When Evil Calls Your Name_a dark psychological thriller

by John Nicholl

  He shook his head dismissively and made a show of shuffling through the papers for a minute or two before finally taking a one-page typed letter on headed paper from the top. Why the delay? Why didn’t he just do that in the first place? ‘I don’t require coffee, or anything else for that matter. I want you to sit there without speaking and to listen extremely carefully to what I have to say to you. It’s of crucial importance. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’ What else could I say?

  ‘So, I’ve made myself perfectly clear?’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  ‘Then, you’ve absolutely no excuse if you don’t follow my instructions to the letter.’

  ‘No,’

  ‘None at all?’

  I shook my head frantically, keen to placate him. ‘None!’

  ‘Then, you accept that any negative consequences of failing to follow my instructions to the letter would be entirely your responsibility?’

  I nodded without speaking, silently cursing my aching lower back, desperately wanting the interaction to end and increasingly concerned as to what he’d say next.

  He held the letter out in front of him and perused the contents for a second time. ‘The local social services department are becoming increasingly anxious regarding your capacity to provide adequate care for the brat when he or she arrives.’

  ‘But they haven’t seen me. Only the midwife’s seen me. And I didn’t say very much at all. I kept my mouth shut, just like you said.’

  ‘I had no choice but to discuss your increasing reliance on tranquillisers with your general practitioner, my dear. You’ve been going through a great many tablets. Far more than you should have. More than I could provide without raising understandable concerns. There was no other option in the circumstances.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But I only take them when you…’

  ‘You’re a mess, Cynthia. It’s truly embarrassing. I was forced to sit down with a colleague and discuss your damned issues. I’ve never felt so humiliated.’

  I lowered my head in shame and focussed on my feet. I’d let him down. I shouldn’t have let him down. I had to think of the baby.

  ‘And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he chose to share my concerns with the social workers. I work with those damn people on a regular basis. You’ve brought them to my door!’ He was on his feet now: yelling, agitated, angry. ‘What have you got to say for yourself? Spit it out, you stupid girl.’

  I fought to control my breathing, fought to control my bursting bladder, fought to find the right words. ‘I could speak to them myself. I could try to explain.’

  He laughed, but his expression hardened almost immediately. ‘That’s an outlandish idea, you moronic bitch. Ridiculous! I’ve spoken to them on your behalf. I’ve pleaded your case with the appropriate people. I’ve given them reassurances, despite my misgivings. Do you think you could do a better job of it?’

  I shook my head hurriedly. ‘No, no, I’m not saying that!’

  ‘So you don’t think it’s a good idea?’

  ‘No. No.’

  He sat back down, relaxed back in the seat and spoke quietly in hushed tones, ‘I could arrange it, of course. They could come to the house, they could talk to you, but I believe the results would be catastrophic. I’ve done my best to minimise your inadequacies in their eyes. I’ve utilised my expertise to paint as favourable a picture as possible in the interests of the child. I’ve risked my reputation on your behalf. If they meet you, if they see the state you’re really in, if they witness the horrible reality, there’s only ever going to be one outcome.’

  I was weeping now, my chest heaving as I twitched and sweated and panted for breath. ‘Do you think they’d take the baby?’

  He remained silent for a few seconds with a blank expression on his face before speaking again, ‘Oh, I know they’d take the baby. They’d have no other option given the circumstances. It’s in your hands, my dear. I’d keep a very low profile, if I were you.’

  I nodded anxiously and resisted the impulse to vomit.

  He took his gold fountain pen from the inside pocket of his tailored jacket and began making notes in his flowing copperplate script, whilst shaking his head and frowning. ‘I’ve been giving your predicament a great deal of thought, and there may be some hope.’

  I dabbed away my tears with a damp cashmere sleeve. He was going to help. Thank God, he was going to help. ‘I’ll do anything. Please tell me what to do.’

  He wrote another line or two in his notebook before responding, ‘You must have realised there’s an increased risk of congenital malformations and other developmental abnormalities associated with the use of your medication.’

  ‘What?’

  He smiled sardonically when he saw my horrified expression. There have been reports of respiratory and feeding difficulties in children born to mothers taking tranquillisers in late pregnancy. The brat’s likely to experience withdrawal symptoms, not a pleasant process you understand. Your child will suffer. You should have stopped taking the damned stuff long before now.’

  I clutched the table’s edge with both hands, my head swimming. ‘But, I didn’t know. You didn’t say anything. I didn’t know!’

  ‘Are you really that stupid?’

  I rose from my seat intending to plead my case, but my legs buckled at the knees and I sank to the floor.

  He loomed over me and reached down, but he didn’t help me to my feet. ‘I’m going to wean you off the drug a lot quicker than is usually advisable. I suggest we begin the process on Monday.’

  I’d become increasingly reliant on the chemical cosh, and to be honest, I was somewhat relieved that the planned reduction was two days away. ‘It is going to be all right, isn’t it? Please say it’s going to be okay.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, but no promises. Follow my instructions to the letter, and we’ll see how things progress.’

  I took a deep breath, sucking the air deep into my lungs. ‘Thank you so much, Doctor.’

  He reached down again, grasped my hand and assisted me to my feet. ‘Now, get up, stop your snivelling, and clean every inch of this place by 11:00 a.m. at the latest. I want it immaculate: not a smear of grease, not a hint of dust. I’m seeing a patient in the cellar along with an esteemed colleague. Answer the door quickly when he knocks, welcome them in, make the boy feel as relaxed as possible, and then disappear. Stay well out of the way until they leave. I don’t want to see you, and I don’t want to hear you. Don’t go anywhere near the kitchen once we’re all in the cellar. Is that perfectly clear?’

  I still didn’t understand. Why use the cellar? Why not the study? It seemed strange, but if I’m frank, unimportant when compared to the needs of my unborn child. He was the doctor, he knew best, he knew what he was doing. He’d said it and said it. Why would I doubt his word? ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  He bent down and sneered, placing his face only inches from mine. ‘My work is important to me. It’s vitally important. It will always come first, before you, and before the brat. Interfere, and it will not go well for you. You would be well advised to remember that.’

  ‘Anything you say, Doctor. Anything you say.’

  31

  I haven’t written anything for a day or two, not due to writer’s block or fear of the blank page, or any other such tired clichés that would go some way to explaining my inactivity, but because of welcome distractions that I found impossible to ignore.

  The black dog has retreated somewhat. He’s not dead, regrettably. It’s not a case of RIP black dog and never to be seen again. He’s still there somewhere in the background and lurching forward from time to time to snap at my heels, but he has lost some of his power. No doubt at some time in the not-too-distant future, he’ll make a resurgent recovery and gain strength again, but now is not that time. Make the most of the good times when you can. That’s what I’m telling myself, and it’s good advice. Mrs Martin tells me much the same thing on a regular basis.

  I actually g
ot to speak to Jack on the phone very briefly yesterday, facilitated by the wonderful Mrs Martin, who allowed me to ring him from her office to thank him for the photos, after a great deal of impassioned persuasion on my part. She said no initially, she said no repeatedly, but I eventually wore her down with a combination of pleading and tears. Thank you, Mrs Martin. Thank you so very much.

  It was wonderful to hear Jack’s still familiar voice tinged with an unequivocal hint of American, however fleetingly, and after some heartfelt complaints regarding the early hour in California, he gave me the momentous news. My big brother is going to be a father, and it seems no one is more surprised than him. Parenthood is one of life’s great rites of passage and I’m glad he can live it with someone he loves and respects as much as Marie. I very much hope they live a long life of fairytale happiness with a large pot of gold at the end of every shining rainbow. A fantasy maybe, but there’s nothing wrong with wishing them well.

  It’s amazing what the woman has done for my big brother. She came into his life and made it a better place. How completely brilliant! I guess it’s the opposite of what happened to me following Steven’s death. He got Dr Jekyll and I got Mr Hyde. I suppose that’s the luck of the draw. I enjoyed my brief transient time in the sun before my world became a colder darker place. I dearly hope that neither Jack nor his family ever encounter one of the vile predatory monsters that inhabit our world. Be careful whom you trust, that’s my advice. They can all too easily destroy your life, as he did mine.

  The phone call was over far too quickly at the behest of Mrs Martin, who looked pointedly at the clock on the wall above her desk with an angsty expression on her face. I said my reluctant goodbyes, put the phone down and thanked her profusely for allowing me to make the call at all. I know she was breaking all sorts of rules and she didn’t have to do it. I like to think that as she’s got to know me a little better, she’s come to like me more. But whatever her reasons, it was an incredibly kind gesture that I’ve promised to keep secret to my dying day. Maybe I should have kept it to myself and not written it down at all. I plan to ask her if she wants me to remove this section, if anyone else ever reads my reflections.

  On another positive note, one of my students has made such good progress with her studies that she’s asked to sit a GCSE in English language in a few months’ time. Rosie’s a bright girl who moved from foster home to foster home as a child, after being removed from her parents’ care. She left school with no qualifications, and it’s to her credit that despite the disadvantages life’s dealt her, she wants to put that right. I like to think it’s a triumph in itself, both for her and me. I like to think I pointed her in the right direction just at the right time, and I take some pleasure in that. I’ve done something good that makes my life worthwhile. I’m a good person, a positive person, not one of the ghouls. Another brick in my defensive wall. Back off, black dog. Go away and stay away.

  And so with the black dog growling quietly somewhere in the background, I’ve put pen to paper again, for what it’s worth. I’ll write and keep writing while the mood takes me and circumstances allow. My story gains pace from here on in, and I’ve got another forty minutes before lights out. I’m not entirely sure it’s a good idea to address what I have to convey next before trying to go to sleep, but I’m going to give it a try. Once you’re on a rollercoaster, it’s impossible to get off before the ride comes to a grinding stop.

  32

  When I opened the front door that morning, I was faced with an unremarkable-looking man in his mid to late fifties, accompanied by an anxious-looking boy of just four or five years with short brown hair, wearing dark blue shorts, a mustard-yellow shirt and a brightly coloured ill-fitting red woollen jumper that someone must have decided he’d eventually grow into. The man told me his name was Professor Richard Sherwood, and introduced me to the child, who said his name was Robbie in a faltering, barely decipherable voice that I struggled to hear, despite my excellent hearing.

  The professor continued speaking in his high-pitched, musical North Wales’ accent as he led the hapless child down the long hall towards the kitchen. ‘You must be, Cynthia. Good to meet you at last. I hope you’re feeling a little better.’

  I wasn’t sure what to say in response, and just smiled nervously at the back of his head as he strode away from me. Saying nothing had to be better than potentially saying the wrong thing again and causing an upset. Keep your mouth shut, Cynthia, keep your mouth well and truly shut. Such things define me.

  The professor paused in the kitchen and turned to face me, still clutching the child’s hand in his. ‘All ready for this afternoon?’

  What on earth was he talking about? I just stared at him blankly without responding in any meaningful way.

  ‘Oh, he hasn’t told you yet. He said he meant to surprise you.’

  Best not to ask. Best remain silent.

  ‘I assume he’s expecting me?’

  I smiled, pleased that I could answer his question with relative confidence. ‘Yes, he’s waiting in the cellar. How about a drink before you join him? He said to make you both welcome.’ I was keen to please. Keen to make a good impression. Please say yes, Professor, please say yes.

  The boy looked back at me with pleading eyes, as Professor Sherwood ignored my offer and steered him towards the cellar door.

  ‘Would you like a drink, Robbie? How about some fresh orange juice or some blackcurrant squash?’ Didn’t all young boys like squash?

  The boy opened his mouth briefly, but then closed it again when no words materialised. Maybe he wasn’t thirsty. Maybe like me, he thought it best to remain silent. I think that was probably it. Shame on you, Cynthia. Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you do something? Why didn’t you intervene when you had the opportunity? I let myself down that day. I let the boy down, and I’ll never forget it.

  Sherwood stood at the cellar entrance, holding the back of the boy’s jumper tightly as he tried to pull towards me. ‘Perhaps later, Cynthia, we don’t want to keep the doctor waiting, do we?’

  I shook my head in silent agreement. He was an important man. His time was valuable. Keeping him waiting was never a good idea. ‘No, no, I wouldn’t want that.’

  And so I just stood in that seemingly ordinary family kitchen and watched as the professor led the sobbing child down twelve cold grey concrete steps towards a second door at the bottom. I felt sad for the troubled child, touched by his distress, but I reassured myself that he was in good hands. God only knew what he’d been through in his short life. God only knew why he needed psychiatric help at such a young age, but I told myself he was about to receive the help he needed. I yelled it inside my head until it drowned out my misgivings. There’s nothing to worry about, Cynthia. All’s well with the world. I really was that girl. I really was that weak. I really was that stupid.

  I turned away and retreated to the sanctuary of my bedroom, puzzled by Sherwood’s comment, but keen to follow instructions. I lay back on my double bed and read a book for about twenty minutes or so before resting it on the bedside table, closing my tired eyes and falling asleep on top of the comfy, soft duck down quilt.

  ‘Cynthia! Where the hell are you, girl?’

  I leapt out of bed and stared at the clock on the wall to the side of the door. I’d been asleep for almost two hours. I’d stayed out of the way. I’d followed instructions. What had I done wrong this time? There had to be something. There was always something.

  I heard his feet pounding on the wooden steps as he ascended the staircase. And then he appeared, kicking the door open with the point of his black shoe. ‘You’re not ready? Are you trying to annoy me? What the hell have you been doing?’

  I knew what I’d been doing, but I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Should I say something in response, or maintain my silence? Neither option seemed a particularly good idea. There was a shitstorm coming my way.

  ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’

  I still had no
idea what he was talking about. ‘Is there something I should have done?’

  He adopted a sour expression, and mimicked me, repeating my question in a mocking voice before adding, ‘We need to be at the registry office by 4:00 p.m. at the latest. Do you think you can manage that?’

  I was trembling, with tears flowing down my face. I hadn’t left the house for a very long time. ‘But, why are we…?’

  He handed me three tablets, one more than usual, and told me to take them. ‘Come on, swallow, swallow! We’re getting married, my dear; the happiest day of your life. We can start reducing your medication in the morning.’

  I just stood there with an open mouth and guppy-like expression on my face. Marriage? There’d been no prior talk of marriage, had there? I was lost in a chemical haze a lot of the time, but surely I’d have remembered that. Was it possible? Maybe it was possible.

  He walked towards me, pushed me back onto the bed and stood above me. ‘If you’re to keep your little brat, if you’re to avoid him or her being taken away at birth, we need to convey the misleading impression of stable domestic bliss. We’ve discussed this, I’ve explained the position to you more than once. I can’t believe I’ve got to tell you again. Think of our marriage as a mask behind which you can hide your many inadequacies.’

  ‘You really think it would help?’

  ‘Yes, Cynthia, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. It will help. You said you understood. You said you were prepared to do anything. What more can I tell you?’

  I didn’t remember anything at all, but that was the last thing he wanted to hear. ‘What about guests? What about my family?’

  He laughed dismissively. ‘No guests.’

  ‘But, my mum and dad, my…’

  ‘You haven’t seen them for months.’

  ‘I know, but…’