Chapter Twenty Five

Well it was never going to fit through the letterbox, so he was glad he was in. There was a hand written note too - ‘no peeking, Verity.’

He couldn’t understand why; it was only a chair. He went back upstairs to sleep, and almost wishing Verity had bought a plastic cage, though he had to admit there was something rather wicked about being chastised in steel.

‘I should have phoned,’ said Yi.

‘Why?’ asked Verity.

‘The clinic’s in a mess.’

‘But I still have my appointment.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Yi, and he took her to one side in the outpatient’s corridor.

A couple of patient’s who’d arrived before Verity looked a little edgy.

‘The police have taken Adam Blake’s files away,’ said Yi.

‘All of them?’ she asked.

‘Well all but one,’ he said, and he gave her a knowing smile.

‘It’s shredded,’ he continued.

‘But the appointments book?’ she asked.

‘This is the NHS Verity,’ he said ‘you’re free.’

He really was her guardian.

‘Look you’d better go,’ said Yi.

Verity didn’t need persuading.

‘Who was that Yi?’ asked the nurse.

‘Just someone who was lost,’ he said ‘she’s come for a job interview.’

‘Well I hope you told her to stay away from here, the place is chaotic,’ said the nurse.

Yi wouldn’t be staying much longer either, his work at Monks Hill was done.

‘Still taking the injections?’ asked Brin.

Stuart nodded but his eyes looked elsewhere; his last risperidone dose had failed to work.

‘So Stu, how’s the job going?’

It wasn’t going very well at all, unless you called killing the manager a good night’s work. He still had blood on his clothes.

‘You’re eating too many burgers Stu,’ said Brin.

‘Why?’

‘You’ve got tomato sauce all down your jumper.’

Weight gain was a real problem on antipsychotics, as it increased the appetite, but Stu hadn’t been gorging himself this morning.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Stu.

‘No perhaps not,’ said Brin, packing up his case.

‘Well your blood pressure’s fine,’ said Brin.

‘Cup of tea before you go?’ asked Stuart.

The dreaded cup of tea feared by every community nurse: Refuse and look uncaring, accept and risk catching hepatitis; almost as bad as sitting on a sofa covered in dog hairs, or cat fur.

‘Wish I had the time,’ replied Brin.

In fact he had plenty of time; time to kill, or get killed.

‘I’ve got biscuits,’ said Stu.

‘I’d love to Stu, but honestly my diary’s packed this morning,’ he lied.

‘The manager never liked me either,’ said Stu.

Brin’s hair stood on end. A warning sign and time to leave, if Stu wasn’t blocking the only exit, and he was wearing those handcuff’s again that dangled from his belt.

‘Look if it makes you any happier, go and put the kettle on and I’ll wait here,’ said Brin.

But his real intention was to run for it, and put in a report. Stuart was the fifth outpatient he’d seen whose condition appeared to be deteriorating.

‘You’re lying,’ said Stu.

‘No.’

‘Well take a seat then.’

‘No problem, and Stu, two sugars please.’

Brin sat on the sofa next to Stu’s work bag. He crushed cardboard all through the night, and he didn’t like being corrected.

‘Stu the television’s not working because the aerial’s out,’ said Brin looking at the cables on the floor.

Now someone else was doing it thought Stu, and he’d only taken the aerial out because the TV was telling him to kill again.

Brin went to move the duffel bag, and noticed the fingertips sticking out of the top. Stu hadn’t moved, and was looking right at him. There was a police siren coming from the streets outside the flat.

‘I don’t think they’ll make it time. Do you?’ asked Stuart.

Brin saw the knife in his hands, and gulped.

By the time the police arrived Stuart would be facing a double murder charge. Eventually he’d be back in Monks Hill, and reunited with his old art teacher. He’d start writing poems again, and even had one on his lips right now; all about cardboard.

‘I hope you haven’t opened it,’ said Verity.

‘Of course not, but you aren’t going to surprise me,’ said Alain.

‘Maybe I’m not, maybe I am,’ said Verity.

Perhaps he knew, after all half the time his mind was in the gutter.

‘Go on unwrap it,’ said Verity in the dining room.

‘Well let me guess,’ said Alain ‘four legs, two arms.’

‘It sounds like a beast doesn’t it,’ said Verity.

There was plenty of red padded leather as the paper came off, and Alain already saw himself tied to the ducking stool. Then he saw the seat.

‘My Queen,’ he said bowing.

‘Well at least it took you a while,’ said Verity.

Alain Fontaney of all people was going to recognise a queening chair.

‘Shall we try it out?’ asked Verity.

‘If your Majesty desires,’ he said.

Verity loosened her clothing, and sat comfortably. The seat had outer padding with a large central space. Underneath Alain’s head was supported in a sling; far enough to measure, close enough to pleasure.

‘Can I ever replace you?’ asked Verity afterwards.

‘Unlikely,’ said Alain ‘in this life and the previous.’

‘And what would Mr Fontaney like?’ she asked. ‘A whipping, CBT, pray tell.’

‘Actually none of those,’ he said.

This didn’t sound like the Alain she had come to know and love. She hoped he wasn’t going to get romantic; not just yet, not now.

‘Go on,’ she sighed.

‘You have the only key to my desire,’ he said.

‘Indeed I do. The prisoner wants to go in the exercise yard does he?’ she asked.

Alain smiled.

‘Well how could I refuse after that performance,’ said Verity.

His shackles fell to the floor, and he sprang into life.

‘Remember no touching,’ said Verity ‘let me do the work.’

The freed captive relinquished his desire, but Verity had removed her hand at the precise moment, ruining his enjoyment quite exquisitely.

‘Oh my poor thing,’ said Verity ‘you didn’t expect to enjoy it surely.’

He looked crestfallen.

‘Now go and take a shower, and put the cage back on. And Alain never dare ask me again. Remember I decide,’ she said.

‘Who decides?’ she asked.

‘You do,’ he replied.

‘Exactly,’ she said.

Lawrence Calder was relaxing in the bath, soaking himself amidst the foam bubbles, and checking Alain’s notes once more.

‘More of this and less of that,’ Alain had written, but there was something missing, question marked. Lawrence had a feeling if he could find it, then he just might find Bastille too.

It was her oldest bank book, well-thumbed and worn, with the Swiss cross on the front. There were no withdrawals, only deposits; fifty thousand, one hundred thousand, some in between, and stretching back many years. Was it enough she thought? Did it pay for all the silent suffering, the enduring? Or was it time to cut loose before she was back on the valium. Pretence could be such a burden, but maybe she’d be alright when she took the pills he prescribed for her. After all sometimes she felt delirious with joy, though never in the bedroom. Ironic that all those years ago she’d hit on the name Bastille, an old barren fort that held many secrets; exactly how she was now feeling.