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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE MEETING TOOK PLACE in Diomedes’s office, but Stephanie Clarke assumed control from the start. Now that we had left the abstract world of psychology and entered the concrete realm of health and safety, we were under her jurisdiction and she knew it. Judging by Diomedes’s sullen silence, it was obvious so did he.
Stephanie was standing with her arms crossed; her excitement was palpable. She’s getting off on this, I thought—being in charge, and having the last word. How she must have resented us all, overruling her, teaming up against her. Now she was relishing her revenge. “The incident yesterday morning was totally unacceptable,” she said. “I warned against Alicia being allowed to paint, but I was overruled. Individual privileges always stir up jealousies and resentments. I knew something like this would happen. From now on, safety must come first.”
“Is that why Alicia has been put in seclusion?” I said. “In the interest of safety?”
“She is a threat to herself, and others. She attacked Elif—she could have killed her.”
“She was provoked.”
Diomedes shook his head and spoke wearily. “I don’t think any level of provocation justifies that
kind of attack.”
Stephanie nodded. “Precisely.”
“It was an isolated incident,” I said. “Putting Alicia in seclusion isn’t just cruel—it’s barbaric.” I
had seen patients subjected to seclusion in Broadmoor, locked in a tiny, windowless room, barely enough space for a bed, let alone other furniture. Hours or days in seclusion was enough to drive anyone mad, let alone someone who was already unstable.
Stephanie shrugged. “As manager of the clinic, I have the authority to take any action I deem necessary. I asked Christian for his guidance, and he agreed with me.”
“I bet he did.”
Across the room, Christian smiled smugly at me. I could also feel Diomedes watching me. I knew what they were thinking—I was letting it get personal, and letting my feelings show; but I didn’t care.
“Locking her up is not the answer. We need to keep talking to her. We need to understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” Christian said with a heavy, patronizing tone, as if he were talking to a backward child. “It’s you, Theo.”
“Me?”
“Who else? You’re the one who’s been stirring things up.”
“In what sense, stirring?”
“It’s true, isn’t it? You campaigned to lower her medication—”
I laughed. “It was hardly a campaign. It was an intervention. She was drugged up to the eyeballs.
A zombie.” “Bullshit.”
I turned to Diomedes. “You’re not seriously trying to pin this on me? Is that what’s happening here?”