I step inside what could best be described as an extravagant hotel suite. There is a beautifully decorated lounge with expensive-looking furniture and huge windows offering spectacular views of the grounds and the shadowy moors in the distance. I can see a door leading to what looks like a designer bedroom, and everything about the place screams wealth and luxury. This isnota prison. It is not what I was expecting at all, and neither is Gabriella Woolf. In front of one of the enormous windows, a stunning young woman with pale skin and long black hair is sitting in front of an easel holding apaintbrush in her hand. She doesn’t turn to look at me as I enter the room, instead she carries on painting as though I’m not here.
“Can she hear me?” I ask Ingrid.
“Oh yes. Nothing wrong with her ears. Gabriella hadn’t spoken a word for years before she joined us, but she’s making good progress since she moved in.”
“Hello, Gabriella. My name is Sergeant Luke Carter. I’m a policeman and I wondered if I could ask you a few questions.”
She doesn’t react at all, just stares at the canvas as though she didn’t hear a word. The watercolor painting is of Spyglass and it’s very good, the sort of work a professional artist might produce. I look around the room and see there are dozens more just like it.
“How long has she been here?” I ask Ingrid.
“Not sure, I’m not her primary care assistant. Six months or so, I think?”
“And why is she here?”
“Her parents felt like this was the best place for her.”
“But… what’s wrong with her?” I ask, given it looks like nothing is.
“Gabriella had a condition called selective mutism, but unlike the name suggests there was no choice involved. She didn’t choose not to speak, she couldn’t. It’s a severe and complex childhood anxiety disorder. Sometimes when a child experiences a trauma at a young age, they retreat inside themselves. Gabriella was in a serious accident at the age of eight; she basically spent ten years locked inside her own mind. Her parents decided to care for her at home after the accident, which in my view was a mistake. She needed professional care to rehabilitate her mind as well as her body. That said, Gabriella has made excellent progress since she moved in here. She goes for supervised walks around the grounds, she’s eating three meals a day so is at a nice healthy weight, she enjoys painting and reading, and thanks to Mary, one of our specialist carers, she’s started to communicate.”
That gets my attention. I stop staring at Gabriella and turn back to Ingrid.
“She can talk again?”
“She… whispers.”
“What?”
“Sometimes she whispers. What she says doesn’t always make sense, and she tends to only do it when Mary is here, but I’ve heard it with my own ears. Mary records her to keep track of her progress.”
“How often does she…”
“Whisper? Not often. It’s normally an emotional response that triggers it. We’re all hopeful that one day, Gabriella might talk again and be able to have a normal life. She’s fit and healthy in every other way, and as you can see, she’s a wonderful artist.”
“Like her mother,” I say, but the woman shrugs. “Can I ask her some questions?”
“Feel free to try, but I don’t think she can help you.”
I walk over to Gabriella and she is even more beautiful close-up.
“That’s a really good painting,” I say. My words sound patronizing but they are true, she is very talented. “Did it take long?”
She doesn’t even look up.
Ingrid stands behind us, as though on guard, and I know I need to be careful what I say. I notice that Gabriella has painted the wordhomein tiny letters at the bottom of the canvas.
“I met your father the other day and he mentioned you,” I tell her.
Again, no visible response.
“I met your mother too.”
She doesn’t even blink, just carries on painting as though I’m not here.
“Oh, look,” says Ingrid, staring out of the window. “There’s Mary now, just arriving for her shift. You might have more luck talking to her?”
It seems unlikely and I fear this trip was a complete waste of time.
