When Evil Calls Your Name: a dark psychological thriller (Dr David Galbraith Book 2)

by John Nicholl

  Dr Galbraith entered the restaurant in the style of a movie star navigating the red carpet, a smile here, a handshake or kind word there. He knew all the staff by name, no hesitation, no searching his busy mind. ‘How are you, Piero? How’s that lovely young wife of yours, Antonio? Marvellous to see you again. I hope your son’s feeling better after his illness. Measles wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, he’s much better, thank you, Doctor.’

  ‘Marvellous, absolutely marvellous! Very glad to hear it.’

  And so it continued. That’s the sort of man he was, dripping with superficial charm. It poured out of him like a torrent, engulfing all who crossed his path.

  He noticeably relaxed as the evening progressed and the lines on his face melted away. Maybe it was the red wine, maybe the toothsome food, maybe the convivial company, or maybe all or none of the above. Who am I to say? He talked of his love of psychiatry and my pending studies with an obvious passion that reignited my flagging enthusiasm for the course. He made the study of the human mind and behaviour sound utterly fascinating, and my remaining misgivings vanished like an ice cube in the hot summer sun. The more he talked, the more enthused I became and the more I realised just how much catching up I had to do, if I wasn’t to fail almost as soon as I began. I’d be starting the course afresh with no settling-in time and no honeymoon period before the work started in earnest. I’d be at a distinct disadvantage when compared to the other students. That’s the way it was. It was an undeniable truth. There was no avoiding that realisation. I needed the doctor’s help to succeed.

  By the time we’d eaten our desserts and were enjoying freshly brewed aromatic coffee, the doctor was still uttering much-needed words of reassurance in soft reassuring tones that alleviated my anxieties very nicely. I had nothing to worry about. He was there for me. An expert in his field. It wouldn’t be easy, but I was a bright girl. It was doable. He’d hold my hand every single step of the way. A bedside manner par excellence. He didn’t actually say I had no hope of a favourable outcome without his tutelage, but he may as well have. It was implied. It was definitely implied and I knew it to be true.

  Dr Galbraith slept on the three-seater settee in the lounge that night, whilst I slept in his comfortable king-size bed, seemingly surrounded by oppressive framed photographs of that same unfortunate child. I’d protested half-heartedly initially,I’d offered to make do with the sofa, but he insisted and I capitulated without further argument. I was his guest. He was the professor, and I his student. It seemed best to comply.

  I could hear that he was already up and about and making breakfast when I got up at 8:15 a.m. the following morning. I pulled on a magenta cotton dressing gown and a pair of well-worn sheepskin slippers, before making a quick bathroom visit, running a brush through my sleep-tangled hair and joining him in the kitchen a few minutes later. I was met by him sitting at the table with a concerned expression on his face. A concerned look I couldn’t help but notice. A concerned look that demanded a response. ‘Is everything all right, Doctor?’

  He just sat there with an angsty expression on his face, shifting uneasily in his seat but not saying a word.

  Say something, Doctor. Just say something and put me out of my misery. ‘Look, if I’ve done something to upset you, just say.’

  He shook his head slowly and sighed. ‘I had intended to discuss the house rules later this week, my dear, but perhaps now is as good a time as any given the circumstances.’

  Circumstances? What circumstances? I stood and glared at him. ‘Can I at least have a cup of coffee first?’

  Another theatrical sigh. Infuriating!

  I looked towards the kettle pointedly, and he grinned, attempting to lighten the mood. ‘I suppose we can make an exception just this once. Take a seat, my dear, the water’s already boiled. No tips required.’

  I sat as instructed and waited whilst he prepared the drinks before sitting down opposite me. ‘I really would appreciate it if you dressed more appropriately before leaving the bedroom each morning.’

  I laughed nervously, thinking it may be his idea of a joke, but no, not even a flicker of a smile crossed his face. He meant every pompous, unreasonable word. But I’ve never been a fan of confrontation, and thought it best to diffuse the situation rather than tell him what I really thought of him at that precise moment. ‘Okay, if it makes you feel more comfortable.’

  ‘I really think it’s best.’

  Oh, he thought it was best. I’d doff my cap to the sanctimonious pig. I quietly fumed, and stood with the intention of approaching the toaster, but he pushed back his chair, jumped to his feet, and stood directly between me and the worktop. ‘Let’s start as we mean to go on, my dear. Why don’t you go and get dressed in something suitable, and your toast will be waiting for you just as soon as you’re ready?’

  Suitable? Suitable for what? What on earth was he talking about? I wanted to protest, I wanted to say no, I wanted to shout no, but his wild change in mood unnerved and unsettled me. ‘Is there anything else you want to say?’

  ‘Not at all, my dear, not at all. Now off you pop and I’ll make that toast you required. White or wholemeal?’

  I headed in the direction of the bedroom and shouted, ‘White, please,’ without looking back.

  ‘Brown really would be a wiser choice.’

  Ahhh! I chose to ignore his recommendation, cursed crudely under my breath, and closed the bedroom door behind me.

  19

  Emma’s back, delivered to my cell by a burly middle-aged prison officer with long mousy hair, stud earrings and a midlife crisis. If only she’d taken her somewhere else. It wouldn’t matter where, just not here with me. Is that too much to ask? It seems the answer is a resounding, yes, shouted from the rafters.

  I made a real effort when she first arrived, despite my inclinations to the contrary. I tried to be nice, I tried to hide my true feelings, I said hello, I asked how she was doing and if her injuries were healed, but I didn’t really care what she said in response, if I’m honest. I don’t like the woman, I despise what she did to that innocent child and I don’t trust a single word that comes out of her loathsome mouth. The events that led her to my door had ruthless elusive deception at their very core. How can I take anything she says at face value? Why on earth should I? If she’s capable of inducing, exaggerating and fabricating physical symptoms in a dependent child in her care, what else is she capable of? Almost anything, I presume. She successfully conned a lot of people for a long time. If lying were a competitive event, she’d be the champion of the world.

  She tells me that her wrists are healing slowly, but remain painful. Whether or not that’s true, of course, is debatable. I have to admit they look well healed to me.

  She said she’s to receive one-to-one counselling. I saw that one coming. Maybe a pragmatic structured therapeutic approach would be best. I don’t envy Mrs Martin that particular task. There are limits to everyone’s abilities, and I suspect Freud himself would struggle with this one, even if reincarnated and dedicated to the task.

  Emma has asked what I’m writing about more than once. She keeps asking, and I keep giving dismissive non-committal responses that don’t give anything away. I just don’t want her to know. It has absolutely nothing to do with her. You’d think she’d get the message, but no, she’s having none of it. ‘Come on, Cynthia, tell me, tell me. What do you keep writing? You can tell me, I won’t tell anyone.’ Hopefully she’ll shut up at some point in the not-too-distant future and give me the peace I need to get on with it.

  I don’t think Emma realises just how much she’s detested by the majority of the other inmates. Everyone knows exactly what she did. That want-to-be-liked guard made certain of that. There’ll be a reception committee waiting for her just as soon as the opportunity arises. I could warn her, of course. I’ve thought about it. I could tip her the wink one fine day, but what would be the point in that? It wouldn’t change anything. Her world’s about to become a less predictable and more fri
ghtening place. Natural justice some might say, but I don’t see it that way. I want no part of her world and no part in her punishment. She’s not a significant player in my life and I’ll keep it that way if I can. Maybe I shouldn’t have immortalised her on paper. I can’t envisage a happy ending to her story.

  I plan to write two or three more pages before heading to my English class. I’m looking forward to that—the class, not the writing. Mrs Martin was correct in surmising that the process is becoming somewhat harder as my story continues. The caustic memories flood back each and every time I put pen to paper. Flashbacks, nightmares, anxiety and panic attacks are still all too regular features of my unhappy existence. I wake up drenched in sweat at about 5:00 a.m. every morning, always early, always clammy, always exhausted, and always relieved that another night is finally over. Mrs Martin calls it post-traumatic stress. It seems it’s not only combat soldiers who suffer it as I once thought. What a way to live. I’ll keep writing in the hope the memories fade with time and life becomes more bearable again. Closure, isn’t that what the Americans call it in that to-the-point way of theirs? Yes, that’s it, I’m searching for closure. Time’s a great healer, as the old saying goes, but I fear my life experiences may have changed me forever.

  I’ve been reading and rereading Mum’s and the girls’ letters, as Mrs Martin suggested. And she’s correct, it helps for a while. They love me and don’t apportion blame. Their words convey warm affection not condemnation. Such things matter. They really matter when you’re separated as we are. Yes, we only meet in that stark communal room with its peeling paint and overbright lighting, but they come, that’s what matters. As unpleasant as it is, they still come. Okay, we don’t enjoy the gifts that freedom would endow. We can’t do the ordinary things that others take for granted. I can’t take my lovely girls shopping, or to ballet classes, or collect them from school at the end of the day. I can’t pop in to ensure Mum’s okay and looking after herself properly, or to visit Dad’s grave with flowers. I can’t do any of those things and a lot more besides, but I can write to them, I can speak to them by phone when the system allows, and I can count the days until their next visit dawns. I’ll keep waiting and I’ll keep counting as patiently as I can. I’m loved, and that’s more than many can claim. Emma, for example, doesn’t receive any visitors at all. Maybe she brought it on herself, but even so, I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.

  I’m going to have to bring this session to a close soon. These last couple of paragraphs have taken me longer to construct than I originally envisaged, and I need to get going in a minute or two, if I’m not going to be late for the class. One of the guards will be putting a key in the lock and opening my cell door anytime now. It’s one of the features of prison life, the inescapable clanking sound of metal keys in metal locks resounding in every corner and crevice. You just can’t escape it. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ll let you know how the lesson went just as soon as I can, if I think there’s anything worth sharing and remember to write it down. With a bit of luck I should be able to scribble a few more miserable lines before lights out.

  20

  Dr Galbraith spent the rest of the week introducing me to various psychological text books and their contents, and coaching me in the fundamental basics he deemed essential to my future academic survival. We worked hard to an agreed timetable comprising three hours before lunch time, starting at 9:00 a.m., and a further two hours from 2:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. each afternoon. I have to admit that I rather enjoyed the process in the main, despite its arduous nature. The workload was demanding but not overly onerous when I put my mind to it. He knew his subject extremely well, he communicated the complex concepts expertly in language I understood, and there was no further talk of rules, or at least not until the Friday afternoon, when he was due to leave for Caerystwyth.

  I was sitting in the lounge that day, rearranging some handwritten notes in one file or another, when he suddenly appeared from the kitchen with his brown leather briefcase in one hand, and a look I struggled to decipher on his otherwise handsome face. I looked up and smiled, grateful for his efforts, but keenly anticipating some time to myself before the other students arrived to inhabit the upstairs flats sometime that weekend. Rather than say his goodbyes as I anticipated, however, he sat in the armchair to my right, requested that I move my notes, and opened his briefcase on the French marble coffee table directly in front of him.

  ‘You may recall my mention of a few house rules earlier in the week.’

  I took a deep breath. Be patient, Cynthia, be patient. Just get it over with as quickly as possible and he’ll be on his way. ‘Yeah, you said something, but I thought we’d already covered that.’

  He laughed in a dismissive manner that left me feeling insulted and inadequate, as if he considered my observation ridiculous in the extreme. ‘Why would you think that?’

  I felt under pressure to respond and felt my face redden. ‘I just thought you’d explained the house rules in full.’

  ‘Not at all, my dear, I’ve made a few typed notes to simplify the process. I think that makes sense.’

  I shook my head slowly. Was that really necessary? ‘If you want me to pay rent, all you have to do is say so.’

  ‘Not at all, my dear, not at all. I wouldn’t dream of it. Give me a second or two and all will become clear.’

  I sat and waited with increasing impatience as he took two sheets of paper from the briefcase and handed one to me with an outstretched hand. ‘Read it through carefully, my dear, and tell me if there’s anything that requires clarification before we both sign the document.’

  This was becoming stranger and more stressful by the second. I was completely out of my depth. ‘Sign it? Is it some form of contract or something?’

  ‘More an agreement between the two of us, my dear. There’s absolutely no legal implications, none whatsoever. You needn’t concern yourself in that regard. Just read it through carefully as I originally suggested, and we can progress from there.’

  ‘Couldn’t we just talk about it?’

  He appeared utterly exasperated. ‘I’ve gone to a great deal of effort, Cynthia. I would have thought complying with my request would be the least you could do in the circumstances.’

  I was ready to do what I was told and get him out of there as quickly as possible. I balanced my reading glasses on the bridge of my nose and began reading:

  1. Cynthia will work hard at her studies, with a minimum of two hours home study each and every day.

  2. Cynthia will consult Dr Galbraith regarding her studies as and when necessary.

  3. Cynthia will provide Dr Galbraith with a weekly academic update at an agreed time, including areas of study, allocated tasks and the results of any assessments.

  4. Cynthia will put her studies before socialising or home visits.

  5. Cynthia will clean and tidy the flat prior to Dr Galbraith’s weekly visits.

  6. Dr Galbraith will do all he can to facilitate Cynthia’s academic success.

  I read it and reread it, shocked that he’d write such a thing, incredulous that he’d expect me to sign it. It seemed entirely unnecessary, hugely over the top. But, he was the academic expert. And it was his flat, at the end of the day.

  ‘I can see that you’re somewhat disconcerted, my dear, but I can assure you that I’m acting entirely in your interests. It’s an effective technique I’ve used before with excellent results. You have the capacity to achieve great things but only with my help. I simply want to ensure that you live up to that potential of yours. We must do whatever it takes to achieve that outcome. Steven would want that. Of course he would. I’m doing this for both of you. I cannot stress that sufficiently.’

  I smiled at Steven’s memory, and nodded, not totally persuaded, but near to caving.

  ‘The first five points lead directly to point six. It’s reciprocal. You do your utmost to achieve success, and I do likewise on your behalf. The agreement is simply a means of formalising that commitment on p
aper.’

  I still thought it strange, but I accepted his fountain pen and signed, keen to get it over with, keen to see him on his way, as I said before.

  ‘I’m delighted that you’ve finally seen sense, my dear. It would be all too easy for a less insightful person to misconstrue my intentions and become distracted. Have a good weekend, and I’ll see you again on Wednesday afternoon. We may as well make full use of your free time once term begins. I’ll stay overnight and leave for Caerystwyth early on the Thursday morning. I have a clinic at ten.’

  ‘I had thought of visiting Mum and Dad on Wednesday.’

  ‘Work first, family second. That’s what we’ve agreed. That’s the way it has to be. Are we clear?’

  I stared at the ceiling and nodded. ‘Do you plan to stay every Wednesday?’

  He nodded repeatedly and enthusiastically. ‘I think it’s advisable, at least for the foreseeable future. It will provide the ideal opportunity for a catch-up face to face, so to speak. Think of it as a private tutorial session during which either of us can address any pertinent concerns and evaluate your progress.’

  ‘I guess that’s okay.’

  I think I must have whispered my words ever so quietly, because he said, ‘I didn’t quite catch that, my dear. Perhaps you could elucidate your response a little more clearly.’

  I said, ‘Okay,’ more loudly this time.

  ‘Glad to hear it, my dear. Very glad to hear it. You won’t be sorry.’

  He stood, as if to leave, but sat again almost immediately and leant towards me. ‘There is one matter I’ve neglected to mention. Something I decided to discuss orally rather than address in writing.’

  Oh, shit, surely not more rules? Where on earth was this going? His impenetrable eyes and inscrutable countenance gave little, if anything, away.