Victor stared at Alex, eyes darting. He bared his teeth, muttering something under his breath. His face contorted, his lips curling, the muscles in his cheeks twitching. Deep furrows appeared in his forehead and his eyes glazed over. Victor looked deep in concentration.
‘Sit, Alex.’ Victor’s voice was stern and abrupt. His words sounded loud and crisp in Alex’s ears, as though he was wearing headphones, all other sound blanked out.
Alex felt his muscles weaken. His joints trembled and a shiver ran down his spine. Within a second he felt his legs collapse, as if his knees had been hit from behind. He slid down the wall, unable to stop.
Alex watched the cell fade away, the colours weaken as if a fog had descended. He felt sluggish and confused. He tried to reach out but his arms wouldn’t move. They hung at his side, limp and useless. He ended in an awkward squat, held up by the side of the toilet unit and the wall. Victor smiled, his lips parted slightly, muttering something under his breath. Alex tried to talk but nothing came out. His mouth wouldn’t open and his lips wouldn’t move.
He was paralysed on the floor of Victor’s cell.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Victor walked down the rear stairs of the orphanage towards the classrooms, joined by others, thirty or so of them, some friends, some strangers, all headed for a day of education in its various forms. Denis and Maria both looked sleepy, no doubt wakened in the night for punishment.
At the bottom of the stairs his number was called and he stopped.
‘Child thirteen.’ The call came again. His heart thumped and he shivered, his stomach lurching. He hadn’t expected to be called today. They always had a break between sessions.
The doctor caught his eye from across the corridor and beckoned him over. He ticked Victor off his list and pushed him through a door into the medical room. It was small, grey-walled and without windows. The floor tiles were broken and Victor could see black mould on the walls, and in the corners. He screwed his nose up and shivered. There were three other doctors in the room, easily identifiable by their white coats. A small tatty chair stood in the centre of the room, the kind that leaned back when they wanted to examine you. It was empty, and he was asked to sit.
His ears thumped with the beat of his heart as he fought the shakes. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t any better at it than Laura, and she’d lost. The boy who’d won was two years older than Victor. It wouldn’t be fair to pitch them against each other. Not until he’d had a chance to practise a little more.
He opened his mouth to protest but the doctor waved him into silence. They weren’t violent, the doctors, but they recorded those who complied and those who didn’t. They left it to the orphanage supervisors to deal with the latter. Victor held his tongue and his eyes were drawn to another doctor, who waited with a large syringe in his hand. He plunged the blunt, used needle into Victor’s arm. It tore his skin, but he remained silent.
They injected him with the drug, whatever it was, and let it seep into his bloodstream and into his brain. While it worked, the doctors talked. They were optimistic, it seemed. Results were improving, and the next batch was very promising. They talked about Victor but not to him, referring to him by his number and his batch. His ability, no doubt, was strong, and getting stronger. After the drug took effect he would be subjected to the next round of conditioning. Victor knew from experience what this meant, and he shivered again.
Frightening, confusing and alien images were shown repeatedly in four-hour sessions. Those children who refused were strapped to the chairs, eyes prised open with whatever came to hand, most often thick tape holding the eyelids in place. The images flashed and waned, embedding their message, whatever it might be. Victor didn’t know, and while he cried at the content, he assumed it was necessary. Desensitisation. A word whispered by the staff, misunderstood by the children. Is that what the images were for? To desensitise him? Then why did he feel so wretched? Why did he gasp with sorrow at night, listening to the cries of the other children?
Linguistics followed. The children spoke Romanian, but they were taught many other phrases from different languages. It wasn’t conversational and made little sense to the youngest, but certain words and phrases were hammered into Victor and the others. He wrote them, spoke them and dreamed about them until he could recite the words on demand, in a whisper.
And then the games began. Language, posture and tone. Passive, aggressive, neutral and silent. Micro-expressions, facial contortions, misdirection and a hundred other ingredients to create a storm of signals a silent orchestra played solely for one listener: the target. The sole purpose: to take control.
It hadn’t been like this in the beginning. The tasks had never been fun, but they hadn’t always ended like they did these days. Now, he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to stop until he’d completed it. He’d be given a target: sometimes a homeless person from the streets of Comăneşti, or occasionally a convict. The worst was when it was another child at the home. Then he’d be given his instructions.
For each and every task there was a winner and a loser.
More often than not, the loser died.
In the following weeks, Victor adjusted to the new drug and performed his tasks. His beatings became less frequent as his ability improved. The doctors were pleased with him, which meant the supervisors were under extra pressure not to damage him, at least not so it showed.
But inside Victor’s head, the hatred grew alongside his talent. Victor knew he couldn’t leave – nobody ever escaped the orphanage. It was a small town and the police brought back every single child who ever tried to leave. Stories of what the police did to the children before they returned were whispered throughout the dormitories, but no child ever complained. Their eyes dulled further and their souls festered.
But Victor dreamed of one day seeing the doctors in the testing ground. Forcing them to make the choices. Forcing them, in a battle of wills, to kill or be killed.
Forcing them to die, just as Laura had. She hadn’t been ready; they’d put her forward too soon.
But even as Victor became one of the trained, one of the păpușari, a ‘puppet master’, his supervisors remained in control. They were protected with drugs that blocked the abilities unleashed during the training, when frenzied attacks raised screams that echoed across the courtyard, through the skin of the orphanage and out into the rock of the mountains.
The supervisors were untouchable, or so it seemed to Victor.
And so Victor’s outlet was his stories. He told Laura’s story in the minutes after he’d seen his young friend slit her own throat, scribbling his feelings into the paper. He described her opponent, untouched but having had another mental scar added to the growing notches inside, before being congratulated and rewarded with a hot supper and a hot shower instead of the usual cold bucket.
Victor made mention of every death, but the most detailed stories were his own. These were stories of his own trials, of what he was told to do and how he did it. How he carved his own words out and made them stick, how he whispered his instructions and passed them across the void, to grab his opponent’s body and bend it to his will.
These stories, Victor believed, must one day be told.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Victor crouched in front of Alex, their faces inches apart. ‘You’re an interesting one, Dr Alex Carter.’
Alex could feel Victor’s breath on his cheek. It smelled rotten and sour. It swirled around the air, mixing with the mist, seeping into his mind. The fear rose from his gut, growing as his chest tightened.
‘Why are you here?’ Victor studied Alex’s face. ‘Did they send you?’ Victor slanted his face, left and right, his eyes searching and probing Alex’s. He looked surprised. ‘Oh. You really don’t know? Interesting. Well, you’ll no doubt discover it in time, but be under no illusion: there is nothing you can do. You might think you have certain expertise, but you are nothing compared to me, so stay out of my way. You can’t stop this.’
‘Stop
what?’ whispered Alex, finding his jaw had relaxed. He was starting to hyperventilate. He needed his pills, but was unable to move. The tension spread across his chest and shoulders, causing him to clench his jaw.
Victor crouched again, coming close enough for Alex to see his eyes. They frightened him.
‘They cursed us,’ Victor whispered. He tilted his head, his eyes drilling through Alex.
‘Who?’ said Alex, breathing through the panic.
Victor snapped his head back and laughed.
‘You’re probably a fine doctor, Dr Carter, but you should go back to what you’re good at.’
‘I—’ Alex began.
‘You are the same. You came in here expecting to manipulate me and get what you needed.’ Victor closed his eyes. He breathed over Alex’s face. Alex could do nothing but shiver. ‘But I forgive you,’ Victor whispered. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s theirs. They made the wrong choices, Alex. But don’t worry, I will show them what they created.’
Victor leaned back and stood. He sat back on the bunk and closed his eyes. He touched his right hand to his temple and winced, clenching his teeth. Alex saw the muscles in his jaw lock up. He waited several seconds.
‘It’s nice you came, Dr Carter, even if you don’t know why you’re here. It was a pleasure to see you again. It allows me to make my one and final warning. Stay away from me and my business. Get out of my cell and leave this place. Go home, Dr Carter.’
Alex’s shoulders slumped as Victor’s control disappeared. He raised his hands to his face and looked at them. He wiggled his fingers and they moved freely. His legs felt weak but back within his control. He stumbled to his feet and backed towards the door, banging it with his fist. The buzzer sounded and the lock clicked open. He pulled the door and fell out of the cell, without looking at Victor or offering any parting farewell.
Robert and Sophie were still where he had left them, near the entrance to the corridor. Robert looked up in concern as Alex stumbled towards them. He doubled over, drawing in several large breaths. Sophie ran to hold him.
‘Alex, are you OK?’ said Robert, pulling himself up off the chair. ‘What happened?’
Alex straightened his collar and forced a smile, shrugging off Sophie’s arm. ‘I’m fine. I’m fine,’ he said, counting slowly, breath in, breath out. He had to control this.
‘You don’t look fine,’ said Sophie, glancing at Victor’s cell door.
‘Really,’ said Alex, walking back along the corridor, smiling at them both. ‘It was the smell and confined space. I’d forgotten how claustrophobic it can be.’
Robert and Sophie glanced at each other. Robert shrugged, but Sophie narrowed her eyes.
Alex put his hands up and did his best to fake it, but he was aware that two trained psychologists might be able to see through to his near state of panic. He might not have fooled them, but there was no way he was going to admit to what just happened. As they left the segregation wing, Alex made his excuses and dived into the staff toilet. For several moments he leaned against the wall, focusing on his breathing. His hand scrabbled around his trouser pocket until he found what he was looking for. His pills. He swallowed the two Xanax dry.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The double doors slammed against their shutters. Alex lurched into the parking lot, shivering against the cold. He’d avoided Robert and Sophie, leaving them in the office. Against their protests he’d headed towards the nearest exit, making his excuses through the security checkpoints.
He found his car and sank into the leather seat, feeling the Xanax flood through him.
The radio came on and he silenced it, reducing the speakers to a low hiss. He heard his heart punching his chest, surging with adrenaline, gradually relaxing, minute by minute, as the drug took hold.
All of Alex’s training and experience screamed that what had just happened was impossible. To say that Victor had the most powerful suggestive ability he’d ever observed would be an understatement. Victor had held Alex’s mind in a clenched fist and left him entirely powerless.
Dr Alex Madison, a reputable clinical psychologist, veteran of several high-profile cases for the CPS, had been revealed as an amateur in front of his patient. Victor Lazar, a Romanian murder suspect, had rendered him impotent in less than five minutes.
The Xanax worked fast. Alex regained control with each breath. He counted to ten and began to think.
What had just happened? It was unlike anything he’d ever encountered before. Perhaps he’d had a panic attack, brought on by Victor’s intimidating manner and the claustrophobic cell? But no, he knew that wasn’t right. Victor had exerted some sort of control over him. Could it have been hypnotism? But Alex had been hypnotised before – it was essential to any training in the field. The experience of being in a hypnotic trance shouldn’t feel unusual or unnatural. On the contrary, it felt like countless other moments in your life where you zone out – in the car, in the shower, or on a country walk, when the birds and the breeze conspire in perfect harmony to take your mind out of the present moment and into a dream. In every case it was possible to jump out of the dream, if you wanted to.
But not this time. Victor had thrown Alex down the rabbit hole, and it had affected him so acutely he could think of nothing else. Victor had plunged Alex so deep he was unable to stop it. He wouldn’t even have described it as trance-like. He’d felt foggy, as though the air was thick, but he’d been conscious of what was happening. And that was the terrifying thing. One of the golden rules of hypnotism is that you cannot be hypnotised against your will: it only works if you agree to let it happen.
Victor’s method didn’t abide by those rules. This wasn’t hypnotism, suggestion or any other standard form of manipulation.
This was something else.
And it meant Victor was guilty. The realisation crept over him with a shiver down his spine. The Southampton murders, the inmates and Dr Farrell: each one coerced into taking their own lives. Could it be possible?
Alex attempted to replay every minute, as far as he could remember. He and Victor had talked for, what, maybe three minutes before Alex lost control? He wished he’d recorded the conversation. He couldn’t remember any of Victor’s exact words, what it was that had made Alex so susceptible. Was he aware of the whole technique, or simply the moment of being put under? He was unsure and a twinge of anxiety gnawed at his stomach.
The orphanage had been the trigger. Alex had expected a reaction, but not this.
Victor had asked him, ‘Did they send you?’ What did he mean? Nobody had sent him. What game was Victor playing?
‘Even if you don’t know why you’re here.’ Victor Lazar’s words echoed in his ears. The ramblings of a struggling mind? Possible, and probable, yet there was more to it. Something Alex was missing.
He took a few long breaths. His heart rate was settling. What would it mean for him if he told Robert what had happened? He’d be taken off the case, for sure. Something so serious would compromise his position, as well as cast doubt on his ability and professionalism. His credibility would be tarnished forever. He could ask Robert to keep it quiet but it wouldn’t happen. Robert would be forced to report it and Victor Lazar would be sedated and isolated until they found another expert. If the press got hold of it, his private practice would be finished too. His career could be in tatters.
No. Despite the nagging feeling tugging at his gut, pushing through the Xanax and the adrenaline and the high blood pressure, Alex knew he must keep this to himself. He needed to counter, react and come back fighting. Victor had taken the upper hand, but Alex wasn’t done.
He took a deep breath and started the car. He wanted to go back and get his bag and coat, but he couldn’t, he had to go home. He needed to get his anxiety down and make a plan.
He must face Victor again. His only problem was he had no idea how to go about it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
January 1990 and the revolution reached Comăneşti. The government soldiers came for Vi
ctor and the other children in the middle of the night. Too many to count, their footsteps thumped on the hard concrete as they marched through the entrance gate into the orphanage. Victor woke along with the rest, and they ventured out of their beds, into the corridors of the dark building, to see who had disturbed them.
The soldiers wore camouflage clothing with thick boots and black scarves covering their mouths. Each had a rifle either slung over his shoulder or in his hands. They all, without exception, wore large, thick headphones, covering their ears. Victor knew why.
In the corridor outside Victor’s dormitory five of the soldiers stood guard, while others raced around ransacking the offices and the storerooms.
Victor was among the brave children who stared at the soldiers, rather than running. He watched in wonder as his dormitory supervisor was dragged out of her room, frisked, then kicked in the back of the legs, on to her knees. A doctor was brought to join her, and they were both blindfolded. The doctor’s hands were tied with rope.
One of the soldiers kept his eyes on the children. He fingered his weapon, raising the barrel towards Victor. His hands were shaking and the barrel jumped. Another soldier shouted an order, resting his hand on the barrel until it was lowered. The giver of orders smiled and raised his hands. He wanted to talk to them.
The children were told to stay calm and welcome their comrade soldiers. The military, they were told, had decided to close the orphanage because it was a wicked place, created by a wicked government, and now the government had fallen, the children would be transferred to a better facility. A nice home with wooden floors and heating. Many of the children smiled at this news. Victor, as one of the oldest, kept his emotions in check. He was wary of the soldiers, even though they handcuffed the supervisors and led them away, their howls of protest echoing through the halls.
The children were given a matter of minutes to gather their belongings. The soldiers didn’t know the children owned few, if any, possessions. Some had shoes; some had had items stolen over the years. All had identification papers, but those were in the office. Victor knew what he must retrieve from under his mattress and he raced back into his dormitory.
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