Senseless

by Ed James

  Sarah’s eyes bulged as much as her condition would allow. ‘It was that, yeah.’

  Palmer stared at Corcoran, could almost see similar thoughts racing through his head.

  Sarah shut her eyes and tears slid down her face. ‘Please find who did this to us.’

  Corcoran led Palmer back out, that stupid tune still playing on his phone. He jabbed the screen a few times to get it to stop.

  ‘Well.’ Palmer’s mind was racing now, churning through all the connections, inking in the pencilled-in joins in her diagrams. ‘It’s the same person.’

  ‘You were right.’ He looked at her. ‘Hard as it is for me to admit.’

  ‘I just want to find him and stop him. That’s all.’ She pulled out her notebook. ‘We should head back to Rugby to speak to Howard.’

  ‘You don’t need to.’ Yadin stood in the corridor. ‘DI Thompson had Howard transferred over here.’

  [21:14]

  Outside Howard’s room, a tall man slicked back his grey hair. Salt-and-pepper stubble. Navy business suit. He frowned at them, his shifty eyes scanning for threats. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Mr Ritchie.’ Yadin’s smile was fraying at the edges. ‘These police officers are trying to find out who did this to your son.’

  ‘Right.’ He held out a hand. ‘Name’s Tommy Ritchie. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but . . .’ His reptilian tongue crept across his lips. ‘You the ones giving me the runaround?’

  Corcoran frowned at him. ‘I’m not sure what you mean by that?’

  ‘I got driven up to Rugby, then this copper said my boy was over here in bloody Oxford. What’s that about? I just want to see my son.’

  Corcoran gave him a wide smile. ‘Sir, how about we have a little chat?’

  ‘I’ve just got here and you’re telling me I can’t see my boy?’

  ‘I’m sure Dr Yadin needs to run some tests?’

  She took the cue, nodding vigorously. ‘I’ll need to borrow Dr Palmer for some psychiatric assistance?’

  ‘This is bollocks!’ Ritchie was fuming, fists clenched.

  But Corcoran had his measure. ‘Come on, mate.’ He led him away. ‘Let’s get you a cuppa.’

  Yadin took a deep breath and walked over to the door, but it was like she couldn’t bring herself to look at Howard, like she was holding something back.

  Palmer joined her. ‘How’s Howard been?’

  ‘Asleep. He was so far out of it when he got here, I’m surprised that Rugby acceded to DI Thompson’s request to co-locate them, but I’ve got a good team here and access to the best specialists.’

  ‘Do you think Thompson jumped the gun?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say.’ Yadin looked away with a slight nod. ‘As far as I can tell, he’s slept for over eight hours straight and could sleep for a whole week if we let him.’ She looked at her patient again. ‘I’ve administered caffeine. Sounds counterproductive, but if we let him continue to sleep, that could result in chronic insomnia lasting for years. This’ll help him restore his circadian rhythms in the short term, then we can stabilise him into a standard sleep pattern. After that, we can focus on the longer-term trauma.’

  ‘It’s just sleep deprivation?’

  ‘Just?’ Yadin leaned in to whisper in Palmer’s ear. ‘Before this, I was in the Israeli army.’ Her expression darkened. ‘We . . . subjected prisoners to sleep deprivation for long periods of time. Blasting music at them was the favoured method. Which is exactly what seems to have happened to Howard. I think he’s been denied sleep for twelve days.’

  ‘Has he been starved like Sarah?’

  ‘Howard is the exact same weight as when he was taken twelve days ago.’ Yadin snorted. ‘I’d also suggest they had him on a moderately high-protein diet to maintain muscle mass.’

  ‘Okay.’ Palmer snuck a look inside the room. Howard lay in the bed, groaning, lips moving. ‘Is he still singing that song?’

  ‘Won’t shut up. As far as I can make out, he was subjected to it during all of that time.’

  ‘Twelve days of “Charlie the Seahorse”?’

  ‘You might be able to get more sense out of him than me.’ Yadin motioned into the room. ‘On you go, before his father returns.’

  Palmer crept inside, wary of Howard and his sudden rage, even with Yadin’s presence to guard her.

  ‘It’s time to play.’ Howard shook his head. ‘It’s time to play.’

  Palmer stood a good distance away. ‘I’m here to help you, Howard.’

  He frowned. ‘Look, a few minutes ago, this cop came in and asked about my drugs.’

  Palmer shook her head. Police officers seldom rested long enough for a patient’s best interests. But at least he seemed more coherent. ‘What drugs are those, Howard?’

  ‘You tell me!’

  ‘The local police near your home found cocaine under your mattress.’

  ‘Shit. Glyn.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘My housemate. Glyn. He was selling drugs. Is he trying to pin this on me?’ Howard jerked forward, knees digging into the bed. He was strong and muscled, with overdeveloped pectorals and biceps. ‘I’m sorry about earlier. They said I attacked you.’

  ‘Are you feeling better?’

  ‘God, no. But . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘Do you want to talk me through what happened to you?’

  ‘But I don’t remember much. Just snatches, like it was all a dream.’ Howard’s eyes glazed over. ‘Charlie! Oh, Charlie! Isn’t life a dream?’

  Palmer reached out and caressed the back of his hand.

  He frowned at her, eyes flickering, back in the here and now. ‘The doctor said it’s only been two weeks, but it feels like years.’ He snorted, rocking back and forth. ‘I keep trying to play it back, but it’s like my mind’s a broken video tape. I can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream any more.’

  ‘Just tell me what you remember. I’ll help you process it.’

  Twenty-one

  Howard

  The sun crawls up over the hills to the east, burning the clouds in the sky a bright orange. Dawn. Perfect timing.

  Howard steps out of his van and sucks the bracing air deep into his lungs. Eyes shut, his body centring around where he is, when he is. No thoughts, no problems, just the here and now.

  A deep breath in. One. Water hissing over the sand, gentle.

  He lets the breath go. Two. The fading smell of diesel fumes from his van.

  Another inward breath. Three. Seagulls screeching above his head.

  Out. Four. A van pulling up a few spaces away, the engine rumbling.

  In. Five. The slightly damp fabric of his wetsuit against his skin.

  Out. Six. The low throb of a radio bleeding from the van.

  In. Seven. A large wave rippling over the sand.

  Out. Eight. Sharp stones digging into his feet.

  In. Nine. A car door opening and shutting.

  Howard lets the tenth breath go and opens his eyes. The sky seems brighter and everything feels that much more alive. He looks south and the sea is swallowing up the beach, now nibbling away at the tidal defence wall, a stout row of grey holding back the fizzing waters. Each fresh wave looks bigger than the one before. An illusion, he knows, but it is just . . . perfect.

  He reaches up onto the top of his van and finds the first strap securing his surfboard.

  A strong arm wraps around his throat and a heavy body presses him against the van. Something jags at his neck and he tries to fight, tries to lash out, tries to—

  Everything goes black.

  Something cold splashes across his face.

  Howard sucks in a breath, sits bolt upright and opens his eyes.

  A room with a low ceiling. Brick, but darkened. The smell of mould. He is lying on a bed, a spring digging into his left thigh. Not much light, but enough to see the rest of the small room. Flagstones on the floor. The same brick on three walls, one of which has a desk.

  A door shuts behind hi
m.

  He pushes up to sitting, which makes his head throb. Behind him is a closed door, covered in metal bars, rusted and thick. He tries to stand but has to brace himself against the bed. Everything swims in his vision.

  He walks towards the desk, each step seeming to take hours, and slumps on the chair. He finds a desk light and clicks it on. No power cord, so battery. Some books on the desk, philosophy and . . . more philosophy. He picks one up and tries reading but he can’t understand it. It seems to be in English, but the words aren’t ones he uses every day.

  Where the hell is he?

  All he can remember is doing a brief mindfulness session in the car park at the beach, the waves kissing the sand; then another car or van turned up and he was taken.

  Who? Why?

  Could it be the police? Why would they do this to him?

  A thump comes from behind him.

  A paper bag lies in front of the door. He trudges over and spots a wide letterbox halfway up the door as it slides shut. He crouches but weaves around, so has to balance using his hands for support. The bag has a protein bar, not his usual brand, but twenty-three grams. A bottle of supermarket mineral water. And a banana, bright yellow and with just the right amount of green around the stalk.

  He is so hungry. His belly rumbles, his mouth salivates as he tears at the banana and eats it in two goes. No bin or anywhere to put the skin, so he drops it back in the bag. He sits back on the bed and rips open the protein-bar wrapper, then chews it slowly. Saltiness cuts through the sweet. He takes a swig of water but leaves the rest of it for later. He has no idea how long he’ll be here.

  Then music blasts out of a speaker, ear-splittingly loud. A tinny piano and thumping drums. Deep bass like he’s in a club. Then singing: ‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and there’s nothing he can’t do!’

  What the hell?

  Howard covers his ears. He knows the song, but . . . What the hell?

  ‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and he makes everything okay!’

  Two speakers hang from the ceiling, aimed right at him.

  ‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and he’s here for you!’

  Covering his ears, Howard walks over to the nearest speaker. While the ceiling is low, the speaker is just too high to reach.

  ‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and it’s time to play!’

  He races back to the bed and tries lifting it. It doesn’t shift. Bolted to the wall.

  ‘Charlie! Oh, Charlie! Isn’t this your sea?’

  Then he tries the desk. Same story.

  ‘Charlie! Oh, Charlie! Isn’t life a dream?’

  Even the chair is bolted to the floor. Some dust around the legs betrays fresh drilling. Meaning someone has designed this.

  Howard eyes up the books. Seven thin paperbacks. They’d maybe give him three extra inches of reach at best, when he needs at least a foot. Even with a jump.

  The music stops and he lets his hands go. His pulse is racing, thudding in his ears.

  Then the piano starts again, jaunty and cheery, underpinned by the drums. ‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and there’s nothing he can’t do!’

  Howard stares up at the same ceiling, counting each breath in and out. He is visualising catching a wave and coasting it all the way in, but he’s chased by a seahorse. He doesn’t know if he is awake or dreaming. Everything feels like a dream. He focuses on the sharp crack on the ceiling, tracing the line through to the wall, counting each breath.

  ‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and there’s nothing he can’t do!’

  He can hear it in his head now.

  Or is the music playing?

  No. The speaker cones aren’t pulsing.

  The door clicks and clatters open and he braces himself. Ice cold water splashes off his face, sluices down his body and soaks his bedding again.

  ‘Please, just let me go.’ Howard doesn’t have the energy to get up. To even look over. ‘Whatever you want, haven’t I suffered enough?’

  No reply. The door slams and clicks again.

  Distorted piano blasts out of the speaker. ‘He’s Charlie the Seahorse and there’s nothing he can’t do!’

  [21:33]

  Howard stared hard at her. Was she really there? The doctor with glasses, dark hair plaited. He knew she had a name, but he couldn’t remember it.

  He was in a room, like he was in a hospital. No brick walls, no locked doors, no music playing, except for inside his head.

  She smiled at him. ‘Howard, when you were released, do you remember how much time it took to travel there?’

  ‘I saw a vicar.’ Howard frowned. ‘Did I just dream it?’

  The doctor nodded at him. ‘That happened. We have an eyewitness. Did you see anyone in your cell?’

  Howard frowned again. A cell? Is that what it was? A prison cell? ‘I didn’t see anyone. Or hear anything other than . . .’ The tune burnt into his brain again. He didn’t have any control over the words, didn’t have control over anything any more. ‘It was a man, though, definitely. I didn’t see enough of him to describe him.’

  ‘That’s okay, Howard. Just tell us what happened when you were let go.’

  ‘I’m not sure if this actually happened.’ He couldn’t control his breathing. ‘I was completely out of it and they’d bound and gagged me.’

  She gave a nod of encouragement.

  ‘It was still early, still dark. The dawn was cracking. Birds singing. Or that was in my head. I don’t know, but when they went to release me, I almost got away. I managed to shake him. Tried biting him, but he stopped me. Was that the vicar?’

  ‘We don’t think so.’

  Howard stared up at the sterile white ceiling, unblemished tiles so much more welcoming than burnt brick.

  ‘Did you see anything else when you were released?’

  ‘Nothing. I . . . I can’t remember.’

  She leaned forward on her chair, biting her lip. ‘Did you speak to anyone when you were in captivity?’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone.’

  ‘Did you hear anything?’

  ‘Just Cha—That song.’

  ‘What about when you were released, did you see any other cells?’

  ‘No, sorry. I don’t know. Maybe. I’d like to say yes, but I can’t tell what’s real any more. My brain feels like it’s rotting away.’

  ‘Well, I understand that.’

  ‘Sarah?’ Howard sat up in the bed. ‘Was there a Sarah?’

  The doctor smiled at him. Magic sparkled in her eyes.

  ‘Last night, I saw another two doors there. One had Sarah written on it. Does that mean anything?’

  ‘We’re investigating the possibility that your case is connected to the disappearance of a Sarah Langton. Do you know her?’

  All the hope he had about them finding and stopping this maniac deflated like a burst football. ‘No.’

  ‘But you said there was another door?’

  ‘There was one, but the light was out this morning.’ He scanned the ceiling, like that would remind him. ‘But the light flickered. I saw it! There was a name on that door too. I think it said Matt.’

  Twenty-two

  [PC Wilkinson, 21:36]

  Even on a Tuesday night, Brighton was jumping. The long row of hotel bars looking across the road to the Palace Pier was filled with drinkers. The smokers in the front yards laughed and joked and flirted. Just like any other Tuesday.

  ‘Only another seven hours, then we get off, yeah?’ PC Jason Wilkinson walked lockstep with his partner. Instinctively, he checked the crowd drinking outside for any troublemakers or known faces. Looked more like a football crowd than usual. The mixture of citrus and mint vape flavours instead of harsh tobacco was the only real difference from when he’d started this beat. ‘I tell you, Ali, away days have become hell since Brighton got back into the top-flight, know what I mean?’

  ‘Go on?’

  He finally brought himself to look at her. PC Alison Davidson, almost the same height as him. The most-beaut
iful eyes Jason had ever seen, and those round cheeks . . . But she wasn’t even looking at him. ‘I mean, all those clowns from London, Manchester, Newcastle or Liverpool, man. Make a long weekend of it down here on the south coast.’ He shook his head. Then stopped as he recognised a face. Turned out it was only half-recognised; the guy was about four inches too short. ‘And when Palace come down from bloody London . . . Man. Fifty or so miles apart and the fans treat it like a local derby. I don’t get it.’

  ‘Something to do with two rival players managing them in the seventies or something.’ Alison stopped alongside him and tucked her thumbs into her stab-proof vest. ‘That or because one chants eagles and the other seagulls.’

  ‘You a football expert now, yeah?’

  ‘Every time the telly shows an Albion game, my old man keeps banging on about it. He’s Croydon, born and bred.’

  Three little words stung Jason’s heart every time. My old man. And not her father, but Detective Sergeant Col Edwards. Her bloody fiancé. Absolute dickhead. And every time Jason caught the sparkle on her finger, the diamond that Col used to claim his territory, it was a full-on stab through the heart.

  The only consolation was the slight snarl on Alison’s face as she said those little words, the micro-gesture in the corner of her eye. Maybe the wedding plans would be abandoned. Maybe she’d leave the pillock. Maybe Jason would realise he was dreaming.

  He looked at her now. And she looked back at him. And he didn’t look away, for once. Neither did she. They stood like that, something unspoken passing between them. Felt like minutes, maybe hours.

  ‘Control to PC Davidson, over.’

  Alison shot him a wink, then pressed receive on her radio, all without breaking her look at him. ‘Receiving. Safe to talk, over.’

  ‘Got you on Marine Parade, that right?’

  A row of cars swept past along the road lining the beach.

  ‘That’s right.’ Alison rolled her eyes at Jason. ‘Just outside the Charles Street Tap, over.’

  The big hipster bar loomed above them, still open and still pouring high-strength fighting juice for the lumbering idiots inside.

  ‘Got a report of someone standing on a taxi, throwing stuff around, about halfway up Charles Street.’