Darke

by Matt Hilton

  She dithered before ringing. For starters, by ringing Doctor Ron, it was confirmation she needed help. By reaching for help it was an admission she was ill. Being ill could destroy her career and hopes of ever solving her sister’s case.

  No. She couldn’t think that way. If she was ill, she needed to get well. And that wouldn’t happen without support.

  She tapped in his number.

  The line rang out, so she hung up.

  She felt watched. Standing in the corner of her living room was Girl, silent and still. Kerry avoided looking, but could almost sense despondency washing over her.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said gently, ‘it isn’t you I want rid of.’

  Girl moved towards her, head down, but hands held palms up. Kerry glanced at her.

  Girl was no longer there.

  Maybe she had never been there. If she hoped to banish Swain, then she must accept that Girl didn’t exist either. Only she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  She lifted her phone, about to redial, and it rang. Unknown caller.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello,’ replied a voice she hadn’t heard in decades. ‘You just rang me, and I’m returning your call.’

  ‘Doctor Ron?’

  A moment of quiet reflection followed, before Ron Dawson chuckled. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve gone by that name. Have we met, young lady?’

  ‘We have. I’m Detective Inspector Kerry Darke.’

  ‘Detective Ins—’ Ron suddenly grew guarded. ‘Is there something I’m supposed to have done wrong?’

  For a second or two, Kerry felt awkward. ‘It isn’t like that; I’m not calling in my official capacity. It’s more a…well, a personal matter.’

  ‘Personal? Of course it is. I’m old, these days, but thankfully senility hasn’t set in. Of course I remember you, Little Kes.’

  The nickname thrust a pang of nostalgia through her. She hadn’t heard it in, well, as Hettie Winters might say, donkey’s years. During their earliest sessions, when the psychologist had encouraged her to call him Ron, she’d agreed with the caveat he called her Kes. Nobody, not even her family called her that, but she had seen a book that Sally was reading before going missing, about a poor boy rearing a kestrel he’d named Kes, and if she could be a bird, Kerry had thought, it would be a hawk. When she’d insisted on referring to him as Doctor Ron, she had become Little Kes: it was their pact to always tell the truth during their sessions, though as an adult Kerry knew she’d betrayed their deal as many times as Ron had.

  Little Kes. She found it difficult to wipe the sad smile from her lips.

  ‘So you’re a police detective these days?’ said Ron.

  ‘And you’re a famous author.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  ‘I’ve seen your books in lots of places,’ she told him, taking care not to mention where.

  He chuckled. ‘But not in many readers’ hands, I’d bet.’

  ‘Maybe if I buy one you could personalize it for me?’

  ‘It’d be my pleasure.’

  Even as they made the agreement, they both suspected it would never happen.

  ‘But you didn’t call me because you have a problem getting your hands on a signed copy of The Immolation Killer,’ said Ron. ‘I’m pretty sure if you go online you’ll get a copy of any of my novels for a few pennies. Ha, I’ve a box full in my garage I can’t even give away.’

  ‘You must be kidding me,’ she said, feeling that his ego required a little massaging. ‘There aren’t many people capable of writing a book, let alone getting it published, and by all accounts you’ve done it half a dozen times.’

  ‘You’ve certainly done your research, Little Kes. Pardon me. You probably cringe when I call you that, Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Not at all. In fact, it helps.’

  ‘As I suspected. You haven’t made contact after all these years for advice on writing your own novel then?’ He went silent, and she wasn’t sure if he was reminiscing, or something else. His next words didn’t help clarify either. ‘It’s such a sad business.’

  When she didn’t immediately respond, Ron went on. ‘But I can imagine how it must’ve brought all those memories flooding back.’

  ‘I, uh, sorry,’ Kerry said. ‘You’ve lost me, Doctor Ron.’

  ‘The girl,’ he said.

  Immediately she thought Girl, but that wasn’t it.

  ‘The little girl that has gone missing in Cumbria?’ he prompted.

  ‘What? A girl has gone missing?’

  ‘Well, I’d’ve thought you would be aware being as you’re…’

  ‘I live and work in London these days.’

  ‘Oh, I assumed you were a detective with Cumbria Constabulary. Please excuse my assumption: I based it on my own inability to escape the cold, wet north.’

  ‘A little girl has gone missing?’ Kerry asked again, and once more a wave of despondency engulfed her. Girl was a shadowy mote in the corner.

  ‘It’s all over the local news channels. I’m guessing that the story hasn’t made its way to civilisation yet.’

  ‘No…no it hasn’t.’ In truth, she’d been too caught up in her own problems to spare a second on anyone else’s. ‘Is it…is it him again?’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘The Fell Man.’

  ‘The beastly creature you believed took your sister? It’s highly unlikely, Little Kes. I mean, how long ago was that now?’

  ‘Twenty-something years.’ She could have told him the exact number of days if he was interested.

  ‘Yes, it was a long time ago. No, if this poor girl, Hayley, has been abducted then I fear it’s by a different monster. Little Kes, uh, Kerry…Detective Inspector…listen. The media might be jumping the gun again, as I might be by telling you this. But I’m pretty sure that as a police officer you’re aware that most abductions occur between family members. This little girl’s parents are going through an acrimonious divorce; you can bet one or the other is responsible for spiriting the child out of the other’s hands.’

  ‘It happens. Not in every case.’

  ‘No. Of course not. That was a tad insensitive of me.’ To change the subject, he said, ‘So if you’re not calling for writing advice or about this latest missing child then I can only assume there’s something from the past you’d like to talk about.’

  As soon as she hit the answer button on her phone she’d resolved to be forthright. ‘I wanted some advice, but, like I said, on a personal issue. Doctor Ron, if I was suffering a mental breakdown, would it be something I was aware of myself or would I be ignorant of the symptoms?’

  ‘Now that would depend a great deal. But, I must remind you that I’m no longer your psychologist. Perhaps I’m not the right person to ask.’

  ‘I’m asking as a friend.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her remark hit him in a soft spot. ‘Then I shall make every effort to answer as your friend. As long as you drop the ‘doctor’ and call me Ron as I asked all those years ago.’

  ‘Deal,’ she said.

  ‘Deal,’ he echoed. ‘OK, so how’d you like to start at the beginning and tell me how you’ve come to the notion?’

  She did, admitting to him that as a child she’d hidden the fact she’d never truly shaken off her silent companion, although Girl had somewhat faded for most of her adulthood until the moment a few days ago on Wandsworth Road. Of course, it wasn’t the presence of Girl that she’d reached out to Ron for an explanation; he’d tried two decades ago and failed. She narrated the tale of Erick Swain’s death and subsequent resurrection in spirit form.

  ‘Well,’ he said after some thought, ‘it’s quite a fantasy you’ve become embroiled in.’

  ‘More like a nightmare.’

  ‘Or a waking dream,’ he suggested. ‘When you’re suffering insomnia, as you probably are, it’s not unusual to dream while awake. Some people have even been known to achieve a REM state while for all intents and purposes they think they’re awake. It’s the subconscious’
coping mechanism; it works through your fear or grief. It can feel real, but only to the dreamer. It doesn’t exist in the actual world.’ He paused, made a decision. ‘Kerry, it’s best we speak as friends, so you can trust me. What you’re seeing is not real…I know you’ve struggled with this problem since you were a child, but it’s as unreal now as it was then.’

  ‘Girl was there,’ she answered, stoic in her belief. ‘She has always been with me. To me she’s real, Ron, as real as you are.’

  ‘You genuinely believe that.’

  ‘Yes I do, because it’s my truth.’

  ‘It wasn’t a question; I was stressing an important point. Belief in itself is a contradiction, because we can be fooled into forming false beliefs. When the mind’s in emotional turmoil it will grasp at anything for comfort. After the trauma of Sally’s abduction, you needed to feel better. You, and your parents, were in emotional distress. It made you all susceptible to false beliefs. In that delicate frame of mind, you can be encouraged to believe in almost anything. Think of a faith healer who says they can take away your pain simply by waving his hands over you. If you believe strongly enough, he can wave his hands and — Hey presto! — the pain will disappear. But it’s not a miracle; it’s what’s known as a placebo. It’s a feel-good, make-believe pile of poop. When you’re in emotional pain, or grief, you will sooner embrace magic, and ghosts and any other fantasy if it helps ease your mind, than deal with your actual feelings. On occasion, all of us turn to symbolic crutches to lean on. You’re imagining Swain because you need him to soothe your pain. There is no Swain, Kerry, and there is no Girl. There’s only you.’

  ‘So I am going nuts?’

  ‘No. As I said, you’re only grasping for support, but Swain — especially Swain — is not what you should cling to.’

  ‘You can say that again. So…what do I need to do?’

  ‘As your friend, I’d say you only need a firm hug and a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. But that wouldn’t be good enough, and I’d be doing you a disservice. As a psychologist I’d advise you to seek medical treatment; I’d say you’re suffering a mild form of depression. A prescribed course of medication from your GP will make the hallucinations go away so you can heal on real terms. Untreated, what you’re dealing with could grow worse, to a point where you could suffer a psychotic break. And to answer your original question, you would be ignorant of the symptoms because you’d already be too deep in its grip.’

  28

  ‘Well, how did that work out for you?’

  Swain directed a puissant grin over Kerry’s shoulder as she straightened from the bathroom washbasin and looked in the mirror. She yelped, as much in indignation as surprise. Her elbow jabbed into his ethereal face, then as she swept around her wet hand slapped at empty air. Injuring him was impossible, but he jolted in response to the attack and backed out of the bathroom into the hall. She grabbed the door, slammed it shut and threw the bolt.

  ‘Feisty bitch!’

  ‘Stay away from me! You’ve no bloody right invading my private space!’ She jammed her bare shoulders against the door. ‘What are you, some kind of pervy creep? Do you get your kicks spying on half-naked women?’

  ‘Now, now, Inspector Darke, don’t be selfish. Surely you wouldn’t deny me the perks of my current situation?’ Despite the presence of the door between them, his words could have been crowed in her ear.

  After ending her call with Ron Dawson, she’d visited the bathroom to freshen up. She was confident most of the alcohol was out of her system by now, but a lot of it was deposited in her clothing. She’d dumped her blouse and trousers in the laundry hamper, and stood at the washbasin in her underwear. Taking Ron’s words on-board about Swain being of her own making, she’d been careless: and the bastard had crept up on her.

  ‘Let’s get something straight right this second,’ she snapped, ‘you must respect my privacy.’

  ‘There’s nothing I must do. What exactly are you going to do if I refuse? Arrest me?’ He laughed nastily. ‘Think that door’s any kind of barrier? Haven’t you heard? Ghosts can walk through walls.’

  ‘Show your face in here again and I swear to God I’ll…’

  ‘Slap me again? Yeah, how’d that work out for you? About as useless as your little tête-à-tête with Doctor Ron? What was his deal with all that Little Kes shit? He sounds like a kiddie fiddler. Did he used to give you therapy with you sitting in his lap? Did he get you to suck his purple lollipop?’

  ‘You’re a sick-minded bastard,’ she snarled.

  ‘It takes one to know one. If I’m only an expression of your repressed guilt, then who’s putting these words into my mouth?’

  ‘You were eavesdropping our conversation?’

  ‘Would I need to if I was only in your head?’

  All reassurance given by Doctor Ron was wiped out. She still had no idea what was real or not.

  ‘If you’re only in my head,’ she challenged, ‘tell me what I’m thinking right now.’

  ‘Oh, that’s too easy! Rather than being in your head you’d prefer me in your knickers?’

  ‘You sick-minded—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m a pervy bastard. But you did ask. So what does my answer tell you?’

  ‘That you’re not in my head. I’d never want you anywhere near me. I don’t want you near me now!’

  ‘Don’t worry, about that, Kezza. I told you, you’re not my type. I like a woman with tits I can get hold of, not somebody with two backs and a boy’s skinny arse.’ Again he directed nasty laughter at her. ‘Truth be told? I wouldn’t touch you with your pal Korba’s greasy dick, never mind my own. Now there’s a bloke who really would like to get into your knickers.’

  ‘Shut up you sick-minded…’ her words faltered.

  ‘Yep. You’re beginning to repeat yourself. Kind of loses its impact once you’ve been called a sick-minded pervy bastard more than once.’

  ‘It doesn’t make it any less true.’

  ‘And you’re a stuck needle. Last time I was a liar. Now I’m a sicko. Change the record, Kezza.’

  ‘Stop calling me that.’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not my name.’

  ‘See, I find saying Detective Inspector Kerry Darke a mouthful. What do you suggest I call you?’

  ‘Nothing. Just go away and leave me alone.’ She lunged across the bathroom, snatching a towel she wrapped around her like a shroud.

  ‘I’m sorry, Kezza. No can do. I made you an offer, and need to hear what you’ve decided.’ He waited. ‘Do you need a prompt?’

  ‘I remember exactly what you offered.’

  ‘So what will it be? Is helping me worth getting what you want most?’

  ‘All I want is to be rid of you.’

  ‘Well, here’s the bonus,’ he said. ‘Do what I ask, and I’ll tell you what I know about your sister’s disappearance, and the paedo-bastard that took her. Yeah, you probably got from my comments regarding the good Doctor Ron that I’ve no tolerance for nonces; I’ll happily grass on a kiddie fiddler.’

  ‘Doctor Ron’s a good man.’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever. Do what I ask, Kezza, and once it’s done, you have my promise you’ll never hear from me again.’

  ‘There are boundaries I won’t cross,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Boundaries are like lines on a map. They mean fuck all when you can just step over them.’ Like that, Swain was back in the bathroom. Kerry tightened the towel around her, and crushed back against the washbasin. He pointed at the shower cubicle. ‘Unless you want me in there with you every time you shower, or holding my nose beside you every time you take a dump — for the rest of your miserable life — you’d better accept my offer.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  Swain fiddled with the handcuff dangling from his wrist. ‘You know now that I didn’t shoot those niggers.’

  ‘Language like that doesn’t endear any pity from me.’

  ‘I don’t want your pity. I want
revenge.’

  ‘On me?’

  ‘No, Kezza, on the bastards that set me up.’

  ‘I’m already working on that.’

  ‘Not diligently enough for my liking. I had to push you to look closer at that flow chart in your office, to force you into seeing the obvious staring you in the face.’

  ‘Why not just tell me what I need to know if you’re so fucking omnipotent?’

  ‘I never claimed to know everything, but even I could see there was something wrong with the scenario with who was driving my car. But then, fair enough, I had the hindsight that I wasn’t the one in the passenger seat either.’

  ‘I know now that you weren’t involved,’ she admitted, ‘but it doesn’t make me think any better of you. You’re still a criminal, a murderer. And I feel no guilt over your death when that was your own fault.’ Now was his opportunity to raise the subject of Girl coming to her rescue, but apparently he had no recollection.

  ‘Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Kezza. To be honest I don’t give a shit how you feel about me. I don’t blame you for my death; I blame the ones that set the ball rolling that ended up with us both fighting on that rooftop. And we both know who they are. But it’s down to you to prove it.’