Pain

by Adam Southward

  Jessica nodded. The grasp on her bag had relaxed. She looked up and smiled. It seemed genuine. Alex looked into her young face and saw his daughter Katie staring back. Pure innocence and the pain inflicted on others when she suffered.

  ‘Can I ask?’ said Alex. ‘I know we mentioned it, but how is your relationship with your parents?’

  Jessica’s smile thinned. She sighed and her shoulders sagged. ‘Can we do that another time?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Alex. ‘And it’s not something we have to cover, unless you want to.’

  Jessica’s eyes were piercing. She understood.

  ‘Perhaps when I’ve tackled my . . . panic attacks,’ she said. ‘Perhaps then I might talk to you about my parents.’

  Alex nodded, palms out. ‘I’m here when you need me,’ he said.

  Once the young woman had left the office, Alex poured another coffee and stretched out in his chair. There was still a certain pride in treating people like Jessica. It was a genuine need and the success rate was good. If he could help these patients get their lives back on track, then at least he was a positive force in the world. She could grow up without the crippling pain or stigma of a mental health condition – a normal human being finding her way.

  Alex’s good mood tapered off as he completed a pile of paperwork and invoices, checking his next appointment, which wasn’t for another hour.

  He sauntered over to his impressive oak bookshelves full of periodicals and psychology texts. They were on display more for the clients than for Alex, but he still liked to flick through the odd journal, take in a new nugget of information. At least he could pretend he was still up to date on everything.

  The paper tiger example was still fresh in his mind, but as one particular textbook caught his eye, he thought about a far more real animal out on the streets of London. A violent, wild animal taking lives with seemingly reckless abandon.

  Psychopathy and Violence: Type and Concepts was an old text, one of his father’s, plucked off the shelves after his death. Most of his father’s belongings were now in storage, but Alex had kept a few select texts and journals. That was back when Alex had made a promise to follow up on his father’s work – to investigate the seriousness of the deception and lies. His father had broken every rule of medical ethics in a grotesque and twisted fashion – and paid the ultimate price for it. But after the case and his father’s murder, once Katie and Grace were safe, Alex had put a lid on it – mental and physical. He ignored his conscience, which screamed that he should know – he needed to know – the extent of his father’s work and that of his colleagues at the university they claimed to represent. It was easier to let it go. In the year afterwards, Alex had needed to rebuild and distance himself professionally and personally from the deeds of his father. His career was delicate enough without dredging up his father’s sordid past. He feared what he’d find if he allowed himself to be drawn in.

  He fingered the spine of the book. His father’s work was far removed from this subject, yet the memories still lurched to the surface. Alex took a breath and forced them under. Keep the lid on, he thought.

  Alex pulled the book off the shelf, heaving it over to his desk, where he flicked open the cover.

  He tapped the first page – a brief introduction – with his finger, skimming the text. It described the subject from an undergraduate perspective, using Hollywood-movie psychopaths as the example, as methodical and controlled perpetrators of horrific violence. In this model, the psychopath’s violent acts were predatory: planned, purposeful and emotionless deeds making for great set pieces undertaken casually by cold-blooded villains.

  In reality, however, the predatory psychopath was one of two types. Less well known was the affective psychopath – impulsive and reactive, the perpetrator of explosive rages against another person. These were hot-blooded, often passionate and emotive attacks. The important thing to note from a clinical perspective was that in the latter affective type there was often no planning or method.

  The hard contrast between the two types bugged him.

  Alex picked up his phone and dialled Hartley’s number.

  ‘Dr Madison.’ Hartley answered on the third ring, her voice curt but polite. ‘I’m glad you called. I need to speak to you, actually.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Alex. He paused. What did he want exactly? Methodical, Alex. The police were following procedure. He needed to follow it with them at the very least, and use them. Hartley would have her own perspective on this topic.

  ‘Predatory or affective?’ he said, flicking over the pages of the book on his desk.

  It didn’t take Hartley long to catch on.

  ‘Predatory,’ she said. ‘She’s stalking victims at the hospitals with a cold and calculated plan.’

  Alex nodded to himself, except something didn’t add up. He thought back to the grainy CCTV footage – the suspect swaying and her head rising up and away from the victim.

  ‘But she’s displaying emotion,’ he said. ‘Or at least a sensual reaction of some sort. You can see it in her reactions. Not what I’d expect from a psychopathic predator.’

  Another pause. ‘OK,’ said Hartley, ‘but she’s still a stalker. These weren’t random encounters. She planned her visits to the minute. She’s type one if she’s anything.’

  Alex nodded. Hartley was making an easy conclusion, if the wrong one. Alex flicked ahead, through the summary into the first few chapters, knowing the answer to his niggling doubt wouldn’t lie in here. There was no simple explanation as to why some people suffered crippling anxiety attacks, and why some people suffered crippling violent psychopathy.

  ‘You don’t think so?’ said Hartley. ‘What are you thinking, Alex?’

  Alex flicked through the pages in the textbook, not reading, just feeling the paper slipping through his fingers. He considered cases where he’d seen violence like this before. A particular patient sprang to mind, one that he and his fellow students had observed during his training. The patient had been sectioned and sedated. He’d killed four people – all family members – in a fit of rage. Conclusively an affective psychopath, his motive had been a perceived slight by an uncle, who had cut him out of an inheritance. He’d decided to slaughter all the beneficiaries.

  ‘Motive,’ said Alex, ‘or rather, the lack of one.’ He turned away from the desk towards the huge sash window in his office, staring across the street. That patient had been complex and ill, but at least he had had motive, clear and simple.

  To try to diagnose the hospital killer based on the evidence they had was incredibly difficult without some idea of motive. Was she a complex violent affective psychopath or something more? Alex couldn’t know without more information. Unfortunately, more information was likely to be accompanied by more bodies.

  Hartley took a breath. ‘Alex—’

  ‘Did Forensics find anything?’ he said. ‘In the young woman’s car?’

  Hartley cleared her throat. ‘Loads, but nothing of use so far. We’ve got several sets of hair, blood and fingerprints. After eliminating the victim’s, we’ve got a selection of no matches. They could belong to anybody – friends, family, lovers . . .’

  ‘Or the killer.’

  ‘Of course. But like I said, no matches, so it doesn’t help us identify her.’

  ‘It’ll help if we catch her.’

  ‘When we catch her, Alex,’ said Hartley. She cleared her throat again. ‘Bloody cold,’ she said, sniffing. ‘Anyway, I have something else to tell you. I’m being reassigned.’

  ‘What?’ Alex shifted in his seat. Hartley was his ally, albeit a distant and cold one. Hartley understood his background and the darker aspects of his cases. Only she understood what had happened last year with Victor Lazar, or at least she pretended she did. Perhaps not.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Hartley. ‘I’m not going far. I’m being told to jump up a level, overseeing several cases, which means I can’t remain as the senior investigating officer on this one alone. I’m bri
nging in another detective – I think you’ve met.’

  ‘Who?’ Alex had met a lot of inspectors during the last few years. None stood out as particularly forgiving or supporting of his profession. This case might just have got a whole lot harder.

  ‘Detective Catherine Laurie. Goes by her last name. She said you’d met.’

  Alex thought of the young detective who’d dragged him to her station a few days ago. Detective Laurie. She’d seemed genuine, professional. The sort of person you’d want to have your back.

  ‘We have,’ said Alex. ‘Briefly. She’s up to speed?’

  Hartley huffed. ‘Thank you, Alex, yes, we are competent at handing over our cases.’

  Alex caught himself. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s just . . . this isn’t your standard murder case.’

  ‘Which is why you’re still on it,’ said Hartley. ‘And don’t sweat it. I know you’re beating yourself up at the moment.’

  Alex swallowed. Hartley knew him so well. Was he that transparent? ‘I need more information,’ he said. ‘That’s all. A motive would be nice.’

  ‘Well, hopefully Detective Laurie can help you find it,’ said Hartley. ‘She’s good, Alex, plus she’s worked some hard cases.’

  ‘Hard?’ Alex wasn’t sure whether to push it. Hard cases meant something different to him and Hartley.

  ‘Trust me, Alex. Now, I’ve got to go. Laurie will be in touch.’

  Alex checked his watch. Time for his next appointment anyway. He thanked Hartley for her time and hung up.

  He thought about what Hartley had said. Detective Laurie might be good, but was she prepared for something like this? Was she prepared for the horror of what their suspect was capable of? Alex hoped so, because in truth he was struggling with it himself. He’d waited all year for another big case. Now one had landed in his lap, and with it the distant panic that he was once again out of his depth. He couldn’t afford any mistakes this time. Not with this one.

  Alex arranged the papers on his desk and went to close the textbook. As he did so he noticed a handwritten note in the margin of the open page, under the chapter heading ‘9 – Psychopathy and Emotional Stimuli’. The scrawl was unmistakably his father’s writing – Alex would recognise it anywhere. This was old, faded blue ink from a fountain pen.

  The note read Hyper-Empathy Syndrome. Lot 15. DB. Randomised??

  Alex frowned. He flicked through the next couple of pages but found no other notes. Hyper-empathy syndrome was a rare affliction that caused distress due to the inability of the sufferer to observe others’ emotions without feeling debilitating effects. Alex had never come across a single case of it in his career, and as far as he knew, his father had had nothing at all to do with this type of condition in his research, either the legitimate or the illegal.

  It wasn’t associated with violent psychopathy and Alex wondered what might have prompted the note, perhaps many years ago. The memories popped back up and he slammed the book closed in response. No time for that now. The ramblings of his dead father would have to wait indefinitely. Alex had his own life to attend to.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mia stumbled into a bar – quiet and run-down, but open. After leaving the hospital she’d walked for hours, and her cravings had waned, perhaps as a result of the aerobic strain on her body, her blood and nervous system flooded with endorphins. Part of her wanted to examine this feeling, to use it, but she had more pressing thoughts on her mind, and as she sat down her hunger returned with force, acute and unrelenting.

  Perching on a stool near the back, she ordered lemonade from the bartender. She downed it and ordered another, the fluid and sugar gradually subduing her shakes.

  She lost herself in her thoughts, trying to grasp the images triggered in the hospital. She searched, but her mind blanked and gave her nothing but blackness and despair. Anger crept in as her future was laid bare before her. Bleak and unthinkable.

  What did it all mean?

  Mia clenched the lemonade glass so tight it cracked.

  ‘Careful.’

  A soft voice to her left. Mia’s head jerked towards the stranger.

  ‘Bad day?’

  A woman hovered a couple of stools along. Mia took in her appearance. Slender, almost too thin, with a plain but friendly face. Long brown hair in a ponytail; dressed casually. She had her own drink, a small glass of white wine.

  And she was in pain.

  Mia turned her body towards it. Not bad, but a dull, nagging sensation. She saw it in the woman’s face and in her stance; she saw it in the way the woman held her shoulders and arms, in the rhythm of her breath and the tone of her skin. The air around this woman shivered with pheromones, both alarming and sensual, a delicious mixture that blanketed Mia.

  Mia saw it all in an instant. Pain, precious pain. She tensed, but with it came another, altogether different feeling. The same feeling she yearned for on the normal days.

  Mia smiled, and she saw the desire reflected in the woman’s eyes.

  ‘A bad day,’ said Mia. ‘Yes.’ She found her voice an octave too high, but the woman closed the gap between them.

  ‘I’m Clare,’ she said, taking a seat. Their knees touched and neither pulled away. Mia took a short breath, both scared and attracted by the touch.

  ‘Mia.’ The sound of her own name was strange on her lips. Mia spoke to as few people as possible. Hearing her own voice was peculiar, like a foreign sound. She relished it on her lips.

  ‘I’m Mia,’ she repeated, meeting Clare’s eyes, which also seemed anxious, yet drawn to her.

  Clare talked. Mia listened. Clare was troubled, not just with physical pain but a hundred other woes she was happy to spill to this stranger in a bar. Clare had a job. Mia understood what that meant, but had no point of reference, nothing to compare. Clare’s worries seemed minor and pointless to Mia and yet she listened, because it was clear the subject of their conversation didn’t matter. It soothed her panic, but stoked her hunger.

  ‘Where are you from?’ said Claire.

  I wish I knew, Mia whispered inside. Tell me where you think I’m from.

  ‘Not from here,’ she offered.

  ‘I can see that,’ said Claire. ‘And your accent. Spanish? No. Greek? I’m rubbish with languages. I had a friend from Croatia once. You sound like her.’

  Mia held her expression. She could be Spanish or Greek or nothing of the sort. Mia would find out. One day. But not today.

  They ordered more drinks. Mia kept to sugary soft drinks; Clare preferred wine. The more she drank, the more she talked. Hours passed. Mia found herself lost in Clare’s eyes. They sparkled as she recounted how much of a creep her boss was. They darkened as she recounted how many times she’d had to decline his advances.

  ‘I think he figures I’ll become straight if he asks enough times,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘A complete idiot, and married.’

  ‘You’re not,’ said Mia. Not a question, more of a statement. Mia had an understanding of how the world worked; she just couldn’t remember how she’d got that understanding.

  ‘And you’re not,’ said Clare, her face twisted into a grin, ‘unless you’re the world’s best fucking actress.’

  ‘Why would I act?’ said Mia. She moved closer. Clare intrigued her, drew her in. Her pain shimmered in the background; her attraction pulsed in the foreground.

  Mia wanted both.

  Clare’s flat was five minutes’ walk from the bar. She continued to talk and Mia continued to listen, but at the same time doubts formed in her mind. Mia glanced at Clare’s arms. Marks, near the veins. Needles, perhaps, which could explain the pain. A kindred spirit, although her addiction couldn’t be anywhere near as bad as Mia’s.

  The flat was small, messy but clean. Mia made no judgement, given her own living arrangements. The talking stopped. Clare didn’t offer her a drink, and they stood and stared at each other for several moments. Clare broke the spell, touching Mia’s cheek. A wave of mixed sensations shook Mia, her heart th
umping, her palms tingling.

  They kissed, soft and tender. Neither broke it, lingering until Clare slid her hands further around Mia’s body. Mia tensed for a second but relented, letting the stranger explore her, tug at her clothes, leaving them in a pile at her feet and then pulling off her own.

  Mia let Clare lead her. The bed was firm and Mia lay back, shaking, awash with emotion and sensation. Clare looked down with a puzzled frown.

  ‘Are you OK, Mia?’ she whispered.

  Mia nodded. She didn’t know, that was the truth, but she didn’t want to stop. She embraced Clare and pulled her closer, losing herself in a new kiss, fascinated by the anticipation, which was increasing with each moment.

  Clare was experienced; Mia was not, yet she felt a reawakening. This wasn’t the first time she had done this. Did she have a girlfriend, a partner, before? Before she woke in a dark London street in the middle of the night with her memories gone and her terrible addiction gained?

  The pleasure faded as Mia’s thoughts clouded. Clare took her hands away and sat up.

  ‘Touch me, Mia,’ she said, taking Mia’s hand and placing it for her. Mia tried. She watched Clare responding, her pleasure almost desperate in its intensity. Mia gazed at the body in front of her, its delicate lines, soft curves and rapturous movement.

  Clare rocked, her face flushed. She panted.

  And then Mia felt it.

  ‘Ouch,’ said Clare, stopping her movement for a second. She smiled and carried on. ‘Gentle there, gorgeous.’

  But it was too late. Mia was lost in an instant. Her hand twisted again, a little too hard, her fingers pushing further.

  ‘Whoa,’ said Clare, her smile disappearing. She slid away, holding Mia’s wrist. ‘Gently, I said.’

  It was too late. Even if Mia had wanted to stop, the primal urge lurking all day had finally broken free. The pain jumped from Clare to Mia and with it an ecstasy that sex could never compete with. In that instant Mia experienced Clare’s pleasure and her pain, but it was the latter that won. The most sensitive part of Clare’s body was shot through with agony. It was dazzling, full and surging. And Mia needed it all.