with pendulum fascination within the closely-fitted confines of her skirt. But it was something else that held the girl’s attention. It hung from the nurse’s belt, the woman having placed a hand against her right hip to steady its swing; every bit as long and thin as her aunt’s cane yet white and lacking even the few ridges and irregularities expected and accepted of the smoothest rattan. There was a perfection to the finish, a sheen that suggested some form of plastic or, perhaps, glass fibre had been employed in its manufacture; the lower section rippled with each step, despite the woman’s steadying hand, displaying a whip-like behaviour suggestive of an extreme, serpentine, flexibility.

It certainly could not be as it appeared of course; such a thing would be illegal no matter what waivers she might have signed. Obviously there was some sort of legitimate function for such a device, although, try as she may, she was unable to fathom any likely medical scenario that would require a long thin whippy length of plastic rod. Then again, who suffered corporal punishment nowadays, let alone in an institutional environment?, It would be more than they, or anyone else for that matter, would dare do these days, surely.

And yet was she not, herself, an exception? Of course there always had to be the exception to prove the rule, wasn’t that what they said? Perhaps she was that exception? Besides, had not even she had cause to question the legitimacy of her aunt’s introduction of it into their relationship? Had she not, on more than one occasion, entertained the notion that, as unlikely as it seemed, her aunt perhaps had some covert motive, that some sort of illicit satisfaction was to be wrung from her wielding of her cane. Always, though, her conclusion had been the same: It had to be this way, it was the only thing that would work with her, help her, she had deserved it. It was ‘tough love’, but did it have to be quite so tough? Her aunt had the right and she accepted that fact yet hated herself for her own docile acceptance. Why did she always seem to end up defending her aunt’s treatment of her? Why, even in her own mind, did she always have to come up with these constant excuses for her aunt’s behaviour, not to mention her own submission? Somehow she couldn’t quite fathom, perhaps she never would, it was just the way it was. If anything it was diagnostic of her illness and yet that notion, in itself, only served to underline her aunt’s integrity and add truth to her words...

Again her thoughts were interrupted; they had arrived. Before them stood a white door. A door as unremarkable in its plainness as it was extraordinary in its delineation, or rather its lack of delineation previous to its swinging out from the wall. Few barriers guarded greater transitions than that to be experienced by one crossing that threshold. Ahead, and standing aside so as to give passage to the wheelchair in which the girl now sat so apprehensively, the nurse bent at the waist, sweeping her right arm arcing through the air in an over exaggerated, almost ironic, gesture, welcoming her new patient to her new world. One girl’s world, for the next three months anyway.

A Funeral: In Finality a New Beginning?

“Was it the dreams again?” Real concern, Julia’s voice was a beacon cutting through the mental fog of sleep.

Sweat soaked her through, saturated her bedding, the girl was shaking. The woman braced her with one arm around her shoulders while arranging the pillows, so as to support her back as she sat up, with the other. There was a mug of warm milk waiting by her bedside and the usual brace of green and gold capsules.

A dream, Just a dream?. Not just a dream, that dream, that nightmare, again. How often had she awoken from it now, just like today. Why did it have to be today of all days? Wasn’t it the funeral today? Where was she?

Julia’s presence was somehow confusing, although, as always, she was grateful for it and for Julia’s smiling reassurance. Susan Stringer looked around, her mind heavy, slow; she was in her room at home. It was coming back to her, it was the day of the funeral, that was why Julia was here, she had been staying over for the last few days to help out with the arrangements. Oh God, Oh God! It was today, at 10 o’clock, she was shaking again, sweating profusely in panic. Julia passed her the capsules then held the mug up to her lips for her to wash them down, she would hear no argument.

The procession snaked up and down avenues lined with London Plane trees passing two-storey terraced houses little changed since their 1880s inception. This had been his origin, his making, her father; they passed the house in which he had been born, the two houses in which he had subsequently been brought up throughout the later phases of those early years and, finally, they passed his first school.

The estate had been very different then of course, a private estate owned by the Church and built originally to house 19th-century railway workers. Later Westminster council had purchased the entire estate -the lowest point in its history some would say, the area deteriorating to the point of becoming downright dangerous to be in, at least after dark. Later still, many of the homes had been sold off to the residents; the resulting upsurge in pride had since transformed the area. Baskets of flowers now decorated doorways, flower boxes brightened window sills from behind carefully painted ornate barley-sugar twist guard rails of black iron. The Queen’s Park estate, nice enough, now, yet lacking the gentrification typified by Notting Hill, merely a canal’s width and a couple of main roads distant and just as equivalently in the shadow of the swaggering sun-blotting giant that is Trellik Tower.

These houses, though, lacked the grand scale of Notting Hill, little more than two-up-two-down brick-built semi-cottages huddling behind tiny front gardens, many still sporting privet hedges, with a plaque of stone over the front door decorated with a monogram and the date of building. At each turn a pair of spired roofs identified the corner houses, providing a faintly churchlike character to the welcome and a preparation for the idiosyncratic architecture lying beyond.

And then they were pulling out onto the grey bleakness of the Harrow Road, its only saving graces being the opening up of the view to the canal and the continued survival of the local library building. A short drive through the early lunchtime traffic saw them soon passing under the pale cream stone arch, the expanse of All Souls Cemetery, Kensal Green, opening up to accept them.

Throughout it was as if she was floating dreamlike; somehow it just wasn’t real, she felt detached, but mercifully so. There had been ample enough time to reflect, this was all for the best really, a merciful release for her father and relief from her torture; he had been an active man, he would not have dealt well with the infirmity, the debility. That last stroke had been devastating, the damage widespread; had he survived he would have been left totally dependent, a prisoner in his own body. This had been the severest of a series of four such episodes, each more crippling than the last, the first of which had struck him barely 6 months ago. His death had not been unexpected but, nevertheless, she had had no option other than to witness his deterioration and with that, despite Julia’s support, her own.

Yet, in truth, without Julia’s support she couldn’t have got through it: it had been Julia who had suggested and arranged the counselling sessions that had helped so much, Julia who had suggested that she delay her university placement. And she had been right too; she could see what Susan couldn’t, that she wasn’t ready for it, wouldn’t be ready for it for quite some time, that she would need time to convalesce. Julia had handled it all for her; she had written to the relevant people, obtained assurances that her place would be kept open. Yes Julia had been wonderful throughout, she would be forever grateful; the consultations with her private doctor would not have come cheap yet without Julia’s insistence she wouldn’t have even recognised that she needed help. Without Julia’s persuasion she would never have adopted the relaxation techniques the doctor had recommended nor accepted the use of the sedatives she prescribed, no matter how mild, how gentle. She knew now that without these things and without the concerted support of these two women, Julia and her doctor, she would not have gotten even this far.

Her stepmother was the first to emerge from the leading limousine. Susan had opted to travel in the third, or rather she had had the decision made for her; Julia had made so many decisions for her over the last six months, she always seemed to know what was for the best. As always she was closely accompanied by the supportive Julia, she was kept well away from the upsetting sight of her stepmother and well back from the infinitely more upsetting sight of her father’s coffin; Julia had been right again.

Then, with grim inevitability, it was her turn to step out, she did so unsteadily gripping Julia’s arm for support, Julia in her turn momentarily entertaining the notion that she had the girl somewhat over-sedated. In the event, Susan’s unsteady gait went virtually unnoticed as did her slightly insensible, stupefied expression, most eyes being focused on the graveside and the ‘grieving’ widow.

True, the girl’s stepmother glanced across from time to time but showed little concern nor interest. Julia was taking the greatest of care to guide the girl, holding her close with a comforting arm round the shoulders.

All along it had been Julia that had orchestrated Susan’s support and treatment; she had been a nurse, she was professional, responsible, she had recognised that the gentle sedatives, originally prescribed for the girl, would become insufficient but she knew also that a girl as independent as Susan, or rather as Susan had been, would be apt to reject the sense of dependency that came with heavier sedation. As the girl’s father’s condition had deteriorated, as the girl had become more upset, more amenable to support, so she had gradually increased the dose.

It had always been clear to her that the girl was going to need greater support, particularly towards the end and especially on this day - she had been careful, systematically monitoring the efficacy of each increment and ensuring that the changes would remain virtually imperceptible to her patient. More recently, though, she had been able to introduce greater hikes in Susan’s medication, the girl having become far less conscious of the effects. True, Susan had, on occasion, exhibited evidence of having suffered brief amnesic episodes and it was true that, of late, those episodes were becoming more frequent but Julia, with her usual diligence, had been monitoring the situation.

To Julia this was an acceptable side effect; it only affected a relatively short period, at the peak of the dose, before the effects of the drug began to wear off. The girl was clearly not aware of these lapses and in many ways it was seen as beneficial. Indeed, it had been expected; Julia had kept careful records, subtly testing the girl without her being aware, assaying the effect at each increment by way of carefully structured probing questioning and feeding back the data to the girl’s doctor. She estimated that at the next increment there would be reached a consistency of amnesic episodes, in that such an episode would occur with each provision of the girl’s medication. If this proved the case they would plateau the dose, it would be then left to Julia to modulate the dose so as to tailor the length of each amnesic period to their requirements, if not then the dose would be incremented once more.

The weather seemed to conspire with the mood, overcast yet allowing for enough irony as to, on occasion, paint the distant chapel with shifting shafts of bright gold. Above them and all around the horse chestnut canopy seemed to be prematurely mottled in reds and variegated golds, autumnal even though only, in truth, late August.

There was a silence around the graveyard, a peace beyond the senses, the silence of lichen and mould and dank fallen pre-autumn leaves. There was an odour too, one that she associated with such places, had done since she was at school, when she had spent many a summer’s afternoon with friends wandering, sitting, sometimes smoking, and not always tobacco, doing anything in fact rather than suffer maths or domestic science. Such places then had seemed gifts of salvation but that smell had been ever present and now permeated throughout those memories; death, she supposed, although, in truth, more likely the odour of some plant favouring soil enriched by mechanisms upon which she would rather not ponder nor dwell.

There was something else hanging on the air, the canal perhaps? She couldn’t be sure what it was only that there was an oily industrial legacy to it and that it carried a darkness with it that seemed to emanate from the skeletal and obsolescent form of the gas holder hovering in the distance, over the preacher’s shoulder, the image floating mirage-like through the distorting haze of her mind. Its obsolescence seemed a commentary on a man’s life, her father’s life; decay was everywhere and, even if not immediately apparent, was waiting in the wings. The priest’s words washed over her, she was devastated, beyond comfort, beyond faith or belief.

There was no release to be had here, not for her, nor was there future promise offered. Euphemisms could not give comfort; he was not ‘asleep’, he was not ‘resting’, he had not ‘passed on’. Her father was dead! There, she had done it, she had thought the unthinkable, admitted that of which she was in most denial; that she was now alone in the world!

Yes there was her stepmother of course, but here was a woman of an age more suggestive of an older sister and possessed of a nature that the term ‘grasping’ barely did justice to. That woman’s mere presence was sacrilege enough, that she should dare shed a tear, hypocritical, an insult at best!. “The bitch, the bitch” the words ran through her mind, were all she could think of; at least the hatred blunted her grief.

Susan was the last to attend the graveside. She tossed a solitary rose down onto her father’s coffin and read for the last time the brass plate, his name, her family name, not that bitch’s. The first earth was falling onto the pine as she turned away, somewhere a rook or two muttered a mourning croak. She broke down entirely, ran, stumblingly, to the arms so often her support in the past and more so now, more than ever before.

There was irony here, as there was irony everywhere about her; this woman was that bitch’s best friend, was actually faintly related to her in some distant way, she gathered, and yet they were as different as chalk and cheese. Julia had this empathy, warm and genuine; it was almost as if she could read her mind - from the very start. Julia was the only one who had ever really understood her, the only one to have recognised her problems, who had recognised issues that she, herself, had been unaware of.

Their meeting had been accidental, fantastically so. It had come about with serendipity beyond explanation. She just happened to have been visiting the very day her father had first been taken ill. Her concern and support had been immediate and genuine; it had been Julia who had accompanied her to the hospital, not that bitch. No, not her; her stepmother had stayed behind, there had been important calls to make apparently, clearly more important to her than her father’s well-being had ever been. Since that day their relationship might best be described as un-separable, yet not as friends per se, not really as equals; somehow there had never quite developed that familiarity. There had always been some distance reserved between them and yet that distance was welcome somehow.

Julia was like an elder aunt, a title that woman preferred and the use of which she encouraged. Not that she was particularly easy-going, far from it; it would be fair to say that she had a propensity to be overbearing, perhaps even controlling. It was just that the support and comfort she offered had become so much a part of Susan’s life.

Julia’s insightful explanations could be as reassuring as the revelations were unsettling - she had been on the threshold of some kind of nervous breakdown, that much was clear to her now. It was also clear to her just how much she owed Julia, needed Julia; after all just how right had she been? Just how accurate her reading of the situation had been. The woman’s insight had been quickly confirmed by professional diagnosis, once Susan’s initial stubbornness had been overcome and she had finally deferred to Julia’s persuasion to submit to a consultation.

The hearse and the limousines were pulling away now. She had been expected to take her place alongside her stepmother, at least for the return journey. Distraught beyond measure, despite the warm heavy-numbing effects of her pharmacological crutch, she would have nothing of it. She would not sit alongside that bitch; her furs, the designer black funereal accessories, brought bile to her throat.

‘Aunt’ Julia’s invitation came as a godsend, a reaffirmation of faith. At that moment she would have agreed to anything other than having to return home with that bitch, anything, and to make matters worse the effects of the sedatives were beginning to wear off, she could sense the fear and panic returning. She needed Julia, aunt Julia.

There were provisos, of course there were; The woman lived alone, save for a house keeper, she was well used to her privacy, her ‘own space’ as she put it. There would have to be rules, limitations and restrictions but at least she would be outside of that bitch’s sphere of influence. Besides the decision had been made, Julia had decided. As always Julia knew what was best for her and she clearly wasn’t going to allow even the contemplation of refusal, nor any reconsideration.

“I’m not at all sure you should put yourself through any more of this, returning home right now would be unbearable for you, the pain would come flooding in, trust me, it would be all too familiar, too closely associated with your farther. You need space in which to mourn.” The woman’s arms were enfolding, guiding. Susan was in the limousine and heading off without ever having really regained her composure, it was fait accompli, as simple as that, all for her own good. The decision had been made; it had been tangible within that embrace. The decision had not truly been Susan’s, when had it ever been?