In the Company of Ghosts Read Free Page A

talked to the actor only when her back was turned towards the mirror’s one-way viewing glass. Doctor Bishop could lip read, and she didn’t want to feed his salacious case file on her anymore than she absolutely had to.
    ‘The good doctor appears somewhat miffed,’ said Niven.
    ‘He should be.’
    Niven raised an arm, thoughtfully brushing his neat moustache. ‘He knows they are coming for you. Their car pulled up outside a couple of minutes ago. The doctor’s had his staff ringing around the ministry all day trying to find someone with the authority to revoke your release from the section order.’
    ‘Good luck with that.’ Agatha stopped whispering as Niven pirouetted her to face the large mirror across the room. The mirror showed no sign of David Niven. Just a silver-haired old lady of around sixty years twisting and turning in the centre of the room as if she were demented. Mirrors couldn’t show the dead, only the living.
    ‘When they come for you, tell them that you can tie the fanciest of nooses,’ said Niven.
    ‘Are you helping me?’ Agatha’s words came out softly, angled for Niven’s ear alone.
    ‘We like to try.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘For the dance?’
    ‘For letting me know they were on their way before they arrived.’
    ‘We thought it was best.’
    ‘Would it be presumptuous to ask you to hold me for a little longer?’ Agatha asked. I haven’t danced with anyone for a very long time.’
    ‘I understand perfectly,’ said Niven. ‘My final dance was on the set of Better Late Than Never with Maggie Smith. At least, my last dance on this side.’
     
    Doctor Bishop stood ramrod straight, his arms behind his back, his fingers digging into his palm in anger. He didn’t deign to look around at the man and the woman as the pair entered.
    ‘I’m Doyle,’ said the man, ‘this is Thorson.’
    ‘Papers,’ said the doctor. The words came out like the escape of air from a grass snake.
    ‘The Telegraph or The Sun?’ Doyle tossed a sheaf of documents across to Bishop’s intern, the doctor still too angry to directly address the two intruders into his realm. ‘Save your time, chum, they’re all in order.’
    ‘In order? In order for THAT?’ The doctor’s hand jabbed across towards the one-way glass. Agatha Witchley was turning slowly in the centre of the room, her head resting at an unnatural angle. Her rheumy blue eyes stared back at the glass with defiance written across every line of her forehead. ‘Does Agatha Witchley look like she’s ready to be released from the unit?’
    ‘Is the straitjacket really necessary?’ asked Thorson. The tone of voice didn’t bother to disguise her contempt for the unit’s methods. ‘At her age?’
    ‘Last Tuesday,’ spat the doctor, ‘Witchley shattered the knee bone of one of my orderlies and dislocated the shoulder of a second staff member when they attempted to remove the pills she’d been hiding under her sofa’s cushions. She did that with her bare feet, no shoes. With her straitjacket on!’
    ‘You’ve seen the release papers,’ said Doyle. ‘Now, chuck me the keys to her nut-shirt, Doctor Mengele. We’ll be taking tea and biscuits with the old girl before she leaves with us.’
    ‘Has anyone told the Israeli Embassy she’s being released?’ demanded the doctor.
    Doyle raised an eyebrow.
    ‘That’s why she was admitted to us, man,’ spat the doctor. ‘Haven’t you fools even read her case notes? She was dragged from the Israeli Prime Minister’s jet on the tarmac of Heathrow after she attacked his bodyguards. She was planning to kidnap him and take him to The Hague for war crimes. She’s a stalker, psychotic… devious, violent, displaying all the signs of extreme paranoia. For crying out loud, she believes she can talk to John Lennon and Julius Caesar. She suffers from severe compulsive disorders. Twelve months of treatment in the unit and I haven’t even made a dent on her state of mind.’
    Doyle pointed to a