Father of Lies

by Sarah England

  But the door had opened…

  He knew that now.

  Beside him, Hannah sighed in her sleep and rolled over.

  And Jack kept his eyes on the wardrobes. A row of white painted ones these days. As one, two, three, all four of them, began to creak open….

  ***

  At 6.15 a.m. he finally fell into an exhausted kaleidoscope of dreams. The night had been a journey to hell.

  Someone was shaking him. “Jack, Jack. Come on, wake up would you? It’s Daisy - she’s been sleeping on the kitchen floor all night. I can’t move her. She’s rigid with cold and heavy as lead.”

  His eyes blinked open.

  “You look like shit,” said Hannah.

  He ruffled his hair and rubbed his face. “Feel it,” and threw back the covers. Looked at the clock as he shoved his feet in to slippers. “What’s she doing downstairs?”

  “Well I don’t know, do I?”

  Daisy, a small, fair-haired child, was lying at an awkward angle on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, her tiny fists balled up and her head jutting back. Dressed only in pale pink pyjamas her body was a block of ice, and as Jack lifted her up he stumbled and his back gave a little with the unexpected weight.

  Once they’d wrapped her up under the duvet and started to rub her small body all over to get the circulation going, Daisy’s eyelashes began to flicker. She smiled. “The boy came to play again.”

  “What boy?” Hannah snapped “You should have been sleeping. You’ve got school today. We found you on the kitchen floor, for goodness sake!”

  Daisy pushed out her bottom lip and sucked her thumb. “He said you’d be mean to me so that’s why we were quiet.”

  “What boy, Daisy?”

  Daisy continued to suck her thumb. “I’m tired.”

  “Yes well you would be,” said Hannah. “Daisy - what boy are you referring to? Is this the imaginary friend we talked about?”

  Jack shot Hannah a pointed look. Why hadn’t she mentioned this?

  “Who, Daisy?” Hannah insisted.

  “The one who always comes,” said their daughter. “He’s funny! Sometimes he sits on the chair and waits for me to wake up, and sometimes he plays with my dolls to make me laugh.”

  “You’re dreaming, Sweetie. There is no boy - he’s not real, you do know that, don’t you? It’s just a dream and you’ve been sleep walking again.”

  Jack backed away. This was no dream. This was no bad fucking dream. This was fucking real and they’d got to his children. They - yes they!

  Hannah was still questioning Daisy. “All children have imaginary friends, Daisy, and we all have dreams that seem real - but you don’t go downstairs in the middle of the night in the dark and the cold, do you hear? Can you wake me up if you have another dream like that? I don’t mind… ”

  Daisy smiled enigmatically, looking at something far, far away over her mother’s shoulder.

  “Daddy knows what I mean, don’t you Daddy?”

  Hannah swung round. Then back again. “What do you mean?”

  Daisy pointed to the row of dolls on her bookcase. “Milly-Molly does a dance and she talks like grandma. It’s really funny.”

  Hannah looked over at Jack again. “Well you’re the psychiatrist!”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I honestly, truly do not know.”

  He took a hot shower. Scalding so it burned his skin - anything to make him feel alive and human; brushing his teeth ’til the gums bled; saturating himself in Aramis - whatever it took to force the daylight into his soul. To feel real and normal and in control of his own breath, thoughts, sensations.

  The smell of coffee and toast wafted upstairs, and hunger growled in the pit of his stomach, the white-tiled walls closing in on him as his bloodshot reflection stared back through the bathroom mirror. This thing, whatever was happening to him, was grinding him down, annihilating his very humanity, and now it had started on his family - who he had to keep safe. It was his job to keep them safe. His little daughter was being contaminated, it was in her eyes - the laughing, the darkness. If only he knew what to do.

  Let me in then, Jack… Let me in…and we’ll spare her…

  Let who in? And would it matter if he just said ‘yes’? Would the nightmare be over if he did, finally, acquiesce?

  He stumbled downstairs and grabbed his jacket.

  Hannah appeared at the kitchen doorway. “You’re going back to work then?”

  “Yes. I’m okay. Tired but there’s no reason I can’t pop in and besides - the work stacks up.”

  She shook her head. “I still think you should see someone. You’re not yourself and you look shocking.”

  “Yeah right - I should see a shrink, honey!”

  Despite her concerns, she smiled. The children were screaming and something was burning on the grill. “Gotta go. Come home if you feel unwell, okay?”

  ***

  Late, very late, after dashing about achieving very little he could remember, Jack walked into the team meeting Becky had organised at Drummersgate, to discuss the latest developments regarding Ruby.

  The others looked up as he sat down, shock and discomfiture all too evident on their faces as they registered his dishevelled appearance.

  “Sorry, busy morning,” he offered by way of explanation.

  Claire, Becky, Amanda and Martha - continued to stare at him. Jack’s hair, which had been steely grey just days before, was now shock-white; his cheeks caved inwards, and there were saddle-bags of bruises beneath his pin-prick eyes.

  “What?” he said, his Irish accent surfacing broadly. “Do you think I’ve not been busy this morning, is that it?”

  His foggy mind groped around for a reason to explain his pre-occupied agenda, but could not recall what he’d done that day. There had been a talk he’d gone to at the university, only to be told, when he arrived, that he had apparently phoned to cancel the previous day. Had he? Why would he do that? There’d been a bit of a verbal exchange as he’d tried to explain that he could not have done, but in the end he’d had to concede defeat. And then there had been that bizarre phone call from the other consultant at Drummersgate - a chap he’d known and liked for over a decade - Isaac Hardy. Hardy had been livid - said how dare he call up his wife in the middle of the night with such obscenities.

  “I know you’ve always had a thing for her, Jack, but this is outrageous!”

  He’d apologised and begged Isaac to believe he hadn’t done it, but the evidence was there on his cell phone. He had made the call. Bemused and horrified, Jack managed to calm Isaac down, said it must have been a hoax or he’d somehow done it in his sleep…but no way was it intentional. Frankly, he couldn’t insult the man and say actually, no he didn’t have a thing for his dumpy plain wife, but he’d come close - if only to score the point and win his case.

  And then came a barrage of faxes and phone calls accusing him of sex abuse, slander, professional misconduct… all from names of people he had never heard of in his life before. Finally, the last one - an irate caller full of indignation - had seemed like a furious human, and yet not one word of the diatribe been intelligible. Rather it had consisted entirely of garbled anger as if from another planet in a language hitherto undiscovered.

  He shook his head as if to rid himself of the chaos, before retrieving his notebook in readiness for the meeting. So this was what it felt like to fall apart and lose your mind. To break down. Jesus. He could barely even function, let alone instruct the team on how to manage poor mad Ruby. That was the problem with being at the top - so alone - not a single person he could tell.

  And if that wasn’t bad enough, none of this inner turmoil must show or the others would know and he could lose everything. All that he was. All that he had, and had worked so hard for. They’d recognise the madness, of course they would. They’d see it coming at them like an express train.

  He must pretend. Put on a show.

  A strong, distinctly male voice cut into his thoughts, speaking c
learly into his right ear drum. That’s right, Jack! Put on a show!

  The effect was like being caught in a safety net. He physically jolted upright with surprise. There was someone else here in the black, hollow bowl of his head. Someone to help him. The only one who could help him.

  Thank you…thank you…thank you…

  Well that’s my pleasure…I’m the only one you can trust now, Jack! You know that! So happy you decided to see sense, my friend!

  He crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair. Smiled to himself. That was all he had to do - let in his friend and it would be okay. Why had he resisted when the solution was so simple? Crazy. It had made him ill.

  “It’s really great to have you back at work, Jack!” said Becky, from far, far away.

  The others were nodding. He’d been off for a week and they were clearly itching to tell him what had been happening.

  “You’ll be pleased I hope,” said Becky.

  Jack turned to look at this heavy-set woman with streaked peroxide hair, and frowned.

  “We’ve noticed a marked change in Ruby,” Becky continued. “She’s communicating really well now, and she’s done some quite significant artwork for Amanda. Mostly dragonflies and butterflies, and horses too. She’s really good!”

  Jack nodded. Trying to recall exactly who Ruby was. What she looked like. “Makes a change from eyes and knives, eh? But the most important change,” Becky said “is that since the hypnosis she’s been able to bring out the other parts of her personality. Definitely fragmented - I’ve witnessed several alters, as has Amanda, who’s seen and spoken with a child of about ten, called Tara. Tara speaks but the younger baby ones don’t - they just crumple and cry, but also gag as if she’s been assaulted. Jack - we think we’re looking at child sex abuse, and an increasingly likely diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder - very similar to the one Kristy Silver’s working with. It’s exciting. We really need you back. There may be more alters…Jack…?”

  Jack was sniggering uncontrollably. Nastily.

  The others stared as he threw his head back and guffawed loudly. “She was fucking possessed, you idiots, and I should fucking know! D.I.D. my arse!”

  Becky visibly recoiled.

  Claire was ashen.

  “Jack. It does look highly probable,” Claire began. “The male, dominant alter was totally repressing the other alters with violence, but now…”

  Jack smirked, wiping his glasses and then his face again, with a greasy handkerchief. “…but now what, Dr Airy? Now the demon is out, eh? Why don’t you get some tea, Auntie Martha? And make it fucking hot, and sweet, will you?”

  Martha flashed her sharp blue eyes at him. “I don’t know what’s got into you, Jack…”

  At this he seemed to double over with mirth. She wouldn’t be able to guess in her wildest nightmares what had gotten into him! What sat inside him in a smouldering cesspit of inhuman bile. That now it was in him there would be no end to the evil about to be unleashed on the most gullible people on earth and their atheist carers, with no protection from a God they didn’t believe in. It was, in short, going to be a walk in the park. Piece. Of. Cake.

  Martha turned to the rest of the team. “Well as we’re here to talk about Ruby I’ll recap what I’ve managed to find out, shall I?”

  The smell in the room was overpowering - reminiscent of rotting fish guts. Amanda got up to open a window while the others tried hard to focus on Martha. Tried so very hard not to allow their eyes to glance Jack’s way, to see the sweat soaking his armpits, or the snickering expression on his cadaverous, bloodless face.

  “We know she remembers living in a mill in Bridesmoor - and it does exist. I had a drive over and I‘ve seen it, although it’s just a ruin now. The thing is, back in the nineties I was off work for a few years and a colleague who is no longer with us, covered my sick leave. I should be able to locate her notes, but in the meantime what I did find out was that around that time there was a bit of a scandal in the adjoining village - Woodsend. According to the papers, a woman and her husband were hounded out for being witches. She was accused of leading some kind of black witch cult. Anyway, here’s the thing - and it’s just an idea - but I was wondering if Ruby could have been a child victim? There’s a lot of talk about what goes on in the woods behind Woodsend - teenagers mucking about with Ouija boards in the convent ruins and so on. And I’m just wondering - because Ruby would have been about seven years old - if it all ties up in some way?”

  “Except we don’t know if Ruby comes from there, only that she was residing in the mill in the next village as a twenty year old!” said Becky. “In fact - no one in the village recognised her when she was arrested. That’s the thing. She didn’t go to school in the area and she wasn’t registered with the GP. Ever.”

  “But if she was there at the same time as this woman, reputedly a black witch performing black arts - what was her name, now - she may have been caught up in it? I’m even wondering if she was from one of the gypsy families who used to camp on the common from time to time? It could have had a seriously detrimental effect on her if she’d been involved,” Martha persisted. “You wouldn’t believe the number of kids we have to take out of environments like that. Okay, so Ruby may not have lived there as a bona fide resident, but we’ve a case up in Leeds of a child who did! Same village. Similar symptoms. Similar age. There’s something in it.”

  Jack’s giggling caused her to glare at him again. “Oooh,” said Jack, “witchcraft and demons, Martha! Whatever next? Surely you don’t believe in all that pagan shite!”

  Martha, whose cheeks had flushed crimson, said, “Jack, I don’t think you’re at all well yet. You’re not yourself. Perhaps Claire should see Ruby today instead…”

  Jack jumped back in his chair like he’d taken a punch. “That will not be necessary. I can handle Ruby. In fact,” he looked at his watch. “I’ll go and talk to her right now - or whoever she thinks she is this time, eh? Won’t be the first time we’ve had a multiple personality in here, eh? Love a good multiple…”

  He rushed from the room, leaving a sour stench of garlic and stale urine, instead of his usual soap and aftershave.

  Amanda collected her bag and belongings. “I need some air. I feel sick. Is he having some kind of breakdown, do you think? And who do we contact in a case like this?”

  Becky, Martha and Amanda all looked at Claire.

  “Isaac, I suppose,” she said. “But I’d like to speak to Kristy Silver too. Is that okay with everyone?”

  Martha nodded. “See if you can find out more from her about the other child too, will you? Let’s see if we can piece this thing together.”

  “Yes, and can you do it quickly?” said Becky, her hand on the door. “Find out how Kristy’s feeling after talking with his alter - was it as nasty and did she have any after-effects? Something’s seriously wrong with Jack and I’ve got to stop him going to see Ruby. I can’t let him anywhere near her while he’s like this. She’ll freak!”

  As she hurriedly left the room, someone, who she could never say - except that it was a large person wearing a black hood - bumped into her. The charged collision catapulted her forwards, throwing her weight against the crash trolley parked against the corridor wall.

  Her head smashed hard onto the iron defibrillator, blacking her out instantly.

  ***

  Chapter Nine

  Rookery Mill, Bridesmoor Village. Summer 2008

  I don’t like it inside the mill. There’s something weird about it here. Spooky. Still, it’s a roof over my head, I suppose. Like Jes says - beggars can’t be choosers and we’re definitely beggars.

  I’m lying in bed, if you can call it a bed - a few blankets piled on top of an old mattress we uploaded from the tip. My breath condenses on the air, and in the background there’s the sound of running water - fresh and fast and cold, the brook racing down to the river. We’re in a dell - overgrown with trees and grass and wild flowers - so crisp and natural it makes you feel
clean all over, just to wander through the fields and feel the breath of spring water on your skin.

  I’d stay outside all night if I could, just watching the violet and crystal light on the water. Tons of it - rushing over the rocks, gurgling with fairy chatter as it hurtles down from the moors. Those wild, sprawling moors that tower over us, howling and moaning in winter like a thousand trapped souls; I can hear them.

  As kids we used to play Tag up on the rocks, hiding in and out of the wind-worn caves, me and…me and…who? I’ve lived here all my life and yet I can’t remember being me. If I try then I hit a wall. Like when you try to think what’s beyond the universe - okay so it’s infinite - but what’s outside of that? Where does it end? You hit a wall - no answers, right? Just a massive mind-fuck. So imagine that’s your history - your life - and you can’t see it? That’s me. Sometimes, there’s a fragment so fleeting, like a butterfly’s wing…I try to catch the memory in a net but then it’s gone, fluttering on the periphery of my mind. Just out of reach.

  I’m living with this guy, Jes, at the moment. A Romany gypsy. ‘Don’t ask questions’ would kind of sum him up - stashing bags of cash from the jobs he does. He calls me a whore and a tart and a piece of scum and he’s probably right. I was up to my thighs in the ice-cold river when he dragged me out - a bag of smack in my sodden jeans, my tooth-pick limbs covered in sores and needle lines. Said he’d dry me out and ‘fucking well make you remember who y’are you fucking druggie.’

  So how long have I been here? There are birds pecking on the roof. Branches heavy with leaves, swaying against the windows. He’s out on some kind of job. I’m thinking it must be lunch time.

  “Ruby! Ruby! Shhh….Ruuuuuuby….”

  No, no, no, I’m not listening. To the whispering from empty rooms shrouded in gloom. It’s just the busy brook, the rustling of the trees, the fog of drug inducement lifting off my brain like mist from a murky swamp. He said I’d go half crazy when I came off the drugs. Why did I take them? I don’t know. I have no idea how I even got here.