by Amy Cross
“It's better for everyone.”
“That's really not true, you know.”
“It's absolutely true. You've read my file, you know how I -”
“Isolation is a last resort,” he replied, interrupting her. “You've only just walked through the door, so I don't think we're at the last resort yet.”
“Just put me somewhere where I can be alone,” she told him, her voice trembling with emotion, “and where I can't hurt anyone, and then leave me there. Shove food under the door if you've got some kind of legal obligation to keep me alive, but I don't need to be around people again, not ever. It's just best that way.”
“It is?”
She nodded.
“And why's that?”
“Because of what I did.”
“Let's not give up on you just yet,” he replied, glancing at her file. “Shoving you into solitary confinement and forgetting about you really isn't an option at this stage.”
“So when will it be an option? After I've hurt someone? After I've done it all again? After I've -”
“None of those things are going to happen.”
“You've read the file,” she said darkly. “You know what happened to me.”
“So you think you're unsafe?”
“I know I'm unsafe. I have a history of being unsafe.”
“That's simply not -” He looked up at the ceiling as the light flickered again. “Sorry,” he added, turning back to her, “I guess some of the bugs aren't out of the system yet. Victorian infrastructure meets modern needs, huh? We had an actual power cut last week. I'm afraid Hardstone still has some teething problems, we haven't been open for very long.”
He watched her for a moment, looking for some clue in her eyes.
“It's okay to be scared,” he continued. “Anyone would be scared in your situation, but my job is to help you settle here and to try to find some kind of positive activity that might make you feel as if you're contributing. I know some people just want to lock people up and forget about them, but I have a more progressive view of the good that -”
“Who's the little girl?” Amanda asked suddenly.
He stared at her.
“I'm sorry?” he asked finally.
“Who's the little girl?” she said again. “There was a little girl out in the corridor just now when I was brought in. She was over by the window at the far end, looking out.”
“Um...” He turned to look at the door for a moment, before looking back at Amanda. “I... can confidently say that there are no little girls anywhere at Hardstone. We don't have a juvenile wing, and we discourage visitors from bringing children. This isn't really a suitable environment for young minds.”
“There was a little girl,” Amanda continued. “She was right at the end of the corridor and she was looking out the window, like she was waiting for someone. I was going to ask the guard who she was, but then you came out to meet me and I didn't get a chance, and when I looked back a moment later she was gone. I was just wondering who she was, that's all.”
“Right,” he replied, with a look of concern on his face as he glanced back down at the file.
“I know what you're doing,” she told him. “You're looking to see which of my pills might cause hallucinations, but I don't get hallucinations. I saw a little girl.”
“Hold on,” he replied, getting to his feet and heading to the door, which he pulled open before leaning out into the corridor and looking both ways. “Well, there's no-one out here now,” he continued, before shutting the door and heading back to the table. “I guess we're going to have to agree to disagree on this one, because I promise you that there is no way a little girl would be wandering around Hardstone.” He paused for a moment. “So I think I know what this is about. I'm guessing that maybe you've heard the stories about this place after all.”
“What stories?”
“About Leonora Blake.”
“Who's Leonora Blake?”
Sighing, he scribbled a note in her file.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Amanda continued, “and I don't know any stories about the prison or someone named Leonora Blake, I just know that I saw a little girl out there.”
“People talk,” he replied. “I get that. I understand that the human mind loves to look for spooky little events and try to turn them into something that they're not. It's a perfectly normal impulse, but I think you should be careful about trying to promote ghost stories while you're here.”
“Never mind,” she said with a sigh. “I was probably wrong.”
“From a diagnostic point of view, it's interesting that you -”
“I was wrong,” she said firmly. “Forget I said anything.”
Andrew looked down at the file as he made another note.
“Please put me in isolation,” Amanda said suddenly, with tears in her eyes. “Please, I know you think it's wrong, but it's the only safe choice. If you put me out there on one of the wings with other people, it's all going to end up happening again.”
“Amanda -”
“You have to put me away!” she added, getting to her feet. “Please -”
“Sit down.”
“You're not listening to me!”
“Sit down,” he said firmly, reaching toward a button under the table, “or I'll be forced to call security.”
“So? Maybe that's a good thing, maybe I should do something really messed-up right now and get myself confined. Is that what it takes? Do I have to grab one of your pens and try to stab you with it before you realize that I'm dangerous?”
“Sit down, Amanda.”
“Please -”
“I need you to sit down,” he told her, pressing the button. “Right now.”
“Why won't you just listen to me?” she asked, as tears ran down her cheeks. “I know it sounds insane, but this is who I am and if you don't do something about me now, I'm going to end up hurting more people, and that's the last thing I want. Just put me in a room where I never get another chance or -”
“Amanda -”
“Or everything will be on your conscience,” she continued breathlessly. “If you don't do the right thing right now, everything else that happens is your fault. Everything, from this exact moment on, because I've warned you!”
Behind her, the door opened and two guards stepped into the room.
“Is everything okay in here?” one of them asked.
“Ms. Weir is just about to sit down and listen to what I've got to say,” Andrew replied, maintaining eye contact with Amanda. “Aren't you?”
“Please,” she whimpered. “If you don't isolate me, you'll regret it, and then when it all goes wrong you'll have no-one to blame but yourself and the guilt will destroy you.”
“I think I can handle my own emotional responses,” he replied uneasily, “and believe it or not, I've read your file so I know exactly what happened to you. Please, Amanda, sit down and let me tell you what's going to happen.”
Slowly, realizing that she had no other options, Amanda took a seat. She was still trembling, and she stared at Andrew as he began to look through the file again.
“You don't know what's going to happen,” she said finally, as the guards left. “I do, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I promise you one thing, though. Eventually, when this is all over, you'll have no choice but to lock me away in my own room and throw away the key. The only question is how many people are going to die before you realize what a huge mistake you're making.”
Six months ago
“Of course we have to call the police!” Mary hissed. “She's out of her mind on drugs!”
“But what are they going to do?” David asked as they sat at the kitchen table, with the cold light of dawn finally showing outside. “They'll just haul her away, probably put her in one of those rehab places, and it'll all start again, and then we won't see her or hear from her for another year.”
She looked down at her hands as she continued to pick apart a crumpled tiss
ue.
“Is that what you want?” he continued. “Do you want her to just get put away, out of sight?”
“I want...” Her voice trembling, Mary sniffed back some more tears. “I want a normal daughter who doesn't do this kind of thing.”
“We can't give up on her.”
“David -”
“We can't!”
“I already did,” she replied, glancing up at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at him. “And you did too, you just won't admit it. Chris is... just wrong in the head. Sometimes when someone goes wrong...” She paused again. “I was thinking, forty-three isn't too old to have another child. We could try that.”
“You mean you want to replace her?”
“I want to try again. I want to have a daughter who doesn't hate me and who doesn't just come back to take money out of my purse to feed her drug habit.”
“People recover from drug habits,” he said firmly.
“She's not going to get better,” Mary replied, barely able to keep from sobbing as tears filled her eyes. “We've tried to help her so many times, but something just seems to be propelling her deeper and deeper into the mire. Maybe it's time to... I know this might sound harsh, but maybe it's time to cut all ties, move on, and try to live a normal life again. I don't think I can stand to live this way much longer, David.”
“If we just -”
They both looked up as they heard a creaking sound from upstairs.
“She's up,” David whispered.
“Oh God,” Mary replied, closing her eyes. “Why can't she just...”
He waited for her to finish the sentence. “Go away?” he asked finally.
“Or worse,” she continued, opening her eyes again. “Maybe I'm a terrible person, but I'm too tired for this. I just want her to go away and never come back.” Turning to look through at the hallway, she listened to the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, and then she watched as Chris made her way to the door.
“Hey, Mum.”
Mary forced a smile onto her lips.
“Sorry if I woke you up,” Chris continued, blinking rapidly as if she was having trouble with her vision, “I just... I didn't have anywhere else to go, you know?”
“So you came here.”
“No need to sound so pleased to see me.”
“Let's not get into this right now,” David said, interrupting them as he got to his feet and headed over to the kettle. “At the risk of sounding terribly British, does anyone want a cup of tea?”
“I doubt Christine puts anything into her body orally,” Mary muttered. “Maybe put some Earl Grey into a needle for her.”
“Ha fucking ha,” Chris replied, shuffling toward the table. She winced as she took a seat, and after a moment she glanced at her mother and saw the look of scorn. “What?”
Mary shook her head.
“You don't know what it's like seeing the things I see,” Chris said after a moment. “It's easy for you, sitting in your little bubble -”
“That's enough,” David said firmly.
“Why does she get to sit in judgment?” Chris asked, turning to him. “No-one knows the shit I've had to put up with out there.”
“Deny it all you like,” Mary replied, getting to her feet, “but we're all responsible for our own decisions. I'm going to take a shower. You might not understand, Christine, but some people in this world actually have to go out and work for a living, instead of stealing from others.”
Chris opened her mouth to reply, but she managed to hold back as her mother made her way up the stairs.
“Are you still hallucinating?” David asked after a moment, as the kettle finished boiling.
“It doesn't matter,” Chris muttered under her breath.
“Last time you were here,” he continued, “a year ago, you said you were seeing things you thought might actually be real. Is that still the case?”
“I see a lot of crazy shit when I'm high,” she replied edgily. “It's just... Lately I've started to think that maybe some of it's really there, you know? Like, sometimes I think I see this person nearby, just like for a flash, in the corner of my eye. When I turn to look at her, she's never actually there, and I'm pretty sure it's a she, but...”
“You've talked about her before.”
Sighing, Chris put her head in her hands.
“Have you thought about getting help this time?” David asked. “Proper help, I mean. You can still beat this addiction.”
“You don't get it,” she replied, turning to him with tears in her eyes. “I've been that presence since I was a kid. That's why I started taking drugs in the first place, to try to block her out.”
“And does it work?”
“Nothing works. I just wish I knew what the hell she wants from me.”
Today
“I need Benthlacone,” Chris explained, “and I don't want it in liquid form either, I need it in tabs, 'cause the drops make me itchy. And when I say itchy, I don't mean just a bit itchy, I mean properly itchy, like it's an actual problem and I'll end up with a rash all over my body. That's happened before. But I also need Norazma B capsules to help with the shakes, 'cause when I'm coming off heroin I tend to get really shaky, like...”
She held up a hand and gave an example.
“Like that. Seriously, can you believe it? Who the fuck wants to be like that, right?”
She paused, watching as the woman on the other side of the table simply stared at her.
“Aren't you gonna write any of this down?” Chris asked after a moment.
“Write what down?” the woman replied.
“The meds I need.”
The woman raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“You gonna remember it all?” Chris continued, with a hint of desperation in her voice. “You got, like, some super-memory or something? 'Cause I've gotta have these exact meds, no substitutions or any of that crap. It's really important that you give me exactly what I ask for, or there's on way I'm gonna be able to make it. This is life or death shit here.”
“You'll be helped with your withdrawal symptoms,” the woman said calmly. “My name is Doctor Deborah Bell and I -”
“Benthlacone,” Chris said firmly, “in tablet form, and Norazma B in capsule form -”
“Christine -”
“It's Chris! And I need my meds! I need -”
“I heard what you said,” Doctor Bell replied, interrupting her. “Actually, I found it quite interesting. You seem to have very strong opinions about the treatment you want to receive. This isn't particularly unusual. Many addicts have learned to self-medicate, which makes them resistant to alternative regimens. They end up thinking that they know better than their doctors.”
“I've had bad treatment before,” Chris told her. “No offense, you seem nice, but some doctors I've met in the past don't know jack shit about anything.”
“We have language rules here,” the older woman told her. “Please try to refrain from using any curse or swear words.”
“Is this a fucking kindergarten?”
“It's a serious facility with proper rules. We like to maintain order at Hardstone, otherwise the place would descend into chaos. I'm sure you can imagine that we have all sorts of people here, and many of them are from the rougher end of the social spectrum. Putting such a large number of felons together is dangerous enough, without allowing them the freedom to act however they wish. These rules are just one way in which we try to improve the general milieu.”
“Rougher end of the social spectrum?” Chris replied. “Seriously? Improving the milieu? Is that why you're wearing a pair of plastic gloves? You worried about catching something from me?”
“They're merely for basic hygiene.”
“That's a relief. I was worried you were gonna go poking about in my asshole.”
“Most people come around to our way of thinking,” the doctor added, wincing at Chris's continued use of strong language. “I find it's possible to crack even the hardest nut.”
“Well,” Chris continued, “that sounds like a hell of a lot of unnecessary effort, so how about we make a deal instead. You get me the meds I've very specifically told you I need, and in return I'll try really effing hard to cut out the naughty words. Sound like a plan?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Chris stared at her, as if she couldn't believe the answer.
“I'm not here to make any deals with you,” Doctor Bell replied coolly, “I'm here to tell you what treatment you'll be receiving. We're not friends, Ms. Bradford, and I don't care whether or not you like me and whether you think I'm a good doctor. I simply intend to do what I think is best for you, based on my extensive experience of treating drug addicts. I appreciate your input and I respect your right to have an opinion, but ultimately I'm the one who is responsible for your treatment while you're here. In other words, I'm in charge.”
“Great,” Chris replied, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms across her chest. “One of those.”
“One of what?”
“Someone who thinks she knows better.”
“I am a doctor.”
“But you don't know me,” Chris continued. “You don't know what I, specifically, need – not want, need – in order to -”
“You're different to everyone else, are you?”
“Everyone's different to everyone else.”
“That's really not true. Most people are depressingly ordinary.”
“You reckon?”
“There are various ways to deal with a detoxing heroin addict,” Doctor Bell replied. “Some methods work better than others, some are more suited to certain individuals, some are established and others are a little more experimental in nature.” She paused for a moment, with a glint in her eye. “You don't get to march in here and tell me what treatment you're going to get,” she added finally. “I'm the prison's senior doctor and it's my job to assess you and make a decision.”
“This is bullshit,” Chris muttered. “I'm back to square one, aren't I?”
“Don't use that language. If you say such things again, I'll be forced to call for someone to come and restrain you.”