Over the next two weeks, Shiv sticks with the programme, immerses herself deeper still. Or tries to. Each day is tougher than the last.
The routine has grown tiresome as Shiv’s energy and commitment have started to dissipate. Instead of throwing herself into it she does what is required but no longer with confidence that the treatment will work. Even the time spent with “Declan” is losing its appeal.
Be patient, Dr Pollard urged, down at the lake. It has been a recurrent theme of their one-to-ones since then. The routine will change soon, the Director promises – the daily activities, the therapeutic focus, will be radically different. This is just Phase 1.
“What’s Phase 2 then?”
“Phase 2 is what comes next.”
“Is that meant to be funny?”
“It means Phase 1 is laying the foundations for what we do in Phase 2.” As for exactly what happens in Phase 2, “all that I ask, Siobhan, is that you stay strong and, when the time comes, be open to the possibility that it will help you.”
Trouble is, once Doubt whispers in your ear it’s hard to shut the words out.
Other therapies haven’t worked, why should this one?
They want you to feel good about yourself – but you don’t deserve to.
You killed Declan. You should suffer for it. You should never stop suffering.
Reducing Mikey’s influence hasn’t prevented Shiv’s decline. Although they haven’t isolated the boy altogether, or forbidden Shiv from speaking to him, he no longer joins them for Walk, Make, Talk and Write; and at Buddy Time and evening Rec, he is confined to his room. The only time Shiv or the others get to see him is at meals. Mostly, he eats by himself, but sometimes Shiv joins him – careful not to crowd him, or to abandon Caron too often.
If it’s nice enough to take lunch outside, they’ll share a bench in a sunny spot. Sometimes they talk; sometimes they just sit and eat. An orderly is never too far away from Mikey – but, even so, Shiv is glad of their snatches of time together. Apart from anything else, she doesn’t like being told who she should, or shouldn’t, be mates with.
“What do you do all day?” she asked, not long into this new routine.
“I have to run in the woods with Assistant Webb,” he told her. “Or they get me to help the gardener out. Push a wheelbarrow, pull up weeds and that. And I have one-to-ones with Pollard.” Then, shrugging, “Mostly, they just leave me in my cell.”
It is a cell now; at least, the staff agree to let him keep his room stripped right down, so long as the bed is made up properly, not just a bare mattress.
“They’re letting me play at being a convict.”
The tactics seem to be working. While Shiv grows disaffected, he is more cooperative, more at ease with himself.
Shiv gets the impression it’s a front though; that he’s simply biding his time.
Until when? To do what?
Breakfast, Day 31. Shiv and Mikey, at a table in the corner of the dining room.
Last night marked the halfway point of the programme and when Shiv woke this morning she was hoping for an announcement over the intercom. Good morning, everyone. We are pleased to inform you that, from today, you will enter Phase 2 of your treatment… Or something like that. The intercom remained stubbornly silent.
Mikey is trying to cheer her up with a series of terrible impressions: Hensher, Sumner, Dr Pollard. If he didn’t name them, Shiv would have no clue. They’re so bad they’re funny. Despite herself, she starts to smile. He’s on to TV characters now.
“Who’s this?” he says, pulling a face and making an odd slurring sound.
“Someone having a stroke?”
“Homer Simpson.” Mikey is indignant. “You know, when he drools down his chin. Look.” He repeats the mime. “Beeerrr. Aarrgghh. Dooonuuuutsss.”
Shiv lets out a snort of laughter. “How did we get to the stage where you have to lift me out of a grump?”
Mikey looks pleased with himself.
As they finish their cereal, her mood is already dipping. In a moment, Mikey will go, and Shiv will head off to the assembly corridor for yet another Walk.
“If you’re thinking of digging an escape tunnel, let me know,” she says.
He gives her an odd look. “Seriously?”
She keeps forgetting that Mikey doesn’t do irony.
While they’re at the counter, tipping food scraps into the bin and stacking plates, Assistant Webb enters the dining room. With a single loud clap, he says, “You are all to report to the Blue Room. Right away, please.”
The buzz of speculation is still crackling when Dr Pollard enters the Blue Room, flanked by Webb, Hensher and Sumner, as she was way back on Day 1.
“Good morning, everyone.”
“Good morning, Dr Pollard,” they chorus.
“I’m gonna divide you into two teams,” Caron chips in, putting on a gruff, blokey voice. “And, in the losing team – one of you will be fired.”
Her wisecrack sends a wave of laughter along the line of residents. The Director and her staff remain straight-faced; even Assistant Sumner’s perma-smile is switched off.
“You have reached the midway point of your time with us,” Dr Pollard says, once the amusement has subsided. “This marks the conclusion of Phase 1 of your treatment.” She eyes each face in turn. “Today you start Phase 2.”
Lucy raises a hand.
“No questions,” the Director says.
No questions, no more interruptions. She hasn’t even started to explain what Phase 2 consists of but, already, her tone – her whole manner – prickles Shiv’s skin with apprehension. They’re into the serious stuff; like the first month has been some kind of psychiatric playgroup.
“Thank you,” Dr Pollard says, as Lucy lowers her hand.
“So, Phase 2.” The Director clasps her hands, fingers interlocked in the way that a small child might pray. “Thirty days ago, when I stood here to welcome you to the clinic, you’ll recall me saying that each of you had suffered a significant traumatic bereavement?”
Some nod; there’s hear-a-pin-drop silence along the row.
“In Phase 1, as you know, we have focused on the object of that bereavement: the person you lost. We have encouraged you to re-create a very strong sense of him or her. Your niece, Milly –” she gestures at Lucy, then at Caron and Docherty in turn – “your best friend, Melanie; your girlfriend, Natalie.”
Each name resonates. Docherty actually flinched when his turn came. Like she’d slapped him.
“Your brother, Declan,” Dr Pollard says, indicating Shiv; then Helen and Mikey, “your father, Peter; your sister, Phoebe.”
Mikey’s face is stony-blank. If he seemed surprised when Webb said the summons to the Blue Room included him, he has pulled the shutters back down now.
“When a loved one dies,” the Director goes on, “it is not unreasonable for us to wish they were still with us – even to imagine that they are.” Dr Pollard’s gaze alights briefly on each resident. “We see them, talk to them. Our heads fill up with thoughts of them so that they seem to be more present than absent.” She pauses, fingers still interlocked, her knuckles white. “Some bereaved people find this a comfort, some a torment. For some, it is both.”
Shiv catches herself nodding. Dr Pollard holds her gaze so that what follows appears to be addressed solely to Shiv.
“Comfort or torment, either way it is delusional. If it takes root, it can go from being a perfectly normal stage in the grieving process to something that stalls, or even replaces, that process.” She unlocks her gaze from Shiv’s – releasing her, it feels like – and turns to the group. “Each of you, to some extent, came to us in this condition.”
“So why—” Caron begins. Dr Pollard cuts across her.
“As you’ll know by now, Phase 1 of your treatment has been designed, as far as possible, to indulge you – to encourage you, to immerse you – in the delusion that the person you lost is not lost at all. That you can still maintain some semblance of a genuine relationship with them.” Another pause. “Why do we do this?” She looks at Caron. “Is that what you were going to ask?”
Caron nods.
“Perhaps you can answer that for me. All of you.” Finally unclasping her fingers and lowering her hands to her sides, Dr Pollard asks, “After thirty days of this – hour after hour, day after day, night after night – how many of you still hold to the delusion? How many of you believe your loved one is present, is with you?”
No hands go up.
“And how many of you wish to continue indulging yourself in the delusion of a relationship?”
Again, no hands are raised. Not a single one.
“You have your answer.”
It’s like the ta-da moment at the end of a conjuring trick and Shiv almost lets out a gasp of startled, appreciative laughter. From the murmuring along the line, the others are similarly impressed. Can it really be so simple though? So clever? So easy? She isn’t sure what to think but what she does know is that it’s been at least a week since she regarded “Declan” (in any of his various forms) as remotely real, rather than someone she created for herself.
Dr Pollard resumes. “Phase 1, the object of your bereavement. In Phase 2, we shift the focus to the nature of your trauma. That is, from the person who died to the circumstances of their death. Trauma-centred Therapy, or TCT.”
The Director lets that sink in.
“I won’t say too much more at this stage because it’s best that you enter TCT without knowing exactly what to expect. Some therapies train you to rationalize your trauma, to detach yourself from it – as though it happened to someone else or to an earlier, obsolete ‘you’. In TCT, you are plunged right into the trauma.” She makes a fist, a plunging motion. “Face to face with what happened, with where it happened. With how it happened.”
For the first time today she smiles her gap-toothed smile. “It’s the difference between lighting a prayer-candle for someone possessed by a demon and conducting a full-blown exorcism.”
No one says a word as Webb and Hensher escort them along the corridor. Too shocked, is all Shiv can think. Too scared. From now on, they’ve been told, there will be no Walk or Make; each of them will spend their mornings in a specially designed Personalized Therapy Unit, or PTU. Four hours, every day. Alone. Locked in.
Shiv’s palms are clammy, her breath hot in her throat.
They’re taken upstairs to a first-floor corridor Shiv hasn’t seen before. It must be directly below the patients’ bedrooms and, with its green decor and sequence of doors along the right-hand wall, looks the same.
At each door, Assistant Webb stops to swipe it open with a key-card and usher the resident inside. Helen, Caron, Docherty – one by one, they disappear.
It’s Shiv’s turn.
Webb lets her in and closes the door without a word. She hears the electronic click of the lock. As though the shutting of the door triggered it, the darkened room blooms into light.
Whitewashed walls, tiled floor, plain blue curtains, a set of asymmetrical shelves lined with books, a blue-and-white chequered rug, a cream leather sofa and chairs, a low coffee table – the room, her Personalized Therapy Unit, is more or less an exact replica of the lounge in the villa at Kyritos.