by Mo Hayder
Of course it is.
He sits back, almost relieved. He doesn’t want to be the sneak. He really doesn’t. He has no right to spy on Melanie or judge her. It’s not as if he’s perfect. She’s had it hard, and maybe he should understand more. She didn’t know where all this would lead. He’s going to call her. Say he’s sorry. He pulls out his phone and looks at the screen and instantly all he can picture is Isaac Handel with his hands around Zelda’s neck. He puts it back in his pocket.
He taps his fingers on his knees, undecided. Then he opens the bottom drawer of her desk. There is nothing much of interest in there – a sponge bag, a pair of purple kitten-heel shoes – maybe in case she needs to look smart for an unexpected occasion. Also some deodorant and a pair of flesh-coloured tights. In the next drawer there is a desk organizer full of paper clips and rubber bands. Wedged under it is a hefty paperback book.
He pulls the book out: Screaming Walls – A Ghost Hunter’s Guide to the UK’s Most Haunted Asylums. It must be something she’s bought in the wake of The Maude’s appearances. Maybe she wants to study precedents of the unit’s ‘haunting’. The date of publication as 1999 – long before the first manifestations of The Maude in Beechway. Out of curiosity he flicks to the index and looks for Beechway. It’s not mentioned. He’s about to put the book back when something else occurs to him.
The index takes up four pages, but he runs his finger down each page, just out of curiosity, his eye scanning the alphabet: Bedlam (Bethlem); Care in the Community; Cherry Knowle Hospital, Sunderland; Denbigh Hospital; DSMV diagnosis; ectenic force; Hine, G.T. (architect); Mental Health Act, effects of; Ryhope General; St George Field, Bethlem; ‘Sitting’ and possession …
He comes to a halt, his finger under the words. Sitting and possession?
Quickly he turns to the page number.
The text is dotted with plans and photos of a mock-Gothic building, a classic workhouse structured on the enpeigne or ‘comb’ principle, with separate units connected like the teeth of a comb to a spine. The Gothic Revival details have been shored up by some hasty council; a set of columns that would originally have been constructed of iron core covered in plaster to resemble stone have been replaced by stacked and painted breezeblocks. But the pointed arched windows and external crenels remain intact.
Hartwool Hospital. It’s in the north of England near Rotherham. He races through the text, muttering the words under his breath like a reception-year child on his early reading books.
Multiple episodes of self-abuse were attributed to the influence of the so-called ‘B ward sitting demon’. Rumoured to be the ghost of a past matron, a dwarf who abused the patients …
AJ’s pulse beats strong and loud in his ears.
A suicide attempt in which the patient tried to cut off his own nose …
Patient X reported an incubus crouched on her chest when she woke …
Staff absences and resignations were occasionally blamed on the fear there was a ghost dwarf or an unknown entity that sat on the chests of patients …
… hallucinations and delusions of haunting …
… this crude image of a dwarf squatting on a patient’s chest was produced by one of the patients in 1997 …
He stares at the image. A line drawing of a dark shape crouched on the chest of a supine patient. Next to it a photo of a gravestone in the grounds of the now-abandoned hospital.
Our sister Maude, an unfortunate dwarf,
who departed this life and was born into the spirit life,
18 September 1893
AJ glances to the page header – Hartwool Hospital. Rotherham. His pulse is deafening now.
Hartwool Hospital is the place Melanie worked before she came here. The place she was transferred from during the Care in the Community upheaval.
The place she worked with Jonathan Keay.
Things Are Not What They Seem
PENNY PILSON HASN’T returned Caffery’s call, so he drives carefully back down the valley, over a rickety bridge, and up to the Old Mill. The shutters are all still closed. He knocks and tries to peer through the sweetheart holes but it looks dark in there. He’s getting back into his car when there’s a noise – a shuffling inside the house – and the door opens a crack.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
Penny’s wearing a knitted cardigan and denim cut-offs, and has her arms crossed with her hands tucked under the armpits. Her feet are naked and her hair is ruffled and smeared as if she’s been kneading it with greasy hands.
‘You OK?’
‘Yes.’ Her face is quite clear of make-up, but as Caffery approaches he’s sure it’s more than just the nakedness that’s different. It’s not the same nervousness she had yesterday, it’s different. It’s a kind of new reserve. As if she’s holding something back.
‘You sure?’
‘Of course. I was in the bath, that’s all.’
He nods. He’s a bit taken off guard by her. ‘I left a message earlier.’
‘I know – I’ve been so busy all day – I was going to call when I’d had dinner.’
He assesses her carefully. She hasn’t invited him in, and she’s positioned herself to fill the gap in the door so he can’t see past her. ‘I had a question. I’ve been up there –’ He lifts his chin, indicating the direction of The Wilds. The old yew tree. ‘And I think I’ve found where he’s living.’
‘Oh?’
‘The Wilds?’
‘Yes. You’re right. He used to go there when he was living at the farm.’ She gives a blank smile and begins to close the door.
‘Wait.’ Caffery puts a hand up. ‘Just a minute – I’ve got another question.’
She hesitates. Then, almost reluctantly, she opens the door again. He gets a glimpse of the passage beyond. No lights on. A strange smell. Maybe something she’s cooking. Her fingernails are bitten and raw.
‘I found something I wanted you to look at.’
From inside his jacket pocket he pulls out the doll. He’s wrapped it in a plastic carrier bag, and now he carefully opens it and holds it out for Penny to inspect. She stares at the doll, her throat working.
‘Yes,’ she says tightly. ‘That’s his work.’
‘Do you know who it could be?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t really want to look at it any more. If you don’t mind.’
He wraps the doll and returns it to the inside of his jacket. Penny is a different person from the one he met yesterday. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with him. His memory flits over the affair – her dalliance with Graham Handel. Maybe that’s what’s happening now. Maybe she’s got someone in the house she’s ashamed of.
‘I’ll be on my way then.’ He is about to turn away when she leans forward and whispers fiercely at him.
‘Mr Caffery?’
‘Yes?’
‘Things are not what they seem.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Just that.’ She straightens. ‘I’ll say goodbye now.’
And before he can ask her what she means she steps back inside and closes the door, leaving him standing there, bewildered, not entirely sure what has just happened.
He drives back to MCIT, wondering if he should turn round and go back. What the hell did she mean – Things are not what they seem … He parks in his usual spot under the flyover and goes upstairs. The doll in his inside pocket presses against his chest – as if it is digging its fingers into him. He hates the thing. He’ll be glad to see the back of it. In his office he puts it on his desk, the plastic carrier bunching around it like a nest. While the rest of the office block hums gently as various team members come and go, as the necessary phone calls go out, as the superintendent gets on to the surveillance team, Caffery moves the vast lens of his microscope lamp and positions it over the doll.
Using one gloved finger, he lifts the chain that has been used to bind the doll’s arms. It’s a bracelet – and now he has the chance to study it carefully he sees there
is a silver pendant tucked inside the chain. He takes one or two photographs of the doll as it is; figuring there’s nothing to lose if he pulls it out, he uses the nail of his little finger to get leverage on the object. It springs free and falls across the gagged face of the doll.
Two letters in curlicue script. The letters are M and A.
In his pocket his phone rings. He pulls it out and sees AJ LeGrande’s name flash up on the display. ‘AJ, hi.’
‘Can you talk?’
‘I can.’
‘I’ve got a name.’
‘A name for … ?’
‘I keep thinking – whether Handel had some place he could hole up. Someone who could help him?’
This is so apposite – so like having his mind read – Caffery lets out an incredulous laugh. He stops studying the doll and sits down – pulls over a Post-it pad and finds a pen.
‘Go ahead?’
‘Jonathan Keay,’ says AJ. ‘K-E-A-Y.’
‘Keay. Who is?’
‘Who was an ocky-health person here – occupational therapy? Until about three weeks ago. No idea where he’s gone.’
‘Fine.’ Caffery keeps writing, the phone jammed under his chin. ‘So … details?’
‘Out of date. I’ve got an address – but I’ve just been told he’s not renting there any more and the mobile I’ve got is a dud too. Just tried it.’
‘DOB? National insurance number – should be on his records.’
‘Yes, but that’s HR and I’m not authorized to get into them. I’ve got an old landline – haven’t tried it. Looks years old.’
Caffery scribbles down the number – some UK area codes still work off the telephone keypad where letters are assigned to numbers, so a town name beginning Adi … would read 0123. The number AJ gives him is local – in fact he recognizes it instantly as somewhere near Yate. Using his right hand, he drags across his keyboard and wakes his computer up. Starts tapping out an email.
As he types he talks. ‘Why are we looking at Keay?’
‘Um – because he was … I don’t know. Sort of secretive. He used to talk to Isaac, in private, maybe. I’m not sure, but that’s how I recall it. Also Keay was working in Hartwool Hospital.’
‘Which means? To the uninitiated, i.e. me?’
‘It’s in Rotherham, or nearby. Handel wasn’t held there, but the place is connected somehow. As I’m talking to you I’m looking at a book I’ve found and what happened in Hartwool is word for word what happened here in Beechway – patients had exactly the same delusions with exactly the same results. When Keay left Hartwool he came here. Less than a year later the same thing started happening to us.’
‘Why did he move?’
‘The place was closed down when there was that radical shake-up in the mental-health system. He and – um – our director got moved down here at the same time. You know – Melanie.’
Caffery’s hands hesitate on the keyboard. His attention shifts to the doll. The initials MA on the bracelet. The blonde hair. He pushes the keyboard aside and swivels his chair so he’s facing the door and doesn’t have to look at the gagged face. He takes his time – choosing his words carefully. Never alarm people unnecessarily.
‘Actually,’ he lies, ‘you’ve just reminded me. I was looking for a number for your director.’
‘I thought we’d agreed you wouldn’t. You were going to wait,’ he says, cagily.
‘I know.’ Caffery wants to turn and check the doll. He imagines it behind him, sitting up on its own. Reaching a hand out. ‘But it can’t wait any longer.’
There’s silence at the end of the phone.
‘Do you know where she is? I need to speak to her. Call it a matter of urgency.’
Again a silence.
‘AJ?’
There’s a long exhalation. ‘It’s been a shite hound of a day,’ AJ says. Suddenly he sounds very loose, very apologetic. ‘Truth is, I don’t know. I’ve tried to call. She’s not answering her phone. I think it’s because she already knows what I’ve just told you about Keay.’
‘She does?’
‘They were … they were an item. For a few years. And now they’re not. He’s part of all of this. I think she knows about it – or maybe she suspects.’
Caffery keeps his tone light and noncommittal. Embryonic answers and questions are floating in his head. He still resists the urge to turn and look at the doll. ‘Do you know where she’s gone?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Why? Well, for all the reasons you just said. She might be able to give us something useful.’ He injects enthusiasm into his voice. ‘And I’d like to have a word with her as soon as possible. In fact, let me have her details, her number, her address – I think we’ll pay her a quick courtesy call.’
Closed Road
AJ DRIVES TOO fast. He knows these roads well, and usually he absorbs the colours of the trees, the flowers in the hedgerows – sometimes he’s too engrossed by them to notice the important things like speed signs and other motorists. But tonight the countryside is just a flattened grey cloud on the periphery of his attention. He is eaten up by wanting to see Melanie.
He’s called her maybe twenty times. Each time it’s gone to voicemail. He’s left three messages, with varying degrees of frustration, anger and forced patience. ‘We need to talk about this.’ ‘Can we chat – no blame, no anger, just a chat to get things straight?’
He doesn’t say, You need to explain where Keay is in all of this. Have you covered for him? Have you been covering for something he’s cooked up with Isaac?
It’s six when he arrives at her house. Nine minutes before the satnav said he would. He can tell as he pulls into her road and sees blue lights flashing from several vehicles parked in the close ahead that whatever mistakes Melanie has made she’s paying for them tenfold. At the neck of the road, a uniformed cop is unravelling blue-and-white police cordon tape.
It’s a closed road. Not a crime scene. To AJ the difference is immaterial.
He puts the car into neutral and lets it roll slowly towards the cop. The officer blinks, blinded by the headlights coming at him. He stops unravelling the tape, bends his head to speak quickly into the radio attached to his hi-vis jacket, then lowers the tape reel and comes towards AJ. Batting his hands together and breathing out frosted clouds like a dragon.
‘Yes, sir? Can I help?’
AJ stares past him at the house. He can see people moving in the garden. There’s a van parked to the right of the driveway – white and unmarked. He can see into the kitchen: it’s a mess. Food and plates smashed on the floor. Windows smashed. Someone has torn the place apart.
‘I’m looking for Melanie Arrow. She’s a resident here.’ He licks his lips, not taking his eyes off the mayhem inside the house. ‘But I guess you’re not going to let me through.’
‘We’re carrying out a routine inquiry, sir. Are you a relative? A friend?’
‘Of Melanie’s? Yes – I am, very much a friend.’
‘Have you any ID?’
AJ has. His NHS card is in his wallet. He holds it up. ‘I work with her. DI Caffery knows me.’
‘Is he MCIT? Avon and Somerset?’
‘Yes.’
The cop nods. ‘And you last saw Melanie …?’
‘A couple of hours ago. At the hospital we work in. Can you tell me what’s happening?’
The cop doesn’t answer. He half straightens, hands behind his back. Turns his head left and right, as if surveying the horizon. As if weighing up his response.
‘We don’t know. She’s not here.’
AJ closes his eyes. He puts his finger to his forehead.
‘Sir? Are you OK?’
He nods weakly. The cop is leaning through the window, a hand resting on his shoulder.
‘Sir?’
‘I’m fine. Honestly, fine.’
Monster Mother
NO ONE HAS said ‘kidnap’ and no one has said ‘abduct’, but the words are there, as clear as can be, in the gaps betw
een what the police are saying and what they’re not saying. He doesn’t tell them what he knows about Melanie’s role in releasing Isaac. It’s not ironic or deserving, the way it’s backfired on her. She is going to pay for her mistake a hundred times over. He feels like throwing up. And him – a psychiatric nurse. He’s supposed to be able to deal with stress. Ha fucking ha.
He gives the officer his statement, tells them as much as he can remember about Melanie’s Beetle (limited – he knows it’s black, but he can’t recall the number plate). When they’ve finished with him, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s tried calling Caffery, but he’s out of signal range, and the receptionist at MCIT keeps repeating, He’s out of the office, I’ll get him to call you …
The idea of going home fills AJ with dread. Patience isn’t going to be sympathetic. She has no idea about the weight of guilt he staggers around under daily – that he blames himself for what happened with Mum, and that it’s happening again. Once again he’s failed to be there at the right time.
Now without having given it any conscious thought he finds himself back in the unit – standing outside Gabriella’s room. He must be expecting some glimmer of hope or a reassuring word from her, because the moment he looks through the wire-reinforced window and sees her, his spirits sag even further. He’s not going to get happy Monster Mother. He’s going to get the dark heart of the storm.
She’s crouching in the corner. Nursing her non-existent arm as if it hurts. Her dress is of an indigo so dark it looks black. When he knocks she doesn’t answer. He understands she’s taken off her skin again and is hiding.
‘Gabriella?’
He steps inside. Doesn’t look at her, keeps his gaze steady.
‘Gabriella – where are you?’
‘I’m here,’ she hisses. ‘AJ, over here in the corner.’
He looks at her. ‘Hello,’ he says, pathetically. ‘Hello.’
Her smile is sorrowful. ‘You can feel it, can’t you, AJ? I can see it all round you – you’ve got the aura. It’s hurting.’