by Sibel Hodge
I did a good job of hovering in the doorway, plastering on my best hesitant smile. ‘Um… I’ve just moved in to a room down the corridor.’ I pointed back down the hallway unnecessarily. ‘Number twenty-four.’
She pulled a lemon-sucking face. ‘Vicky’s old room? Good luck with that. Do you know what happened to her?’
Well, there was one good thing about people like Miss Arrogant. She apparently loved scaring the shit out of fresh meat, which meant more info for me.
‘No.’ I approached the table to sit down. She didn’t move her feet from the nearest chair, so I took the one opposite her. ‘What happened?’
She closed her textbook and slapped it down on the table. ‘Vicky dive-bombed off the stairs in one of the lecture blocks.’ She raised her eyebrows and treated me to a smirk, bearing all the hallmarks of a gossip who loved drama.
‘What… you mean, she just jumped off?’
She rolled her eyes, as if inferring I was stupid. ‘I said dived. Like, literally dived off the top, as if she was diving into a swimming pool. Bam! Right in front of everyone. It was gross.’
I did a mousey gasp. ‘How awful. Did you see it?’
She waved the lollipop around in the air. ‘No. I heard about it from someone who was there.’
I thought back to the witness statements I’d read. Lecture block one had been packed at the time, and many students had seen Vicky’s body lying broken and twisted on the ground below. A few had been next to Vicky at the time, not realising what was going on until it was too late, when she’d climbed over the railings at the top of the stairs, stood on a small ledge, and then put her arms above her head and dived off, falling headfirst twenty metres to the concrete floor below.
‘I’m Becky, by the way.’ I lifted my hand instinctively to hold it out for her to shake, a habit I’d developed in my professional life. At the last minute, I realised I wasn’t in that world anymore and turned it into a scratch at the back of my head.
The girl didn’t tell me her name. Just looked at me as she put the lollipop back in her mouth and sucked on it.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Shakia,’ she said, her mouth full of Chupa Chups.
‘Nice to meet you.’
She made a hmph sound, as if it wasn’t reciprocated.
‘Did you know Vicky well?’
‘Not really. I’m studying economics and business. She was doing accounting,’ she said, like that explained everything.
‘But I guess you must’ve seen her in here a few times if she lived down the hall.’ I glanced around the kitchen.
Shakia shrugged. ‘Sometimes. We didn’t hang out. Hope you make less noise than her. She woke me up a lot, having nightmares. Screaming, shouting. I had to bang on her door loads of times, and I need seven hours uninterrupted sleep at least. And I caught her sleepwalking a couple of times. One day, she was in here making pasta at two in the morning in, like, this…’ She waved her lollipop casually in the air. ‘This trance or something. It was seriously nuts. She didn’t hear me. Couldn’t even see me.’
‘That must’ve been scary.’
She snorted. ‘Hardly. Freaky, more like. At first, I thought she was messing around. But it was real. I waved my hand in front of her face a few times, and she didn’t notice a thing. I got it on video. Do you want to see?’ Her eyes lit up with all the excitement of a malicious bully.
‘Okay.’
She delved into her bulky handbag on the table with her free hand and pulled out a mobile phone with a bejazzled case. She tapped a few buttons and practically shoved the screen in my face.
I watched the scene unfold as Vicky moved around the kitchen with a glazed look in her eyes, going through mechanical movements, grating cheese onto a plate, turning the hob off, draining spaghetti through a colander, and emptying it into a bowl. Shakia did a commentary on screen as she filmed, with lots of giggles in between: ‘Oh, my God! What is she doing? She’s seriously psycho… and now she’s eating it like she’s awake.’
Vicky did indeed look like she was in some kind of trance state. Her eyes were unfocused as she appeared to sleepwalk through eating a whole bowl of pasta as if no one else were in the room with her. In between bites, Vicky muttered to herself. She spoke so quietly, I couldn’t hear the exact words, but it sounded like she was saying, ‘Must do it. No, I don’t want to.’ Vicky’s lips carried on moving, and I strained to hear more, but Shakia’s voice over the top of it drowned out Vicky’s words. In Vicky’s file, there was no mention that the coroner’s officer had ever spoken to Shakia to find out more about Vicky. Certainly, this video was never mentioned.
The clip finished abruptly as Vicky took her last bite.
‘Then what happened?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. I got bored and left her there and went to bed. I had to get up early for an exam.’
‘You left her in that state?’ My tone ramped up from the previous shy-girl level to incredulous contempt. I mentally kicked myself. I couldn’t blow my cover or alienate any potential witnesses on my first day.
But luckily, Shakia didn’t seem to notice as she plopped her phone back in her bag. She shoved the lollipop in her mouth and said out of the corner of her lips, ‘She wasn’t my problem, was she?’
‘Do you think she was high on something?’ According to Vicky’s friends, she wasn’t into any kind of drugs. At the post-mortem, none were found in her system. But recent studies showed an epidemic of drugs on campuses. By far, the drug of choice was cannabis, but not the old-school stuff. The majority of cannabis being seized these days by police was super-high-potent skunk, which could cause nasty side effects, like paranoia and hallucinations. What if there was some kind of strong or dodgy batch of substance knocking around campus that accounted for Vicky’s dazed state on Shakia’s video?
Shakia snorted. ‘Vicky was much too goody-goody to get high.’
‘You said there was another time it happened?’
‘Uh-huh. But that was way weirder.’ Shakia stood and gathered her books together. ‘That happened in the daytime. She was spaced out, just walking up and down the corridor here, like she was asleep, but her eyes were open. She was obviously crazy.’ She put her fingertip near her temple and wound it in a circular motion. Clutching her books to her chest, she tossed her hair over her shoulder before leaving.
Chapter 5
Detective Becky Harris
I sat there for a moment, mulling over what Shakia had told me, wondering what she’d meant about Vicky seeming to sleepwalk in the daytime. Usually, sleepwalking was a symptom of underlying stress, but was it even relevant to my investigation?
I glanced at my watch. Half an hour until the lecture. I opened the huge industrial fridge in the corner of the kitchen and peered inside. The shelves were labelled with people’s names. Vicky’s label had been left in situ, but where her name was written in black capitals, someone had crossed it out with red pen and written FREAK. No prizes for guessing who the likely culprit was.
The cupboards along three walls of the room also had name labels. I found Vicky’s, but that label hadn’t been tampered with. I opened the door, and the only thing inside was a half-empty packet of cornflakes.
It was time to go. I collected my backpack, which contained notepads, pens, and the laptop I’d been given by Sutherby. Map in hand, I found my way to lecture theatre block two and the class Natalie would’ve attended, if she’d still been at the uni and wasn’t being held in a secure mental health hospital.
As soon as I walked into the theatre, I realised my mistake. I’d been hoping I could meet up with some of Natalie’s friends, particularly Millie and Jess, who’d both said in their statements that they hung around as a threesome and were very close. But the place was huge, with seats tiered at an angle so everyone had a view of the front platform. It was already three-quarters full of students, and there was no way I could single out any of Natalie’s friends in there.
I stood in the aisle, g
lancing around, as people milled past me. The male lecturer stood at a lectern and told everyone to take their seats. I debated whether to leave, but then I sat in the nearest seat and opened my laptop. It would look as if I were taking notes, but what I really wanted to do was more research on methods used by cults or radical groups to indoctrinate people, because I hadn’t had time to go through everything I’d wanted to at home yesterday.
I opened the laptop and connected to the uni’s free Wi-Fi while the lecturer spoke. I searched articles by experts and also victims who’d escaped cults, reading firsthand accounts of how the groups actually managed to get people to do things which historically included mass murder, suicide, sexual abuse, theft of money or possessions, and much more.
No matter what their size or motivation, Cults always operated the same way. They exerted control with what police in one example had called ‘invisible handcuffs’. They used powerful mind-control techniques which many victims said caused them to dedicate their life to the group, giving them every last penny, resigning from their jobs, cutting off ties with family and friends, and doing things they’d never have dreamt of doing in their previous lives and that often went against their core beliefs. And once the leaders had established power, the victims had believed them so completely, been radicalised so drastically, it was as if the things they did whilst under control were happening of their own free will. The victims no longer had their own normal thought processes. They could no longer critically evaluate what was happening. They were literally brainwashed into becoming someone else.
There seemed to be no particular personality type that was more susceptible to mind-control techniques than another, either, which surprised the hell out of me. It could happen to anyone, and people could even be brainwashed within a matter of days. Despite popular misconception, victims didn’t have to be needy, unhappy, vulnerable, or socially bereft with no friends or family. Often, the opposite was true, and the kind of person most likely to be ensnared into a cult was from an economically sound family background, had average-to-above-average intelligence and a good education, and was idealistic.
I glanced up and looked around the busy lecture theatre, taking in the hundreds of young adults, studying their differences in looks, clothing, even their postures and body language. Could everyone in this room really be susceptible to a cult?
I turned back to my laptop again and read about the psychological techniques cults used, including deception, peer pressure, abuse, sleep deprivation, replacement of relationships, financial commitment, isolation, controlled approval, fear, dependency, and guilt.
‘Wow,’ I said, shaking my head.
The girl sitting next to me glared in my direction for daring to make a noise. I mouthed a ‘Sorry’ at her and looked back at the laptop.
Recruiting members would often be done by advertising in magazines, newspapers, universities, social groups, and sports clubs—basically anywhere and everywhere. A lot of people said they’d been recruited by family or friends.
I read through more articles of people who’d managed to leave cults and talked about how hard it had been. They’d often experienced withdrawal symptoms like hallucinations, delusions, insomnia, amnesia, guilt, fear, emotional outbursts, and feelings of isolation and helplessness. That list sounded similar to some of the recent behaviour the three students had been exhibiting. But then those symptoms could be put down to hundreds of possible coming-of-age problems. So was there a cult in operation on campus, or were the three students’ actions completely unrelated?
I sat back and stared at the screen, thinking that the ways cults indoctrinated and radicalised people were exactly the same as how terrorist groups, and even the military, operated—coercing people to kill others or commit suicide as a way to prove their loyalty to a specific cause or ideology.
I was so engrossed in what I was reading that I didn’t notice people getting up and leaving until someone asked me to move out of the way. I closed the laptop, hooked my backpack over my shoulder, and followed the swarm of people out into the open air.
Chapter 6
Toni
I carefully surveyed my office in the five minutes I had before my next client. Lavender oil in the oil burner. Cosy lighting. Slats on the blinds tilted just so. Enough paper left in my notebook. I adjusted the angle of one armchair a fraction. Perfect.
I’d been an associate counsellor at St Albans University’s Student Counselling Services for one month, working four days a week. It was everything I’d hoped it would be, and more. The job was a great opportunity to build on my experience and develop a portfolio of counselling hours to accrue towards my professional accreditation.
I checked my laptop screen one more time, practicing the client’s name in my head. Marcelina Claybourn. The only thing I knew about her was that she was twenty years old and studying marketing and advertising. When I’d first started work with the counselling services, I’d thought it would be strange to have so few details about someone before their initial appointment, but in fact, it helped me avoid forming preconceived notions about them. In this office, we practiced a person-centred approach. The clients were encouraged to open up in their own time, so there were no pre-appointment questionnaires, no rigid formality.
I gave the room one last check, opened the door, and walked into the reception and waiting area. A girl with choppy blonde hair sat in one corner of the room, hands clenched into fists at her lap, staring into space as she chewed ferociously on her bottom lip.
‘Marcelina?’ I smiled at her.
Her head jerked upwards, cobalt-blue eyes rimmed with red looking warily at me. Her face was blotchy, the skin around her nose raw and flaking, as if she’d been wiping it repeatedly.
I stepped towards her. ‘Hi, I’m Toni.’
She stood abruptly and picked up her big handbag from the floor with a trembling hand.
‘If you’d like to follow me?’ I didn’t let up with my smile. She was obviously nervous, and I wanted to put her at ease as much as possible.
We stepped inside my office, and I closed the door.
‘Have a seat, please.’ I indicated one of the two armchairs arranged so they were slightly off the opposite position. I didn’t want clients to feel like they were in an interview under direct sightline, under scrutiny. This was supposed to be a comfortable space. A safe place.
Marcelina hesitated for a moment and swallowed as I sat down. Her gaze skimmed my face.
‘You look very young,’ she said with a doubtful tone in a soft Scottish accent.
She was right. I was young. But I’d been to hell and back, and I was still standing. Not that I’d ever tell her that. Apart from three other people, no one knew what had happened to me, and they would never tell. But what I’d been through, what I’d survived, was what would hopefully make me good at my job.
I nodded my agreement at her. ‘I always get told I look younger than I am. Not so great now, maybe, but when I’m older, it’ll be a good thing.’ I smiled again. ‘Let me tell you a bit about myself, if that helps. I’m twenty-one. And I completed a degree in psychology and counselling, so don’t worry, I’m fully qualified. I was doing psychology and criminology at first, but I switched the course early on because it was a better fit for what I’ve always wanted to do.’
She perched on the edge of the armchair, thighs pressed together, handbag on her lap clutched to her stomach in a classic defensive and protective pose.
I tried to put her more at ease by explaining what counselling was all about, how we could talk about anything, how I was there to support her and help find positive solutions to deal with any issues, and how it was confidential. ‘So, what brings you here, Marcelina?’
Her gaze darted to the window behind the desk over my left shoulder. The slats on the blinds were tilted to allow in light but not so any nosy students could peer in, but she still seemed worried about being seen.
‘Do you want me to close the blinds completely?’
‘Yes.’
I obliged and sat back down, waiting for her to start.
She inhaled a deep breath, looked up at the ceiling, and blew out the breath in one long rush, looking at the carpet. ‘I don’t know where to… This is going to… going to sound really strange.’
‘Just start wherever you feel comfortable. We don’t even have to chat about what’s bothering you right now. We can just… chat. About anything. I love your name, by the way.’
She mumbled a thanks.
‘Going by your accent, I’m guessing you’re originally from Scotland. Have you lived in this area for a while, or did you move down to St Albans for uni?’
‘Just for uni.’
‘That’s nice. Is your family still in Scotland?’ I was hoping to ease her into talking about whatever was bothering her with a few normal, everyday questions. Even when people took the first step to choose counselling, it could still take time for them to open up.
‘I’m an only child. My parents are still up in Scotland, yes.’
‘And how long have you been at this uni?’
‘Two years.’ Her worried gaze darted towards the blind, as if she wanted to rip it off and crawl through the window.
‘Are you enjoying your course?’
‘I was. But…’ She fidgeted with her hands, looking down at her bitten fingernails.
I waited.
‘Something is happening to me,’ she said in a quiet voice.
‘What’s happening?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t explain it.’ She blinked rapidly. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead.
‘Okay… let’s try to break it down a little. Do you mean something happening on the course? Or something with you personally?’