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CHAPTER THREE
JULIAN MCMAHON FROM THE TRUST was waiting for me in reception. He had a big build, curly ginger hair, and a fondness for phrases such as between you and me or at the end of the day or the bottom line, which frequently popped up in his conversation, often in the same sentence. He was essentially a benign figure—the friendly face of the Trust. He wanted to have a word with me before I went home.
“I’ve just come from Professor Diomedes. I thought you should know—he’s resigned.”
“Ah. I see.”
“He took early retirement. Between you and me, it was either that or face an inquiry into this
mess.” Julian shrugged. “I can’t help but feel sorry for him—not a particularly glorious end to a long and distinguished career. But at least this way he’ll be spared the press and all the hoo-ha. Incidentally, he mentioned you.”
“Diomedes?”
“Yes. He suggested we give you his job.” Julian winked. “He said you were the perfect man for it.”
I smiled. “That’s very kind.”
“Unfortunately, at the end of the day, given what happened to Alicia, and Christian’s arrest, there’s simply no question of keeping the Grove open. We’re closing it down permanently.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised. So in fact there’s no job to be had?”
“Well, the bottom line is this—we’re planning to open a new, much more cost-effective psychiatric service here in the next few months. And we’d like you to consider running it, Theo.”
It was hard to conceal my excitement. I agreed with pleasure. “Between you and me,” I said, borrowing one of his phrases, “it’s the kind of opportunity that I dream about.” And it was—a chance to actually help people, not just medicate them; help them the way I believe they should be helped. The way Ruth helped me. The way I tried to help Alicia.
Things have worked out well for me—I’d be ungrateful not to acknowledge that. It seems I’ve gotten everything I wanted. Well, almost.
***
Last year, Kathy and I moved out of central London to Surrey—back to where I grew up. After my father died, he left me the house; although it remained my mother’s to live in until she died, she decided to give it to us, and she moved into a care facility.
Kathy and I thought the extra space and a garden would be worth the commute into London. I thought it would be good for us. We promised ourselves we would transform the house and made plans to redecorate and exorcise. But nearly a year since we moved in, the place remains unfinished, half-decorated, the pictures and convex mirror we bought in Portobello Market still propped up against unpainted walls. It remains very much the house I grew up in. But I don’t mind the way I thought I would. In fact, I feel quite at home, which is ironic.
I arrived at the house and let myself in. I quickly took off my coat—it was sweltering, like a