BENEATH THE WATERY MOON a psychological thriller with a stunning twist

by REAVLEY, BETSY

  BENEATH THE WATERY MOON

  A psychological thriller with a stunning twist

  Betsy Reavley

  First published 2014

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.

  ©Betsy Reavley

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  PART II

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  PART III

  I have taken more than the recommended dose

  And absorbed half a bottle of the honey liquid.

  I do not wish to be swallowed up

  By my internal death. Rather I long

  To leave this plagued mind tonight

  And escape to another realm.

  Life flows through me intravenously.

  Churning and screaming gargles

  In the pit of my stomach;

  The place where I find you,

  A state of lost love and frustrated dreams

  The loud and the quiet.

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  It wasn’t always easy being in my head but I knew nothing else. I wasn’t ashamed of my insanity. I didn’t see my diagnosis as something reprehensible. It wasn’t as if I had caught HIV from using dirty needles to shoot up. People aren’t embarrassed to admit they have cancer. My cancer couldn’t be seen. It didn’t require chemo. My cancer was invisible to microscopes. My cancer ate away at my emotions. My cancer was called something else; it was called manic depression.

  My life had been a series of false starts but my release from the psychiatric hospital set off a spiral of events nobody could have seen coming.

  My doctors had agreed to release me into the care of my family, which comprised of my younger brother and mother. I was twenty-three at the time I left Redwood hospital in Suffolk. I had been there for four months and eleven days. It had been my sanctuary and my prison. I had been sectioned under the mental health act by a judge after the police found me freaking out in a department store. I had hidden myself in among a rail of clothes at John Lewis. When asked by security what I was doing, I told them that the Taliban were after me and I was hiding. It turns out that the security guard thought I was taking the piss, and in his angry frustration he grabbed hold of my arm and tried to pull me away from the coat rail. It was only after I screamed and bit his hand that the people gathering around to watch realized I wasn’t well. Unsurprisingly the staff were so unnerved by my behaviour that they called the police.

  I hardly remember any of this. Most of what I know is second-hand information, coming largely from my mother and the doctors. It is all a long distant memory. During my paranoid manic episodes I remember very little of what I did or thought. What remains is a blurred memory of a feeling and it isn’t one I wish to recount. Needless to say, it was very easy for the court and mental health professionals to deduce that I needed a stint in the loony bin.

  During my time at Redwood I was kept under heavy sedation until I had calmed down enough to be able to listen and cooperate. The drugs left me feeling like a zombie. I was so doped up that my legs were like jelly and I found it nearly impossible to walk properly. My head was so full of fog that it’s no surprise I stopped suffering from my paranoid delusions; I simply couldn’t handle both at once so the medicated mist won out.

  After hours of therapy and a winning cocktail of drugs, I began to return to my old self. It was only then, three weeks into my incarceration at Redwood, that the enormity of my situation dawned on me. I remember sitting in the communal television room and looking around at the other patients, or inmates as I liked to refer to them. It’s the first clear recollection I have of my time spent there but I wish it wasn’t.

  It was a grey summer that year. The sun forgot to shine. A cold, still sky looked over everything and the space where light should have been felt hollow and eerily empty. The common room was dull as a result of the missing warmth and everything was a dirty grey brown colour. The seats of the sofas were old and worn and wouldn’t have looked out of place in a 1970s’ nightmare. The faded sickly orange and tan fabric showed every speck of dirt and stain that had collected on it over the years. I stared at the fabric for so long that it looked as if it were alive with bugs.

  In the opposite corner sat a middle-aged man with wiry salt and pepper hair and wild eyes. He was talking very quietly to a fat young woman who kept glancing nervously over in my direction. Her gaze made me feel uncomfortable. Their words were hushed and I tried to concentrate on the television to distract myself from the feeling that they meant me harm. I was relieved when one of the nurses casually walked through the room with a clipboard under her arm.

  ‘Alright, love?’ she asked. She smiled and I wriggled in my seat. I couldn’t bring myself to smile back so offered a small nod and turned my attention back to staring at some dust particles that danced in the air by the window.

  Meanwhile, the whispering grew louder from the two inmates. I could hear the man spitting out his words, although what he was saying wasn’t clear. The fat woman turned to face him and screamed at him before bolting out the room with a speed I couldn’t have predicted.

  ‘Don’t touch me, don’t fucking touch me!’ she screeched as she hurtled down the corridor. I watched her disappear around a corner. Two nurses armed with syringes ran after her. I turned back to the TV but was startled by a wild-eyed man squatting behind my chair with his chin propped on the backrest.

  ‘Dotty as a cuckoo, that one,’ he said, looking at me with his head tilted. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek and stood up to look at him. ‘Don’t worry lass, ’Arry won’t do you no ’arm.’

  I eyed him warily and again found myself nodding in response. ‘You’re new aint you? I can always spot the new ones a mile off.’ he continued. I chose another seat and sat down again, this time facing him. He jumped over the chair like a sprite and made himself at home. The way he moved reminded me of a monkey.

  ‘I’m ’Arry,’ he announced as though he was introducing himself at a party. ‘I’ve been in and out of here a bit and I know ’ow this place works. If you need anyfing, I’m your man. I know all the nurses; know which ones are gooduns and who you should avoid. Know most of the poor sickos, too.’

  He leaned closer, looking pitiful. There was an ingrained sadness in his hazel eyes and could see how lost he was. This made me feel less nervous and suddenly I realized I was grateful for his attention and company. As he removed a pouch of tobacco from his faded camouflage trousers, I noticed his fingernails were black with dirt. He rolled himself a cigarette. The whites of his eyes were as grey as his T-shirt. He put the cigarette into his mouth and gripped it tightly with his dry lips as he began a frantic search for a lighter. I watched him in a daze before remembering I had one of my own. I reached for my packet and the neon green li
ghter. Timidly, I offered him the lighter, not wanting to make any physical contact with my new friend. He seemed aware of my apprehension and took it from me gently, smiling with gratitude. He lit his rolled cigarette and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs before loudly exhaling.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, looking a little calmer. ‘So, what’s your name then?’

  ‘Annabel,’ I told him, realizing that it was the first time I’d spoken to someone other than a nurse or doctor in a few days.

  ‘Nice to meet you, missy. I’m ’Arry,’ he told me again. He smiled, revealing yellow stained teeth. ‘I’ve got papers to prove I’m mad but can the rest of them prove they’re sane? That’s what I want to know.’

  I shrugged, not sure what to say.

  ‘Only jokin’, only jokin’,’ he chortled.

  A nurse walked by and frowned at us. I immediately felt dirty but didn’t know why, and Harry ducked down in his seat, bringing his knees up to his chest. He kept his head perfectly still, and I watched as his eyes followed her until she turned into the corridor.

  ‘Spyin’ on me,’ he said in a hushed, nervous voice. ‘They’ve got their spies makin’ sure I don’t reveal their secrets,’ he leaned in again so I could smell his stale body odour. The only thing I could do was nod.

  ‘Old ’Arry knows things, you see. Things the government don’t want others knowin’. I was in the Falklands and I know what really went on.’ His eyes darted wildly around the room, looking for evidence of someone else listening.

  ‘I’m not allowed to talk to the doc without them sending in one of their government people. They need to make sure old ’Arry doesn’t let slip coz of the Secrets Act. What I know could change everyfing and, you see, I won’t tell, but it makes my head feel a bit funny sometimes like. So they put me in here so they could watch me. But I know what their plan is. I know what they want to do to ’Arry.’ He smoked furiously and edged ever closer to me. I now felt completely uncomfortable and wished the sour-faced nurse would reappear.

  ‘I won’t never tell, but they are real worried about me, about how much I know. I’m a solider through and through. Wouldn’t never let down my men by revealin’ the turf about what really ’appened.’ His words were gaining speed and my head began to ache with his insanity.

  ‘They want to keep me here so they can control me.’ Self-importance dripped from his words. ‘But I see what they are doin’.’

  He jumped up suddenly and bolted over to a large glass window that looked out over the green area where we were encouraged to get some air. He pointed his finger at the glass and tapped it loudly.

  ‘See that tree, down there, the large chestnut? Well, one day they will find old ’Arry swinging from that tree. One day you will see me hangin’ there and you’ll all say poor old ’Arry, but you’ll be wrong coz it won’t ‘ave been what will have done it. It’ll be them who’ll have put me up there and made it look like I did it to myself because they’re worried I know too much. One day, missy, mark my words, I’ll be found in that tree.’

  I sat frozen in my seat, wondering if I could get up and leave safely. His brow was lined with stress, and although I was scared, I couldn’t help feeling pity for him. I felt sorry for us all. We were tragic and lost. Every person there was filled with an aching sadness. If I could have saved them all I would have. Harry was lost in his own delusions as I’d been not that long ago. As though suddenly remembering his train of thought, he spun around to face me.

  ‘But you’ll know, lass, you’ll know it weren’t me that did it. You’ll know it was them but you mustn’t ever say. You have to keep it a secret all to yourself otherwise they’ll come after you too.’ And with that he brought his finger to his lips, gave me a wink, and walked off, seeming content that he’d unburdened himself and at the same time protected me from ‘them’.

  I stayed in the scratchy chair for a moment or two, making sure he’d gone. I was glad to be alone in the common room. I couldn’t handle any more crazy talk. I got up and wandered over to the window. I looked down at the tree and wondered how long it would be before the poor soul did kill himself. I tried to shake the image of his limp dead body hanging from the tree. The picture in my mind made my head hurt. I rubbed my temples and tried to think about something else, but now I was infected with Harry’s madness as well as my own. I went to my room and got into my bed and curled up under the covers. I cried there for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  Waking up in my own bedroom in my family home took some getting used to. I had been in the hospital for what felt like years and being there had become my normality. I’d sit up in bed for the first few days and just look around the room, adjusting to the sight of my belongings and wondering for a moment if I was in the middle of another delusion. What should have been comforting wasn’t.

  I got out of bed and stared down at my small pink feet for a while. My legs were pale and thin. The drug-induced sleep left me feeling detached and it took a few minutes to shake the blur from my skull. I didn’t feel confident on my feet until the fog had dissipated. I glugged half a pint of water from a glass on the bedside table and eventually found the confidence to stand up. A head-rush left white spots floating in front of my eyes as I pulled the curtains on the window open. The grey brown sky was low over the land as I watched Wookie, the family dog, sniff about in the garden below. He went busily from shrub to shrub, sniffing the azaleas and viburnum before cocking his leg on the trunk of the large cherry tree.

  I could hear the sounds of pots and pans coming from the kitchen below; Mum was awake. My old floral kimono hung on the back of my door and I wrapped the silk tightly around my body. The gown helped me feel at home. I found my way into a pair of tatty slippers, hesitantly left my room, and shuffled into the bathroom. The noise from downstairs stopped and my mother called up the stairs.

  ‘Annabel, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ I replied. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

  I pulled the bathroom door shut. I opened the cabinet and removed my toothbrush and toothpaste. My mouth felt dry from the medication. I watched myself going through the motions of brushing my teeth. I saw myself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the person staring back. I was a girl with greasy blonde hair and a long fringe over my eyes. My face was puffy and miserable. Empty blue eyes looked back at me. Once upon a time I had been attractive. I heard a light tap at the door.

  ‘Are you in there, darling?’ asked my mother. ‘Is everything alright?’

  ‘I’ll be out in a minute!’ I sputtered through a mouthful of foam.

  ‘Ok, great, just checking that everything is alright.’

  I pulled the lock back and swung the door open to find my mother standing there, wringing her hands.

  ‘Can’t I go to the sodding bathroom without you worrying?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course you can, darling,’ she said looking ashamed. ‘I just wanted to make sure . . .’

  ‘Everything is alright, yes I know,’ I said. ‘It’s fine. Everything is fine. I’m not slitting my wrists with a razor; I was just cleaning my fucking teeth.’

  I pushed past her and made my way to the stairs. My mother opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it, so simply nodded and followed me down into the kitchen.

  Chapter 2

  Our large village house had stopped being home a long time ago. But to an outsider it looked like the perfect family residence. Photos of sports days and smiling kids on beach holidays stood proudly in brass frames. The country kitchen was clean and homely, painted in muted shades of duck-egg blue and cream. The sitting room was a peach colour and my mother’s large collection of scatter cushions made it inviting. The seventeenth century rooms were large but not well lit. We had a dining room and a separate study that had become a TV room for my brother and me. The house had six bedrooms and three bathrooms. We were some of the privileged few.

  I could remember a time when we’d been happy. It was so long ago that it seemed like somebo
dy else’s life. My mother did her best to jolly us along, but the sadness within her couldn’t be masked.

  When I was ten, my seventeen-year-old sister was killed in a car crash. Late one January evening, Lucy was driving along a winding country lane, when a deer jumped out in front of her car. She’d only passed her driving test two months earlier. To avoid hitting the deer, she swerved on the slippery black road and collided with a large oak tree. Her car didn’t have an airbag. She died on impact.

  My parents adored Lucy. Not only was she extremely pretty, but she was also kind, generous, and smart. I always felt like the less attractive version of her. She did well at school, she rarely got into trouble, and was a popular girl. Everyone loved her and so did I, even if she was an intimidating role model for me.

  When they were in their twenties, Mum and Dad met at a friend’s party. Three months later Mum became pregnant with Lucy. Dad proposed and they had a small shotgun wedding in Hammersmith, just weeks before Lucy was born.

  I’ll never know if my parents really loved each other at the time, or if duty forced their hand, but whatever the reason, Lucy brought them together and kept them together. Up until her death they were good parents. Dad worked hard and provided for us all, and Mum looked after us in her role as a housewife. We were an unremarkable family, but we were happy.

  But after the car crash, my parents fell apart. My mother started to drink and my father buried his head in work. Three years later my father abandoned us and moved in with a much younger woman he’d met at work. My brother, Will, and I never saw my father after that. He and his new wife had a baby and no time for us. I was hurt then and still am. But it gave my mum the kick up the bum she needed. After a long, miserable grieving period she stopped drinking. Will and I were able to return to some kind of family normalcy. We looked out for each other during that time and that’s when we became very close. Now, years on, my mum was happy and stable and I was the train wreck.