Page 80 of No Safe Place

Sunday | Morning

Callum

DCI Field was back, on her own this time. Maxwell stayed as his appropriate adult. He had the same lawyer as the other day, in the same cheap suit.

They were in the dining room, sitting in the same places. It was like a grim parody of last time, except he didn’t feel out-of-his-brain anxious. Just his usual anxious.

‘How are you, Callum?’ Field asked.

‘Been better,’ Callum said, glancing at Maxwell. ‘But I’m okay, today. Thanks.’

‘Callum, I want to go into a bit more detail on a few things,’ Field began. ‘You understand that anything you say today is admissible in evidence?’

Callum nodded.

‘Good.’ DCI Field looked less tired than yesterday, and her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail. ‘When did you last speak to Andrew Levey?’

He’d been expecting her to go through his alibi for each night, or ask why Sam might have been outside his house.

Clearly not giving them Andy’s name hadn’t stopped the police finding his details.

Field was clicking and unclicking her pen. He closed his eyes, screwed them up. Tried not to count.

Click.

He realised he hadn’t actually answered her yet.

‘Andy?’ Callum rubbed a hand over his scalp. He coughed, buying thinking time. ‘I don’t know. Maybe five years ago? A new year’s text or something.’

Click.

‘Why didn’t you stay in touch?’ Field asked.

The small room was heating up.

‘I don’t know—’

Click.

‘—I think Andy wanted to distance himself from the study, and from his illness.’

Callum could feel sweat gathering in his armpits.

Click.

‘By the time we left he was much better, and he wanted to get on with his life.’ He shifted in his seat, unable to get comfortable.

Click click.

Was that one or two?

He forced himself to concentrate. ‘Andy was always the quiet one. He got a lot out of being around us four, but I think in the end, he wanted a fresh start. We all did.’

Field put the pen down and relief flooded through him – chest lighter, hands unclenching.

Field pulled a book from her bag and put it on the table. A well-read copy of Darlings, Obsessed.

‘Andy isn’t a character in the book, is he?’

Callum gripped the edge of the table. ‘I didn’t base the characters on those guys.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Field said, picking it up.

Dr Maxwell was making eyes at the solicitor, but Callum shook his head, to indicate he could go on.

‘There’s a character with an eating disorder.’ Field looked up to gauge his reaction. ‘Like Lily Stewart. Counting and magical thinking, like you – that’s the term, isn’t it? And skin picking, like Sam. The youngest character has contamination OCD, like—’

‘Okay,’ Callum interrupted. ‘I didn’t use misophonia.’

‘Remind me, what is misophonia?’

He’d lost count of her questions – did they start from “How are you?” or when the recording started? Were they at nine yet? Maybe she was counting to see if he would react to question nine – trying to test him.

Before Callum could answer, Maxwell interrupted.

‘Fear of sound, or an extreme anxious reaction to certain sounds.’ Maxwell crossed his arms. ‘But Callum wasn’t the psychologist treating this patient, so I don’t think it’s pertinent to question him on medical terms.’

The latest anxiety spike flattened. Maxwell answering for him was like a stay of execution.

Field gave Maxwell a frosty look. ‘Big picture, Callum. Do you think Andy is capable of these attacks?’

‘No.’ He didn’t want to look at her. He stared at a spot on the wall behind her left ear. ‘Not the Andy I used to know. But it’s been a long time.’

Field looked down at her notes. ‘What about Lily? Could she be capable?’

‘Lil? No. No way.’ He suppressed an eyeroll. The police must be desperate, Callum thought, if they were looking at Lily.

‘What makes you say that?’

He went through a rolodex of examples in his mind. The fact she never let him kill spiders, even though she was terrified of them. Her fear of blood. The pervading goodness of her, that he relied on as much as it infuriated him. Took advantage of.

‘She just wouldn’t,’ he said, finally. ‘Why would she? What possible reason?’

He took a sip of water, the tremor in his hand making it hard not to spill any. They must be past nine questions now.

It was fine.

It was all going to be fine.

He sensed Field’s next question before she asked it.

‘If you don’t mind, Callum,’ Field said. ‘I’d like to know more about Paige. It must have been difficult for you, when she passed away. Could you tell me about her?’

Tell me about Paige .

A simple request. One of the easiest things she’d asked so far.

He closed his eyes.

‘Paige was the youngest – two years younger than me, with a proper baby face. We all saw her as a little sister.’

Strange lights danced against his eyelids.

He couldn’t picture Paige’s face anymore.

He could summon the essence of her, how she threw her head back and laughed, the cadence of her voice, but her face was a blank, apart from the big, dark eyes and elfin Irish features.

He’d never had a very visual memory – and he didn’t have a photograph of her.

He opened his eyes. Field was looking at him dispassionately. Not brimming with empathy, but not shooting daggers either.

‘What was her OCD like, Callum?’

‘Contamination,’ he said, mechanically. This was more solid ground.

‘Not so much bins and germs, although there was that. Specifically, she thought people she didn’t know very well were contaminated.

So, we were safe, she could touch us – just. But the cleaners, new nurses, other visitors. Anything they touched, she couldn’t.’

‘That sounds hard.’

The blandness of the statement pissed him off.

‘It was. If her mum popped to the shops for a pint of milk, it’d take Paige two hours to “decontaminate” her, because she’d come into contact with things strangers had touched.

’ His voice stuck in his throat. ‘There was one day, not long before Paige was discharged, when her mum and sister came to visit. When they got there, before they’d even used the hand sanitiser, Paige walked over and hugged them.

Her mum was so happy, she couldn’t stop crying. ’

Callum had envied Paige in that moment. Her enduring, enabling mother who only wanted the best for her. Her supportive little sister.

‘Paige was a better writer than me,’ he said, for something to distract himself. ‘I can tell you that for free.’

‘Did she write during the trial?’

‘Yeah. We were quite competitive.’ He laid his hands on the greasy table.

‘What did you both write about?’ Field asked. She seemed in no hurry to move the interview on.

He exhaled, staring at his hands. They felt useless, disconnected from him. ‘We wrote about our experience of OCD, illness, hospital.’ He looked up. ‘Have you read my book?’

‘Yes,’ Field said, without hesitation. She cleared her throat.

He nodded. ‘Then you’ll know. It’s tiny . It’s a very small book, about small, sad people. It’s minuscule . I write horrible narcissistic characters who are different slices of me. I give them my flaws and I crank up the pressure and I try to make them crack.’

Field was frowning at him. If she was following his thread, it was only just.

He sighed. ‘Paige didn’t write like that. She was younger and less cynical and cleverer. She wrote in this big broad way. She wasn’t afraid to go deep, you know? She made you think about big themes, big issues.’

There was a gentle hum from behind the shutters. The staff would be prepping lunch, warming up the big oven for the trays of soft food.

‘People who claim they are “so OCD” have no idea what OCD is actually like.’ Callum sighed. ‘But Paige’s writing, she helped people to get it – to put into context what the worst possible experiences felt like.’

When Callum looked up, Field looked pale. He frowned. ‘Are you okay?’

Field gave him a bland smile. ‘Yes. Fine – you were saying? Did Paige want to be a writer?’

‘God no, she wanted to be an actress .’ He let out a hollow laugh.

‘For her RADA audition, they let her perform an extract of her own play. That’s unusual.

It normally has to be something pre-approved, I think.

When they offered her a place, she was the only person who was actually surprised.

She texted me – sent me “RADA” and then about a thousand crying emojis. ’

He’d got her text on the train and jumped out of his seat.

There’d been no one, before or since, whom he’d loved like Paige. Like a sister, fiercely protective but also scared for her. He wanted to push her to achieve big things but also keep her wrapped up in cotton wool.

‘Did you go to her funeral, Callum?’ Field asked, quietly.

He shook his head and wiped his hands on his jeans.

‘Why not?’ She prompted. ‘Couldn’t face it?’

‘I got as far as the grounds of the crematorium.’ He sighed. ‘But I’d spent a year and a half with Paige, and the others, just us.’

Callum struggled for the words to explain, looking up at the stained ceiling. ‘I couldn’t be there, with her family. I didn’t want to see her mum and sister again.

‘My parents blamed me, for getting ill. I moved in with my nan, and apart from a card at Christmas we don’t speak. Lily hasn’t spoken to her mum or her sisters since she was sixteen.’

No one spoke. He was aware of Maxwell next to him, aware that this would be fodder for future therapy sessions.

‘Paige was so loved. I didn’t want to meet her school friends, and her cousins and all the other people in her life – all the people who never abandoned her. I didn’t want to compare my grief to theirs.’

He took a big breath of air, and met Field’s eye. ‘I told you. I’m selfish.’

‘Here’s your medication,’ Maxwell said, handing over a bulging paper bag. ‘They’ve given you enough for two weeks. There are beta blockers in there, in case you need them, but try and only take them in emergencies.’

‘Sleeping pills?’ Callum asked, peering into it.

Maxwell folded his arms. ‘They’ve actually given you a high dose of amitriptyline. It should make you tired but won’t be as addictive as a sleeping tablet, short-term.’

Callum nodded, and pushed the pills into his rucksack. As long as he could close his eyes without the image of Sam bleeding to death in the street, he didn’t care what the pills were.

They left Maxwell’s cramped office and walked towards the ward’s entrance, Callum carrying his rucksack and his red parka in his arms, a protective bundle between him and everything else.

‘The police have been in touch. You can go home. Everything should be cleaned up, so – so you should be all right. You know they’ve offered to put an officer outside your house tonight? Just in case—’

‘No,’ Callum snapped. He couldn’t face seeing the bloke from that night. ‘No police.’

‘Okay.’ Maxwell raised his hands. ‘But keep your phone turned on, in case they need to get hold of you. Plus, you’ve got my number. If you need anything over the next few days, you call me, okay? Or get Lily to ring.’

Callum nodded. ‘Have you spoken to her? Lily?’

The urge to count as they walked was overwhelming. His footsteps, the floor tiles, the squeak of Maxwell’s right shoe.

‘I haven’t heard from her.’ Maxwell shot him a worried glance.

He’d have liked to have her here, for this bit, but Callum shrugged. ‘It’s okay. She’ll be at home, I guess.’

They stopped by the doors to the ward, and a few of the other patients eyed him with interest.

‘Thanks, Doc,’ he said quietly. ‘I didn’t think I’d—’

Guilt rose in him. How many hours had he spent with David, over the years? How long had they spent together, working through Callum’s many regressions?

‘I didn’t think there would be another doctor who would get this stuff,’ he said, weakly.

Maxwell shrugged. ‘I’m sure there’s a lot I don’t know yet. Ultimately, you’re the expert on what’s going on and how you feel, Callum. But I’m here, and I’m on your side, okay?’

Callum shrugged his rucksack over one shoulder. It was only light – some clothes the police had brought him from home yesterday, some leaflets from Maxwell, and the meds.

Maxwell sensed that he didn’t want to prolong the goodbye and held the door open for him.

Callum walked through it.

The hospital was quiet. There were a few people Callum assumed were relatives or visitors, clutching flowers or bags of food. Some looked harassed or stressed but most seemed upbeat.

He followed the signs for the exits without thinking about it, keeping his mind deliberately empty.

A woman in shorts glanced at the winter parka he was holding with a mildly amused expression. He wanted to tell her to fuck off.

But he didn’t. The cool air-conditioned corridors finally gave way to baking afternoon heat, as he took a deep breath and walked through the Maudsley’s front doors.

Three.

The number popped into his mind automatically.

The third time he’d been discharged from this hospital.