Trance

by Southward, Adam

  ‘Sponsored?’ Alex scribbled on his notepad. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You know he was an orphan?’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘OK. Well, he entered the Romanian social system at three years old. This is going back some time – pre-revolution. Back then the care system in my country was underfunded and poor by any standards. We’ve been judged by the international community for it and most of the criticism was justified, although I suspect we were no worse than other similar countries . . . But still, care homes were of varying quality and most required financial sponsorship of some kind.’

  ‘So your university sponsored the children’s home where he lived?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that, but yes.’

  Alex double-underlined the university’s name on his notepad. ‘Why?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Why were you sponsoring it? What did the university get out of it? I’m assuming it wasn’t a charitable arrangement.’

  Another sigh. ‘I have already told the authorities what I was able to discover on this matter,’ said Dr Petri.

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘The university was running a research programme in childhood trauma management, behavioural therapies and suchlike. Although I can’t find any specific records involving Victor, it’s quite possible he was involved in the research. The dates fit.’

  Alex took a moment to digest this. On the face of it, it might sound innocent and reasonable. Unless you happened to work in the medical profession and knew what it meant.

  ‘The university was buying test subjects from the children’s home for research. Orphans,’ he said, as bluntly as he could, before clenching his mouth shut. He didn’t want to risk alienating Dr Petri.

  ‘I can’t comment on that,’ said Dr Petri, ‘because I don’t know. If I’m honest, it wouldn’t surprise me if that went on under the old regime. The ethical controls weren’t in place then – and don’t pretend it was any different across much of Eastern Europe.’

  ‘Can you give me more details on what they were doing?’ asked Alex.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Dr Petri. ‘All I could find is a list of children and trial names, and the name Comăneşti Orphanage. Whatever other information was recorded is gone.’

  ‘Names?’ said Alex. ‘Perhaps—’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Dr Petri. ‘Our immigration department already refused you the names. These are Romanian citizens and we’re not prepared to give you their details unless they’re suspected of a crime.’

  Alex bit his lip. If he could find somebody else who was alive and involved in those trials, he might find some answers about Victor. He scratched his forehead and took a couple of deep breaths.

  ‘There is one name I can give you,’ said Dr Petri, as if sensing Alex’s unease. ‘This emerged recently from our archiving department. It got lost in my original request and I was sent it just a couple of days ago.’

  ‘A child?’

  ‘No, an adult. One of the faculty. He was involved in the research programme. He’s a British citizen now, which is why we don’t object to giving you his name. Let’s see . . .’

  Alex heard the rustling of papers and a filing cabinet being opened and closed.

  ‘Here it is,’ said Dr Petri. ‘Professor Nicolae Dumitru. A child psychologist. He worked in Bucharest from 1967 to 1990 and was with the university for seven years. He stayed after the revolution but left Romania in 1996.’

  Alex scribbled the details down and froze. Dr Petri obviously hadn’t been given the names of the people killed at Southampton. Alex rummaged through his own papers, holding the phone between his cheek and shoulder.

  ‘Do you have any contact details?’ said Alex, cursing as his folder dropped to the floor.

  ‘No. That’s all I have. You’ll have to find him yourself, I’m afraid,’ said Dr Petri.

  ‘OK,’ said Alex, swearing under his breath as he spread the case notes out on the carpet.

  ‘Look,’ said Dr Petri, ‘if anything else turns up, I’ll send it to you. At least in our profession we can extend professional courtesy, even if our legal colleagues cannot.’

  ‘Much appreciated. Thank you, Dr Petri.’

  ‘Now I must go. I have a lecture. La revedere, Dr Madison. Goodbye.’

  The line went dead and Alex dropped his phone on the table. He hadn’t paid much attention to the names of the Southampton victims, but he riffled through the papers until he found what he was looking for.

  The Assistant Head of Faculty at the University of Southampton, stabbed four times in the back. Dead at the scene. Professor Nicolae Dumitru.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Comăneşti Orphanage

  Bacău County, Romania, 1986

  Victor was nine years old when he watched Laura die in the courtyard of Comăneşti Orphanage. The stairwell window was grubby and he’d wiped it with his sleeve, so he could see the blood trickle into the gaps between the stones, painting a trail across the ground, pooling around her small body.

  She was eight. A year younger. His best friend. And she was dead.

  One of the orderlies appeared with a trolley. He’d been waiting to one side until it was over. The man grabbed Laura’s body by her coat and lifted her up, dumping her on to the wheeled base.

  Victor held back the tears. He swallowed the hurt and the anger. It would do him no good. Not now.

  The orderly paused and rummaged in his trouser pocket, pulling out a cigarette. He lit the harsh tobacco and drew on it heavily, blowing the smoke upwards into the cold air. As he raised his head he glanced at the building and saw Victor at the window. Their eyes met and they stared at each other, both squinting in the morning sun. Victor was frightened – he shouldn’t have been watching – but he didn’t move. He muttered a few words and tried to make his voice carry through the window to the man below. It didn’t work. Victor’s small voice drifted away, and besides, the orderlies were trained. His words would have no effect on the giant below.

  Victor swallowed hard as the man took another long drag on his cigarette. Blowing smoke from his nose, the man raised his free hand and pointed it at Victor, wiggling his forefinger to warn him off.

  Victor heeded the warning and nodded, backing away from the window, breaking eye contact. He crept back into the corridor, shivering as his bare feet touched the concrete, heading for his dormitory.

  The smell of bleach was strong in the corridor, but as he approached the dorm, the smell of urine was stronger. Victor was dry most nights, but many of the younger children weren’t. They had their sheets changed only once a week, so it was bound to smell. You got used to it, and besides, Victor didn’t know any better. His parents had disappeared long ago and this was all he knew. He was a decreţel – a child of the state, born after the edict against birth control – and he belonged to this place.

  Victor arrived to find the dormitory empty. The twenty metal beds all stood cold and grey, the dirty sheets hanging limp. It was forever damp, black mould growing in every corner of every room.

  He was pleased, despite what he’d witnessed. You learned to take perks quick in this place, and bury your grief even quicker. With the dorm empty, he might grab a few minutes to himself. He raced over to his own bunk and reached under the thin mattress, retrieving several sheets of paper and a small stub of pencil. Sitting cross-legged on the bunk, he began to write, marking each word with care on the crumpled paper.

  Writing of this sort was forbidden. He knew this. Literacy was allowed, but the recording of events was not. The orphanage’s business was its own, and nobody else’s. The fewer records kept of this place the better, as far as they were concerned.

  He’d been caught before, beaten and humiliated. Sometimes they withheld food or water, or refused to let him use the toilet. The supervisors had many means of punishment. He still had a bruise on the back of his neck from the last account he’d written. He’d almost blacked out, and he had no wish to
receive another beating.

  His dormitory supervisor knew how to break the will of children. She’d been practising for years. She held his chin up, keeping his eyes on hers as she hit him. She was strict on eye contact, particularly when she was angry. Clinical and methodical, she kept his face clean, for the most part. The rest of his body took the brunt, flinching under the blows.

  But he needed to write his stories. He couldn’t keep it all in his head.

  He had barely ten minutes before the alarm sounded. He folded the paper in half around the pencil and slid the bundle under his mattress. It wasn’t a great hiding place, but it was the only one he had.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Alex tried Sophie’s extension, Robert’s and the main switchboard, which put him through to Robert again. No answer.

  He considered phoning the police. There was a link, and possible motive, however speculative. But it wasn’t enough, and the more Alex thought about it the more he wanted to find out for himself, before opening the floodgate of police interviews, which, given Victor’s current behaviour, were unlikely to reveal anything useful.

  This was something only he knew and he could use it to his advantage. It could be just what he needed to restart his assessment with Victor – talking about the orphanage might push Victor into opening up. If Victor had been subject to some kind of abuse in his childhood it could explain any number of psychological conditions. Alex felt slightly uncomfortable about keeping it from the police, but in his experience it was sometimes best to drip feed information so they didn’t go in cack-handed and ruin everything.

  As he gathered his bag and papers, he decided not to tell Robert or Sophie either, at least until after his next session with Victor. His stomach lurched a little at the thought of going back into Victor’s cell, but he didn’t have a choice. Victor had unnerved him but nothing more. Alex knew the onus was on him now, to gain Victor’s trust and persuade the man to open up.

  Alex found Robert at his desk in the prison, resting his usual mug of coffee on his belly while browsing a thin sheaf of papers. A stain grew on Robert’s shirt where the coffee had dripped.

  ‘Alex,’ said Robert, glancing up. He placed his cup on the desk and arched his back, stretching.

  ‘I’d like to see Victor again,’ said Alex, dropping his bag on the desk, removing his phone and wallet and popping them in his front pocket. He took off his jacket and looked around for a coat rack before placing it carefully on the back of the chair, smoothing out the shoulders.

  Robert nodded. ‘You’ve had some thoughts?’

  ‘Some,’ said Alex, ‘but to be honest I’d just like to start again. I didn’t have time to introduce myself properly.’

  Robert raised his eyebrows, waiting for Alex to continue. Alex tapped the desk but said nothing.

  ‘Well . . . OK,’ said Robert. ‘I think we have a full rota of staff today, for once.’ He smiled, although he looked strained around the eyes.

  ‘Shall I head down now?’ said Alex.

  ‘You don’t want a coffee first?’ Robert looked at his own cup, half-full, seemingly annoyed at the thought of leaving it.

  ‘I’d rather get started,’ said Alex.

  Robert sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said, hoisting himself out of the chair, which creaked in relief. ‘Same rules apply. Don’t give him your name and keep other personal details to a minimum.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Alex.

  They bumped into Sophie in the stairwell. She was out of her normal work clothes, dressed in tight jeans and a black top. She smiled warmly at them both but hesitated when Robert announced they were headed down to segregation. She asked what Alex’s plans were for Victor. Was he going to recommend continued segregation? Would he look to sedate and move him to the medical block? Her questions were rapid and unplanned. Alex was a little taken aback at her interrogation.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ was all he could offer, suggesting she came with them. Sophie thought for a few seconds before agreeing. Alex noticed her hands fidgeting as they walked. This wasn’t the first time she’d grown anxious at the mention of Victor. Perhaps she behaved like this around all of her patients. It was endearing, provided it didn’t interfere with her work. It showed empathy, a quality not always present in his profession.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he said.

  Sophie paused. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, her eyes saying the opposite. Alex nodded and smiled. Their eyes remained locked for a few seconds before she looked away. He wanted to stop, to talk to Sophie and find out more about her, what was on her mind. Perhaps later.

  The slamming of metal doors and the shriek of the buzzers had less of a startling effect today. Alex was easing back into this world and the background din of the prison faded as he focused on what he had to do.

  Victor had been mistreated as a child. Of that, Alex was certain. He’d need more background on the orphanage, but he had enough to get started. Abused? Possibly, although what kind of abuse? Victims of abuse responded very differently when presented with their histories, and there was no right way to do this. Alex would be constrained by the fact that Victor was in custody. There might not be time for a full programme of therapy, but Alex hoped he could elicit something significant from Victor. At the very least, Alex might quash the more fantastic suggestions about his patient.

  They reached the wing and once again Robert waited just inside the main gate, slouching on to a chair meant for the guards. Their guard escort looked peeved and headed back to the next gate, repeating the usual instructions about how to enter and exit the prisoners’ cells.

  Sophie stood to one side, keeping distance between herself and Robert. She crossed her arms, shuffling her left foot. Alex watched but she kept her eyes down. She looked vulnerable and agitated, just as she had done the last time they’d come down here. Alex felt drawn to her but pushed the thought to one side. Be a professional, he told himself as he headed towards Victor’s cell.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alex ignored the smell as the cell door swung open. He controlled his facial expression and pulled his shoulders back as he stood in the doorway. ‘Mr Lazar,’ he said, ‘Victor, may I come in?’

  Victor sat as before, upright and rigid, staring at the opposite wall. The light from the ceiling reflected off his head and the rim of his glasses. He remained motionless for several seconds before turning to Alex.

  ‘Dr Carter,’ he said, ‘Alex, you may.’

  Alex stepped into the cell and eased the door closed. The buzzer sounded and the lock clicked. Alex felt his heart jump but he remained in control, if awkwardly sandwiched between the toilet and the door. The cell was even smaller than he remembered.

  ‘I want to apologise,’ said Alex. ‘My first visit was cut short. I don’t feel we had an opportunity to introduce ourselves properly.’

  Victor took a long breath, his nostrils whistling. He let out a small snort. ‘Apology accepted. Won’t you sit?’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ll stand. I spend a lot of time sitting.’

  ‘As do I,’ said Victor, pulling the same menacing smile as before.

  Alex swallowed, with a slight shudder. Taking a breath and leaning against the wall, he adjusted his feet, thankful he’d left his expensive jacket in the office. On the way down he’d thought about how to start this conversation – with the murder–suicide at Southampton or the suicides in the prison. That’s where the police would start, naturally, and it’s where Alex would have started, had he not spoken to Dr Petri.

  ‘I’d like to talk about Comăneşti,’ said Alex. He paused, holding his breath, waiting for Victor’s reaction.

  Victor closed his eyes. His neck stiffened and his head jerked a couple of times. His breathing quickened. Alex was about to continue when Victor spoke.

  ‘Sit down, Doctor. It would be polite, no?’ Victor’s eyes remained closed, but his hands grasped the edge of the bed.

  Alex waited, judging how far to go. He’d started in the right place. ‘I’ll stand, th
ank you,’ he said. ‘Does that place have significance for you? Comăneşti?’

  Victor would know Alex had been researching. Perhaps he’d be surprised at what Alex had found, but Alex didn’t want to reveal the extent of what he knew, or didn’t know.

  Victor cleared his throat and his breathing slowed. ‘What would you class as significant, Doctor?’

  Victor had composed himself, already responding with questions. He’d regained control faster than Alex had thought he would. There was a strong mental wall inside the man, possibly built over many years. It would need breaking down. It would take time.

  ‘Part of my job is research,’ said Alex. ‘I discovered some disturbing information about Comăneşti. The orphanage.’

  Victor opened his eyes but continued to face the wall. He didn’t repeat his question. His left hand twitched.

  ‘In the eighties,’ said Alex, keeping it deliberately vague. ‘It was not a well-regulated system.’

  Victor sneered. He moved, turning to Alex, his hands unclenching. ‘You don’t think?’

  Alex paused. What did that comment suggest? He decided to proceed. ‘I think many children were mistreated. The information I received suggests unethical practices may have occurred.’ Alex frowned, unhappy at his choice of words. He’d made it sound too official, too clinical. He was better than this. Why not just come out and say it?

  Victor beat him to it. ‘Unethical practices,’ he said. He laughed, a short snap, full of hate. His eyes burned through Alex.

  ‘I think . . .’ Alex faltered. Victor had an ability to throw him off kilter. ‘I think you were mistreated in Comăneşti, Victor. I think the orphanage did things to you, to the other—’

  ‘Stop!’ Victor shouted. He stood and closed the distance between them in a heartbeat. His movement was so rapid that Alex cowered into the wall.