by Wes Markin
‘But that’s impossible because I don’t know where he is.’
‘I understand that, but maybe there’s something in your history together, something in your friendship.’
‘Okay, I understand. We met at Oxford University. You want me to start there?’
‘As good a place as any,’ Yorke said.
Both the Conduit and Alan came to Saskia’s bedside when she started moaning that morning.
Her face was bandaged. There were patches of blood blooming on the bandages. She would need her dressing changing soon. Tiny, quivering eyes peered out between swathes of cloth.
Alan knelt, took Saskia’s hand, and gently soothed her with a hush. Meanwhile, the Conduit knelt too, and gave her a shot of morphine.
Saskia’s eyes stilled and glazed over.
‘Are you ready for his next session?’ The Conduit said, standing up.
Alan tilted his head back and looked up at him. ‘Will she not be in too much pain?’
‘The morphine will help. You did some good work yesterday, Alan. I would not like to see it go to waste.’
‘I’m ready then.’
The Conduit felt a rare moment of sadness. He would miss Alan when he was gone.
But they all had to go eventually - that was the name of the game.
Still … four days … just didn’t seem very long at all.
Frederick Lancer’s tale was long, and Yorke’s fingers burned from taking notes.
“Thick as thieves” was not a strong enough idiom to describe the friendship between the two psychiatrists. At university, and early in their professional careers, these two had been completely inseparable.
But the divide did come.
‘It was strange. He went to bed one night and woke up with a whole different belief system. I won’t indulge myself by exploring the complexities of his beliefs except to say that our conventional approach to therapy, our scientific based approach, CBT, just wasn’t enough for him anymore. He no longer wanted to modify thoughts regarding poor sleep, such as if I don’t sleep well, I’ll get ill; I’ll never sleep again; I cannot sleep without medication. So, he wrote this book on building a new sleep cycle which allows the patient to retain maladaptive thoughts. Ridiculous, I know! So, alas, our relationship went in different directions. Earlier in our relationship, we’d vowed never to let this happen. Our favourite book was Jekyll and Hyde. Read it?’
Yorke shook his head. ‘No, but I know what it’s about.’
‘Well … Jekyll’s approach to science is mystical, almost supernatural; while his close friend Dr Lanyon’s approach is grounded in what was observable and measurable, i.e. real science. It drives a wedge between them. We vowed never to allow that to happen to us. To let radically different approaches destroy our relationship. However, we failed in our plan. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, eh? Quite fitting when you think about what Louis has become. A monster.’ At first, Lancer looked proud of his analogy, but then his expression quickly turned forlorn again.
Yorke flicked back through his notebook. This was a lot to consider, but he still felt there was something significant missing. Topham and Robert would have both heard something that sent their minds racing and pointed them quickly in the next direction.
Knowing that Lancer’s recount was quickly coming to an end, he tried other questions and ideas to stimulate him into revealing more. ‘Can you think of any connection to Leeds?’
‘When I first met him, he loved rugby. Used to support Leeds Rhinos. Bloody passionate. Even used to drag me along to the games.’
Yorke wrote it down. Topham and Robert could have headed down to some home games to look for Mayers. He pictured them flashing around a photograph to the fans. He made a note to contact Rosset immediately and get officers, armed with photographs, down to the stadium to speak to staff.
It was the best they had so far, and potentially, the route by which Topham and Robert had travelled.
The interview ran its course. At the door, Yorke thanked him.
‘It’s funny though. His life could so easily have gone in a totally different direction,’ Lancer said.
‘How so?’ Yorke said, still in the process of shaking Lancer’s hand.
‘Well, when I first met him, he didn’t actually want to be a psychiatrist. He wanted to be a teacher. He had this romantic belief in helping young people achieve their potential when their minds were most open to influence. Our relationship led him to psychiatry, so in a way, maybe all this is partly my fault. If he’d never have met me, he may have ended up helping rather than destroying.’
‘I guess ambitions change,’ Yorke said. ‘I wouldn’t hold yourself responsible.’
‘Yes, but his ambition never really did change. I remember him telling me once, much later in his life, that he regretted his decision. He started to look into lecturing. I don’t know if it ever went anywhere.’
As they approached the car, Gardner said. ‘A lecturer, eh? Jesus, that’d have been bad news. Imagine letting that monster loose on young minds.’
Yorke stopped. Gardner did too.
‘It makes sense now.’
‘What does?’
‘The photograph of Mark that you found. Where he was sitting.’
‘Leeds University?’
‘Yes. Don’t you see? Mark was looking for him. He suspected Mayers was lecturing.’
‘Surely he isn’t?’ Gardner said.
‘I don’t know. I hope not. I’ll get in touch with Rosset. With the Leeds Rhinos angle, and this, we have a fair bit of work for them to do.’
When Lacey Ray was led into Dr Stewart Holden’s office, she managed, as always, a quick glance at her reflection in his window. She winked at herself, admiring the tattooed jaguar on her neck peering out from beneath her lengthening hair.
A large guard forced her into the chair and chained her hands to the table.
Holden looked up at the guard and nodded at him.
‘Do you want to be alone with me, Doctor?’ Lacey said. ‘Is that correct procedure? Aren’t you putting yourself in jeopardy?’
The guard left the room.
‘You’re no danger to me, Lacey.’ Holden looked down and made some notes. His glasses slid to the end of his nose.
Lacey laughed. ‘Forgive my laughing, but no one else has ever said that to me before!’
Holden looked up, pushed his glasses back and smiled. Middle-aged wrinkles clotted around his eyes. ‘I think I said that last time and, if I remember correctly, the time before too.’
‘I said “no one else”, I didn’t say “no one”.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I have a request to make.’
‘Go on.’
‘A new doctor.’
‘Why?’
‘I want one that doesn’t spy on me.’
Holden stopped smiling. He rubbed his stubble. She could hear the scratching sound. ‘Lacey, it has been a week since we last spoke. How’ve you been?’
‘Fantastic. I went for a walk along the beach and stopped in at a wine bar with some old friends.’
Holden nodded. ‘We get an hour a week. If you don’t want the support offered to you, then it really does not bother me.’
Lacey leaned forward in her chair. ‘Now, now, Doctor … let’s not pretend! You’re fascinated by me. Dare I say, besotted? You’d sit here and listen to my nonsense all day long if you could. I see you at my door most evenings, or rather, I see that little eye.’
Holden sat upright and adjusted his slipping glasses again. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
Lacey couldn’t move her hands freely from where they were locked down to the table, but she could raise an index finger. ‘Don’t speak for a moment. Be silent and listen.’
‘Why?’
‘Indulge me … There it is!’
‘There’s what?’
‘The distinctive whistle of the air through a bent septum. Did you break your nose when you were younger?’
Holden glowed.
‘If I listen real
ly carefully when you’re at my door, I hear that same noise.’
‘Most people make a noise when they breathe.’
‘Except your sound is unmistakable! I’ve heard it every night at my door for seven weeks. And, every night since you began your perverted observations, I’ve taken you into my Blue Room.’
Holden’s eyes widened and he started to take notes again.
‘I’ve told you many things about my Blue Room, Doctor. I’ve told you it physically mirrors the world that I am meditating in apart from the colour, which is, as the name suggests, blue. The darkest blue you can imagine. It is also very cold in there. Ever so cold. Did I also tell you that it was a place of judgement?’
Holden nodded. ‘You did. So, you are saying that I need to face judgement?’
‘We all need to face judgement … just some sooner than others.’
Holden chewed his bottom lip for a moment before replying. ‘Lacey, we do not need to discuss your diagnosis again. You’re more than aware of what malignant narcissism entails. To be mindful of it is the main approach in our strategy. Right now, you’re attempting to control the conversation. You’re trying to intimidate and strike fear into me—’
‘And is it working?’
‘To recognise your thirst for attention and your feelings of supremacy is the cornerstone of the treatment.’
‘I already do recognise them! In fact, I positively fucking revel in them.’
Holden nodded and made some notes. ‘And the medication? We increased your dosage three weeks ago. You are seeing no reduction in obsessional thoughts and delusions?’
‘You might as well unchain me now, so we can run around this table again … and again. Do you like being stuck in a circle? That’s one of the reasons I decided to take you into the Blue Room. It just cannot go on like this forever.’
‘But it can, Lacey, you can be in this institution forever.’
‘I left this institution a long time ago, and I took you with me. We went into a place that has no limits. Would you like to hear what happened there?’
He wouldn’t be able to resist. Incessant curiosity was part of his nature. That’s why he watched her through that peephole every evening.
‘I’m offering you the chance to really look in now. Come away from the door, and the peephole you cower behind, step inside a world that you fantasise about seeing.’
‘Okay.’
‘Good. Come this way. Close your eyes if you will. No? Okay … I understand. We all start somewhere. After all, in its infancy, the Blue Room wasn’t what it is now … You came in one night, Doctor. You came from behind your barrier, and you came to me in my room while I slept. You came with intentions not just to understand me, but to know me in every way you could. To dominate me. To show me, what we both already know, that you too are a narcissist. But the worst possible kind. One that skulks and hides away in the shadows ready to bend people to your will. I know another doctor like you, but he doesn’t skulk, he rejoices in his grandeur, while you scurry around in the dirt with the other rats, feeding and shitting, and waiting for vulnerability. So, you stood over me in my sleep, and started to undo your belt, except you underestimated me, and when I showed you my capabilities, and rose up to hit you over and over, you scuttled to the corner like a cockroach. I could’ve squashed you there and then, but instead I decided to spend some time with you. A long time. Days, possibly weeks, if you could endure that much suffering. I’ve read many of my reports. I know you all think that I have little regard for human life, but you are wrong. I care deeply for human life. It can be so glorious. But you are not the glory, Doctor, neither are many of the others who have been unfortunate enough to come into my Blue Room. To preserve the garden, you have to pick out the weeds. But I offered you something, when I tied you up in the cell, something that you never offered to me when you incarcerated me here. I offered you free will. The ability to make your own decisions. So, on that first day, I gave you a choice. I showed you my secateurs and asked you to choose between a finger and your eyes. That is more freedom than I’ve ever been afforded by you. You chose your finger. The next day, I gave you the same choice. Again, you wriggled a finger for my blade. This continued for many days, and although you grew weaker and paler, you retained your sense of self. I fed you painkillers to help with the discomfort and you actually started to thank me for them! The free will I afforded you made you feel like a human being, so you continued to behave like one. You engaged me in conversation, you talked about your family, your hopes and dreams. You even laughed at one point. But, then, one day, you ran out of fingers. Alas, there was no more free will, and I cut out your eyes. The change in you was sudden. You could argue that it was the blindness, but it was more than that. You became forlorn, beaten, and distraught. You begged me for death, over and over. To the extent that I almost gave it to you just for some peace and quiet. I told you that this was the effect of taking away freedom, choice, and our own sense of self, but you struggled to comprehend this, instead becoming more and more like an animal with every passing day. There you still are, Doctor, in my Blue Room, and there you will stay as my prisoner.’
Holden was pale as he frantically made notes. ‘The medicine really should be helping with these delusions … I’m going to increase the dosage further.’
‘I have another choice for you to make now, Doctor.’
‘I’m not playing your games.’
‘Milo A Russey has been writing to me for months.’
Holden ignored her, and continued to make notes.
‘Milo A Russey is an anagram for Louis Mayers.’
Holden stopped writing.
‘That got your attention! Here’s your choice, Doctor. I need you to make a phone call. You make the phone call and you can have my letters, which you can take anyway I guess …’
He looked up at her.
‘So as an added bonus, I’ll resist the urge to make what happened in the Blue Room a beautiful reality.’
16
GARDNER HAD PARKED her irritating trip down memory lane following the interview with Lancer. So, after Yorke had placed a call on his car speakerphone to Rosset to get him onto the Leeds Rhinos angle, he welcomed the silence in which to think.
Unfortunately, this was short-lived.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Gardner asked. A line of inquiry which always cut short the constructive thinking process!
His scathing retort never found airtime because Rosset rang him back. ‘No home games for the Rhinos for a while, I’m afraid. I’ve got someone contacting all staff with our modified photograph of Mayers. I’ll let you know if we get a hit.’
Yorke thanked him and hung up.
Gardner said, ‘Is it worth emailing all season ticket holders with an image of Mayers? If he does go to the Rhinos’ games, someone has to sit next to him.’
‘And if Mayers receives the email himself under his new identity?’
‘He gets spooked and runs.’ Gardner opened Yorke’s glove compartment and took out her tic tacs.
Yorke realised that the two of them were practically living out of each other’s pockets. ‘It’s still an option though when we exhaust all of the other options,’ Yorke said.
‘All of the other options?’
‘Yes … the ones I was working on before you interrupted my thought processes.’
They chewed through a large chunk of the journey in this ‘thoughtful’ silence before Yorke voiced the narrative. ‘So, Mark was drawn to Leeds because he discovered Mayers’ interest in the Rhinos. While there, Mark started to suspect that Mayers had undergone an identity change and was lecturing. Because Robert also saw Lancer, he ended up on the same path, and sighted Mark outside the University of Leeds and contacted you. Unfortunately, he never managed a face-to-face with Mark because the incident with his wife got in the way. Agree, so far?’
‘Yes,’ Emma said.
They were interrupted by another call. This time by an unknown number. Yorke moved i
nto the fast lane to overtake someone hogging the middle lane and answered. ‘DCI Yorke?’
‘Yes. Who is this please?’
‘My name is Dr Stewart Holden. We’ve never spoken before, but I work at the Princeholm psychiatric hospital in Bristol.’
Yorke’s blood ran cold. He only knew of one patient. He glanced at Gardner, whose eyes were as wide as his.
‘It’s about Lacey Ray.’
There was the confirmation. Feeling the surge of adrenaline, Yorke asked for a moment to move across into the slow lane and reduce his speed. ‘Go on.’
‘She’s asked me to call you. Normally, I don’t indulge patients’ whims, but this seemed rather important. She wanted me to read this to you, and then tell you how she can help with the current situation.’
‘Current situation?’
‘The search for Louis Mayers, the doctor responsible for the massacre at Rose Hill.’
Yorke indicated off onto the hard shoulder, stopped and hit the hazards. He took a deep breath and listened.
‘Dear Lacey, I want to introduce today’s letter by reflecting on the process of regeneration. The human body’s remarkable capacity to heal itself has always been of great interest to me. Take the liver, for example. If part is lost through disease, it can grow back to its original size. I know my own father wasn’t thinking about these regenerative properties when he drove himself into an early grave with his single malts, but I digress, the point is, our bodies can, if we allow, heal themselves. Yet, even when the body regenerates, it can never be truly the same as it was before. Did you know that the liver can heal to the same size, but not to the same shape? Now, consider the mind, my dear Lacey. It too can be destroyed, torn, figuratively, to pieces, and then the process of regeneration can begin. Many of my peers would rather allow those maladaptive thoughts to fester in one’s conscious and unconscious minds like a cancer, debilitating the host. But my alternative, to allow those thoughts to overwhelm and destroy the mind, is the true path to healing. Destroy the mind. Then, rebuild. Regenerate. They say you destroy, Lacey. But do they ever mention what you have built? What you have regenerated? You cleanse the world of its scourges, Lacey, by destroying, and then you allow it to grow, newer, and healthier.’
