by Mark Morris
‘What?’
‘Cheap and tarty.’
She looked at me again – properly looked at me this time – and despite the fact that she was a little drunk, I saw intelligence, shrewdness and humour in her eyes. ‘Do you really?’ she asked.
‘Yes I do.’
And that was how it started. At the end of the evening Lyn wrote her phone number in bruise-red lipstick on the inside of my forearm and made me promise to call her.
2003, that was. June. I was twenty-six years old and two months out of prison. I had a master’s degree in psychology and had enrolled in teacher training college. I’d been told that because of my criminal record it was ‘unlikely’ I would ever be allowed to work with impressionable minors, but that – depending on how ‘enlightened’ my potential employers were – there was a possibility I might eventually find work in further or adult education. I knew it was going to be tough, but I was optimistic and determined. And on the night I met Lyn, in a packed pub called The Punch and Judy in Covent Garden, I was still reeling with joy at the sheer novelty of being able to do my own thing for the first time in over six years – of being able to go where I wanted to go, to eat what I wanted to eat, of simply being able to stand under a vast open sky, and to walk for miles and miles.
Those first few years with Lyn were the happiest of my life. We were ridiculously loved up, soppy for each other; she was my soulmate, or so I believed. Her dad, Terry, owned an accommodation agency and fixed us up with a nice little flat in Shepherd’s Bush, just round the corner from the Empire. He was a good bloke, Lyn’s dad. Originally from Plymouth, he talked with a West Country drawl that made him sound like a bumpkin, even though he was anything but.
When Lyn told me she was pregnant in November 2006 I thought my life was complete. By this time I had gained my level 4 further education teaching certificate, and was teaching night classes four evenings a week and loving it.
I can’t remember exactly when Lyn started cutting herself, but it must have been around May or June of 2007. She started on the backs of her wrists, and then moved on to her upper arms and thighs. Round about the same time, or maybe just before that, came the nightmares and the sleepwalking. Lyn could never remember the full details, but she became convinced that someone was watching her, someone who wanted to harm her baby. She talked about ‘the dark man’, or sometimes ‘the man from the shadows’, but whenever I asked her to elaborate she became confused and upset. Doctors put it down to depression, hormonal imbalance, and the first few times I took her to A&E after she had slashed her arms, they simply patched her up, gave her some anti-depressants and sent her back home.
Hoping that the doctors were right and that her increasing instability was nothing but a temporary aberration, I watched her like a hawk, but it was impossible to keep tabs on her 24/7. I had my teaching job to do in the evenings, plus I admit to becoming complacent at times. Interspersed with the bouts of self-mutilation and paranoia would be periods where Lyn would become more or less her old self – loving, rational, normal. When this happened I would breathe a sigh of relief and hope that this time the doctors had got her medication right and that the worst was over.
It all came to a head one Sunday morning maybe six or seven weeks before Kate was due. Leaving Lyn dozing in a warm bath, steam curling from her scarred, pink, shiny-wet body, I popped down to the corner shop for bread, milk and a paper. Apart from a couple of bad dreams, she had been relatively stable for the past week or ten days, and I thought she’d be fine for ten minutes. Despite the tightly stretched dome of her belly, I remember looking at her lying in the bath and thinking how vulnerable she looked, how childlike. She had tied up her blonde hair loosely, and trailing strands of it were clinging to her neck. Bobbing above the water, her nipples had become so dark during her pregnancy that they resembled twin islands in a milky sea.
I kissed her forehead and asked her if she would be all right. She grunted and half-nodded, as if she was mostly asleep and dreaming.
When I got back ten minutes later the flat was silent. Although it’s almost certainly hindsight, I recall thinking it was an odd sort of silence, the silence of a child who has broken his mum’s favourite vase and is waiting in fear for the repercussions.
‘Lyn?’ I called, taking off my jacket and hanging it up. It was then I noticed the small, wet footprints. They led from the bathroom, across the wooden floor of the landing to our bedroom, and back again, crossing over at several points.
I called her name a second time, my heartbeat accelerating. Then, telling myself I was over-reacting, I put the milk, bread and paper on the floor by the front door and ran up the hall to the bathroom.
At first, when I shoved the door open, all I could see was blood. The vividness of it was like a slap in the face. There had been blood before, of course, every time Lyn had cut herself. But there was more of it this time – a whole bath full of it – and against the shiny white tiles of the little room it made more of an impact.
After the first shock my mind went into overdrive, taking in the details. I saw the twisted wire coat hanger on the floor, surrounded by spatters and spots of dark-red arterial blood; the wet footprints across the lino, into some of which more blood had seeped like a marbling of pale red veins; and I saw Lyn herself, lolling in a bath of water-diluted blood the colour of ripe tomatoes, her skin deathly grey, her mouth hanging wide and her eyes rolling beneath half-closed lids.
‘Jesus Christ, Lyn!’ I shouted. ‘What have you done?’
I scanned what I could see of her body above the red water, but there was no sign of any scratches or cuts. She had obviously used the coat hanger on herself, but I didn’t know how and where. Reluctant to drag her out of the bath in case it opened up any concealed wounds, I put my hand into the bloody water between her feet and yanked out the plug. As the water swirled away, exposing the rest of her body, I pulled out my mobile and rang for an ambulance.
It wasn’t until after I had rung off, and the water had almost drained away, that I could see what she had done to herself. Between her legs, beneath her swollen belly, was a torn mess of flesh, leaking a thick red ribbon of blood. I like to think I’ve got a pretty strong constitution, but at the sight of her mutilated genitals I had to grab the sink to stop myself passing out. I knelt there, breathing hard, as waves of sickness rushed up through my body and black spots swam in front of my eyes.
What kept me upright and focused was the knowledge that I had to look after Lyn. I could see that she was already shuddering as her body went into shock. I hauled myself to my feet, staggered to the bedroom and grabbed the duvet off the bed. Heading back across the landing, I almost slipped on the wet floor, but just managed to stay on my feet. I stepped carefully around the pools of water and blood by the bath and draped the duvet over Lyn’s body, tucking it in around her neck to keep her warm. Leaning over the bath, I put my arms round her as best I could and kissed her clammy, wet forehead. I held her till the ambulance came, telling her over and over that she was going to be fine, that everything would be all right.
I didn’t believe it, though. I knew she had stepped over the line this time. Up to now the opinion of the doctors had been that she was hormonal, seeking attention, and that once the right meds kicked in and the baby was born, everything would go back to how it was. But what Lyn had done to herself wasn’t attention-seeking, it was the action of someone who was severely disturbed. Not only that, but she hadn’t just harmed herself this time; she had been trying to harm the baby too.
At least that was what I thought at first. My immediate assumption was that she blamed the baby for the way she’d become, or maybe she felt resentful, trapped by her pregnancy. I was scared to death and sick with worry as I climbed into the ambulance, but there was also a part of me that was angry. We had been happy, things had been going well, so why had Lyn screwed it up? Didn’t she want to be with me? Didn’t she want us to be a family?
I sat numbly in the ambulance while the paramedic, a We
lsh guy called Luke with the build of a rugby player, did his stuff. He was setting up a drip in her arm when Lyn started to mutter my name, her head jerking from side to side.
Luke spoke softly to Lyn, then turned to me and beckoned me forward. ‘I think she wants to talk to you, mate.’
I moved across to a chair beside the wheeled stretcher and sat down. Lyn was still pale, though she didn’t look as deathly as she had twenty minutes earlier. Her eyes were unfocused beneath her drooping eyelids, as if she was drifting into sleep again. Her lips were moving, though no sound was coming out, and her face looked drawn and waxy.
‘Hi,’ I said softly, not knowing whether she could see or hear me.
She raised a hand and clutched at the air, as if my voice was a fluttering moth.
I reached out and took the hand, partly to comfort her and partly because her gesture was so pitiful it distressed me. Earlier I’d thought how childlike she seemed. Now she resembled a feeble old woman.
‘It’s all right, I’m here,’ I said.
The contents of the ambulance rattled as the vehicle took a corner. Although the siren was silent, we were moving at speed.
Lyn blinked sleepily and again I wondered if she was aware of me. Her lips were still moving, but the engine was too noisy to make out what she was saying, so I lowered my head, tilting my ear towards her mouth.
Her breath smelled bad, as if the violence she’d inflicted on herself had turned her sour inside. She was whispering something. I leaned in closer. So close that her breath stirred the hairs lining my earlobe, tickling like insects’ feet.
‘She needs to come out,’ she said, gasping between each word.
‘Who does?’ I asked.
Instead of answering, she grimaced, and her free hand, the one I wasn’t holding, hovered in the air for a few seconds before settling on her belly.
‘She needs to come out,’ she whispered again. ‘Otherwise the dark man will get her.’
I wasn’t sure how to respond at first, and then I said gently, ‘She’s not ready yet, Lyn. She still has a few weeks to go.’
Lyn’s face creased up and her head thrashed from side to side. ‘She’s ready… she needs to come out… help her… don’t let him get her…’ Her voice trailed off, as if her own agitation was exhausting her.
I covered her little hand between both of mine and squeezed gently, trying to give her some of my strength. I knew it was pointless to argue, that it would only upset her more, and so I fell back to what I had been saying in the flat – I told her that she and the baby would be fine, and that everything would be all right.
As soon as we arrived at A&E she was whisked away to be examined and stitched up. I hung around in the waiting room, gravitating between the snack machine and the tatty magazines on the low table surrounded by plastic chairs. I didn’t read the magazines. I just turned the pages to give my hands something to do. I ate a Kit Kat and drank several cups of sludgy, bitter coffee. After an age a doctor came to speak to me, a stocky man with flared nostrils and wiry black hair that made me think of the Action Man I had had as a kid. He introduced himself as Dr Sangster and shook my hand.
‘How is she?’ I asked.
‘Oh, physically she’s fine,’ Dr Sangster said almost airily, ‘and so is your baby. The damage your wife did to herself was nasty but superficial. However, there’s going to be some swelling and soreness in that area for a while – but it shouldn’t affect the birth.’
I nodded, relieved that she and the baby were okay. I didn’t bother mentioning that Lyn and I weren’t married.
‘What we are concerned about, however,’ he continued, ‘is her mental health.’
‘Me too,’ I said. ‘It started about three months ago. The doctors we’ve spoken to so far seem to think it’s hormonal, and that she’ll get better once the baby arrives.’
He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I’m sure it’s been a great strain, and I think it’s time we took some of that strain away from you. With your permission, Mr Locke, I’d like your wife to remain in hospital, at least until your baby is born.’
For a while now Lyn had been like a ticking bomb, and so the relief I felt at being given the opportunity to hand that bomb over was far greater than my distress at the prospect of her spending the next five or six weeks in hospital.
Dr Sangster placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. ‘I appreciate that this is probably not how you envisaged these weeks leading up to the birth of your child, Mr Locke, but believe me, I really do think it’s the best option for all three of you. The safety of all parties is paramount in this case, and your wife’s psychological condition is giving us genuine cause for concern. Without constant monitoring there’s a real danger that she could inflict serious harm on both your baby and herself.’
He told me not to worry, and that Lyn would be well taken care of, and that I could visit her whenever I liked. Finally, he patted my shoulder and said that he was sure Lyn and I would look back on this period as nothing more than a minor bump on the long road of life.
He was wrong. Lyn never recovered. Over the next few weeks, leading up to Kate’s birth, she became increasingly obsessed not only that ‘the dark man’ would steal her baby from her, but that he somehow had the ability to spirit Kate away from inside her womb. Lyn thought the only way her unborn child would avoid this fate would be if Kate was out in the open, where she could be seen and protected. There was no arguing Lyn out of this point of view, no reasoning with her. In the end she had to be permanently restrained to stop her from clawing at herself, and often she had to be sedated too, because she would work herself up into a state of screeching panic.
Lyn was beautiful when I met her, but she went downhill fast after Kate was born. She never did come home. She stayed in hospital for a long time, and eventually she was transferred to a private institution. She receives the best treatment possible, but it has never made the slightest difference. The day that ‘the dark man’ came into her life was the day I lost her.
FIFTEEN
SCORCHED EARTH
‘Alex! Alex!’
The voice sounded distant at first, and then suddenly seemed to rush at me, like a crow swooping from the darkness. I shouted out and jerked awake.
My body was so stiff and cold it hurt to move and my eyes were filled with stinging light. I felt hands on me and fought against them. ‘Hey, calm down.’
Bits of memory started to filter through, and then it all crunched in and I remembered where I was and what had happened. Putting up a hand to shield my eyes, I squinted into the face looming over me.
‘You okay?’
I saw Clover nod. ‘Yes.’
‘What time is it?’
‘I don’t know. Morning.’
I sat up, groaning. I felt like an old man. Then again, I had been asleep on a hard bathroom floor for God knew how long. I rubbed a hand across my forehead. My mouth tasted like something had died in it. With Clover’s help I climbed to my feet, turned on the cold tap and swilled my stale, sickly mouth out with water. Then I remembered something else, and felt a stab of panic.
‘The heart!’
‘Don’t worry, it’s safe.’
Clover held on to my arm as I staggered into the bedroom and dropped into the armchair with a grunt. The heart was on the dressing table, directly under the reading lamp which I’d turned on last night and which was still shining light down upon it. It looked like a black egg in an incubator, which was being kept warm until it was ready to hatch.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Clover asked what had happened. I hesitated a moment, then told her. Her eyes widened as I recounted how Lyn had stepped out of the darkened bathroom, as if I was describing something that had actually taken place. Although I had wanted it to be real last night, I frowned when she asked me what I thought it meant.
‘It didn’t mean anything,’ I said. ‘It was a dream.’
She looked at me like she expected more.
‘What?’ I said irrita
bly.
‘Are you sure it was a dream?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’ I frowned. ‘It was finding the men in the hotel bathroom last night, seeing all that blood on the white tiles. It must have reminded me of something that happened a few years ago.’
She was looking at me, encouraging me to go on.
‘Lyn used to self-harm. One day she was in the bath and she cut herself really badly.’ I looked away from her. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
She leaned back as though to give me space. ‘From the way you describe it, I still think it might have been more than a dream.’
‘How could it have been?’
She pursed her lips. Even with no make-up on and hardly any sleep she looked fresh and bright-eyed. ‘You said you were examining the heart, trying to get it to do something?’
‘So?’
‘So what if it did do something? What if it brought Lyn here?’
I scowled. ‘For what?’
‘To warn us.’
‘To tell us that the wolves are coming? Not exactly helpful, is it? Not exactly specific.’
‘Maybe it wanted to tell us not to get complacent, to remind us that wherever we are we’re not safe.’
I felt anger rising in me and tried to swallow it down. ‘Sorry, Clover, but I don’t buy it. It’s just… crazy. Lyn’s in a psychiatric hospital called Darby Hall just outside Brighton. She’s a shadow of the person I once knew. The Lyn I saw last night – dreamed about last night – was how she used to be when I first met her. She was lovely back then…’ I felt my voice faltering and cleared my throat.
‘What happened?’ Clover asked softly.
‘Long story.’
‘Don’t give much away, do you?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s not relevant, that’s all. Maybe I’ll tell you some day. When we’ve got all this sorted out.’
She was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘Okay, so maybe it wasn’t actually Lyn. But it could have been some kind of… projection.’
I groaned. ‘It was a dream, Clover. Don’t go making it out to be anything more.’