Song Of The Psychopath

by Mark Tilbury

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘That’s what we aim to find out, Mr Scarlett. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a chat with Tommy in private.’

  Charlie looked as if he’d been sent to the naughty step. ‘Oh, I thought…’

  ‘It’s only so I can get to know him a little better. Fifteen minutes tops, then we’ll discuss the best way to take this forward.’

  Charlie stood. Left the room.

  ‘Do you want to come to the desk, Tommy. Go through a few things on our own for a while.’

  Tommy stood, walked to a black vinyl chair, and sat. There was a hum vibrating behind his eyes, as if something had activated his pineal gland.

  Marks typed something onto his laptop. ‘Okay, Tommy, it’s clear you have no recollection of events leading up to your hospitalisation. It’s also apparent there’s no history of irrational behaviour stemming from childhood. So, the first thing we need to ascertain is where you went after you left the house.’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘Have you had any problems remembering current events since leaving the hospital?’

  ‘No. Apart from the blackouts.’

  ‘Do you want to elaborate?’

  ‘It’s as if I’m suddenly somewhere else.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Like a switch goes off in my head, and I’m no longer there.’

  Marks nodded. Typed. ‘So, where are you?’

  ‘Usually in the back of a car. The driver’s playing really loud music and smoking. The car’s full of smoke, and I can hardly breathe.’

  ‘Have you any idea who the driver is?’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘Just a fat bloke, and I hate him.’

  ‘Are you travelling in the car, or stationary?’

  ‘Not sure. I’m choking, and the music’s banging through my head.’

  Marks typed again. ‘Do you ever see the man’s face?’

  ‘No. Just the back of his head.’

  ‘Is he tall? Short?’

  ‘Dunno. He’s got big shoulders and a roll of fat in the back of his neck.’

  ‘You say you hate him?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s like a feeling deep down in my guts. I wanna grab him round the neck and strangle him.’

  ‘Do you know what type of car it is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the inside?’

  ‘It’s a job to see with all the smoke, but it’s a pale colour.’

  ‘The seats?’

  Tommy tried to think, but all he could see was the back of the driver’s head floating in an aura of smoke. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Is there anything else you see?’

  ‘Not in the car, but there’s also another blackout where I see a girl dancing in front of me.’

  ‘Do you know who she is?’

  ‘No. Just her name’s Bella.’

  ‘How old is the girl?’

  Tommy shrugged. ‘Late teens.’

  ‘What colour hair?’

  ‘Blonde.’

  ‘Eyes?’

  Seductive green, a voice whispered in his head. Seductive green with a hint of bitch. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘If you had to describe her in three words, what would they be?’

  ‘Prick-teasing bitch.’ The words popped out without any conscious thought.

  ‘That’s an interesting way of describing her.’

  ‘It’s the only way of describing her.’

  ‘Do you know where you are when she’s dancing in front of you?’

  ‘No.’ The hum intensified in his head. Pulsated in his ears.

  ‘Does the girl have any connection to the driver?’

  Tommy didn’t answer. He stared at the door as if waiting for someone to enter.

  ‘Tommy?’

  The room swam in and out of focus. Dr Marks was little more than ghostly smoke from a thousand cigarettes. The driver would be here any minute to take him to his appointment with the Devil.

  Marks stood and walked round the desk. Put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’

  Tommy didn’t respond. He rocked gently back and forth on his chair, gawping at the door, feet tapping against the floor.

  Marks crouched in front of him. ‘Can you tell me where you are, Tommy?’

  The question seemed to come from somewhere deep inside his head. ‘In the waiting room.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘What do you care?’

  Marks hesitated. ‘I want to help you.’

  ‘Liar. You wanna use me like everyone else.’

  ‘I’m here to help you.’

  ‘That’s what Bella said. You’re all the same.’

  ‘Who’s Bella?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Is she your friend?’

  Tommy laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s right. My one and only.’

  ‘I take it from your tone you don’t really like her?’

  ‘Ten out of ten, pervert.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me why?’

  ‘No.’

  Marks walked back to his seat. Typed: Showing signs of PTSD. Bella may be a large part of the trauma. Regressive hypnotherapy might be the best possible route to get to the heart of this.

  Tommy’s mind suddenly filled with the smog of a thousand cigarettes, thick and cloying, suffocating his thoughts and obliterating his tenuous connection to reality. He leaned forward and banged his head repeatedly against the desk.

  Dr Marks called his secretary and asked her to send Mr Scarlett back in. He then attempted to bring Tommy back from wherever he’d gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Karl Duggan was not in a good mood. Even listening to Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 8 in A Minor had failed to lift his spirits. Things were not going well, and to make matters worse, he was waiting for the imminent arrival of Sir Bernard Clancy.

  To say he didn’t like Clancy was like saying he didn’t like cats. There were no words to describe his loathing of either. Both were narcissistic and cruel. At least moggies had some agility and a certain wit to appeal to those with a propensity towards accommodating laziness and cruelty wrapped in a pretty package of fur; Clancy had long since lost the ability to tie his shoelaces thanks to a physique reminiscent of a pufferfish, and his tendency to break out in beads of sweat at any given moment gave his bloated face the appearance of a waxwork dummy. A prime candidate for Madame Tussauds.

  But, of course, Sir Bernard wasn’t high enough up in the echelons of fame and notoriety to be considered for such an honour; he was a politician with all the clout of a feather and the charm of a honey badger.

  A backbench MP who was old enough to remember Thatcher’s spiteful tongue, he now mostly used his position to yawn and fall asleep in the House of Commons. But age had done little to dampen his depraved desires, and for that alone he was willing to pay handsomely for the services on offer at The Playhouse.

  The doorbell chimed. Duggan’s stomach tingled. Part anticipation because Sir Bernard owed him money, part worry because an unhappy client could make serious trouble.

  Duggan walked from the drawing room and into the reception area of Thorndike House. An extravagant explosion of chandeliers, mosaic tiles, and white walls decorated with huge framed pictures of famous composers and eighteenth century artists.

  He opened the door and was greeted by a gust of wind laced with freezing cold rain. Great, now he was going to have to shower and moisturise again. ‘Sir Bernard. How are you?’

  Sir Bernard didn’t answer. He stepped inside without invite.

  Duggan closed the door. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Bernard bobbed his head, chins wobbling. ‘And make it a large one. I feel as if my head’s about to explode.’

  Duggan looked at his walls as if they were under imminent threat. ‘Brandy?’

  ‘Yes.’

&
nbsp; They went into the lounge. Again, the walls were white. Polished oak boards housed several large white rugs, and the antique furniture was positioned with geometric precision. Duggan had discovered feng-shui several years back during a severe bout of insomnia. Now everything was arranged in accordance with the laws of this ancient art. The Chinese had a lot to answer for as far as he was concerned, but they were streets ahead of the West when it came to healing the body and mind.

  Sir Bernard plopped himself into a chair and wiped his glasses with a large polishing cloth.

  Duggan went to the drinks cabinet and cursed himself for not putting a cover on the chair. The thought of Clancy’s fat arse in close proximity to the fabric was almost too much to bear.

  He poured a generous measure of brandy into a glass and handed it to the prickly toad. Perhaps fate would intervene and strike Bernard dead with a heart attack before he launched into the inevitable tirade concerning the missing boy.

  Bernard took a slug of brandy. Cheeks flushed, he studied Duggan for a moment as if he might be a carrier for some contagious disease. ‘Well, you don’t need me to tell you this is an abominable mess, do you?’

  No, I don’t, you pompous arsehole. ‘It’s just a hiccup, Bernard. A bump in the road.’

  Clancy took another slug of brandy, wiped his rubbery lips, and said, ‘I beg to differ. That’s like calling a tsunami a puddle. Have you any idea what will happen if any of this gets out?’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘Pray tell your cause for such optimism?’

  ‘The boy can’t tell what he doesn’t know, can he? By all accounts he’s suffering amnesia.’

  Clancy cleared his throat. ‘That’s as may be, but what if he suddenly regains his memory?’

  ‘Then I’ll deal with it.’

  Clancy’s eyebrows joined his furrowed brow. ‘How?’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘How reassuring. We’ve got a potential nuclear bomb on the loose, the fallout of which is too frightful to contemplate, and you think telling me you’re working on it is going to pacify me?’

  Clancy’s words activated acid in Duggan’s stomach. ‘What else do you suggest I do, Bernard? Put out a wanted poster?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Hire a hitman?’

  Clancy brightened. ‘That’s not a bad idea.’

  God, you really are as stupid as you look. ‘I understand your concern, Bernard. I see the potential for disaster in this every bit as much as you do. But we’re both going to have to be patient.’

  ‘And in the meantime, I have to sit and watch the news every night wondering if my face is going to appear on the screen filed under the heading of the world’s biggest scandal?’

  Duggan took a deep breath. ‘I hardly think it’s important. You need to calm down and put this into perspective.’

  ‘Do I? There’s enough smoke in the air around Westminster to suggest the Devil’s having a party in the basement. In case you haven’t noticed, politicians aren’t exactly known for leading blemish-free lifestyles. Look at Carnegie and all that scandal with the rent boys. Ruined his job and his marriage. He’s now living in a blessed mobile home out at Beach Sands.’

  Duggan didn’t give a toss if he was at the bottom of the ocean acting as part of the fishy food chain. ‘Yes, well, he wasn’t exactly the master of discretion, was he?’

  ‘I concede he was careless, but it doesn’t alter the fact you’ve been negligent in regard to security. Negligent in the extreme.’

  Duggan bristled. He’d had enough of listening to this poisonous toad hurling insults at him. ‘As I said, it’s all in hand. I’m trying to make the most of a bad situation.’

  Clancy finished his brandy and put the glass on the coffee table. ‘I’ll tell you this for nothing, Karl, if the truth comes out, and I’m in any way implicated, I’m going to deny ever knowing you or visiting Thorndike House. I’ll get the best solicitors money can buy and take the lot of you to the cleaners for libel and defamation of character.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s good to be aware of which side of the fence you sit.’

  Clancy cleared his throat, as if about to deliver an important speech to the house. ‘I’m sorry, but I have a wife and three children to protect. And I’ll be damned if your sloppiness is going to ruin me or any of my family.’

  Duggan paced the room. Eyed the poker sitting in the hearth. He considered grabbing it and caving the bastard’s head in. ‘I hear you, Bernard. I don’t want this to turn into a civil war. But let me make it clear, no court in the land is going to listen to your denials when they get to take a look at some of the pictures and films I have of you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Let’s just say I took out some insurance in case the worst came to the worst.’

  Clancy’s eyes bulged. ‘What pictures? What bloody films?’

  ‘I have cameras in all the rooms, Bernard.’

  Clancy struggled out of the chair. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  Duggan smiled and shook his head. ‘No, Bernard, I’m merely pointing out the facts.’

  Clancy huffed and puffed as if revving up to blow the house down. ‘So, are you telling me you’ve recorded everything I’ve ever done here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Without my permission?’

  ‘I don’t need your permission to make alterations to my house.’

  Clancy floundered. ‘Don’t play games with me, Duggan. For your information, I know some pretty ruthless people.’

  ‘Now who’s issuing threats?’

  ‘I’m not. Merely stating facts.’

  Duggan eyed the poker again. Imagined heating it up in the open fire and poking it in Clancy’s eye. ‘Look, this isn’t an ideal situation, but it’s being dealt with. Why don’t you go home and have a nice long soak in a hot bath? Take some of the stiffness out of your joints.’

  ‘How in God’s name am I supposed to relax? I can barely look Isabella in the eye with the swords of Damocles hanging over my head.’

  ‘I find meditation relaxing. Enlightening, too.’

  ‘Don’t come at me with all that New Age bullshit. I want to know exactly what you’re doing to rectify this matter?’

  Duggan chose his words carefully. ‘The boy has already been located. He’s apparently behaving as mad as a box of frogs.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And now we must get him back to Thorndike House.’

  ‘Kidnap him?’

  ‘I prefer to call it bringing him home.’

  ‘And how do you propose to do that?’

  Duggan sighed. ‘That’s for me to worry about, Bernard.’

  ‘I wish I’d never got roped into joining this stupid club.’

  And I wish I could tie a rope around your neck and hang you from the nearest belfry. ‘Life’s too short to have regrets. There’s never any pleasure without a little pain now and again. We all have our cross to bear.’

  ‘I’m on bloody pills for high blood pressure as it is. Any more stress, and I’m going to wind up with heart failure.’

  If only. ‘Was there anything else, Bernard?’

  ‘Plenty. But I’m in no mood to argue with you. My joints feel as if I’m in the throes of rigor mortis. This bloody weather’s killing me. Ring me as soon as you have an update regarding the boy.’

  ‘Absolutely. And please try not to worry.’

  Clancy walked into the reception room. ‘That’s like telling someone not to breathe because the air’s polluted.’

  Duggan let his guest out into a downpour that seemed as if it was trying to wash Thorndike House clean. He closed the door and stared at the great artists lining the walls as if seeking inspiration from their creativity.

  You’ve got two choices, a voice whispered in his head. Either let things take their course and have faith in the plan, or sell Thorndike House and secrete yourself in Thailand and start again with a fresh slate.

  By the time he’d finished half a bottle
of wine and settled into a nice hot bath, Karl Duggan was relaxed enough to fantasise about the opportunities awaiting him in a foreign land. One where the law was considerably more relaxed concerning matters of a delicate nature. Where he’d be free to pursue his interests without fear of reprisal.

  Clancy was right about one thing, though: they were all in deep trouble if the boy regained his memory before Karl had had a chance to stop him in his tracks.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tommy hadn’t left his room since the meeting with Dr Marks. He only had the vaguest idea about what had happened in the consulting room, but he was certain he didn’t want to go back. In fact, he never wanted to leave his room again.

  ‘But why?’ Charlie asked. ‘You were doing so well. You’ve just had a minor setback.’

  ‘I don’t see the point if I’m gonna black out and start rambling shit.’

  ‘But that’s part of it, Tommy. Dr Marks said he learnt a lot from witnessing it.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t. My headaches are getting worse. And I’m getting nosebleeds.’

  ‘It’s probably the new medication.’

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t want to go back.’

  ‘Look, I’m not going to put you under any pressure. Take your time. Decide what you want to do.’

  Tommy nodded. His bedroom seemed like a prison cell, but at least he felt less exposed there.

  ‘Dr Marks said you were talking about some girl called Bella again?’

  He shrugged. ‘So?’

  ‘She must have something to do with your disappearance.’

  Tommy looked out the window. The sky was blemished with dark clouds. It summed up his mood. ‘Or maybe she’s an imaginary friend.’

  Charlie smiled. ‘Some imaginary friend, eh?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Would you like anything to eat?’

  Tommy’s stomach clenched. ‘No… thanks.’

  ‘I could make you an omelette. You used to love my Spanish omelettes.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘No. I just wanna be on my own.’

  ‘It’s a bit stuffy in here,’ Charlie said. ‘Shall I open the window and let some air in?’