Life here was like a riddle-a riddle she’d heard during the war, in a wonderland called Bletchley Park: “If I was to ask what direction a clock’s hands go, what would you say?” She lived in a house of the mad, where truth became madness and madness, truth. Until D-Day, the fatal day, when they had splintered apart and become two girls who couldn’t stand the sight of each other, and one who had disappeared into a madhouse.įar away, a gaunt woman stared out the window of her cell and prayed to be believed. On the other end of Britain, the handset slammed down. Her former friend’s voice was full of broken glass. There was no way they could voice, on a public line, what their former friend was alleging.
She certainly sounds loony-these things she’s alleging. “She’s been in an asylum nearly three and a half years.” Flatly.