A Memory of Demons

by Ambrose, David

  My original plan had simply been to keep the place for long enough to remove all traces of the body. But then I had an idea. Why not keep the house permanently? Not to live in myself, of course. I would continue to occupy the bright and elegantly furnished apartment I had bought on Sycamore Avenue thirty miles away. But I had already noticed a creeping yuppiedom on the fringes of Grover’s Town, or ‘Death Valley’ as it was known locally. So I decided to convert the place into apartments. The investment paid off handsomely. Everything was rented within a month of my appointing a realtor to deal with that side of things – everything, that is, except the ground floor and basement apartment, which I retained in the name of the fictitious owner of the building, Adam St Leonard. I didn’t want strangers nosing around down there – ever.

  Four years passed, during which everything in my life ran smoothly. Then, one day, my colleague Bella Warne told me about a family called Freeman who were having problems with their three-year-old daughter. At her request, I agreed to see them right away.

  I know of no way to describe the totally unprepared-for shock of seeing the man I had left dead in a ditch four years earlier walk into my office. Only by a superhuman effort of self-control did I avoid giving myself away.

  Oddly enough I never felt even for a moment that I could be mistaken, that this was not the same man. His face had etched itself into my memory though not because I was haunted by remorse over what I had done. True, I had not wanted to kill him, but at the time I had been left no choice in the matter. Perhaps that was why his face had remained so clearly with me, like an enemy vanquished but in some way honoured.

  Could I have been mistaken in thinking him dead? Had I been too rattled by events to finish the job properly? It had to be a possibility, but I did not believe it was the answer. What I believed was that I was facing a man who had come back from the dead.

  When I discovered what the problem with his daughter was, I knew why.

  In my first sessions with Julia, I quickly established that her ‘Melanie’ memories were fragmentary and posed no direct threat to me – at least at that stage. What might happen as she got older was another matter.

  Amazingly, Tom Freeman had no memory at all of that night when our paths had first crossed. Years later, of course, I discovered that he had an unconscious memory of it in the form of his recurrent dream, which merely reinforced my earlier analysis of what had happened. Drunk and drugged, as he habitually was back then, he had stumbled into the basement of the house in search of somewhere to pass out and spend the night, or what remained of it. He had been there, presumably unconscious, when I arrived with the girl. For whatever reason, he had happened to come out of his drunken slumber during the short time that I was away in search of something to help me bury the body. On waking, he had wrongly assumed that he himself was responsible for the girl’s death. Whether, when I first saw him, he had been running away to save his skin or to raise the alarm was anybody’s guess. Unless, of course, he got his memory back, which was always a possibility, and one I had to reckon with.

  The coming together of our three lives on that night was remarkable in several ways that showed the hand of God, the God I have already described: God the games player, God the maker of puzzles, God Whose thoughts we are as He whiles away eternity by inventing and then dismantling us.

  Take, as an example of His games, the situation that confronted me. Tom Freeman had inexplicably survived my attempt to kill him. He had gone on to father a child who claimed she had once been Melanie Hagan. Then, as part of the same extraordinary symmetry, the Freemans had been referred to me and not to somebody else for treatment of their daughter’s condition. True, Bella Warne, their doctor, knew I was the best available, but there was no guarantee that I would take the case. I could have been away, unwell, or simply too busy. There were a thousand reasons why Julia Freeman might have wound up in different hands. The fact that she had come to me was more than mere chance.

  My first objective, to put it simply, was to drive a wedge between the two identities vying for control of the child’s conscious mind. I could not delete Melanie as easily as a file on a computer, but I could try to ensure that Julia kept the upper hand. In fact this proved relatively easy, using standard game therapy and light hypnosis. I don’t want to give the impression that I was lulled into a sense of false security by this, because I remained certain we were far from the end of the story. Melanie had not gone away by the time we stopped our first series of regular sessions: she was merely in abeyance. The only way I could be sure she would never return was by eliminating Julia, which was effectively impossible. My best course was to anticipate and prepare for Melanie’s return. I had no doubt that if this happened I would have far more trouble controlling her than previously. Melanie in an older Julia would be harder to deal with than in a small child.

  So I began to imagine possible scenarios, and my responses to them. As part of this strategy, I made a point of staying in touch with her parents to monitor her progress. We would meet for a drink or simply chat on the phone from time to time, as well as run into one another at restaurants or various social functions: Saracen Springs was not a large pond, and we were sizeable fish in it. Our conversations were always principally about Julia, but in the course of them I learnt what her parents were up to, where they were going, and every detail was filed away in case of future need.

  Whether or not that need arose was up to Melanie Hagan.

  52

  Five more years passed before I got the call from Tom Freeman at Niagara Falls to say that Melanie was back. Two days later, they brought their daughter to my office. Tom had already told me on the phone that the ‘episode’, as he called it, had seemingly come to an end shortly after their visit to Melanie’s home. Julia had taken a few things she claimed as hers – as Melanie’s – but was showing little interest in them and had ceased talking at all about her ‘previous’ life.

  Although I had seen the child from time to time throughout the previous five years, it had always been casually and with her parents. This was the first time I had been alone with her since our earlier sessions ended. I sensed at once that Julia was nervous behind the shy smile and demure manner, as though she feared she was about to be accused of something she hadn’t done.

  ‘Just relax, Julia,’ I said, ‘like we used to. You remember?’

  She nodded. I talked for a while, in effect putting her into a light trance, using a variation of the techniques I’d used when she was younger. ‘All right,’ I said eventually, ‘why don’t you tell me what happened at Niagara Falls?’

  ‘We went on this boat, and it was great! We had to put on these oilskins so we didn’t get wet . . .’

  I let her chatter on about her holiday for several minutes, during which time she made no mention of Melanie. Then I prompted her with a question.

  ‘Didn’t you go somewhere else after that?’

  She shook her head, but with that too firm and slightly tight-lipped way that children have when they are denying something and not simply answering a question. I prompted her further.

  ‘Didn’t you take a bus ride and go looking for something . . . ?’

  This time she didn’t answer, just dropped her gaze and stared at the fingers she was twisting in her lap.

  ‘Julia? Didn’t you go to look for a house?’

  She answered without looking up, and almost inaudibly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What house were you looking for?’

  ‘My house.’

  Still she didn’t look up.

  ‘But your house is here, Julia, in Saracen Springs.’

  Her voice hardened, but she kept her eyes on the twisting fingers in her lap.

  ‘No, my house. I wanted to see my house.’

  ‘You mean Melanie’s house?’

  She looked at me now, and her gaze was as defiant as the tone of her voice. The eyes that bore into mine were no longer Julia’s, and there was a coarseness in the face that was
not Julia’s. I recognized that look.

  ‘No, I mean mine, motherfucker! Who d’you think you’re talking to here? Snow fucking White?’

  If she was looking for shock in my reaction, she was disappointed. I just smiled calmly and said, ‘Hello, Melanie.’

  My lack of concern unbalanced her slightly, but she covered it with aggression. ‘Don’t think you’re going to stuff me back in the box this time,’ she said. ‘This time I’m going to finish you, fuckhead!’

  That has been the pattern of our sessions since. To her parents and the outside world she has remained Julia. With me, in private, she is Melanie. She has abused me and called me every foul name she can think of, most of which I am sure would be unknown to Julia.

  When I got the call from Tom a few days later to say that he had found the house from his nightmare, I realized that his memory was beginning to return, as I had anticipated it would, albeit only partially and obliquely for the moment. But things were moving fast now towards their close.

  Only my foresight and my well-laid plans can save me now. And I believe they will.

  53

  They arrive a little before eleven thirty, but I am ready for them. More ready than they know.

  ‘I hope you parked in my garage, Tom, like I told you,’ I say.

  ‘Sure. That’s a big help.’

  It is interesting that neither Tom nor Clare has ever asked why I have extended the privilege of parking in my private garage to them alone and to no other patients. Proof perhaps of the old adage that you do not look a gift horse in the mouth.

  ‘Julia,’ I say, ‘why don’t you go talk to Sally for a moment while I have a word with your father.’

  She likes my receptionist, and heads off happily to her office. I steer Tom into the waiting room.

  ‘So how are you feeling this morning?’ I ask. ‘You certainly look better.’

  ‘I went to an AA meeting last night. I managed to get home without stopping for a drink.’ He gives a quick self-deprecating laugh. ‘I’d forgotten how bad it could be.’

  ‘You made it, that’s all that matters,’ I say, taking care to sound encouraging, not patronizing.

  ‘I wouldn’t quite say all,’ Tom says. ‘I mean, where exactly are we now? What is it you said you have to tell me?’

  ‘Just give me ten minutes with Julia, that’s all I need. Then I’ll have Sally get her back to school. After that, I’ll be right with you.’

  Tom sits down with a newspaper as I leave him, closing the door behind me. As I walk down the soft-carpeted corridor, I can hear Julia chattering happily with Sally Young.

  ‘Hello, Julia. How are you today?’ I say.

  She gives me her usual big smile. ‘I’m fine, Dr Hunt, thank you.’

  I tell Sally to go over to the hospital and check out some records, then go straight to lunch. The records are, of course, a blind. They are real enough, but I do not really need them. And Sally is delighted to have an extra hour for lunch.

  ‘Come on in, Julia,’ I say, holding open the door to my private office.

  I was not sure at first, whether Julia herself remembered anything of what happens in these sessions; gradually I became certain she remembered nothing. This morning, as always, she walks ahead of me and settles in her usual place, then turns to look up at me brightly, ready to begin. Only when the door closes, with the muted click of its latch, does the transformation take place.

  ‘OK, big boy, what’s it gonna be? Blow-job? Ass-fuck? Whatever does it for you?’

  The voice is different. The face. The whole posture of the body. A total transformation – from an innocent nine-year-old to a precocious, foul-mouthed and foul-minded strumpet of fourteen.

  ‘Stop it, Melanie,’ I say with exaggerated weariness, because I want her to think that she has worn me down and my defences are flagging. ‘You know nothing like that is going to happen here. How could it?’

  She gives a self-satisfied, knowing smile, enjoying the power she thinks she has over me.

  ‘You’re gonna have to kill her in the end,’ she says. ‘That’s the only way you’re ever going to silence me, you know. You’re going to have to kill the brat. That fucking Julia.’

  ‘How long are you proposing to go on with this?’ I ask, slumping into my chair, exhibiting all the body language of defeat.

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

  ‘So you still think there’s some purpose to all this?’

  ‘Oh, I know there is.’

  She continues to smirk at me in that ‘I’ve got a secret’ way. There is not even a residual trace of Julia in her. Melanie, as always, has taken over completely.

  ‘You’re going to have to kill her,’ she repeats. ‘I’m not kidding, you know.’

  I look at her, not troubling to disguise my disdain for her strategy. In the past I have let her think I was afraid, that she was in the driving seat. But that has been my strategy. And now, though she does not know it yet, she has been outmanoeuvred.

  ‘Why would I kill Julia Freeman?’

  ‘I told you – because it’s the only way you’re going to silence me.’

  ‘But why should I bother to silence you, so long as you keep these crazy accusations between us in this room?’

  ‘What makes you think I’ll do that?’ she says, giving me that sly, sidelong I’m-cleverer-than-you look she probably practises in her mirror.

  ‘I’ve already told you what will happen if you start telling people I killed you ten years ago. They’ll put you away in a place for very sick children. That’s all you are – a sick and harmless child.’

  She gives a throaty laugh. ‘I bet you wish you could be sure of that. Safer to kill her, big boy. Kill the brat – and then what? Make it look like an accident?’ She laughs again, a harsher sound this time. ‘Suicide? That would be a good one if you can pull it off.’

  She is watching me carefully, avid for a twitch of unease, any hint of fear.

  ‘You’re leaving me no choice, are you?’ I say quietly, as though accepting my fate, acknowledging that she is in control.

  ‘You’ll never get away with it, you know. She’s not like me. She’s got her folks, and they’re going to get real pissed if anything happens to her. But you can’t shut me up without shutting her up. So admit it, big boy. I’ve got you cornered. You’re fucked – right?’

  ‘You’re very clever, Melanie,’ I say. ‘Too clever for me, I’m afraid.’

  She likes flattery. It is a weakness I make use of. All the same, her logic is impeccable. I’ve known that for a long time.

  I get to my feet, cross the room, and pull open a drawer. Her eyes follow me every step of the way.

  ‘What the fuck is that thing?’

  She points at the object I have just taken from my desk. I am mildly surprised she doesn’t know what it is. In her world, the world she inhabited before her death, she might, I thought, have come across such things. Apparently not. No matter.

  ‘Have you never seen one of these?’ I say casually, holding it out for her inspection. ‘It’s a stun gun. There’s a battery in the grip that creates an electric charge at this point – here – powerful enough to render a full-grown man physically helpless for several minutes. So imagine what it will do to you.’

  Her eyes light up. She thinks she understands what is happening. She thinks it is what she wants, that she has won.

  ‘Hey big boy, you’re really going to do it, aren’t you? Cool.’

  ‘Yes, Melanie, I’m really going to do it. But not the way you think.’

  I take a step towards her. Her eyes are fixed in fascination on the object in my hand. She doesn’t even try to pull away.

  Tom sits hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as though in prayer. He looks up as I enter the room. He barely registers the object in my hand until I touch him on the shoulder with it. He convulses like a man suffering an epileptic fit, then slumps back, dazed and physically helpless.

&nbs
p; He does not feel the hypodermic as it punctures the soft flesh at the base of his neck.

  I drag him down the rear stairs which lead directly to my private garage, then manhandle him into the trunk of his own car – having pulled on the gloves which I shall wear until the whole of this operation is complete. Next, I go back for Julia, and load her too into the trunk of her father’s car. Anyone observing the car emerge from the automatic door would see only a driver in a hat and coat with an upturned collar, who could as well be Tom Freeman as anybody else. But nobody, as far as I am aware, actually sees me.

  It takes twenty minutes to reach the garage rented in the name of Adam St Leonard in Broadlands, a bleak stretch of low-rent housing where few people watch, and even fewer give a damn about, anybody’s comings and goings. This garage also has space for two cars, although until now there has only been one, an ageing black Mercedes, kept there. It, too, is owned in the name of Adam St Leonard. The only prints on it, when it is eventually found, will be those of Tom Freeman and his daughter, just as the only car found in this garage will be Tom Freeman’s. The conclusion will be obvious: that Tom Freeman has been for many years leading a sinister and shocking double life.

  Once inside, with the door safely closed, I transfer the two unconscious bodies from the trunk of Tom’s car to the Mercedes’. Then I put on the moustache, heavy-frame glasses and distinctive hat of Adam St Leonard, and set out for the house in Grover’s Town where this whole extraordinary affair began.

  PART THREE

  ‘JUDGEMENT’

  54

  Tom’s first thought was that it must be his dream again, the nightmare that he knew so well. But in the dream there was light – enough at least to see where he was and the horror that lay at his feet.