They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

78 Autumn 2011

‘Ms Jones, there’s a question I put to the parents of all children who have been referred to me. What three words immediately spring to mind when I ask you to think about Bruno?’

I stared back at the psychologist, Dr Ramsden, who looked so serious, and pondered a few seconds. ‘Let me think. Thoughtful. Inquisitive. And I guess intense. In a nice way — if you know what I mean.’

He gave me a quizzical look. Difficult to read whether he was faintly amused, or in agreement, or concerned. His voice gave nothing away, either. ‘That’s what springs to mind?’

I nodded my head. ‘Yes, though it’s hard to put him into just three words. My mind is a bit blank after a rubbish week. I’m sorry, we’re not here to talk about that!’

Actually, more than a rubbish week. It had been two weeks. Two weeks of feeling constantly strung out, thanks to charmless Dr Borg, at the Schloss Leichtigkeit. He had decided in his wisdom that the dihydrocodeine I was on was not the best drug for helping to wean me from my heroin addiction. Instead, he had prescribed something different, called Espranor, which was a wafer that dissolved on my tongue.

The taste reminded me of the communion wafers placed in my hand by the pastor of Seaford every Sunday of my childhood. It had the dry flavour of an ice cream wafer, but without the joyous taste explosion of the ice cream that went with it. A bit like my childhood God, really. I did all the worship, but the ice cream always seemed to be missing.

But it wasn’t ice cream that the Espranor wafer delivered, it was diarrhoea, for several days, followed by the night sweats and shakes in the day. And the constant sensation of being in a very dark, scary place that I would never get out of.

Now, as I sat in front of the eminent British child psychologist, I had the shakes and I was struggling to think clearly.

My nerves had been shot to hell and back ever since the appearance of the German police officers and my subsequent interview with the two States of Jersey Police detectives. I knew from what Roy had told me in the past how difficult it was for police officers to get permission to travel abroad — because of the cost and resourcing. Permission was usually only granted when it was a suspect in a major crime, or a key witness. Maybe I was just regarded as a key witness, but the vibe I got from detectives Cowleard and Barclay was not that. They clearly viewed me as a suspect with a smart alibi.

Sure, I could drop Adam le Seelleur in it, but there still remained the issue of the three hours or so between when Nicos was last seen and my taxi ride to Bouley Bay.

Every few hours I looked up the Bailiwick Express online on my phone, and every morning I scoured the Jersey Evening Post app for updates. The story of the drifting boat and its missing owner had dropped from the front page to just a couple of column inches on page five. The rescue operation had been stood down, and a police spokesman said it had now become a recovery operation.

Subtext: We’re looking for a body.