by Cross,Amy
“In other news,” the anchor says as the camera cuts back to him, “campaigners have launched an attempt to stop the construction of a new bypass that aims to...”
I turn away from the screen and look along the corridor. Somewhere else on this floor of the hospital, my poor daughter is being poked, prodded and examined for the umpteenth time this year. As if she hasn't already been through enough since her terrible ordeal in London, last night's breakdown has left her in dire need of psychiatric help, and I'm already resigned to the fact that she's probably going to be committed for at least twenty-four hours. Earlier, Doctor Squire asked me repeatedly whether I'd be willing to sign the necessary papers, and it's quite clear that Katie herself won't stay here voluntarily. I'm going to have to commit my own daughter to a psychiatric hospital.
I've failed her. She's twenty-one years old and she's screaming somewhere in a cell. I can't blame anybody but myself.
***
“Katie seems to be suffering from certain delusions,” Doctor Squire explains a short while later, as we sit in one of the consulting rooms. “These delusions are manifesting themselves in the form of a delirious urge to carve markings into her body, markings that certainly make no sense to any of us here. This is a sensitive question, Mrs. Wren, but when she was growing up did Katie exhibit any signs of self-destructive behavior?”
I wait for him to continue, but suddenly I realize exactly what he means.
“She never cut herself,” I tell him. “Is that what you're suggesting? No, of course not. She was always a good girl.”
“It's not about being good, Mrs. Wren. It's about the different coping mechanisms that people develop when they're dealing with stressful situations. It's not impossible that this behavior has spontaneously developed in Katie as a result of her recent experiences, but I'd say it's still likely that she had some form of self-destructive urge in the past. Her current difficulties have merely stirred that urge and perhaps exaggerated it to the point where she can no longer keep it hidden.”
“Katie has never done anything like this in the past,” I say firmly. “We've always been very close.”
“So from your perspective, this all began after she returned from London?”
I nod, and he makes another note.
“I believe her father died some years ago,” he continues after a moment.
“She was just a child.”
“How old?”
“She was six months when he was killed.”
“Too young to remember him, then.” He makes a couple more notes. “You never remarried, did you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“So it was just the two of you?”
“I fail to see how that's relevant. Katie was raised impeccably. She wanted for nothing, and she always excelled at school. People often commented on her. They said she was such a clever and charming girl. If you're suggesting that being raised by a single parent caused her to act like this...”
My voice trails off as I realize that this is exactly what he's suggesting. Katie never had a father figure, and perhaps that lack has finally caught up to her.
“Mrs. Wren,” the doctor continues after a few seconds, “if -”
Before he can finish, there's a sudden cry in the distance. I get to my feet, and I immediately know that it's Katie who's calling out. The cry stops abruptly, almost as if something has been placed over her mouth. Instinctively, I step toward the door. I have to help my girl.
“Please sit down, Mrs. Wren,” Doctor Squire says after a moment. “I'm sorry about that. There's nothing you can do for her right now.”
“I have to be with her,” I tell him, as I feel tears welling in my eyes.
“That's out of the question.”
“But -”
“Katie has become violent,” he continues. “I'm sorry. I wasn't going to tell you that just yet, but I'm afraid it's true. One of my orderlies suffered a broken nose while he was trying to help calm her down.”
I shake my head. “No,” I stammer. “Katie would never do anything like that.”
“It's quite natural that you feel this way. Please, sit down and let me explain what we're going to do with Katie over the next few days. It's the future that matters right now, Mrs. Wren.”
“Are you keeping her in?”
He nods.
“What if I don't agree?” I ask, trying not to panic but feeling a rush of fear in my chest. “What if I want to take her home? I can look after her, I can make her better...”
“I need you to sign the papers,” he replies. “If you refuse, I'll obtain an emergency court order, and given Katie's behavior over the past few hours I'll have no trouble persuading the court to side with me. But I think it would be better all round if you'd accept this and sign the papers yourself.”
He opens his folder and takes out a single sheet of A4 paper.
“Think of it as a deal,” he continues. “You agree to let us keep Katie here for an initial seventy-two-hour period, and in return we'll do everything we can to help her. Once that initial period is over, we'll re-assess her situation and decide whether it's safe for her to come home. And I don't only mean safe for her. Safe for you, too.”
“For me?”
“Katie is very violent at the moment, Mrs. Wren.”
“She'd never hurt me!”
“I don't believe she's in control of her impulses.” He looks down at his notes again. “There are also two police officers who want to talk to her about an incident at a farm last night. They seem to be under the impression that Katie might have been with two girls who were shot by a farmer.” He looks up at me. “I'm afraid those two girls succumbed to their injuries, Mrs. Wren. The farmer has been taken into police custody, but evidently the police believe Katie is involved somehow. There's a reasonable chance that if she walks out of here right now, she'll be arrested for trespassing, theft and various other matters relating to last night's events.”
“Katie was at home,” I stammer.
“The whole night?”
“She...” I pause as I think back to the mud on her feet. “I can't... I don't know, I...”
“This is the best option for Katie right now,” he continues. “She either stays with us, or she spends the next twenty-four hours in a jail cell. I know where I think she'll get the best treatment.”
As tears start streaming down my face, I sit on the chair again. For a moment, this whole situation feels as if it's crushing my shoulders, threatening to flatten me completely. I can't hear Katie right now, but I'm quite sure she's screaming somewhere in the hospital. I know that signing the papers to keep her here would be the right thing, but I'm not sure I can actually bring myself to put my name on such an awful document. What if Katie never forgives me?
“I guess it feels a little like a deal with the devil, huh?” Doctor Squire asks with a faint smile. “I'm sorry, perhaps that isn't an appropriate observation. Forgive me.”
I stare at the paper for a moment, before taking the pen and signing my name.
“You've made the right choice, Mrs. Wren.”
“I know you can't promise to make her better,” I reply, setting the pen aside and sliding the paper toward him before I change my mind, “but please do your very best. I thought I'd lost her once, then I got her back, but now I'm scared she's still lost. The girl who's been at home with me these past few weeks since London... I hate myself for saying this, but it's almost as if she's not really Katie. She has so much anger and so much hatred, and she seems to have a lot of secrets.”
“We're going to start with some intensive therapy sessions,” he explains. “My understanding is that aside from her interviews at the police station, Katie hasn't talked very much about what happened during her time in captivity. I think this lack of closure might be at the heart of her current problems.”
“Perhaps,” I whisper, thinking back to the sight of my daughter shivering on the steps of the ambulance.
“Has she said very much to
you about that time?”
I shake my head.
“So we're still a little in the dark about what happened to her. Maybe we can -”
Before he can finish, his phone buzzes. He checks the screen, and then he immediately gets to his feet.
“I'm sorry,” he says, seemingly a little panicked as he heads to the door, “but I'm needed.”
“Is it Katie?” I ask. “Is something wrong?”
“Everything's fine, Mrs. Wren. I'll get someone to come and show you out. Please, just wait here.”
He heads out through the door, and a moment later I hear him breaking into a run as he hurries along the corridor. I'm quite certain that he was called to help deal with Katie, and that she's still resisting their attempts to help. Perhaps they're having to tie her down and sedate her, and for a moment my mind fills with the most awful image of my poor girl's ordeal. Now that I've signed the papers, the doctors here will be free to administer whatever form of treatment they deem appropriate. I just hope they can find some way to bring her back, to make her more like the Katie of old.
And while they're working with her, I think I have to do something I've been delaying for the longest time. Something necessary and important, but something that nevertheless makes my skin crawl. I have to go and face a monster.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Behind Bars
“I wasn't sure you'd agree to see me,” I tell Tim, struggling to keep my composure as I sit in the prison's visiting room. “I thought perhaps you'd have reconsidered after your letter, and that you wouldn't dare show your face.”
Sitting on the other side of the table, with his hands cuffed to bars on the chair, Timothy Ashford-Clarke stares at me with horrified, tear-filled eyes. He's wearing a regulation prison uniform, and his hair has been shaved short, and there's a nasty-looking cut slowly healing on his left cheek. It's only a few weeks since I first met him, but there are heavy bags under his eyes and he looks twenty years older. The lighting in here might not be very flattering, but it's clear that his time in prison has left him shattered.
Good.
That's no less than he deserves.
“I need to know what you did to her,” I continue. “At first I didn't want to hear the details. Then I thought I should know the basics. Then I realized that if I'm going to help her get over it, I need to know everything. I'd hoped I could wait until your trial, but I'm afraid time has rather caught up to me. I need to know now.”
I pause, feeling another shudder of anger rippling through my chest. I want to go around this table and punch him square in the jaw.
“What did you do to my daughter?” I ask finally, leaning forward. “Tell me!”
He stares at me for a moment, before slowly starting to shake his head. His whole body seems to be shuddering.
“Are you still pretending it wasn't you?” I continue. “Is that it? Are you so cowardly and weak that you can't even face up to your own crimes?”
“Winifred,” he stammers finally, “please, you have to believe me, Katie was never -”
“Don't say her name!” I snap, filled with a sudden burst of fury. “Don't you ever say her name again! Do you understand? You don't have the right to say her name!”
He opens his mouth to reply, but at first no words come out.
“You have to understand,” he continues after a few seconds. “They're accusing me of doing the most awful things, Winifred. Not just to Katie... I mean, not just to your daughter, but to other girls too. One of them was just a child, but they say they have evidence. They say they have D.N.A. that proves I did these things, and witness statements, but none of that can be true! I never hurt anybody in my life! Please, you must know that's true! I'm not a monster!”
“I know liars disguise themselves very well,” I tell him. “I was strongly advised not to come here today, and I half-expected your lawyers to block my visit. Perhaps they weren't paying attention.”
“Did you read my letter?”
“It went straight into the bin.”
“You have to believe me,” he continues, “I never, ever hurt any of those girls!”
“I need to know what you did to Katie.”
“I didn't do anything to her!” he says firmly, as tears run down his cheeks. “I swear, as God is my witness, that I never laid a hand on any of them. All this stuff about a torture chamber in my basement is just... It's not true. None of it can possibly be true! I'm being set up. I don't know who by, or why, or what they want from me, but somebody somewhere is trying to destroy me! They're trying to tear me down and make me look like a beast!”
“And why would anyone want to do that?” I ask.
“I don't know, but you have to help me! Ask Katie to testify on my behalf!”
“Are you serious?”
“She knows I wasn't the one who kidnapped her!”
“On the contrary, she says it was you!”
He shakes his head.
“She says you held her down there in chains,” I continue, “and hurt her. I need to know precisely what you did, Mr. Ashford-Clarke, because right now she's in a psychiatric hospital and I've run out of ways to get through to her. She's sinking into her own misery and pain, I'm losing her again and I don't know how to bring her back. If you have even the faintest shred of decency left in your body, you'll tell me everything.”
“Annabelle believes me,” he replies.
I furrow my brow. “What?”
“She came to see me,” he continues. “Just a couple of days ago, in fact. She was sitting right where you are now. I told her everything and she gets it, she knows that the charges against me are false. She promised to do everything she can!”
“Good luck with that,” I mutter. “The last I heard, she'd been let go by the tabloid rag that employed her.”
“They're accusing me of the most awful things,” he adds, sounding a little breathless now. “Have you seen it all? They think I kept several girls down in that basement, subjecting them to torture and worse, and that I dumped their bodies in the river. They think that's what I'd have done to Katie, too, if she hadn't managed to break free and start shouting for help. I swear, Winifred, none of that is even remotely true!”
“What did you do to her?” I ask, ignoring his pathetic pleas for help. “For her sake, I have to know!”
“They say I had the basement divided in two,” he continues. “They say I built a partition wall, and I soundproofed it, but none of that is true. Just a few hours before I left the house to go with you and Annabelle on that final day, I took some boxes down to the basement. There was nothing there! No partition, no torture chamber, no -”
“Are you calling my daughter a liar?” I snap.
“She must be confused. She -”
“She saw you!” I hiss. “She saw your face every day while she was down there! She told the police that you taunted her!”
“Then she must be delusional.” He sighs. “I'm sorry, please... I just mean that she must have false memories. It's the only explanation. She's wrong!”
“And the police too? Are they just making up all the evidence against you?”
“Please -”
“The chamber in your basement? Did the police construct that in a couple of hours while we were out, just to make you look bad?”
“Yes!” he says firmly, before sighing again. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but someone did all those things. I accept that this is difficult to believe, but I swear it's all true!”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
“All I know is that I'm going to be appearing in court, charged with all these awful things, and even my lawyers don't think I have a chance of being acquitted. They keep telling me to take a plea deal. They say I should just admit what I did and hope that the court shows a little mercy. It doesn't matter what I tell them, or how many times I insist I'm innocent... Every scrap of evidence condemns me! If I was looking at this case from the outside, I'd assume I was guilty too!”
“Because you are!”
“Because I'm being framed!”
I get to my feet. Suddenly the thought of spending another moment in this room is too much for me to handle, and it's clear he's not going to budge.
“Annabelle says they're using me as a scapegoat,” he continues, as his voice trembles with fear. “She's looking into it, and she promised to come back some time next week. I'm going to plead not guilty at the trial, and Annabelle's going to see if she can find anything I can use to prove my innocence. Maybe if you talk to her, you could -”
“Why would I talk to her?” I ask, already feeling exhausted. “If she thinks you're innocent, she must be deluded, and I most certainly have no intention of getting dragged back into that mess.”
“But if she can prove it,” he stammers, clearly clinging to some deluded hope, unable to face the truth about what he did to those girls, “won't you at least consider the possibility that I'm being framed? I'm a good man, Winifred, but I'm being treated like a common criminal! People are talking here in the cells, they've heard about the accusations. I don't feel safe, but nobody's willing to listen to me! They keep talking about that fifteen-year-old girl who went missing, the one I'm accused of killing. Winifred, I'm not a murderer!”
I stare at him for a moment, and for a moment I catch myself feeling a smidgen of pity for him. After all, he seems so desperate to proclaim his innocence, despite the vast weight of evidence that has been lined up against him. Perhaps when a man does such awful things, he has to hide the truth from himself, and I wouldn't be surprised if he genuinely believes everything he's telling me. After a couple of seconds, however, I feel disgusted by my own reaction, and I force myself to remember everything he's done to my poor Katie.
“I came to see you today,” I say as calmly as I can manage, “because I thought you might show some remorse, and because I thought perhaps you'd help me to help my daughter. Now it's clear that you're incapable of such things, and that I've wasted my time. I can only hope that you'll reconsider your decision to protest your innocence in court, so that Katie doesn't have to endure the trauma of testifying. She's already so fragile and damaged, and I'm worried she'll be pushed over the edge.”
