A number of times, after my discussion with Dr Simmons, I called on Sylvia during college recesses to see if I could help in any way; and also, to be absolutely truthful, to try and build some bridges that might make me feel better about things. And of course, I did have a hidden agenda; I wanted to find out more about Connie’s psychic gift. Was it something she was born with? Did it run in her family? How often did it manifest itself? To be honest, I know I was being nosy, but at the same time I couldn’t help but find the subject fascinating. On each occasion she refused to let me in; in itself this was perfectly understandable, but what I found increasingly worrying was her self-evident decline into depression. She had lost a lot of weight since Connie’s hospitalisation; her face was terribly drawn and pinched, and her eyes were lifeless, as if she had lost all interest. I tried to talk to her, even with one foot in the doorjamb to prevent her from closing it in my face; urging her to seek medical help. Her final response was to tell me to piss off.
I never went back after that; nor did I hear anything more either from her or about her until, some time later when a report came into the Steelhouse Lane station of a woman discovered dead in her home. Tragically, police investigations had determined it was Sylvia Rowden. It had all the hallmarks of suicide, although no note was found at the scene. Obviously, I took the trouble of reading the investigating CID officer’s report into the death. It seemed that when the milk on the doorstep had piled up sufficiently, someone – one of the neighbours, in fact – had become concerned and had called the police. Sylvia’s body had been found dangling, a rope around her neck, from the upstairs banister. The autopsy report listed the cause of death as strangulation, and although the crime report said there were no suspicious circumstances attached to the death. I still had difficulties in accepting it was suicide, but then that could simply be an overreaction of the novice detective in me. And she had left no note, which I was informed, is the normal act in cases of suicide. It was a terrible shock, made all the worse because I had been unable to get through to her. For me, it was yet another layer on the already burdening conscience I was struggling to deal with.
The next day I went over to see Dr Simmons, relaying the tragic news. It took me the best part of two hours to make the trip, the heavy rain slowing the traffic almost to a standstill. I had Garth Brooks, the country-music superstar, for company though, to take my mind off the road conditions. It occurred to me that morning that the Midlands’ weather could just as easily be included in its list of tourist attractions!
Doctor Simmons was just as shocked as I was, and he asked me if I could be present when he told Connie the tragic news. I agreed, but it was the last thing I wanted to do. How do you tell an already traumatised girl that her mother is dead?
When we entered the room, Connie was sitting on the bed silently weeping.
“Connie,” I said softly, “can we talk to you?”
“I know,” she sobbed. “It’s about my mother, isn’t it?”
“How did you know, Connie?” Dr Simmons asked.
“I just do. She’s dead, isn’t she? And it’s my fault.”
“No, Connie. Please don’t say that; it just isn’t true.” I went to put my arms around her but she pushed me away.
“Please. Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk about it. She’s dead and there’s nothing anyone can do.”
She lay back on the bed, her shoulders heaving with her sobs. I sat down on the only chair.
“I’ll stay here with her, doctor, if that’s alright. I can’t leave her alone like this.”
As Dr Simmons nodded then left the room, I took out a handkerchief to wipe away my own tears. “This poor child,” I thought. Her life seemed to be a catalogue of tragic events. At the time it didn’t strike me at all strange that Connie had experienced some psychic communication about her mother’s death. Why should I? I was too upset, anyway, at witnessing her terrible grief. She cried for what must have been a good hour before falling asleep. I kissed her gently on the forehead before leaving, and headed for the doctor’s office.
“How could she possibly have known?” he asked, somewhat rhetorically, after I was seated.
“Oh, that,” I said, almost dismissively. “That’s just Connie, I s’pose. She doesn’t live in the same world as us; she doesn’t see things the way we do… Or maybe she does but, more, somehow.”
“Remember the story I told you about the children in the woods? Well, that threw me at first. When you think about it rationally, it’s pretty bizarre: you know, visions of dead children, the traumatic effect on Connie, then realising it wasn’t just fantasy. I think this is the same kind of thing. It still scares the shit out of me though… I don’t even know why really. I’m glad you saw it for yourself, though; if it helps you understand why I felt so guilty after that incident.”
He shook his head in bewilderment.
“No. It can’t be right,” he protested. “There’s got to be a logical explanation.”
“Yeah, right. Maybe she’s got a mobile hidden in her room!”
For a moment he thought I was being serious. He sat there considering the matter, and then began to shake his head once more.
“I’m sorry, Angie, I just don’t believe in all this psychic stuff. OK, your story about the murdered children and Connie’s visions sounds plausible on the face of it. But didn’t you say yourself that you wondered whether she’d been to those woods before?”
“I did at the time, yes; and again later, as it goes. But if that’s the explanation, it doesn’t bear thinking about. It’d mean the murderer actually took her there. And that I don’t believe. I really don’t. No. I’m sorry, doctor, but it looks like you’re going to have to face up to the fact that this ‘psychic stuff’ is for real.”
“Yes, well, you might be in a hurry to accept that – but I’m not. And anyway, I think it’s Connie we should be worrying about right now, don’t you?”
“Of course. Shall I stay with her for a while, d’you think? She was sleeping when I left but…”
“Maybe not… Let’s leave her, shall we… Sleep’s a natural escape from grief for children so at least she’s at peace for a while. I’ll get one of the nurses to sit with her so she won’t wake up alone. But Angie… I think it would be good for her if you could come and see her again tomorrow. Can you do that? I mean… know you’ve got a job to do and...”
“No problem – I’ll be here. I’m off duty for the next three days anyway so I’ll come again in the morning if you like. By the way, I know it’s a difficult time, but what you said about my getting some counselling? Do you still think I should after today’s events?”
“Definitely, Angie. Even more than before, if anything. You’re now in danger of irrevocably convincing yourself that you’re right to take responsibility for Connie’s condition. And that just can’t be right. It’s also very unhealthy. Let’s have a chat about it tomorrow, shall we?”
“Of course. I look forward to it.”
* * * * * * * * * *
I spent the next three days with Connie, slipping between her room and Dr Simmons’ office, where he talked to me at length about the origins of self-imposed guilt. He also encouraged me to talk about myself, about my childhood, even about how I felt being brought up without a father. Surprisingly, I found the sessions very helpful; I also felt I could relate to Connie more after that, both of us – if you like – having a father who had rejected us. I can’t claim to have been cured overnight from these sessions, but I could certainly see the benefit in them, and I was grateful to Dr Simmons for his time and patience.
Connie said very little during my visits; I could only guess at what she was feeling. She cried frequently and for long periods at a time, sobbing for her mummy. All I was able to do was hold her and comfort her as best I could. For a time she was inconsolable, until Dr Simmons relented and allowed her to attend the funeral. We both accompanied her to what was a very sad occasion, but – all credit to Connie – she handled it resolutely. After that she seemed to become stronger, a little at a time, as if it had been a kind of breakthrough. If anything the experience had drawn us closer together and we became good friends, although she still made no mention of the awful events that night in the woods.
When I said goodbye at the close of my brief leave from the station, Connie was considerably improved. She allowed me to give her a parting kiss and a hug, and made me promise I would be back to see her soon. As for myself, it was a salutary experience in a number of ways. I had made a close friend, and, moreover, the sessions I had with Dr Simmons – although not producing anything dramatic – were teaching me to become more circumspect in my daily life.