remarked on it.
‘I’ve suffered two traumatic shocks, Rebecca. Unconnected, but one after the other. I probably need proper counselling on both. Though counselling is not going to get my memory back.’ He looked hopelessly out of the window as silence fell between them. A convoy of three military vehicles was entering the car park, billowing out a blue haze of pollution as they lined themselves up.
Turning his attention back to the fine immobile Egyptian head, he said that he was troubled by a contradiction he could not resolve. Of course he understood the terrible nature of Larry’s crime, for which he had paid with his life; but there was also the factor of Larry’s innocence. Larry had said he liked to help people. He seemed not to have understood that even his mother was real. Burnell elaborated on this for some while without making himself clearer, only half aware that what had puzzled him was the nature of cruelty and of pain, the titbit that followed cruelty.
When Rosebottom indicated that Larry was just an incidental misfortune, with nothing to do with Burnell’s personal predicament, Burnell disagreed. Privately, he thought that whoever had stolen part of his memory was also no better than a murderer; the cruelty factor had operated.
All he brought himself to say was, ‘I was threatened with death, Rebecca. I was shit-scared.’
‘I sympathize, believe me. You can keep on telling me if it makes you happier. I’m no ordinary shrink. EMV cases always have attitudes.’
As often happened, silence fell between them. He felt he had never known such a conversation stopper as this lady who was supposed to promote the flow of talk.
And, as so often happened, he then began talking in an unpremeditated way, telling her that, as he had said, he had suffered two traumatic shocks. He woke in the middle of the night after a nightmare, wondering if he had become schizophrenic.
Rosebottom invited him to tell her what he meant by schizophrenic.
He said, ‘That’s what my brother’s got. I have a brother called Adrian. At present he’s under medication in Leeds.’
After a protracted silence, in which Rosebottom maintained an attitude almost beyond stillness, Burnell said he did not want to talk about it.
Her smile stretched her lips sideways to a great extent.
‘Time’s up, I’m afraid. Perhaps you will feel more like saying something tomorrow.’
‘Just tell me whether I am schizophrenic or not.’
She shook her head, slightly. ‘You have a long way to go yet.’
As he rose to leave, Rebecca Rosebottom said, ‘There’s just one thing.’
‘What?’
‘I am allergic. Also my star sign is against black animals of any kind. So just don’t bring that frigging creature in here next session. OK? You don’t need any kind of baby surrogate. OK?’
Burnell turned and stared at her. ‘Do you think there’s going to be a next session?’
Hurrying from the clinic, letting the little cat free in the corridor, he made his way back to the ward, taking a route that led him past Dr Kepepwe’s office.
He looked through her glass door. Rosemary Kepepwe was sprawled at the desk with her face buried in her arms. For an instant, he thought she was crying. Barker sat by her on the desk, regarding his mistress thoughtfully, wondering what action to take. Burnell went in.
‘Oh, these people!’ the doctor exclaimed, without being more specific. She ranted about them for some while before stating exactly what it was that had upset her. The military administration who would be taking over the hospital had just visited and left their orders. The first instalment of wounded from the Crimea was expected to arrive at first light on the following day. But before that – in just an hour or two – a squad of men from the RASC were going to arrive to repaint the interior of the hospital.
‘Does it need repainting?’
‘I always liked it blue and white. So fresh, you know.’ Dr Kepepwe mopped her eyes. ‘I like this hospital. I like working here. Barker likes it here, don’t you, Barker, my love? Blue and white create a cheerful healing atmosphere. These horrible army men are going to paint it all green today.’
‘Green! Why on earth?’
‘Dark green. Khaki green.’ She looked piteously at Burnell. ‘They say it’s for camouflage purposes.’
Barker looked extremely serious.
The corridors were already beginning to smell of paint when one of the small Asians showed Stephanie into Ward One.
He heard her footsteps before he saw her. She entered with the air of someone determined to perform a duty not to her taste, with a firm jut to her jaw. Stephanie was tall, fair-haired, walking with ease inside a fawn linen suit, with a handbag slung over one shoulder. She held out a hand to Burnell, stepping back when he had shaken it. The hand was slender and cool. He liked the feel of it. Stephanie was fine-boned, delicate of countenance and strikingly attractive, he saw, only a slightly heavy jaw detracting from full beauty.
He invited her to take the one chair in the room. Sitting on the end of the bed, he scrutinized her, trying to see behind the cautious smile.
Keeping the pain from his voice, he explained that sections of his memory had been stolen by persons unknown. He had no idea where this had happened. It felt as if his head had been bitten off.
‘So I was told when Laura called me,’ Stephanie said. ‘By chance I was in Britain, so I came along. That’s what Laura said to do …’ She chattered for a while, possibly to cover nervousness. Suddenly she said, ‘Do you remember that my home is in California?’
Burnell frowned. ‘We live in California? What for? Whereabouts? My work’s in Europe.’
She rose from her chair to walk about the room. She complained of the smell of paint. He stood up politely, half-afraid she was about to leave.
‘This is terribly embarrassing for me, Roy. If Laura called you, she should have explained.’ She looked at him, then down at the floor, then towards the door.
‘Well? Explained what?’
‘Our divorce came through over four years ago.’ With a burst of impatience, ‘You mean you’ve even forgotten that?’
Burnell sat down on the bed. ‘What are you telling me? You want to sit down or you want to walk about like a caged tiger?’
She began to walk about like a caged tiger. ‘We got married. We got unmarried. Surely to God you must remember that! I live in Santa Barbara now, with Humbert Stuckmann. It just so happened I was over here in the Orkneys and I called Laura. Laura’s remained a friend. She told me you were here.’
‘So you came to see me.’
‘That’s obvious, isn’t it? I called the hospital and spoke to someone or other. They suggested I might trigger off a missing memory.’
‘If it’s missing, how can it be triggered off?’ He spoke abstractedly. The ocean was stormy indeed; indeed there was not
