May

by Gabrielle Lord

  ‘So it’s true he wants something of your father’s?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not what you’re thinking. It was given to me. Me,’ I repeated, ‘not Ben Galloway. He’s made up this story about my delusions because he’s trying to get his hands on something that doesn’t belong to him.’

  ‘You’re accusing Vulkan Sligo of concocting a completely false identity and history for you?’

  ‘That’s right, Doctor, I am.’

  ‘You’re not Ben Galloway?’

  ‘Damn right, I’m not!’ I shouted. ‘Sligo’s made this whole thing up, and you’ve swallowed it, hook, line and sinker!’

  Dr Snudgeglasser shook his head and shuffled his chair back a few centimetres. He gave me a kindly look as if I’d just proven that I was delusional, and then picked up a large envelope, the contents of which he tipped out onto his desk. He pushed the first document towards me.

  ‘Reality check, Ben,’ he said. ‘I want you to have a good look at these. This is your birth certificate, your passport and here is the rest of your ID. Take them with you. All this, I suppose, is false too?’

  I snatched the documents from him and flicked through them. They looked frighteningly genuine to me, and had my picture on many of them.

  ‘That’s not me,’ I said handing the passport back to him, ‘and that’s not my birthday, either.’

  ‘And this is your school travel ID,’ he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken at all, passing me a wallet. I flipped it open. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—an ID with my photo next to Benjamin Galloway’s name.

  ‘That’s not me!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve never lived there in my life!’

  There was something really freaky and terrifying in seeing myself remade as someone else. Already I felt so far away from my old life. I was forgetting what Mum’s happy face looked like and what it had been like living at home with Gab and Dad before he died, and before I had to go on the run, fighting to stay alive. This Ben Galloway wasn’t me, but it was starting to feel like the old Callum Ormond wasn’t me either.

  The doctor started tapping the brain on the desk again. ‘That’s not you? In the picture?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I mean, yes. But …’

  ‘Ben, let me refresh your memory. Your father, Redmond Galloway, was Mr Sligo’s business partner. He died in tragic circumstances, I understand. It’s not easy to accept something like that.’ He waved the passport at me. ‘Do you deny this is your photograph?’

  I couldn’t deny it; it was me in the photo. I even remembered exactly when it was taken, with Mum and Gabbi in one of those little booths at the local shopping centre about a year ago. It just wasn’t my passport or my name.

  ‘That’s my photograph,’ I said.

  Had someone stolen my photos and passport during the break-in at our house in January? Had they then doctored them to create this false identity?

  ‘That’s my photograph,’ I said again, ‘but the rest is rubbish. They’re not my IDs.’

  ‘So you would have me believe that Mr Sligo has gone to all this trouble and created a completely false identity for you, using your photos, so that he can get hold of something that you have—something that he is not entitled to?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. You’ve heard of identity theft? I remember when this photo was taken,’ I said, pointing at the passport. ‘And someone, somehow, has used it to create this totally insane and false identity, to get Sligo what he wants.’

  ‘Why on earth would he do that? Have you any idea how difficult and expensive it is to create false passports?’

  ‘Not if you have enough money and the right contacts. The right criminal contacts. And if you’re the sort of person who will go to any lengths to get what you want.’

  Dr Snudgeglasser sighed loudly. ‘Ben, this is clearly paranoia. What you’re claiming doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘It does make sense! After my dad died, we—’

  ‘So you admit that your father has passed on?’ Dr Snudgeglasser quickly interjected.

  ‘Yes, he died, but Redmond Galloway is not my father. Because I am not Ben Galloway!’

  I was in an impossible situation. Totally lose-lose! If I admitted who I was, Cal Ormond, the nation’s most wanted criminal, I was in just as much trouble as I was by denying the false identity of Ben Galloway. Either way, I lost out. Either way I’d be locked up. In the asylum or the slammer.

  ‘If you’re not Ben Galloway, then who are you?’ asked the doctor.

  I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat, not knowing what to say. The thought of being arrested seemed like a better deal right now. I could try to make a break for it while I was being picked up by the police. I was thinking that I’d rather take my chances with the cops than stay locked up here in Leechwood at the mercy of Vulkan Sligo.

  Sligo and Snudgeglasser had me squeezed in a vice.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m Callum Ormond,’ I mumbled, finally.

  The doctor leaned back in his chair and ran a finger over his bushy eyebrows. I started worrying that I’d made the wrong decision by confessing my true identity. I’d spent the last few months hiding who I was, and now I was offering it up freely.

  I looked up to see that the doctor seemed completely uninterested and unmoved by what I’d said. He appeared more frustrated than anything else.

  ‘Call the police,’ I said, feeling desperate. ‘They’re all looking for me. They’ll know who I am.’

  ‘The police?’ Dr Snudgeglasser asked, dubiously peering at me.

  ‘Go on,’ I urged. ‘Call them! They’ll tell you who I am!’

  ‘I agree,’ Dr Snudgeglasser continued, ‘now that you mention it, that you bear some resemblance to that wanted lad. But taking refuge in this absurd story that you’re some sort of fugitive wanted by the police rather than face the truth is not going to help you get out of here.’

  ‘I look like him because I am him!’ I shouted, thumping my fist on the desk. My shoulder twinged with pain and I automatically grabbed it with my left hand. It felt sore and swollen.

  ‘I am him,’ I said again, this time calmly.

  Dr Snudgeglasser kept talking. ‘You’re just taking advantage of the similarity to create this complete confabulation.’

  ‘Confabulation?’ I guessed the meaning of this word. Dr Snudgeglasser believed I was making it all up. I tried another tack. ‘You must know that Vulkan Sligo is a criminal. He is notorious. Everyone knows that! He’ll lie to get whatever he wants!’

  ‘He has never been convicted of any crime,’ said Dr Snudgeglasser, adjusting his glasses. ‘The media is largely responsible for the sensational reports about him—most of them quite without foundation. He has a number of court cases pending with various media outlets, defending his good name and reputation against their slanders and libels. He has been a great friend to Leechwood with his financial support.’

  I recalled the terrifying night in the car yard when I was trapped inside the underground oil tank, and about to drown or suffocate. There was nothing sensational or made up about that.

  I realised it was useless to try to convince him of the truth about Sligo. I understood the threat in the letter he’d written very well—I was going to have to stay in this place until I gave Sligo what he wanted. I also understood why I was supposed to be Ben Galloway—my real identity would create too much of a problem. Once the asylum knew who I was the police would pounce and I would be out of Sligo’s reach. By giving me a false identity, he could keep me here safely and work on me until I handed over Dad’s drawings and the Ormond Riddle. Except that I didn’t have them any more! I had no illusions about what would happen when Sligo finally realised this; Ben Galloway and Cal Ormond would both simultaneously disappear for good.

  ‘I need to call a friend urgently,’ I said. ‘I need to phone someone.’ I was desperate to contact Boges. Maybe he could help me find out where all the documents were.

  ‘All in good time, Ben,’ s
aid the doctor, insisting on calling me by my ‘real’ name. ‘Our hospital works on a system of rewards. Good behaviour earns you privileges, like being allowed to make phone calls, outings in the garden, and, later, even visits to town. It’s not a prison, Ben. You’re here to get help. We’re here to give you that help. So please, let’s talk about you, Ben.’

  ‘My name’s not Ben,’ I said again. ‘Sligo is lying about everything. If you want to hear what I have to say, then let me tell you who I really am and what has happened to me.’

  Dr Snudgeglasser’s leather armchair squeaked as he leaned back again. He made himself comfortable as if he were waiting for a stage performance. ‘I suppose we can do it this way for a while,’ he said. ‘I am rather interested to hear what you have to say.’

  ‘OK. I guess it all began with a letter my dad sent me from Ireland.’

  ‘Go on,’ Dr Snudgeglasser nodded.

  ‘Dad said that he’d come across something amazing in Ireland—some astounding secret that would change history and make our family rich.’

  Dr Snudgeglasser nodded again.

  ‘Then all these things happened. Bad things. My dad got really sick in Ireland. He came back home but died not long after from a mysterious illness—some unknown virus that made it impossible for him to even speak to us. In the hospice, he left behind all these strange drawings that he drew for me—my last clues into the discovery he’d made and mentioned in his letter. And then my uncle and I nearly drowned at sea, because someone had sabotaged our boat. Then there was a break-in at our house. Something was taken from Dad’s luggage, and I found this transparency with two odd words written on it.’

  Dr Snudgeglasser stopped nodding and started making notes. Maybe I was getting through to him. Or maybe I was digging myself deeper into trouble.

  I felt I had no choice but to go on.

  ‘I also found a mention of this medieval riddle—the Ormond Riddle—and, of course, there was the Angel.’

  ‘An angel?’ frowned Dr Snudgeglasser, stopping his scribbling for a moment. ‘Are you saying you’ve seen an angel?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, before seeing the look on his face. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. ‘I’m not saying I saw an actual angel. It was a drawing, at first, but now I know there’s this Angel associated with our family. There’s an image of it in a stained glass window at the Memorial Park cenotaph, in honour of a distant relative, Piers Ormond, who died in the war. It’s got something to do with what my dad discovered in Ireland.’

  Even to me, what I was saying sounded pretty strange.

  ‘Do go on,’ invited Dr Snudgeglasser.

  ‘After the break-in I was about to meet up with this woman who I thought could help me, when I was grabbed and thrown in a car boot.’

  The doctor stared blankly at me as I spoke, as though I were about to reveal far-fetched tales of an alien abduction.

  ‘I found out later that the kidnappers were led by Oriana de la Force.’

  ‘The criminal lawyer?’

  ‘Yes! Exactly! She had me tied up and she questioned me over and over. I managed to escape the closet they locked me in, and ran away. Then one day, not long after, I came home and someone had attacked my little sister and shot my uncle. I gave Gabbi CPR and then had to run again because there were people after me. I couldn’t believe it when I heard the reports that I was the attacker! I had criminals after me, and the cops! I’ve been running for my life ever since!

  ‘I was thrown in an oil tank to drown— by your “great friend” Vulkan Sligo. I’ve been living under bridges, in sheds, in underground tunnels … I’ve been shot at, chased, bitten by a snake—’

  ‘Attacked by a lion …’ the doctor added, with a patronising grin.

  I glared at him.

  ‘I’ve read the stories, too,’ he said by way of explanation.

  ‘It all happened. To me.’

  My voice petered out.

  Dr Snudgeglasser put down his pen. ‘That is certainly some story.’

  ‘It’s not a made-up story! It’s what happened! I know I didn’t tell it very well because it’s so complicated and so much has happened, but it’s all true! I’ve lived it!’

  I could see he didn’t believe a word of what I said.

  Here I was, finally making a full confession of my real identity, and this doctor didn’t believe me! Dr Snudgeglasser was convinced by the false passport and documents Sligo had tampered with.

  ‘Interesting,’ he continued. ‘That was all very interesting. It teaches me even more than I know already about the human capacity for denial—to think that you would create such an amazing story rather than face the truth. Most intriguing. Perhaps Mr Sligo should invest in your writing career,’ he chuckled to himself.

  I sprang to my feet, furious. Dr Snudgeglasser’s hand moved as fast as a snake strikes, to hover over the panic button on his desk.

  I was beaten, I knew it. He was probably a decent man, underneath the arrogance and the eyebrows, but he was never going to believe me. Who would? I sank back in my chair.

  ‘Vulkan Sligo is a crook,’ I said, waving my hand over the false documents. ‘Please believe me. None of this is true.’

  Dr Snudgeglasser withdrew his surprisingly shaky hand from the panic button on his desk.

  ‘Ben, attacking the person who is trying to help you is not going to help your case. You must face the truth—horrible though it is. This fantasy of yours is keeping you sick. Ben—’

  ‘I’m not Ben!’ I yelled, frustrated and angry.

  ‘—this elaborate fantasy of yours,’ he continued as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘all this talk of riddles and attempts on your life, assaults by lions and snakes, sabotaged boats, history-changing secrets, all this is indicative of the terrible confusion and denial in your mind—your desperate attempts to avoid facing reality. This denial is delaying the healing process. You must face the fact that your father is dead.’

  ‘I’m not denying that! But it’s my father who’s dead, not the father of this fictitious Ben Galloway!’

  ‘Listen to what you’re saying. In one breath you admit that your father is dead, and in the next you deny it again,’ Dr Snudgeglasser leaned across his desk. ‘There’s no need for you to create this paranoid escape. It’s classic avoidance and it will not help you. You’re similar to one of our more disturbed patients, Vernon. Poor fellow thinks he wants to kill me. He thinks I’m no longer me. Thinks I’ve been “replaced” by some foreign being.’

  I remembered the yelling earlier this morning coming from down the corridor.

  ‘That’s what’s happened to me!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve been replaced! By this false ID!’ I banged down on the phoney documents with my fist.

  ‘Calm down, Ben. Vernon can’t face the truth either. It’s not me he wants to kill. It’s the truth he wants to kill. You both have similar problems.’

  I’d only made things worse, trying to explain. I could have howled with frustration and anger. But all that would earn me was a straitjacket. I controlled my temper by taking a few deep breaths.

  Dr Snudgeglasser had a lot of fancy theories, I thought. But he was the one who couldn’t see the truth in front of him.

  ‘You must grieve, Ben,’ he said. ‘You must grieve before you can heal. You need to welcome the healing process. Death is a part of life that we all must go through.’

  ‘I don’t need a healing process!’ I said, leaping uncontrollably out of my chair again. ‘I just need to get out of here!’

  Dr Snudgeglasser’s hand shot out and pressed the red button firmly. An orderly bounded through the door and before I could jump out of the way he grabbed me and hauled me into the corridor. I kicked and yelled and tried to break free from his grip as he dragged me like a sack of potatoes down the hospital hall.

  ‘I’m not Ben Galloway!’ I screamed, kicking and struggling. ‘I’m not! I’m Cal Ormond! I’m the Psycho Kid! I’m the Psycho Kid!’

  Another voice from behind a locked door joine
d me in my screaming. ‘I’m the Psycho Kid!’ he shouted. ‘I am!’

  Another deep voice joined in. ‘No! I am! I’m the Psycho Kid!’

  ‘I’m the Psycho Kid’ cried another guy in a straitjacket who, like me, was being dragged down the hallway, past me.

  It was hopeless. All these voices clamouring and shrieking, copying my words, reduced me to silence.

  As I was hauled away, back to my cell, the squabbling voices faded. I was starting to see that in this place, the truth was nothing but another delusion.

  241 days to go …

  It didn’t take me long to realise that I had to accept the false identity and play along with being Ben Galloway if I ever wanted to get out of Leechwood. I needed to get on the road, find all of my things again, and find my great-uncle Bartholomew for information on my dad’s discovery. Owning the false identity could have its upside, too: it could give me an alias.

  The few days I’d been at the asylum already felt like a month. Most of the time I stayed in my room, where the only distractions were the regular meals brought in on a tray by the biggest orderly, or staring through the bars at the damp gardens outside.

  Occasionally Vernon would cause a stir, yelling out his death threats against Dr Snudgeglasser. I tried to keep my mind on the job—going over the progress we’d already made, but it was almost impossible to focus in this place when I had no idea whether I’d ever be able to get out.

  Some of the weird events of the last month—my attempt to get to Mount Helicon to see my great-uncle, my terrifying night in the bush trying to evade Oriana de la Force’s thugs and stray bullets, followed by meeting Melba Snipe and the runaway guy Griff Kirby—all seemed like a wild dream. For a moment I wondered if all of that had happened to someone else—to the guy who looked exactly like me. My double. Maybe he was Ben Galloway.

  No. That didn’t make sense either.