by Isobel Hart
When the door did at last open, it made me jump; the locks retracted, grinding against the metal frame. I sat up as the door pushed open. Frank Murray stood there, his face expressionless. “We’re ready for you now, if you’re happy to be questioned, Ms Davis?”
“What about my lawyer?”
“He’s just arrived. We’ll send you to him in a moment. We don’t want this to take any longer than it needs to, and I’m sure you’re keen to get home too.”
I nodded. I wanted this over and done with so I could get home and shower some of the holding cell stink off me. “Okay, well let’s get this over with,” I agreed, the thought of being able to wash and brush my teeth my primary concern.
Ten minutes later, I was taken to meet a small man dressed in an ill-fitting suit with a cravat. He carried a slim briefcase that he never opened, pulling out a small notepad from his pocket along with a cheap plastic pen. Surprised by his appearance I determined not to judge too quickly. Elliott would be looking out for me. “Ms Davis?” he said. I nodded. “I’m Arthur Stirling. I’ll be supporting you during your questioning. Have you ever been arrested or questioned before?” I shook my head, and he looked pleased. “Good, well that speaks of a good character at least. Tell me, are you guilty?”
“What?” I said, slightly flabbergasted by the question when I realised he meant was I guilty of trying to kill Edward. “No! God, no.”
“Well,” he continued, “The best thing you can do is tell the truth. Hopefully we can get this all cleared up in no time.”
“And you’ll help keep me safe? Stop me saying something I shouldn’t? I’m completely out of my depth here.”
“The truth is your best defence.” I wasn’t sure that was correct; plenty of innocent people had been wrongly convicted. I knew he had to have been briefed on what I was being held for.
“So, what are they actually accusing me of?”
“It’s concerning the accident you were involved in.”
“The accident?” I sat back in my chair, taken by surprise. I’d been certain they were planning on pressing charges against me for hitting Edward with the elephant. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to take a minute to focus on what he was saying.
“Yes, they seem to think you might have done it deliberately.”
“Done what deliberately? Crashed?” I spluttered. “That’s ridiculous. Why would I want to hurt myself? I was in the car too.” He shrugged and said nothing more. “So how do we approach this, then? It’s my word against his.”
“Just tell the truth,” he said again.
“So you keep saying. But you’ll step in if they ask any questions I shouldn’t answer, in your opinion, won’t you?”
“Of course. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”
I couldn’t shake my anxiety at his overly relaxed attitude.
“Shall we get this over with?” he suggested.
“I suppose so,” I muttered, feeling ill-prepared for what was to come.
Mr Stirling banged on the door to let the policemen outside know we were ready. They escorted us to another small room, this time with a table between us and the two chairs opposite, a recording device placed in the middle of the table. A CCTV camera watched with its beady eye from the corner of the room. We sat in silence until Frank Murray and a second man entered the room.
Any relief at seeing a familiar face quickly evaporated when he started to speak. “So, Ms Davis, before we begin I have to remind you of the following information: You have a right to silence, whatever you do or say can be used in evidence at court, and if you don’t say something now that you later rely on in court you may be asked why you didn’t mention it in the first instance. Is that all clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, tell me, do you understand what you’ve been brought here and charged for?”
I looked to Mr Stirling. He nodded at me, gesturing for me to speak. “I know it’s something to do with the accident I was in, but I don’t know specifically why you’ve brought me here.”
Frank Murray frowned at Arthur Stirling, before looking at me. “Mr Patterson contacted us late last night.”
I said nothing, sensing less was more in this situation.
“He explained that his memory has been somewhat patchy since the accident, as I believe you were aware?”
I nodded to confirm I did know that.
“You nodded, Ms Davis, but I need you to confirm your response verbally for the sake of the recording.”
“Oh, y-y-yes.” I stumbled over my words.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I knew he had some memory loss after the accident,” I confirmed.
“Mr Patterson confirmed his memory has returned in full, finally, and he now recollects the moments prior to the accident.” A sliver of fear threaded through me. “In your previous report after the accident you told us you were travelling back from a wedding you had attended in Brighton. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” I agreed again, my eyes darting between the people in the room and the recording device.
“Don’t be nervous, Ms Davis. We just need you to tell us the truth,” he said, echoing the words Mr Stirling had said earlier. I nodded. “So,” he started again, “talk us through what happened after you left the wedding.”
“You know what happened. You have my previous statement.”
“Yes, but we’d like you to tell us again. Humour us.”
“We left the wedding at about eight. I was driving. It was the day of the fog, so the visibility was poor.”
“Had you been drinking?”
“No, because I was driving. You can check with the hospital – they took a blood sample from me.”
“So, you were driving . . .” He gestured to encourage me to continue.
“I got onto the dual carriageway just outside Brighton, but when I went round a bend the traffic was stationary in front of us. I didn’t have time to stop. I did what I could to miss everyone, but we clipped a car at the back and then we flipped.”
“Okay. From the reports and photos I saw, you were lucky to survive.”
“I was. We both were.”
“Mr Patterson’s side of the car looked as if it was much more damaged, was it?”
“Yes, because of how we rolled.”
“Tell me, Ms Davis, how fast were you driving?” It had all been so civilised, we’d fallen into an easy question-and-answer rhythm, but when he asked me that, I hesitated.
“I don’t know. I can’t remember looking,” I answered truthfully.
“Okay,” Officer Murray moved quickly on, and I released the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Talk to me about what happened at the wedding. Mr Patterson said you had a bit of a disagreement.”
I snorted at his description of what had happened. “A bit of a disagreement! He fucked someone else whilst we were there. I found them together and told him I was going home.”
“So your relationship wasn’t a good one?”
“Not really, not at that point. Not given his habit of sleeping with other women.”
“That must have been upsetting for you,” he said.
“I suppose some people would assume that, but not really, to be honest. It wasn’t the first time. The relationship had met its natural end.”
“So, he slept with someone else and you caught them at it, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Were you angry?”
“A little, but mostly disappointed and hurt.”
“Did you argue in the car?”
“Yes.”
“How did you feel then?”
“How do you think? I felt cross.”
“When people are in a heightened emotional state, they often drive too fast. Tell me, were you driving too fast?”
“It was foggy. It’s hard to know. The fog made it disorientating.”
“Did Mr Patterson ask you to slow down at any time, Ms Davis?”
I hesitated, look
ing over at Mr Stirling for advice on whether to answer. He nodded at me encouragingly. “I don’t know. I’m not sure. A lot was said, and it all happened so fast.” It felt like a fudge, but it wasn’t a lie.
“Ms Davis, I want to remind you of the importance of telling the truth to us. Mr Patterson reports,” he looked down at his notes, “that he distinctly recalls telling you to slow down. So, I want to ask you the question again. Did Mr Patterson ask you to slow down?” Again, Mr Stirling said nothing. I looked at him, waiting for him to step in and close the questioning down.
“He may have,” I admitted finally, “but, as I said, it was disorientating in the fog. It felt faster than it actually was.”
“Mr Patterson claims that he met Ms Serena Sutton at the wedding and recognised an immediate attraction. He admits they did indeed become intimate as you described. However, he claims he had been unhappy in the relationship with you for some time. He claims he had tried to finish the relationship on a number of occasions prior to the day of the crash.”
“That’s a lie!”
He ignored me, continuing; “He claims you threatened to make a scene at the wedding, so he agreed to leave with you, despite not wanting to, to avoid spoiling the day for the happy couple.”
“That’s a lie too.”
“He claims you were seething with jealousy and driving erratically. He asked you to slow down, but you ignored him. He claims you told him . . .” Officer Murray looked down at his notes again for reference before continuing, “. . . that ‘if you couldn’t have him no one would’ and then you deliberately steered off the road to crash, hoping to kill him.”
“That’s a complete lie! None of that is true.”
“Ms Davis, did you attempt to frame Mr Patterson for an attack on you last Friday?”
“No, that was real. He tried to strangle me.”
“The doctor who saw to your injuries has produced a report stating the injuries could have been self-inflicted. Were you so jealous of the relationship between Mr Patterson and Ms Sutton that you wanted to see him imprisoned rather than happy with another woman?”
“No. God, no. It’s all a lie.”
“Why, Ms Davis? Why is it a lie?” At that point, Mr Stirling, who’d been about as much use as a chocolate teapot, sat back in his chair and slowly unwound the cravat he’d been wearing. Underneath, highly visible bruising encircled his neck.
“You’re one of them!” I pointed at him, my hand trembling.
“One of who?” Officer Murray asked gently as I continued to stare at Mr Stirling in horror. Realisation that they’d gotten to Elliott’s nominated lawyer before he came to see me dawned. I was fucked. I needed to tell them what I knew.
“One of the people with activated virus. They’re everywhere,” I said.
“Who are?” He looked confused. I needed to start at the beginning.
“After the fog, people were infected by the new virus. Men, men under sixty. If they died or were killed, then the virus activated. It brought them back. It brought Edward back. He’s one of them.” I pointed at Mr Stirling. “Look at his neck.”
“What am I looking at? What does it mean?”
“I don’t know. They died – all of them – but the virus brings them back to life. That’s what happened to Edward. He was different after the accident.”
“How was he different?”
“He was nicer. He wanted to have a baby with me.” In the back of my mind, I could hear how mad I sounded.
“So this virus made him nice and want a baby.”
“Yes, no . . . I mean, it changed him. They want to reproduce the virus.”
“Ms Davis, did you threaten Ms Sutton last night?”
“I didn’t threaten her, no. I warned her what Edward had become. She told me he wanted a baby with her. I told her to get away.”
“Okay, thank you, Ms Davis.” He closed his notebook and stood. The second officer got to his feet as well, having never opened his mouth.
“What happens now? Can I go home? You have to believe me, I never tried to kill him. He tried to kill me if anything. Others of them are killing people.”
“We’ll see, Ms Davis. For your own safety, we’ll take you back to a cell for now. I’m going to suggest we have a doctor come and see you.”
“I don’t need to see a doctor. I’m not ill,” I insisted. But they ignored my protests, leaving me with a uniformed man who said nothing as he escorted me back to the holding cell.
Chapter 22
“Ms Davis, I’m Dr Nichols. I’m here to make sure you are entirely well and in a fit state to face the charges that have been brought against you.”
“There is nothing wrong with me.”
“Officer Murray reported you made some claims about a virus? Can you tell me a bit more about it?”
“You won’t believe me either. No one believes me,” I said, frustrated. “You need to speak to Dr Elliott Harvey.”
“I will,” he soothed, “but first I want to listen to what you have to say. I’m a doctor, so I understand things like viruses better than other people do. Explain it to me.” He seemed kind . . . genuine. At least he wasn’t looking at me like I was pond scum, which made a nice change.
We were sitting back in the interview room, the doctor had placed his chair beside mine, rather than opposite with the table acting as a barrier as Frank Murray and his silent friend had, making the doctor literally on my side. I hoped so, because there was no sign of Arthur Stirling, and I hadn’t a clue when I was going to be allowed home.
“It came from the red fog,” I explained. I was in deep now. My only hope was Elliott had sent the emails and that the information would hit the mainstream news soon. Then maybe someone would take what I was saying seriously. In the meantime, I took Dr Nichols through the information I had so far. To his credit, he barely blinked when I explained these were people coming back from the dead, that I thought we had been invaded, and that they were killing people to force them to change.
“Do you hear voices, Ms Davis?” he asked when I finished.
I slammed the table with my hand, making him jump. “You’re no bloody different than the rest of them! No, I don’t bloody hear voices. I told you, this virus is real. I’m not making this up.”
“Did you want to kill Mr Patterson because he had the virus?”
“No, have you even been listening to anything I said? I didn’t know anything about the virus then. I never tried to kill him. The crash was just an accident in bad weather conditions. I’ve never tried to kill Edward, well, apart from when he tried to strangle me, and even then I was defending myself. This is about the virus, not me.”
“Ms Davis, I think you may not know it, but, in my opinion, I believe you could be very sick.”
“I’m not sick.”
“I believe that the sickness in your mind is making you believe things that are not real. It’s what we call psychosis. I believe it’s making you have delusions, and that you need to be treated for it, before you hurt yourself or someone else.”
“I’m not having fucking delusions! This is real,” I shouted.
“I know you believe that,” he deflected.
“I want to go home.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I don’t believe you are well enough to face trial at this time, but it will be my recommendation to the courts that you be committed for your own and others’ safety.”
“Committed? Oh my God, no. You think I’m mad? I’m not mad, oh God.” I started to cry. He moved closer in an attempt to comfort me. Angry, I lifted my arms to push him away, catching him in the face with my elbow.
“Officers, now, please,” Dr Nichols said, looking up into one of the CCTV cameras, holding a hand to his jaw. The door opened and two men in white medical coats entered with a trolley. “Please lie down, Ms Davis. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”
“No, fuck no. I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m not mad, get your hands off me, I want to s
ee another lawyer!” I screamed as one of the nurses reached to restrain me. He pulled my hands behind my back as the second man jabbed me in the neck with a needle. The effect was immediate, my legs sagging under my weight, held up only by the nurse restraining me. Together they hauled me onto the trolley, the cool plastic sticking to my skin where my sweatshirt had ridden up behind me. My last memory was the feeling of hands gripping my body as they strapped me down.
***
I blinked my eyes open, and wondered if I’d died. Everywhere was white: the walls, the floor, the mattress and sheets on which I lay. There was nothing at all to orient myself by. No windows, no pictures, just an overwhelming whiteness. Even the robe I wore was white. I tried not to dwell on the fact that at some point I must have been stripped and re-dressed in the simple cotton outfit. My wrists bore evidence of having been secured, but otherwise I seemed to be untouched.
I lay there for a time, blinking myself awake as I gathered my wits and took closer stock of my surroundings. A fluorescent strip light ran down the length of the small square room, the plastic casing shadowed with the carcasses of the frazzled insects. I wondered how it might have been possible for them to even have reached the sterile cage in order to have become caught in the first place, given the absence of any windows in the room.
A camera blinked its small red eye from a vantage point high in the corner of the room, capturing my every movement – making sure I knew someone, somewhere was watching me. I strained my body, pulling myself to upright, ignoring my protesting muscles, to better look around at my surroundings. I found only two doors within my new white world: the one behind me looked like it led into a small bathroom, from what I could see from my vantage point on the mattress, the other had to be the way out.
