The Fire Child (22 page)

Morning

Doctor Conner sips from his herbal tea, places the cup on the table to his left, and presses his hands together, like he is going to lead us both in prayer. A Christmas tree behind him glitters.

‘So, am I mad?’

He shakes his head. ‘First—’

‘I need to know. Please. Is my psychosis returning? You’ve asked all your questions, please – this is why I begged you for an appointment, I have to know if I am capable of looking after myself, my unborn baby – and Jamie. I can’t let it go a day longer.’

He unclasps his hands, and gestures: Stop. ‘Rachel. I have a couple more questions. About your last pregnancy.’

I gaze at him, his amiable face, tilted sympathetically my way; the nice blue-and-white checked shirt, under the lambswool jumper. Then I sigh.

‘It’s just so difficult.’

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I’m sure it is.’

I am looking through the big living room windows of this lovely seaside home. The sky is mother-of-pearl grey, tinged with pastels of baby blue, and the first soft flakes of that long-promised snow are falling. There is a lonely dog down there on Maenporth beach, apparently without an owner, barking at the snowflakes like they are frightening things.

He tries again.

‘I know how it happened, Rachel … You’ve told me all about that,’ he says. ‘But afterwards, what happened then?’

Sitting here, I have to force the words, because truth is so much harder than lies. ‘It’s … like this. This is what happened. She was … born horribly premature. My baby, my little daughter. Maybe twelve weeks premature, maybe more. They whisked her away, explained she wasn’t right, something to do with her legs, her spine. And – and then she died soon after. I never really held her. Never properly held my own baby.’ The sobs aren’t far away now, as I hit the motherlode of grief. The ore in the rock. ‘It’s one reason I’ve been so keen to have kids, to get over that. If. If. If you can. If you ever can. I know I stopped believing the moment they told me my baby was dead. But … but it took a while for my breakdown to reveal itself. Which is why, I guess, I never suspected postpartum psychosis.’

The dog is back, on the beach, chasing the snow. Leaping and yapping, almost frenzied. Yet I can’t hear anything, the glass muffles the noise. Everything is muted, a hand is clasped over the screaming world. I remember my father’s hand over my mouth.

‘You see, even as my daughter died, I realized I could take revenge. That’s all that I had left.’

Conner’s frown is puzzled. ‘Not sure I grasp your meaning.’

‘I told the police, about the abuse. My dad. I told them about the other rapes. It was time someone was
told
.’

The snow is falling so beautifully and so sadly. Snow on grey sand, snow on a calm steel sea.

‘And what happened when you did that?’

‘They didn’t have any evidence. I’d left it too late. And my little baby, my little girl had been cremated. Of course no eyewitnesses. But my dad ran away, anyway, so my accusation exploded my family. My sister blanked me completely. My Auntie Jenny too. Said I should have stayed quiet, that I’d destroyed the family. My mum felt guilty that she hadn’t known, hadn’t been there for me, to stop the abuse, all the way back from when I was eight.’

‘And yet all of this would be off the record, because of rape law?’

I meet his gaze, admiring his shrewdness; he sees my clever plan.

‘Yes, exactly. Rape complainants are anonymous for life. I was protected by my accusation. Even the records of my breakdown – anything that might indicate I was raped, everything was hidden away.’

‘And the hospital?’

‘I was diagnosed as having an episode. Brief schizophreniform disorder. But this is my point, my sister’s point – perhaps they gave me that diagnosis because I didn’t tell the doctors in the hospital about the baby—’

‘Due to the shame.’

‘I couldn’t. I told the psychiatrists what they needed, I told them I was abused as a kid, then raped – that was enough. To get help. To get medication. To get anonymity. And to be hospitalized and treated.’

Conner’s frown returns. He takes another sip of tea. I look bleakly out of the window once more. The dog has disappeared. The world is deserted, the muffling snow has defeated everyone and everything, even the feeble, chilly little waves of Maenporth beach look like they want to give up. To stop. At last.

This is the light of the mind
. Elevated risk of suicide and infanticide.

‘OK, you know pretty much everything, Doctor Conner. You know why I want to keep my baby, despite everything – it’s because I lost one. You know it all. So tell me. Am I mad? Has my psychosis returned?’

He shakes his head. ‘It’s the most awful story.’

‘I don’t want sympathy! I want your opinion.’

‘Of course.’ He waves a hand as if beginning a speech. ‘First, let me assure you that psychosis during and because of pregnancy is very rare.’

‘But the website – my sister—’

‘Google is not your friend, not in this instance. The website is wrong, or at least misleading. It does sound as if you experienced a postpartum psychosis when you were younger, possibly catalysed by the unusual circumstances.’ He looks at me, and tries to smile, in reassurance. ‘And yes, women who have that kind of psychosis do have a significantly raised chance of experiencing the same problem,
after
a second pregnancy. You will need to see specialists soon: so we can prepare – there are good, safe medications we can prescribe. I will arrange a consultation in the New Year, we can’t do much before Christmas, Christmas is too close. Let me look in my diary.’

He picks up his phone, checks a calendar app. I get the abrupt sense this is all fake. A decoy. I have to get out of here. Leave the voices behind.

I force myself to look at Doctor Connor. Waiting. Searching for hope.

‘OK,’ he glances up. ‘The second week of January should be fine.’ A pointed stare. ‘But to address your question, again. Psychosis
during
a pregnancy is really very rare. That’s why it is called
post
partum. I do not buy it in your case. During a pregnancy? Possible, but nope. For one thing, psychotic people seldom refer themselves to doctors, it’s almost one of the diagnostic criteria.’

‘Then what is happening to me! Did I see a ghost?’

‘No.’

‘Then who did I see? Nina Kerthen is dead, isn’t she?’

He shrugs wearily. ‘Yes. She is dead. I saw the DNA results. I was at the inquest. No one could have survived that fall, in that mine, in that cold water. She is dead.’

Somewhere inside I am trying not to shriek. The voices are silent but I am left with my confusion; I sink my face into my upraised palms, lacing my fingers to hide my tears. ‘Then what the fuck is happening to me, Doctor? The noises I hear, the woman on the bus, the perfume in the house. Please. Please help me. I’m so alone all the time. I have no one. No one talks to me. Only the house.’

Here it comes. Now at last I am crying. Proper big gasping sobs. I feel ashamed yet I also do not care. I am talking like where I came from. Fucking fucking fucking. And the snow is falling. Because Christmas is here.

Conner gets up, he looks like he is about to hug me: the reflexive response. Instead he puts a firm hand on my shoulder. In turn I look up at him, imploring: like I am six years old, seeking a father who will not molest me.

He finds a tissue, gives it to me, and sits down. ‘You said yourself you were concussed when you fell. So you then imagined a figure, you imagined Nina – it was dark, it happens. The mind is predisposed to see human figures where there might be none; it is an evolved response. As for the voices, the bus, that’s the stress. You are, to put it bluntly, freaking yourself out. And it’s not surprising. Carnhallow House is moody and lonely enough as it is. But the point is: when you are questioned you are entirely lucid. Entirely. You’re not mad, Rachel, and this is not a dangerous psychosis.’

‘Jamie? The stuff he says?’

A hint of a frown. ‘Jamie is a troubled boy. He has not properly recovered from his mother’s death. Not yet, anyway.’

‘I’m not hearing things, and he is saying this stuff?’

‘Yes, very probably. Although it is possible that in your rather febrile state you are embroidering, over-interpreting, feeding off his traumas, hence turning a perfectly ordinary woman on the bus into Nina Kerthen. It is also possible that Jamie is reacting to your anxieties, feeding off you in turn – so there is a negative synergy, an element of
folie à deux.
And now that his father is not present in Carnhallow, he must be even more disorientated—’

He stops. I realize why. He’s heard about David and me, and he’s revealed that fact, and he is embarrassed.

‘You know about the restraining order.’

Conner shakes his head and sighs. ‘West Cornwall is a tiny place. I have some lawyer friends in Truro. I couldn’t believe it, initially – then I recalled that you had those bruises the last time we met. Despicable. David should be ashamed of himself.’

‘Did he ever do anything like that with Nina?’

The doctor looks startled. ‘Not that I know of. He was besotted with her, obsessed – I barely saw them then – they lived in London and Paris, mainly, when Jamie was born. Yes they had their rows, towards the end, as anyone does. A bit of ennui, I think – she was bored, stuck down there in Carnhallow. Very bright, very beautiful woman. David’s grief was terrible.’

‘I’m sure it was.’

There’s a bitterness in my speech and I don’t bother to hide it. Being bitter is the
sane
reaction. So maybe I am sane.

Finishing my tea I set down my mug. The silence is rewarding. I need to seize on what the doctor has said. I am not mad. This is a window, an opening. I will survive this. There is a way out. We just have to get through Christmas.

‘OK, thank you. Thank you so very much.’ I glance at my watch. ‘I need to get back.’

Saying my goodbyes, I walk to the car, through the thickly falling snow; then I turn the key and drive the miles, through the thickening blizzard.

It is snowing everywhere in West Cornwall: snow is drifting against the Iron Age village of Chysauster, snowing on the moors and churches of Carharrack and Saint Day. It is snowing on the lanes of Chacewater, and Joppa, and Lamorna. It is snowing on Playing Place, snowing on the Roseland, snowing on Gloweth.

And I am tearing up again. As I steer the car for the final mile through Ladies Wood, down the knotted valley, to the beautiful old house, lost in its forests, like that gilded box in a coronet of thorns, I remember when I first came here, and read the history of Carnhallow. Of West Cornwall, of the Kerthens. How I yearned to be a part of it: sitting in the Yellow Drawing Room, watching the summer sun on the lilies, I craved to belong to this injured, yet lovely place. I wanted to be woven into Carnhallow’s endless, intricate history. I was ready to be woven into the rowans, I was ready to be rooted: in the Playing Place, where the names Gloweth.

And now it is all gone. The dream is dead. The trees are black and leafless, the snow is tumbling so thick I can barely see the mines on the cliffs, where the tunnels go under the sea.

I park my car next to Cassie’s Toyota. Then I go in, and the cold scents of Carnhallow surround me: a jostling of memory and grief. I look along the corridor that leads to the Old Hall, where I thought I saw the ghost of Nina Kerthen. Where in fact I saw nothing. Because I am not mad.

The corridor is dark, but deserted. There is no ghost.

I am exhausted. I can hear Jamie in the kitchen, talking to Cassie. I don’t want to greet them. Instead I climb the Grand Stairs and fall wearily into my bed and I fall instantly asleep.

But a dream invades my rest. My father is driving a car and I am in the back. I am ten years old, and it is Christmas and we are going to see Auntie Jenny and he is so drunk the car spins out of control, and he laughs as we hit the child by Carnhallow. I run out. I hug the hare, but they are taking her away, to the sea, to throw her into the sea at Zawn Hanna, and now my hair is tangled in my mouth, by the wind, choking me.

I scream so loud I wake myself up.

Shuddering, tasting the dream in my mouth, I stir from my groggy siesta. Then I reach for a dusty glass of water on my bedside table and gulp. The room is dark, the only light comes from the landing outside. It feels like I have been asleep ten minutes, the sleep was so unrefreshing, but it must have been hours.

And now Jamie comes running into the room. He jumps on to the bed in terror and hugs me tight.

‘Rachel, Rachel, Rachel—’

‘What is it?’

He is squeezing me so tight it is painful. Pushing him away, softly, I realize he has been crying. His face is pink.

‘What is it, Jamie? What’s happened? What’s wrong?’

‘She’s come back, she’s here – I can see her—’

The cold enters me: that blade made of frost. ‘See who?’

‘It’s Mummy.’ He is breathing too quickly, panicking.

Despite the fear that tightens around my own heart, I try to look measured, responsible, sane. I am not mad. I have answered questions. The doctor has told me. ‘Jamie, calm down, calm down, shhh—’

‘It’s her!’ He is nearly screaming. ‘Yet it wasn’t her. She was down at the mines, don’t you remember? She was there, it was her. She talked to me, it was her. It smelled like her, like Mummy, like Mummy, like my mummy, it was Mummy yet it wasn’t. It was and it wasn’t. It is and it isn’t.’

‘Jamie—’

‘She’s dead and she isn’t. Rachel Rachel Rachel I touched my mummy but I didn’t. Rachel I saw my mummy but it isn’t her. I hugged her but I didn’t. I saw a ghost, Rachel. I hugged a ghost. I’ve touched a ghost. A ghost a ghost a ghost!’