Chameleon's Shadow Read online

  I assumed this meant he was unable to write or talk, but your letter says he’s up and about and doing well. His mother said he has amnesia, and from the letters after your name I’m guessing you’re a psychiatrist. Am I right? So is amnesia what you’re helping him with? I should perhaps mention that my phone’s rung a few times recently but when I pick it up there’s only silence and the caller’s number is always withheld. I was thinking it was a nuisance caller, but now I’m wondering if it’s Charlie. If so, can you tell him I’d like to speak to him?

  I can’t believe he’s forgotten me – that wouldn’t be possible, would it? I mean, we were so close. I’m not sure how amnesia works, but I’m quite hoping Charlie’s forgotten why we split. It was a stupid row about nothing and I feel awful about it now. I get the feeling the person on the other end really wants to talk to me but loses courage when he hears my voice. Do you think it’s Charlie?

  You say it will help his recovery if you know more about me and the relationship we had together. Which means Charlie hasn’t told you anything. Why aren’t I surprised?!!! (You’re looking at the original zipped mouth. Charlie never talks about anything to do with himself, and it all goes back to his mother. She’s the original control freak. You could have knocked me over with a feather when she phoned. I only met her once and she didn’t like me one little bit. Too much competition in the ‘looks’ department, according to Charlie!)

  Charlie’s a chameleon. He projects different images of himself to different people. With his regiment, he’s a man’s man. With me, he’s a woman’s man. With his parents, he clams up and pretends he’s not there. I accused him once of lacking the confidence to be himself, but he said there was no point getting into arguments unless he had to. The trouble is, when the arguments finally happen, it’s always red-mist stuff. That’s why we split. A silly little row turned into a full-scale war.

  I’m not what Charlie’s parents wanted in a daughter-in-law. He was supposed to marry a home-maker, not an ambitious London-based actress. I’ve had a few small parts on TV but most of my work’s in the theatre, and Mary and Anthony went from approval of the engagement to disapproval in ten seconds flat when I said I wasn’t planning to leave London or have babies any time soon. If at all, in fact. Charlie then dropped his bombshell about the farm – that there was no way he would ever take it on – and his parents blamed me for setting him against the place. It caused a huge number of rows between them, which inevitably spilled over into our relationship.

  We met at a New Year’s Eve party at the end of 2005. Charlie was more smitten than I was at the beginning – he told me it was a coup de foudre when he first saw me – but he’s the kind of guy who grows on you. He’s very persistent, very generous and very difficult to say no to. In some ways, he’s every woman’s idea of the perfect man – respectful, patient, good-looking, determined, kind – Mr Darcy in fact. But in others, he’s a bit of a nightmare, because he keeps his emotions bottled up and only says what he really thinks when he’s angry.

  Yes, I did send a ‘Dear John’ letter the day before he went to Iraq. We’d had this huge bust-up (the row) the last time I saw him – the week before – and he hadn’t bothered to apologize. I think now that he was stressed out about going to war, but he did and said some things that were unforgivable and I decided the relationship wasn’t worth it. I talked it over with a friend and she said there was no excuse for violence. She also said it would be fairer to tell him sooner rather than later.

  I regret the letter now because I should have been more understanding. Charlie masks his feelings so much that it’s difficult to tell when he’s nervous or afraid, and I truly believe he was both before he left for Iraq. He said once that manoeuvres were no real test of ability under fire because soldiers knew they wouldn’t die in training. Another time he said that a commander had to be up to the task or he’d be letting his men down. I think those worries may have been preying on his mind and I feel so guilty that I added to them by taking my friend’s advice. I shouldn’t have listened to her. Perhaps he would have come home in one piece if I hadn’t.

  There’s not much else I can tell you except that I’d love to see him. I did wonder if your letter meant that he feels similarly . . . I’m not saying that we can retrieve what we had immediately, or in precisely the same way – I can’t take that level of possessiveness again – but we were very close for a long time and on my side there’s still a huge amount of love and affection. Will you tell him that?

  Thank you.

  With best wishes,

  Jen Morley

  Three

  WILLIS FLICKED THROUGH the notes in his lap. ‘Has your fiance´e made any attempts to contact you since you’ve been here, Charles?’

  ‘Ex-fiance´e,’ Acland corrected, squeezing one fist inside the other. He was standing in his favourite position by the window in his room, leaving the doctor to sit in the chair. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Just interested. I thought she might have called to find out how you’re getting on.’ He studied Acland’s unresponsive expression. ‘Women have soft hearts. They forgive and forget very quickly when someone they’ve loved is in trouble.’

  ‘There’s nothing for her to forgive – she’s the one who did the ditching – and there’s not much to forget either. We weren’t together that long.’

  ‘You can store up quite a few memories in nine months, Charles.’

  ‘Have you been talking to her?’

  Willis avoided the question. ‘Merely doing my research. It helps me to understand a patient if I know what was happening in the months before his trauma.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ Acland walked to his bedside cabinet and pulled open a drawer to remove a pile of unopened envelopes with his name and address written in the same handwriting. ‘All yours,’ he said, scattering the pile across the bed before returning to the window.

  ‘Why don’t you want to read them?’

  ‘There’d be no point. I’m not planning to write back.’ He watched Willis finger one of the envelopes. ‘What’s she been telling you?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to her. She sent me an email, saying she regrets ending the relationship the way she did and would like to see you.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ Acland asked sarcastically. ‘That she’s blissfully happy and can afford to be generous to a cast-off? Or that she hasn’t found anyone else and wants her meal ticket back?’

  Again Willis hedged. ‘Is that how you think she saw you?’

  ‘It’s how I know she saw me. All men are meal tickets to Jen.’ He paused, inviting Willis to answer. ‘It’s not sour grapes, Doc. She has a good brain and a good body and she uses both to full advantage. I admired her for it when I liked her.’

  ‘And now you don’t?’

  ‘Put it this way, I’ve no plans to let her take me for another ride.’ He nodded to the envelopes. ‘It makes me angry that she thinks she can. I wasn’t that easy to manipulate even when we were together.’

  Privately, Willis questioned the truth of that remark, suspecting the letters remained unread because Acland feared the turmoil that reawakened emotions might produce. He placed the point of his pen against a query he’d made on his notes. Nuisance calls? ‘Have you thought about phoning her to tell her you’re not interested?’

  Acland shook his head. ‘I’ve nothing to say that silence won’t achieve better.’

  Interesting choice of word, thought Willis. ‘You mean that ignoring her won’t achieve better?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But isn’t that equally manipulative? In the absence of a definite no, silence is usually taken for assent . . . or at least a continuing willingness to listen. Perhaps she thinks you’re reading her letters.’

  ‘That’s her problem.’

  ‘Maybe so, but she wouldn’t keep sending them if she knew where she stood.’ He paused. ‘Does it amuse you that she’s wasting her time?’

  ‘No. It’s up to her if she wants t
o write drivel . . . There’s no law that says I have to look at it.’

  ‘Do you think about revenge?’

  ‘All the time. I’ve a hell of a score to settle with the Iraqis who killed my crew.’

  ‘I meant against Jen.’

  ‘I know you did and it was a stupid question, Doc. I can’t even picture her face these days.’ He studied the psychiatrist’s thoughtful expression. ‘If she sent you an email, you’ll have visited her website and seen her photos. Who does she remind you of?’

  ‘Uma Thurman.’

  Acland nodded. ‘She really works on the image – thinks it’ll get her parts – but I have a better memory of Uma Thurman in Gattaca than I do of Jen. It was her favourite movie, even though it’s ten years old now. We used to watch the DVD whenever she was bored . . . and now the only face I see if I bother to think of Jen at all is Uma’s.’ He went back to staring out of the window. ‘It’s a revenge of sorts. At least I get the last laugh.’

  If what you’re saying is true, Willis thought. ‘Was Jen ever mistaken for Uma Thurman?’

  ‘All the time. It was the whole point of the exercise . . . to be noticed.’

  ‘Did that annoy you?’

  ‘Sometimes, when she went too far.’

  ‘How did she do that?’

  ‘Pretended to be Uma Thurman . . . talked in an American accent. She only did it with women. It gave her a real buzz to see their mouths fall open.’

  ‘What about men?’

  Acland thumped one fist into the other and squeezed down until his knuckles turned white. ‘She played herself. Your average bloke doesn’t have the nerve to chat up a superstar. With men she got her buzz out of persuading them she wasn’t Uma Thurman. . . just a stunning, but accessible, replica.’

  ‘Were you jealous?’

  ‘I’m sure Jen’s told you I was. How long was this email? Did she say I was so possessive she didn’t have room to breathe?’

  ‘Were you?’

  He made a noise in his throat that sounded like a laugh. ‘The opposite, Doc. I wasn’t possessive enough. Every time she went through her sad little pantomime, it bored me stiff. I didn’t sign up to be the adoring boyfriend of Uma Thurman’s stand-in.’

  ‘What did you sign up for, Charles?’

  ‘Not what I got.’ He exhaled a breath on to the pane and watched the water droplets evaporate almost immediately. ‘I fell for a fantasy.’

  ‘Meaning what? That you wanted Uma Thurman and the lookalike was a disappointment?’

  Acland didn’t answer.

  ‘Was that Jen’s fault?’

  ‘You tell me.’ He turned round, massaging his knuckles. ‘I’m sure it’s all in her email.’

  Willis gathered his papers together. ‘You don’t trust me much, do you, Charles?’

  ‘I don’t know, Doc. I haven’t come to a decision yet. When you’re not here, I never think about you at all . . . and when you are, I’m thinking about my answers.’

  *

  During March, as if prompted by the early spring that had people congregating in T-shirts in the sunshine, Willis talked about the dangers of alienation and social withdrawal. He tried various ways to spark a response from Acland, but a blunt appraisal of how isolation could lead an individual to obsess about single issues – usually people or topics that made him angry – was the only one that worked.

  ‘You’re making me nervous, Doc. I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something you know I won’t enjoy.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Willis. ‘I want you to socialize more.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You spend too much time on your own and it’s not good for you. Society hasn’t gone away while you’ve been recuperating. The pressure to interact remains . . . as do the conventions that govern behaviour . . . and both those imperatives are particularly true of the army.’

  They were sitting in the psychiatrist’s office and Acland half-turned so that the light from the window struck the injured side of his face. Willis assumed the shift was deliberate, because in that profile it was impossible to believe the other side of the face was untouched. The observer saw only the slack, nerveless flesh, empty eye socket and hideous, discoloured gash that destroyed any beauty the man had ever had.

  ‘Do you want to talk about why you’re so reluctant to have visitors or mix with the other patients?’ he went on.

  ‘You mean apart from looking like a freak?’ Acland turned back so that he could watch the doctor’s reaction. ‘That’s what you’re gagging to know, isn’t it? Do I see myself as a freak?’

  Willis arched an amused eyebrow. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Sure. The two halves of my face don’t match . . . and I don’t recognize either.’

  ‘Is that what keeps you in your room?’

  ‘No. It’s everyone else’s injuries I can’t take. There’s a squaddie on the ward who got barbecued when his petrol tank exploded. If he survives he’ll look like a tortoise – move like one, too. He knows it, I know it. There’s nothing I can say to a guy like that.’

  Willis watched him for a moment. ‘How did you deal with injured men before, Charles? Did you wash your hands of them . . . leave the responsibility to someone else?’

  ‘It’s different in the field. All you have to say to a bloke who’s down is that a chopper’s on its way. He’s probably out of it anyway, so he won’t even know what’s happened to him till he reaches the hospital.’

  ‘Mm. So it’s the long-term effects of injury that you have a problem with? Do you think the squaddie would be better off dead?’

  Acland spotted a trap. ‘I’ve no idea, Doc,’ he answered lightly. ‘I’ve never spoken to him. If he has the guts to see the ops through, then he’s strong enough to live. That’s the only answer I can give you.’

  ‘And his quality of life?’

  ‘Whatever he can make it.’

  ‘Are you applying the same philosophy to yourself?’

  ‘I’m hardly likely to say no, am I?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’ll give me a black mark for depression.’

  Willis sighed. ‘I’m not interrogating you, Charles, I’m trying to help you. This isn’t an exam . . . you don’t get marked for it.’ He folded his hands under his chin. ‘You seem to have lost your confidence since your injury and I’m trying to find out why.’

  ‘I’d say I was more confident. I used to care what people thought about me and now I don’t.’

  ‘I’d be more convinced of that if you tested yourself occasionally. Staying in your room and avoiding contact means you never expose yourself to what other people think.’ He paused. ‘One of life’s nastier ironies is that we all know how important first impressions are because we use them ourselves . . . yet none of us wants to be judged on appearance alone.’

  Acland cracked his knuckles. ‘At least I wasn’t barbecued,’ he said impassively.

  Willis glanced at his notes and took another tack. ‘You’ve been complaining about headaches again.’

  ‘I didn’t complain . . . I merely mentioned I had one.’

  ‘Where do they occur? Temple area? Top of the head? Back of the head?’

  Acland gestured towards the left-hand side of his forehead.

  ‘They start behind the dead eye and spread outwards. Mr Galbraith reckons it’s phantom pain from losing the eye – the same way amputees get phantom pain in their stumps. He says it’s effectively migraine and he’s given me some guidelines on how to cope with it.’

  ‘Good. Did he discuss your MRI scan with you?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The most recent one,’ said Willis drily.

  ‘He said it was clear. Why did I need it anyway? I keep being told I haven’t got brain damage, then someone goes behind my back and orders another scan.’

  ‘Your surgeons need them. MRIs give a more detailed picture – for example, tiny blood clots which might explain the migraines.’ Acland watched him closely for a moment. ‘Doe
s an MRI show what a patient’s thinking?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity, because we could jack these conversations if it could. You’re wasting your time on me. I’m not depressed and I’m not alienated . . . I’m bored. I don’t want to be here. There’s nothing wrong with me that a bit of stitching won’t put right. If I talk to my mother on the phone, she goes on and on about people I’ve never heard of . . . and all my father can think about is which of his sheep has foot rot. I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care that the guy in the next room likes Jordan’s tits. I just want this whole tedious exercise over so that I can get back to my unit. And, no, I’m not expecting miracles. I’m out of here the minute they’ve cobbled enough together to make me halfway presentable.’

  ‘That’s some speech for a man who doesn’t say very much. You certainly don’t sound depressed.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘But do you understand my worries about withdrawal, Charles?

  If you’re bored then do something active. You know where the gym is. The physios will work out a fitness regime that complements what you’re already doing in your room.’

  ‘I’ve tried that, and I left more frustrated than I arrived. I burn off more calories doing this –’ he pumped his palms – ‘than I did following their pathetic exercises.’

  ‘You’ve tried it once,’ Willis said mildly, ‘and you left after fifteen minutes when another patient came in. The physios thought it was because you didn’t want to be stared at.’

  Acland shook his head.

  ‘You called yourself a freak,’ Willis reminded him.

  ‘Only to emphasize that the rest of me is fine. I’m not good in this sort of environment, Doc. I used to jog six miles every morning before breakfast, and it does my head in to have some stupid woman whoop and holler if I manage to lift a miserable little dumbbell in one hand. Do you know how patronizing that is? The other patient was an amputee and she applauded like an idiot because he managed to hop a couple of steps. He’s a regimental sergeant major, for Christ’s sake. He’d have eaten her for breakfast before he had his leg blown off.’