by CS Savage
Lead Me Home
CS Savage
Copyright © 2018 CS Savage
The right of CS Savage to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
To Holly – for believing in this from the start
Contents
Prologue
1. Clancy
2. Two months later
3. Rowan
4. Beth
5. Clancy
6. Rowan
7. Clancy
8. Beth
9. Rowan
Chapter 10
11. Beth
12. Rowan
Chapter 13
14. Clancy
15. Beth
Chapter 16
17. Clancy
18. Clancy
19. Beth
20. Rowan
21. Clancy
22. Rowan
23. Clancy
24. Rowan
Chapter 25
26. Clancy
27. Beth
28. Clancy
Chapter 29
30. Rowan
31. Clancy
32. Rowan
Chapter 33
34. Clancy
35. Beth
36. Clancy
37. Rowan
38. Clancy
39. Beth
Chapter 40
41. Clancy
42. Rowan
43. Clancy
44. Rowan
45. Clancy
46. Clancy
47. Beth
Chapter 48
49. Rowan
50. Clancy
51. Rowan
52. Beth
53. Clancy
54. Rowan
Chapter 55
56. Beth
57. Clancy
58. Beth
59. Rowan
60. Beth
Chapter 61
62. Clancy
63. Beth
64. Rowan
65. Beth
Chapter 66
67. Angel
68. Clancy
69. Angel
Chapter 70
71. Angel
Chapter 72
73. Clancy
Chapter 74
75. Angel
76. Clancy
Chapter 77
78. Clancy
79. Hamish
80. Clancy
81. Clancy
Friday, 1st May 2016
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Firstly, wash off any waste, bodily fluids, or other materials. Then massage the muscles, to get rid of any stiffness, which can make it difficult to move the body. Make a cut in a main artery, near the groin, and drain out all the blood. Then, make another slit into a vein. When this is done, pump three gallons of embalming fluid, made of formaldehyde, methanol and ethanol, through the veins, to push out any remaining blood.
Make a small cut above the navel and insert a tube into the abdomen. Attach a pump and pump out the contents of the stomach and intestines. Then aspirate the abdominal cavity and the inside of the internal organs and dry them. Pump full-strength embalming fluid into the organs and abdomen. Stitch the body closed and wash it off.
Wisegeek.org 07.03.16
The light is dimming. I check my watch and see it is three pm, but the weather is bad; storm clouds are darkening the winter sky. It takes me a while to locate the light switch, despite my intimate knowledge of it, of the room. The door frame is still splintered slightly above the lock, my mind flits back to the nights, so many of them, when I would sit as a child and bang the back of my head against the door, hoping, always hoping, that mother would, this time, forgive me – respond to me. I take a minute, relaxing on the edge of the eiderdown. I rest my hand upon it, stroking the soft satin. Just as my breathing starts to slow, the silence is rudely interrupted.
'Just do it, stupid boy.' The voice hard, clear – strident in tone. Without looking up or even murmuring a response, I stand. I gently fold the coverlet, continue until it has made a neat pile of pink pleats. It is all I can do not to press my nose into the softness, inhale the faint fragrance of mother's scent. But she is right, as always – the incoming occupant will not need it. It hurts, like a needle through my chest, having to remove it. Raising it as if there were a python curled on top, I carry it across the room, through the open door and down the stairs. I place it on top of the crystal perfume bottles, gilded brushes and handkerchiefs that are already in the cardboard box. I run my hand across the top of it before returning up the stairs. The bottom of my back is aching, I'm not used to all of this bending and lifting, but I have nearly finished. As I enter the bedroom, I hear her voice, again. Will she ever shut up?
'Do you have to take so long? You need to get this cleared, and soon. I'd have had this done hours ago – always lazy, even as a child...'
I cover my ears, try to block her out, but as usual, she doesn't stop, so I hurriedly fold more blankets and make my way back down to the box, now nearly full. I'll take it to the charity shop tomorrow, and then, I'll be able to start for proper.
1
Clancy
Her bones ached as if they'd been dragged from a grave. Getting old was shit. It would take her days to recover. She drove up the slope into the superstore car park, ignored the signs saying 'Parking for customers only' – they hadn't caught her yet – and leapt from the car, slamming the door behind her. Hugging her body against the spiteful wind, she strode back down the ramp and turned left towards the police station. The streets were empty, the silence clear. Passing the new build block, she turned into the Georgian entrance and walked through the glass swing doors. The waiting room was bland, furnished only with plastic chairs. An officer was sitting behind a Perspex window in a kiosk. Clancy panted –coming in from the cold had taken her breath away – so instead, she passed her ID across the counter towards him. He glanced cursorily at it, reached for the phone on his desk and dialled.
'There's a visitor here for you in reception.' He turned to Clancy, 'Take a seat.'
But as soon as her bum had hit the orange plastic, a door swung open on the far side of the room. The custody sergeant loomed above her, looked at her expectantly. She picked up her bag and dragged herself off the chair and across the waiting room towards him, happy to show him how bloody inconvenient all of this was. He was dressed in uniform, didn't make further eye contact or small talk, just led her through a corridor. The walls were white and blank, save for a silver alarm strip that ran horizontally along the breadth of them. There were no posters or notable features.
As they met a door, Clancy watched as the officer unlocked then opened it. It reminded her of entering a prison, the constant clatter of keys. Following him through, she watched as he locked the door behind them, before walking into the custody suite. On his heels, her eyes blinked against the bright lights as she entered. The room, in the new build, was large and airy but windowless. In the centre was a big central
desk, akin to that of a posh hotel. Sadly, for the inmates, the similarity ended there. She flicked her eyes at the TV monitors – they all showed black and white footage of the inside of cells, their charges sleeping or perching on the low beds. All except for one. Looking more closely, she could see a man lying on the floor, kicking the cell door, the banging loud, repetitive.
She raised an eyebrow at the Sergeant. 'I'm guessing he's the reason for my visit? Hussein?'
'You must be a mind reader...'
As the officer spoke, she noted movement across the room. A man, dressed in fading jeans and a wool sweater with leather patches sewn at the elbows, rose from his seat and walked towards her, holding out his hand. She'd met him before, always on such illustrious occasions as this. An Approved Mental Health Professional, John would be able to admit Hussein into hospital, even without his consent, if he had written recommendations from two approved doctors – one of whom was Clancy. She clocked a demure Asian woman walking behind him – doctor number two.
'What have we got?' Clancy asked. She tried to keep the irritation from her voice, but God, she was tired.
John, who didn't seem bothered by her directness, replied immediately. 'Ahmed Hussein. No known psychiatric history, but various brushes with the law. Arrested last year for sexual harassment and on another occasion for possession of Class As. Police picked him up after a call from a woman saying he had approached her in the street, started ranting, and then punched her in the face. She's in A&E with a bleeding nose. He's not stopped making that din since he's been here, seems to believe she was his girlfriend, that she was disobeying him in some way. She's been questioned, claims she's never set eyes on him before tonight.'
Clancy nodded her head. Usual shit. 'Let's go see him.'
They followed the custody sergeant to the cells, the banging seeming louder as they approached. Clancy slipped the viewing pane open, took a deep breath and stood as far back as she could, craning her neck to see through it. He was still lying on the floor. He halted his raised foot as he saw Clancy's face through the peep-hole, the resulting silence a relief. His black suit jacket looked incongruous set against the stark environment of the cell. The white shirt underneath was torn and had stains down the front that looked like blood. He leapt up, pressed his face to the pane, his stare maniacal.
'About bloody time. Are you a doctor? Well, get me out of here. I'm being held illegally. I've done nothing wrong.'
Where his buttons were ripped, the shirt was gaping. Clancy shuddered as she noticed the sweat shine on his skin.
'For God's sake, are you listening to me? I'm telling you, I'm going to sue the bollocks off all of you, you imbeciles...just do your fucking jobs, get me out of here…'
'I just need to ask you a few questions,' Clancy said. She tried hard to make her voice sound strong, authoritative. She may as well have not bothered. Hussein wasn't listening. He had resumed kicking the door.
He continued shouting, 'You have no right. How dare you do this to me… You haven't got a clue what you're doing, I have the control…'
Clancy raised her voice. 'Will you come into hospital for assessment, Mr Hussein?'
He just carried on as before, staring malevolently, screaming.
'I've had enough of this,' Clancy turned to her colleagues. 'My assessment's done, I think he needs admission. Either of you disagree with that?' She was half expecting some wishy-washy, human rights, least restrictive narrative from John, but fortunately, he kept quiet, just nodded in agreement and turned to the viewing pane.
'Mr Hussein, we have assessed you under the Mental Health Act. We all agree, you will be admitted to hospital for assessment and/or treatment. You have the right to appeal to a tribunal within fourteen days,' he said.
As Hussein continued ranting, Clancy couldn't resist feeling a little smug. John had had no more success in making him listen than she had. But she felt a shiver run down her back when Hussein turned to her, snarled at her, 'This is your fault. I'll get you back for this, you fucking ugly bitch. Don't you ever forget…'
The trio stood together at the central desk as they filled in their paperwork. Clancy handed hers to John and said her goodbyes. She tried not to think about the threats, tried to let them wash over her, but she had never quite got the hang of not finding them upsetting. Silly, really, because, of course, no one appreciated being sectioned. She walked back down the icy street to her car and focused instead on getting home and back into her warm bed.
2
Two months later
Clancy
Her head rested against the back of her swivel chair, just about relieving the cramp in her neck. She rolled her mouse and looked at her clinic list, letting her lungs fill deep before allowing herself to empty them in a prolonged sigh. Her first client was Mr Hussein – the man she had last seen two months ago. Fantastic. She thought back to his sweat glazed stare and felt her hair follicles rise – a crawl down her arms, like the creep of an insect.
The office was just starting to warm up when he arrived, and as soon as she saw him, she felt perspiration break its way through. He was smiling directly at her. She stared back, swallowed her breath. She didn't know why, something about the jut of his chin maybe – but she could see straight through that smile; it was as sincere as a car salesman's. She looked over his shoulder and felt her mood lift, if only slightly. Hamish stumbled in behind, his hair askew, his shoulders stooped as if carrying a heavy backpack. That's what the responsibility of monitoring Hussein felt like, she thought, the corners of her mouth twitching. But she quickly pulled her face straight as Hamish looked at her sharply and instead focused on her screen.
As Hamish sat by the door, she motioned with her hand to the seat by her desk. They both watched as Hussein slid into it, folding his dark raincoat on his knee. The light seemed to dazzle off his shirt, which was bright white and crisply ironed. The superficial grin didn't crease his unlined face. His dark eyes stared intensely. Clancy shuddered.
'How are you, Clancy?' he asked, leering towards her.
God, overfamiliarity, how slimy. She put effort into keeping her facial expression neutral. 'We're here to discuss you. How've you been?'
His eyes were narrowed into slits. 'Oh, I've had a great time. Nothing like being locked up to warm the soul. You made a big mistake there, I am not mad…'
For a moment, the room was quiet, the only sound was muted footsteps clumping overhead. Clancy raised her eyes up to the back of the room, making eye contact with Hamish. He shrugged, his face looked resigned. She didn't respond for a minute, sat flicking through his notes with her mouse. 'Look, you've only just been discharged from the ward. The notes say you were hearing voices. You were distressed…'
'You weren't there!' he snarled.
She wasn't going to remind him at this point that, actually, she had been – at the beginning, anyway. She felt the memory of that night hanging between them, so far unacknowledged.
'Those records were written by people who are against me, they just want me locked up. You would side with them, though, wouldn't you? You're all in it together…' His voice got more strident, his emotionless mask slipped slightly.
She lowered her voice and deliberately spoke in soft tones, the sound of a door banging in the corridor making them all jump. 'I know how frustrating it must be. But you were convicted by the court–'
'My solicitor told me to plead guilty. She said I could stay in hospital, not go to prison, sounded good to me. Little did I know…'
Clancy gripped her pen tight, almost felt it crack between her fingers. I'm never going to get through to him, bloody idiot. Does he want to spend years in jail? It was worth one more try.
'You admitted you punched that lady in the street…'
'Lady? She was no lady. And I only pushed her. She deserved it. Arrogant bitch, dissing me…' Clancy leant forward, gently placed the pen on the table. Breathe. 'Mr Hussein…I'll be really worried if you don't take your tablets…' She stopped mid-sentence as she
watched his chin shift sideways.
'I'm not taking them.' His smile was direct and unfaltering. He clutched the edge of her desk with both hands. A slick of sweat shone across his forehead, it matched the oiliness of his hair.
Clancy shook her head a little. Concentrate.
'I know my rights.' His voice rose in volume, his eyes drilled into hers. She looked up at the panic alarm. It would take more than Hamish to save her from Hussein. She didn't like to think what he would do given the opportunity.
'I'll need to see you next week,' she said, and scribbled an appointment on a white card, handing it to him. He took it, stuffed it into his jeans pocket and rose to leave. She raised her glasses and wiped her eyes as he left, not able to ignore the smirk he threw at her over his shoulder.