Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [75]
‘Of course,’ said Liz. She indicated the seat in front of the desk; Laska pushed the door shut behind her but stayed on her feet.
‘I’ve done. . . I’ve done something terrible,’ said Laska, the words suddenly coming out in a rush before she was able to vet them. For all the emotion she felt – the guilt, the regret – Laska found herself studying Liz’s reaction. There was just a sudden stiffness about the lips, the hint of a raised eyebrow 133
‘I should have come to you straight away,’ continued Laska. ‘Instead I told. . .
Instead I told someone else. That was stupid of me. Stupid, stupid, stupid.’
She couldn’t help but wring her hands, twist them into fists.
‘What do you want to tell me?’ asked Liz. There was a gravity in her voice that somewhat took Laska by surprise. ‘If it’s something about Mr Farrell. . . ’
‘Bloody hell!’ Laska was laughing now, her anguish turned to momentary, absurd amusement. ‘No, it’s got nothing to do with that.’
‘Well, I have to ask, because unless it’s really important. . . Well, you know, I’ve got a lot on my plate just at the moment.’
‘It’s vital!’ exclaimed Laska. ‘It’s about you, and Joe, and. . . ’ The words dried up, suddenly. She was no longer sure this was the time or the place to come clean with Liz, to tell her what she knew.
‘What about Joe?’ said Liz, suddenly on the defensive – as if, at the back of her mind, some grim doubt was already gnawing away at her fragile inner calm.
‘It’s just. . . the other day. . . I saw Joe. . . ’ Again the words dried up, and Laska found herself staring into Liz’s eyes, as if pleading with Liz not to make her go through with this.
Salvation came from an unexpected quarter, in the form of one of the gestalt nurses barging through the door. ‘Dr Bartholomew? I think you’d better. . .
Oh.’ She saw Laska, sensed something of the atmosphere between the two women. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t realise. . . ’
‘That’s OK,’ said Laska, relieved.
‘What is it?’ asked Liz.
‘It’s William Butler,’ said the nurse. ‘He’s killed himself.’
‘That’s all we need.’ Liz got to her feet. ‘Can you move the body down to the chapel?’
‘Of course.’
Something clicked in Laska’s mind, a synapse firing, a connection made, a resonance identified. She heard Liz asking, ‘Was there a suicide note?’
The nurse shrugged. ‘Not sure. We haven’t checked the room thoroughly.’
Liz stared at Laska. ‘Can what you were telling me. . . Can it wait?’ Now there was a look of desperation in Liz’s eyes – as if she didn’t want to know the truth, for the moment. As if she feared it might be the straw that broke the camel’s back.
‘Sure,’ said Laska. ‘It’s not important,’ she added – and cursed herself for her dishonesty.
She turned to leave, suddenly impatient, almost brushing the nurse away.
‘I’ve got to find Dr Smith, she said. ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell him.’
∗ ∗ ∗
134
Laska found Smith in the library. He looked very much at home with the dark panelled walls and expansive shelves, almost an eccentric academic with an interest only in the dust and knowledge of ancient books.
To his left rested an enormous pile of A3 photocopies. They seemed to be a variety of stories from local newspapers, all involving the Retreat, its controversial planning applications, the locals who had fought its foundation tooth and nail.
To his right sat a laptop, with a complicated program that seemed to be running as a screensaver. It bleeped from time to time, sounding not unlike a sonar on a submarine.
But in front of Dr Smith, and occupying all of his attention, was a single scrap of lined paper. He looked up from it, his eyes seeming not to focus on Laska for a moment.
Then he indicated that she should come closer. He pointed to the sheet of paper, and spoke as if trying to draw her in, to involve her in his concerns about the Retreat and his intention, doubtless, to put them right.
‘It’s the suicide note,’ he said simply. Only much later did it occur to Laska to wonder how Smith knew that Laska had heard of the man’s death – and why he sought to involve her in the matter.