by Paul Berry
In the recreation room are my dad and Rachel chatting on a long sofa. Two of the patients (residents) are playing ping pong, the ball rolling off the table after every shot.
My dad looks up and runs over, hugging me tightly. ‘Are you ok?’
Tears sting my eyes but I take a deep breath and blink them away. ‘I’m great. Just a bit tired.’
‘I’ve brought you some more stuff.’ He hands me a plastic bag. Inside is a sketch pad and some pencils. ‘How was your first night here?’
‘A bit weird not sleeping in my own bed.’
‘I’m going to talk to Dr Stone and find out when you’re coming home.’ The bruises on his neck have turned dark purple.
‘Sorry about that,’ I say, pointing at them, remembering how similar my neck looked after I was attacked at the jumble sale.
‘It’s nothing. You did far worse things to my fingers when you were teething as a baby. We called you Cujo.’ He kisses my forehead and walks over to Dr Stone.
I sit next to Rachel, avoiding her gaze. She looks at Dr Stone talking to my dad and her brow creases. ‘Try not to vandalise anything in here. I’m sure the Ice Queen has a nice padded room.’
‘The Ice Queen?’
‘The good doctor. He’s dressed in white and his face looks frozen. All he needs is a sparkly wand and crown.’ There is an awkward silence and she shivers. ‘This place gives me the creeps.’
‘I’m sorry about what I did,’ I blurt out. I have a feeling I’ll be apologising a lot for things I vaguely remember doing.
‘I know you are. Besides, that peacock was pretty lame. You definitely improved Terry’s picture, though.’ She sighs and closes her eyes. ‘Shit. For a moment I forgot.’
‘I think saying the wrong thing is allowed in this place.’ Rachel takes me over to the glass doors and we look out over the frozen courtyard.
‘If I tell you something, you’ve got to keep it secret,’ she murmurs. ‘Especially here.’
‘Tell me what?’
She looks around nervously. ‘Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I watched the snow falling in the garden from my bedroom window. It was really dark, but in the moonlight I thought I saw something. I swear Terry was standing there staring up at me.’
‘But they said Terry’s dead.’
‘I know. In the morning I just convinced myself it was a dream. But when I looked in the garden there were footprints in the snow.’
‘Maybe it was your mum or dad?’
‘No, they were still asleep. I checked. Unless they’ve started sleepwalking. The thing is, this morning I rang and asked to see Terry’s body. But they said it’s been misplaced. What the fuck? How can they misplace a body?’
There are raised voices as my dad argues with Dr Stone, whose face remains calm, his lips slightly curved in a smile.
‘Don’t trust him,’ she says. ‘He looks like he’s hiding something. And I know you didn’t hurt Terry.’
‘I hope I didn’t. I still can’t remember.’
‘I know you, Sam Black. Apart from killing clay peacocks you wouldn’t hurt an ant.’
‘It’s like everything that happened is locked in a dark room and someone else has the key.’
‘You could try drawing. Maybe you can find a way in.’
‘I won’t be asking Mr Hewitt for any more help.’
‘Don’t feel too bad. He’s more concerned about how tight his jeans are than being a good teacher.’
My dad walks back over, red spots of anger on his cheeks. ‘You’re going to be staying here a while longer.’
‘How much longer?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know. Maybe a few weeks. He wouldn’t give me a definite answer. Not until you’re safe to be released.’
‘I think it’s time Sam got some rest,’ Dr Stone says.
My dad glares at him. ‘Don’t worry, Sam. I’m going to get you out tomorrow, even if I have to bring the whole damned army in. They can’t keep you for as long as they like.’ An orderly with ginger hair walks over and folds his arms.
Rachel waves at him and he scowls. ‘You look very butch in your pretty white shoes.’ She hugs me. ‘There’s something wrong with this place,’ she whispers in my ear. ‘Remember what I said and get out.’
She leaves with my dad as he mumbles obscenities under his breath, the orderly trailing closely behind them.
‘Your friend is a charming young woman,’ Dr Stone says sarcastically.
‘Can I go to my room and draw?’
‘Not until I check the bag.’ He empties it out on the floor, pencils clattering around the sketch pad.
‘I really shouldn’t let you have these. You might use them as weapons.’ I decide to play the helpless patient role.
‘Please. I think it’ll help me get better. I always feel more relaxed when I’m drawing.’ Dr Stone pauses and stokes his chin with manicured nails, enjoying the control he has over me. He is right about the pencils, though; I’d love to plunge one into his eye and watch it burst over his cheek.
‘Ok. But leave the door open.’
‘In case I try to hang myself?’ His smile doesn’t waver but his eyes glitter with irritation.
‘Be careful with jokes like that. We take them very seriously.’
‘Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. I know you’re only trying to help me.’
‘That’s a good boy.’ His hand twitches as though he’s about to pat me on the head like a dog, but he just continues smiling his frozen smile.
Chapter 16
I lie on the bed and open the sketch pad. My dad always buys me the ones I like, with the thick paper that makes my drawings seem more important. I lightly stroke it, enjoying the feel of its slight roughness, and start sketching the face of Peter Cushing, beginning with a general oval shape, then filling the outlines of his nose and mouth. I always leave the eyes until last, as they’re my favourite part. If you get them even slightly wrong, the whole face is ruined.
As I concentrate on the shape of the eyes, another face takes shape in my mind. Its contours gradually grow more distinct and I turn over the page and start drawing quickly, my hand seeming to jerk around by itself, the paper becoming warm from the friction.
After a few minutes a face stares at me from the page. I write a name under it.
Adam.
I stare at the picture and touch his cheek.
Memories start tumbling back. The topiary of the sleeping dragon, the house with a frozen lake, the owl, the hand sliding down to caress my thigh.
The kiss.
I toss the pad across the room and scream in frustration.
I remember everything.
Adam is a monster. He killed Terry and tried to kill me. I know I should hate him, but all I can think is why did he abandon me here like my dad? He promised we’d be together forever. I start crying and punch the mattress repeatedly.
Then I remember the thing that crawled down my throat.
My arm starts itching and I pull back the sleeve of the sweatshirt. The skin bulges as through something is wriggling underneath. I feel a wave of nausea and run out of the room to the bathroom, clutching my stomach, fling open a cubicle door and vomit into the bowl.
Writhing between the chunks of vomit are black threads.
I slam down the lid and wipe my mouth with toilet paper, stumble over to the sink and stare into the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, my face pallid. I rinse out my mouth with cold water and take slow breaths to calm down. It feels like shadowy tendrils have wrapped themselves around my heart and are infecting my insides with darkness.
After a few moments the feeling passes and I stagger back to my room. The sketch pad is back on my bed, the pencils lined up neatly next to it. I open the pad.
The drawing of Adam is gone.
I doubt if I even drew it in the first place, but
then I see the serrated sliver of paper trapped inside the metal spiral that holds the pages together. Someone has ripped it out. It has to be Dr Stone. There is a light knock on the open door. I look around angrily, expecting his smug face, but see someone I don’t recognise.
‘Are you ok?’ One of the patients from the cafeteria is standing in the doorway. He looks a bit older than me with matted blond hair. He holds out his hand. ‘Tim.’ He smiles. I pause, then reluctantly shake his hand.
‘Sam.’ The feeling of aversion I usually get before shaking someone’s hand is subdued, and I wonder if it was really a sleeping pill I was given last night.
‘Welcome to Hell House.’ He looks around furtively. ‘We’re not supposed to talk alone together. Dr Stone doesn’t like it.’ He gestures towards the corridor. ‘Come with me to the recreation room,’ he whispers. ‘It’ll be more difficult for them to hear our conversation.’ He points at the vent above my bed. ‘Walls have ears.’ I can see a round shape behind the strips of metal.
‘Microphone?’ I murmur, and he nods. We walk silently down the corridor. The orderly with ginger hair passes us, squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest. He fingers the taser that is attached to his belt, the illusion that this is a place for healing disintegrating.
‘Good morning!’ Tim says cheerfully. The orderly grunts and disappears around the corner. ‘Smith has a habit of walking into the bathroom when you’re showering. Just make sure you’re not alone when you go. He likes the newbies.’
Inside the recreation room, one of the orderlies is leading a group of residents in a synchronised dance. The chairs and tables have been moved to the sides of the room and music trills weakly from a stereo on the floor. The man who warned me about the orange juice catches my eye mid-step and waves at me.
‘Who’s he?’ I ask.
‘Bert. They found dead cats hanging in his house. Not an animal lover, I guess.’ The other residents shuffle their feet, suddenly jerking their arms upwards like spasming puppets to copy the orderly. Two men who seem to be identical twins are playing cards at a small table in the corner. When I look more closely, I realise the cards are blank. I nudge Tim.
‘The telepath twins,’ he says. ‘But I think they can only read each other’s minds. Hardly a challenge in a card game.’ We head towards the glass door that leads out into the courtyard. I feel a pang of despondency when I look at the couch where my dad and Rachel were sitting this morning and wonder if I’ll ever see them again.
‘We can talk outside,’ he says. ‘Less chance of being overheard.’ As he pulls on the handle a hand clamps onto his shoulder.
‘Did I give you permission to leave?’ It is the orderly we passed in the corridor. There is a name tag fastened to his shirt with only one name on it in bold letters: SMITH.
Tim turns to him and smiles. ‘Dr Stone told me to help him settle in. You can ask him if you don’t believe me.’
Smith pauses for a moment, then sneers at us, his nostrils flaring. ‘You’ve got ten minutes.’
Tim bows. ‘Thank you for your gracious generosity.’ Smith walks off, muttering under his breath. We step out into the courtyard and Tim closes the door behind us.
‘The nazis in white are Stone’s henchmen. Try not to piss them off too much. They’re allowed a little freedom when it comes to discipline.’
We crunch through the meringue snow to the fountain, the air cold but invigorating, and I feel a childish joy when I see my breath pluming like cigarette smoke around my face. The walls of the hospital enclose the courtyard and stretch up about thirty feet to a flat roof. All around the edges of the roof are the same devil-tail spikes that were on the entrance gate. Unless I had a very tall ladder, there’s no way to escape.
Tim reaches towards the fountain and breaks off an icicle. The sleeve of his sweater rides up his arm and I see symbols cut into his forearm. He sees me staring and pulls it down, crushing the icicle in his fist.
‘How long have you been here?’ I ask.
‘Weeks, months, I don’t remember. Time is a closely guarded secret.’ We walk towards a wall, the snow already melting into my trainers. The devil spikes glint in the sun like freshly brushed fangs.
‘Apparently they’re for our safety,’ he says, seeing me look at them. I scan the courtyard to check we’re still alone and quickly tell him what happened to me after the disco, expecting him to start laughing. For some reason I also tell him about teleporting, almost wanting him to tell me I’m crackers and deserve to be here.
When I finish he looks at me pensively. ‘Congratulations. You now get to be the second member of the exclusive teleportation freak club.’
‘You can do it too?’ I reel at the sense of relief flooding through me. ‘I always thought it was just me.’
‘You’re not as unique as you thought.’
‘How long have you been able to do it?’
‘A few years. It started suddenly, as yours probably did. After my dad died I would lie in bed at night desperately wanting to be with him again. I’d sometimes wake up in strange places in the house, the attic, the cellar, though not the distances you’ve been travelling.’
‘I thought I was imagining it or sleepwalking.’
‘It’s real, Sam. You’re not crazy. The first time it happened, I was in bed, then woke up on the couch, my mum screaming next to me. I’d teleported to the lounge while she was watching TV, nearly gave her a heart attack. She was persuaded by Stone to let him keep me here, find a cure for my illness. She used to visit me every week. But now …’ He kicks up a chunk of snow and it splatters against the wall. ‘They ask me to do things. Try and decipher strange texts. I don’t know how, but I’ve started to see patterns in the symbols.’
‘Why do they want you to do that?’
‘They’re trying to open up special doors, portals to other places. I think that’s why everyone’s being kept here. The ones they get bored with, the ones who aren’t, as Stone says, pulling their weight, get taken downstairs to room 49.’
‘What’s in room 49?’
‘I don’t know. I just know that when they take you there, you never come back.’
‘Why don’t I just tell them about being able to teleport?’
‘Keep it to yourself,’ he says, glancing around nervously. ‘Tell them nothing. Your secrets might be the only things that protect you.’
‘Did they do that to you?’ I ask pointing towards his arm.
He shifts uncomfortably. ‘I think I did it in my sleep. It’s been getting worse since I arrived.’
‘Can’t we just teleport away from here?’
‘Like you, I can’t control it. One night I could feel myself shifting, but something blocked it. They must be using some warding device to stop people like us from having any night-time excursions.’
There is a sharp tap on the glass door. Smith is staring at us with his arms folded.
‘Our time is up,’ Tim says. ‘Meet me this evening at dinner. I’ve got a plan to get us out.’ Smith opens the door and Tim slips past him and leaves the recreation room before I can reply.
Smith strokes my shoulder. ‘Don’t talk to him. Things will get uncomfortable here if you do.’ He squeezes it and winks. ‘If you do what you’re told and behave yourself, I can make life a lot easier for you.’
The dancing has stopped and the residents are standing motionless, their eyes glazed over.
‘The mutants have finished their daily exercise,’ he says derisively. He pats my bottom and helps the other orderly rearrange the chairs and tables. The orderly then blows a whistle hanging around his neck and they shuffle away. Bert comes towards me.
‘Do you wanna play ping pong?’ he asks hopefully. ‘I’ll let you win.’
‘Maybe later,’ I say. One of the twins sitting at the table is beckoning me over, the cards fanned out in front of them.
; ‘Promise?’ His lip quivers as he rolls a ball under his palm on the table.
‘I promise. I just need to talk to someone,’ I say, looking at the twins.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says dejectedly, slumping his shoulders and shambling to the couch. I wave my hand at the twins and walk over, pulling up a chair. When I sit down I notice one of the cards is not completely blank. Faintly scrawled in pencil is a spiky symbol. He hands it to me.
The pentagram with the eye in the centre gazes back.
‘What does it mean?’ I ask. ‘Why do I keep dreaming about it? Why can’t I stop drawing it too?’ He turns the card over and picks up a pencil, his eyes darting around the room, and starts writing on it.
He is watching. He is always watching.
‘Who’s watching?’ I ask. He grips the pencil so tightly it breaks in half. He starts screaming, the other twin joining him, simultaneously clasping their ears. The orderlies rush over and pull me away.
‘What did you say to him?’ Smith barks.
‘I just asked them their names.’
He cuffs me across the head. ‘Keep your fucking mouth shut in future.’ They drag me across the room by my arms and push me into the corridor.
‘Maybe we should give him a taste of Mr Sparkles,’ Smith says, tapping the stun gun attached to his belt next to the taser.
The other one shakes his head. ‘Not today. I can’t be bothered mopping up when he pisses himself.’ They march me down the corridor into my room.
‘Stay in here until dinner,’ Smith says. ‘You’d better pray I don’t tell Dr Stone. He’ll get angry.’
‘But I didn’t do anything.’ I feel like I’m a child arguing with my dad. He raises his hand towards me and I flinch. They laugh and slam the door, the lock clicking into place. I sit on my bed, about to cry. How could my dad leave me here? He said he’d find a way to get me out, but now I know it’s never going to happen. Eventually he’ll stop visiting, like Tim’s mum, and they’ll keep me here forever as I slowly turn into some shuffling zombie like the other residents.
Prisoners.
I feel something in the pit of my stomach shift and unfurl, something dark and malevolent. The anxiety coursing in my veins abates, replaced with cold hatred. I lie on the bed and close my eyes, enjoying the image of ripping into Smith with my teeth until his blood cascades down my throat.