In a spacious three-bedroom apartment with high ceilings lived an elderly woman. Beatrice Harrington loved to step out onto the balcony, sip a mug of fragrant coffee, and savor the views of the majestic Thames River.
She and her husband had received the apartment nearly half a century ago, before they were even married, thanks to their work at the Institute of Aviation Systems.
Her husband had left her for good five years earlier, and since then she had been alone. The woman cherished silence and solitude; she preferred phone conversations far more than in-person meetings.
Her son had grown up and started a family, which couldn’t help but delight Beatrice Harrington. Let them live happily, as long as it’s separately. Why should I intrude on their family? If they ask for advice, I’ll give it; if they need help, I’ll provide it.
The quiet of a cozy evening alone with her favorite series was shattered by a sudden ring. It was her daughter-in-law, Clara. The retiree was utterly surprised, as they usually communicated via messengers—there was no need to call.
— Clara, dear, hello, how are you?
— Hello, — Clara’s voice trembled and broke, — they called me from the hospital. Edward was in an accident; he died on the spot, — the young woman sobbed at the top of her lungs.
— What? — Beatrice Harrington cried out and fainted.
The news of her son’s death floored the woman; the world spun and then vanished. Clara was shouting something into the phone, but she was no longer heard.
The retiree came to in a hospital ward, surrounded by white walls, some beeping, and a woman by her bed.
— Can you hear me? — the doctor perked up, sitting by her bedside.
— Yes, where am I?
— You’re in the hospital. Yesterday you fainted and slept for a long time. In a couple of hours, a driver will come for you and take you back to your care home.
— What are you talking about? What care home? What about my son? My daughter-in-law called and said Edward had died, and then I woke up here.
— I don’t want to upset you, but you don’t have a son, and you never did. For the past five years, you’ve been living in a care home for people with limited mental capacities. We’ll take you back soon.
— Well, I’ll pass on that. I’ll call a taxi and go home!
— We can’t let you go alone. You’ll be taken care of; don’t worry.
Don’t worry? That phrase infuriated Beatrice Harrington for a long time. She wasn’t crazy, after all! Where was her apartment with its cozy balcony? She loved the silence and her coffee so much… No, she couldn’t have just imagined it all! She needed to call Clara; she’d come and get her. But no one gave her a phone.
— Doctor, where’s my phone?
— You were brought in wearing a nightgown. What phone? What are you talking about? — the doctor asked in surprise.
— Could you lend me yours? Just for a minute. My son and daughter-in-law must be worried.
— With all due respect, I can’t do that. Your facility’s policy doesn’t allow you access to communication devices. Though why am I explaining? You won’t understand anyway. You have no one, you see? Just your ward mates.
Beatrice Harrington stayed in the hospital for a couple more days, trying to strike up a conversation with the staff, but they all looked at her like she was mad.
The hospital staff wouldn’t answer questions about her family; they sighed and walked away in silence.
On the day of discharge, they dressed her in a worn nightgown and robe, and two young men put her in a car.
What the devil is going on? — Beatrice Harrington thought. I’m perfectly normal, healthy, I understand everything, my arms and legs obey me. Look at that orderly’s phone—it’s just like mine, only a bit newer, expensive headphones. Would a mad person notice such details? We’ll see who outsmarts whom.
The car passed through a checkpoint and entered a courtyard fenced with barbed wire. The young orderly escorted the woman into the building by the arms and left.
— Off to the ward. Hope you’re not here long; we’re short on beds as it is, — the nurse said gruffly.
Beatrice Harrington entered the six-person ward and sank onto a cot. Her strength left her, and she passed out again for several hours.
The following week turned into hell, even harder than the harsh childhood of the war years, the hunger, and the uncertainty. An atmosphere of emptiness and alienation, elderly people with dead eyes, rude orderlies and nurses, dim corridors.
The retiree decided to stop trying to prove her sanity but kept her guard up. The staff practically shadowed her, watching to ensure she didn’t do anything rash. They wouldn’t get their wish.
Many patients didn’t go anywhere at all, spending entire days on their cots. They weren’t allowed outside; the food was poor. How she longed for her favorite biscuits, the silence and solitude in her cozy apartment. The only entertainment was an old television in the common room, the sole window into the real world.
Nevertheless, the woman didn’t lose her wits; she listened carefully to the staff’s conversations. That’s how she remembered that every morning at 9, a foreign cleaner came who always carried a mobile phone. One morning, Beatrice Harrington quietly slipped the phone from the woman’s back pocket. The cleaner turned, thinking the patient was just looking for the toilet, and pointed to the door. Feigning a stagger, the retiree headed to the restroom.
As if fate itself had taken pity, no one was watching her during the shift change—she could stay in the toilet for a whole hour.
Luck smiled again: the phone had no passcode. Beatrice Harrington didn’t call her son or daughter-in-law; she dialed the police, asked for help, and explained that she was being held against her will.
The man on the other end said that if they weren’t letting her go, it must be for a reason. People like her had no place among normal folks, and he hung up.
The retiree knew they hadn’t believed her, but she didn’t give up. She called her best friend. They’d been close since childhood, though they spoke less in recent years, but the trust remained. Someone knocked on the restroom door. There were no locks, of course, so Beatrice Harrington had to hold it shut.
— Oh, sorry, stomach trouble. I’ll be right out.
— Hurry up. Be in the ward in one minute, — came a rough female voice. The footsteps faded.
Her last chance, her last minute—at least she knew the number by heart. If only Evelyn would pick up.
— Hello, — came a pleasant female voice, — Beatrice, is that you? Haven’t heard from you in ages.
— Yes, Evelyn dear, it’s me, but I don’t have much time. They’re holding me in this care home by force, saying I’m crazy, but it’s all lies. Come, please, and call the police—they didn’t believe me.
Beatrice hung up, deleted the call history, and left the phone on the edge of the toilet so the cleaner would think she’d dropped it by accident.
Her friend acted without delay: she drove to the nearest station, explained what was happening, and the local officer recalled a recent call and assigned a couple of men to check the report.
They arrived at the care home, reviewed the documents, demanded to speak with the patient, verified the diagnosis, and were shocked. The conditions in which the woman was kept didn’t match her state at all—she was completely normal.
The officer immediately understood what was going on and called for backup.
Without a doubt, Beatrice Harrington had risked everything; if anyone had found out, they wouldn’t have let her live. Either the staff had grown careless, or no one expected a woman like her to pull it off, but this fortunate turn of events saved her life.
The investigation dragged on, but in the end, everything fell into place.
It became clear that Clara and Edward had set their sights on his mother’s property.
Clara constantly whined that she was tired of drifting from apartment to apartment, paying huge sums each month, while his mom’s three-bedroom in central London sat empty. She could at least downsize for her beloved son.
Edward resisted for a long time but couldn’t withstand his wife’s relentless pressure.
— You’re right, three rooms are too much for her, but she refuses to sell—she loves the place.
That’s how the sinister plan emerged to commit his mother to a home for the mentally disabled. That very evening when Clara called Beatrice Harrington, the retiree’s reaction exceeded all expectations—the faint played right into the schemers’ hands.
The young woman colluded with the home’s management, which was running illegal operations, and had Edward’s mother committed there. The scheme had been pulled off multiple times; the staff was geared toward rough treatment and driving the elderly to their graves.
Next came selling the apartment and sharing a cut with the clinic’s leadership. Edward tried to talk to Clara, but she wouldn’t even consider backing down.
— How can you not understand? It’s all planned! — Clara shouted. — I’ve already picked out our new apartment and calculated everything. Sit tight while I finish the job.
Edward feared his wife’s wrath and didn’t dare oppose her.
After Beatrice Harrington was rescued, the care home was shut down, and criminal cases were opened against the management and staff.
Clara miscalculated only once: Edward’s mother had endured the hardships of war and was used to fighting to the bitter end—that’s what helped her return to her beloved apartment. Upon learning of the failure, the young woman packed her things and vanished, cutting off contact with her husband.
The only thing of value in that relationship had been his mother’s apartment, which Clara had coveted from the very start of her time with Edward.
Edward knew his mother wouldn’t forgive such betrayal, so he decided to vanish as a homeless man into a church, to atone for his sins. There he serves and helps the parishioners. Whether his mother will forgive him? The story is silent on that.
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