Pretty Little Things

by T. M. E. Walsh

  Madeleine headed towards the door. ‘She’s not your pet experiment, Doctor.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid all that surrounds DID is somewhat experimental. Don’t you care about what this could mean for us, for my work, for science?’

  Madeleine rounded on him. ‘I care about this investigation, about getting justice for those girls, for their families. Where’s your ethics in all this? This isn’t an opportunity to further your career.’

  ‘I’m affronted that you think me so shallow and vain, Inspector,’ he snapped. ‘This is about helping Charlotte. Whatever else comes with that, it can only be seen as a major advancement in the study of mental health.’

  Madeleine felt desperate, everything being taken out of her hands.

  ‘She’ll be committed. No one will believe she’s fit to enter a plea. Not from what you’re saying.’

  Seaward stopped her from opening the door, his hand resting gently on hers as it gripped the door handle.

  ‘I can try and get Joseph to leave.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Dr Seaward, he isn’t a person I can touch with my bare hands,’ she said. ‘You can’t evict him.’

  ‘But that’s exactly what I can try to do. Remove that part of the psyche, and you cure the patient, Inspector. In time, she could be deemed of sound mind and able to stand trial for what she’s done.’

  Madeleine went to speak but the words caught in her throat. She shook her head and pulled her hand away from under his.

  ‘Say I believe what you’re saying – if I did,’ she said at length. ‘If I believed this Joseph thing is real, you’re saying she has to confront this side of her. A part of her that saw her brother drown and made her kill at least six young girls. Eight if we count her own daughter and Kenzie Dalton in all this? Nine. Nine, Doctor, if we’re right in assuming she killed Ruby Tate too.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Christ, Doctor, you say the mind is a fragile thing. If Joe’s there to protect Charlotte in a way . . . what could all this do to her?’

  ‘I’m not saying there aren’t risks . . . Let me do my job, Inspector.’

  CHAPTER 67

  JOSEPH

  Doc and Mads come back into the room, and I feel the change in them. It’s in the air, and I can almost taste it.

  Mads sits down first, a meeker woman than before she left the room. I wonder what Doc said to her. She glances at me. I smile, but she looks away. Is the sceptic in her shrinking away? Does she believe I’m real now?

  Doc sits down opposite me and gains my attention with a fake cough. My eyes flick towards him. He looks nervous.

  I see beads of sweat along his hairline.

  ‘So,’ I say. ‘What happens now?’

  Doc has the measure of me, I think. He’s working out what makes me tick, what might make me give Charlotte up, let her see . . . let her remember everything.

  ‘What do you think happens to you now, Joseph?’ Doc says. He rests his arms on the table, clasps his hands together. He never breaks eye contact.

  ‘You lock me away . . . sane or insane. Either way.’

  ‘I’m going to appeal to the good in you, Joe,’ he says, and I laugh. He looks at me, waiting.

  ‘There is no good,’ I say, enjoying the reaction I get.

  ‘You say that there’s no good, Joe, but I know that can’t be true.’

  His words amuse me.

  ‘You’ve kept Charlotte from seeing the worst. You could go as far as to say that you’ve protected her to some extent.’

  I lean forward. He recoils a little. Barely noticeable, but I caught it. ‘You want to pick that apart. Expose her to it all.’

  I tut.

  ‘Are you sure you have her wellbeing at heart, Doc?’

  ‘Let Charlotte remember.’

  I search his face for any hint of humour. Surely he doesn’t mean it? His face is serious. Shit. He really does want me to release the floodgates in Charlotte’s pulpy mind.

  ‘I worry it’ll be too much for her,’ I say.

  ‘Had you allowed her to see what you did using her body,’ he says, ‘she would have fought back, tried to stop you, stop your fun.’

  He sees that he’s hit the nail on the head.

  ‘She would have gone to the police as soon as she was able, even if she didn’t completely understand what was happening to her,’ Doc continues. ‘We can help Charlotte, you and I. Make her get better.’

  I smile. ‘Why on earth would I let you do that?’

  ‘Charlotte’s not your plaything, Joe.’

  I spring forward in my chair. Mads jumps, but Doc matches my stare. ‘That’s exactly what she is,’ I hiss.

  Doc looks away first. ‘Joe . . .’ he says. I can hear the exasperation in his voice. ‘Let me talk to her.’ He eyeballs me again. ‘Let me prepare her to remember. She has to face this.’

  ‘You know,’ I say, ‘you still haven’t asked me the why in all this?’

  That’s thrown him.

  ‘The why?’

  ‘Yeah. Why did I do it? Why those girls? Why, why, bloody-why?’ Doc doesn’t speak. He displays no emotion at all.

  ‘Don’t you want to know?’ I press. I cast my eyes back towards Mads. ‘I’m sure she wants to. It’s a need in these police officers.’

  Mads bites down on her lower lip. She’s done talking to me today.

  ‘OK,’ Doc says. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I can.’

  Doc regards me for a few moments. ‘Do you hope to shock me?’

  ‘My actions have shocked more than my words, Doc.’

  The good Doctor Seaward pauses then. He’s trying hard to contain himself, the mix of emotions that will be anything between sheer excitement at what he has sitting in front of him, what it means for him, and fear. Part of him is frightened. I mean, how could he not be?

  I’ll throw him a bone.

  ‘There never were any trigger points.’

  ‘Trigger points?’

  ‘Yeah, you know, the usual. Broken home, abuse, poverty, exposure to things a child should never see or hear? I tick the box for none of the above.’ I smile and that unsettles Mads.

  She shifts in her seat.

  ‘Truth is,’ I say, ‘Charlotte did have mixed feelings about Miles when he was born, but she couldn’t understand them, not at three years old. She’d never have hurt him. Me, on the other hand, I felt bad for Charlotte and I’d reined myself and my urges in for years. I did what I did because I wanted to know what it felt like.’ I lean forward and they both inch back a little.

  I smile inwardly.

  ‘It’s in my nature, in my blood,’ I say, hand on my chest, over the heart. ‘Firmly imprinted in my DNA. And you know what? I enjoy it.’

  I grin.

  ‘I. Like. Killing.’

  Mads goes to speak this time, but I’m in no mood to hear her bullshit. ‘There’s no particular reason for it,’ I interrupt her. ‘No motive, not really. Why those girls?’ I shrug, slump back in my seat. ‘Just convenient. They were there, they stoked something in me. A need. Sure, they might’ve looked a little bit like Elle, but it wasn’t a conscious decision.’

  ‘Why Elle?’ Mads cuts in. ‘There must be a reason.’

  ‘There’s your problem, Mads, always looking for a why in everything. It can really be as simple as just because . . .’

  Doc’s had enough, I can tell. He wants me talking, but on his terms, on subjects he’s chosen.

  ‘Let Charlotte come through, Joe. There’s nothing more you can get out of this.’

  There is something in his voice that gets to me. I can feel stirrings inside and know there is a fire in Charlotte, because I can almost feel her nails clawing to get out of the box I’ve exiled her to.

  I’m tired.

  Maybe it’s time to let the secrets out once and for all.

  I close my eyes, let my head roll back. Draw a deep breath and let myself fall back into the subconscious.

  CHAPTER 68

  CHARLOTTE
/>
  ‘Charlotte?’

  I hear the familiar voice inside my head and I follow it through the darkness and open my eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and although the words spill from my mouth, they don’t feel like my own. I stare at Dr Seaward and I feel different, like something inside me is broken, broken down and falling away. It’s a feeling I can’t rightly describe and it scares the hell out of me. I’m frightened.

  ‘He’s allowed you back to me, Charlotte.’

  I sit forward and sense rather than see the shift in DI Wood. My eyes cross to hers and I swear I see something in them that wasn’t there before.

  Could that be fear? Of me?

  It’s you . . . or rather me.

  ‘Jesus!’ I shout and rise from my seat, the chair scraping back on the linoleum.

  I stare at Dr Seaward.

  ‘What’s going on? Am I going mad? Can’t you hear that?’

  DI Wood looks worried, her eyes flicking between me and the doctor. ‘This isn’t right,’ she says, but when she goes to get up from her seat, Dr Seaward stops her, a subtle move of his arm to block her, his eyes never leaving mine.

  ‘What’s happening to me?’ I say, and hear as my voice catches in my throat.

  ‘It’s OK, Charlotte, you’re safe,’ Dr Seaward says.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ I say, as my vision starts to blur.

  It’s what he wants from me . . .

  That voice again. I smack my hands either side of my head as if it’ll make a difference, make the voice stop.

  I let out a guttural cry.

  Dr Seaward mentions something about DID. Dissociative . . . something?

  ‘I need to find the darkness in you,’ the doctor says. ‘We – you and I together – need to make him – Joe – leave. In time I can help you, Charlotte.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘Let her remember,’ Dr Seaward is saying, but his words sound all muffled, and it’s as if my head is underwater and I can’t breathe.

  ‘What happened to your brother, Charlotte?’

  I look at Dr Seaward, almost indignant.

  ‘Beautiful Boy Blue he was called by the press, do you remember?’

  Beautiful Boy Blue . . .

  ‘Because of his pretty blue eyes.’

  The words are out of my mouth before I can even control myself. I see the old headlines flash before my eyes. I see the box I keep hidden in the back of my wardrobe, the remnants of my old life, and it tears fresh pain inside me.

  A look crosses my face and Dr Seaward can read me then, like an open book.

  His eyes lower to stare at me, straight in the face. ‘Take me back there.’

  ‘It was an accident . . .’ I say, trembling.

  Not entirely . . . the voice says to me, and the long-lost memories of that day start playing back to me in jagged fragments before they begin to become more fluid.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say, but the rest of the sentence is lost.

  Dr Seaward touches my wrist, but it isn’t me he speaks to, or my name he’s calling, asking for help.

  ‘Let her remember, Joe . . . let her remember.’

  CHAPTER 69

  CHARLOTTE

  The year is 1983, and it’s a beautiful hot sunny day in August. I’m taken back there all of a sudden, a day I thought had been erased from my memory for the most part.

  Nearly thirty-four years ago.

  The wall has fallen and now I see. There I am, back again in my aunt’s huge back garden in the Norfolk countryside.

  I can hear my voice somewhere in the distance. I’m telling the good doctor what happened, I know that, but a part of me is here, reliving this memory again somewhere deep in my subconscious.

  I can almost feel the sun’s rays warming my skin, as if I have gone back in time, reliving the day again on repeat. I look down now and I can see my body, only not as I know it as an adult. Right now I can see the spindly limbs of my eight-year-old self, pale legs and knobbly knees poking out from my swimming costume.

  I look down at my little bare feet, standing on the patio, the stone burning hot underneath. I close my eyes and take a moment to take it all in, adjust.

  All my senses seem to come alive at once in that moment.

  I can feel a light wind ruffle my hair, cooling the sweat on my brow. I hear the buzz of a bee as it flies close to my ear, and the gentle hum of voices in the distance. People laughing and talking. The clink of glasses after drinks have been poured. I smell the meat cooking on the grill of the barbecue, juices crackling.

  I smell the chlorine, faint in the air. I open my eyes when I hear the ripple of water not far from me.

  One of my cousins is pulling himself out of the deep blue swimming pool. He passes me and my eyes follow him. Drops of water land on my skin as he flicks his hands at me. He runs up to where everyone is gathering to get to the buffet my aunt has laid out as my uncle flips a few more burgers onto the grill.

  I hear the tinkly laugh from behind me and I turn to see him.

  My little brother, Miles.

  Beautiful Boy Blue.

  He’s staring at me with those bright-blue eyes of his, set in an angelic face. His light-blond curls are darker than usual – he’s gripping the edge of the pool, smiling up at me.

  He reaches up and puts the remains of a sodden wildflower on the concrete. ‘For you.’ He smiles.

  I look at the wet petals, now a deep shade of red.

  Miles always picked me these flowers.

  He’s humming now. It’s that nursery rhyme. Ring-a-ring o’ roses.

  ‘We swim now?’ he says. ‘You and me?’

  The twinge of jealousy spikes inside me and it’s a new feeling. I don’t remember feeling this back then . . .

  I loved him. I’d never have hurt him.

  Miles was the golden boy, the child my mother preferred. I remember now. She never said as much, but then again, she didn’t have to. It had always been there, even before he was born and she was carrying him inside her. The timing had been right and she had a joyful pregnancy – a stark contrast to the experience she had with me. The carrying, the labour, the aftermath when she felt she couldn’t bond with me, falling into an ugly depression she blamed me for.

  I twitch as Miles flicks water at me now.

  He trusts me. Looks up to me. Loves me.

  He raises a little hand towards me. ‘We swim now, Lottie.’

  Lottie.

  My old nickname. I used to love to hear my mother call me by that sweet and unassuming name.

  I find myself wanting to relive what I know must come next. How could I have forgotten this moment so easily?

  Before, when it happened, it was a blur, but now everything is being replayed to me in minute detail. It’s colourful, bold. Alive again.

  I sit by the poolside, let my legs dip in the water.

  Miles squeals in delight and starts to splash my legs, and this is where my memory of him alive usually ends.

  Only somehow, I can now see what came next.

  Why don’t I remember this?

  Well, you wouldn’t . . . this was all me.

  I hear these words deep inside me, the memory this man called Joseph is letting me relive, feeling so real. It’s like his hands have melted and fused into mine, so it is now he. He’s in control of my body.

  This wasn’t me. This is what he did then.

  Joseph . . . My name is Joseph.

  Joseph hastily stops Miles from splashing, raising a finger against his lips.

  ‘Shhhhh.’

  Miles gives a cheeky grin, thinking he’s my co-conspirator. Me, Charlotte. He still sees his big sister.

  Miles has only had a few swimming lessons. He needs his armbands.

  Joseph reaches and pulls them off Miles’s arms now. Miles lets it happen, but I see the whites of his knuckles as he grips the side that bit tighter.

  ‘You’re a big boy, you don’t need these.’

  Poor Miles. He thinks it’s r
eally me, Charlotte, smiling at him.

  ‘Why don’t you show me what you’ve learned so far?’

  Miles looks at the water mere inches from his chin and below. He looks uncertain.

  ‘I bet you swim like a fish,’ Joseph says.

  No, stop this! I never did this.

  No, but I did . . .

  Joseph looks over his shoulder. No one is watching from all the way over there, back on the patio outside the house.

  Miles frowns. ‘You swim too, Lottie.’

  Joseph gives his arm a forceful shove. ‘No, Miles. You swim.’

  One hand loses its grip.

  Miles now looks frightened. ‘I want to get out,’ he whimpers. He starts to cry when Joseph shakes his head.

  Miles’s little legs kick that bit faster underneath the surface.

  I don’t remember this . . . I don’t want to remember this. Make it stop.

  Hush, Lottie. Look at that hand . . .

  Joseph pulls up each little finger in turn, watches as each one slips into the water.

  This little piggy went to market . . .

  Miles reaches his other hand up. Joseph bats it away and I, Charlotte, am powerless to stop Joseph in this memory.

  I am forced to watch.

  Miles is too frightened to even speak, let alone scream for help.

  This little piggy stayed at home . . .

  ‘Lottie!’ Miles gasps.

  It pains me to think Miles thought this was really me, his loving sister, and not this other thing inside me.

  This little piggy had roast beef . . .

  One little finger slides off the edge before it can be plucked away, before the rhyme can be finished.

  Miles’s head goes under.

  This was all me, Lottie.

  I watch Miles drift further from the pool’s edge. His limbs are flailing under the water, the top of his head breaking the surface, but down he goes again. He doesn’t have the skill or strength to stay afloat.

  Miles hasn’t resurfaced for about ten seconds. I – controlled by Joseph – slip into the pool, go under and see Miles’s golden curls alive in the water, swirling around his head. His eyes meet ours, and I hear Joseph in my ear now.

  Just watch, little Lottie, he says. Just watch.