The Girl with the Fragile Mind

I kept my hands in my lap beneath the table, where he couldn’t see me tearing at my own skin.

‘I – I’m not sure.’ I eyed the toast warily. ‘I think I will be OK.’ If only they’d stop poisoning me.

He sat now, directly opposite me. There was a black tape recorder on the table between us, but he didn’t switch it on. His eyes were a little hooded; they narrowed slightly as he studied my face.

‘Have we met before?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You look a little familiar.’

I shook my head. There was a pen on the table; he turned it round neatly, and then gave me a slight smile. ‘So, Claudie. In your own time, I need you to tell me why you’re here. How you came to be all the way out here. Did someone bring you?’

‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘And something’s not right,’ I repeated, slowly this time. I could feel the shiny crescent moon of skin missing from my thumb where I’d stripped it raw.

‘What?’ he said now. His accent was Northern. ‘What’s not right?’

‘I can’t – it’s hard to explain.’

We locked eyes. Still he did not condescend to me; he didn’t look at me as if I was mad. He just waited, dug in his trouser pocket for something.

‘That sounds stupid, I know.’ I was trying to order my mind. My thumb throbbed. ‘I mean, I can’t quite put my finger on it.’

‘On what?’ He was handsome. No, not handsome even, kind of … debonair. Like he’d stepped from a Fred and Ginger film; his cuffs so white they almost shone.

‘I think I might have done something bad. The Friday before last.’

‘What kind of bad?’ he asked. Long fingers on gum; waiting to unwrap it. He sat back in his chair and looked at me patiently. I could smell his aftershave. Lemony.

‘Very bad,’ I muttered.

‘Do you know my name?’ he asked.

He felt me falter. I shook my head.

‘It’s DCI Silver.’ It was an inducement. ‘Joe Silver.’

A short, stocky woman walked into the room now and stood behind him. She smiled at me, a kind, reassuring smile. I recognised her, I realised. I’d met her before. A woman with funny coloured hair.

‘And what happened to your face, Claudie?’

Automatically I raised my hand to my cheek. ‘Berkeley Square.’

‘Berkeley Square?’ He sat up straighter. ‘The explosion?’

I nodded.

‘OK, Claudie.’ He flicked the gum away into the wastepaper basket and smiled again. He must have kids, I thought. He is used to waiting with infinite patience. His teeth were very straight, almost as white as his cuffs. ‘Why don’t you start from the beginning? Who brought you all the way out here?’

‘I think I might have done something terrible,’ I repeated. I took a gulp of air: I met his eyes this time. ‘I think – I think I might have killed a lot of people.’

THURSDAY 13TH JULY CLAUDIE

It was such an ordinary morning. Afterwards that seemed the most marked thing about everything that followed, that it started as any day that encapsulates absolute normality. Not particularly sunny, not particularly cold – a day on which people get up and eat toast, choose underwear and shoes; argue about walking the dog or taking the bin out, kiss their children and their partners goodbye; catch the 8.13, jostle for space with the same anonymous faces they jostle with every day. A day on which people go about things in exactly the same way as always; not realising life might be about to change forever.

And for me, it was one of the all right days. A day when I had managed to roll out of bed, step out of the house; walk, talk and function. Not one of the pole-axed days. Not one of the splitting days.

One of the all right days.

I got to work early because the yoga teacher hadn’t turned up at the Centre. I walked through the back streets of Marylebone, enjoying the relative quiet of Oxford Street, free of the tourists and maddened shoppers, at one with the street cleaners and the other Londoners not yet soiled for the day by the city.

I wandered up the front stairs of the Royal Ballet Academy in Berkeley Square, between the great white pillars and the huge arched windows, soaking in the ambience of the old building. I loved my job and the Academy was grand enough to warrant its distinguished title, training some of the greatest ballet talent in Europe.

‘The Bolshoi are in.’ My colleague Leila shot past me on the stairs, following a gaggle of chattering students. I caught up with them at the glass wall to watch a little of the guest stars’ technical demonstration, watching a sturdy Russian male fling the Academy’s young Irish ballerina Sorcha into the air during the Sleeping Beauty pas de deux. By the rapt look on the couple’s faces, I guessed it might not be all they’d be demonstrating later.

A small, dark first-year student called Anita sat against the back wall, limbering up, watching Sorcha like a hawk. One of Tessa’s protégées, I had yet to see her dance, or treat her for any sort of injury myself, but she had a rather glowering intensity that I found unattractive. Her face in repose was simply a downturned mouth. And recently, I’d noticed that she’d begun to trail Tessa in a way that verged on pathological.

‘He’s gorgeous,’ a girl in a blue leotard breathed, fugging up the glass, ‘and look at his arms. His lifts are effortless.’

‘He can lift me,’ her plain friend said, sticking her bony chest out. ‘Any way he wants.’ They both giggled.

Down in the office, Mason was as always safely ensconced behind her desk, keeper of the back-room. God only knew where she had found this morning’s ensemble: a kaftan in vivid black and orange swirls that entirely swamped her skinny frame. I wondered, not for the first time, if anyone else ever thought she looked like a female version of the transvestite potter Grayson Perry.

‘You’re early,’ Mason said. The sleeve of her kaftan trailed patiently after the raddled hand flying across the keyboard. ‘As the esteemed Mr Franklin once said: “Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.”’

‘Indeed,’ I grinned. Mason’s ability to quote at long and tedious length was legendary, though I was sure she made half of them up. ‘Let’s hope he was right.’

‘Tessa’s looking for you.’ She glanced up, one pencilled eyebrow disappearing into her glossy fringe. ‘Seems a little – anxious.’

As I was changing into my tunic in the staff changing room, Tessa arrived, slightly breathless, her limp a little more pronounced than usual. She looked oddly harried and her spotted hairband was tied too loosely so wisps of fair hair were escaping.

‘Morning. Everything OK?’ I noted the roses of high colour on her cheeks. ‘Mason said you were after me.’

‘I – Claudie. I must just catch my breath. Sorry,’ she mumbled. She sat on the bench beside me, clutching her tortoiseshell walking stick.

‘I’ve got that book you wanted to borrow, by the way,’ I said, ‘the Elizabeth David. Don’t let me forget to give it to you now I’ve—’

Tessa startled me by grasping my hand so hard it made me wince. Her breathing seemed very fast as she peered over my shoulder, dropping her voice.

‘I need to talk to you, Claudie.’ The Australian accent she normally fought to hide was broad today, and something in her tone made me frown. I’d never seen Tessa so tense, although her behaviour in the past few weeks had seemed different, somehow; erratic, even. Recently her star as the Academy’s top teacher had slid into the descendant after an ugly incident involving an irate mother and her hysterical daughter; the board were looking into it and Tessa refused to talk about it, but I’d put her unease down to that. ‘In private, I mean.’ She looked over my shoulder as if she was expecting someone to materialise.

‘I’ve got a full schedule this morning,’ I was apologetic. ‘They’re all overdoing it at the moment apparently, poor loves. End of term in sight, I suppose. Can we talk later?’

‘Lunchtime?’

‘I’m – I’ve got an appointment at lunch.’ I grimaced. I was aware we hadn’t spent much time together recently. ‘Sorry. I can’t really – how about tea this afternoon?’

‘I’m not sure I can wait.’ Tessa was blinking strangely, moving to the door. ‘I’m – I really need to—’ she trailed off as she pushed the door ajar and scanned the corridor.