The Farm Read Free

on her own. But she didn’t protest, so it was a voluntary admission. Then, once I left – she convinced the doctors to discharge her.’
    ‘Mum convinced them? You said the doctors diagnosed her as psychotic.’
    My dad didn’t reply. I pressed the point:
    ‘The staff didn’t discuss her release with you?’
    His voice dropped in volume:
    ‘She must have asked them not to speak to me.’
    ‘Why would she do that?’
    ‘I’m one of the people she’s making allegations against.’
    He hastily added:
    ‘None of what she claims is real.’
    It was my turn to be silent. I wanted to ask about the allegations but couldn’t bring myself to. I sat on my luggage, head in hands, ushering the queue to move around me.
    ‘Does she have a phone?’
    ‘She smashed hers a few weeks ago. She doesn’t trust them.’
    I hesitated over the image of my frugal mother irrationally smashing a phone. My dad was describing the actions of a person I didn’t recognise.
    ‘Money?’
    ‘Probably a little – she carries around a leather satchel. She never lets it out of her sight.’
    ‘What’s in it?’
    ‘All kinds of junk she believes to be important. She calls it evidence.’
    ‘How did she leave the hospital?’
    ‘The hospital won’t even tell me that. She could be anywhere!’
    Feeling panic for the first time, I said:
    ‘You and Mum have joint accounts. You can phone the bank and ask about recent transactions. Track her through the card.’
    I could tell from the silence that Dad had never phoned the bank before: he’d always left money matters to my mum. In their joint business she’d balanced the books, paid the bills, and submitted the yearly tax accounts, gifted with an aptitude for numbers and the focus required to spend hours piecing together receipts and expenses. I could picture her old-fashioned ledger, in the days before spreadsheets. She’d press so hard on it with a pen that the numbers were like Braille.
    ‘Dad, check with the bank and call me straight back.’
    While waiting I stepped out of the line and exited the terminal building, pacing among the congregation of smokers, struggling with the thought of Mum lost in Sweden. My phone rang again. I was surprised that my dad had managed his task so quickly, except it wasn’t Dad:
    ‘Daniel, listen to me carefully—’
    It was my mum.
    ‘I’m on a payphone and don’t have much credit. I’m sure your father has spoken to you. Everything that man has told you is a lie. I’m not mad. I don’t need a doctor. I need the police. I’m about to board a flight to London. Meet me at Heathrow, Terminal . . .’
    She paused for the first time to check her ticket information. Seizing the opportunity, all I could manage was a pitiful ‘. . . Mum!’
    ‘Daniel, don’t talk, I have very little time. The plane comes in at Terminal One. I’ll be landing in two hours. If your father calls, remember—’
    The phone cut off.
    I tried calling the payphone back in the hope that my mum would pick up, but there was no answer. As I was about to try again, my dad rang. Without any preamble he began to speak, sounding like he was reading from notes:
    ‘At seven-twenty this morning she spent four hundred pounds at Gothenburg airport. The vendor was Scandinavian Airlines. She’s in time for the first flight to Heathrow. She’s on her way to you! Daniel?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Why didn’t I tell him that Mum had just called and that I already knew she was on her way? Did I believe her? She’d sounded commanding and authoritative. I’d expected a stream of consciousness, not clear facts and compact sentences. I was confused. It felt aggressive and confrontational to repeat her assertions that my dad was a liar. I stuttered a reply:
    ‘I’ll meet her here. When are you flying over?’
    ‘I’m not.’
    ‘You’re staying in Sweden?’
    ‘If she thinks I’m in Sweden she’ll relax. She’s got it into her head that I’m pursuing her. Staying here will buy you some time.