by HMC
He asked again: ‘What happened?’ Faces gathered, peering out to get a glimpse of the first cataclysm ever to occur at the peaceful little microcosm that was Rowan’s Home.
‘I don’t remember,’ George said. ‘All of a sudden, someone was in my room, and then they were on the floor.’
‘Is there anyone else here?’ Morty looked up and down the hall, but there were only patients. ‘Stay together.’
Damon shifted his weight.
‘I heard something. Lucky he was noisy or I wouldn’t have caught this guy. I saw the gun in his hand as he was creeping up the hallway and I followed him into George’s room. The army taught us how to grab a man from behind and disarm him.’
Morty nodded and realised how much worse things could’ve been. ‘Good work.’ He could get the full story later. ‘I need to call the police. Damon, gather everyone up and I’ll check if the common room is safe. No one should touch anything.’ Morty wanted to check the women, too. Where was Martha-Jane when he needed her?
Freddy stood in his doorway hugging a giant teddy.
‘Follow me, Freddy.’ The man trembled and Morty put a hand on his shoulder.
‘It’s over.’ Freddy shook his head but Morty didn’t have time to soothe him right now.
The common room was empty and Morty ushered the group in. He spoke to Damon, who was holding it together well.
‘Put the T.V. on. I’m locking this door.’
Morty rushed to the waiting room and pressed the button under the front desk, right next to his miniature television, to signal for the police. He wasn’t sure how quickly they’d respond, as it hadn’t been explained to him during his induction and he bloody-well had never had to press it before. He wasn’t even sure it worked. A flashing red light went on above him.
Morty headed toward the women’s wing and he found himself wondering why someone would want to break in here, with a gun, no less. There wasn’t any money or valuable assets.
His work mobile phone buzzed in his pocket, and he answered it as he walked.
‘Yes.’ Morty was silent for a moment and was uncertain as to what he should say.
‘Moreton Warren?’
‘Yes.’
‘Constable Travis Bourke.’
He made his way towards the spare room where Martha-Jane was sleeping and jiggled the door handle. It was locked. Why would she lock it? Morty fished for his master key.
‘We’ve just received a distress signal. What seems to be the problem up there?’
‘There’s been an accident.’ Morty held the phone between his chin and shoulder as he entered Martha’s room.
‘I beg your pardon?’ He and Constable Travis Bourke became frustrated with each other quite quickly, as they could hardly hear each other through the wretched connection. Morty began to speak very slowly, making sure to stress each word.
‘There. Has. Been. An. Accident.’
Martha was still fast asleep on the bed. The rain was hammering against the tin covering on the window, but he was shouting now and it was almost as if she’d taken sleeping pills along with half of the other patients. Morty switched on the light, moved over to the bed and nudged Martha-Jane as he continued to respond to the policeman.
‘What kind of an accident?’
Sam sat up and looked at him, rubbing her eyes to aid them in opening. ‘What is it?’
‘What are you doing in the spare room? Where’s Martha?’
‘Could you repeat that?’ Constable Bourke shouted into the phone.
Before Sam had a chance to answer, Morty stumbled towards the doorway and yelled back into the receiver.
‘Someone’s been shot!’
He’d had enough and needed Martha-Jane, preferably before his head exploded. Morty raced down the hallway towards Sam’s usual room. Flustered and disorientated, she followed him. When they reached her room, he pushed the door open and moved into the dark. Sam now had time to answer Morty.
‘Martha’s here, in my room.’
Morty still held the phone up to his ear and could hear the constable asking him questions but he could no longer speak.
Two more steps into the room. Morning was malicious in allowing just enough light for both of them to see.
The body of the dead woman lay on Sam’s bed. Blood saturated the pillow. Her arm stuck out from underneath the sheets.
Lifeless.
Her long auburn hair hung over the side of the bed. Morty dropped the phone on the floor and leaned over her. He reeled back in shock. Martha’s face had a hole in it.
Sam gasped, turned away, and vomited into the wastebasket.
A CHANGE OF PLANS
Damon Speirlsman slumped in a chair. It felt like the floor was moving. Nausea was rapidly setting in.
There was enough daylight for him to study the people around him in an effort to take his mind off the encroaching queasiness.
Samantha Phillips sat with her head resting on one hand. She doodled on a piece of paper at the table across from Damon. Her face was pallid, sagging, and covered by unkempt pieces of the rat’s nest that she called hair. Her fingernails were chewed down to the quick and her leg was restless beneath the table.
George Barter sat in a chair by the window, just staring. George had done exactly what Damon had told him and it was lucky for him, too. If they’d sent one, they’d send another. Hopefully, George would continue to keep their little secret. He felt sorry for the guy. The crime scene had been horrific and he’d kept George in there for too long, explaining the procedure. Damon had watched him turn tapioca white and had prayed George wouldn’t faint on the bloody remains. A medic tended to him now, checking for signs of shock. He shooed her away but she wasn’t having it.
Damon watched Morty shuffle around the room, pretending to be calm. The male nurse watched over his patients like a mother hen, making sure they were being properly seen to. He looked like he had himself pretty much under control, at least on the exterior.
Freddy Parks sat in front of the television on the lime-green, imitation leather couch, with some of the other patients occupying the nearby bean bag chairs. Roger was by his side, in his wheelchair. The old war-vet had developed a soft spot for Freddy, and vice versa. Roger was cool as a cucumber. Damon realised he’d probably seen more death than everyone here put together.
They were watching Herbie Goes Bananas. Laughter erupted from them every few minutes and he wished that he could be in their world for just a little while – where things probably made a whole lot more sense to them than they did to him right now.
Damon racked his brain over the morning’s events as his eyes moved back and forth between the designated targets. He was supposed to be protecting two males, not Samantha as well.
And if there was one female that he didn’t know he was responsible for, why not more? He glanced around and counted ten patients. Damon was in over his head, and he knew it.
There was no way he could protect Sam without access to the females’ wing. He’d nearly lost her this morning, and she was only alive because fate had stepped in. His outside team had better work quickly. Damon felt dreadful for Martha-Jane.
He continued to watch Sam, his expression too concerned for a relative stranger, and checked himself. She was a smart one and would know instantly if something was up with him. Her eyes were filled with hopelessness, iced over with the kind of fear where you felt utterly alone, with no one to depend on.
She must be terrified.
He was going to have to help her get over it, so he could dig for more information. She’d know a way between the wings, too. He’d seen her sneaking about.
Once again, someone had tried to kill her. Someone had wanted her to face off and extinguish the light that was Samantha Phillips. Whatever threat she may’ve caused to some hierarchical world-domination plan, they sure as hell didn�
�t want her causing any more disquiet. They had killed someone else and it was all her fault, somehow.
This time Sam wasn’t being told she was paranoid, that the person watching her from a distance and planning her ultimate demise was just a symptom of her mental disorder. They couldn’t tell Freddy that he was imagining the baddies outside his windows at night, either.
Score two points for the mental cases.
Sam took a deep breath and cleared her head. Her obsession, her paranoia, and her restless sleeps with one eye open had been reality-based. She knew they were, all along
The thing that tormented her most was, why? What was it that they thought she knew, or saw, that she wasn’t supposed to? She guessed that George had seen it too, and, as much as she detested him, she realised they were in the same horrific boat.
She glared at George Barter. He clearly had no idea why someone was trying to take him out; he just sat there like a lump, looking lost. For a split second, she wanted to go over and tell him that everything was going to be all right, but she knew better. They would never stop. Maybe she should get some protection and turn herself in. But to whom? And why did Damon keep looking at her?
‘So, what made you switch rooms?’
Damon’s voice made her jump. So he’d finally decided to speak, after an eternity of gawking. She was used to creepy guys staring at her. But he wasn’t creepy, and that made her even more uncomfortable. Sam didn’t look up at him but continued to play with the pencil in her right hand, scrawling and scribbling random swirls to pacify herself.
‘I wanted to hear the rain.’ When he didn’t respond, she looked up to inspect his face and saw that he wasn’t convinced, even though she was actually being honest, for a change.
‘The rain?’ Damon raised one eyebrow.
‘It’s louder in that room. There’s a tin covering above the window.’ Uncertain as to why his opinion meant so much to her, she attempted to make him understand. ‘Martha-Jane lets me stay in there sometimes. She knows the sound of the rain helps me sleep. I mean, she knew.’ Sam paused. ‘How was I supposed to know what would happen?’ She could barely get the words out and she wished for a moment it’d been her.
‘It’s not your fault, Sam. You couldn’t have known.’
‘Thanks.’ She had a million questions to ask him now that he was talking to her and she knew exactly where to start.
‘How did you hear the guy come in? How were you so quick to grab his gun off him and shoot before getting hurt yourself?’
He tried to respond but she cut him off. ‘Oh, and spare me your army bullshit. It was pouring down rain at four thirty in the morning – either you didn’t take the ridiculous concoction of meds that you’re supposed to and have a more serious case of insomnia than I’ve ever heard of, or you were waiting for it.’
The pause was so brief that anyone else would’ve missed it. ‘Insomnia.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘I hate pills. I don’t take them.’
He folded his arms across his chest and the penny finally dropped! It was utterly obvious, something she should’ve identified from the start, she especially. Sam knew Damon. She knew his type anyway. The confidence in his stance, the way he twitched at noises, how protective he had become of Freddy.
There had also been something funny about the way he had walked that man across the street so many weeks ago. It had been as if Damon had the other bloke in cuffs, the way that he walked behind him, pushing him forward. Of course, Damon was here to serve and protect, a boy in blue with a hidden agenda. A copper.
Someone out there was on her side. Even better, it meant that he knew a whole lot more about what was going on than she did. A flicker of hope faded, as the derogatory voice in her head told her she was crazy and all of this was a delusion. Sam was used to being told by that internal voice that she was only fabricating, and sometimes it helped. Right now it didn’t. She waited for Damon to speak, just in case she was imagining his being there altogether. Then a kinder voice reminded her, people with your condition aren’t delusional. Great. Now she had three voices.
‘So, I’m glad you’re safe,’ he said, bringing her back to the present. ‘Why do you think this is happening to us?’
‘To us?’
‘Yes, to us. Why do you think someone broke in here and tried to kill us?’
Sam hadn’t thought that it was happening to everyone. She looked around at the other patients in the room and then closely at Damon. There was something in that question, and she knew from the way he momentarily held his breath that he was trying to find out how much she knew. The problem was, she knew nothing. Anyway, she was the one who was supposed to be asking the questions.
‘So how come there was no one in the womens’ wing to protect me?’
‘I’m sorry about what happened and that I couldn’t be there for Martha-Jane, as well.’
‘I needed another one of you over there,’ Sam prodded.
‘I wish there had been two of me.’
‘This is big, isn’t it?’ Samantha Phillips depended on his answer to tell her one of two things. Either the experiences leading up to this point were all connected, and were about to unfold whether she liked it or not, or she was connecting it because she was panicking, trying to make something out of what was in front of her. She wasn’t certain as to which option she preferred.
He shrugged. ‘I’m not quite sure what you mean.’
‘You’re supposed to keep still when you lie.’
Damon gave her a cute half smile which made her even more frustrated.
‘You’re here to protect me and you’re not even going to tell me why I need protection?’
‘I’m not here to protect you. It was pure luck that I saved George. I don’t know who you think I am and I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you. But I’m here for my anger management issues and just killed someone. Not the best form of therapy for my problem, I tell you now.’ Upset, he stood.
Constable Travis Bourke and two other policemen entered the common room with Dr. Green. When Travis saw Sam, he swept to her side and threw his arms around her. ‘I’m so glad you’re all right, Samantha.’ The policeman pulled back and looked at her face, stroking strands of her knotted hair out of the way. He kissed her forehead.
Damon sat back down and squirmed in his seat. He knew of Travis Bourke and he knew how much he cared for Sam. He hoped Travis would survey the building from the outside, and help keep her safe.
Damon felt uncomfortable intruding on their reunion.
‘Are you okay?’
Sam nodded. ‘I’m fine.’
Damon noticed that when the policeman stood to full height, he was well over six feet tall. Sam had to stand ‘en pointe’ to reach up and kiss him. Damon looked away and studied his feet.
‘I’m afraid a few of you will have to be taken to the station for questioning,’ he said. ‘Do you think you’re up for that?’
Green was standing close by and overheard. ‘You must find some way to do it here,’ he growled. ‘You’ll set their therapy back months, even years, if you remove these patients from familiar surroundings. I won’t have it.’ Damon had depended on Green’s getting persuasive. ‘They’ve been through enough of an ordeal already. I want no more stress placed on them. Taking them to the station is impossible. If you have questions to ask, you’ll have all the privacy you need in my office – it’s at your disposal.’
‘Okay. We’ll take their statements here.’
Just then, another man punched through the white double doors, with Anne scurrying along after him. Damon pretended not to notice.
‘Inspector Grady,’ the man huffed. He wore a light blue police uniform and acted as if the star of the show had arrived. ‘If you’ll excuse Constable Bourke and I for a moment?’ Grady showed something to Travis and spoke too softly for anyone else to hear.
‘I guess you could say that. He brought me here.’
Two days had passed and the magnitude of what had happened hadn’t fully sunk in for Samantha Phillips. Even as she processed her thoughts, she was numb to them. Not a new feeling. Everyone was trying to make her feel better but she’d pushed all of her anxiety down anyway. Sam found herself hoping that Dr. Thatcher would help her to shed some emotional light on the situation. Maybe she would really listen this time. Where is Jade?
Sam had tried three times to get it through Jade’s head that she was being watched or that someone was trying to kill her. Now that someone had actually proved they were, she hoped Jade would believe her, rather than try to explain to her that it was part of having a Personality Disorder. If someone tried to tell her she simply had a wild imagination one more time, she was going to unleash that imagination on them, specifically. Not all disorders included hallucination – she told herself again.
Sam lay on her bed and threw the blue, squishy stress-ball that Freddy had given her at the roof. It had been days since the murder and Dr. Thatcher still hadn’t been back to the hospital to help her through it. She felt abandoned.
At least Damon was back. Inspector Grady won the battle with Green and questioned him at the station. Green was fuming. But Damon was back in one piece now, and she’d been given a little time with Travis that day. This meant that the home was probably under surveillance. It helped, but not entirely. In mid-throw Sam glanced away toward the movement at her bedroom door. Her ball fell and landed on her face.
Freddy laughed harder than Sam would’ve liked as he strode into her room and plonked himself down at the end of her bed, instantly irritating her. Sam loved Freddy dearly, but she wasn’t in the mood today. He had slicked his hair down with gel and made a widow’s peak.
‘I’m Eddie Munster.’
‘Yes, you are,’ she giggled.
He placed a hand on her shin. ‘Are you afraid that someone is going to come back and try to kill you again?’
