‘Turn away from the door, please,’ Thea says. I realise she doesn’t want me to see what number she punches in. Each number has a different tone, and the sequence sounds eerily tuneful.
‘Why do you lock us in, Thea?’ I ask, realising too late that had I taken my soup, topped up by the drink, I would probably be too doped to ask questions.
Thea turns towards me and narrows her eyes. She’s not sure what to make of me, and I lower my head meekly.
‘We can’t have you – any of you – walking up into the house whenever it suits you. We may have visitors, and I’m sure that by now your face is all over the newspapers. We have to make sure that you’re hidden. It’s for your own good. Do you not understand that?’
Her voice rises with irritation, but I can’t help myself.
‘So if I want to leave, I can?’ I try hard to keep my voice dull, slow, as if these thoughts are just meandering through my mind rather than being the focus of my attention.
Thea tuts. ‘Of course you can. I really don’t understand your problem.’ I can hear a trace of anger in her voice now, and I am worried that I have gone too far. ‘I invited you here because you were in trouble and had nowhere to go. And now you’re in far greater trouble, and we’re trying our very best to help you. In return, you seem to feel it’s acceptable to insinuate that you are here under duress. Would you like me to show you where the key to the front door is? Would you like me to drive you to the police station? It can be arranged, believe me.’
I don’t know if I believe her or not. I feel I should be grateful for the fact that they are helping me – hiding me – but why do they have to drug me? I can’t ask that question. It might be the last straw. She might throw me out, and I’m not ready for that.
I follow Thea down the hall into a part of the house I haven’t visited before. We walk down a short corridor and she knocks on a door.
‘Come,’ a gruff voice calls.
Thea pushes open the door, and I know where we are. We’re in the doctor’s private study. It is a parody of every psychiatrist’s consulting room ever seen in the movies: dark red walls lined with shelves full of leather-covered tomes, a chaise longue and a comfortable chair for the therapist. I am tempted to laugh, but I realise how inappropriate it would be. Maybe I’m hysterical.
I stand silently, waiting to be told what to do, my hands hanging limply at my sides, my head bent slightly. I can just see the doctor if I lift my eyes.
‘Sit,’ he says. He glares at Thea as if blaming her for something, then nods his head to dismiss her and she backs out of the door.
I shuffle across the room and sit down nervously on the edge of the leather chaise, tucking my hands under my thighs. I know I’m supposed to be a lot less aware of my surroundings than I am, and although Thea might have noticed, I don’t want the doctor to.
He ignores me as he studies a page in one of his books. It’s making me even more nervous, and I’m sure he’s doing it on purpose. After what seems like ages, he speaks.
‘Lie down,’ he says. ‘Close your eyes.’
I don’t want to. I know the idea is that it will make me relax, but it won’t. It will make me feel vulnerable. Why would anyone think it a good thing for someone who has been traumatised to be flat on their back with their eyes closed in a dimly lit room with a man they barely know? I can’t imagine the doctor has any motive other than to help me sort out my mental state, but I’m not going to close my eyes, no matter what he says.
I hesitate for a moment too long, and under my hooded lids I see his eyes narrow. I’m giving this simple instruction too much thought for one who should be lightly tranquillised, so I do as he asks, slowly lowering myself, my movements languid. I keep my eyes averted so he can’t see my pupils.
‘Your clothes are too tight, Judith, and they will impede your progress. You will feel them, be conscious of them instead of listening to the sound of your thoughts. Loosen the knot around your middle so you can no longer feel it restraining you. Insert your fingers into the waistband and pull the fabric free.’
I know that if I was drugged I would do this without question, so I quickly pull one end of the cord to release the bow. It’s a small thing and not worth worrying about. I try to settle as if I am relaxing into the session.
And then it begins. The doctor’s voice is raspy and low, and I find it hard to listen to him initially. Then I remember the other times he has spoken to me, and how I felt I had fallen under some spell, barely keeping awake. It never occurred to me that I was drugged, but perhaps I was. I had drunk nothing but sherry, and as Thea was drinking it too I assumed it was only the effects of the alcohol and the doctor’s mesmerising words that had lulled me into semi-consciousness. But I’m not sure I believe that any longer. And right now I don’t want to be soothed by his voice. I need to keep alert.
‘Tell me,’ the doctor says. ‘When did you realise that you were capable of killing a man?’
40
Since the doctor sent my heart into my throat with his opening gambit I have struggled to control the impulse to jump up from the couch and ask him what he knows. I need to hear what is being said on the news, learn what I have done. I so desperately wanted to ask Thea when she came to collect me, but everything happened too quickly – from the moment I heard the buzzer and raced to chuck my drink away, to walking through this door. Without the dulling effect of Thea’s magic potions I feel as if my head will explode with all the facts, feelings and fears that I am trying to assimilate.
I’m terrified that if I’m not careful they will throw me out onto the street in the freezing cold with no money, no shoes and no proper clothes, and equally petrified by the fact that there is a warrant out for my arrest for what I did to Ian.
Through my half-closed eyes I am facing the study window and I can see outside for the first time since Thea took me down to the basement. Was that just this morning, or have I lost track of time? The curtains are open even though it is dark outside, but I have no idea whether it is early evening or late at night. I have nothing tying me to the fundamental security of knowing the day of the week or the hour of the day, and I feel detached from reality.
‘Before we start your treatment and talk about the impulses that drove you to kill, we need you to understand your options.’
Do I have any? They seem very limited at this moment.
‘You can, if you wish, walk out of this door right now. If you implicate us in any way – tell anyone that we tried to protect you – we will deny it. There is no evidence at all of our involvement. We’ve taken care of that.’
I want to ask what they have done with the claw hammer and my clothes. Maybe if they no longer exist the police will have no evidence to hold me. But Thea has already said that the police have named me as a suspect, and given that I have no idea what happened that night, there may well be other evidence at the house.
‘Your second option is to trust us and to stay here under our protection. I think Thea has explained what we would expect in return. We are both getting on in years, and help around the house would be useful. In addition to that help, I would want you to agree to some treatment with me. I am fascinated by the mind of the killer, and as a psychiatrist I would like to leave a legacy of understanding for my colleagues. For as long as evil has existed, people have wondered about its source, and I would like to explore it with you. For that to work, you will have to learn to trust me implicitly.’
He thinks I’m evil. Oh my God! What a dreadful thought. But why he would let me live in his house if he thinks that? I have no answer, but it doesn’t matter because he answers my question for me.
‘I don’t think we’re at risk from you. I don’t believe you killed for the pleasure of killing, and Ian had pushed you to the edge of sanity. You killed to remove the source of your distress.’
I’m appalled by the idea that I have done something so dreadful to rid myself of a problem, but I have to consider what the doctor said. He has offered me two optio
ns, and with every cell in my body I hope he is about to offer me another, more appealing choice. But he is quiet. I feel he is waiting for me to speak.
‘I appreciate so much what you are doing for me,’ I say quietly. ‘But how long can this last? Will there come a time when it will be safe for me to leave?’
‘There is no statute of limitations on murder, Judith,’ he says. ‘Any time you leave here, you are in danger of being arrested.’
I feel a sob building and I don’t have the strength to fight it. It’s a life sentence, whichever way I look at it. And which is worse? I don’t know. I need time to think. I need my head to be clear of the last of the drugs.
‘Make no mistake, though. Once you have made the decision to stay, you can’t choose to leave in a week, a month, a year. By then we would certainly be guilty of harbouring a criminal. At the moment we could say we didn’t know, but that will become increasingly difficult as time goes on. You go now, or you stay.’
I don’t know if I am capable of making that decision without time to think, but before the options have sunk in, he starts talking again.
‘This needs to be a symbiotic relationship. Do you understand what that means, Judith?’
I nod my head.
‘We need to develop a relationship based on trust. We will support and protect you, and slowly I’ll help you to relive the impulses that drove you to kill, so that both of us benefit from that knowledge.’
I don’t understand how this will work. I don’t remember killing Ian, and I tell the doctor that I’m not sure I can help him. He just smiles and nods his head slowly.
‘I know. You’ve blocked it from your mind. Relax now. I’ll take you back to the moment so you can be freed of your confusion and doubt. You will once again lift that hammer high, feel the swish of air as it swings down. I’ll help you to recall the sense of climax as Ian’s control over you was relinquished, and the elation you felt as you eradicated him from this world.’
When I go back down to the basement the two women are sitting at the kitchen table, resting their chins on their upturned hands. They must be able to see my confusion. I feel as if the energy has been sapped from my body by the doctor’s words, so with little more than a glance in their direction I walk past and go to my room.
I need time to think. I know that I don’t want to go to prison. I have always wanted children, and by the time I get out I will be too old. That is only a fraction of my fear, but it is the only part that I can look square in the face. The others are shadows, creeping at the edge of my consciousness – dangers and horrors I don’t even want to contemplate.
I jump as the sound of the buzzer breaks the silence. I had assumed nothing more would happen that night, but I was wrong. I hear the scraping of chair legs on the floor as the other two stand up and hurry back to their rooms. Surely she can’t be coming for me again? I don’t think I can bear it if she is, and childishly I cross my fingers behind my back.
But I am safe. I hear the shuffling of feet in the corridor, and when I think they are safely past I slide the door quietly towards me and peep round the corner. The older woman is meekly following Thea, head bent.
Maybe this is my chance? Maybe I can get the younger woman to talk to me – to tell me her story. I wait until I hear the clunk of the locks slipping back into place at the top of the stairs, and I tiptoe across the corridor. I was right about which room she is in. It’s the one where I found the photograph of Paul.
I’m not sure how my questions will be received, but I have to try. I knock gently on the door and push it open.
‘Can I come in?’ I ask, keeping my voice low.
The woman looks up from where she is seated on the bed, her eyes round with fear.
‘I just want to chat a bit. Is that okay?’
She glances over my shoulder towards the door. ‘They’ve gone,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll hear them if they come back.’
I move slowly towards her and sit down, leaving plenty of space between us so she doesn’t feel I’m crowding her.
‘Can you tell me your name?’ I ask. She looks even more worried, if that is possible. ‘Okay. It doesn’t matter.’
I open my mouth to tell her mine, but she shakes her head. ‘Judith,’ she says. ‘You’re Judith, I’m Judith.’
I mustn’t frighten her any more than she already is, so I nod.
‘I understand,’ I say. ‘Have you lived here for a long time?’
I see her brow furrow. Maybe this isn’t a forbidden question and she is trying to sort through her fuddled brain for an answer.
‘Since November,’ she says eventually.
That is only three months before I arrived and yet she seems to be totally institutionalised. Is this how I will be in a few months? The thought terrifies me. I can’t let that happen.
‘Did you come here for a job – to work for Thea and Garrick?’
She pauses again, each question requiring a huge amount of thought, it would seem. Then she shakes her head. ‘They’re helping me. I’m in trouble.’
I nod. ‘Me too.’
I want to ask her more questions, but she is like a deer – slender, beautiful, with those great big eyes that seem frightened into flight by the slightest movement. So I wait.
‘We’re not supposed to talk about it.’
‘Okay,’ I say again. ‘But do you want to talk about it?’
She shakes her head fiercely, and I can see that whatever happened, it’s tearing her in two.
‘I can’t believe I did it,’ she says. ‘I loved him.’
For a moment I think she is going to tell me a story like my own – except I didn’t love Ian. Did she kill her partner too? I find that hard to believe.
‘I took him. Why would I do that? It doesn’t make any sense to me.’
She starts to cry, and I reach out my hand to hold hers, worried that if I move too close I will scare her.
‘Was this before you came here?’ I ask gently.
‘I came to see Thea. I brought him with me. But then I don’t know what happened. It was all over the papers and the television. Why did I do it? I just don’t know.’
She is sobbing now, and I move a little closer and put my arm around her shoulders.
41
Tom was slouched on the sofa with the same glass of whisky in his hand when Jack returned, letting himself in with the spare key he had found earlier.
‘Louisa gone, then?’ he asked, looking slightly sheepish. ‘Sorry about that. I assumed you would have told her about me, given how serious you seem to be about her. Considering the shock she had, I thought she took it well.’
‘Oh, well that’s okay then. Especially since she’s now gone home to consider whether she wants to be with someone who has been lying to her for months.’
Jack laughed and Tom gave him a dirty look, which he ignored.
‘She’ll be back. Stop worrying. Where do you hide your whisky?’
Tom pointed towards the kitchen. Tossing the oversized beanie hat he had been wearing – an attempt to disguise his unruly black hair, Tom could only assume – onto the sofa, Jack sauntered off. It seemed weird that they hadn’t seen or spoken to each other for so long but had almost immediately reverted to the relationship they’d always had: Jack the cool guy, always in control – or so it seemed – and Tom the one who tried to do the right thing.
‘Why are you here, Jack?’ he asked as his brother returned with the whisky bottle. ‘I’m both delighted and staggered by your presence in my house, but aren’t you worried that someone will spot you?’
Jack flopped into an armchair and shrugged. ‘Of course, but it’s been a while, and everyone believes I’m dead so they’re not looking. As long as I keep away from places I might be recognised, I should be safe enough. The beard’s a good disguise, and I wear unremarkable glasses and a variety of hats. I’ll probably shave my head again soon. As long as I don’t sneak around, hiding behind trees and stuff, no one should even look at me twice.’
>
Brave talk, but they both knew that if anyone from Jack’s past caught sight of him he would be made to suffer for escaping from the clutches of the gang all those years ago. Once you’re involved in that kind of life, there is no escape.
Tom waited, wondering if Jack was going to explain his presence, or if he was going to have to force the truth out of him. There had to be a reason he was here.
‘Emma’s five months pregnant,’ he said finally, a beam transforming his usually inscrutable face.
Emma was Jack’s partner, the woman with whom he had escaped to the other side of the world eighteen months previously.
Tom was delighted. ‘Congratulations, Jack. That’s excellent news. But in that case I would have thought Emma would be more inclined than ever to keep you away from the dangers of this part of the world.’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But she wants the baby to be born in the UK, and because she’s not as young as she was, she wants to be in hospital for the birth. She swears that she only trusts the doctors and midwives here, and I’m not about to argue with her.’
‘Isn’t that risky?’
‘I don’t think so. I honestly believe we can avoid any risk by changing our names. We’ll go for something pleasant and innocuous that will draw no attention – I’m thinking of Pete Johnson for myself. What do you reckon?’
Jack grinned at Tom, who responded with a non-committal grunt.
‘And we’ll move somewhere off the beaten track. I was thinking north Wales. Not too far away so that, if we’re very careful, the baby might be able to meet his or her Uncle Tom.’ Jack raised his eyebrows and gave his brother a half-smile. ‘Anyway, that’s why I’m here. I’m going to try to sort out the documentation for our new identities, and I’m not saying another word about how I’m doing that.’
‘No, please don’t.’ The less he knew, the better. Jack’s methods were unlikely to be ones that Tom would find acceptable, but he couldn’t be too high-handed because he understood only too well what would happen if Jack’s identity was exposed. He was thrilled at the thought of them being close by, though. Tom had always wanted more children after Lucy, but there had never been the right moment. Now he was going to be surrounded by babies, with both Becky and Emma giving birth in the near future.
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