Delirium (London Psychic)

by J. F. Penn

  "Let's walk on, Detective." Taylor-Johnson continued down a side corridor, pointing out the various wings as they walked. Jamie found the place fascinating, a window into a life so far removed from normality. She noticed her mind was clearer than it had been in the last months of mourning, the intellectual stimulation of the case bringing her alive again.

  "There are different types of wards," Taylor-Johnson explained. "This corridor has twelve side rooms – you could call them bedrooms – and each is the same. The furniture is built into the walls so there's nothing that could be used as a weapon or broken off to self-harm. Of course, the ward facilities are what the patients need, not what they want. It's not a hotel, and we expect patients to be up and engaging in some kind of activity every day, not lying in bed for hours. It depends on their illness, and at what point they are in their recovery, but we encourage patients to keep busy. Plus, there's a range of leisure activities, music and art, gardening, computers but no internet. We monitor everything they do and report back to the clinical team on their behavior. We've found that too much empty time makes people depressed."

  That was certainly true, Jamie thought, and throwing herself back into work was certainly the best therapy for her own situation. She glanced inside one of the rooms, the plastic furniture rounded, as if designed for a child. She wondered what it must be like to be watched at all times, monitored in every activity, each twitch analyzed for signs of psychopathy and then medicated, forcefully if necessary, in order to modulate behavior. If she was watched twenty-four hours a day, would these doctors perceive the dark destruction that threatened her mind? Would they see that she craved the oblivion of final release?

  Jamie realized her hands were tightly clenched and she relaxed them purposefully, exhaling slowly to calm herself again. This place made her feel claustrophobic, as if all these people could see inside her head and knew her darkest secrets. She had left a woman to die, savaged by a dog in bloodlust. She had brought death to those trapped in the Hellfire Caves. Jamie glanced over at Dr Taylor-Johnson, all buttoned up and superior. What secrets did he keep, and who saw into his head? Was the line between patient and keeper so thin as to be separated by action alone?

  "Did you know Dr Christian Monro personally?" she asked, refocusing on the case.

  The doctor's eyes flickered a little at her question.

  "Yes, of course. As a forensic psychiatrist, he was a regular visitor and returned to reassess patients over time. We disagreed on some of his cases, but professional conflict is part of the game, Detective."

  "Any case in particular?"

  "Well, Timothy MacArnold, who you're interviewing today, would be one example of where we clashed. I'm still not sure the diagnosis was correct, but Monro was adamant that he be cared for here, and not sent to a high-security prison."

  "What do you think is wrong with him?"

  "We treat him for antisocial personality disorder and he has symptoms of schizophrenia, but some days, Detective … " The doctor shook his head. "I wonder whether these men are much cleverer than we assume."

  "Doesn't research on psychopathy suggest that most people with the traits also display above-average intelligence?" Jamie asked.

  "Yes, and with it, incredible powers of observation, as well as the ability to charm and flatter. We're all weak, Detective, and it's easier to believe that someone is telling the truth, but lies are surely the common currency in this place. Some days, I'm not so sure that psychopathy itself is a mental illness, and of course, many people on the psychopathic scale don't ever commit a crime. Perhaps it's more of a personality scale that we will only acknowledge when we're finally ready to embrace our own darker sides."

  They stopped in front of an interview room.

  "Timothy is in here, but he's known inside as Diamond Mac."

  "Why's that?" Jamie asked.

  "Oh, you'll see." Taylor-Johnson gave a wry smile. "He'll enjoy telling you himself. He's a clever man, and there are victims linked to him who still haven't been found. He won't admit to the murders, of course, only to the theft of diamonds that went missing at the same time the bodies were found."

  The psychologist pushed open the door.

  Chapter 13

  Inside the cell-like room, a man sat on the far side of a thick table. He wasn't physically restrained, but two stocky orderlies stood at either side of him, alert and watchful for any sudden movements.

  Timothy MacArnold wore a t-shirt that matched his eyes, the grey of an English winter sky. His features were plain, an everyman no one would pick from a police line-up – or everyone would. His left arm was a wreck of scars, with broad stitches of white tissue. Jamie couldn't tell whether it was a tattoo or some form of self-mutilation.

  "It's how I was able to steal as much as I did," MacArnold said, noting her gaze and grinning to reveal perfect white teeth. "I would cut into my skin, insert the diamonds and then sew myself together again. The gems became part of me, encrusted with my blood, my pus. They became part of my body … until these bastards dug them out." He paused, meeting Jamie's eyes, and a prickle of sweat beaded in the small of her back at his cold stare. "I still feel their sharp edges when I wake alone in the dark. It keeps me focused on surviving so that one day I can feel that again. Now, Detective, please sit down."

  He pointed to the chair in front of the desk, as if this was his office and he was their superior, summoning them to a meeting.

  "And a good morning to you, Timothy." Dr Taylor-Johnson sat down at the table and beckoned Jamie to sit next to him. "Detective Brooke has a few questions for you about Doctor Monro."

  "That bastard. He hasn't been in this week. Does that mean he's finally finished his thesis?"

  "Thesis?" Jamie asked.

  "He was writing about me. His pet psycho." MacArnold's tone was edged with pride. "Gonna get a book deal and everything."

  "First I've heard of it," Taylor-Johnson said quickly, almost too fast. Jamie had the strange sensation that she couldn't tell who was lying anymore. This place had a force field that turned everything into double-speak and made her distrust her own gut, but there had been no manuscript at Monro's office. She pulled out her notebook.

  "Dr Monro was murdered."

  MacArnold laughed, throwing his head back so hard that the chair tipped slightly. The two orderlies grabbed at it, righting it gently. They had to protect the patient as well as the visitors. The laugh died quickly and Timothy's eyes were shining as he spoke.

  "That's a bugger, but the bastard deserved it." He licked his lips. "How was he killed?"

  "That information hasn't been made public yet," Jamie said. "No doubt it will be in the papers soon enough, but your name came up in the investigation."

  MacArnold smiled. "You see the monitoring I'm subject to, Detective." He pointed up at his attentive guardians. "I am indeed a special man, but even I couldn't have escaped this prison for a night of what would have been a great pleasure, I'm sure."

  "Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Dr Monro? Anyone here?" Jamie asked.

  "Monro got me in here, Detective, and for that I was grateful. I'm 'rehabilitating,' and they tell me that one day …" He put his hands together as if in prayer. "I may emerge a changed man. For now, I embrace my own crazy line, for it makes me special enough to be amongst the chosen few in this place and not rotting in some stinking prison. I know Monro had his doubts about my sanity, or lack of it, but he said he could get me into a special government program next and my brain would make me a valuable asset." He paused, savoring the word. "Valuable, you see. So why would I want him dead? Without him, these bastards could reassess me as a violent criminal instead of mentally ill and I could be shunted off to the slammer. Couldn't you, Doc?"

  On the streets, Jamie would have taken that tone as a threat. At this point, she would consider calling backup, but Taylor-Johnson shook his head gently, as if he heard this kind of talk all the time.

  "We know you're ill, Timothy. Just give it time." H
e turned to Jamie. "That's the first I've heard of this special government program."

  His tone suggested doubt that it even existed, but Jamie thought of the symbol on Monro's files and the man at the police station. Perhaps Timothy was telling the truth this time.

  MacArnold cut in, his voice loud in order to focus their attention back on him.

  "Monro wanted to know about my hobbies, Detective. I had just taken up taxidermy before I got caught. It's not easy to skin an animal, you know. You have to get its hide off like a coat and then duplicate the body in straw or other material and then stuff that skin again. Like a turkey, ready for roasting." He paused. "He used to ask me about sex, too."

  Jamie didn't flinch, but she felt the others in the room tense, as if ready to stop him from speaking. She thought of Monro's hidden room, of the edges of pleasure and pain.

  "What did he want to know?" she asked.

  Timothy's eyes glinted. "You want to get off on it too, Detective. I bet you like a bad boy."

  Dr Taylor-Johnson pushed back his chair. "Time to go, Detective. I'm sorry for this behavior."

  Jamie stayed seated, addressing herself to Timothy.

  "What did Monro want to know?"

  Timothy smiled, baring the edges of his perfect white teeth. He touched the scars on his left arm gently, caressing the raised welts.

  "He wanted to know if this was sexual. If I cut myself for pleasure."

  Jamie held his eyes. "And do you?"

  "Would that make me mad, Detective? Is that what you want? What if I cut you for pleasure, eh? What if I told you it makes me hard just thinking about your blood?"

  Timothy's tone was almost impassive, with an edge of challenge. Jamie didn't flinch from Timothy's gaze and held it a moment longer. His power play was impotent here.

  "I think that's all I need for now." She pushed back her chair.

  "I did not say you could leave," Timothy banged his fists on the table, rising to his feet, leaning over the table, his face contorted with rage and hate. The two orderlies grabbed him and yanked him back as Taylor-Johnson pulled Jamie to her feet and the door opened to let them out.

  One of the male nurses outside advanced with a syringe as the orderlies pushed Timothy face-down onto the table, holding him still as he was sedated. The sound of shouting soon dulled to a muted roar.

  "I'm sorry," Taylor-Johnson said as he ushered Jamie down the corridor. "I don't think that was much use, and I apologize for Timothy's behavior."

  Jamie shook her head. "I've seen and heard a lot worse, to be honest, and there aren't usually so many people around to help. I'm curious, though. Did you ever see any of Monro's research work?"

  "I know a little of what he was looking into, but he was a radical in many people's eyes, embraced by those of an ultra-right-wing persuasion. He believed physical punishment was fitting for aspects of therapy, as a way to release some of the innate tension of conditions. He apparently met with Members of Parliament, those who would support the return of harsher sentences. He was also part of the campaign to reintroduce capital punishment."

  "The death penalty?"

  Taylor-Johnson nodded. "It's a surprisingly popular political request, especially in these difficult financial times. Taxpayers question how their hard-earned cash can fund a place like this, where men convicted of violent crime and multiple murder have their own rooms, are well fed and get to attend art classes. There are rumors that Monro's research would have provided some kind of platform for the right-wing political agenda against the rights of the mentally ill."

  Jamie couldn't see how a civilized country like Britain would ever allow the death penalty when it condemned countries like China, Iran and Pakistan, while at the same time turning a blind eye to the United States. But she also knew of the right-wing leanings amongst certain groups including the police, many of whom supported a stronger deterrent to crime. After attending the aftermath of domestic violence and child abuse countless times, Jamie found herself struggling to defend the continued existence of those who did such things.

  "What do you think about it?" she asked.

  Taylor-Johnson sighed. "We all have to decide where the lines are, Detective. Between those who are mentally ill and can't help their actions versus those who voluntarily choose to give in to evil impulse. The rehabilitation of the mentally ill is my life's work, so I have to believe that those with true mental illness don't actively choose their path. We need to treat them with compassion, and hope that with therapy and continued medication, they can find their way back into society again. If Monro had his doubts, well, I can understand that. Sometimes, our belief and patience is stretched. But I've seen success here, and I'm sure you've seen evidence overturned against someone you believed guilty, Detective."

  Jamie nodded, knowing that as much as she and her colleagues tried, the best was sometimes not good enough and rarely, but sometimes, they got it wrong.

  "Thank you for your time, Doctor. I'll be in touch if there's anything else I need to know."

  Chapter 14

  Blake ran along the track towards the main road, the Galdrabók heavy in his coat pocket. He needed to get away from the house, from the creatures that dragged his father's soul down to Hell, from his own memories of abuse. Part of him knew he should stay and comfort his mother, be the son she needed, but he couldn't face her perfect memory of the man he now knew as tainted. The images of dark creatures gnawing at his father's body kept looping round his mind and the edge of desperation was making him crazy. The need to drink was overwhelming, and Blake clenched his fists to hold back the anxiety the craving brought with it.

  He walked towards the nearest town, keeping his thumb out as cars passed. Rain began to drizzle down and soon a car stopped.

  "You alright, son?" The man was older than Magnus had been, his eyes a welcoming warm brown. "Not a great night to be hitching. Where you going?"

  "Train station, if that's OK."

  It wasn't far and the man seemed happy to chat with nothing more than a few grunts from Blake in return. At the station, Blake waved the man goodbye and looked at the ticket office, the entrance almost obscured by the now-pouring rain. In Britain, the nearest pub was never too far away and Blake caught sight of one just behind the car park, lights in the window promising beer and warmth. He needed the oblivion that only alcohol could bring right now, even in this shitty little corner of England. Maybe especially here.

  The Bear and Staff was teetering on the edge of rundown, with old stools and wooden tables flawed by ring marks, overlaying each other through years of use. There were a couple of people drinking inside, a group of men who looked like they kept the place going with their custom, and several clearly waiting for the train. The bartender looked up with expectation as Blake walked in, smiling as he approached the counter.

  "Two tequilas please, and …" Blake looked at the wide selection of ales on tap. "Two pints of Abbeydale's Black Mass."

  The British penchant for exotically named ales seemed strangely appropriate given his visions, but already Blake doubted what he had seen. There was no way he could verify the facts of the Scandinavian murders quickly, and the black creatures could have been a result of the pain-relief drugs Magnus had been on. Somehow Blake's visions must have tapped into that perception, because of course, there was no such thing as demons.

  The barman nodded. "Coming right up. You waiting for someone?"

  He put the tequila shots on the bar, glancing down at Blake's gloved hands.

  "Something like that." Blake downed the shots one after the other. The burning in his throat anchored him to this place, in this time, a physical sensation that he had never felt in any vision and helped him center with reality. The immediate rush took the edge off his craving, but oblivion had become harder to reach of late. The barman placed the beers on the bar.

  "Two more tequilas," Blake said, handing over extra cash.

  "Must be one hell of a bad day," the barman said, turning to pour more shots. He
put a bag of salted crisps next to them. "You'd better have these, too."

  The door banged and a whistle of wind rushed in, bringing a taste of rain into the dank bar. Blake glanced up as he gulped at the first beer. Two men in dark coats walked to the far end of the bar, collars turned up against the weather. One of the men looked over, piercing grey eyes raking over Blake's taut face. Could they see the twisted mass inside him, or was that just paranoia? What did it even matter? Blake thought, downing the beer in just a few gulps. He didn't care what anyone thought of him here. He only needed to blur the edges of the world as fast as possible.

  His phone rang. Checking the number, he saw it was his mother. He let it go to voicemail, guilt washing over him. But he couldn't face her grief, or her unquestioning faith that Magnus would be waiting for her in Heaven.

  Blake downed the next two tequilas, savoring the raw power of the spirit. Distilled from the agave plant, it survived harsh desert winds, its spiked leaves warding off predators. Blake drew on that strength now, letting the alcohol work its magic. His limbs began to feel heavy and, finally, his breathing slowed to a more even rhythm and anxiety abated.

  He pulled the Galdrabók from his pocket, running gloved fingertips across the surface of burnished leather. Whatever past it represented, that was gone now, and this was all he had left to remember his father by. This and the scars. Could his gift really be a punishment from the gods in recompense for his father's sin? Or was there something wrong in his brain? That thought always teetered on the edge of his consciousness and some days he would give anything to have this curse removed. Blake took another sip of the beer … if he kept on drinking this way, he would likely get his wish.

  There was one person who made him want to stop drinking for good, and Blake found a shadow of a smile on his lips at the thought of Jamie Brooke. The desire to speak to her welled up inside. Her perspective on Magnus and the visions might make everything clearer. She would know he was on the edge of drunk, but Jamie had seen him in a worse state when she had come to him desperate for help in the middle of the night.