by J. F. Penn
Contents
Cover
Quotes
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
BBC News Report
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Thanks (Amazon)
Author's Note
About J.F.Penn
Acknowledgements
Delirium
London Mysteries Book 2
J.F.Penn
Copyright © J.F. Penn (2014). All rights reserved.
www.JFPenn.com
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is fictionalized or coincidental.
"Those who the Gods wish to destroy, they first make mad."
Anonymous ancient proverb
"He punishes the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation."
Numbers 14:18
Prologue
"Here we see the mad as monstrosities and tainted creatures."
Dr Christian Monro advanced the slide to show a vintage black and white picture: a man huddled in a corner with haunted eyes, his dirty straitjacket mottled with blood. "We must, of course, treat such as these with humanity but we must also ensure their stain does not continue into the next generation." Christian paused, savoring the moment of complete attention. "The implementation of my proposals will safeguard the future of our great nation. Thank you."
Applause filled the small room, and Christian bowed his head a little, acknowledging their respect. He had been courting this group for years now, the politicians and the religious right, as well as those in big business who funded the enterprise. He breathed in deeply, a smile playing over his lips. Finally, they were taking his work seriously, which was surely worth the sacrifice of those he had referred to the research centers.
Christian pushed the faint glimmer of guilt down as the applause ended and one of the more senior figures in the room nodded slowly at him, a promise of future favor in his gaze. Dr Damian Crowther was bald, his head angular and smooth, with one eye blue and the other brown. Despite his distinctive appearance, Crowther wasn't a man anyone stared at for long. Christian had heard rumors of the doctor's investigations into the farthest reaches of the mind, where madness bled into what some would call the paranormal. Crowther's favor was known to be a double-edged sword, but perhaps it was time to embrace the risks for the potential of a higher reward.
As Crowther turned away, Christian looked at his watch, worry gnawing at the edges of his triumph. He didn't want to rush away, but he had to make the meeting and none of these men could know about it.
After extricating himself from the late-night whiskey drinking, Christian grabbed a taxi to South London, patting his top pocket where he had the money in a cream envelope. It was a small price to pay for breathing space, but once he had power behind him, Christian would deal with the blackmailer. Handing them over for research purposes would make for appropriate recompense.
The Imperial War Museum was lit from below, a spectacular edifice, a symbol of Britain's military might. Of course, Christian had visited before, but it had been more out of curiosity for the building's past. The Bethlem Hospital had once been based here, the original Bedlam of nightmare, where the groans of the suffering were muted by thick walls. The note had told him to go around to the side gate, so Christian walked around the perimeter. It was open as promised and he walked through, into the trees at the side of the expansive park space. He strode towards the side door, gathering his confidence as a suit of armor, made stronger by his earlier triumph. Perhaps he would give this blackmailer a talking to instead. He flexed his fingers … maybe something more than that.
The inside of the building was dark, with just a few floor lights leading inward. Christian could hear faint sounds of music down the corridor, a mournful violin, the deep notes of a cello. A door was ajar further into the museum. He walked to it and stepped inside, apprehension overtaken by curiosity.
Candles burned in the corners of the room and shadows flickered on the walls. In the dim light, Christian saw a large wooden object and he stepped further into the room to see it more clearly. A sudden movement of air and a shift of shadows made his eyes narrow. He turned, but it was too late. A needle jabbed his neck and Christian raised his hand to the wound, suddenly dizzy. He sank to the floor, suddenly faint. There was someone else here with him, but the figure retreated quickly back to the gloom, out of his reach.
"What … have you done?" Christian murmured, as his throat tightened and weakness deadened his limbs. "I have your money."
"Money you received for betraying those who trusted you," the whisper came in the dark. "I don't want it. But I do want you to remember before you die, for what you have done is just a reflection of what your ancestors once did in this place."
Colors appeared in front of Christian's eyes, morphing into the shapes of creatures that landed on the walls around him. They had tiny needle-like teeth and he tried to move away from them, but their legs scuttled fast as they swarmed onto him and he had no strength to bat them away. His skin itched but Christian couldn't raise his arms to scratch. His heart thudded in his chest. It was a drug – some kind of hallucinogen. It had to be, but knowing didn't change how he felt. Biting, tearing, tiny knives slashing a thousand cuts across his flesh as the creatures began to feast.
"Please," Christian panted, heart racing, breath ragged. "What do you want?"
The figure came out of the shadows, like a nightmare from history, an echo of the photo Christian had shown earlier that night. The man wore a dirty straitjacket, stained with blood and pus. The arms hung loose, long sleeves dragging on the floor, the straps hanging down. A black mask covered his eyes and nose, and Christian could see that the man's dark eyes were bright with intent. There was no madness within.
"You call them monstrosities, tainted blood that must be bred out. But it is you who are defective, a blemish to be erased. And now you're in here, you must be crazy. Welcome to the lunatics' ball, Monro."
The man threw his hands in the air and spun in place, the ties from the straitjacket whirling about him, creating a vortex that Christian couldn't tear his eyes from. The string instruments soared, filling the room with a cacophony of jarring noise, grating against his brain. Christian was transfixed by the whirling, as the colors shattered and the fuzzy feeling intensified. It seemed that other figures joined the man as the music played on, shadows turning into the phantoms of those who had been locked up here so long ago. A beautiful girl with bare feet whirled in place, spinning around, her thin arms held like a ballerina. She opened her mouth to smile and Christian saw that her teeth were all missing, her gums bloody emptiness – a victim of force-feeding. A hulking figure appeared next to her, his head bound with bandages around a broken jaw, moaning in a grotesque parody of joy as he lumbered to the center of the room to turn with th
em. Another man dragged himself across the floor towards Christian, his head shaved, electrodes still attached, drool dripping down his chin. His eyes locked on the doctor, but his stare was fixed, as if no soul dwelled behind that facade of humanity.
Christian tried to push himself up and away from the wall, but the man in the straitjacket bore down upon him. The figures in the room dissipated and floated away as his image alone sharpened into focus once again. Had there even been any others? Christian knew the drug had a deep hold now, his mind tilted by chemical intrusion. He had no strength to fight as the man dragged him across the floor.
"Perhaps you're feeling a little stressed?" the man spat, his words bitter as he hoisted Christian onto the wooden chair, buckling straps at his ankles and wrists. Christian struggled, but it was as if he was in a thick soup and his limbs wouldn't obey his brain's command. The man bent down and picked up a padded wooden box with straps to hold the two sides together. "This should help."
Christian tried to shout, to scream, but the drugs had deadened his tongue and made it thick like a lump of liver. He could only moan as the man placed the box over his head and tightened the straps. It was heavy and dense, the darkness absolute. Christian's heart thumped in his chest as he tried to breathe through his nose, but the box was tight against his skull with only a small hole for air. He was on the edge of consciousness, panic rising as his heart rate spiraled out of control. He felt a knock against the box on top of his head and the noise of a flap being opened. A chink of light enabled Christian to see the padding inside, a dull off-white, the color of old sheets, right in front of his eyes. Then, he felt a drip of cold water on the top of his skull.
He shook his head violently, rattling the restraints that held his arms and legs. But he couldn't move far enough away and the water kept dripping, faster now. It became a thin stream that pooled under his chin, rising in cold inches against his skin. Christian closed his mouth as the level rose to his lips. He tipped his head, angling it to allow him breathing space, but he only succeeded in trickling water up his nose. Christian spluttered, trying to breathe and cough, but the water kept coming.
He heard laughter against the backdrop of music, and he imagined the spinning figures watching his torture, their eyes shining in anticipation of his end. Christian jerked and writhed, fighting to escape the stream. He moaned as panic overwhelmed him. The water level was almost at his nose now, covering his mouth. He threw himself to one side, felt himself connect with a body there, but the level kept rising.
Christian took a final breath as the water reached his nose, holding it in as he tried desperately to escape the crushing pain in his lungs. As the cool liquid touched his eyelids, he could hold his breath no longer. He choked, spasming in agony as he screamed for air, mouth opening instinctively. Water rushed down his throat, sucked into his lungs. In the moment before he died, Dr Christian Monro felt the fingers of the ghosts clawing at him, echoes of Bedlam with twisted faces, dragging him down to the depths of their Hell.
Chapter 1
Detective Sergeant Jamie Brooke took a deep breath, steeling herself to face the crime scene. It was her first major case since her compassionate leave had come to an end, and although she craved the intellectual stimulation, part of her just wanted to huddle under the covers at her flat and shut out the world. Thoughts of her daughter, gone only three months now, intruded at every second. Jamie welcomed them, but if she let them intensify too much, she knew she would just break down. Not quite the look she favored in front of her work colleagues. Detective Constable Alan Missinghall stood outside the squad car, finishing his morning coffee and sticky bun, waiting for her to join him on the pavement. All Jamie had to do was step out and accompany him to the scene.
Missinghall had been tremendous support during the events a few months ago that culminated in the flames of the Hellfire Caves, and she was grateful for his friendship. Despite her seniority in the force, he was one of the only allies she had after years of insistent independence that protected her from gossip but left her mostly alone. Jamie pulled down the mirror and checked her dark hair, tucking a few strands into the tight bun she habitually wore for work. Her face was gaunt, cheekbones angular, and her pale skin was dull from too long inside during the British winter. Time to get back out there again, she thought. Jamie exhaled slowly and opened the door, pulling her coat tightly around her against the chill of the early morning.
"The body was found in one of the offices in the oldest part of the building," Missinghall said, walking slowly, as his six-foot-five frame meant his stride was double Jamie's. "This place has changed substantially since the days of Bedlam. That's for sure."
The Imperial War Museum had been built in the early nineteenth century to house the Bethlem Royal Hospital, known to history as Bedlam. Although the hospital for the mentally ill was relocated in 1930 to the outer suburbs of Kent, this place remained the hospital of the imagination, a virtual horror movie set. Jamie shivered as she glanced up at the cupola rising above a classical facade, but it was the massive First World War guns that drew her attention, dwarfing the uniformed officers already onsite. Each huge naval gun weighed one hundred tons and could fire shells over sixteen miles. Its yellow bullet-shaped ammunition stood around the gardens, each waist height. Jamie couldn't help but touch the spiked top of one of them, a testament to man's ingenuity at designing killing machines. While this place was once a supposed restorer of minds, it was now a home for weapons of mass destruction. A building in homage to war, perhaps the ultimate form of collective madness.
"The museum is currently undergoing massive restoration," Missinghall said. "They're sprucing it up in time for the centennial of the First World War, so the main galleries aren't open to the public right now."
"How was the body found?" Jamie asked.
"One of the workmen was looking for a quiet place to smoke as it was pouring with rain outside." Missinghall chuckled. "He would have needed a few more ciggies after that."
They walked towards the steps leading up to the museum entrance, passing a slab of concrete with a graffitied face and the slogan 'Change Your Life' tattooed on its tongue. Its eyes were manic, the open maw a frozen scream. Jamie bent to read the plaque, and saw it was from the Berlin Wall, a remnant of that divide between East and West Germany. This was a strange place indeed, aimed at commemoration without intentionally glorifying violence.
The sound of a little girl giggling whispered on the wind. Jamie looked up sharply, her eyes drawn to the trees beyond the memorial. Polly ran there, her blue dress caught by the breeze as she twirled amongst the early spring flowers. For a moment, hope filled Jamie's heart, but then the girl's face changed. It was another girl, alive and vibrant, where her daughter was gone. Polly was ashes now, her physical remains in a terracotta urn that sat on the shelf in her flat.
Jamie choked back her emotion and turned to follow Missinghall, who was nearing the main entrance. These moments still threatened to overwhelm her, even months after Polly's death. Is it self-harm or self-care to want to hurt myself? Jamie wondered. Pain is a reminder of continued life, and every day she had to make a decision about carrying on.
The craving for a cigarette was intense, her hands shaking a little at the thought. Jamie thrust one hand in her coat pocket, clutching the tin where she put the menthol butt ends, measuring her addiction. She could hardly fit the lid on by the end of the day, but right now she resisted the yearning to smoke, clenching her fist around the tin instead. She wanted to get back to the capable woman she was known as in the force. She just needed to gather her strength.
Jamie and Missinghall went through the main entrance, showing their warrant cards to the officer on the door. The crime-scene perimeter was much further inside the museum, and they walked through a warren of building works, preparation for a grand opening at the centenary of the First World War. It was organized chaos, the kind of place that would be a nightmare to process for evidence, especially with the tight deadlines for the cen
tennial. After winding through corridors, they reached a doorway where they logged into the crime scene and put on the protective coveralls necessary to stop contamination.
The body was still in situ and a number of Scene of Crime Officers (SOCOs) worked efficiently in the room, processing the scene. Jamie tilted her head to one side, her curiosity piqued by the strange tableau. A familiar prick of interest penetrated the haze of grief and she knew that this case was just what she needed to take her mind off her own pain.
The room smelled of candle smoke overlaid with a damp, fungal aroma. A man sat in an oversize wooden chair, his feet bound to the struts and his arms strapped to the sides. His head was entirely covered by a box made of dark wood, so the victim looked more like a dummy from the London Dungeon than a real dead body. He wore a white shirt under a dark tailored suit, and it looked like his clothes were damp. The straps that held his wrists made his suit wrinkle, and his fingertips were bloody, nails cracked, as if he had tried to claw his way out of the chair. Jamie shivered at the thought of being trapped there, unable to move, unable to escape.
Forensic pathologist Mike Skinner stood against the wall, looking at his watch every minute, as if that would hurry the SOCOs. Finally the photos were complete, the device swabbed, and the body could be moved.
Missinghall helped Mike unfasten the straps that held the box in place and together they lifted it off. The victim's head fell forward, unsupported now, onto his chest. A rush of water cascaded down and a SOCO darted forward to capture a sample. Jamie glimpsed ivory padding inside as Missinghall laid the box on the floor for SOCOs to process further. Mike unstrapped the man's arms and legs, fastening forensic bags over the exposed flesh to protect any evidence. Missinghall helped him to lift the body into a plastic body-bag on top of a waiting gurney. The man looked professorial, authority still held in his bearing even in death. He wasn't a large man, his frame short and compact, not fat but clearly more used to a lecture theatre than a gym. His hair was grey, still wet, and his lips were grey.
