Hidden
by
Derick Parsons
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, or real events is entirely coincidental.
Text Copyright © 2012 Derick Parsons
All Rights Reserved
“Table of Contents”
Hidden
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
For Charlie, Alex and Jack
Chapter One
Kate Bennett quickly crossed the inner quadrangle of Trinity College Dublin, her high heels clicking sharply on the grimy old cobblestones. The expression on her face was grim and her eyes were blank, her thoughts far away. After yet another uninspired lecture –during which few of her students had bothered to hide their boredom- it was becoming painfully clear to her that teaching was not her forte. She bit her lower lip as she walked and frowned down at the cobbles; she was not used to failure and it rankled. Failure in professional matters, that is; spectacular failures in her personal life were her forte, and always had been. Which was why she had returned to Dublin from England in the first place, some months before. But she was used to relationship breakdowns and could handle them, more or less; failing in her work was a new and unpleasant experience. On paper it had seemed the ideal solution to her troubles; being a part-time lecturer would give her time to work on her latest book, as well as giving her generally chaotic life a little much-needed structure.
In practice things had not run so smoothly. In spite of her deep knowledge of psychology, both the theoretical side and the practical experience she had picked up working in the field, her career as a teacher was in danger of foundering after just a few short weeks. She just couldn’t understand why it was all going so badly wrong; even aside from her expertise she loved psychology, loved the unending search into how the human psyche worked. And yet she was unable to convey any of her enthusiasm to her students. Information, yes; passion, no. Her lectures were so dry she wondered how much of them her students actually absorbed; certainly none of them ever seemed to be listening. Yet the harder she tried to make her discourses interesting the more she floundered on a sea of verbosity.
She shook her head dismissively, putting the problem to one side; she would worry about it later. Pushing problems aside for later resolution could also be considered her forte.
Kate was slightly above medium height, but her weakness for ultra-high heels made her appear taller, as did her slender build. Her appetite naturally inclined her towards plumpness but an unrelenting program of diet and exercise, both of which she loathed, kept her slim and even elegant in the slightly severe, tailored suits she favored. Her hair was dark brown with a hint of natural red in its depths and, with her pale, narrow face set off by big hazel eyes and full lips, she made a striking figure, and one which turned heads everywhere she went.
She attracted attention now in the form of the head of the History Department, Dr. Julian Symons, who hurried across the quad to catch up with her before she reached the door that led up to her second floor office. Symons was an aging, would-be rake who delighted in his dubious reputation as a ladies’ man and who gave Kate the creeps, not least because she suspected that he started the rumors about his amorous adventures himself. He was a short man and rather stout, given to wearing pink bow ties and silk shirts with his tweed suits, and just looking at him generally made Kate want to laugh aloud. Not that she ever would; the funny little man really seemed to believe that he was a born lady-killer, and although she could never like him she hadn’t the heart to disabuse him of his delusions.
‘Katherine, my dear,’ he began in his high, nasal voice, offering her a wide, patronising smile, ‘How delightful to see you! For a change. You’re becoming something of a recluse around here. Why, I go days sometimes without spotting your pretty face. Not the way to win friends and influence people, my dear. To say nothing of winning tenure.’
Kate’s lips tightened and she pulled her jacket closed; he did appear delighted to see her, but she didn’t much care for the parts he was so pleased to see. She nodded and, wishing that he would raise his gaze to eye-level just once in their conversations, said in a neutral tone, ‘Julian.’
He did eventually look up from her breasts, which were in fact quite small and hardly demanded such close attention, and smiled at her slyly before saying, ‘I’m having a little soiree tonight and I was hoping you might grace it with your presence. Badinage aside, we really don’t see enough of you, you know.’ His gaze dropped again and he said suggestively, ‘And I really would like to see more of you, my dear.’
‘The feeling is far from mutual,’ replied Kate dryly, partly irritated and partly amused by his elephantine attempt at flirtation; he was like a reject from an old Carry-on movie, and impossible to take seriously. In fact, so labored was his act that she occasionally wondered if he were secretly gay. ‘College social life leaves me cold, I’m afraid, and although I’m new to teaching I’ve been here long enough for the idea of tenure to fill me with horror.’
Symons raised his brows and cocked his head to one side, reminding her irresistibly of a sparrow looking for breadcrumbs, and looked at her in a pitying fashion. College life –and particularly tenure- loomed so large in his own mind, in his own life, that he clearly didn’t believe her. Couldn’t believe her; the college was the center of his universe. His artificial and rather yellow smile never wavered as he said, ‘Well, come or not, just as you please. Don’t let my importance on the faculty board influence you at all.’
‘I won’t,’ said Kate even more dryly, and with complete honesty; she wouldn’t, though many would. She flashed him a brief, perfunctory farewell smile and turned to go, whereupon he said archly, ‘Well, play hard to get if you must. But remember; the faster the quarry runs, the harder the pursuers chase.’
Symons meant it in a purely social sense but Kate’s past had left her highly sensitive to any hint of women being viewed as prey, and her smile vanished as she said in a tight, angry voice, ‘If you try pursuing me you’ll regret it, I promise you. Stick to chasing the girls you teach who are desperate for grades. And I do mean desperate.’
Symons’ smile vanished and this time he did not stop Kate as she entered the old building but stood staring after her, a savage look on his face. He was not used to such treatment, was indeed used to being courted by very new, very junior staff like Kate, and he had come to view his invitations as tantamount to royal commands. Although she did not realize it, Kate’s utter lack of interest in the college social scene gave her a certain cache among the other lecturers, resulting in her receiving invitations that similarly junior members of staff would have killed for but never received; Symons had not been kidding when he said that the more she ran, the harder she was pursued.
Kate marched angrily up to her office, not relaxing until she was seated behind her ancient, leather-topped desk, as much annoyed at herse
lf for losing her temper as she was at the silly little man for provoking her. Then she thought; Well, I guess I’m no longer invited to his party. Sorry, SOIREE. She slammed down her briefcase, her lips a tight white line, but then she giggled, unable to help herself, at the thought of Symons’ expression if she now actually turned up at his party. Somehow she doubted he’d be quite so effusive, or that future invitations would be forthcoming. Oh well, it was no loss; to her Trinity was simply the place where she happened to be working just then, and she had no wish to involve herself in its hidden depths. Nor had she any interest in tenure; her lack of the teaching gift was becoming so painfully obvious that she was in fact sorry that her one-year contract would hold her there until the following summer.
Besides, even apart from lacking the teaching bug she didn’t much like the place; Trinity, like all Universities, contained two very separate personas. One was the crowded and hectic but still beautiful old center of education which everyone in the outside world perceived. The other, murkier facets of college life that only insiders saw were the rigid cliques, the petty jealousies, the bitter feuds and hatreds that lasted for years on end, and the tight, even claustrophobic social life. If one did not mix with the right people one simply did not exist. An elitist and somewhat childish view, but one which most of the faculty did not just subscribe to but regulated their lives by.
She was packing her notes into her case when she saw the Post-it stuck to her lamp, no doubt left there by Sally, the secretary she shared with another junior lecturer, before she had left for her lunch. It read; The Director of Deacon House rang, would like to see you out there at 3pm if you can make it.
Kate raised her thin, shaped eyebrows; why would the head of Deacon House want to talk to her? She had heard of the place, of course, as had everyone even peripherally involved in the mental health field in Ireland; it had long been famous for its progressive approach to treating the mentally ill. And for being the most luxurious and expensive private asylum in Europe. It was the kind of place where she and her fellow students had dreamed of working, back when they were permanently broke and generally hungry, still struggling towards their degrees. But as she had only been back in Dublin a couple of months, after an eight-year absence, she had no idea who the current director was, or what he could want with her. Her books, of course, had brought her a modest amount of fame in her own little circle, as well as less modest royalties; perhaps the current director had heard she was back in Ireland and wished to offer her a job?
It seemed the only possible scenario, and the prospect of being back in private practice immediately excited as well as frightened her. She hadn’t had a patient since... well, since the Incident. That was the way she always thought of it; as The Incident. And generally in capital letters. She closed her eyes to help shut the sudden crowd of hurtful memories out of her mind; perhaps a new patient was exactly what she needed. After the Incident she had gone into retreat, living on her then meager savings and Peter’s far from meager earnings whilst she wrote her first book on psychology. Not a textbook; she had wanted to de-mystify the workings of the human mind and make the whole subject more accessible to the average person, while at the same time avoiding the kind of trite psycho-babble filling the self-help shelves in every book shop. She had wanted to show why people become the way they are, how a human personality develops, and how and why people react to different situations. And she had succeeded. How she had succeeded. Her book had been a hit, particularly in the USA, and had led to her being offered her present post in Trinity. It had also filled her coffers; she was not rich but in these recessionary times she was also well clear of the poverty line.
Her second book, showing how childhood events shape the adult, had not scaled the same heights as the first, receiving fair critical acclaim but only modest sales. And her third book, on criminal psychology, had pleased no one, it seemed; as well as being ignored by the critics it had not sold well, in the end barely covering the publishing costs. Her planned fourth book, on the development of aberrant sexuality and how sex offenders are formed, had stalled some time ago on only the third chapter and showed no signs of moving again in spite of the wealth of potential subject matter at her disposal. Perhaps the topic struck her a little too close to the bone for comfort.
So where was she? Washed up at thirty-four? Unmarried, childless, and with her writing career dead in the water? Was she destined to become a frustrated old spinster teacher? She sat back in her old-fashioned wooden swivel chair and laughed aloud at the thought, her gloom dispelling as suddenly as it had arisen; a spinster she was not. She had never considered herself anything special in the looks department but she had never had any trouble attracting men either, and had no fears of being left on the shelf. And time was not her enemy as she had never been particularly broody. She had never had more than fleeting urges to have children, urges she had not encouraged and which had just as quickly disappeared. And if she was honest she had quite enough personal problems of her own to deal with without trying to raise kids as well. The thought of children brought one of these problems, Peter, crowding back into her mind but she pushed it firmly away; she would not think about him now. He was back in England with all the rest of her old life and there he would remain.
That’s the past! she reminded herself firmly, think of the present, and the future, but never look back. A future which might well include having patients again, if she really were about to be offered a job in Deacon House. Dealing with the mentally ill, with life’s casualties, had been her first love, and her later, varying careers as a police consultant, an author, and now as a lecturer had perhaps obscured but never quite destroyed that love. Maybe it was time to get back in harness. After all, what was the alternative, to sit here desultorily reading barely literate essays churned out by lazy slobs with no interests in life beyond sex and partying? She relaxed back in her seat, laughing at herself; no doubt all lecturers –including her own, back in the day- had been saying the same thing about their students since education began. God knows what Aristotle made of the young Alexander. But it said much about what her life had become that she would gladly leap into the unknown rather than going home to face an empty flat and yet another night in alone.
Kate got to her feet suddenly and made for the door; Deacon House was a good ten miles away and if she was to be there by three she would have to get moving. And as she went she pushed any thoughts of how empty her life had become for her to be so desperate to seek change, any change. She also repressed the thought that running away from problems was becoming a way of life for her; she could worry about that later.
Chapter Two
The sleek red TVR crawled down the winding country road, annoying those held up behind while Kate searched for a sign that would reveal her destination. There were many driveways, and rutted lanes leading off the main road, and the thick, encroaching greenery and overhanging trees meant that at anything above twenty miles an hour she would miss the turn.
At last Kate spotted a sign proclaiming Deacon House to the world in large black letters and quickly swung her powerful but twitchy sports car into the entrance. Waving an apologetic hand to acknowledge the beeps from the irate motorists streaming past behind her she stopped in front of the massive, wrought iron gates that separated the mental hospital from the outside world. She paused, a frisson of excitement running through her; all her professional life she had heard stories about this place and now, about to see it in person at last, her curiosity knew no bounds. However, between the huge black gates and the massive granite walls Kate could see little beyond a glimpse of white gravel driveway and overhanging tree-branches. Her initial impression was of isolation and unfriendliness, even secrecy, and overall was not encouraging. She had been invited there, however, and now rolled down her window and pressed the intercom button mounted on a low post set at a distance from the old gates.
A crackling, metallic but unmistakably female voice immediately responded, ‘Deacon House, how can I hel
p you?’
No mention of its full title, thought Kate with a touch of amusement, nor its present function. The sign outside was the same; just the name, no description. ‘My name is Kate Bennett. I have a three o’clock appointment with…er, the director.’
She was hoping for a clue as to who her mysterious host was but she was destined to be disappointed as, after a moment’s hesitation, the voice said, ‘Yes, you’re expected, Dr. Bennett. Please wait until the gates are fully open, then follow the driveway up to the house.’
It was on the tip of Kate’s tongue to say, it’s Ms. Bennett, not Doctor, but before she could speak the heavy gates shuddered and began to swing open, making a suitably eerie creaking noise as they did so. Wondering what effect this would have on the more nervous night-time visitors, Kate put her car in gear and rolled forward, crunching slowly onto the spotless gravel drive. Behind the high stone wall the grounds were extensive and well tended, though the immense chestnut trees lining the driveway created a slightly gloomy atmosphere in the autumnal afternoon light. The driveway itself was almost long enough to be considered a private road, causing her to wonder just how large the place was; these were not just grounds, this was a park. Large as it was, however, as she rounded the very next bend she was afforded her first glimpse of the old house through a gap in the trees. She slowed her car even further, suitably impressed.
Deacon House Rest Home -far better than Insane Asylum!- had in the past been the country seat of a famous Irish nobleman, and although now reduced from its former glory it still retained something of its old air of grandeur. It was solidly built of large gray granite blocks but in the current watery sunshine the old stone looked warm and inviting rather than forbidding. And the broad flight of stone steps that led up to the immense double-doors, flanked on either side by high, fluted pillars, lent the mansion a graceful air in spite of its massive dimensions. The house was at pleasant variance with the rather forbidding outer wall and gate, and all in all was a far cry from the grim Bedlam of public fancy. Some of the many glittering windows were encased by iron bars, it was true, but nonetheless Kate could almost see the graceful carriages rolling up in front of those broad steps, and the pink of society alighting in their finery for yet another grand ball. Almost see it. In another century. Beautiful though it was, and imposing, Deacon House was now an insane asylum, and no coy phrases like Rest Home could alter that cold fact.
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