Father of Lies

by Sarah England

  “Yes, of course. Bridesmoor. Rookery Mill at Bridesmoor. Jes left me - we squatted there and it were damp and dark, and bloody haunted as well.”

  “Who was Jes?”

  “Just a guy. Gyppo.”

  “Where did you meet him, can you remember?”

  She shrugged. “No.”

  “So after he left, where did you go?”

  Ruby did not reply but stared into a far away place.

  Had she pushed her too far? It was just exciting - to talk to the woman, discover more of the story…she had to try! Ruby might have family somewhere - any lead would help!

  “Okay, well can you remember if you stayed in the mill alone?”

  Ruby shook her head.

  Becky frowned. Tried a different tack. “What was it like then, Rookery Mill? Why did you say it was haunted? I couldn’t have lived anywhere with ghosts - you must have been a brave girl?”

  Ruby began to hum.

  Becky froze.

  “…four and twenty black birds…”

  “Ok that’s enough for today, Ruby. It’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked. Ruby…? It’s okay. Ruby…?”

  Becky stood up, her hand hovering over the panic button on the wall. Oh God, what was coming?

  Something had been triggered. Ruby was rocking. Consoling herself like she did before the hypnosis treatment. Blocking out the world again. Oh no, please don’t let her have regressed. She was doing so well!

  Ruby’s stare had turned completely blank - so blank it was as if she was no longer there at all…The question was - would something or someone else shortly he hopping into the driving seat?

  Seconds ticked slowly by.

  “Ruby?”

  The girl’s large blue eyes were widening and then her mouth dropped open in dismay. The face was now, unmistakeably, that of a child full of terror, crumpling with misery, tears dripping down her cheeks.

  Then holding her throat with both hands, she started to gasp for air. Great, hawking gulps for oxygen, her already blue-veined pallor turning deathly, eyes rolling back in their sockets.

  Becky called for back up and within seconds the team had Ruby into a recovery position with an airway in her mouth.

  Dr. Claire Airy was on the scene soon after, softly calling her name. “Ruby! Ruby…talk to me, Ruby!”

  Eventually, Ruby blinked and gagged on the airway. Sat up. “My throat hurts. My throat was full of something.”

  Claire and Becky sat on Ruby’s bed, each holding a hand. Making soothing noises as if to a frightened child. “Ruby, did you have a flash back, a memory? Can you recall it?”

  Ruby was shaking all over. Her bottom lip trembled and tears dripped into her hair.

  “Something shoved down my throat,” she said. “I couldn’t breathe.”

  Everyone present registered the sickening information.

  “I’ve got a headache. A fucking pole-axe of a headache.”

  “All right, Ruby,” said Becky. “We’ll get you something for that. You’re safe now, don’t worry. We’re here for you.”

  ***

  It was only four o’clock but the light had faded to a purple dusk. Becky waited at the bus stop. The wind whipped sharply round her legs, cutting into her back through the thin jacket she wore. Behind her, miles of barren moor land. To each side, a grey and empty highway; and in front - the lights of Drummersgate: a galley ship in the rolling fog of a November afternoon. It had been a long and draining day.

  The fog was closing in now, quickly enveloping her in its squally mizzle. She stamped her feet, trying hard not to recall the ghost stories they’d all laughed about in the dry, warm safety of the staff room. Circles of ethereal children seen dancing on the highway, faces ravaged with bubonic plague. Tales recounted by workmen laying the new road up to Drummersgate a few years ago - of hearing children’s tinkling laughter from somewhere in the fog; of faces oozing with open sores, looming in at the windows of their trucks when they took a nap…

  Stop it Becky and stop it now! She told herself. Think of something else. Ghosts do not exist…. And yet…she had seen those red eyes and heard that guttural, obscenity-ridden voice coming out of Ruby’s frail body…You know now, don’t you, Becky? There really is something we can’t explain - something not just to be a bit spooked about…but terrified out of your mind…

  Once more her thoughts switched to the hypnosis scene with Ruby and Jack. Replaying it over and over, against her will, as she would do a thousand more times yet - when she woke at 3 a.m. to the sound of a loud bang in the kitchen or a slammed door on a still night. Recalling the heat wracking up and up and up in the treatment room, sweat breaking out across her chest, soaking her underarms, trickling down her back… of the inability to move from her position facing the wall. Who had turned her to face it? It had been as if her feet were stuck in sucking mud while the horrific scene unfolded and the men outside the door were helpless to get in - pounding at it with all their collective weight. But most of all she would remember the look of rictus terror on Jack’s face. Jack, of all people. Jack McGowan - the medical director they all admired and relied on. The buck stopped with Jack every time - he was the father of the unit, the one they all went to no matter what because he always had the answers.

  Yet that slip of a girl had broken him. Physically. Emotionally. Maybe even mentally, with the demonic filth she hadn’t been able to block her ears from hearing. Powerless as the destructive venom poured out of Ruby and into Jack.

  He’d had to be helped from the room like an invalid, and driven home. Took time off and still hadn’t returned to work. He’d withered away in front of them, diminished somehow, as though his very spirit had been drained.

  Her mind tried to rationalise the event, again and again, ever since and every night, lying awake with her eyes tightly shut. At middle age, suddenly afraid of the dark and what it might be hiding. How does anyone know anything for sure? If parallel universes co-existed then what if we were actually spirits, with our very beings only a fantasy? And who ruled this kingdom of spiritual realism? What if devils and demons didn’t belong to fairytales and old wives talk at all - but were based on a foundation of ancient truth? We like to think we have all the modern-day rational answers - but do we? How arrogant? How bloody, bloody arrogant…and fragile!

  The last vestiges of a bruised sky faded to black, plunging Becky’s lone figure into a chill, dark night choked with fog. Dying leaves congealed around her ankles, a faint whiff of wood smoke from a nearby farm.

  There was someone behind her… was there, was there…breathing into the nape of her neck? She whirled around nervously. And was that the sound of drumming from somewhere out there in the wilderness? Getting louder? They called this place Drummersgate for a reason, she recalled - the psychiatric hospital had been built on the ruins of an old prison; one in which prisoners, often diseased and half starved, were then hanged to their deaths. People said they were brought out here in wooden crates pulled by horses, accompanied by drummers and dancing children, as they made their final journey at the centre of some macabre carnival….

  Becky shivered - how vulnerable she was out here on her own. And not like her to feel fear like this either: a fear she’d never had before while waiting out here in all weathers. Silly really, just silly - a vivid imagination after recent events, that was all. Even so, it was impossible to escape the deduction and she just kept coming back to it - put simply, if Ruby had been possessed, then everything made sense, because the girl was now recovering her personality. But if that was the case, then surely it would have taken a man of the cloth to exorcise her not a doctor who didn’t even believe in God? So it couldn’t have been possession. Could it?

  She exhaled long and hard. She had to get a grip. This train of thought was way off the scale. No, what must have happened was this - Jack had brought out Ruby’s controlling demon - an alter personality - a result of trauma in childhood. Now that made sense! So much more acceptable. And comforting. Sane. Normal… y
et still the words came to her, unbidden on the wind - as objectively and dispassionately as if someone had spoken directly into her ear -just because you can’t see him doesn’t mean he isn’t there…

  She pushed them back to the recess of her mind. Focussed on what looked like the headlights of the bus bobbing solidly towards her through the fog. Whatever had happened in the treatment room that day was all good! Because they could help her now - as soon as Jack felt well enough to come back, that was.

  Why was Jack unwell while Ruby was getting better, though? Don’t think about it.

  The bus was coming - slowing, gears crunching down.

  Suddenly a car overtook it and screeched to a halt in front. The passenger door was pushed open and D.I. Callum Ross smiled up at her. “Couldn’t get here any faster - stuck behind a bus! Come on - jump in Becks - you must be freezing!”

  ***

  They sped along the highway without talking for several minutes, heater on full blast, Depeche Mode singing, ‘All I ever wanted…’

  Callum squeezed her hand, not taking his eyes from the road. “What’s the matter? Something’s on your mind.”

  She nodded. He knew her. Every nuance. Every flickering thought - something that came from having grown up together. “I’m not sure I can tell you, really. Or what your reaction will be.”

  “I’m worried. Is it us?”

  “Oh no, nothing like that.”

  “Tell me then.”

  Neither of them ever mentioned the names of clients they worked with, but sometimes they had to say what was on their mind, and Becky knew Callum would always treat her confidences with the utmost respect. Always had - since they were kids at school together. So over the drone of the engine, she related what had happened the previous week with the hypnosis session, hoping deep down that he’d ridicule the part about Ruby being possessed. It would help if he did, actually. Lighten the mood.

  “Somehow he exorcised her demon,” she said. “Or at least a dominant alter personality that was protecting the fact she’d been abused. God, I wish the law would introduce castration for those disgusting pigs! That girl will never be well. Not properly. And I’m not sure we’ll ever get to know what she really had to endure. That’s the rational explanation anyway. It’s just - oh I don’t know - there’s some odd stuff going down as well. She said things she couldn’t possibly have known. That’s the weird bit. Sorry, I’m not making much sense, am I?”

  Callum was quiet as he drove, squinting into the thick greyness and slowing down accordingly. Belts of fog were hitting them like stone walls, and the red rear lights from vehicles in front were suddenly a matter of inches away.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s a dangerous night. We’ll be in town soon, thank God.”

  As soon as the road dipped downhill, Callum relaxed, “Did I ever tell you about that night me and George Mason went out to a place called Woodsend, near Bridesmoor? It were years ago now, this - about ten years at least. We were called out to a farm just off The Old Coach Road?”

  “Really?”

  “Well this is my only run-in with owt like that - demon stuff - so here goes! Ah you see - you weren’t expecting that, were you? Anyhow, if I ’adn’t seen this with me own eyes I wouldn’t be taking in what you’re saying now. I’ll be honest with you - it affected me that much I don’t really like talking about it in case.. Well you know, in case I start getting bad dreams again.”

  “Wow - a big guy like you?”

  He laughed. “Aye - well I weren’t then - I were about twenty two and skinny as a rake. Not that it made any difference to old George. Anyhow, we got called out because this teenaged girl were going mad apparently. Mother had run off. Father gone out and left his old mother to cope with t’ farm and everything else that were going wrong. Well we ’ad to park off t’ main road and it were blowing a gale. Dead spooky - full moon - and I dunno - bad atmosphere. Oppressive.

  The horses were kicking in t’ stalls and everything were in t’ dark apart from just one light above the door. Well the old woman let us in, and inside all t’ furniture had been moved - and we’re talking heavy stuff like a Welsh dresser and oak dining table and stuff - all just heaped into one corner of their front room like some kind of funeral pyre. And in t’ middle were this girl spinning round on ’er ’ead.”

  Becky looked across at him. Solid, early-forties, shaven head and a wide, generous smile. She doubted he’d ever lied in his life. He was one of those people who always had your back. A good man.

  “Sounds like mania. Pure madness some say - mania! People have blown all their savings, spent tens of thousands on credit cards, cart-wheeled down the street buck-naked and believed they were destined to rule the world! I bet she was high. Or was it drugs that did it? What happened to her?”

  He shook his head. “No, it weren’t that. Her eyes were like red sparks, Becky. And when we called an ambulance she ’ad this ’orrible deep man’s voice and started swearing like nothing I’ve ever ’eard and definitely not from a lass. Believe me us lot swear like navvies and I’m used to all sorts, but this were really, really bad. It spooked old Mason out. He had a heart attack that night. Died t’ following week. It were…well you were telling me about that hypnosis girl…it were like that.”

  A chill shivered up and down her neck. “Do you believe in the Devil?”

  “No,” he said. “No - there’s stuff we can’t explain, that’s all.”

  They drove on for a while until the reassuring lights of town twinkled ahead. She kept her voice steady. Light. “Fancy stopping off for fish ‘n’ chips? I’m so tired I won’t feel like cooking when I get in. Bet you haven’t eaten either, have you?”

  “No. Sounds perfect. I was hoping I’d catch you tonight, Becks. It’s been ages. Way too long.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It won’t be forever though, you know that!”

  As they sat in the car spearing vinegary chips with plastic white forks, Callum said, “You ever been to Woodsend Village?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  Callum nodded. “I remember that case - I were on holiday, though. Sounds likely. It’s a weird place though, Woodsend. We used to go fishing there in t’ summer when I were a kid. We’d wander up and down the river on t’ opposite side, trying to find the best spot. There’s a caravan site beyond the woods, did you know? Fairyhill? But Woodsend itself - there’s nowt there but a row of council houses on t’ edge of t’ common with the woods behind, and a couple of cottages. It’s really overgrown, very dark, heavily forested. Once you paddle over the rocks to that side, I don’t know, everything changes - bad atmosphere.”

  “What happened to the girl who was spinning on her head that night you and George were called out? I mean - where did she end up?”

  “ I don’t know. She were taken away screaming obscenities. Hopefully they cured her schizophrenia or whatever you say it were.”

  “Mania…just a guess.”

  “Okay, well whatever it were it were fucking weird. The irises were red, Becky. I’ll never forget it. And the voice, like it were out of the gutter - saying something about ‘the kingdom’”.

  Becky nearly choked. “What?”

  “I had these bad dreams for months after. And poor old George. She’d gone for ’im you see - spat in ’is face. He were carrying a bit of extra weight, smoked a lot, and she went at him like an alley cat, seemed to know a lot of secrets he wouldn’t ’ave wanted known. I were shocked - it can’t be true the stuff she were saying - it were terrible. Anyhow, it killed him, poor old bugger.”

  ***

  Chapter 8

  Jack woke with a heavy thud of his heart. The small hours. Totally black. Silence except for his wife’s steady, rhythmic breathing.

  Without needing to look at the neon green reflection on the wall, he knew what the time would be. A surge of anger gripped his stomach. 3 a.m. Fuck! This was the tenth night in a row.

  The air was freezing, a tomb-like waft against his face. Sometimes
it would be oven-hot; suffocating and intense, the sweat rising and beading all over his body as mercilessly the temperature climbed steadily higher. This time his features were set to ice, limbs paralysed, spine a frozen shard. His teeth chattered and his skin crawled with goose bumps. Showtime had started, and his whole being ached with fatigue. And fear. Of what was to come - had already come - a monk floating a foot off the ground, its hooded face featureless and blank, the air rank with the smell of decay…Or the stinking creature, which sounded like slime, levering itself onto the bed, pinning him with a ton of weight, so the breath couldn’t rise in his chest, and his head pounded like it would explode, eyeballs bulging until they almost popped…Until he couldn’t stand it another second. Until he agreed with some internal voice…agreed to what? To what did he have to agree?

  He waited. Straining into the coalface night. Eyes sore with wretched vigilance.

  Bang on cue, a bedside chair began to scrape along the floorboards, inching its way teasingly at first, gradually picking up speed once it had his full attention….before whizzing smartly towards the door and slamming hard against it.

  Three taps on the window pane followed. Slow. Distinct. Always three - just to let him know the party had started.

  3 a.m.

  When he was a child, Jack’s biggest fear had been the wardrobe in his bedroom. A cumbersome walnut closet with a vertical mirror on the front, the corner would catch a sliver of moonlight from the gap in the side of the curtains. He’d lie there watching that door - waiting for the skeletal rattle of coat hangers, the rustle of clothing to lift and form into a crawling shape - for it to creak open and reveal whatever monster lurked inside, its red eyes observing him from the black interior. One night he’d been about to drop off to sleep, having temporarily forgotten its undeniable presence, when there had been a groan of wood on hinge, and the door really had swung wide open. He’d screamed. His father had leapt up the stairs two at a time or more. ‘What is it, Son? What the hell’s the matter?’

  With the light on, the wardrobe door was firmly closed for all to see. Jack’s dad turned the key in its lock, and shook his head. “You’ve been watching too many films, Son. It was just a bad dream. All kids have them. Now back to sleep - you’ve school in the morning.”