A Psychiatrist, Screams

by Simon Parke

  The taxi made quick progress out of Stormhaven, and why not, this was hardly Bangkok.

  ‘So what’s at Henry House tonight?’ asked the driver. ‘Not another murder?’

  ‘Oh, just seeing a friend.’

  ‘You mean someone lives there? I read in the paper it was a place for nut jobs now.’

  ‘It’s a therapy centre called Mind Gains.’

  ‘Mind Games?’

  ‘Mind Gains.’

  ‘Sound the same to me.’

  ‘I think that was the idea, a play on words.’

  ‘Of course I remember it when Dr Minty lived there.’

  ‘Ah yes. Good memories?’

  ‘Rubbish doctor, but at least no one died at his hands - not on the premises anyway.’

  ‘If you could just drop me here, please.’

  The taxi pulled up outside the gates. Something in Peter did not wish to herald his arrival. He paid the cabbie - could he claim expenses and how did you do that if you did? He watched him swing the car round and drive back towards Stormhaven, back towards safety, that’s how it felt, in a way. As the car disappeared around the corner, Peter turned and stepped beneath the Tudor rose, through the stone gates, passing from one world to another, from one time to another, a more dangerous time. He walked slowly along the cratered drive in the night shadows of evergreen and rhododendron. Puddles glinted in the moonlight as he turned the bend which brought Henry House into view. He’d never been so struck by the chill isolation of this building, from Plague House to Mind Gains but always somehow itself, and quite beyond any rules. Impassive, that was the word, like the white make-up worn by upper class Elizabethan women, by the queen herself, a mask of indifference, but a killing mask.

  Why these facts came to mind now, Peter couldn’t say as he approached the grandiose pillars around the entrance and noticed the front door ajar.

  He thought again of the quivery writing in the office cupboard. And as bangers exploded in distant air, and bonfires consumed guys - Lewes was famous for its Protestant fire - Peter was thinking of the quivery signature of the original Guy, Guido Fawkes, after four days of torture in the Tower of London. It didn’t need a graphologist to see the pain in those letters. After his discovery and capture with gunpowder, in a building adjoining the House of Lords, King James had suggested the gentler tortures to begin with, to encourage information. But when those proved too kind, he authorised something that was not - the rack. On the fourth day, resistance tired of its courage, and the names of fellow conspirators spilled from his screaming mouth. And then the court judgement: that Fawkes and his companions in high treason would be dragged by a horse backwards to their death, head near the ground. They would first be hanged - hanged until choking but not dead - after which they would be taken down. Their genitals would then be cut off and burnt before their eyes, their stomach cut open and their bowels and hearts removed, with them conscious throughout. They would then be beheaded, with the dismembered parts of their bodies displayed, so that they might become prey for the fowls of the air.

  Why did Peter think on these things as he stepped into the dark hall of Henry House? And it was then that he saw a light in the study.

  Seventy Three

  ‘I’m going out,’ said Rebecca, getting up.

  ‘You’re going nowhere at this time of night,’ said Ezekiel.

  ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Stay!’

  There was remarkable power in the voice of this small man, there always had been.

  ‘I’m going to the Police Station and I’m going to tell them what’s happened.’

  ‘Do you see the sin of Eve, Michael?’ Michael looked up from his homework.

  ‘The sin of the woman who thinks she knows best!’

  Ezekiel’s son and heir did not respond as he should; but Ezekiel would stay strong in his household leadership:

  ‘You will stay, Rebecca, and that is my final word on the matter.’

  ‘I don’t care about your final word, Ezekiel. I’m still going.’ Rebecca stepped into the hallway to get her coat. There was both terror and fire inside, as Ezekiel moved towards her.

  ‘Let her go, Father.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Ezekiel spun round towards his son, Michael, who had first preached in church at the age of 16, who had always known right from wrong, whom many felt anointed by God’s spirit for fruitful ministry. But his words now were words of disobedience.

  ‘The Police Station is the best place, Father, you know it is. It can’t go on, none of us can, we need to bring this to an end.’

  Rebecca was torn, raging inside, but worried for Michael. She knew her husband and his ways, and hesitated in the hall. Ezekiel grabbed her arm, pulling her struggling back into the front room. She resisted, wrenching to get away, but he was forcing her back down on the chair, back where she should be, until the anointed one, Michael, the boy-preacher, was up from his seat in quick easy moves and screaming ‘No!’

  It’s now Ezekiel being jerked back, pulled away, pulled down by a seventeen-year-old-boy feeling power in his body for the first time.

  ‘Go, Mum, go!’

  ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘Go, for God’s sake, go!’

  He was struggling with his father, half on top, trying to hold him down, breaking years of control with rage for energy.

  ‘Go!’

  Rebecca made for the door and hurried out into the firework night. Ezekiel had never liked her trainers, they were not feminine shoes, not appropriate for a woman and he’d like them even less tonight, as she ran in short bursts, these were freeing shoes, shoes with spring in their step, so she ran then walked, walked then ran, bangers banging, looking behind, making for the Police Station. She was worried for Michael, worried for herself - but most of all worried for her daughter.

  Not too far now.

  ***

  Kate Karter was standing on a bench in the middle of the office with a wire noose round her neck, her hands pulled up behind her head, like one lying back in the sun. But these hands were tied, hard plastic cuffs cutting into the skin.

  ‘Oh, Abbot Peter!’

  ‘It’s all right, Kate. I’m here.’

  ‘Quick, he’s gone out, but we don’t have much time. Get me down - but please be careful.’

  The bench was well chosen by the murderer, an unstable affair.

  ‘You’ll need a knife to free my hands. Then you can get to the noose.’

  ‘I’ll be back,’ said Peter.

  He stepped into the hallway and it was then he saw the ghost. It was the ghost of the Irish Harlequin, up in the gallery, disappearing into the Long Room.

  Peter stood transfixed.

  ***

  There was one bonfire still to be lit in Stormhaven, though now was not quite the time. This would be too early, given the state of play.

  But it was a good pile, the gardener had done a fine job, well, you’d expect it... if a gardener can’t build a fire, what hope for anyone? It now needed only last minute attention, a little petrol poured around the base, quite a lot in fact, it’s hard to stop when you get going, a generous soaking for the wood and old newspapers crumpled and stuffed in the gaps.

  And this would be their goodbye to Henry House, though hardly tearful, a beautiful house, but never more than a stage for revenge, so no love lost, not towards the building, though love lost was all they knew.

  It would be a fine fire, shooting flames into the night sky, a suitable backdrop for hell, and they would do what they must do, it was deserved and then they’d be gone, everything sorted.

  Seventy Four

  Peter disappeared to the kitchen to find a knife. The ghost could wait. He fumbled in drawers without light, watching the shadows, watching for harlequins
, feeling with his fingers for the sharp edge he needed. That would do, that was sharp and now back across the hall to the office.

  ‘Please, my arms, they’re hurting!’ said Kate, wobbling slightly. She was a pathetic figure, this object of hate.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘I’m going to have to climb onto the bench.’

  ‘Don’t do that!’

  ‘It’s the only way.’

  Kate was frightened. A slip would do neither of them any good, but especially her.

  ‘For God’s sake, be careful!’

  Peter gingerly stepped up onto the insecure stage, gathered himself and his balance, and then began gently to cut at the handcuffs, no sudden movements allowed, while a terrified Kate watched the door like a hawk.

  ‘Hurry, please.’

  The knife was a vegetable cutter, serrated edges, a good choice but dangerous around Kate’s wrists, necessarily exposed by the angle of the arm. He cut and he cut, slowly, slowly.

  ‘We’re getting there,’ he said. And then her hands were free.

  ‘Oh thank God!’ said Kate, ‘and I mean that.’ They stood cautiously on the bench together.

  ‘Will you say a prayer for us as we stand here now, Abbot? We’re going to need God’s help to get out of this, believe me. Hands together, Abbot, for the both of us.’

  Peter was surprised, but compliant.

  ‘A simple prayer perhaps,’ but no words came out, for in the moment he bowed his head and offered praying hands, the deed was done. From her cleavage, Kate produced another set of plastic cuffs, slipped them tight onto to Peter’s praying hands, and then transferred the noose from her neck to his. Kate stepped carefully down from the bench.

  ‘I last did that routine twenty years ago at the Theatre Royal, Brighton.’

  Peter was still in shock.

  ‘It was a thriller called Money for Old Rope,’ she said, ‘and that’s exactly what it was, believe me, not the best of plays - but there was a scene like the one we just played out.’

  ‘A great shame I missed it.’

  ‘Most people missed it, as I recall.’

  Kate had collected her coat from the corner and now stood looking up at Peter, still rubbing her wrists.

  ‘I have never had to practice any routine as much as that one,’ she said.

  ‘Practice makes perfect.’

  ‘It did tonight.’

  ‘And do you still practice prayer?’

  ‘I never practiced prayer, never quite got the hang of that. But you do... your downfall, I suppose.’

  ‘You could let me down, of course,’ he said, feeling the uncertainty of the bench beneath him.

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘I don’t believe you murdered Barnabus.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Quite. And I know this isn’t your quarrel. So why involve yourself?’

  ‘This isn’t my quarrel, as you say, Abbot - but it’s our future, you see, and with this, my bill is paid.’

  ‘Which bill is that?’

  ‘Gerald and I, we’ll be free now, quite free.’

  She put on her thick winter coat, fur-lined and then drew from the pockets a purple woollen hat which she placed on her head.

  ‘Goodbye, Abbot Peter.’

  She closed the office door behind her, then a pause, followed by the shutting of the front door. Kate Karter had left the building, leaving Abbot Peter alone.

  Though hardly alone; Peter knew well enough that company was close at hand. And was that a bonfire being lit outside?

  Seventy Five

  The Reverend Ezekiel St Paul arrived breathless at the Police Station, tugging at his jacket, attempting sartorial order. But his collar remained askew and there was swelling round his eye, from when his head had hit the table.

  ‘Been in a fight, sir?’ enquired the desk sergeant.

  ‘I wish my wife returned to me,’ he said with a polite smile.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  The new arrival was in bit of a state, but then the sergeant was not a picture of competence himself, a party hat on his head and streamer paper on his shoulder.

  ‘I know she is here.’

  The music from the canteen made conversation difficult, but they struggled on.

  ‘You know who’s here?’

  ‘Rebecca St Paul, my wife. I understand she’s here.’

  ‘And why do you think she might be here?’ said the desk sergeant leaning forward.

  ‘She left the house a short while ago, saying she was coming here.’

  ‘Then she must be the invisible woman.’ And then a thought.

  ‘Unless she knew Mick Norman, of course.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Louder: ‘Did she know Mick Norman?’ Straining: ‘Mick who?’

  Very loud: ‘Mick Norman. It’s his leaving do through there. Thirty years in the force and still standing - just. Are you sure you haven’t been in a fight?’

  The Reverend was done with the Police Station.

  ‘I would like to be informed if she comes here tonight.’ The desk sergeant indicated he couldn’t hear.

  ‘I would like to be informed if she comes here tonight!’ he repeated.

  Request understood, but no obedience promised to this strange little man.

  ‘It was a free country when my shift started, Reverend. And unless anything’s changed, I’m not obliged to inform anyone of anything unless a crime’s been - .’

  But Ezekiel St Paul was already walking towards the door.

  ***

  ‘How did you bloody well find me?’ asked Virgil Bannaford, genuinely confused.

  ‘Your name was in her address book.’

  ‘Whose address book?’

  ‘My daughter’s.’

  ‘But I don’t know your daughter!’

  ‘Well, isn’t that strange?’

  Rebecca had made for the police station initially, but chose another path, given what she’d said before leaving. Ezekiel would come after her, she knew that, he’d come for her but she didn’t have to give him directions... and suddenly 56 Johnson Road had sprung to mind. She’d got as far as the porch but no further, blocked by the substantial frame of Virgil.

  ‘I have no idea who or what you’re talking about.’ She wasn’t in the mood for another man full of shite.

  ‘Oh believe me, it’s there, written in her book. Patience saw you as a way out.’

  ‘Patience?’

  ‘You might know her as Pat, Pat Strong, the cleaner at Henry House.’

  ‘Oh!’ Recognition.

  ‘Well, I did meet her briefly, nice girl, but I don’t know why she’d have my address.’

  ‘Really?’

  Rebecca believed a mother should never search the bedroom of her daughter. It was a betrayal of trust, an intrusion on something sacred. Her own mother had trampled over the sacred repeatedly, and Rebecca had no wish to follow. But when daughters disappear, the rules do too. The diary, found quickly - perhaps she’d wanted it found - had made painful reading, a record of young unhappiness. Patience referred to her father simply as ‘Mad’. ‘Mad in a bad mood today’ or ‘Mad is planning something with the Benders.’ Rebecca understood this to be a reference to the elders of the church. But she didn’t escape the girl’s wrath either, usually referred to as ‘Weak’.

  ‘Weak on usual form.’ Though the entry Rebecca particularly remembered was in green ink and said ‘Why doesn’t Doormat grow some balls. It’s pathetic to watch.’ But if the diary was easily found, the address book was different, hidden away at the back of the drawer.

  ‘Beside your address Mr Bannaford were the words: ‘Possible escape?’’

  ‘I don’t understand.’
/>
  ‘My daughter was planning on leaving home, this is clear. Perhaps she saw you as a refuge. Perhaps she’s here now? Was there a relationship between you?’

  ‘No, there damn well wasn’t, thank you very much! I mean, pretty girl, very pretty girl, but none of that malarkey.’

  ‘She’s been missing for three days, Mr Bannaford - and I’m now going to the police. They will search this place, so you might as well tell me: is she here? Because if you’ve hurt her -.’

  She felt like an avenging harridan, hugely powerful. Where had this strength come from?

  ‘I have no knowledge of your daughter’s whereabouts, Mrs St Paul.’

  ‘Oh I think you do, Mr Bannaford.’

  ‘You can imagine what you like, no really, you can imagine the moon’s made of cheese, but your thoughts are egregiously mistaken, and a damnable blot on my honour, so if that’s all you have to say - .’ He began to move his large frame forward, edging her back. But Rebecca clung to the door frame.

  ‘Why else would she have your address?’

  ‘I have no idea. And now you better go.’

  ‘She’s been missing for three days, Mr Bannaford. Do you know what that feels like?’

  ‘Very troubling, I’m sure, dashed troubling, but there’s not a lot I can do.’

  ‘So I’ve decided to find her.’

  ‘Well I hope you do, believe me.’ He softened.

  ‘Really - I hope you do.’

  Virgil didn’t know whether to be furious or kind, while Rebecca felt sick at the thought he might be telling the truth, that he could be an innocent man.

  She had one last shot, a long shot high in the sky, like the fireworks overhead, but something Ezekiel had let slip.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Bannaford: do you know anything about Henry House? Anything that perhaps no one else knows?’

  Seventy Six

  Abbot Peter stood stationary in the dark. And if he didn’t remain so, he would die.

  His hands were beginning to numb and his feet ached to move, but with his head in a noose, balance was all that kept him alive and his feet must stay still. He thought of Tamsin and his message on her phone. The leaving party had hours to run, so no cavalry tonight, none that was sober at least. And he was thinking of Guy Fawkes, crippled by torture and facing awful death. His friends had been dealt with first, hanged to choking, taken down, castrated and then the long knife brought into play, the chest opened, this way and that, quartered and disembowelled, hands reaching in and pulling out, the body ransacked until the sweet relief of beheading, the axed neck, the spurting blood of oblivion. And as Guy Fawkes watched, each agony and scream was his, a particular torture lived again and again, waiting for his own, the seconds ticking, coming soon, always best to be first in the queue.