Gaslighting (DP, DIC03)

by Will Patching

  ***

  After leaving Nana with tears streaming down her cheeks, her pupils dilated and her mind unravelling, Billy took the tray to her en suite bathroom, scraped the bulk of her lunch into the toilet pan and threw her untouched glass of apple juice after it. His portion of lasagne was now putting pressure on his bowels, and although much earlier than planned, he decided he would risk it. It took a moment of poking around in the cupboard under the sink until he found the empty coffee jar he had placed there last night, when he delivered her narcotic laden glass of milk.

  He put the wooden seat lid down, placed the opened container atop the lavatory, dropped his jeans and kicked them off, then sprang from the floor, landing with his feet either side of the jar. As he squatted, he allowed his bowels to open, then squeezed out a few inches of filth into it, holding onto his erect penis at the same time, so as not to waste any precious liquor. Once satisfied he had enough brown matter for his needs, he lifted the jar, stood upright, forced his penis to point into it and allowed urine to flow until it was full, then voided the rest of his bladder on to the bathroom mats.

  With the jar lid screwed into place, he shook it vigorously until the mixture was the consistency of a lumpy, muddy puddle, then squatted again, this time taking the excrement into his hand as it slipped from his anus, before daubing it on the tiles and mirror above the sink, fingers shaking with excitement. Breathing through his mouth helped, but the smell caught at his throat as he worked. He didn’t care.

  This was just such great fun.

  As he washed his hands under scalding water, soaping them several times then scrubbing under the nails until there was no hint of shit on his fingers, he cracked a triumphant smile in the mirror, his image hazy and disrupted by the smeared brown words he had scrawled there.

  Then Billy’s uncle’s face appeared, superimposed over his own. Also beaming a smile – a toothless one, but glorious all the same. A raucous cackle, like the one that used to terrify him in his dreams, filled the bathroom, and Billy could hear his own voice join with it before silencing himself in case his mother heard the noise and came to investigate.

  The thought made his uncle vanish, so Billy secreted the jar back in its hiding place alongside the two others with similar contents, dressed, then closed the bathroom door behind him as he went to see how Nana was doing.

  One hand was covering her mouth, and a low-pitched moan seeped between her fingers. Her eyelids had retracted and the orbs bulged out of her face. Her right fist was wrapped in her hair, tugging at the incongruous chestnut locks with grey roots. Billy supposed his mother enjoyed making the old dear look ludicrous, deliberately chose this ridiculous colour, maybe in response to her own horrific countenance. Not that anyone ever saw Nana – she had not been out of the house for over a year, had hardly been out of this room for much of that time either. Most of her days were spent gazing at the woods and hedgerows outside.

  Or suffering lysergic acid hallucinations.

  ‘Having a nice trip, Nana?’ A snicker. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Billy lifted her from the chair like a child who was too tired to get herself to bed. It took no effort, thanks to the starvation diet he’d imposed on her, and a few strides later he dropped her on the mattress, arranged the quilt to cover her, picked up her tray and left her to her nightmares.

  ‘She ate the lot, Mum.’ The tray clattered on the kitchen counter top before Billy loaded the plate, cutlery and glass in the dishwasher.

  ‘That’s good news. She still eats well, but I have no idea why she’s lost so much weight.’

  ‘She’s pining for Gramps. Depressed and all that.’ Billy sat at the table next to his mother, inspecting her half-eaten lunch, and brushed a kiss on her good cheek. ‘What did the doctor say, last week, when he came to see her?’

  Although the question sounded genuine, Billy had no real interest, and relished the look on his mother’s face for his unexpected show of affection. He hadn’t done that for years. Unsettling people was the easiest thing in the world.

  ‘Er… Not much. He gave a repeat prescription for her various meds, and just said she was getting old, that she seemed to have given up after my dad died. He thinks she’s showing signs of early stage dementia too, but she won’t go to the hospital for tests.’ She took Billy’s hand in his. ‘I know you get upset about it, and you say things you don’t mean, like this morning. But we have to look after her. Okay?’

  ‘I do.’ He sniffed. ‘She’s having a kip now, so we can leave her in peace for a few hours. Would you take me to the river? I’d like to canoe while the sun’s shining.’ Billy was waiting for her to make some excuse. He could smell the gin on her breath, had placed his lips on her ugly face purely to put his own nose in close proximity to hers, to confirm his suspicion. ‘Unless you’re pissed already. It’s only two o’clock! You lush.’

  He thrust himself to his feet, putting on a show of anger, but her response surprised him.

  ‘Okay. I’ll take you. Give me half an hour or so. I’ll sort out the laundry and then get ready.’

  ‘Yeah. Guzzle some coffee, more like. Maybe stick your fingers down your throat too, trying to get yourself below the limit again. I can drive us.’

  ‘You cannot! You’re not old enough so don’t be so silly. It’s illegal.’

  ‘So’s drink driving.’

  ‘I am not drunk!’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Enough. I’ll be ready by the time you’ve fixed the canoe on the roof rack. Go on. Clear off out before I get really angry with you and change my mind.’

  Billy slammed the back door as he left his mother stewing in the kitchen, convinced she would be craving another drink, but would have to refrain, having committed herself to driving her son to Pangbourne.

  Hahaha!

  Loading the canoe gear would take him no more than five minutes, and she’d be late anyway, so he unlocked Gramps’ workshop situated in a converted garage to the side of the house, and went to work on his most audacious project to date.

  Powers’ house backed on to the Thames, and Billy had canoed past the property on numerous occasions – had hauled himself aboard the cabin cruiser moored there several times in the preceding months. The modified object he was now admiring appeared to be identical to the one on the psychiatrist’s boat, and he was satisfied it was almost ready.

  Gramps’ man cave was one of Billy’s favourite places to hang out, and as he put the finishing touches to his creation, he thought back to how much he had learned at his grandfather’s side. Gramps had been an engineer, starting his career as an apprentice with British Rail and then, later, after privatisation, worked for Virgin in the local train repair yards. This workshop had been his sanctuary, and had accumulated all manner of tools, machinery, spares and items collected over decades.

  The acrid fumes curling up from the soldering iron mingled with the other odours that lingered in the air, a manly scent that always brought Gramps to Billy’s mind – the smell of grease, oil and flux, mingling with a metallic tang, along with a hint of rust too.

  During Billy’s silent phase, Gramps had taken him under his wing, taught him how to use a lathe, how to shape and bend iron and steel to any desired shape or size, how to tap a screw thread and many other engineering techniques. It had been a revelation to the boy, and Gramps eventually let him loose on his pride and joy. The steam powered locomotive, a one fiftieth scale model, a fully functioning miniature replica, accurate in every detail – a source of magic and mystery to the young lad from the very first moment he saw it puffing along the circle of track specially created for it. Thanks to much patient instruction from Gramps, Billy could, if necessary, take the complex machine to pieces, recondition almost any worn or unserviceable parts – even create new components from scratch – then rebuild it in its entirety.

  The pleasure of creation had helped Billy through his pupa phase, and his few fond memories from his years living in Bucklebury had been shaped in this workshop.
It was a shame it all went sour in the end, and Gramps had to go and die like that.

  Oh well, this is looking good.

  With one last dab of the soldering iron, he finished connecting the end of a length of high tension cable to the item he had welded the previous afternoon. A couple of minutes later he finished fixing a short tail of copper wire to the main body, certain this would ensure a good earth for the contraption. Billy hummed to himself as he packed his tools away, wrapped his precious creation in an oily rag, then hid it in a drawer.

  Unusually for him, alongside the delicious sense of anticipation he felt, there was a shimmer of concern about his plan. He was convinced he had sufficient cable to connect the device, but he had not yet tested it. And there was a chance the extra cabling could be discovered before the ignition was fired up…

  It should work, in theory. Only one way to find out.

  ‘Are you ready, Mum?’ With the canoe secured to the roof rack, Billy poked his head round the back door to see if his mother was there. On hearing heavy footfalls from upstairs, he flew into the house, bounded up the stairs like a panther, and managed to reach Nana’s room as his mother’s bedroom door opened. She was wearing her idiotic disguise. A yashmak or burka would suit her better, he thought. He logged that insult to hurl at her on another occasion, put his finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Shhh. She’s asleep.’

  ‘Are you sure? I thought I heard her calling out a moment ago when I popped up here to get ready. I was about to check on her before we leave.’

  ‘No need. I’ve spent the last five minutes in there. She’s sparko. Dreaming and mumbling about Gramps like she always does. Come on. You’re late. I’ve been waiting ages. Let’s go.’

  Billy brushed past her and bobbed down the stairs three at a time. His mother’s thumping feet confirmed her lardy arse was wobbling along right behind him.

  ***

  Jack’s guests had started thinning out from five o’clock onwards, largely thanks to his boss throwing a giant spanner in the works.

  ‘Sadie-bloody-Soundbite Dawson. She’ll be the death of me, the cantankerous witch. Fancy telling all my oppos not to drink alcohol at my party if they were driving. That was bad enough, but the grapevine tells me she had a quiet word with the Thames Valley traffic boys. Suggested they set up breathalyser stops on the roads around your home this evening. Told them she had no time for coppers boozing then driving, zero tolerance and all that. Reckoned she’d have our badges if any of us were caught.’

  ‘You should’ve invited her.’

  Doc could tell Jack was well beyond driving, or controlling anything more complicated than a pair of tongs and some oven mitts – not that he planned to leave tonight anyway.

  Jack snorted, then gurgled a beer-soaked laugh. ‘Yeah, I wasn’t at my most diplomatic when I told her she wasn’t welcome. I’d had a few by the time she pitched up. We were down the pub last Thursday, the afternoon I heard the news confirming I’d got it, when she poked her horrible mug in the bar. Upset me when she told me I’d be reporting to her again as soon as I get back from leave. Took the edge off, especially when she admitted she’d recommended I remain as a DI.’ He affected a high pitched nasal whine, mimicking her as he added, ‘You just aren’t ready for this, Jack. Fortunately, I can keep a close eye on you and make sure you don’t screw up again.’ The bottom half of his beer glass emptied into his drainpipe of a throat, before an impatient wrist wiped a dribble of the amber liquid from his lips. ‘Bitch.’

  ‘Oh well, it was a good afternoon. Despite everything. You should be pleased.’

  Judy had been on good form, bubbling with laughter and enchanting Jack’s colleagues, though had excused herself ten minutes ago, saying she needed to lie down. Doc would check on her shortly, but was not too concerned. When there were a lot of people around, Judy was easily overwhelmed, and though she was much better now, and did her best to welcome guests whenever Doc invited them to their home, she would bow out as soon as things got too much for her. She was far stronger, physically and mentally these days, much to Doc’s relief.

  The last of Jack’s buddies said reluctant goodbyes and headed off, leaving just one guest in the garden. Professor Dickie Maddox strolled over to Doc and Jack, pocketing his mobile phone with one hand, a large glass of whisky clamped in the other. He wouldn’t be driving tonight, but he wasn’t staying over, either.

  ‘Don’t worry, Doc. I’ll be buggering off shortly, too. Didn’t expect things to end so soon, though. The last time you two had a do here, it went on until after midnight. I gather you aren’t flavour of the month with your boss, Jack.’

  ‘Don’t even go there, Dickie… Right. I’m busting for a leak. Anyone need another drink?’

  Doc sipped the last of his wine as he watched his best friend meander into the house, and then chuckled as Dickie muttered, ‘Steady as she goes… You think he’ll make it back with my whisky in one piece?’

  ‘Don’t worry about him. He’ll be fine. You know he can drink like a fish. How’s things?’

  Doc had met Dickie at medical school over three decades before, though they had been rivals there and many unpleasant events had passed between them during their years of learning. For a long while, Doc had harboured a deep-seated grudge against the man, a genius level polymath, a brilliant surgeon turned forensic psychiatrist, and a celebrity with a hugely successful internationally renowned TV series – a track record that made Doc’s achievements seem minor by comparison.

  Both Doc and Jack had come to enjoy the man’s company ever since meeting him on a case involving all three of them some four years before. He was a very generous person, a great host and bon vivant, always ready with a smile and an offer of help. Much of his wealth had found its way into genuinely worthy causes, not the usual artificial charities that so many of the ultra-rich set up just to avoid paying their taxes.

  ‘I’m good, but you two seemed on edge this afternoon. Jack normally holds his drink rather better than this too.’ An arched eyebrow questioned Doc as Dickie added, ‘It seemed more like a wake at times, not a celebration. Anything you want to share with me before I go? My chauffeur’s already here, but he’ll wait, so we have time to chat if it would help.’

  In some respects, Dickie Maddox had become a closer confidant than Jack, as Doc was able to share his innermost secrets with his fellow psychiatrist and intellectual equivalent. Jack’s more down to earth, though incredibly insightful approach was different, and although Doc considered the detective his best friend, Dickie’s professional training helped him in other ways.

  Doc was about to share his thoughts about this morning’s events, when they heard a loud metallic hammering and then the shattering of glass from the front of the house, followed by a querulous racket as two male voices were raised in anger, immediately followed by a woman yelling as well.

  ‘That’s Jonesy, my driver. Sounds like he’s having a bit of a barney.’

  Doc nodded and followed as Maddox started towards the side gate.

  Jack was on his way through the kitchen door as the racket escalated, so he dumped the three drinks he’d been hugging to his chest on the patio table and joined Doc and Dickie as they semi-jogged along the path at the side of the house to the source of the noise.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’

  Doc took in the sight and stopped dead as he recognised two of the three people on his driveway. Dickie’s uniformed driver was sitting on the floor beside his boss’s Bentley, clearly dazed, nursing an eye, while a woman in a headscarf and dark glasses was pulling a young man towards a compact SUV, parked askew across the drive entrance with both front doors wide open, screeching and cursing at him all the while. A canoe paddle, broken into two pieces, was lying on the ground in front of the luxury limousine, surrounded by glass. Headlight fragments, from the look of it.

  It took a couple of seconds before Doc got a good view of the lad’s face, and the moment he did, his breath whistled from his mouth as if he had been gut
punched.

  Billy Leech? Here? Today, of all days?

  Jack sprang into action, apparently sober again.

  ‘Okay, Madam. You can stop right there. I’m a police officer and I want to talk to you and that young man. Right now.’

  Jack’s warrant card was already out, and he looked about ready to charge in and arrest the teenager. The woman froze on hearing his voice but her son just ignored the command, jumped into the car and slammed his door.

  Before Jack could approach the vehicle, Dickie grabbed his elbow, stopping him dead.

  ‘It’s alright, Jack. I’ll handle this.’ Doc could see Jack was about to explode, his face flaming red, furious. He spun back, no doubt ready to tear Maddox off a strip for interfering in a clear case of assault and criminal damage, but the moment he heard Dickie utter the woman’s name, his anger dissipated, replaced by a baffled frown crinkling his forehead, his lower jaw flapping open. ‘Mrs Leech. We can talk about this later in the week. I’ll call you. Please don’t worry. Just take the boy home.’

  Dickie helped his chauffeur to his feet and asked how he was feeling. Doc sensed embarrassment on the driver’s part, at having been floored by a teenager. The same teenager now beaming a malevolent stare through the car windscreen, aimed at the foursome – his venom now including Doc, Jack and Dickie – as his mother slid in beside him.

  Her car had a canoe on its roof, water still dripping from it, and Doc assumed they must have been passing, on their way home from the yacht club at the end of his road. The boy was dressed in a shorty wetsuit, the top half dangling from his waist, and his upper body was bare, exposing a well-muscled torso. More like an Olympic athlete’s frame than an adolescent’s build.

  Doc returned the boy’s stare, thinking how much he had changed – almost beyond recognition in the two and a half years since they had last met. A massive growth spurt had added significant height and bulk, and although his face was still refined and vaguely feminine, the look he was giving Doc brought to mind the boy’s father.

  And his uncle.