A prison nurse had sat across from them, writing her notes. She’d reached down to rub her calf, which had a large bruise on it. Her shoes were scuffed too. Another nurse walked over and said something, then walked away, laughing. She had a limp.
He noticed everybody, their quirks and appearances. Each gave away something about themselves, but nothing significant. Not the things Alex was looking for.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The first few months of freedom were terrifying for Victor. With the orphanage behind him, he struggled through the smaller local villages before finding his way to the bustling city of Bacău where he could hide in plain sight, staying in hostels and houses, pushing the owners into giving him board, reminding them every night not to tell anyone who he was or where he’d come from.
He damaged some people and helped others, but felt little emotion either way. Like the harsh winter, he was cold and unforgiving to the people he met.
Victor found his talent was growing and he had no difficulty in getting what he wanted, but he was empty of purpose. He wandered aimlessly during the days, eating when he could and watching the world roll by. The revolution had caused chaos, but that was a good thing as it turned out. Victor lost himself in the reshaping. The whole country, not just Victor, was haunted by the past.
The months turned into years. Every morning Victor expected the soldiers to arrive. To point him out and tell everyone what he was. They’d capture him, put him in the back of the truck – the one with the huge tyres and green top – and drive him away.
He woke in sweat every night, seeing Laura’s face staring up at him from the courtyard. He saw every child who had died, and they all stared at him. They hated him for not saving them. ‘How could I?’ he asked them. ‘I am one of you, no different.’ His dreams ended with the stomping of feet, boots thumping over stone and staircases, soldiers coming to take them into the mountains. Everyone knew what happened in the mountains.
They would capture him and take him back. The punishments would be severe. The other children would watch while he was beaten and drugged. They would watch while he was made to perform the experiments. The soldiers would look on and they would laugh at his inability to stop it.
But the soldiers never came and Victor realised he was truly on his own. Not even his enemies wanted him. Still he existed in a state of perpetual fear, but he began to turn his mind to the future, and wondered how he could begin to heal the chasm in his soul. The soul they’d tortured and maimed through his years at Comăneşti.
He also noticed worrying symptoms. They called it ‘the fever’ back at the orphanage. Victor had suffered on occasion in his younger years, but lately he’d been getting more frequent attacks. After every trance he would feel a thumping at the back of his head, throbbing, a pumping of blood that caused nausea and dizziness. If he pushed it too much he’d vomit and the shakes would start. He would go to bed for a few hours and recover, but it worried him. He couldn’t survive without his talent, and therefore he couldn’t survive without getting sick.
Romania changed. The revolution of ’89 was just the start. Politicians and their laws threw opportunity to even the smallest of villages. Freedom of movement was on everyone’s tongues. A relaxation in the rules saw many people leave the country, seeking a better life elsewhere.
Victor stayed put. He didn’t know what life he was seeking so there was no point leaving. This was all he knew. Even when he turned sixteen, he maintained the same routine, the same hiding, the same ruthless manipulation of people’s minds, in order to keep himself safe.
He considered getting an education. The city library was open to anyone, and he didn’t need to force them into letting him stay. He turned up every morning at 10 a.m. At first he was wary of the old lady who nodded to him from behind her desk. He worried she was watching him, reporting him, getting the soldiers ready to take him away. But of course she wasn’t, and he began nodding back, the brief acknowledgement that two unconnected humans can share in a familiar setting. An acknowledgement that said he was welcome here, even though they were strangers.
The library was fascinating to Victor. The towers of shelves and rows of books were unlike anything he’d seen before, and he read with hunger, not seeking anything in particular, although he found himself enjoying geography and travel. He gazed at maps and daydreamed of one day leaving Romania. But to do what?
He didn’t find the answer to that in the library.
Every morning, Victor went to the library – apart from on Sundays, when he went to church. There he found the welcome even friendlier, although he shied away from the conversations the priest kept trying to start. The priest left him alone, but made an offer: Victor could tell him anything.
Victor knew this to be false. There was nothing about his life Victor could share, so he remained silent and walked away, sitting in the back pew, listening to the congregation make their promises, confess their sins and sing to their god.
He observed the regulars, and exchanged polite nods with some of them. A girl roughly his age attended the same services. She was accompanied by a younger boy. No parents. She caught his eye several times but always looked away. She seemed scared, but Victor paid it no thought. Many people came to church precisely because they were scared. He was one of them. He ignored the girl and her boyfriend. They were not his concern.
The church was modest but well maintained. The stained-glass windows around the outside told a story, and Victor played it to himself over and over. He broke his silence with the priest, asking the man to explain it.
‘Why did he let them do this?’ he said, one morning to the priest. He knew what he wanted to hear. What the priest said surprised him.
‘He needed to,’ said the priest. ‘Saving himself wasn’t as important as saving everyone else.’
Victor frowned. ‘But they got away with it.’
‘At the time,’ said the priest, ‘but ultimately not.’
‘There was no revenge,’ said Victor.
‘No.’
‘Then they got away with it.’
The priest explained again what he believed, and the core tenets of his faith. Victor listened to the priest justify why Jesus let his tormentors do what they did. If he had the power to stop it, why didn’t he? Victor loved stories, but this one didn’t make sense, and it angered him.
The priest continued. ‘Forgiveness, child, is one of his messages. Do you understand?’ He said it in a way that suggested it should be obvious – that by questioning it, Victor was naive, or worse, stupid.
Victor told him what he thought. He was disgusted by the story and the message it tried to send. The priest was stunned and tried to object. He gave Victor a lecture on forgiveness, repeating that it was the only way to salvation.
Victor was quick to anger. To suggest he should forgive his captors, his tormentors and torturers was tantamount to saying that what they did was OK, that they shouldn’t be punished. His voice wavered and he shouted. He vented his anger and cursed the priest for being so weak, then sent him away with a mind full of instruction: to stop what he did and demolish the house in which he stood.
The priest backed away, his mind damaged, for Victor was careless in his anger. He’d taken control of the man in a rage and his instructions were confused and contradictory. Victor left the church, the priest kneeling on the stone floor, sobbing, pleading with Victor not to make him do the things he asked.
Victor spat his forgiveness at the priest and never went back to the church. He was thankful though. It had given him purpose, although perhaps not the purpose the priest would have liked.
A few weeks later Victor pulled out his last souvenir of the orphanage. The sheets were crumpled and yellow, torn at the edges, but the ink was still legible. A list of his captors and tormentors. Victor smiled for the first time since he’d walked away from the truck as a child, the snow blasting in his face.
Tomorrow he’d go back to the library. He had research to do.
Victor did have people to forgive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Victor was free, yet he dreamed of captivity and his youth. He dreamed of the discovery, all those years ago, of his own particular brand of forgiveness. Forgiveness of those who had sinned against him, forgiveness of everyone who stood in his way.
He’d begun his story, but already hurdles were being raised to trip him. He cursed the God he didn’t believe in, and the dead priest who had guided his hand. He cursed those in the prison who forced memories of his childhood captivity.
As he stared at the man in front of him, the prison guard he’d compelled to assist in his escape, he cursed again. The man was coming out of his trance naturally. Victor didn’t have the energy to keep him deep under – his head was thumping – and there was no need. The man was bound and gagged and wasn’t going anywhere fast. The guard had been useful, to a point.
Victor had followed the guard out of the prison exit then forced him to drive for several miles until they entered the sprawling suburbs. He picked a street at random, then a house. A bungalow, belonging to an old lady who answered the door with a scowl on her face.
‘I don’t buy anything at the door,’ she said. ‘Even religion.’
She wouldn’t buy anything ever again, not after Victor forced her into the kitchen with his words, tied and gagged her and told her to lie on the floor. She choked on the rag he forced to the back of her mouth and stopped breathing a few minutes later.
Victor stared at the small body, hating himself for it, but knowing it was necessary. He couldn’t let the guilt in. He had a job to do and she was an unfortunate consequence. There would be more. She’d start to smell soon, and then the flies would come, black swarms of them to finish her off. Not for a couple of days though. He still had some time.
The guard’s car had been discarded several miles away. Victor had driven it himself and trudged back, his head worsening by the minute and his gut aching with acid. He paused to vomit and the feeling passed. His worry was put to one side as he focused on the task at hand.
Victor sifted through the guard’s belongings. He found a mobile phone with an HMP logo stamped on the back. He pulled out the SIM card and stamped on the phone until it was dead. He found another phone with no official logos on it tucked into the man’s pocket. It was unlocked so Victor reset and pocketed it.
Penknife, baton and belt were the only other useful items. He put them to one side and stared at the pathetic body of the man whose job it was to keep him caged like an animal, denied his liberty, and for what? They’d never understand, people like this. They pretended they did – this guard had even smiled and talked to him, before all communication had been banned.
The guard was coming round and his eyes opened, blinking and darting. He tried to understand his situation, lying on the floor, unable to move. His body twitched and he yanked his arms, struggling harder as panic took him.
Victor leaned forwards and sniffed. Detergent, or starch. What was it the orderlies used on the clothes after they boiled them? The smell clouded his thoughts and took him back. The dormitory, the laundry room, the weekly change of bleached fabric, thrown at them from the doorway. It sometimes burned the young children’s skin. Unrinsed by mistake, or perhaps on purpose. It was another tool they used, those men and women of the orphanage, when the fear wasn’t enough. Was it never enough?
Victor leaned back and watched. He didn’t have the energy to force this one under again, not if he wanted to get moving with his other plans. Instead he hoped for a more traditional method. He searched in the kitchen, raking through the cupboards, throwing tins and packets of food on to the floor. The plates followed but the cupboards were soon empty. Upstairs, he found what he wanted. In the cabinet on the wall with the mirror and sliding doors were four packets of propranolol. The old lady had a heart condition. Not any more. He took them downstairs, retrieved a bowl from the floor, and emptied them into it.
On the garish green rug, in front of an ageing gas fire, Victor forced one hundred pills into the guard’s mouth, making him swallow them in retches and gulps. He poured water into the guard’s mouth periodically, ensuring the medication found its way into his stomach, then his bloodstream.
It didn’t take long. While Victor’s headache began to subside, the guard’s heart began to fail. Erratic at first and with visible symptoms, the most obvious being his irregular breathing. He gasped and wheezed for twenty minutes before heavy convulsions racked his body. Victor watched on in fascination while the guard struggled, writhing on the floor. A wallet fell from a trouser pocket and Victor picked it up. He flicked through the contents – cash cards and loose change – wondering why the guard wanted life so badly. A photo poked out at him: a photograph of a young girl and a woman. Victor plucked it out, turning it in his fingers. The woman and child were smiling, innocence captured in a single moment. When the guard saw the photo his struggle increased. He kicked and moaned. Victor stared through the child in the photo before crumpling the thin card in his fist and throwing it into the gas fire.
The guard’s eyes pleaded.
‘Te iert.’ Victor whispered forgiveness as he blocked out the sobs and gasps. The guard should know it wouldn’t help. It never helped. Begging got you more punishment and more chores. It meant you were moved up the list, and if you were physically able, put on the stronger medications.
No, it wouldn’t do. Victor told the guard as much. But it was right to forgive him.
It took all the energy Victor had left to drag the body of the guard through the house, across the back garden and into the alleyway. There was a patch of scrub several houses away that would offer some cover. The man would be found soon – cats were fiendishly good at honing in on the scent of death. Dogs even better. But he wouldn’t be found for a while. And Victor didn’t need long.
He’d be starting tonight. And what he had in mind would be over quite soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was midnight. Victor watched the young carer from behind a large hydrangea bush at the side of the Georgian brick house. There were no blinds or curtains at the kitchen window. Everything was open to view.
The carer was female, perhaps early twenties. Pretty, with long blonde hair. Dressed in a T-shirt and short skirt, her feet were covered in thick woollen socks. She didn’t appear to have a boyfriend with her, which was fortunate.
Her skirt rode up as she reached for one of the kitchen cupboards. He bit his lip and could feel his heart rate increasing, but not because of her. At the same time a deep discomfort gnawed at his gut. Something felt wrong. He knew what he had to do, but she was so young, so innocent. She wasn’t part of his plan.
So what?
He watched the girl. His discomfort increased. Nausea and panic churning in his stomach, the acid seeping into his throat as blood pumped around his body.
She wasn’t in his plan.
The girl picked up a tray of food, balancing it in one hand as she turned off the kitchen light and walked through a door, out of sight. When he could no longer see her, the discomfort eased, fading into the background. The nausea subsided and his heart rate dropped. He felt calm again. He shook his head, disappointed at the distraction.
He pushed her out of his mind. He would leave her alone. He had to. She wasn’t the target. The target was upstairs. The owner of the house. The woman.
The doctor.
He approached the kitchen door, pulling out a small screwdriver. He was quick, jamming the lock, causing the door to creak open – a skill he’d been forced to learn in his younger years in Romania. He grabbed the handle and listened, picking up the faint sound of laughter through a set of expensive TV speakers. Good. The carer must be in the lounge. He hoped she wouldn’t come back again, distracting him. Confusing him.
His shoes were silent on the kitchen tiles. There were two doors off the kitchen – one towards the back of the house, living room and study. She was thro
ugh there; he could hear the TV. The other door led to the huge hallway and staircase.
At the top of the stairs he took several deep breaths and unslung the rucksack, preparing his equipment. Fourth doorway on the left.
There was no sound from the woman’s room and no light escaped under the door. He clasped the handle and turned, easing the door open just enough to slide his head in. It was a large bedroom with two wardrobes, a desk and a double bed in the middle, perpendicular to the doorway.
The woman lay on her side, facing away from him. The duvet rose and fell with her breathing. It was slow. She must be asleep.
He slipped the plastic bag out of his rucksack and opened it up, making it ready. She might wake up, and he didn’t want her screaming. She wasn’t allowed to scream; those were the rules for this one.
The moment was right. With three strides he reached the bed and slipped the bag over the woman’s head, down to her neck. There, he tightened and clamped the bag against her wrinkled skin, pulling it taut.
He straddled her body and waited the few moments it took for her body to register that something was wrong. The bag filled with breath and emptied again as she breathed back in. Her breathing became quicker as the carbon dioxide built up in her blood.
She woke up.
Victor climbed off and spoke into the woman’s ear, whispering a few words of comfort and a string of relaxing instructions.
Her breathing slowed and with both hands she reached for the bag. She felt around in the dim light and grasped the edge, pulling it above her eyes to her forehead. She turned and faced Victor, unable to hide her horror, but unable to move her body.
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