Trance

by Southward, Adam

  Their eyes met and held. In that moment he saw the loss, the sorrow and the regret. A single tear ran down her cheek, drawing a line in the dust. She mouthed the words to him, ‘I’m sorry,’ before wiping the tear away and raising her voice.

  ‘Leave!’ she shouted at Alex, grabbing Victor under one arm. Freak grabbed the other.

  ‘Leave, and don’t look back.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Alex closed his eyes and willed sleep, but it eluded him. His mind wasn’t ready to relax and neither was his body. He ached, but his muscles twitched and he couldn’t get comfortable. Stretching didn’t help. His head was foggy and hazy. Whenever he tried to shut off, the visions hit him, and they woke him with a start.

  He saw images, floating, of a woman. He could make out her eyes but nothing more. They were deep, but terrifying. The more he searched, the more he became aware they were searching for him in return. They reached into his soul and pushed it down, warning him to stay away.

  After a few hours Alex could take no more. He grabbed the plastic cup from the bedside table and emptied the water into his mouth. Glancing over, he watched Grace and Katie.

  Katie had her own hospital bed – her physical wounds were superficial but the trauma was real. She’d been there, next to him, ever since they’d arrived in hospital. Sedated, but only mildly. The doctors said it would be useful to get her through the first few days. Until he and Grace recovered enough to look after her.

  Grace had insisted on staying in hospital too. She had no physical injuries of her own, but as Katie’s mother, the doctors didn’t object. She wasn’t medicated, but the offer was there. Alex knew the mental wounds would take a long time to heal. He hadn’t even attempted to discuss their experience yet. His relief at discovering Grace alive was all he needed for now. That and Katie by his side.

  Five days, so far. Five days of hospital and police interrogations, following their ordeal at the abandoned site of St Joseph’s orphanage in Battersea. During those five days, Alex had tried to piece together the chain of events – what exactly had happened to him and his family after he had left his house and driven to Battersea, abandoning his Alfa in the middle of the road. Everything went dark after that.

  The Alfa, as luck would have it, had been reported within thirty minutes, tagged outside the orphanage by a passing police patrol. It was unusual for such a valuable classic car to be sitting there in the middle of the road. By the time the police had realised the significance of the vehicle and connected it with Alex, and then with DCI Hartley’s case, nearly an hour had passed. Alex was glad they hadn’t arrived sooner.

  He wanted more water but the jug was empty. He considered calling for a nurse but thought it would be lazy. For he wasn’t injured either. Physically and mentally, he felt as solid as he’d ever been.

  But they wouldn’t discharge him. They wouldn’t discharge any of them.

  PTSD was the first diagnosis he’d heard, whispered by a young psych to the matron, when they thought he was asleep. He knew they were wrong. Katie, perhaps, might suffer such effects. It was too early to tell. She was young enough to receive the right help and get through things. Alex knew what the plan would be for her, and he didn’t object, apart from a few details, which puzzled him.

  Grace’s condition and treatment hadn’t been discussed with him other than when he asked her directly. They weren’t married any more and it wasn’t his business. Grace was distant, but not hostile. Her eyes were tired and full of fear, but she was tough. She’d had to be, dealing with Alex and his behaviour. Her terrifying experience at the hands of Victor would leave a unique stamp in her memories, but Alex hoped no lasting damage was done. Victor had not hurt her in that way. He didn’t know why. Perhaps all of Victor’s hate was directed elsewhere.

  Alex did know, when it came to PTSD, that he was suffering no such thing. He was an expert, after all, which he told the consulting psychiatrist repeatedly. They assured him he would be fully consulted on all of their thoughts and plans, but he knew it was a lie, because he’d been in the other chair in similar situations before. The patient rarely knows best when it comes to psychological trauma.

  The doctors concerned him, but it was the whispers and hurried meetings with police that gave rise to his anger and confusion. The police agreed with the doctors – all three of the Madison family would stay in ‘for observation’ until further notice. It was not a request, and Alex saw – even though he suspected he shouldn’t have – the police officers standing guard outside, changing shifts, glancing into the room with the three beds and no other patients.

  Alex had shown his anger at first, but then relented. Although confusion reigned, he was overjoyed to have Katie and Grace with him and safe, so he tried to forgive the furore and the misunderstandings.

  Hartley visited every day. Alex was pleased at first, but it rapidly became tiresome as Hartley’s motivation revealed itself. She might be concerned for Alex’s wellbeing, but her primary aim was not in ensuring Alex’s recovery.

  Hartley asked the same questions, every day. And every day she was dissatisfied with Alex’s answers, to the point where she shouted, stood and paced. Her frustration was ushered out of the door by the nurses and their matron, who suggested she return another time, minus her temper.

  Alex, for the life of him, did not understand the source of Hartley’s frustration, and tried to be as helpful as possible. He told Hartley what he remembered, what had happened.

  What he knew to be the truth.

  Victor had taken Katie. Had Hartley stopped this? No, she hadn’t, and so Alex had little choice but to slip his guard and do what Victor wanted. He had headed to the location he’d been given – the orphanage in Battersea – to offer Victor his life for his daughter. What choice did he have? Calling the police would have been too risky. Victor might have panicked. Katie might have been hurt. Hartley nodded at all of this. She agreed it was the truth.

  But Alex’s recollection after this point became hazy, although he was clear on the main details. Victor held Katie at knifepoint in a derelict room of the building. He remembered only too well, for it still caused his heart to miss a beat, seeing his daughter captive, panicking, and at the mercy of a psychopath.

  What had they spoken about? He couldn’t remember. It was a high-stress situation. Of course he couldn’t remember every word. Victor had blamed Alex. He blamed Alex’s father, and he blamed the others. He was full of hate and desperation. Alex had talked to him, reasoned with him, but to no avail.

  Victor got spooked and fled, taking Katie with him to one of the upper floors. Alex had given chase and confronted Victor. The man was sick, desperate – dying, by all appearances. He had reached the end and they both knew it. Victor had let Katie go and collapsed to the floor. Alex hadn’t stopped to help Victor – why should he? His first priority was Katie. The two of them had run down the flight of stairs, outside and into the street, straight into the path of the first responding police officers. Victor was left in the building, easy to recapture.

  Where was Victor now? Why had Victor let them go? Hartley couldn’t understand it.

  But he was sick; he looked pale and pasty, sweaty and feverish. He knew it was over. In his final moments, he relented. His anger had been misplaced anyway; he saw it was the right thing to do.

  That’s not what happened, insisted Hartley.

  Grace had been found an hour later, huddled on her kitchen floor. She was out of her trance, but too weak to move, in shock and with mild dehydration. The paramedics had brought her in and the hospital psych spent some time with her, helping her recover from her confused state. Grace remembered little about her encounter, and Alex urged them not to push her. It would come out, in time. Physically she’d recover quickly. Mentally, she had an expert on hand to help.

  Hartley pinched the bridge of her nose and repeated the questions again, phrased differently, in a different order. Alex gave the same answers.

  A different inspector arrived
on day four. A man, older, sterner and more abrupt. Hartley accompanied him for the first round of questions, then left him to it. He had no personal connection to Alex and was ruder, less compromising. Alex knew the man didn’t believe him but he didn’t know why.

  He told his story to the nurse and to the psychiatrist who was tasked with the psych evaluation. He didn’t understand why his explanation was causing so much trouble.

  No, he repeated until he was blue in the face, there was no one else there. It was Victor, Katie and me. It was an abandoned orphanage. Besides, who else knew about Victor? Only the police.

  Knife? Yes, there had been a knife. He didn’t know what had happened to it. Didn’t the police find it? If not, why not?

  And that was what troubled Alex the most. That was what caused the confusion to spiral into anger. That was what caused him to call out for Xanax – which he was being refused – and caused the sleepless nights.

  The police had failed to catch Victor. He wasn’t there.

  They had searched the building, the block, even a five-mile radius. The first responders were bolstered by a fresh wave of specialists. Forensics were early on the scene, and so were a bunch of suits. They were all too late. Victor had fled. Once again, he was a fugitive.

  But Alex felt, deep down, that something was missing. He didn’t admit this to anyone, for he worried it would affect his chances of being listened to and reasoned with. But Hartley was right about something. Alex tried to remember the last few minutes with Victor, but whenever he tried to picture Victor in the orphanage, either in the squat room downstairs, or upstairs in the dining hall, he became confused. The mental image blurred. He was dizzy. His head swam and his ears popped.

  He was sure that was where he’d last seen Victor. Wasn’t he?

  He spoke to Grace and Katie, late in the evenings when the police and medical staff were reduced in numbers and busy on other things. Their stories corroborated his. Katie was still shocked and sedated, and couldn’t recall what building she was in, but she was clear: Victor had released her. No, there was nobody else there. Like who? Of course she would have remembered.

  After Katie went to sleep, Alex painstakingly walked Grace through the case so far – Victor’s history, why he was involved. Grace sat patiently and listened, interrupting only when Alex skipped over certain details. For example, he neglected to talk about his drugs, or his first trance under Victor’s control. Otherwise though, he was straight with her. He didn’t bother considering confidentiality. Not after what had happened. Grace could keep a secret.

  ‘Who is Sophie?’ Grace had said, on the second or third day.

  Alex thought long and hard. He didn’t know a Sophie. He asked why she mentioned it.

  ‘Hartley keeps talking about Sophie,’ she said. ‘To me. She asks if I ever met her. She says you worked with this woman at the prison.’

  Alex frowned. ‘I’m sure I’d remember,’ he’d answered, and no more was said on the matter.

  But it troubled him. The missing details, the fragments of memory, the behaviour of the police. He studied his own behaviour but could find no inconsistencies.

  But his condition worsened.

  Not in waking hours, but at night, when he tried to sleep. He thought of those moments at the orphanage and the name Sophie, and he let his mind wander. It conjured up images of darkness, wisps, fragments, but nothing substantial. He called the nurse and he spoke to Grace. They both suggested Alex should get more rest.

  Sophie, whoever she was, had gone missing the same day as Katie’s kidnap. Hartley described matters with obvious care, her eyes working on Alex’s face, looking for a reaction. The woman worked for the prison, that much had been confirmed, although, much to Hartley’s frustration, hardly anyone there remembered her either.

  Whitemoor’s governor said Sophie worked in Robert’s office, but Robert was unavailable for comment. Within days of Victor’s escape Robert had spiralled into severe anxiety and panic disorder. His wife had found him at the weekend, confused and incoherent, babbling ‘Thirteen’ into his pillow. He was now under the care of his own mental health team and signed off indefinitely.

  One of the guards said he thought he knew the name Sophie, but he might have her confused with another agency worker.

  There was no doubt she existed. Hartley had requested CCTV footage from HMP Whitemoor and satisfied herself. But she didn’t get much more than that. Whoever Sophie was, she hadn’t left much of a mark. They were tracing her through the academic exchange programme, but that would take time, and they weren’t holding out much hope.

  Hartley stressed over and again that Alex must remember Sophie, but her frustration became too loud. She said Sophie was a suspect. Dr Petri was dead. The nurses urged Hartley not to press the issue. Alex apologised but remembered nothing.

  The conclusion, if tentative, was that if Alex was suppressing memory, it was a defence mechanism driven by trauma. He needed time, the doctors ruled. Hartley and her team, with a great degree of frustration, withdrew.

  All of this was a puzzle, and it concerned Alex, but he didn’t let it overwhelm him. He recalled enough about his case to know he’d had a lucky escape. Katie was safe, which was all he truly cared about. He and Grace spoke into the early hours and he saw that the spark in her eyes hadn’t been extinguished. When she looked at him he felt the tug at his heart. He knew he loved her still, and he knew what he wanted. He didn’t ask if it was possible, but the moments they shared reminded him of the millions of moments they’d shared years ago, before he’d screwed it all up.

  He hoped, and he could see that Grace shared that hope. His family was back together in this room, just the three of them. He dreamed it could continue beyond the hospital ward.

  Would Victor come back? It was possible, but Alex didn’t think so. Victor’s last act was in St Joseph’s. Whatever his choices and motivations from this point on, Alex felt oddly certain he was safe, that Victor Lazar would never darken his future again.

  He watched Grace and Katie, listening to the ever-permeating noise of a hospital at night. Beeps and hisses, footsteps and shouts. A door closed along the corridor and a trolley knocked into the wall. A nurse laughed and a child cried. It all faded as sleep finally found him.

  Alex dreamed again that night. He dreamed of a beautiful woman, dark and tall, lithe and sensual. She excited him and made him nervous. She approached his bed and whispered in his ear in a foreign tongue, then fell away laughing. She was familiar. Alex knew her, but he’d never remember her again. She put a finger to her lips to silence him, touched him softly on the cheek, and waved goodbye.

  Don’t dream too hard, she said, as she disappeared into the mist. It will be better for you, and the family who love you. Trust me.

  Some things are best forgotten.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing Trance was a hugely challenging and rewarding experience, made possible by a select few, influenced by a great many. I thank them all.

  The groundwork laid by my parents should be up first. My childhood was a delightful and nurturing experience and, importantly, full of books. Being born to a teacher and an editor was enormous good fortune, and I really can’t take all the credit. I’m still not convinced my semicolon usage is correct, but they tried their hardest. Having a seriously bright older sister helped too – a lot of her influence found its way to me during my early years, as well as the contents of her bookshelves. Thank you to Mum, Dad and Lucy.

  A generation on, my wife and daughters provide the rock from which I launch myself every day. My writing is possible only because they tolerate my long hours in the study as I tap away, pausing only to stare blankly at whoever dares enter. My family provide me with the constant inspiration, fun, love and understanding necessary to propel me through from first draft to finished product. Thank you to Kerry, Isla and Daisy.

  But a finished manuscript is never finished. When I thought it was, things got serious, albeit in a wonderfully exciting way. My a
gent, Julie Fergusson, took a gamble on me and I’m eternally grateful she did. Julie worked tirelessly to get Trance publication-ready, providing all the guidance and expertise a top agent should. It paid off, so thank you, Julie.

  Finally, in the hands of my publisher, my good luck continued with Thomas & Mercer. Jack Butler and the Amazon team (Laura, Martin, Monica, Shona, Emma and Bethan, among others) threw their substantial skills and experience behind Trance and managed to make every stage of publication professional, exciting and, above all, fun. They are a delight to work with and I couldn’t ask for more.

  Thank you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Adam Southward is a philosophy graduate with a professional background in IT, working in both publishing and the public sector. He lives on the south coast of England with his young family.