Trance

by Southward, Adam

  ‘Suicides?’

  ‘I can’t tell you over the phone, that’s why I need you back here.’

  Alex glanced at Sophie, who was watching his face. When she heard the word ‘suicides’ her expression changed. Her shoulders tensed and he saw the muscles in her face clench, her jaw go rigid. The relaxed Sophie had disappeared in an instant to be replaced with her former self. As Alex talked she looked at both palms, turning her hands over and examining her fingernails. She clenched two fists then relaxed them again. Her legs shuffled nervously.

  Alex looked at his watch again. ‘I guess we could get a late flight out?’ He said this more as a question to Sophie, who paused before sliding off the bed to find her phone. A flicker of frustration crossed her face as she searched the airline website, but after a few moments, she nodded and mouthed ‘Eleven p.m.’

  ‘We’ll be back in the UK early morning,’ Alex said to Hartley. ‘I’ll call you then.’ He hung up.

  Sophie stared at her own phone for a moment before she stood, still naked, to gather her clothes.

  Alex turned away, searching for his own. An awkward few minutes passed as they dressed in silence. ‘We’d better get our stuff together,’ he said, pausing at the foot of the bed.

  Sophie came up next to him. She placed her hand on his chest, her eyes searching his face. ‘I don’t regret it, Alex,’ she said. ‘If that’s what you think, you’re wrong.’

  Alex shook his head. ‘I—’

  ‘But we must go,’ she said, turning away. She started throwing her few belongings into her suitcase. ‘We’ll talk later, I promise, when we get back to England.’

  Alex let it go. There was something not quite right, something he was missing, but it must wait. They’d both stepped over the line, for better or worse, and it would run its course one way or another.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Alex ran his finger over the handle of his coffee cup. His heartbeat was a slow thud and his eyes were blurred. It was 5 a.m., the earliest he could get to HMP Whitemoor. Sophie was with him, slouched in a chair. She looked exhausted. Neither of them had managed to get any sleep.

  Hartley looked expectant after Alex had given her a fuller account of their visit to the university in Bucharest. He’d forwarded some of the photographed copies of the documents by email, showing Hartley the other sheets now. She scanned the hastily scribbled translations by Dr Petri, putting the rest to one side.

  ‘The lasting damage would of course depend on the nature of the experiments,’ continued Alex, ‘but these findings are damning. Victor was made this way. For lack of a better term, this is mind control, created through extreme drug and conditioning therapy. A cruel and irresponsible practice, and for what end? Some of the reports talked of unfortunate events. The translations of the others would no doubt reveal more.’

  He paused to sip his coffee. ‘That’s it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Does Dr Petri know you’re back here?’ said Hartley.

  ‘I left a message. He wasn’t picking up – but it was the middle of the night. I’ll try him again later today. I wanted to see him after his meeting with his chancellor.’

  ‘And that’s important to you, I understand. But, and forgive my bluntness, all I want to know is whether this gives us motive and targets – more targets, I should say.’

  ‘Of course it gives you motive,’ said Alex. ‘The man was abused for years at the hands of the very people entrusted to protect and nurture him. He was an orphan, for Christ’s sake. More than that, abuse by clinicians ranks as one of the worst abuses of power you can possibly achieve.

  ‘Victor is driven by hatred, revenge and whatever damage was inflicted on him. He’s far worse, in a clinical sense, than a psychopath. He’s unclassifiable. I don’t understand what brutal conditioning he was put through, but we should consider him deranged and unpredictable, and he has an incredible talent that he will use to exact his revenge. He has the ability to change people forever and they might not even know it.’

  Hartley sighed long and hard. She pinched the bridge of her nose. Her clenched jaw revealed the face of a woman under pressure.

  ‘As for the targets – you have the papers. You have names,’ said Alex.

  Hartley nodded. ‘We’ve already matched some of them.’ Their eyes met. ‘Your connection to Southampton was corroborated,’ she said, ‘assuming this isn’t all fabricated. Both Professor Florin and Professor Dumitru were mentioned in the accounts Dr Petri unearthed. There are more.’ She reached for her bag and pulled out her phone. She sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, then swiped through some emails. ‘I’ve been assigned two murder cases. The ones I mentioned on the phone. Separate, but connected. We’ve had confirmation of the victims’ identities.’

  Alex glanced at Sophie. Her face was blank, closed.

  ‘Dr Emily Stevenson and Professor Nathan Peers. Both identified from the photo. She’d aged a lot, but it was her.’

  ‘The circumstances,’ said Alex. ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Yes, but we have witnesses from both.’

  ‘And what did they see?’

  Hartley cleared her throat and flicked through some notes on her phone.

  ‘The first – a carer employed by Professor Stevenson. She was also attacked, we assume by Victor, but left alive.’ She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Attacked how?’ said Alex.

  ‘Well, that’s the weird bit. She was beaten and left unconscious. Left for dead.’

  ‘That’s not Victor’s MO,’ said Alex. ‘He’s not a physical man. Why didn’t he control her?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Hartley. ‘She’s traumatised. The fact we got a statement from her at all is a miracle.’

  Alex muttered under his breath. ‘But why—’

  ‘He came at me but his eyes were strange,’ read Hartley from the witness statement. ‘He looked surprised. He kept repeating something, over and over, but I was screaming, I couldn’t help it, and I couldn’t hear what he was saying.’

  Alex raised his eyebrows. Hartley nodded.

  ‘And the professor?’

  ‘Suffocated herself with a plastic bag. At least that’s what the pathologist said. She didn’t quite believe it – says it’s impossible to kill yourself like that. You can’t grip hard enough, not once your oxygen drops below a certain level.’

  They shared a glance.

  ‘And the other one?’

  Hartley described the scene to Alex and Sophie. ‘We barely got a statement. The wife claims she witnessed a man entering her bedroom, who handed her husband a knife. She watched him stab himself twice before collapsing.’

  ‘When did these happen?’ Alex had his eyes closed and was trying to contain the anxiety. The waves of it were increasing. He’d need more Xanax within the hour.

  ‘Both in the last three days.’

  ‘But no positive ID of Victor.’

  ‘Nothing definite. And no DNA.’ Hartley narrowed her eyes before flicking through more notes on her phone.

  Alex leaned back, stretching his arms, trying to slow his breathing. He wondered where Robert was. The man had been acting increasingly erratically. The stress of this case was evident from the start, but Robert seemed overly vulnerable. Alex wondered if he should have mentioned it to the CPS, who could have had a word with the prison governor. But it was probably too late now. The police would lead on Victor, and Robert could take a back seat. Even more of a back seat than he had already.

  ‘Does the description match for both?’ he said to Hartley.

  Hartley shrugged. ‘Male, slight build, anywhere between five foot six and five foot ten. It was dark in both cases. We showed the witnesses photos of Victor but they couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘So you don’t know if it’s the same person.’

  ‘The carer heard him speak. We can’t be sure about the second, but who else has motive?’

  There was a silence while each of them considered the implications.

  Hartley s
poke first. ‘We must assume this is Victor. Do you agree?’

  Nods all around.

  Alex glanced at Sophie. She was staring at her feet and didn’t look up. Her eyes were bloodshot. Just tiredness. Perhaps.

  ‘We must work on the assumption he’s going after anybody involved with his childhood. Anybody linked to the orphanage and his time there.’

  ‘Which is why I wanted you back here.’ Hartley scratched her head, then picked at her fingernails. ‘We’re struggling to match anyone, or track them down. The dean of King’s emphatically denied knowing any of the people in the photo. He circulated it to his management team and they all agreed. Their position is anybody could buy a lab coat with their logo on it, even thirty years ago. Some post-docs did just to impress colleagues. We’ve put an email out to psychology faculties in every university in the UK. So far, all deny knowing anything about any programmes in Romania.’

  Alex raised his eyebrows. Could he blame them? Who involved in such a hideous – not to mention illegal – programme would own up to it? ‘They’ll know their lives are in danger, the people involved. Admit it or die.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Hartley. ‘That’s not what they’re doing though. There are twelve people in the photo, but the only ones we can identify are the four who are dead.’ She left the number hanging. Eight more murders was not an outcome anybody was willing to comprehend.

  Alex examined the photo, feeling the thick paper, rough with age. The faded faces stared back at him, blank and sinister. These were men and women of science who had chosen a particular path. What caused people to pursue a goal even after the boundaries were broken and the consequences known? What pushed them to immoral and unforgivable experimentation on human subjects – and children at that?

  The man at the back of the photo with bushy hair . . . The memory teased at the edge of his thoughts. Where had he seen him before? The lab coats were standard, but the particular cut and trim was niggling at him.

  Alex had his own whites, of course, from his training and clinical days. Hung somewhere in his wardrobe, he doubted he’d ever wear them again. Not if he could help it. It reminded him too much of his hospital days, when his teachers and mentors led and he followed, through the depths of the wards and the humans who inhabited them, if only for a short time.

  The photo reflected the light overhead and he tilted it in his hands. The man’s face was humourless, but friendly. He held his chin to one side, not just for photos. Alex had seen him do it before. ‘Him,’ he said.

  Hartley frowned. ‘What?’

  Alex tapped the photo. ‘This man . . .’

  ‘Who is he?’ said Hartley, flicking though her notepad.

  ‘I don’t know his name, but I know somebody who does. Can you give me a day?’

  Hartley narrowed her eyes. ‘If you have an idea, I need to hear it.’

  ‘Nothing concrete,’ said Alex, swallowing. He was starting to feel nauseous. He needed to get out of there. ‘I need to speak to somebody. It may be nothing.’

  Sophie gave him a piercing stare but Alex held his tongue.

  He wanted to be sure before sharing the revelation he’d just had.

  Alex stood in the corridor, checking over his shoulder, anxious not to be overheard. He checked the time on his phone before he dialled. It was mid-afternoon and he hoped they were in. One of them would be, for sure.

  ‘Alex.’ His father’s voice boomed down the line.

  ‘Dad,’ said Alex.

  ‘Another call so soon,’ said his father. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  His father’s voice was still firm, but Alex detected a change in pitch. A slight catch in the throat that betrayed him.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were connected to this, Dad?’ said Alex. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were in Romania?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Elena was pretty. She was thirteen when Victor was eleven. They played together. She taught him tic-tac-toe. He looked up to her. She was one of the nice ones. Not like the boys. She was his first, after the treatment. It took several tries, but on the fifth attempt he did it.

  She hanged herself from the swing set in the yard, just as he’d asked her to. It was his task, after all, and he would be punished until he succeeded. He still bore the scars on the soles of his feet from the beatings. Every night before bed, ten whacks with the bar. Heels mostly, but sometimes the arches. It meant he often crawled for days. The pain was terrible, but it faded in contrast to the other things. But it was her or him, at least that’s what he told himself. He’d even resigned himself to death, not believing he could do it. But he did.

  Repeatedly, over a period of several weeks, he whispered and let the words lie. At first his technique was poor, but he listened to the doctors and the therapists. He moulded the words into the poetry required to grab hold of her. And once he took hold, she had lost.

  They found her in the morning. Her younger sister woke everyone with her screams. She vomited on the playground floor and was dragged away and beaten. Victor appeared with the others to stare at the limp, lifeless body of Elena, hanging by the rope he’d given her.

  He’d won. She’d lost. That was the game.

  There was no respect for what he’d done. The other children looked at him with empty eyes and hollow souls, knowing it could have been him up there, swinging with a white face and swollen purple lips.

  He’d won, she’d lost, but the pain never stopped flowing.

  Victor opened his eyes and rubbed away the fading image with his fists before sitting up and reaching for his glasses.

  His mind was clearer today. The confusion that had reigned for many days was subsiding. To do what he was doing with such regularity was killing him. The sheer effort involved, to reach out and plant such a toxic seed, was the reserve of only the most talented and the most trustworthy. Victor had achieved such status before he left Comăneşti, and once learned the skill never left him. Victor could do what most of the other children could not, and his ability had festered and grown throughout the years.

  It had drained him so much he’d been powerless for days. It caused the elephants to stampede in his skull. It caused fever and delusions, and it caused him to hear the screams of the dead.

  Or were they his screams?

  The pain would continue, for those who deserved it. The pain would be appropriate to their particular involvement.

  The next one would pay for Elena. The doctor would feel what it was like for the young girl to lose her mind and lose her soul. To commit suicide, not because she wanted to, but because she had no choice, no control, and no other possible outcome.

  It was simpler this way. Suicide was easy. To whisper across the void and watch while the other person lost control. To stay and pick up any stray thoughts was important. More than once a trance hadn’t taken hold, and the subject had escaped, only to be driven insane by the messages dancing in their head. Many children had thrown themselves at the mercy of the doctors, pleading for the voices to stop. Unable to kill themselves and unable to continue living. An outcome as bad as death, for they never recovered. Those children were taken to the mountains. The echo of the gunshots lingered in his head, even now.

  The stampede came on in waves. He laid his head back on the pillow, and made his plans.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The darkness was cold that night. It seeped through Victor’s skin and he shivered, swallowing to keep the nausea at bay. There were few cars on the roads at this time, and he made good progress across the city.

  He’d left his temporary lodgings behind and sought out a new place. Never stay in one squat too long – he’d learned to move fast in the first few months after escaping Comăneşti. He knew where he wanted to go next, and was pleased to find what he was looking for. The building was listed online, but was derelict and condemned. No matter. It would do for him, temporarily at least. The place held a certain fascination, even though it summoned memories best suppressed.
>
  He drove and he dreamed. He dreamed of the prison. He saw the other prisoners with their foul mouths and confrontational eyes. He saw them again, lying in their own blood. He allowed himself a brief smile before the image faded, to be replaced by a long corridor with a concrete floor. It was grey and smelled of bleach. He could hear shouts in the background, boys and girls in pain. He drifted along the corridor, stopping at a metal gate. A woman to his right looked at him and slapped him hard in the face. He turned to look but no matter how far he turned, her face was too far around to see. She said something and it made him shiver. He knew her and she knew him.

  The woman was gone and in her place somebody else stomped along beside him. Heavy footsteps and a jingling of metal, perhaps a keychain. A muffled voice whispered before the footsteps faded away into the distance, leaving him alone, facing a single grey metal door. It looked like the door to the medical room.

  The hairs on his neck prickled as he touched the door. It was cold and smooth. It wouldn’t move. He struggled, pushing it with both hands, but it remained locked and he didn’t know where the key was. He took his hands away and closed his eyes.

  The sirens woke him from his daydream.

  His heart stopped and he straightened in the car seat as the blue lights appeared, flashing in his rear-view mirror. He held his breath long enough for the single police car and fire engine to overtake him and speed off into the night. His heart recovered, back to its thumping, reverberating around his skull like a kettle drum.

  The car he’d stolen from the old lady worked well, but if the police were looking they’d find it. Although he’d made some minor alterations, swapping the number plates with a different car, it was a poor disguise and wouldn’t last. He gulped with relief.

  He slowed and stopped the car near the playground under a large oak tree, shielding it from the nearby lamp post, which was bright, despite the misty air. He checked his watch. Good. Two thirty-seven. Plenty of time.

  He dragged the sleeping body of Professor Branson from the boot of the car across several feet of damp grass before dropping her on the soft surface of the playground. He went back for the rope and his bag. He touched the ground with his hands, marvelling at the forgiving rubber. It was an alien scene, for he’d never experienced a playground like this as a child. People will do anything to protect their children, he thought as he stood staring at the metal frame of the swings. Except for some children, who were forsaken before they ever set foot in a playground.