by Mark Tilbury
Marks gripped the steering wheel. ‘Please, whatever you may think, I don’t have a clue what —’
‘You’re not a very good liar for someone who claims to be a therapist. Try again, only this time see if you can do a bit better.’
‘What’s Tommy got to do with you?’
‘That’s a question, pickle brain, not an answer.’
‘All right, I’ve been treating Tommy. But that’s all. If you want my opinion, he needs to be taken to secure accommodation for the protection of those around him and for his own safety.’
‘Is that so?’ Corrine said. ‘So, why have you been asking questions about Sir Bernard Clancy?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Here’s a little tip that might stand you in good stead for the future: if you go nosing around in high places, a ton of shit’s gonna fall on your head.’
Marks pushed himself as close to the door as possible. ‘I don’t know who told you about Clancy, but all I’ve done is look in to some of the things Tommy said.’
Corrine laughed. ‘Like what?’
‘I really can’t say. It’d be a breach of my client’s confidentiality.’
Corrine moved the gun closer to his head. ‘So will blowing your brains out.’
‘All right. All right. He said something that might implicate Clancy regarding sexual abuse.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’m not sure. It was all jumbled. Didn’t make a lot of sense. Something another boy told him while Tommy was under hypnosis.’
‘What boy?’
‘He didn’t have a name; Tommy only identified him as Number Seven.’
‘Are you yanking my chain, Doctor?’
The therapist’s hand moved into the short space between the gun and his head. ‘No. I swear on all that’s dear to me, it’s the truth.’
‘It’s a partial truth, Doctor. It’s a good job you’re not under oath.’
Marks’ hand was shaking so badly it kept hitting the side of his head. ‘Who are you?’
She grinned. ‘I’m your worst nightmare. But you can call me The Chameleon.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s a pretty dumb question for a psychiatrist, isn’t it?’
‘How do you know Tommy?’ Marks asked.
‘I’m omnipresent. Tommy Scarlett is nothing but an insignificant fool who’s about to find out what it’s like to really suffer.’
‘Why don’t you put down the gun, Corrine. Stop this madness before it’s too late. No good’s ever come from violence.’
‘What a wonderful analysis. It must be so rewarding to be such a sanctimonious prick.’
‘Do you work for The Master?’
The question caught Corrine off guard. ‘How do you know him?’
‘Because Tommy talked about him in therapy.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing. Just said The Master was in charge.’
‘Of what?’
‘No idea. I can see you’re extremely troubled, Corrine. You’ve had a lot of trauma in your life. Why don’t you let me help you to break the cycle? I promise none of this will go any further.’
‘I’m not troubled, Doctor. I’m perfectly happy with my life. In fact, I can honestly say it’s never been better. So, thanks for your concern, but I really don’t need any of your psychobabble nonsense.’
‘You might not think you do, but—’
‘Shut up.
Marks chewed his lip. ‘I don’t have a clue what happened to Tommy Scarlett. All I know is he suffered a traumatic experience and has completely lost his memory. Clancy’s name came up and I made enquiries. That’s it.’
‘I wish I could believe you, Doctor.’
‘Just get out of the car and walk away, Corrine. I’ll say nothing more about it. I’m not going to do any further sessions with Tommy, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of my relationship with him.’
‘I wish I could walk away. I really do. But as the old saying goes – you know too much. We’ve gone past the point of no return. Plus, I’m more than aware cowards will say anything to save their own skins.’
‘I—’
‘Anyway, what’s your life really worth, Dr Marks? Who’s gonna stand at your grave and weep? You live alone with a mangy old cat and peddle lies to desperate people.’
‘I try to help them, Corrine.’
‘If Tommy Scarlett’s anything to go by, you do more harm than good. Anyway, before we part ways, Doctor, I’ve got a message from The Master.’
The therapist’s shoulders and chin juddered. ‘What?’
‘Everything’s an inversion. A smokescreen. Love isn’t something to aspire to, it’s something to avoid at all costs.’
‘But—’
Corrine squeezed the trigger and blew away the left side of the therapist’s face. It splattered the window with a gruesome mixture of blood and bone fragments.
‘The colour of love is black,’ Corrine said. ‘Black, black, black.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Two days after Dr Marks was found dead in his car, Tommy and Danielle walked into a small waiting room at The Oxford Mental Health Clinic. A small, oppressive space with white walls and a glass bowl of imitation fruit standing on a mahogany table. Tommy was already feeling claustrophobic.
They sat on two blue plastic chairs next to a radiator that was kicking out enough heat to finish the plant off.
Danielle took off her coat. ‘Do you want me to get you a magazine?’
Tommy looked at a scattering of glossies on a small beech table. ‘No.’
‘How’s your head?’
‘Still on my shoulders.’
‘Ha, ha. I mean the headache.’
‘Same as usual. As if a pneumatic drill’s trying to bore a hole in my brain.’
‘Do you want some Nurofen?’
He shook his head. Painkillers weren’t designed to help with his sort of problems. Nothing was. Apart from death.
‘At least you’ve not had any more episodes since what happened with Dean,’ Danielle said.
Tommy didn’t remember a thing about it. One minute he’d been about to go to Oxford, the next he’d awoken on the lounge floor. Hearing about his attack on Danielle’s boyfriend was both horrifying and impossible to understand. He didn’t particularly like Dean, but that was true of everyone except his sister. And maybe Jordan at a push.
After a ten-minute wait, a thin middle-aged woman with mousy-brown hair walked into the waiting room. She smiled. ‘Tommy Scarlett?’
He nodded.
‘Would you like to come through.’
‘Is it all right if I come in with him?’ Danielle asked.
The woman’s smile slipped slightly. ‘Okay, as long as that’s all right with Tommy.’
Tommy stood. ‘Fine by me.’
They followed the woman along a narrow corridor and through a door marked Consultation Room. It was every bit as poky as the waiting room.
Maybe that’s why they call them shrinks, Tommy thought.
The woman, who introduced herself as Susan, invited them to sit on a two-seater leather couch beneath a window. Vertical blinds danced and rattled against the glass.
Susan sat at a desk opposite the couch. ‘Okay, I’m going to have a look at the notes sent through from the hospital. Would you like a coffee or a glass of water?’
Tommy shook his head.
‘No, thanks,’ Danielle said. ‘We brought a flask of tea in the car and had one before we came in.’
Susan nodded. ‘Good idea. I keep meaning to get a thermos and fill it up with caffeine to give me a jumpstart in the mornings.’ She looked at the screen. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
Tommy, regressing to default mode already, considered walking out before Susan got a chance to peer inside his troubled mind. The news of Dr Marks’ death had shaken him to the core.
Susan looked at Tommy. ‘It seems you’ve been through a really tough time of it, young man.’
Ten out of ten. ‘You could say that.’
‘The hospital report says you were admitted suffering a fractured skull, retrograde amnesia, a broken wrist, and several cracked ribs. Have you any idea how these injuries were sustained?’
‘No.’
‘It also states you had scarring and bite marks on your back and posterior.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And no clue as to who or what caused these injuries?’
‘No.’
‘Tommy remembers being bitten by some creep called The Master,’ Danielle said. ‘And we think he might’ve been a victim of a paedophile ring.’
Tommy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Yeah, but it was under hypnosis. So, I don’t even know if it was real or not.’
Susan nodded. ‘Are you still undergoing hypnotherapy?’
‘No,’ Danielle said. ‘The therapist was found dead in his car.’
Susan appeared visibly shaken. ‘Dead?’
‘Murdered,’ Tommy elaborated. ‘Shot in the head.’
‘Goodness. How tragic.’
Fuckin’ predictable, more like, Tommy thought.
After a few moments, Susan seemed to regain her composure. ‘Okay, Tommy, first of all, we don’t use hypnotherapy here. It can be too unreliable and fuse facts with fiction. Our therapy is based solely on the concept of talking. Expressing suppressed emotions. Unlocking the past and bringing the underlying causes of traumatic experience to the surface. Are you okay with that?’
‘I suppose.’
‘It can be extremely painful talking about these things, and I have to warn you it might not be what—’
‘How can I talk about something I don’t remember?’ Tommy asked. ‘Everything that happened before I woke up in the hospital has gone.’
‘In my experience, talking about what you’re experiencing now can be extremely beneficial.’
Or fuck me up even more. ‘Well, it ain’t done much for me so far.’
Susan typed something onto the keyboard. ‘I’m going to ask you a series of questions. Please answer yes or no, okay?’
He nodded, already disillusioned with the way this was going. It was just another load of psychological crap that had nothing to do with reality and everything to do with training manuals.
‘How old are you, Tommy?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Have you ever taken drugs?’
‘How should I know?’
Danielle nudged his arm. ‘Don’t be rude. Susan’s only trying to help.’
‘It’s all right,’ Susan said. ‘I can perfectly understand your frustration. It says on your doctor’s report you’re taking Buspirone. How does the medication make you feel?’
‘Like shit.’
‘Can you be a little more specific?’
‘Constantly tired. Headaches. I dribble a lot, and sometimes piss the bed when I manage to fall asleep. Oh, and I have really crappy nightmares.’
‘Do the nightmares involve anything to do with your experience?’
‘I don’t remember my experience.’
‘Are they in any way linked to the hypnosis sessions?’
Tommy looked at Susan. Noticed how white her teeth were. The fine lines fanning out around her eyes. Her pinched face.
Susan frowned. ‘Tommy?’
Her clear blue eyes seemed hypnotic, as if they were enticing him to enter her mind and share his deepest, darkest thoughts with her.
Danielle leaned over. ‘Tommy?’
Susan’s eyes spun like small sapphire spirals. Round and round, with all the fun of the fair. The wind jerked and jolted the blinds behind him, ruffling his hair and chilling his neck.
Danielle glanced at Susan. ‘It’s all right. He goes like this sometimes.’
Tommy was no longer in the office. He was in the back of a large black car heading for an appointment with the one and only Sir Bernard Clancy. The bastard with a liking for stubbing out cigars on boys and drowning them in Jacuzzis.
Dave Hemmings, that fat, useless bag of shit, turned around and told him to fasten his seatbelt.
Tommy almost laughed at the fake concern, but he buckled up anyway. He didn’t want to give Hemmings an excuse to rough him up. Or worse.
Hemmings started the engine and pulled out of the drive. Thorndike House slipped into the background as they headed towards the main road to Oxford.
Number Seven had advised Tommy to bite Clancy’s dick off and watch the filthy fucker bleed to death. Although appealing, Tommy didn’t think he’d be able to do such a thing, no matter how much he hated the guy.
No, he had a better plan. A long shot. One that may or may not work, but any plan was better than leaving himself open to the whims of a disgusting paedophile.
Hemmings lit a cigarette and chugged smoke. Inhaled the first few drags with the cigarette still clamped between his lips. All Tommy’s prayers asking God to give Hemmings a heart attack had gone unanswered. Same with Bella and The Master. Perhaps God didn’t like touching evil. Afraid He might be tainted by it.
In the short time he’d been a prisoner at Thorndike House, Tommy had learned two things: human beings were capable of anything, and no one actually gave a shit unless it affected them personally.
By the time they reached the outskirts of Oxford, Hemmings had smoked three cigarettes and listened to half an album of some tuneless shit designed to burst eardrums. It was all Tommy could do to breathe as smoke filled the car and assaulted his lungs.
Clancy’s home was about two miles along a winding country road flanked by trees and hedgerow. A secluded mansion with a sordid past. As they turned onto the home straight, Tommy quietly unbuckled his seatbelt and rested his fingers on the door handle.
Hemmings lit another cigarette. Banged his fist against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the music. Cold air filtered through a small gap in the driver’s window.
Tommy took his chance. He released the handle and flung open the door. Threw himself out of the car and rolled down a steep incline mined with branches and brambles. His head thwacked against a tree stump and sent his mind into a tailspin.
He groped blindly for something to break his fall. Nothing doing. He crashed into a large rock and experienced a vivid explosion of bright colours in his head.
And then darkness. Thick and black. No more descent into Hell. No more pain. No awareness of his broken wrist or smashed skull. Just sweet nothing. And right then, nothing was the best place in the world.
***
Danielle and Susan watched open-mouthed as Tommy threw himself off the chair and fell to the floor. He rolled over several times before coming to rest at the foot of the desk. Blood oozed from a split in his lip, and his breathing was shallow and laboured.
Susan looked as if all her training had been a complete waste of time. She faffed around Tommy as if he was an unexploded bomb that had just fallen through the ceiling.
Danielle bent over her brother. ‘Tommy?’
‘What’s happened to him?’ Susan said. ‘God in Heaven, what’s happened?’
‘He’s had another flashback,’ Danielle said.
Tommy suddenly convulsed. Blood poured from his nose, and froth bubbled on his lips. He banged his head against the tiled floor.
‘Call an ambulance,’ Danielle said. ‘Quick.’
Susan, as if awakened from a trance, hurried to her desk and dialled 999.
Danielle knelt beside her brother and supported his head. ‘Come on, Tommy. Come back. It’s all right. You’re safe now.’
He responded by issuing a low guttural moan. ‘The colour of love is black. Black, black, black.’
Susan returned with a pink fluffy cushion. She helped Danielle put it under Tommy’s head. ‘The ambulance will be here soon.’
Tommy opened his eyes. Stared at the therapist. ‘The colour of love is black.’
‘What does that mean?’ Susan asked Danielle.
‘Haven’t got a clue.’
‘Perhaps it’s linked to
the trauma he’s suffered.’
Tommy closed his eyes again. His head flopped to one side. ‘Fuck you, Hemmings. Fuck you to hell and back.’
Danielle stroked her brother’s hair. Chewed her lip. She’d never wanted a cigarette as badly as she did at that moment.
‘You can’t catch me,’ Tommy whispered. ‘I’m The Gingerbread Man.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Duggan paced around his lounge trying to calm his frazzled mind. His hastily drawn plan to assassinate Dr Marks was starting to look shaky. And that was being optimistic. Corrine had carried out his instructions to the letter, and as far as dead therapists went, it was job well done. But telling Corrine to leave the gun in Marks’ hand had been, to say the least, a gross error of judgement.
Sir Bernard Clancy, never far from a state of paranoia at the best of times, was currently occupying his toilet after informing him one of his people had reported the police weren’t buying the suicide narrative.
Flushed, and appearing like a man who’d tried to waddle a half-marathon, Clancy returned to the lounge wringing his hands and scowling. ‘As far as ideas go, Karl, trying to feign a suicide is, frankly, preposterous.’
Duggan took a deep breath. ‘How so?’
‘Because, dear boy, although it’s hard to believe, even the police can spot inconsistencies.’
‘Such as?’
Clancy snorted. ‘Do you want a fucking list? For a start, Corrine placed the gun in the wrong hand. Marks happens to be right-handed, and she put it in the left.’
‘I wasn’t aware you could only shoot yourself with your dominant hand, Bernard.’
‘Technically, no, but it’s highly unlikely. People are, by their very nature, creatures of habit. Why would you even consider shooting yourself with your redundant hand? It makes no sense.’
Duggan stopped pacing. He resisted a compelling urge to bludgeon the politician to death and put an end to his constant sniping once and for all. ‘But it doesn’t prove anything, does it?’
‘Not by itself. But you don’t want to give a bloodhound a whiff of blood when you’re trying to get away with murder, do you?’
‘As I’ve already stated a hundred times,’ Duggan said, as if addressing a child, ‘it doesn’t matter what the police think. They’re not going to link the murder to a woman who doesn’t even exist.’