by David James
SILENT TREATMENT
by
David James
Copyright
Copyright © David James 2019
The right of David James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Chapter Forty Four
Chapter Forty Five
Chapter Forty Six
Chapter Forty Seven
Chapter Forty Eight
Chapter Forty Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty One
Chapter Fifty Two
Chapter Fifty Three
Chapter Fifty Four
Chapter Fifty Five
Chapter Fifty Six
Chapter Fifty Seven
Chapter Fifty Eight
Chapter Fifty Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty One
Chapter Sixty Two
Chapter Sixty Three
Chapter Sixty Four
Chapter Sixty Five
Chapter Sixty Six
Chapter Sixty Seven
Chapter Sixty Eight
Chapter Sixty Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy One
Chapter Seventy Two
Chapter Seventy Three
Chapter Seventy Four
Chapter Seventy Five
Chapter Seventy Six
Chapter Seventy Seven
Chapter Seventy Eight
Chapter Seventy Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty One
Chapter Eighty Two
Chapter Eighty Three
Chapter One
Journal entry – 23rd May, patient one.
Hi, my name is, oh let's say Nathan, you like that? If you don't, let me know and I can be someone else.
You choose, I don't really care what you call me anyway.
We thought you might need a hand with things, so we have agreed to write in your journals for you.
I'm guessing that you want to know something about me and the others. I'll bet you do. Maybe it will help you. Maybe you will tease the story out from us, after all you are a highly trained psychologist aren't you?
Well here goes. I'm fifteen years old. There. That's something you didn’t know isn't it. Hope it helps.
Are we famous yet? I bet the speculation about us out there is amazing.
How much pressure must you be under now, can't be easy being you at the moment. Are you sleeping okay? It's at times like this that we need our families most, or so I've been told anyway, but they're not always that great are they.
As to what we are doing here. Well, that'll have to wait. So I hope you've got some time to spare.
I may let you know more tomorrow if I feel like it, maybe I won't, you'll just have to wait.
One last thing, if you are getting her to write one as well I wouldn't believe everything she might tell you. She has a habit of making stuff up and she's not as nice as me.
Nathan
Journal entry – 23rd May, patient two.
Hiya.
Really glad I’ve got this chance. I think it’s a great idea and I hope it helps.
I wonder if the others are doing this as well. I mean I can’t think why it would just be me that you want to do it. Unless you think that I might tell you something that they won't. I doubt it, but you never know.
It's quite exciting writing this journal, I've never done it before. Didn't have that sort of an upbringing you know! Oh, of course you don't know do you. Silly me!
Don't expect much out of the twins, you may have to make do with just me.
Anyway, I'm fifteen years old and I'm a Sagittarius, though I reckon you guessed my star sign didn't you!
I'm glad you are the one who is going to help us, you seem nice and I would hate it if you let us down.
You weren't looking great today – is everything okay?
I like the name Emily, reminds me of those fancy dramas on the TV, you know the ones where they wear big dresses and ride around in carriages a lot! So if it's ok with you, I’ll be Emily.
Oh, and don't worry about him, he is such a misery. Don't let him get you down.
Bye for now.
Emily
xxxx
Chapter Two
The morning light forced its way through the curtains, settling momentarily on the face half buried in the duvet. It was long enough to have the effect of inducing a brief stirring. Satisfied with its work, the light continued on its journey and slowly illuminated the rest of the room.
Sarah Stevens opened her eyes as little as she could get away with. The sun had welcomed her to another day; she let out a momentary groan. Another day beckoned and the routines would begin again as they had to. She knew what awaited her if she strayed from them.
The sunlight was now glinting off the bottle at the side of her bed. 'Very subtle,' she said to no one in particular. Even the sun seemed to be mocking her now.
On the third attempt, the child and almost adult proof cap gave in and allowed her to tip the bottle towards her hand. The pill popped gently into her hand.
What if she didn't take it?
She hesitated for a moment.
Did a different world await her? She visualised herself skipping through fields, not a care in the world.
But she knew better. She knew exactly why she needed the pills, exactly what they did. There were memories that needed to be kept at bay.
With help she had created the regime to protect herself. The pills were part of it, her carefully crafted routines were another part.
She popped the pill in her mouth, as she always knew she would, and with the aid of the bottle of water, gulped it down.
Just because you are a trained psychologist. Just because you should know better, doesn't mean that you do. But she felt immediately more relaxed as she felt the pill slide down her throat, long before it could
have dissolved and released its chemicals into her eager body.
She lay back.
By the side of her bed lay the journals.
She knew it was a bad idea to read them late at night, she knew that it would give her strange dreams; and yet there they were, laying beside her.
And so the routines would begin.
At times like these she marvelled at the “normal” people. The ones who could just wake up from a nice dream that they would desperately try and climb back into. Or maybe wake smiling at the recollection of what they had done the night before.
Such things were not part of her life anymore.
She shouldn’t complain, really. She was living in a very nice house. A house that she couldn’t possibly afford. But it had come at such a cost.
She remembered when her father had died, she hadn’t been sure whether to move into his old house, but she had come here one afternoon to gather some things and had got lost in the memories that seemed to seep out of the walls. And she hadn’t left since. It had taken her many days to try and tidy the house up. He hadn’t been the tidiest of people, which might have come as a surprise to some people, but just because he was a world renowned psychologist didn’t mean that he was remotely organised. But eventually she had made it look more presentable. It still felt like her father’s house to her, she hoped it always would feel that way.
Nowhere was this more true than in her father’s study. There were so many reminders of him there that each time she went in she could still feel his presence.
As she had tidied the study, she had found evidence of her father’s scribblings – book marks with notes on them; scraps of paper with what looked like quotes on them and half finished thoughts on scraps of torn paper. She remembered standing outside the door, with the sound of a full blown conversation going on inside, only for Sarah to open the door and he was the only one there.
She had unfortunately inherited some of his traits.
He also used to leave little notes around the house for her to find; admittedly it had been when she was younger, but she had missed them when he had deemed her too old for such foolishness. But she still found them around the house even now, in some nook or cranny that she hadn’t managed to locate before and they still amused her even though their meaning and context was lost long ago.
She touched the cabinet at the side of the bed. The slightly cool feel calmed her as she centred herself in the room.
As ever nowadays, her first thought belonged to the children. Their faces filled her mind.
She was not the sort of person that kept up with the news these days. The great debates of the day rather passed her by. Her own world was scary and difficult enough and she didn't need to take on the problems of the rest of the world as well.
She hadn't always been like this, at university she had been much more aware, more involved. She had even tried to change the world in some way. It turned out that the world wasn't particularly interested in her efforts. But still, she had tried.
Even in her current rather detached state, she couldn't have missed what had happened with the children. It had perforated her careful regime and now that they were here, in her charge, she felt she was being forced to step out of her comfort zone.
They had announced their arrival to the world a few short months ago. One minute a sleepy village was going about its sleepy day and the next moment they appeared; and that was probably the last time the village could be described as sleepy.
It had seemingly taken the village a day to realise what had happened. It was only the next day that the world heard about them.
They had arrived as if from nowhere. There hadn't been any adults with them as one might have expected, they had just appeared on the village green.
There were four of them and thanks to the journals she now knew that two of them were fifteen years old. And they had names as well, they were no longer “patient one” and “patient two”. She knew they probably weren't their real names. But it felt like a start. A small beginning.
They were reasonably neatly dressed, maybe a bit scruffy; their clothes needed a bit of repairing, but all in all they seemed surprisingly well.
The only slight abnormality was that they didn't talk.
Not a word.
It had been put down to a reaction to the trauma of suddenly being thrust into the full glare of publicity.
All very understandable. But it would pass.
But it didn't pass. And they still wouldn't talk.
The world's media had naturally gone into meltdown. Wild rumours spread; speculation was written as fact and all newspaper front pages were cleared. The questions about the children came thick and fast.
And the children said nothing.
So they were soon taken into care by the authorities, which only had the effect of ramping up the speculation.
Could the children actually speak? Had they already spoken, but the authorities were trying to cover it up?
Well, as Sarah could now be regarded as part of the “authorities”, she could confirm that they certainly weren't speaking. But of course she couldn't tell anyone outside work about what was happening. It led to a rather claustrophobic feeling as her life now consisted of the institute, the children and not much else.
The children had arrived at the Reynolds Institute a few days after being taken into care.
The institute was well established and held in high regard. Indeed it had been at the cutting edge of trauma treatment previously. It had been the logical place to send children with their symptoms.
Everyone had assumed that after a short period of treatment the children would begin to speak and the mystery would be solved.
But still the children remained silent.
It was to Sarah's considerable surprise that she had been assigned to their treatment. And even more surprising that she had been put in a senior position. She couldn't be sure, but she had the feeling that the director of the institute had something to do with that. As she had only returned to work recently, she had assumed that she would be placed in some junior role.
She could see the resentment at work from people who thought she was too inexperienced. The problem was that she partially agreed with them. But she wasn't going to turn it down. She was fully aware that if she could successfully treat the children; uncovering their story, then with the incredibly high profile they had, her career would be assured.
It was at times like these that she needed her father's guidance more than ever.
She looked across to the bedside table and his face looking at her from a rather battered photograph with the strange mixture of amusement and a hint of sadness on his face. He towered above the other person in the photo and she had been told that he was quite good looking by others; but she couldn’t see it herself.
She had inherited his sadness but rather less of his amusement.
His death had hit her hard, and many had said it contributed to her problems.
She ran her hand across the bumpy surface of the photograph, stopping with her finger hovering over his face and let out a long, low sigh. The person looking back at her from the photo seemed in sharp contrast to the one that she remembered lying in hospital. His expression had been haunted and he had seemed to be struggling with some internal conflict that he just couldn't express. He had tried to write down his thoughts towards the end; they were just pieces of paper with scribbled notes on. The institute had kindly gathered them together for her and handed them to her, and she kept them in her bedside cabinet. But the notes had been a strange collection of seemingly unconnected scribblings. One would seem to be about his work and how it was going and then the next would wander into a bizarre recollection that sounded more like some terrifying dream. He had passed some of them to her from his bed as if they were secret documents. They had seemed incoherent and made little sense to her at the time, but she treasured them none the less and after he had died they had offered her some lasting connection to him.
The institute had said that his treatment would lead to apparent periods of seeming lucidity. But that she shouldn't pay attention to what he said. She hadn't looked at the pieces of paper for a while; it had been too painful.
The rest of her morning ritual was followed to the letter. There was the feeling of calm instilled by the familiar.
She felt herself going through the morning with a sense of detachment. She was completing all her usual tasks, but her mind was elsewhere. It was where it had been for the past few months or so. Since the children had arrived.
She considered the term “children”. It may give the idea of a cute five year old running around with a bright smile on their face.
It couldn’t be more misleading.
The children in her care were neither cute nor five years old.
“Nathan” as he had decided to call himself, was over six feet tall, slim and had the sort of commanding stature that almost overwhelmed Sarah. His expression at times seemed to be mocking her. But if she caught him slightly off guard, there seemed to be real pain behind his eyes until the mask was put firmly back in place. And the mocking expression was back.
Hardly “cute”.
“Emily” could probably come closest to the description. She had long strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes. Which seemed a good start to being cute. But there was a look in her eye that she occasionally let Sarah see, that seemed to suggest that her apparent sunny demeanour may be a facade. But Sarah was never quite sure if Emily was deliberately letting her briefly see this side of her.
As for the twins, well Sarah didn’t mind admitting that she found them difficult, and at times downright frightening. Which she knew was not exactly a very professional term.
The idea for the journals had been Sarah's, though she couldn't really claim it was all her own idea. As a child, when the dark thoughts had felt like overwhelming her, it was her father that had suggested she write everything down. Though she wouldn't have used the word, after all she was only twelve, it had proved to be a cathartic experience. Somehow writing things down seemed to transfer their power to the paper. Looking back it all seemed very fanciful. But it had worked, and she had been grateful for that.