Entry Island

I

The insomnia clinic was located in the Behavioural Psychotherapy and Research Unit of the Jewish General Hospital on the Chemin de la Côte-Sainte-Catherine, almost in the shadow of Mount Royal, and just a few streets away from the Jewish cemetery at the foot of it.

There was still warmth in the sun, and leaves on the trees, but an autumn chill on the edge of the wind. The sky was well broken, and Montreal basked in the late September sunshine. From the office where he had sat patiently answering questions for the last half an hour, Sime could see the traffic heading south on the Rue Légaré. The office was warm, made warmer by the sun streaming in through the windows, and the stop — start movement of the cars below was almost hypnotic. Sime was finding it hard to concentrate.

Catherine Li was, he guessed, in her early forties. She wore a white, open-necked blouse and black slacks, an attractive woman, slim, with short-cut black hair, and the beautifully slanted dark eyes of someone whose ancestral roots lay somewhere in Asia. Canada was such a melting-pot of different ethnicities, and although he considered himself a native French-speaker, it nevertheless seemed odd that this woman should speak to him in French.

The plaque on her door had told him that she was a Ph.D. and Clinical Director of the unit.

There had been no preamble. No chit-chat. She had asked him to sit, opened a file on the desk in front of her, and taken notes as he responded to her questions. Wide-ranging questions about his upbringing, his job, his marriage, his feelings on various topics, political and social. She had asked about his symptoms. When they had begun, what form they took, how often he slept. Did he dream?

For the first time she sat back and looked at him. Examining his face, he thought. A face that had grown increasingly unfamiliar to him as he examined it himself in the mirror each morning. Eyes bloodshot, deeply shadowed. Sunken cheeks. He had shed weight, and his hair had lost its lustre. Every time he looked at his reflection he felt haunted by the ghost of himself.

She smiled unexpectedly and he saw warmth and sympathy in her soft brown eyes. ‘You know, of course, why you are here,’ she said. It wasn’t a question. But he nodded all the same. ‘Your employers at the Sûreté have sent you to me because they fear that your condition is affecting your ability to do your job.’ She paused. ‘Do you think it is?’

Again he nodded. ‘Yes.’

Again she smiled. ‘Of course it is. In fact, it’s a given. The toxins that have accumulated in your body through lack of sleep are certain to have impaired both your physical and mental performance. As I’m sure you are aware, your concentration and memory will also have been affected. Tired during the day, irritable and fatigued, and yet unable to sleep at night.’

He wondered why she was telling him what he already knew.

She interlaced her fingers on the desk in front of her. ‘There are two kinds of insomnia, Monsieur Mackenzie. There is acute insomnia, which lasts for a short period, usually just a matter of days. And then there is the chronic variety, which can be defined as suffering sleep impairment for at least three or four nights a week for a month or longer.’ She stopped to draw breath. ‘Clearly you fall into the chronic category.’

‘Clearly.’ Sime was conscious of the sarcasm in his tone. She was still telling him nothing new. But if she was aware of it she gave no indication, perhaps writing it off to the irritability she had just described as one of his symptoms.

‘The cause of your condition can also be defined in one of two ways. As either primary or secondary insomnia.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘Well, primary insomnia is unrelated to any other physical or mental conditions. It is simply a condition in itself. Secondary insomnia, however, means that your sleep problems are related to something else. There are many things that can affect your sleep. Arthritis, asthma, cancer. Pain of any kind. Or depression.’ She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Which is, I believe, your problem. Extreme depression brought on by the break-up of your marriage.’ She inclined her head slightly. ‘Are you aware of being depressed?’

‘I’m aware of being unhappy.’

She nodded. ‘The vivid dreaming that you have described to me is frequently a symptom that accompanies anxiety or depression-induced insomnia.’

In an odd way it was almost a relief to have his dreams explained to him in this way. As a symptom. A condition brought on by something outside of his control. But normal, if the symptom of a psychological problem could ever be described as normal.

He became aware of Catherine Li watching him closely. ‘Are you still with me?’

‘Yes.’

‘There is a school of thought which argues that dreams are actually a chemical event. That they are directly affected by modulations in the brain’s neurotransmitters. You know what REM is?’

‘R-E-M?’

‘Yes.’

‘A band, weren’t they? Losing my religion?’

Her smile indicated anything but amusement. ‘You know, I’ve never heard that one.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He lowered his eyes, embarrassed.

‘REM stands for rapid eye movement. It describes a phase of sleep that you go through, typically, four or five times a night, accounting for anything up to 120 minutes of a night’s sleep. It is also when most dreams occur. During REM sleep acetylcholine and its regulators normally dominate, while serotonin is depressed.’

Sime shrugged, incomprehension written all over his face now. ‘Which means?’

She laughed. ‘It means that I might recommend prescribing you SSRIs.’

‘Of course, why didn’t I think of that?’

This time her smile was wry. She said, patiently, ‘Selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors. That would increase serotonin levels and elevate your mood.’

Sime sighed now. ‘In other words, an antidepressant.’

She shook her head. ‘Not just any antidepressant. In fact, most popular antidepressants would probably only make your condition worse. I think this could help.’

Sime was unaccountably disappointed. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. But another pill just didn’t seem like any kind of a solution to his problem.

II

The apartment seemed colder and emptier since his return. Even just a few days away had robbed it of its sense of being lived in. It smelled stale. Dirty dishes were piled up in the kitchen. There had been no chance to wash them before leaving. Or to empty the garbage. Something in the kitchen bin smelled like it was a long way past its sell-by. Unwashed laundry spilled over from the wicker basket in the bedroom. The bed was unmade, as it always was. Clothes lay on the floor where he had dropped them. Dust gathered in drifts along every surface in every room. Things he had almost stopped seeing. All classic symptoms of a mind kidnapped by de pression.

He sat that night in the living room with the television on. But he wasn’t watching it. He was cold, but somehow it didn’t occur to him to switch on the heating.

He remembered the advice of a lecturer at the academy. Sometimes you can think too much and do too little. And he looked around the apartment and saw the result of thinking too much and doing nothing at all. It was as if somewhere, somehow, he had just given up on life, become paralysed by inertia. He didn’t want this, any of it. And yet it was all he had. He was desperate to sleep, but not for the sake of sleeping. He wanted to escape. To be someone else in another place and time. He glanced at his ancestor’s painting on the wall. That bleak, dark landscape. And he wished he could just step into it.

The pills they had prescribed were on the shelf above the sink in the bathroom. It was almost time to take them. But he was afraid of going to bed now, in case he still wouldn’t sleep. The doctor had said they would take time. But he couldn’t face another sleepless night.

He stood up, fuelled by a sudden desire to take back his life. Right here, right now.

He spent the next hour gathering clothes from the floor and stuffing them into the washing machine. While it went through its wash cycle he filled the dishwasher and set it going, then sprayed all the work surfaces in the kitchen with disinfectant before washing them down. He took the garbage down to the disposal unit in the basement. And it was while there that he remembered Marie-Ange’s words to him on Entry Island. When he had asked her about her things she had said, I don’t want the stuff. Why don’t you just chuck it all in the trash?

He took the elevator back to the apartment fired with renewed determination, and in the bedroom threw open the doors to their built-in wardrobe. There were the clothes she’d left, hanging on the rail, shoes on the rack beneath them. T-shirts and underwear folded neatly on shelves. Things he remembered her wearing. He reached in to lift out one of her T-shirts and hold it to his face. Though it was clean, somehow it still smelled of her. That distinctive perfume she wore. What was it? Jardins de Bagatelle. He had no idea where he had pulled that name from, but the fragrance would be for ever associated with her. And he felt that sense of loss again, like a physical pain in his chest.

Almost in a fury he hurried into the kitchen to retrieve a large black bin bag and went back to the bedroom. He swept all the clothes off the rail and stuffed them into the bag. Followed by her tees and panties and bras, a nightdress, all of her shoes. He had to get a second bag, and a third. And then he dragged them to the elevator and down to the basement. He hesitated only briefly before emptying the bags down the recyclable chute. Au revoir, Marie-Ange.

On the return trip in the elevator he saw himself in the mirror and couldn’t stop the tears from welling in his eyes. He could have been a father by now. He swore at his reflection.

Back in the apartment he was determined not to be diverted by negative emotions. He wiped his face dry and stripped the bed, shoving his dirty linen and used towels into a large laundry bag which he took down to his car. He drove across the bridge to an all-night laundry in Rue Ontario Est and left his washing there to be collected the next day. When he got home he found clean sheets in the laundry closet and made his bed up fresh.

For the next half-hour he took a vacuum cleaner over every carpet in the apartment, then went through a whole packet of static-free dust cloths, wiping over cabinets, shelves and tables, amazed by the dirt that came off them. He sprayed air freshener in all the rooms, then nearly choked on its cloying perfume and opened the windows.

By 1 a.m. the apartment was cleaner and fresher than at any time since Marie-Ange’s departure, and there was not a trace of her left in it. Sime stood in the living room breathing hard from his exertions, sweat beading across his forehead. If he had hoped to feel better, he wasn’t sure that he did. It was manic behaviour, he knew. Though at least it was something positive. But when he sat down, somewhere deep inside he knew that all he had been doing was avoiding the moment when he would have to lay his head on the pillow and try to sleep.

He went through to the bedroom and stripped off, careful to drop his clothes in the laundry basket. His new regime. Then he padded through to the bathroom and showered. When he came out he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, grateful that it was opaque with steam and that he could not see himself. He took the prescribed dose of SSRIs from their bottle and washed them over with water from his tooth mug, then brushed his teeth.

As he did the steam slowly cleared from the mirror and he saw his ghost staring back at him, hollow-eyed. He had changed everything, and nothing.

Vigorously he rubbed his hair dry with a towel and slipped into a clean pair of boxers. Back in the living room he flicked through the TV channels for half an hour until he turned it off to sit in a silence that screamed. He was so physically fatigued that he could barely stand up. But at the same time his mind was cruising along some astral highway at the speed of light and he felt not the first inclination to sleep.

In spite of warnings to the contrary, he went to the drinks cabinet and took out a bottle of whisky. He poured a large measure, and pulled a face when he took a mouthful. Scotch and toothpaste were a lousy combination. He forced himself to drink it. Then another. And another.

Finally, his head spinning, he went into the bedroom and slipped between the clean sheets. They felt cold, dissipating whatever warmth and sleepiness the whisky had induced. He closed his eyes and let the darkness envelop him. And he lay. And lay. Praying for release.

Nothing happened. He tried hard to keep his eyes shut. But after a time they simply opened and he found himself staring once more at the shadows on the ceiling, tipping his head to one side from time to time to take in the red glow of the digits on the bedside clock, and count away the hours. Sometime, maybe two hours later, the yell of sheer frustration that tore itself from his lips echoed around the apartment.

At 7.30 a.m. there was a line of daylight around the edges of the bedroom blinds, and still he had not slept. Reluctantly, wearily, he drew the covers aside and slipped out of bed to get dressed. It was time to go and face the music at Rue Parthenais.

III

It felt odd riding up in the elevator to the fourth floor of the Sûreté as he had done countless times over months and years. He dreaded the doors opening, the long walk along the corridor past all those familiar black-and-white photographs of old crimes and dead detectives. And when, less than a minute later, his footsteps echoed along its length, he felt completely disconnected.

Faces he knew passed him on the walk along to the detectives’ room. Faces that smiled and said bonjour. Awkward smiles, curious eyes.

At the blue plaque inscribed 4.03 Division des enquêtes sur les crimes contre la personne, he turned into the suite of offices that housed the homicide squad. The door to the incident room lay ajar, and he was aware of heads turning in his direction as he walked past. But he didn’t look in.

The offices of the top brass were ranged around an area filled with printers and faxes and filing cabinets, and walkie-talkies on charge. Like fish tanks the offices were open to scrutiny through glass walls.

Captain Michel McIvir emerged from one of them, eyes down, focused on a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. He looked up as he became aware of Sime standing there. The most fleeting of shadows crossed his face before he managed a smile and waved a hand towards his office door. ‘Be with you in a minute, Sime.’

Sime sat in the captain’s office. There was a photograph of Paris by night on the wall, and a huge Quebecois flag hung limp from a standing pole. Outside he could see Mount Royal in the distance. Early-morning frost sparkled on the flat roofs of the three-storey brick apartment buildings opposite.

The captain walked in and sat on the business side of his desk. He opened a folder in front of him, and flicked through the several sheets of printed paper it contained. Pure theatre, of course. Whatever their content, he had already read it. He laid his hands flat on the desk and looked up, scrutinising Sime in silence for some moments.

‘Catherine Li faxed me her report last night following your consultation yesterday.’ His eyes flickered down to the desk and up again, indicating that this was it. He pressed his lips together briefly then drew a breath. ‘I’ve also spent some time reviewing the tapes of your interrogation of the suspect on Entry Island.’ Again the characteristic pressing together of the lips. ‘Erratic to say the least, Sime.’

Unexpectedly he rose from behind the desk and went to close the door. He stood there holding the handle, looking at Sime, and lowered his voice.

‘I am also aware of a certain incident that occurred on the islands during the investigation.’ He hesitated. ‘An incident which is, and shall remain, off the record.’ He let go of the door handle and returned to his desk, but remained standing. ‘I’m not without sympathy, Sime.’

Sime remained expressionless. He wasn’t looking for sympathy.

‘What is clear, however, both from what the doctor says, and from what I have seen with my own eyes, is that you are unwell.’ He perched one buttock on the edge of his desk and leaned forward like some patronising physician. ‘That’s why I am putting you on indefinite medical leave.’

Even though he had been expecting it, Sime tensed. When he spoke his voice sounded far away, as if it belonged to someone else. ‘In other words, I get punished and Crozes gets off scot-free.’

McIvir recoiled, almost as if Sime had slapped him. ‘There is no question of punishment involved, Mackenzie. I’m doing you a bloody favour here. It’s for your own good.’

Which is what people always said when administering bad medicine, Sime thought.

The captain lowered his voice again, confidentially. ‘Events involving Lieutenant Crozes have not gone unnoticed. Nor will they be without consequence.’ He stood up. ‘But that’s none of your concern. For now, I want you to go away and get well.’

In the street outside, Sime drew a long, deep breath and despite the news just broken to him by his boss felt free for the first time in years. It was time to go home. Back to the womb.

And, finally, to the diaries.

IV

The drive from Montreal to Sherbrooke took him just under two hours, heading almost directly east into the heart of what had originally been known as the Eastern Townships and was now referred to as the Cantons de l’est. From Sherbrooke he drove down to Lennoxville and took Highway 108 east.

He felt a tightening of his heart and an odd sense of nostalgia as he drove into the forest. For this was where he had been raised, where generations earlier his forebears had carved out a new life for themselves. Literally. Felling trees and clearing land, encouraging virgin soil to grow enough to feed them. So many of the immigrants here had been Scots, and he wondered how many had been victims of the Clearances. He passed a sign for Le Chemin des Ecossais — the Scots Road. And as he drove deeper into the woods, he was struck by the Scottish-sounding names of so many of the towns. East Angus, Bishopton, Scotstown, Hampden, Stornoway, Tolsta.

A warm sun slanted out of the autumn sky, transforming every tree into one of nature’s stained-glass windows. The golds and yellows, oranges and reds of the fall leaves glowed vibrant and luminous, backlit by the angled rays of the sun, turning the forest into a cathedral of colour. Sime had forgotten just how stunning these autumn colours could be, his senses dulled by years of grey city living.

New highways cut through the forest now in long, straight lines, riding the contours of the land, like the Roman roads in Europe that so represented the single-minded determination of a race. Woodland in full colour stretched out before him as far as the eye could see, like a gently undulating ocean.

And he recalled with great clarity the moment his ancestor had first set eyes on it.