by C. J. Sutton
Copyright © 2018 by C. J. Sutton
Artwork: Adobe Stock © Mopic
Design: Soqoqo
Editor: Jeff Gardiner
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
First Black Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2018
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For Wendy, Val, Charlie and Jim
Grandparents; the first storytellers
Acknowledgements
Writing a book is a lonely task, but moving the tale from your screen to the shelves is a process not achieved alone.
I would like to thank Laurence and Steph Patterson from Crooked Cat Books for believing in Dortmund Hibernate and signing an author on the opposite side of the world. My editor, Jeff Gardiner, for being honest and so easy to work with in creating the best possible version of the story. The professionalism of everyone at Crooked Cat has been extremely important in the promotion of Dortmund Hibernate, and the community of authors is a great support system.
I also feel indebted to all the movies and books that have inspired me in story creation. I still remember relaxing on a family holiday as a teenager and reading Stephen King’s Low Men in Yellow Coats. Something in that book triggered a desire to be an author, to create characters and places and scenes that push the boundaries.
Every writer needs an idol. Someone to look up to as a barometer for hard work. I would be remiss not to thank Leonardo DiCaprio for the way he has continually portrayed such complex, driven and tormented lead characters. Naming a pet rabbit after Leo was not quite enough.
To my family, supportive in all walks of life. Nothing is more important than family and this becomes increasingly obvious the older we get. A beer with dad, a day at the footy with my brother or a coffee with mum can be enough to remove the doubts all writers feel.
And finally to my wife Dannielle, who watches me type day-in and day-out and probably thinks I’m mad. We’re all a little mad, babe. Our love of books and bookstores will always be shared.
About the Author
C.J. Sutton is a writer, freelance journalist and author based in Melbourne, Australia. He holds a Master of Communication degree with majors in journalism and creative writing. His fictional writing delves into the unpredictability of the human mind and the fears that determine our choices in life.
As a professional writer C.J. Sutton has worked within the hustle and bustle of newsrooms, the competitive offices of advertising and the deep trenches of marketing. But his interest in creating new characters and worlds has seen a move into fiction, which has always pleaded for attention. Dortmund Hibernate is his debut novel.
Dortmund Hibernate
Dark work, reporting on the minds of the condemned. They who sign up must offer a section of their own mind to the cause. For in that deeply explored abyss lies a part of themselves; a giver that takes, a taker that gives. Reflect, absorb, abstain, connect. A dance between lions; a joust atop dragons ruling the night sky. Only the opposing dragon is not compliant to the same limitations.
Can you reason with a dragon that possesses a breath of flames and scales of stone?
What is to say they will not operate their defence mechanisms as they sit in wait?
Dark work, in dark lands where shadows cast across happiness and hide all that is light. The temperature always dropping into blue, the direction always down. To open the curtains and let in the sun set against cloudless sky is the remedy few can find, if any ever have.
For where is a lever that does not protrude?
Where is a drawstring not dangling against a hard surface?
Dark work, to enter a room and face a human that does not trust the system.
You are the problem.
You represent a foul stench that wafts in through a grate and lingers, never more.
For the sickness rebels, and the rebellion is a battlefield that no man or woman can escape without a wound that seeps until the end of days.
Pay close attention, my friend. We’re all a little insane.
Slippery Simmonds
Let them talk, Magnus. Let them spill. It is all just an exchanging of words between one person and another.
“You’re here to listen, right? Well open your ears, doc. You’re a doc, right? Doctor of Psychology, some bullshit like that? Yeah, fancy degree. Young doc though. Anyway, this story ain’t about you. It’s late one night. I’m sitting in my house fiddling my thumbs when these kids, right – fucking teens – are trying to boost my Jaguar parked in the driveway. My fucking driveway! What’s a man to fucking do about this? Teens, fucking scum. All they do is sniff out pussy and steal people’s cars. So I run outside to scare them off, right, flap my arms like a fucking seagull taking flight, and they shit themselves. The group, four, try to dash off into the night; two get away, but one falls. A brave young soldier tries to help his friend away from the Jaguar…which is now fucking scratched. I’m angry, doc, I admit it; got me a bit of a temper at times…so I boot the soldier in the face and yank the arm of the fallen one so hard it pops out of its socket…POP! I drag them inside by an arm each…both at the same time…and they’re too dazed to kick up a stink. I feel calm again, in my sanctuary, my realm of reality where I belong. I glance around at my fish swimming in their aquarium…my birds pecking at their seeds…my spiders wrapping flies like Christmas presents for the morning…my rats writhing over one another to nibble the cheese…my snakes uncoiling as they sense my reappearance…and my prize, my anaconda, all alone in her playpen, waiting patiently for something to do…someone to eat. I tie these two boys onto kitchen chairs and slap them awake. WAKE THE FUCK UP! I want them to see where they are…who they are fucking with. As a zoo keeper I never did care for the human race and I still don’t. You’re all so goddamn…emotional. These lads are crying, wetting their red fucking cheeks, whimpering for me to let them free. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry, mister; please let us go, please. We’ll never say a word we swear, sorry, sorry…’ Shut the fuck up. They don’t listen. I go over to my spider tubs and withdraw Horrus. I tell the boys, I tell them the next one to speak has to deal with Horrus. ‘Sorry mister, sorry, so sorry. We won’t do it again. Please, please, please…’ Fallen boy it is. I cup Horrus in my hand. I grab the boy’s brown tuft of hair from behind and place my spider pal into the boy’s nostril. I tell the boy if he exhales through his nose, I’ll spread cheese on his cock and let the rats have a feast. He listens. Horrus disappears, up the nose he goes. Itsy Bitsy spider up the water spout. Nothing happens. But then the boy’s eyes begin to water…foam erupts from his mouth…blood shoots out of his nose like a tap turned on too high…and I realise I’m on the floorboards in hysterics…I can’t stop fucking laughing…like…like…like I am now! Soldier boy is as pale as my bare arse. Fallen boy falls again, smashing his head against the table and cracking his skull. Dead. Horrus scurries out of the nostril and I put him back in the tub. He knows how to do his job. I turn to soldier boy…he’s not pleading anymore. No sorry misters, just wide eyes and a flash of anger. His teeth are clenched, fists are balled…he wants a fight. I like that. I respect this boy now. So rather than stick a spider up his nose, I figure he deserves a worthy end. I drag the kitchen chair with him still strapped against it over to the playpen. I unlock the hatch. I unt
ie the soldier boy and I shoulder-barge him in there. It’s just the two of them…human versus beast…boy versus nature…poetic. I grab a Heineken, sit on my rocking chair and watch through the glass pane as the soldier loses all of his courage…and Annie lashes out at his throat. Let’s just say, twenty minutes later and all I can see are white legs sticking out of Annie’s mouth like toothpicks, a bulge in her throat. She circled, she broke all of his little bones through constriction and then unlocked the jaw for a good old swallowing. I enjoyed the show, clapped at the conclusion, jacked off twice. Two cops came around a week later, asking questions about the disappearance of a pair of brothers last seen on the night they tried to steal my fucking Jag…I think those other pricks that got away finally found the courage to dob me in. I invited these upstanding gentlemen into my home…did you ever read 1984 by George Orwell, doc? There’s a scene near the end where Winston faces his worst fear…rats. They place a rat in a box and the only way it can escape is by chewing through Winston’s face. Unfortunately, Winston gives up…but I didn’t give the cop an option. Well, let’s just say the rat didn’t disappoint; it gnawed through the coppers chest while he was alive, ripped up his innards and found a way out through his throat; took the Adam’s apple clean out like a fruit-bobbing contest…winner! Cop number two: I strapped him to a table, put seeds in his eyeballs and POP! No more vision, well done birds. To cut a long story short, doc, my crew killed another six kids and three cops before one blue uniform got away. And here I am, captured and caged. Locked in Dortmund Asylum telling my story to the new fucking doc. Can’t say I don’t enjoy it…but I’d prefer to have my Annie here keeping me company. Dr. Magnus Paul? Nice nametag. The last swallowed his own tongue when talking to Jasper James…or was that the nurse? We hope you do one better…hahahahahahahahahaha…nobody does. He’ll get inside your head…he’ll do to your brain what my rat did to the cop. And all you’ll have left is physical freedom…and physical freedom is severely overrated when the mind is bound to us.”
Magnus glanced at his watch, blinked twice and lifted from his chair. He left Claude Simmonds, A.K.A Slippery Simmonds the animal-obsessed murderer, cackling in the darkness alone.
Dortmund Asylum
This is poker, and it is rigged. You must play a hand, Magnus, because if you don’t there is no poker.
Earlier…
Tyres crackled against the gravel road that spiralled up the steep hill towards Dortmund Asylum: ‘Dortmund’ due to the rural Western town it overlooked, not to be confused with the thriving German city, and ‘Asylum’ due to the patients within. Magnus Paul, from the passenger seat, absorbed the sight of the facility perched at the summit as grey clouds hovered above the decaying roof.
“They don’t let you bring your own car up here,” said the taxi driver, drumming his thick fingers against the steering wheel, peering left and right from beneath his unnecessary sunglasses. “No cars to be left on the premises, in case…well, you wouldn’t want the bastards high-tailing away now would you?”
Magnus ignored the small talk, focused on his first day as the psychologist at one of the most mysterious buildings in the country; one of the final ‘labelled’ houses for the criminally insane. His task: to be the only point of contact available, as those residing within spent all remaining life in solitude. No yard time, no chance to mingle with others. Strict solitude. The laws didn’t apply to this land; out of sight, out of jurisdiction. Even the name ‘Asylum’, long drained out of society like a sour infection, rested on the plaque.
“You’re young. I would expect old…spotty…shaky, y’know? Mumbling, asking me about the place like I’d fucking know what goes on, flashing their credentials in my face like I’m the employer, telling tales of their success…the crazies they turned normal. What is normal, anyway?”
He paused.
“Got any stories?”
Magnus remained transfixed by the Asylum, eager to enter the space that few knew anything about. His mission briefing was the lightest he’d encountered in his short career: listen, stay sane, report everything.
“Let me out here,” he said, unbuckling the seatbelt as the taxi continued to ascend.
“But sir—”
“Doctor,” corrected Magnus.
“Doctor, it’s a steep hill, and there’s bad weather. Those clouds will burst at any moment. This road is about to become a slippery fucking dip back to town.”
Magnus opened the door, forcing the driver to swear and halt. He withdrew his wallet loaded with crisp yellow notes, colour on a dreary hill.
“Ah, doctor, all of your expenses are paid for. Your rides, your meals, your hotel room, your calls, your…private choices.”
Magnus handed the driver a note and entered the harsh, cool winds, lifting his satchel out of the vehicle and over his shoulder. No person could be seen up ahead, no welcome party for the new help; just a building of white against a depressing backdrop. No cars, no windows, no plant life or sign of life. All that featured was a great steel door without a handle. Magnus knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
Nothing.
As he leaned in for the third attempt, a small slit opened at eye level.
“Name?” said the hoarse voice, cautious.
“Dr. Magnus Paul.”
Brief moments of muttering filtered from the other side, filling the silence. Large drops of rain began to fall, leaving streaks on Magnus’ white buttoned shirt and ironed blue jeans. His boots were caked in a mud that resembled dog shit.
The steel door creaked open, groaning with effort, angered by intrusion, a shift worker awoken. Despite extensive research Magnus could find no details regarding the Asylum’s layout or the people who ran proceedings. A man with a crew cut, a thick moustache and dark, deep-set eyes greeted the new entrant with a powerful handshake; a challenge. Magnus reciprocated.
“I’m Walter Perch,” he said, unflinching. A hallway led to squares of black. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Paul.”
“Magnus will do. Can you take me to the warden?”
Walter smiled, and if a noise was to escape his creased mouth it would have emulated the sounds of the steel door opening.
“No warden here, no head honcho, just myself and a group of guards. We had wardens…but the inmates, and believe me they’re damn inmates, were too persuasive…too smart, too exploitative perhaps. I deal with the doctors and anyone else who tries to heal the creatures crawling through Dortmund.”
“Who makes the decisions? Who do I debrief with? Who fills me in on the patients?”
Magnus was surprised by the lack of hierarchy; everything he did in the profession was a part of a system, a map that looked similar in each institution. He couldn’t help but think the obvious: how is a facility like this still functional?
“Ha!” yelled Walter, echoing into the midnight hall. “Patients, that’s cute. I’ve got to write that down. Magnus, they fill you in, they do all the talking, trust me. You’ll struggle to get a damn word in. But please, follow me.”
The pair walked side by side through the darkened hallway, passing no other sign of difference from the walls of an indescribable make or type. All that broke the null was an occasional outburst of laughter from an unknown source deep within. Magnus felt his satchel slipping from his shoulder, the warmth of the enclosed space causing his body to sweat and his shoulder to ache with a burden once light.
“How’d you get this gig?” asked Walter, sucking his teeth.
“Dortmund must be the top of the tree. I climbed some branches.”
“Scratch yourself on the way up?”
Magnus turned, but couldn’t read the expression on Walter’s face. He’d made a career out of analysis and judgement. In this hall that seemed never-ending, one had to rely on instinct.
“I’ve heard about you, you know – the young psychologist who healed The Goat. You turned him from a complete nutcase into a man confessing his sins and willing to do his time…the right-hand man of
Jasper James, I couldn’t believe it. The moment I heard that on the news, I knew they’d send you here. Tell me, how’d you do it?”
Magnus felt control return to his mind, coursing through his veins. A light flashed up ahead.
“The Goat lived in shadow. I found his weakness, I exploited it. They love to tell their stories to scare psychologists, psychiatrists, doctors, cops…especially cops. They prey on the fear they invoke. When they see I’m not afraid, or impressed, or shocked, they begin to reveal who they really are until there’s nothing left…the sickness can be cured. I break them by being a mirror. Taking in a notepad makes it look like you’re writing a story about them, a story you’ll tell your friends, your girlfriend; a nightmare in a schoolyard tale. They think they’ll become some horror passed down from generation to generation. But I just stare back, no nodding, constant eye contact, only asking questions when I feel they’ll progress the therapy…and they shrivel. The Goat wasn’t as scary as he thought. And with Jasper locked away for good, he had nothing to fear.”
Walter scoffed, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket and opening the door which covered the brunt of the flashing light.
“Well, luckily for you, you’ll get to meet Jasper at some stage during your stay. I bet he’ll be glad to see you; he’s our main attraction. But first, I’ll send you in to Slippery Simmonds. The best initiation is to dive right in, head first. And if the temperature is too cold? Fuck it. Too late, just swim.”
The Social Room
Look in that mirror and you’ll see what you are, Magnus. But it is not a crystal ball. You only see the present.