Pain Cages

by Kane, Paul

  “Here you go,” he told him. “Now I suggest you think about what DCI Robbins said and drop the act, mate.”

  The man ignored him. His shoes and socks had already been taken off him, and now Wilson thought about asking for the toy as well. Prisoners weren’t meant to have any personal effects in the cells. But something stopped him from doing so, and he left the man be.

  “If you come to your senses, shout,” said Wilson.

  Then he shut the ‘dead man’ away, all alone in the small, dark, confined space. And as Wilson locked up and walked down the corridor he had the strangest feeling.

  The feeling that this wasn’t the first time the guy been shut away. That the last time it had been an even smaller, and even darker space.

  Four

  It was dark.

  A blackness so overpowering, so unbearable it was like being drowned in pure liquid night. It was hard to gather his thoughts, but he felt sure he was walking, placing one foot in front of the other, just trudging on towards something. And he was granted a sense of where he might be––the walls of this place closing in on him, but they were round rather than flat, a roundness that stretched out into the distance. A tiny speck of light appeared at the far end of this tunnel. He felt compelled to look in its direction, an urgency to head towards it for some reason.

  The light was growing stronger; it changed from a tiny speck to a bright glaring ball, meaning he was getting nearer to the end, although he didn’t feel like he was walking at all anymore. Yet the light was still growing nearer. Perhaps he was floating; he had no idea, but it was a strange sensation. The light was getting bigger and bigger. Soon it would all be over, soon he would find out what was at the end of this conduit, what the light meant.

  He put up his hands to stop it from blinding him, but it shone right through––such was its intensity. Then, suddenly, the light was upon him. He was a part of the light and it was a part of him.

  All the answers, the things out of reach would soon be revealed.

  Just a few more seconds, just a few more––

  * * *

  The hand shook him awake and gave him a start.

  “Dead to the world.” Inspector Robbins’ face hovered above him in the cell. The man sat bolt upright on the bunk. “Time to wake yourself Rip van Winkle,” he said in a snide voice.

  The man swung his bare feet onto the cold tiled floor.

  “We have a visitor for you.”

  “Mum?”

  Robbins shook his head, grinning. “Afraid not. No, I thought about what you said––about checking you over. You’re right; we have to make sure you’re not whacked out on something that might be making you delusional. Wilson?”

  The PC stepped into his field of vision, bringing someone with him––a woman in her late thirties, early forties. Her hair was a light shade of bronze, with the merest hints of grey beginning at the temples. She wore a beige trouser suit with an off-white blouse beneath the jacket. And she was carrying with her a black leather case.

  “This is Doctor Preston,” Robbins informed him. “She’s going to examine you. Now, PC Wilson is going to be just outside, so don’t give her a hard time, okay?”

  Dr. Preston came further into the chamber, looking around her as she did so. Then their eyes met, only severing contact when Robbins said something to her.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I said: twenty minutes all right?”

  “Fine,” she told him.

  Robbins gave a satisfied nod. “All right then, we’ll leave you to it.”

  The DCI exited the cell, with Wilson hanging back a few moments longer before leaving the door open a crack and waiting outside.

  “So,” said Dr Preston to break the silence that had descended, “what’s your story?”

  The man stared at her blankly.

  “Not one for idle chit chat, I understand. Okay, well if you wouldn’t mind getting undressed, we’ll make a start.”

  He did as he was told, unbuttoning the shirt and shrugging it down over his shoulders. Then he took off his trousers; there was no underwear beneath. Preston opened her bag and took out the tools of her trade, listening to his heartbeat––steady and strong––looking in his ears, taking his temperature, testing his reflexes. It was there that she caught a glimpse of the birthmark on the top of his leg. It was dark red and shaped like a map of some unknown land. But she got on with her job, not giving it another thought. Everything seemed in working order. “Now this won’t hurt much,” she told him, taking out a needle, “I just need to draw some blood.”

  He nodded vaguely, looking down as she shoved the needle into his upper arm, pulling back on one end and filling it with redness.

  “There, all done. You’re in pretty good nick, if you’ll pardon the expression,” she said.

  “I’m alive,” he said as he got dressed again, and the sound of his voice startled her. She wasn’t quite sure whether it was a question or a statement.

  “Er… yes, in my professional opinion. Why, don’t you feel very well?”

  He laughed softly and caught her eyes again. “They haven’t told you yet, have they?”

  Preston’s eyebrows creased. “About?”

  “It doesn’t matter, you’ll find out soon enough.”

  “I don’t like mysteries Mister––?” She waited for him to give her his name. When he didn’t she said, “My first name’s Bethany, by the way. Beth for short.”

  “Matthew,” he told her. “My name’s Matthew.”

  “There now, see––that wasn’t so difficult. Right, well, I think we’re all done here Matth––”

  He shot out his hand so fast she didn’t have time to move away, and his fingers were around her wrist seconds later––not tight, just enough to draw her face in closer. “What’re you…” She was just about to call for Wilson when he said:

  “Don’t blame yourself. You did everything you could.” His hazel eyes were intense, piercing, and she felt a shudder go through her entire body. “She doesn’t blame you.”

  “What?”

  “You have to let it go, all of it. All the guilt.”

  She wrestled her hand free, moving back sharply as if stung. Beth grabbed her bag and raced for the door.

  “Sarah’s happy,” said the man plainly.

  She closed her eyes and opened them again, looking back at him. “What… what did you just say?”

  “You heard me.”

  The doctor was gazing at him in disbelief. “You… you can’t…”

  He turned away from her. “I’ll see you again.”

  Beth yanked open the door and virtually walked into the PC who was standing guard there. She motioned for him to lock the cell again.

  “Are you all right, Dr Preston?” he asked her.

  But she didn’t hear him. She was looking through the slit in the door, watching the man in there as he held up a toy car and stared at it.

  “Dr Preston?” His fingertips brushed her arm and she jumped back. “I’m sorry.”

  “Take me to Robbins,” she said. “Take me to your DCI right now.”

  * * *

  For the third time that day there was a knock on the door.

  This time it was PC Valentine who answered it, welcoming in the visitor Mrs. Daley had called at his suggestion.

  “Is there anybody who could sit with you? Anybody you could ring?” said the black policeman once he’d finished taking her statement––a statement that made about as much sense as the rest of that morning’s events.

  Mrs. Daley had nodded, and he’d handed her the cordless phone.

  Now he was here, standing at her door. And just as the dark uniform that Valentine wore betrayed his profession, so too did the dark shirt and suit that this man had on. But the most significant piece of attire was the dog collar at his neck.

  “Father Lilley?” asked Valentine of the priest who was only marginally younger than Mrs. Daley herself.

  He bowed his head in greeting. “Wh
ere’s Irene… Mrs. Daley?”

  “Through here.” Valentine took him to the dining room; he hadn’t been able to get her back into the living room at all. She was sitting at a small round table with her hands clasped together, bible to the right of them.

  “Thank you, my son,” said Lilley to the PC, noticing the woman flinch at those last two words. Then she got up and fell into the priest’s arms.

  “Oh father, I’m so pleased to see you.”

  “There, there,” said Lilley, patting her back. “Whatever’s the matter, Irene? I couldn’t make head nor tail of your call.” He looked to Valentine for an answer, but he was asking the wrong person.

  “Some… something terrible. Matthew…”

  The priest’s expression changed and he cut short the embrace. “Matthew? I don’t understand. I thought you’d had an intruder?”

  “She did,” Valentine reported, “of a kind.”

  “He… he looked just like Matthew, Father,” Irene added.

  It seemed like Lilley didn’t know what to say, then he talked slowly as if to a child. “Irene, haven’t we talked about this before? Matthew’s gone. He is with Our Savior the Lord where he has found his peace. ‘His kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, and his dominion is from generation to generation.’ The Book of Daniel, Chapter Four, Verse Three. Matthew wouldn’t want you upsetting yourself like this, now, would he?”

  “He said he was Matthew.”

  “The man in your house?”

  She nodded.

  “Said Arnold would have listened, would have believed him.”

  “Irene, Matthew’s no longer with us. I buried him myself.”

  He saw that she remembered all too well that day: the angry clouds had gathered as if in sympathy, looking down at the patch of grass behind the church. A group of mourners, dressed in black, standing around the hole in the ground as the perfectly polished coffin with the brass handles was lowered into it.

  Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

  Irene had broken down on that day too. At one point he thought she might even stagger forward and follow the coffin into the ground. But instead she had held back, tears pouring from her eyes for a son who had been taken prematurely.

  “Officer, who was this man?” Lilley asked Valentine.

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, Father. But he’s insistent that he’s Matthew Daley.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “I know,” said the PC, a little offended that he had to explain that to the priest.

  “I’d like to see him,” said Lilley.

  “Perhaps, in time,” Valentine told him. “But for now…” He nodded towards Irene. “I think Mrs. Daley needs you here.”

  The priest’s eyes flashed momentarily, as if he didn’t like being told his job. Then the kindness returned to them and he said, “Of course.” He led his charge back to her seat, pulling out the chair nearest to her for himself. “Don’t worry, Irene. I’m sure this will all be sorted out soon. Everything that happens is according to God’s design and purpose, even if we can’t see it at the time. ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.’ Proverbs Chapter Three, Verses Five to Six.” He held her hand in his and patted it. “Trust in the Lord, Irene, and He will show you the way.”

  * * *

  “I don’t like being hung out to dry, Steve.”

  Dr. Bethany Preston paced up and down in DCI Robbins’ office, arms folded. He was sitting back behind his desk, watching her, like a member of the audience at Wimbledon.

  “I wasn’t hanging anyone anywhere,” he said, after telling her repeatedly to calm down. He’d never seen her so agitated.

  “You deliberately withheld information from me about that prisoner, didn’t you?” As she said this last bit she jabbed her finger in his direction.

  “I didn’t want you walking into there with any preconceptions. Besides, you never asked.”

  Becky threw her hands up in the air. “And what exactly was I supposed to ask… oh and excuse me, but by any chance was this guy picked up for impersonating a dead man?”

  “I told you everything you needed to know at the time.”

  “Bullshit. You told me he was a weird one, that he might be on something, and to try and get him talking if I could.”

  “You’ve done it before. You have a good… bedside manner.”

  “People tell me things, Steve. They trust me. I don’t abuse that trust. Unlike some.” Now she was standing with her hands on her hips.

  “Let’s not make this personal again, Beth.”

  “If I recall rightly, it was you who made things… ‘personal’ the last time.”

  He winced at that remark. “No need to dig up the past. What exactly did he say to you in there? What’s really got you like this?” Robbins rose from his chair and leant against his desk.

  She avoided his eyes. “Nothing.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Beth raised her head, but her eyes were far from warm. “Your prerogative. But you’re right about one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He is a weird one. In fact, in all my years as a Doctor, and the last few years working for you lot, I don’t think I’ve ever come across anyone quite like him.”

  Robbins folded his arms now. “No, me either. But he isn’t Matthew Daley.”

  “You sound very sure of that.”

  “Oh come on, Beth. You’ve seen the photos and the report now, what that fucker did to him. It’s just not possible. He was dead by the time they loaded him into the ambulance. The paramedics called it on the way to Accident and Emergency. They buried him for Christ’s sake.”

  Beth rubbed her forehead. “I should be going,” she said.

  “Wait.”

  “Look, you want me to test the blood, Steve, I’ll test it.” She picked up her bag and left, shutting the door behind her.

  Leaving Robbins to stare at the space she’d occupied only moments before.

  Five

  He saw things as he waited in his cell. More quick flashes he wished he could slow down, more images––this time accompanied by smells and sounds too. A burning, acrid aroma, a scream that turned rapidly into a yelp. The stink of faeces, a thudding. And there was music, a rock band belting out their latest hit for all they were worth. All of this mish-mashed into a nonsense as he sat there.

  He’d been given his meals by Wilson, but the man couldn’t bear to be in his presence for more than a few minutes. Not that it really mattered, not that any of this really mattered. The important work was still yet to be done; he felt that, knew it somehow. He knew what some of it should be, too, while other parts were still hidden. Just like his ragged and torn memory, some bits perfect, others barely more than fuzzy blurs.

  As day passed to night and dawn broke again, he explored the confines of his cell more fully, discovering a spider’s web in the bottom corner. There was no sign of the spider itself, but there was the carcass of one of its victims caught there on the fine gossamer strands. He felt exactly like that fly, stranded here. Trapped with no means of escape.

  When Wilson next came in to bring him breakfast, he asked if there was any word yet from Dr. Preston. He also asked when he would be released and whether they were intent on charging him with anything.

  Wilson could answer neither.

  So he had to be patient. Wait until it all started to fall into place.

  * * *

  “It still doesn’t prove anything,” Robbins said as he gripped the phone tighter, bringing his other hand up and almost wringing the plastic.

  “No it doesn’t. But the man in your cells and Matthew Daley definitely had the same blood type,” Beth told him down the line.

  “Along with how many other millions?”

  “Granted. But here’s the thing: I noticed yesterday that the man you’re holding has a birthmark on the top of his left leg.�
�

  “So? The autopsy reports don’t mention anything about a birthmark,” Robbins snapped.

  “That’s because the thigh was a bloody mess, Steve. But according to Matthew Daley’s local practice, he did have a birthmark on the upper part of his leg.”

  “All right, so they’ve both got birthmarks.”

  “Same blood type, same birthmarks, same height, hair color, eye color…” Beth continued.

  “All right, all right,” Robbins said. “But they can’t be the same person. What’re we talking here, twins?”

  “I think Mr. and Mrs. Daley would have noticed if there was a baby missing at the birth,” said Beth.

  “A fluke, a look-alike?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Steve. None of this makes any sense to me. Not really.”

  Again he wondered just what had spooked her in the cell yesterday.

  “But there were certain… anomalies in the blood itself,” she said after a pause.

  “How do you mean? Drugs?”

  “No, he was clean, like I said. It’s just that his white blood cell count is incredibly high… and his humor immunity is quite outstanding.”

  He swapped the phone to his other ear. “In English, Beth.”

  “There are an inordinate amount of antibodies in his system. Triggered by what, I don’t know. Some exogenous antigen I can’t identify.”

  “I do believe I said English.”

  “Simply put, it means he’s extremely resistant to infection.”

  “Okay,” Robbins said slowly.

  “And there’s something else.”

  Robbins sighed. “Do I have to ask, or were you planning on telling me eventually?”

  “Matthew Daley had type two diabetes, but there’s no sign of that now in this blood.”

  “Then it can’t be him.”

  “You’d think so, and yet… Steve, we really need to do some more tests.”

  “Look, Beth, I’m not really interested if he’s the scientific discovery of the century. The bottom line is, I have someone in custody and I don’t know what to charge him with… if anything. Trespass, possibly. But there aren’t any laws against looking like someone who’s died. Give me something to go on.”