The Wolves of London

by Mark Morris

  In comparison to what we had been through, the threat the lads carried seemed trivial. Nevertheless I watched them until they had swaggered away, and then I turned towards Clover, our shoulders almost touching as I gripped the topmost iron railing, which was shockingly cold.

  ‘We came here once or twice when I was a kid,’ I said. ‘Me and my dad liked it, but my mum thought it was posh. The waiters in the restaurants made her uncomfortable because she imagined they were looking down on her. For that reason we mostly went to Southend or Selsey Bill. There was a Pontins at Selsey Bill, or maybe a Butlin’s. One of the two.’

  Clover’s maroon hair was blowing in the wind. She raised a hand to hold it away from her face and turned her head to squint at me. ‘How often do you visit Lyn?’ she asked.

  I kept my eyes on the sea. ‘Not often. I find it too upsetting. And I’m not sure that Lyn gets much out of it. Sometimes she doesn’t even recognise me.’

  ‘Is it a private hospital she’s in?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That must be expensive.’

  I shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. ‘Lyn’s parents pay for most of it. I chip in when I can. I wish I could do more, but I’ve got Kate to look after…’

  My voice tailed off as the simmering coal of anguish that had been present in my belly since Kate’s abduction flared again. Although her disappearance was at the forefront of my mind every minute of the day, now and again there were particularly acute reminders not only of my loss, but of what the long-term implications of that might mean. I felt a trembling start in my arms and gripped the iron railing harder to try to neutralise it. I wished I hadn’t left my last packet of cigarettes at Benny’s, wished I’d bought some more at the service station when I’d had the chance. I was a casual smoker – I normally succumbed only when I was drinking – but at that moment I could have murdered a fag. I turned to Clover and forced a smile that made my face muscles ache.

  ‘I’d better look for a taxi,’ I said.

  I began to stride along the promenade, towards the pier. Across the road a row of Regency-style hotels with bone-white facades reflected the cold sunshine like a vast, gleaming grin. Clover padded after me.

  ‘Don’t you mean we?’ she said.

  I slowed my pace. ‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea. Lyn gets very unsettled around strangers, and if she saw us together I don’t know how she’d react. I thought it’d be better if you waited in a café or something. I’ll probably only be an hour or so.’

  ‘Do you think that’s safe?’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘Well, I guess that depends on how bad the coffee is.’

  The joke was feeble, but she rewarded it with a brief, grunting laugh. ‘Seriously, do you think it’s wise for us to split up, even if it is only for a short time?’

  ‘It’s the heart they want,’ I said, ‘and I’m pretty sure it’ll protect me if they come for it.’ (I wasn’t sure at all.) ‘The hour you spend chilling out with a cappuccino will probably be the safest one you’ll have spent in the past two days.’

  ‘It’s that “probably” that bothers me. How about if I come with you, but sit in reception while you see Lyn?’ She gave me an innocent look. ‘I promise I won’t be any trouble.’

  ‘All right then, if that’s what you want. But if you break anything you won’t get any supper.’

  Darby Hall Psychiatric Hospital was a sprawling Victorian edifice in a leafy and residential area of Hove, four or five miles from the Brighton seafront. I called ahead to check that it was okay to visit at short notice, and then Clover and I hailed a taxi outside the Royal Albion Hotel opposite the pier. Hove put me uncomfortably in mind of the Kensington neighbourhood where Barnaby McCallum had lived and died, but if anything the houses here were larger and more opulent. Set well back in its own grounds, Darby Hall was the most grandiose of all, its series of banked lawns so immaculately manicured that they looked as smooth as snooker tables. The taxi driver dropped us at the main gates, which formed a forbidding arch of grey iron spikes held together with ornate cross-bands. I pressed the button on the intercom, gave my name and the gates hummed open. Once Clover and I were through, they closed with a gentle clang.

  We crunched up the gravel drive, rhododendrons and laurel flanking us across a narrow stretch of lawn on our left, while the larger and more impressive lawns on our right climbed like a number of vast steps towards the house perched on a plateau above. By the time we arrived at the steps leading up to the building’s wide front door we were both panting a little and, despite the autumn chill, I could feel a sheen of sweat on my forehead. In the summer the lawn would be dotted with residents – playing croquet or wandering about or simply sitting on the grass or in wheelchairs, enjoying the sunshine – but not today. It was evidently too cold or too early in the morning.

  I pressed a buzzer marked ‘Reception’ and the same tinny female voice who had greeted me at the gate said, ‘Come in, Mr Locke.’

  There was a lower-pitched buzz and I pushed the door open. Although the reception area was so spacious that a trapeze act could have performed in it, the abundance of cherry-coloured wood and the small front windows made the space feel cosy, if not claustrophobic. Our footsteps seemed to resound through the building as we approached the desk on our left, behind which sat a plump, smiling woman in her late fifties, whose flushed face could have been either a reflection from the wooden panelling or the result of high blood pressure.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Locke,’ she said. ‘How nice to see you again. Would you take a seat?’

  She indicated a pair of antique-looking chairs upholstered in some heraldic design, and picked up the telephone.

  As she put a call through to the medical staff, I perched on the edge of the chair, my hands on my knees. Perhaps I had inherited something of my mum’s inferiority complex, because I always felt uncomfortable here, and not only because I was unsettled at the prospect of seeing Lyn. It was the quiet gentility of the place that set me on edge, the fact that it seemed to go out of its way to disguise its true purpose. It was probably just me, but I couldn’t help thinking that the patients were kept hidden because, despite the high level of care they received, they were considered a grubby and embarrassing secret.

  The clack of descending footsteps accompanied by their echoes reached our ears several seconds before their owner. Looking up the wide shadowy staircase opposite the front door, I saw a ghostly flash of white, which resolved itself into a doctor’s coat worn by a thin, freckled, ascetic-looking woman in her mid-thirties. This was Dr Bruce, who I had met several times, and who, though civil, possessed no sense of humour. As she descended I leaned forward to stand up, and was surprised to feel Clover’s hand reaching out to give mine a reassuring squeeze.

  I offered her a vague smile, then turned to greet Dr Bruce, who was now marching across the wooden floor towards me, extending her arm to offer her usual military-style handshake. Her hand was cold and bony as I enclosed it with my own.

  ‘How are you, Mr Locke?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘And you?’

  ‘Busy,’ she replied bluntly. ‘I’m afraid you’ve caught us rather on the hop.’

  ‘Sorry. I was in the area. Is Lyn not ready to see me?’

  She paused before replying. ‘As you know, Mr Locke, Lyn dislikes surprises. She has set schedules, set routines, and she becomes agitated whenever those routines are disrupted. Having said that, today appears to be one of her better days. Although the process has been somewhat rushed, I have been through the usual preparation procedures with her and she seems amenable to your visit. Of course, there is no guarantee that her composure will prevail.’

  ‘Of course,’ I murmured, glancing at Clover and wondering whether she was thinking what I was thinking: was Lyn calm because she had been expecting me?

  Dr Bruce caught my glance and frowned. Giving Clover a fleeting, dismissive look, she said, ‘I hope you’re not thinking of springing a double surprise on Lyn, Mr Lo
cke? Despite her current placidity I’m not sure how she would cope with that.’

  I shook my head. ‘Of course not. I wouldn’t be so insensitive. My friend will wait here.’

  Dr Bruce gave a short nod, and turned on her heel. ‘Right. Well, if you’ll follow me…’

  I had been there often enough to know where Lyn’s room was, but it was probably a house rule that visitors could only venture beyond the reception area if accompanied by a member of staff. Trying to avert my eyes from the doctor’s skinny rump beneath her white coat as she clopped up the wooden stairs, I plodded in her wake like a recalcitrant schoolboy behind a stern headmistress. At the top of the first flight she led the way along a corridor with a thick green carpet and stopped at a wood-panelled door. She gave a perfunctory knock and stepped through the door so quickly it looked as though she was trying to catch the room’s occupant unawares. Raising a hand to indicate that I should wait on the threshold, she turned to her right and I saw her expression soften slightly.

  ‘Lyn?’ she said, her voice softening too. ‘Alex is here. Are you ready to speak to him?’

  I heard no reply, which presumably meant that Lyn had nodded her compliance, for almost immediately Dr Bruce stepped aside, beckoning me forward. I entered the room, already knowing what I would see. If it wasn’t for the trio of horizontal bars across the window and the red buzzer on the wall beside the bed, you might have thought this was a bright and summery room in a family-run hotel. The furniture, which consisted of the bed, a wardrobe, a bookcase, a chest of drawers, a dressing table and a couple of armchairs, was old but sturdy and well maintained. The carpet was a subdued coral-pink colour and the curtains and bedding were predominantly white and yellow, emblazoned with a pretty floral design. One of the two armchairs was positioned to the left of the window, where I know Lyn liked to sit and absorb the tranquil view of green lawns and well-tended gardens. The other chair, on the edge of which she was currently perched, was in front of the dressing table, which was positioned against the wall to the left of her bed. Usually the chair would be facing the dressing-table mirror (which I had once been told contained unbreakable glass), but today it had been turned to face the rest of the room.

  I had half-expected her to be wearing the white nightshirt with the cherry design, but in fact she was dressed in a black jumper with a vertical pattern of multi-coloured lines and blue jeans. I had half-hoped too that she might have recaptured some of her former radiance, but she looked much as she had the last time I had seen her – her thin, lined face prematurely aged, her once-blonde hair now a dull mousey-brown.

  As ever, too, her eyes were narrowed warily and her once-smiling mouth was set in a terse line. Her hands, bony as chicken feet, were locked together in her lap. Dr Bruce caught my eye and gave a brief nod.

  The tacit suggestion that I required the doctor’s blessing to speak annoyed me, but I tried to instil my voice with gentleness. ‘Hi, Lyn, it’s me, Alex. How are you doing?’

  Although it made me feel both sad and condescending, I had been advised to confirm my identity at the outset of each visit, as Lyn sometimes became confused and forgetful. Much as I disliked doing it, I guess it was necessary, because there were times when Lyn simply stared at me as if she didn’t understand what I was saying. I was pleased to see that today was not one of those times. In fact, as Lyn shifted in her seat, her dry hands rustling against one another, I was astonished to see the twitch of a smile on her lips.

  ‘Yes, Alex,’ she said in her quiet, deliberate voice. ‘I know who you are. I’ve been dreaming about you.’

  As if Lyn had passed some kind of test, Dr Bruce said, ‘Right, well I’ll leave you to it. Press the buzzer when you’re ready to go, Mr Locke.’

  I nodded vaguely, but kept my eyes on Lyn. Behind me I heard Dr Bruce cross the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

  Something else I had been advised to do was check with Lyn before picking anything up or changing anything in her room, and so, indicating the chair by the window, I asked, ‘Is it okay if I move that across here, Lyn, so that I can sit next to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  I carried the chair across the room and positioned it so that I could sit facing her, our knees only a foot or so apart. Now that I was here I suddenly found that I was uncertain of what to say, of how much she knew. I was aware from experience that I had to tread carefully, that she had to be eased through conversations for fear of becoming lost in them, and therefore stricken with panic.

  ‘So, how have you been?’ I asked.

  She stared at me, as if she had no idea how to answer my question, and then she said, ‘Every day is the same here.’

  ‘And is that good or bad?’

  ‘It’s…’ her eyes glazed a little as she searched for the right word. ‘… safe,’ she said finally.

  I paused a moment, considering how to proceed. ‘Were you surprised to see me this morning?’

  A slight frown wrinkled her forehead. ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I dreamed about you.’

  ‘So you did. That’s very interesting.’ I made an effort to ensure that my voice was gentle, coaxing. ‘What did you dream? Can you remember?’

  ‘I dreamed that you could help me.’

  ‘Help you in what way?’

  ‘I dreamed that you could make the dark man go away.’

  I licked my lips nervously. Mention of the dark man was often a sign that the situation was about to deteriorate. He, or more specifically his imagined presence, had been the catalyst for some of Lyn’s more serious episodes over the years. I had been told by her doctors that the dark man was the embodiment of her psychosis, and that whenever Lyn mentioned him the best thing I could do was to be reassuring, to make her feel safe.

  ‘Maybe I can make him go away,’ I said. ‘Where is the dark man now, Lyn?’

  Her eyes flickered momentarily and I tensed. Her voice, however, remained calm, deadpan. ‘He’s here. He’s always here.’

  ‘And what is he doing?’

  Her voice changed, became imbued with a note of almost childlike wonder, which I found both eerie and endearing. ‘He’s scared.’

  ‘What is he scared of?’

  ‘You, of course. He doesn’t like you being here.’

  ‘Well, good,’ I said, resisting an urge to reach out and take her hands; sometimes she reacted badly to physical contact. ‘In that case I’ll stay a little longer, shall I?’

  She nodded, and I looked into her eyes, trying to see something of the old Lyn, the Lyn that had appeared to me that morning. ‘When was the last time you saw me, Lyn?’ I asked. ‘Can you remember?’

  I knew this was a risky question; one thing that Lyn found hard to grasp was the concept of time. It wasn’t unknown for her to freak out, suddenly and unpredictably, because of a question she couldn’t answer or a concept she couldn’t understand. When that happened it sometimes seemed to me that it was because she had had a sudden insight into exactly how mentally damaged she was, and that knowledge had terrified her.

  This time, though, she merely pulled a face as if I was being dim. ‘I already told you. In my dream.’

  ‘But when was the dream, Lyn? Last night?’

  She hesitated a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes.’

  I had a sudden weird notion that what I was looking at was not my wife at all but a chrysalis, dry and withered, inside which, waiting to burst into the light, was a dazzling butterfly. All I had to do was figure out how to break the chrysalis open without damaging the fragile creature inside.

  ‘Did your dream tell you how I could help you?’ I asked. ‘Because I want to, Lyn. I really, really want to.’

  She went very still, and instead of answering she slowly raised her hands and cupped them, dipping her head slightly as if she could see something tiny and delicate in there, something which she was protecting.

  ‘The dark man carried darkness in his hands,’ she said so quietly that I had to lean forward to hear her. ‘He pushed it in
to me and I went away.’

  She raised her head, looking at me as if her words explained everything. Not wishing to lose this moment, to lose her, I asked, ‘Where did you go, Lyn?’

  ‘Long ago and far away,’ she said.

  A spasm, a shock, went through my body, leaving both coldness and also a weird sort of exhilaration in its wake. But I tried not to react. I couldn’t afford to alarm her, to snap the delicate thread between us. Keeping my voice steady, I said again, ‘And how can I help you, Lyn? Did your dream tell you how?’

  Again that quizzical look, as if I was being dim. ‘You turn the darkness into light.’

  I took a long breath, and that was when I felt the weight against my ribs. Seeing Lyn sitting before me, cupping her hands, I was suddenly struck by an inspiration.

  ‘Can I show you something? It’s in my pocket. Can I get it out?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  My heart was thumping, pounding. Not sure what I was doing, but feeling that it was right, I slipped my hand into the pocket of my jacket and folded it around the heart. Slowly, as though it was a delicate egg, or perhaps even the creature that had hatched from it, I withdrew it.

  From the darkness into the light, I thought.

  Raising my hand, I uncurled my fingers, showing Lyn the obsidian heart.

  I held my breath, waiting for her reaction. For a long, excruciating moment there was no reaction at all; she merely stared at the heart, her eyes wide and fixed, her face expressionless. Then something changed in her. The tension went out of her body; the muscles in her face relaxed. I saw her eyes glitter, and then tears brimmed on the bottom row of her lashes and dripped on to her hands. It was so quiet in the room that I was convinced I could hear the little splashes they made.