The Stranger Within

by Tara Lyons

  Baby, when the lights go out …

  13

  Clarke, accompanied by PC Goldberg, drove from the Charing Cross station to Natasha Holten’s office on Bond Street. He had telephoned her home address before leaving to discover — from her boyfriend — that she was working today. What should have taken a twenty-minute drive doubled due to the weekend shopping hordes in Soho. Despite there being still over a month until Christmas, the city was already alive with winter wonderland attractions, fairy lights and frantic shoppers.

  ‘That mental hospital is so close to a number of underground train stations,’ Goldberg commented. ‘She could have gone anywhere. She literally slipped right through our fingers.’

  ‘Tell me about it, mate,’ Clarke replied while peering through the front window.

  A group of screeching teenagers zig-zagged through the slow-moving traffic and he wondered where Murphy could be. And, more importantly, if Fraser was still with her. A sea of faces swam past the car now, he could barely single one person out. What if she were walking alongside them right this minute? What if Murphy had had her way with his colleague and was in the process of fleeing again? The questions spun through Clarke’s mind like whirlwind.

  The sudden blast of a car horn behind him pulled Clarke from his internal conundrums and kicked him into gear. I’m no good to Kerry in this state, he thought while turning on to Noel Street and stretching his neck — clicking his bones in an attempt to relieve some tension. PC Goldberg became a faraway backing track to his own thoughts, planning the questions he wanted to ask — jabbering on about beautiful passers-by, long shift patterns and his plans to move up the ranks of the Met police. Gobsmacked by how many topics the officer could cover in a short car journey, Clarke finally understood Hamilton’s short-temper when it came to his own frivolous conversations.

  When Clarke finally parked on Bond Street, Goldberg blew a high-pitched whistle. ‘Nice area, though not really my cuppa … no greasy spoon to pop into for lunch.’

  While heading towards Forde and Partners across the street, Clarke warned the PC to keep quiet and instructed him to take notes only. He spotted Natasha as she stepped out from under the shelter of a near-by bus stop; her long straight blonde hair rested just above the cleavage-accentuating black shirt, and her tanned legs were complimented by a short tight skirt — despite the cold weather. She flicked a cigarette into the drain and stopped frozen in her tracks, raising her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

  ‘Miss Holten, I’m DS Cla—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ she sneered. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We need to have a word with you,’ he replied.

  Her flared nostrils gave away her feelings of frustration to being collared at work unexpectedly, but the patter of rain water on her sleek hair — which she fruitlessly tried to protect with her hands — seemed to infuriate her more.

  ‘Inside, quickly,’ she spat in their direction and turned on her stiletto heels.

  Natasha led them through a small reception area where a young ginger lad, no older than eighteen, sat with his eyes glued to a computer screen, and past a few Perspex divided desks. Everything gleamed bright white — the walls, the tiled floors, the intrusive lights — until she opened a door to a back office and, despite its grand ceiling to wall glass windows, it somehow felt softer that its outside counterpart.

  ‘Thanks for giving us your time, Miss Holten,’ Clarke said, standing next to the large oak table.

  ‘It’s fine, but it won’t be long as my boss will be back soon and this is her office.’

  ‘I understand. We just have a few questions about Grace Murphy and—’

  ‘I’m not the solicitor in charge of her case any more,’ Natasha interrupted and folded her arms across her chest.

  Clarke paused. ‘And why is that, Miss Holten?’

  She shrugged and looked away briefly. ‘Said she didn’t want me involved any longer … not entirely sure why.’ Her voice softened for the first time. ‘Perhaps she’s angry with me.’

  ‘Why would she be angry at you? Aren’t you her oldest and closest friend?’

  ‘Yes, but I couldn’t stop her from being arrested, from being sentenced and then from being thrown in that … in that hospital.’ The fire had returned to her tone and her eyes.

  ‘You don’t think she should have been hospitalised?’ Clarke continued, his line of questioning now being determined by Natasha.

  ‘No. Well, I don’t know, but the picture you all painted of her is not … it couldn't have been true. That’s not my friend, not the Grace I know … knew.’

  ‘How can you know who she is?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Natasha replied, before pinching her lips together.

  Clarke pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket; he didn’t need it — he knew the information written on it — but used it for effect. ‘The hospital records show you only visited your friend once, just after she was admitted to Manor Hall … just the once, Miss Holten?’

  Natasha’s blue eyes darkened. ‘Grace refused all visitors shortly after being transferred to the hospital.’

  ‘Why do you think that was?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She paused, lowering her gaze to the magnolia carpeted floor for a few moments before staring back at Clarke and continuing, ‘I was just as shocked as anyone when you arrested her. She was, I mean is, my best friend and I had absolutely no idea she was suffering with this condition. That she was … murdering people. Perhaps, if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my own life, I could have helped her. How could I not have known?’

  ‘But it wasn’t just you who Grace had refused to see?’

  ‘No, it was everyone. Even her mum … that was the shocker for me. But I don’t know, it could have just all been too hard for Grace. Maybe she finally felt guilty, even though she couldn’t admit what she had done to all those people. Valerie was … is distraught. They were so close. Way closer than me and my mother, I always envied Grace that.’ Natasha shook her head. ‘Wait, what is this all about?’

  ‘Last night, Grace Murphy escaped from Manor Hall Hospital.’

  ‘What the fuck?’ Natasha yelped, and threw her hand up to cover her mouth. ‘How? I thought the hospital was an extension of her prison sentence … that it was as secure as—’

  ‘Yes,’ Clarke interrupted abruptly. ‘That side of things is also being investigated. However, what we need to know is, has Grace been in touch with you since midnight?’

  Natasha’s head jerked back. ‘What? No, of course not, this is the first I’ve heard of it. Christ! Does her mum know?’

  ‘Officers are with her now, Miss Holten. We’re trying to ascertain if she’s with any close friends or if any relatives might have supported her escape. Do you know of anyone?’

  Natasha pouted and shook her head. ‘No, but she has family in Ireland … I don’t know anything about them. We have the same friends, and they would have told me if … anything. She doesn’t have any siblings and her father only ever popped into her life every now and then.’

  Clarke thumbed through his memory bank like he was flicking through a magazine. He had no recollection of Grace Murphy’s father during their interaction with her last year and wondered why the man hadn’t been present after his daughter’s arrest.

  ‘What do you know about Mr Murphy?’

  ‘Oh, that’s not his surname. Valerie was never married to him,’ Natasha replied.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Tom …’ Her eyes widened and she puffed air into her cheeks. ‘My mind’s gone blank.’

  ‘Miss Holten, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, but preventing the course of justice is an arrestable offence.’

  She barked a laugh and threw her hands up. ‘Seriously, Sergeant? I don’t think I’d be any good at my job if I didn’t know what constitutes as an arrestable offence.’

  ‘You’ve also said Grace Murphy is your best friend,’ Clarke finally snapped. ‘Do you really expect me to believe
that you don’t know her father’s surname?’

  ‘Grace referred to him as Dad. Valerie called him Tom. Why would I ask what his surname is?’ Natasha glared at him, but her petite features soon softened. ‘Listen, I’m sure I do actually know it, but I swear to you, I have drawn a blank. He was barely around when Grace was growing up, drove around the country or something like that. At school, she didn’t mention him too much, and as we got older, it was a topic I didn’t approach unless she did first. But he did get in contact with her … I can’t remember how long ago exactly, very apologetic, wanting to be involved in her life again. As far as I knew, everything was going fine … it just wasn’t something she spoke about in too much detail.’

  ‘But Grace and Valerie are in contact with him again now?’

  Her bottom lip jerked forward and she nodded. ‘Apparently. From what I gathered, his job kept him busy and ultimately still came first, but they have a number for him for emergencies. Do they use it? I don’t know, before you ask, but I guess when you’ve gone years without someone in your life, there’s no emergency you can’t face without them.’

  ‘I see.’ Clarke gazed over to Goldberg to ensure he’d recorded all the information. ‘Anyone else in Grace’s life, or Valerie’s, that she might reach out to at a time like this … someone who would help her? Protect her?’

  Natasha’s arms folded once again. ‘I know what you’re getting at here, Sergeant, and I can save you some time. I’m not harbouring a criminal on the run, nor do I know where she is or who she’s with.’

  ‘This is a very serious matter, Miss Holten.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fully aware of that, and I want you to find my friend before anything awful happens … but I’m not sure how I can help you. Neither Grace nor Valerie had much time in their lives for relationships.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Grace’s grandfather lived with them … gosh, as far back as I can remember, but he died last year after battling cancer for … oh, I don’t know how long for … years. Valerie was his full-time carer and Grace spent most of her free time with him. When his health really deteriorated, she accompanied him to nearly all of his oncology appointments. Other than her work, her grandfather took up most of her time.’ She glanced out through the glass into the main office. ‘I’m sorry, I really have to get back to work.’

  ‘Yes, of course, thank you for your time,’ Clarke replied before walking out of the office while Natasha held the door open. ‘Just one more thing: did Grace have any love interests or ex-boyfriends she stayed friends with?’

  Natasha rolled her eyes. ‘Other than Eric Dexter, who met his untimely death last year, she only had one other long-term boyfriend, but that was in our first year of uni. Despite all my encouragement, Grace really didn’t have much interest in men.’

  ‘And she wasn’t one for flings?’ Clarke continued.

  ‘I didn’t say she was a nun, Sergeant. Just picky about who she invested her time in.’ Natasha slid past Clarke and walked back towards the reception area. ‘But I think it is safe to say she hasn’t hunted down a previous one-night-stand and made a runner for it with him.’

  He grimaced at her sarcasm. ‘Well, thanks again for your time, Miss Holten.’

  Outside the building, Clarke gazed at the grey-tinged sun on its descent over London — the rain clouds having finally floated away. Tourists, commuters and shoppers whizzed past him like flies — his own thoughts mirroring their incessant buzzing. Helplessness gripped him by the neck; an overwhelming amount of new information had presented itself. Why did it feel like they would need to start from scratch where Grace Murphy was concerned? Clarke thought.

  14

  Eighteen years ago

  * * *

  I sat at the table in the kitchen and sloshed my spoon from one side of the bowl to the other. My eyes were transfixed on the small crisped rice pieces becoming soggier and soggier as the waves of milk turned mud brown. It was Saturday morning, and the thought of eating after … after what happened the night before made my stomach turn, and I retched over the bowl.

  ‘Everything okay, sweetie?’ Mum asked, without turning around from the cooker to look at me.

  I mumbled something about being fine, that a coco pop had got stuck in my throat, and threw down the spoon. I swallowed hard, unsure of what I could say … what I should say. I so desperately want to speak to Mum, but where to start … Do I just blurt out that I had been attacked in my bedroom last night, and the weekend before that, and the weekend before that? Should I start crying to get Mum’s attention? I try to force the tears to come, but my brain ignores the request. Maybe I cried so much after that first night that I’ve dried up any reserves left. Am I so numb and helpless that I can’t even summon any emotion?

  ‘Mum,’ I say, knowing that I needed to start somewhere.

  She hums a reply and just as I’m about to say something, anything, he walks in and knocks the wind right out of me.

  ‘Morning, babe,’ he grabs hold of my mother’s waist, but his eyes pierce into mine. Just before he swings my mum around from the oven, he winks at me.

  ‘I’m cooking your fry-up,’ Mum says, and pretends to protest at his hug, but she wraps her arms around his neck anyway, her back still to me.

  He leans his head on her shoulder and stares at me while slowly moving his hands down to Mum’s bum and, when he pinches it, he licks his lips. I want to scream. I want to run out of the room. But most of all, I want to grab the knife lying on the counter next to the cooker and ram it so far into his eyeball that he’ll never be able to look at me again. But, yet again, my body has given up on me and I’m left frozen, sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair watching the man of my nightmares grope my mother.

  ‘Stop that, honey, Grace is in the room,’ Mum says, pulling away from his grasp.

  ‘Oh, she doesn’t mind. She loves to see you so happy. Isn’t that right, Gracie?’ Then, he twirls my mother around and, with his free hand, cranks up the volume on the radio perched on the counter top. ‘I love this song.’

  I don’t know what tune is playing; I can’t hear it. I can’t hear anything but his low, rough voice repeating my name over and over and over again. Gracie, Gracie, Gracie, come out to play. I thrust my hands over my ears, trying to deafen the voices in my own head, but it doesn’t work, and they keep singing — almost in sync with the way he spins my mother around and around the kitchen. Gracie, Gracie, Gracie, come out to play.

  ‘Stop it.’ I hear the scream, but it takes a few seconds to realise the shrill voice is mine.

  The two of them pull apart and stare at me; his eyes dark and evil — just how I would imagine Lucifer’s to look — but my mum’s are sad and welling with tears. I stopped her happiness. I took away her smile.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I don’t think I’m feeling too well, that’s all. I’m going to go back to bed for a while.’

  Her face lights up again and she comes over to me at the table, her hands on my arms give me the strength to stand up. ‘Ah, sweetie, I’m sorry. Get yourself upstairs and I’ll bring you up a cup of warm sweet tea.’

  Although I’m looking at Mum, my eyes are really focused on the devil behind her. The darkness remains on his face, but there’s a smirk dancing on his thin lips as he raises his index finger to them…silencing me again.

  As though a hand guides me from the kitchen, I push my way out of the door and release a sigh when I’m on the other side of it. As my foot touches the bottom stair, the radio is silenced and I hear his grating voice sing out, “Baby, when the lights go out.” I take the steps two at a time, the tears gushing down my face involuntary, and stumble into my bedroom. I close the door and sit on the floor with my back against it.

  Through the tears, I draw my nails along my palm — the sharpness of the pain temporarily alleviating some of my sadness. That feeling soon morphs into anger as I think of myself saying ‘sorry’ in the kitchen moments before. Why am I sorry? What have I done? Who has he turned me into? I ca
n’t even talk to my mum now … the person I’m closest to in all the world. He’s ripped her away from me. My eyes are drawn to a picture on my cork-board collage — one of me and my grandfather standing on the South Pier in Blackpool — and I stop clawing at myself, ignore the droplets of blood running down my fingers and take a deep breath.

  I stand up, switch on my CD player and select Eminem and Dido’s version of “Stan” while rooting through my drawers and wardrobe. I grab some spare clothes and my boots and shove them into the duffle bag. I’ll need some snacks and water, but I can get those things later tonight when he’s out of the kitchen — out of the house. I reach over and turn the volume up; I’ve always loved this song. I don’t know why. It’s so dark, but I think I finally understand it now: Stan just needed someone to save him.

  I’ve made my mind up. I need to get out of here. I won’t be in my bed when the devil comes crawling in here tonight.

  15

  After Dixon had informed Valerie Murphy of her daughter’s escape, she and PC Williams took a seat in the living room. The walls were decorated with family photographs, mainly of Grace growing from a chocolate-covered toddler to hat-and-gown graduating woman, with all the rites of passage in-between.

  ‘Ms Murphy, please sit down,’ Dixon requested as the woman marched back and forth over the blue carpet; her hair had lost the bright blondness shown in the surrounding photographs. Now, streaks of grey grew unevenly and wild from the roots like trees in a forest, and her skin wrinkled like the trunk. The woman looked a decade older than her fifty-five years.

  Dixon sighed. ‘Ms Murphy—’

  ‘That makes me feel old. Call me Valerie,’ the woman finally replied and sat in the armchair opposite Dixon. ‘I know everything there is to know about dissociative identity disorder now. Go on, try me, ask me anything you want to know.’