When Evil Calls Your Name: a dark psychological thriller (Dr David Galbraith Book 2)

by John Nicholl

  I’m not sorry to say that he hadn’t touched me sexually since Elizabeth’s unremembered conception. It’s not something I wanted, certainly not something I yearned for as I had with Steven, but ten days after my return home, when I was still bruised and sore with undissolved stitches, he suddenly demanded sex. There was no suggestion of affection, certainly not love, and my confusion must have shown on my face, because he reacted angrily, poking me hard in the chest before plying me with a single glass of red wine that left me strangely intoxicated. ‘Perhaps you need to start taking the tablets again.’ And then he pushed me hard towards the bed. ‘Now, just undress, lie there and keep your stupid mouth shut.’

  ‘But, I don’t w…’

  He lay on me heavily and tightened his grip on my neck. ‘Just shut up, bitch, not another word.’

  His movements were mechanical, aggressive, distanced, his focus elsewhere, and I lay there wanting it to be over, willing it to be over, with my head swimming and tears welling in my eyes.

  When he’d finished, he climbed off me and left the room without another word. He just pulled up his trousers and walked out, slamming the door shut behind him.

  The same performance was repeated more times than I care to remember in the following weeks, until about three months after Elizabeth’s birth I was pregnant again.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s a boy this time. Let’s hope you can get that right.’

  He showed no sexual interest in me from that moment and never did again.

  37

  I was seriously tempted to forget my commitment to Emma in the interests of an easy life, but in the end my overactive inner voice got the better of me. It makes a habit of doing that. If only I could shut it up for ever.

  I’ve spoken to several of the other girls over the past couple of days, attempting to coax them to leave Emma alone to live with her conscience. I chose them carefully, targeting those I thought more intelligent, thoughtful or sensitive; those I thought potentially more amenable to persuasion. But it didn’t go well. It didn’t go well at all. I’m not sure how hard I tried, if I’m honest. I don’t know if I was truly committed to my argument, or simply going through the motions to satisfy my conscience. Maybe that’s why I failed so dismally.

  On each and every occasion, my ineffectual arguments were rejected almost as soon as I opened my stupid mouth. Rejected with vehement anger and raised voices, ‘Surely you’re not siding with that cow, Cynthia?’

  ‘What the fuck are you worrying about her for, you stupid bitch?’

  ‘Choose your friends carefully, Cynth. You don’t want people thinking you and her are close. That wouldn’t be a good idea.’

  ‘Back off, or you may be next for a kicking.’

  ‘Just do one. The woman’s a fucking monster!’

  I think it’s safe to say I got the message pretty quickly. I’ve got enough to deal with without alienating women I consider allies or even friends. Now I’ve got to patch up various relationships. Perhaps I should have given up long before I did. I’ll have another word with Mrs Martin when I see her next, plant the responsibility at her door and leave it at that. It’s what she’s paid for, after all. If Emma gets another beating, as the local parlance goes, I can at least tell myself I did my best on her behalf. I’ll have to be satisfied with that.

  ‘Did you talk to everyone?’

  I blew the air from my mouth, buying time and searching for an adequate reply. Just tell her, Cynthia. Just tell her. Best to get it over with. ‘I tried, Emma, I really tried.’

  She looked truly shocked, the blood draining from her pasty prison face, as if she was expecting a very different outcome. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I spoke to five or six of the girls, but it was hopeless, they didn’t want to know.’

  She stared at me with an open mouth. ‘Did you tell them I’d kill myself?’

  I swallowed the excessive saliva in my mouth and looked away. How could I answer that?

  She was angry now, her face reddening. ‘You didn’t tell them at all!’

  ‘I did, honestly I did.’

  She’s developed deception to an art. Why should she believe anything anyone else said? ‘You’re a fucking liar.’

  Why is it that when you do your best for some people, it comes back to haunt you? ‘Not everyone lies all the time. Don’t judge me by your own standards.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I think you know the answer to that one.’

  She spat in my face and walked away. Such a nice woman, such a delight. If only I could move out and share a cell with somebody else. I don’t care who, just not her.

  38

  Dr Galbraith was horrified when Sarah, a second baby girl, arrived approximately nine months later, but I loved her with a burning intensity from the second I saw her beautiful face. She was so perfect, so delicate, so vulnerable, and so utterly dependent on me to meet her needs. Just as it should be. Just as I liked it. ‘I’ll protect you from the cruel world, little one. I promise I’ll protect you.’ And I did. I did my best, I really did, but in reality I was ill-equipped to protect myself, let alone my children. I was a shadow of my former self. A servile creature so eager to please.

  I should have left. I should have walked away and taken my girls with me. I should have run and run and never looked back. Why didn’t I? What stopped me each and every time? It’s something I’ve thought about time and time again. It’s something I’ve picked at and dissected, but I can’t give you an adequate answer. All I can say in my defence is that my psychological shackles were every bit as effective as any high prison walls. I was as much a prisoner then as I am now.

  It was more of the same. Nothing really changed in the months following Sarah’s birth. That is until one dark, dank night in early February, when I was faced with the first of a series of events which were to bring Dr Galbraith’s true nature into sharp undeniable focus.

  I was abruptly awoken from fitful sleep and unwelcome dreams by the unmistakable sound of car tyres screeching on the tarmac directly outside my second-floor bedroom window. I considered pulling the warming duvet high

  above my head and hiding from the world, but inquisitiveness got the better of me, and I jumped from bed, before approaching the window slowly and peering out nervously from behind the velvet curtains. There was a large, strangely out of place rusty white van parked outside the house in the glow of the streetlamps. I blinked repeatedly, casting the weariness from my eyes and closed the curtains slightly, leaving only the slightest gap through which to gape. The doctor was there, standing at the front door with his keys in his hand. Nothing strange in that, nothing remarkable in itself, but he was accompanied by a second man, a middle-aged man I hadn’t seen before, a man carrying something over his left shoulder. Something that chilled my blood. I could feel my gut tighten and spasm as my knees buckled and I slumped to the floor gripping the curtains with both hands. It was a child. Surely it had to be a child! A boy of six or seven years with short cropped hair and wearing pyjamas despite the bitter early hours’ frost. I narrowed the gap in the curtains still further and stared incredulously. The boy was either asleep or unconscious. What on earth was going on? Please don’t look up, Doctor. Please don’t look up.

  Dr Galbraith glanced up and down the quiet tree-lined street before turning the key in the lock, pushing open the door and standing to one side to allow the unfamiliar man to carry the boy into the hall. He followed close behind and I heard the door close with a barely decipherable click, so different from his usual habit of forcefully slamming it shut with reckless abandon.

  My mind was racing, invaded by unwelcome questions, questions I didn’t want to ask, questions I didn’t want to answer. Who was the stranger? Why was he bringing a child into the house at that time? Why carry him in that manner? Why was the boy so quiet? Why so still? I shook my head vigorously, attempting to keep any unwanted conclusions at bay. Perhaps he’d been involved in an accident. Yes, that must be i
t. That made sense. That would explain it. But, why not take him straight to casualty? Surely they’d take him straight to casualty. Wouldn’t that be preferable? And where were the boy’s parents? And why the pyjamas? I really should go downstairs to help, shouldn’t I? No, if he was hurt he was in good hands. A psychiatrist was still a doctor. He’d undergone the necessary training. If the boy needed urgent medical treatment, who better to provide it? And Dr Galbraith certainly wouldn’t welcome my interference. That was a certainty. Best stay upstairs. That would be the wisest thing to do in the circumstances. Best stay upstairs and do nothing at all.

  I rose to my feet, crept slowly across my bedroom floor and out onto the landing, straining my ears to try and decipher the conversation emanating from the hall two floors below. Listen carefully, Cynthia. Listen carefully.

  ‘Come on, Gary. Let’s get the little bastard in the cellar. Get a move on, man. There’s work to do. We haven’t got all night.’

  Crude words, even for Galbraith. He was usually so convivial with his friends and workmates. And why the cellar? Maybe it was equipped with the necessary medical equipment. That would explain things, wouldn’t it? In a cellar? Really? Yes, why not? He saw patients there for counselling and therapy. Why not physical injury? It was just a matter of convenience. Or maybe my troubled mind was playing tricks on me again. Maybe I’d been dreaming. Perhaps I’d misheard the pressing barked instructions. Maybe it wasn’t a child at all. Maybe the strange man was carrying a rug. Maybe I should get back to bed as quickly as possible, close my eyes tight shut and mind my own business. Maybe I should focus on my girls. Yes, that made sense. That seemed best. The bed was warm and safe, and what could I do if I went downstairs, anyway? If there was a boy, he was safe. He’d receive whatever help he required. Of course he would. I had a long history of getting things wrong. Ignore your misgivings, Cynthia. Push them to the back of your mind and don’t let them escape.

  I heard the unmistakable sound of the Welsh dresser being pushed aside in the kitchen before hurrying back to bed with my hands clasped tightly over my ears. I pictured Elizabeth’s and Sarah’s smiling faces in my mind. Think nice thoughts, Cynthia. Think nice thoughts. Don’t become distracted. Make them big, make them bright, make them loud, and don’t let them fade. That’s it, that’s it!

  I returned to bed and lay perfectly still with reality crowding in on me and demanding to be heard like a thousand trumpets in every corner of the room. Was the boy something to do with my husband’s work? That provided a viable explanation, didn’t it? That seemed reasonable. Either he’d been involved in an accident or that explained it. He was the doctor. He was the expert. He’d said it repeatedly, time and time again. Are you a childcare expert, Cynthia? Are you at the top of your profession? No, I’m not, no I’m not. I never said I was. Think nice thoughts, Cynthia. Think nice thoughts.

  I didn’t see the boy leave the house the next day, and to be honest, I pushed him from my mind over the next couple of days as I got on with my chores, attempting to alleviate the doctor’s dissatisfaction and wild mood swings, and minimising any potential conflict in the interests of my lovely girls. It was as much as I could do. As much as I could cope with.

  But then one evening, later in the week, I was forced to think again as the boy with short cropped hair was brought back into sharp focus. I snuggled up on the settee in one of the two sitting rooms, with the girls cuddled up closely on either side of me, and paid only passing initial interest to the BBC Welsh evening news as an attractive young female newsreader with a black bob summarised the day’s key events at the start of the programme. The volume was turned down low for fear of disturbing Dr Galbraith who was working in his study at the other end of the hall, and I strained to hear as the presenter talked of a missing boy in the Caerystwyth area. I can safely say that she had my undivided attention almost immediately. I swallowed hard, held a single finger to my lips and turned to smile nervously at both my girls, keen to reassure them but also keen to listen. ‘Shhhh girls! Mummy wants to hear the television.’

  I watched intently as an unshaven, dishevelled-looking DI Gravel, wearing a threadbare tweed jacket that looked as tired as he did, introduced himself as the lead officer in the case. A distraught and obviously exhausted father named Mike Mailer shuffled uneasily in the seat next to the officer and spoke in an emotionally charged faltering voice, pleading for the return of Anthony Mailer, his missing seven-year-old son. ‘If you have my son, please don’t hurt him. Please let him go. Please contact the police at the earliest opportunity.’ He’d made his statement. He’d stuck to the script, and then it all became too much for him. I felt his pain as he rose from his chair and rushed away from the cameras with tears pouring down his morose face. Yes, I felt his pain, I empathised with his suffering, but I chose not to make the links. I refused to make the links. Think nice thoughts, Cynthia. Think nice thoughts and silence your troubled mind.

  The inspector continued, despite the impromptu interruption, explaining that the unfortunate boy had been abducted from his home in the early hours. He was taken from his bed by a person or persons unknown. And if that wasn’t bad enough, as if that wasn’t horrible enough to ponder, his mother had been viciously attacked and remained in intensive care at South Wales General. The police suspected her attacker or attackers had abducted the boy. What an awful possibility, what an awful reality. That poor woman, that poor child! I was fixated on the screen and couldn’t look away however much I wanted to. Don’t think it, Cynthia. Don’t dare think it. It wasn’t the same boy. Surely it wasn’t the same boy? He was a doctor, a therapist, a healer. He helped troubled children. He’d written articles. He’d spoken at conferences. He was dedicated to his work. Why would he abduct a child? He liked boys. He wanted boys of his own. Of course he wouldn’t abduct a child, would he?

  And then, a photo of the missing boy flashed on the screen. A colour photo of a slightly built young boy with short red hair and freckles, wearing his primary school uniform with obvious pride. He filled the screen and spoke to me. He yelled at me despite my reticence. He was smiling in the photograph, but there was an unmistakable sadness about him. It must have been his eyes. I think it was his eyes. Or was I in the realms of fantasy again, as the doctor so often claimed? I could have been. My judgement was less than reliable. It was hard to tell sometimes.

  I blinked and stared, and blinked and stared again. Don’t look away, Cynthia, be brave. Please don’t look away. Was it the same boy? It could be. It definitely could be. He was within the same age group. He could have had red hair. It was a distinct possibility. It was difficult to tell in the lamplight.

  I wanted to look away. I was desperate to look away. I rushed forwards and switched off the TV at the mains with frantic fingers. I flicked the switch, tore out the plug and threw it to the floor. Maybe the father wasn’t as nice as he seemed. Maybe the mother was an abusive parent. Yes, that would explain it. It must be something along those lines. It had to be. What other explanation was there? Even if the doctor had the boy, it must be for very good reasons. Think nice thoughts, Cynthia. Think nice thoughts.

  I knelt on the carpet immediately next to the television and held my arms out wide in front of me. ‘Come on, girls, down you come and give your mum a nice big hug.’

  39

  Oh my God, oh my God, what a truly awful morning. I’ve seen some terrible things in this life of mine and I’ll add this one to the list. If our brains had a delete button, I’d be pressing it repeatedly: delete, delete, delete. It brought back some ghastly memories, an abomination from my past, and for an awful moment I was back there in that terrible place. Some things are impossible to forget.

  After a typical night of wails, laments and whimpers, I woke to see Emma hanging from the window’s steel bars, with a single blood-stained bedsheet secured tightly around her scrawny neck. I leapt from my bunk, forgetting I was five feet above the ground, and fell heavily to the concrete floor, twisting an ankle in the process. Adrenaline, it se
ems, is a highly effective painkiller and I didn’t feel a thing.

  Emma’s face was red, veering on purple, her tongue hung grotesquely from the side of her mouth, and a thin line of drool spilt down her chin. I approached her quickly, hopping to accommodate my injured leg. At first I thought she was dead and feared I was at least in part responsible. I held a hand up to her neck and felt for a heartbeat whilst shouting for help at the top of my voice. I thought she was dead. I really thought she was dead. Was she really that desperate? Had I let her down that badly?

  I took repeated deep breaths and stumbled backwards, frantically grasping at the sheet in a hopeless attempt to loosen the tourniquet around her throat. And then the cell door opened and I urgently stood aside as two uniformed officers rushed forwards towards her.

  Just for an instant, the world stood still, as if in slow motion, and the scene became crystal clear in my mind. The tips of her feet were on the floor. They were definitely on the floor. She was supporting her own weight. The attention-seeking cow was supporting her weight.

  The larger of the two guards, an experienced woman in her mid-forties, gripped Emma around the waist with two strong arms and lifted her easily from the floor, as the second guard, who was younger and new to my wing, struggled to untie the sheet from the bars with tears welling in her eyes. And then I saw it, a flicker of a smile playing on Emma’s distorted hateful face as she was lowered gently to the floor. The cow, the manipulative cow! It seems there are no lengths to which she won’t go to gain attention, whatever the effect on those around her. She just tosses the grenade and revels in the devastation. How can anyone be that selfish? How can anyone be so self-obsessed? Does she bring anything positive to this world? I can’t think of anything just at the moment.