Page 48 of Insomnia

“Of course,” I answer and grit my teeth as the overfamiliar melody starts. The song has killed my good mood in a moment. I’ll drink my tea and go.

39.

TWO DAYS UNTIL MY BIRTHDAY

I’d bought two large glasses of wine to take to my room when I’d got back to the hotel, and when I wake from my brief sleep, I’m fuzzy-headed and dry mouthed. Blurry with tiredness, it takes a moment before I can figure out where I am and then the penny drops. Not in my own home, the one I’ve worked so hard for. I’ve been banished from there. I sit up and check my phone. No messages from Robert or Chloe, and nothing yet from Darcy. I throw a text at Chloe: “Hope everything’s okay. I love you all. Mum.”And have you dumped that cheating bastard yetis what my hangover wants me to add, but I don’t.

We’d played the song several times over before I left—I didn’t have the heart to tell Caroline to stop with it and didn’t want to explain why. She said it was a melody of loss and haunting heartache and she loved it and by the fifth play even I could pretend that the tune was just a regular earworm. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t entwined in my weird nights. I don’t fucking know anything anymore.

The sleeping pills are still in the cupboard at home—I didn’t see the point of bringing them as I have no intention of taking them—and I lay in the unfamiliar bed, awake until four, muttering my mother’s numbers and trying not to think about what mightbe happening in my house without me there to check the doors, windows, and cupboards. Were the children okay? Was someone doing something bad?

At one point I’d got up and paced around the room, wanting to get in the car and drive over there, even though turning up in the middle of the night would hardly make Robert more inclined to think I’m sane. In the end I just drew the numbers on the wall with my fingers and tried some deep breathing until I settled.

Still in bed, I scan my emails, mainly crap sales shit, but then I see one from Hartwell Secure Unit. It came through yesterday evening and I must have missed it. It’s from Senior Forensic Mental Health Nurse Debbie Webster. She’s sorry for my loss and I’m welcome to visit and she’ll help in any way she can. I quickly reply that I’ll come today—before they start thinking of me as a potential murderer if the police decide I’m a proper suspect—and then get up to put the coffee machine on.

There’s no answer from Chloe by the time I’m ready to head off and I try not to let it bother me. She’s a teenager. She’s surly, and ignoring me is probably a lot easier than trying to have a conversation. My not being there has let her off the Julian hook for now too, so she’s probably relieved about that. I’m not at home to tell her father, and right now we’ve got bigger problems to deal with.

It’s a beautiful day, and I open the window so the fresh breeze can wake me up along with the energy drink I’ve grabbed from the petrol station. Hartwell is an hour out of Leeds and I’m on the wrong side of the city, but it’s a quiet Sunday morning, so it turns into quite a soothing drive, a sense of direction and purpose in my floundering life. Has Parker Stockwell told Buckley about my outburst yet? Probably, but sod him. I’m perfectly within my rights to tell him to back off and I’ve already fired a warning shot across the bow about inappropriate sexual politics.

That doesn’t stop my seeing my partnership chances going down the drain. But at least Buckley can’t fire me. Perhaps I should play the game and tell him about Miranda’s probable actions against me. My scratched car. The note.Bitch. The way she was waiting for me in the restaurant. Maybe both Buckley and Stockwell would be more forgiving then. I hate the idea of backing down or making myself look weak, but I also want that partnership. I mean Ireallywant it. If Robert thinks I’m about to quit my career so he can play at running the Rovers Return, he’s as crazy as he thinks I am.

I am not crazy. Worried, yes. Sleepless, yes. Haunted by the past to the point of distraction, yes. But crazy? No. I’m not that. As I get closer to Hartwell, I start to feel more confident. I’m facing my past. Taking charge. Acting like a grown-up. Maybe Dr. Morris is right. There are only two days until my birthday. In a week this will all be over, but if I can get to my fortieth without this fear that the same thing that happened to my mother is going to happen to me, then so much the better.

40.

I’m not sure what I was expecting of Hartwell—maybe some nineteenth-century Bedlam—but not the bright, modern, cheerful-looking building that is ahead of me. If it wasn’t for the high wire fencing, the place could easily be a school building. With blue porthole windows against the cream walls, and some very Scandi looking sections of wood cladding, the whole aesthetic is designed to put you at ease, and as I buzz into the main entrance the feeling continues through to a bright reception room decorated with paintings and clay pieces I presume were made by the residents, interspersed with motivational posters.

“Hi.” A woman in a blue polo shirt smiles at me from behind the pine counter. “I’m so sorry but our whole system has crashed this morning. Something to do with the server. Someone’s promised to mend it, but they haven’t arrived yet, so you’ll have to bear with me for a moment—it’s all back to pen and paper for now. How can I help?”

“I came to see Nurse Debbie Webster?”

“Ah, another problem there.” She shrugs apologetically. “Migraine. She called in sick. Which I’ll probably be doing tomorrow if the internet whiz kids don’t arrive soon.”

God, I hope I haven’t driven up here for nothing. “She emailed me last night saying I could come and talk to her about . . . aboutmy mother. She was a patient here. She just died. Patricia Bournett?”

Her faces softens into a warm sympathetic smile. “Oh Patricia. I’m so sorry for your loss. I can’t actually believe she’s gone. She’s always been a part of Hartwell. We’ll miss her.”

Her soft tone puts me on the back foot. I don’t expect anyone to talk like that about my mother. “I didn’t really know her. I was very young when— Is there someone who can maybe talk to me about her? Show me her room or something. I just—I’ve been told I need to find some closure basically and...” I can feel blotches coming up on my neck with awkward embarrassment. “Well, I thought this might help me.”

“Of course. I’m sure I can find someone to show you around. Especially as she was a low-security resident and—”

“Low? It was medium wasn’t it?”

She gives me a gentle smile. “To start with, yes. But for a long time Patricia was only really in danger of harming herself, not others. She was moved to the Apple Tree Low Secure wing over a decade ago.” I almost snap that as far as I was concerned, she was very much a danger to others, but instead I force myself to smile in agreement.

“I know my sister came to see her a few times this year,” I say, after she calls through for a nurse to come and collect me. “Have there been any other visitors? If there were, I’d like to thank them, if possible.” I’m doing my best impersonation of a grieving daughter, but I’m mainly curious.

Now that I’m here, the reality that this was my mother’s life—her home—for the past thirty-five years is a lot to take in. Even if some of the staff have spent their whole careers here, she was still a resident for longer. It’s a strange thought. This was her entire world. Such limited horizons. What did she think, if she everthought of us?Didshe ever think of us? Did anybody out there care about what happened to her? Did she have any other friends? How strange if she lived here all this time with not a single visitor until Phoebe. Not much to say for the forty years of life she had before this.

“Until we have the computers back up and running again, I can’t tell you.” The receptionist breaks me from my thoughts. “But I’ll make a note to contact you and let you know when I can. I’m sure Nurse Webster will call you anyway. And if you could complete this”—she slides a clipboard and pen over to me—“then I can register you as signed in.”

By the time I’ve filled it in, a solid woman, Julie, is striding forward to greet me and lead me over to the Apple Tree wing. She takes me down the side of the building, talking me through all the facilities, pointing out the garden gym area—telling me there’s a fully equipped indoor gym as well, but the fresh air is good for the clients—the picnic benches and the wonderful grounds and other exercise areas. I definitely feel like I’m getting a tour of some academy and that at any minute we’re going to have to watch a chemistry class demonstration.

Only when we get inside the Apple Tree wing do I feel the tips of my fingers cool and my heart race.

“Did you know my mother?” I ask Julie as she leads me farther into the heart of the building.

“Of course. Everyone knows—knew—Patricia. I joined the team, gosh, about eight years ago now, and passing the Patricia test was like a test of character. If she liked you, then you were a good egg, that’s what Debbie said at the time, and it’s proved true.”

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