The Stranger Within

by Tara Lyons

  ‘H-have I hurt you badly?’

  ‘No, not really,’ Fraser lied. The rope had torn the skin from her wrist. She stopped wiggling and concentrated on keeping her voice calm and level. ‘But everyone who has been hurt … well, I know that wasn’t you. I know you’re not dangerous or evil. The fact that you have this disorder means you’ve been hurt in the past. Something has made you suffer, you’ve been hurt by someone in your life, and so I know you don’t want to be the cause of anyone’s suffering.’

  ‘But she does,’ Grace replied an octave higher.

  ‘Yes, and it’s understandable that a different personality will show different traits.’ Fraser paused, calling to the forefront of her memory all she’d read about the disorder earlier that year. ‘There are common personality types and … and that includes a perpetrator alter and an avenger alter. Carly is using the trauma to express that pain and anger and hostility to others … probably just as the person who hurt you did, Grace. Who? Who hurt you?’

  ‘I … it’s not fair, I was j-just a child … He said he loved me and I trusted h-him,’ Murphy stuttered through her whimpering.

  Fraser scooted her bum forward, digging her heels down and trying to pull herself along, all the while ignoring the burning pain in her shoulders and stomach. She knew if she could get closer to Murphy, let the woman open up about her trauma, that she could persuade her to untie the rope.

  ‘I tried, you know,’ Murphy added as Fraser struggled with her movement. ‘It wasn’t my fault. I told him to stop every time he came into my room. I wanted to tell my mum but I didn’t think she’d believe me. Well, he told me she wouldn’t believe me and I guess I … I believed him.’ She barked a low grumbling laugh that made Fraser stop in her tracks. ‘If any of that even makes sense.’

  ‘But you didn’t suffer with the disorder then?’ Fraser encouraged Murphy to continue to speak so she could work on moving to the stairs at the edge of the alter.

  ‘Maybe. I’m not sure. But then, Livia is only thirteen, so maybe I did. Maybe I trapped her at that age so as not to forget what happened. I’m still not one hundred per cent sure how all these personalities, or the system as Doctor Emine calls them, works and fits together. It helped, talking to the doctor at Manor Hall, but part of me doesn’t want to understand. I don’t want any of this to be real … and how can it be real if I don’t remember it happening. I just want to go back to normal.’

  Murphy was on her feet, charging towards Fraser, but the officer didn’t feel afraid; a softer look in the woman’s eyes told her it would be okay. She watched with wide eyes as Murphy knelt on the stairs and started pulling at the thick rope knotted around Fraser’s ankles.

  ‘This isn’t right. You shouldn’t be here,’ Murphy blurted. ‘You have to get away from here now. Don’t tell anyone I’m here and I won’t hurt another person.’

  Desperate to keep the calm woman on side, she nodded in agreement. ‘Of course, I won’t tell a soul. I’ll keep your secret.’

  Murphy’s fingers instantly stopped fiddling with the cords, despite all the knots not yet untangled. She raised her head slowly and glowered at Fraser; the whites of Murphy’s eyes dulled and a blackness overtook. Fraser swallowed hard as she watched the woman drop her hands to her knees and scratch her palm, abandoning the escape plan.

  ‘W-what did I—’ Fraser choked on her words and felt a bead of sweat run down her temple as Murphy rolled her head around and cracked her neck.

  ‘What the fuck did you just say to me?’

  Fraser wracked her brain to remember the words she’d just uttered, registering now that whatever they were, they had triggered Carly to take control.

  25

  Outside the Murphy household, Hamilton hesitated at his car while his mind segmented all his thoughts into separate compartments. Right now, he needed to be in two places at the same time as his assumptions jumped a mile ahead of him; could he be right with what he was thinking? He needed the words of an expert, and so he turned to Dixon, deciding to trust her with the second priority on his list.

  ‘Take your car and head back to the station,’ he instructed. ‘Update the team about Gabe Hardy and find out everything you can about him. Tell Rocky to include him in the search he’s doing too. We could have made a mistake thinking this man was a complete victim.’

  Dixon frowned, her long hair swished as she doubled-paced to her own car parked behind his. ‘Okay, dating the mother means that Murphy knew him, but why does that make him any less of a victim? Reading over last year’s case files, it seems pretty obvious Murphy targeted people she knew, or had a least some dealings with.’

  ‘Yes, people that Murphy deemed weren’t worth the life they had been given,’ Hamilton drummed his fingers on the roof of his car. ‘A nurse who worked at the hospital where her grandfather had treatment, an old friend battling with alcoholism, a colleague who stole the man she loved … the list goes on.’

  ‘What are you saying, guv?’

  His hand stopped mid-air and he clenched it. ‘To Murphy, they all hurt her in some way and her murder of choice, the stab wound to the heart, perhaps it was more symbolic of how she was feeling. I’m not sure, yet … that’s what I need to go find out.’

  ‘But they’re old murders, over a year ago, guv,’ Dixon called out. ‘How does that have anything to do with what she’s doing now? The killings have been brutal and she’s kidnapped a police officer.’

  ‘She hasn’t had the help she needed,’ Hamilton shouted as he pulled open the car door. ‘I’ll meet you back at the office.’ And with that, he jumped in the driver’s seat before Dixon could reply.

  He shocked himself with the way his thoughts were changing towards Murphy; not that he no longer saw her as a murderer, that remained the same, but the idea that perhaps this criminal had been asking for his help all along. Hamilton knew the way he worked and that, yes, he could be stubborn and headstrong, but only because he was clear on his perception of the world — one of right and wrong, black and white, yes and no. However, the last twenty-four hours had seen a diluting of those beliefs; his mind showed them merging, creating a grey world of things that he had ignored in the past, most probably because he didn’t understand them. Adamant to rectify that, and hopefully use it to save Kerry, Hamilton switched the siren on in his car, the front grill now ablaze with blue flashing lights. He pressed at the accelerator as much as he could.

  He pulled up outside Manor Hall Hospital, blocking the iron gates where he parked, and locked the car door as he ran into the open gravel space in front of the building. He saw the doctor approaching her own car, oblivious to his presence.

  ‘Emine,’ he yelled, and ran in her direction.

  The doctor spun around, her soft curls bouncy as before in the wind, and flashed her gleaming white team with a huge smile. ‘Detective Inspector Hamilton, this is a surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.’

  ‘I read a lot of your book,’ he replied in bursts as he tried to catch his breath.

  Emine cocked her head to the side and raised her eyebrows, her smile growing even wider; Hamilton couldn’t think of anyone whose grin lit up their face with such happiness as it did on the doctor’s. ‘Well, that’s made my day, Inspector.’

  ‘We’ve also uncovered more information about Grace Murphy, and I’d really appreciate your opinion on a theory I have.’

  She played with her lips and groaned, as if toying with him. ‘I was just going for something to eat. I’ve just come off a night shift and—’

  ‘I won’t take up too much of your time.’

  ‘Very well,’ she said with a serious tone, but Hamilton was sure he spied a glint of excitement in her eyes. ‘But on the condition that we walk around the corner to the local Wetherspoon’s. I can eat and you can share your theory.’

  Hamilton gazed around. ‘I don’t think that’s very appropriate. This is urgent.’

  ‘It’s close,’ she said as she pressed the button on her keys to lo
ck her car and headed towards the gate. ‘It would take the same time to walk back inside the building to my office.’

  With little choice, Hamilton followed the doctor and, true to her word, within five minutes they were sitting at a small corner table in the local pub. With it not even being midday, there was only four other people there, and they were all sitting far enough away from Hamilton so that he could speak freely. While Emine’s eyes scanned the menu, he updated her about what he’d learned about Valerie Murphy and Gabe Hardy.

  ‘So, couple that with what you read in my book, and you think you have a hypothesis about Grace’s dissociative identity disorder?’ Emine asked as she lightly brushed a few stray curls away from her face. ‘Tell me, Inspector.’

  Hamilton took a deep breath before speaking, ‘You wrote that this disorder could be born from many factors, but the most significant and studied is that of severe trauma such as abuse.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, extreme and repetitive physical, sexual or emotional abuse, particular in early childhood and adolescent.’

  ‘And what if that’s exactly what Gabe Hardy done to Grace?’ he blurted. ‘I mean, I have no concrete evidence right now, that’s why it’s a theory. And after speaking to the mother, I don’t think this idea has even entered her mind. But Grace was thirteen and refused to be called Gracie, she exhibited mood swings and forgetfulness and she ran away from home. All these things occurred while that man stayed at her home. During her trip to Blackpool, Hardy had left the home and things returned to some semblance of normality after her return. So, what do you think?’

  Emine sat back and held eye contact with Hamilton for a few moments. The smile had been replaced with a serious and troubled expression. ‘You could be right.’ She held up her hand when Hamilton bolted up right in his seat. ‘But like you said, with no evidence, it’s just a theory. However, let’s run with it for now. If, as you say, her grandfather took her away from an abusive environment, and then when she returned her abuser had left, Grace would have seen her grandfather as a saviour. Her protector, even. When the original murders started two years ago, it was just after his death, so that would have been the trigger for Grace’s dissociative identity disorder.’

  ‘The thing that bothers me is the timeframe. If this is what happened to Grace Murphy, that was over eighteen years ago, can the disorder really have been dormant all that time?’

  Emine sat forward, her hands resting on the table and her fingers entwined. ‘The brain is an amazing organ, Inspector, and we really don’t give it enough credit. You see, this mental disorder is a defence mechanism for the trauma a person has faced. There are many cases profiling people who suffered as a child and only began dealing with it some thirty years later. I would imagine that for Grace, her grandfather was a safety net — she couldn’t be harmed when he was around because, as a child, he had fought off the bad man — and when he died, she needed the security and protection of the “system” … her alter personalities. Then, finding her abuser actually working at the hospital?’ Emine paused, sniffed deeply and swallowed the threatening tears. ‘It triggered the reaction of Carly again.’

  Hamilton moved in closer to the doctor, aware that a few more punters had entered the bar. ‘Your book talks of so many cases of this disorder, but there’s barely any mention of those who suffer with it turning to murder.’

  ‘Because it’s so rare.’ She held his gaze again, her soft brown eyes showing an understanding for a mental disorder that he was finally beginning to get his head around. ‘Dissociative identity disorder isn’t how it’s portrayed in films, which add the murder and monster traits for cinematic effect. The patients I’ve worked with are more likely to self-harm then hurt someone else. You see, they know how it feels to be scared, to be tortured, to be abused and fear for their lives, that they wouldn’t inflict that on anyone else.’

  He nodded, understanding exactly what the doctor meant as he’d read over that very paragraph in her book more than once. But he still couldn’t help asking, ‘So what makes Grace Murphy so different? Why has she used her alter personality to murder and kidnap?’

  Emine left her hands and shrugged, then sighed and smiled slightly. ‘The brain may be an amazing organ, Inspector, but it’s also a very complicated organ. I’m telling you this mental disorder doesn’t make killers, just the same way as growing up in the system doesn’t. But each person is different. Grace’s evil or bad alter of Carly is clearly the personality carrying the rage and pain and sadness that is associated with the abuse and therefore using that to exact revenge and pain.’

  ‘How do I use all this information to get Kerry back before she’s hurt … if she hasn’t been already?’ He heard the desperation in his voice as he clenched his hand into a ball.

  Emine reached out and gently covered his fist with her own smooth hand. ‘You’ve been working so hard to figure out who Grace Murphy is, and why she developed these personalities … But maybe it’s now time you looked past the mental disorder and viewed Carly as a murderer as you would any other criminal you’ve come across. Perhaps then you can save your colleague.’

  26

  ‘Mum, is that you? What are you doing here?’ Fraser called out.

  She squinted, trying to make out where she was but everything seemed blurred, fogged-up as if she were sailing a ship through the mist. She stepped forward and reached out her hand, desperate for her mother to turn around and rescue her. But, looking down slowly, Fraser realised she no longer needed rescuing, her wrists and ankles were no longer bound, and she moved forward freely. She turned her hands over, moving in slow motion as if they had a mind of their own, and noticed the burn marks from the ropes were no longer scorching her skin.

  Fraser didn’t understand if she was still stationed at the altar, at the mercy of Murphy’s personalities, her surroundings now completely out of focus and closing in around her. But the woman stood in front of her like a beacon dressed in white was now undoubtedly her mum; she couldn’t mistake the long blonde hair peppered with streaks of grey and the kink at the bottom which flicked the strands into small curls.

  ‘Mum,’ Fraser called again.

  This time, her mother turned around and walked towards her. A blazing light trailed behind the moving figure, but it only made everything harder for Fraser to see; it was all out-of-focus and clouded. She couldn’t make out her mother’s face, couldn’t see the features of her small lips wrinkled from years of smoking or the blue eyes that used to shine as bright as sapphires before the diagnosis. It was more a feeling she felt deep in her stomach that it was in actual fact her mother standing in front of her.

  She swallowed the lump in her voice, her throat as dry as sand, and stuttered, ‘Am I dead?’

  No answer came, but she felt her mother’s eyes bore into her own — though she still couldn’t actually see anything. But she knew it was the same stare she received after the doctor explained the diagnosis of bipolar; as if, once her mother knew the reasoning behind her depression and extreme highs and lows, it changed her. Ignorance protected her mother, and she could deal with her bouts of hormonal mood swings, as her mother referred to them, as long as it meant nothing; as long as it was nothing serious — despite the suicide attempt. But once their doctor had prescribed the medication, her mother couldn’t ignore the disorder any longer, and neither could Fraser. She spent weeks in the library and on the Internet finding out absolutely everything she could about bipolar and the drugs her mother was on. She was determined to know everything and help things appear smooth at home.

  Things progressed, and with the help of the medication and therapy, Fraser felt like she had her mother back. There was a deep sense of pride that filled her; especially as her mother now had no reservations for asking for help — that had seemed to be the hardest hurdle to jump. Fraser could never understand why that had been so hard for her mother to do.

  She frowned at the bright figure now in front of her; wondering why it was this particular image of her m
other she pictured in her mind.

  Suddenly, she was lying on the floor, her body being moved by a force she couldn’t stop. She called out, but the sound of her voice echoed in the darkness; her mother had gone.

  ‘Don’t worry, my flower, I have you now.’ A deep Irish accent pierced through the shadows of Fraser’s mind, confusing her even further. This wasn’t a voice she knew.

  It sounded nothing like Rocky’s diluted tone, but carried a musical intonation, as though she could have been far across the Irish Sea right at that very moment. Fraser opened her mouth to speak again, but she had been silenced, her body tied-up once more.

  ‘I have you, no need to fret.’ The voice spoke directly to her again; she could feel the warm breath on her face. ‘I’ll save you from this place, flower.’

  The voice was deep and hushed, and Fraser knew it had to be a man, but there was also something light and soft about it — almost high-pitched at the end of each sentence.

  Her head lulled back and she fought to open her eyes, but whatever message her brain was sending to her body, it wasn’t listening. Fraser had no control over her movements and she saw no objects or figures any longer, just blackness. She soon realised the lack of support to her head was because she was moving, being carried away by the arms placed around her back and underneath her knees. Despite feeling petite, the hands felt strong and in control of her entire body, carrying her away with confidence. Yet, with each step taken, Fraser’s head continued to bob around, until she felt the crook of the man’s armpit and nestled in to stop the wave of nausea attacking her. A smell of jasmine hit her nose with full force and she swam in the familiar aroma.

  Where do I know that smell from?

  Why can’t I open my eyes?