The Gray Institute (The Gray Institute Trilogy Book 1)

by Leanne Pearson

  As the darkness consumes me, I hear a sound; faint and melodic, far off in the distance. A soothing soprano musical note, its tempo slow and steady, relaxing my muscles and my mind. As the music becomes louder, the darkness recedes and I experience a floating sensation, like a buoy in water.

  The note starts to change gradually, stooping in pitch and rising in volume until the black shifts to grey and another melody joins in – this one deeper and more bass line – creating a duet.

  They take it in turns to play their verses, often one more lengthy than the other, in no particular rhythm or order and yet so perfectly in synchronisation.

  I realise with a start that I can't be dead and a sense of disappointment, shame and anger wash over me, each feeling stronger than the previous.

  Disappointment that the one thing I should have had complete control over – choosing how and when I die – has become just another bullet point to add to my list of failed endeavours.

  Shame that my parents have likely been contacted and will eventually come to know every sordid detail of my life over the past two years.

  And anger that I am undoubtedly lying in hospital bed with a team of highly trained, highly qualified doctors battling to save a life that I didn't want, when they should be dedicating their efforts to someone who not only wants, but deserves to live.

  My suspicions are only confirmed when I realise that the beautiful symphonies aren't composed by musical instruments at all – they're voices; one male, one female. They're still indistinct and muffled, always followed by a long echo, but as time drags on I start to distinguish familiar words, and eventually whole sentences.

  'She's too far gone,' the male's voice is nasal – his words pronounced with the utmost precision.

  'You'll never bring her back and even if you do, she won't be the same. She's suffered too much brain damage, even you can't fix it.'

  I know that I'm not brain damaged; here inside my mind I'm the same as I always was, and able to understand and interpret his words clearly. But I'm perfectly happy for him to convince his partner I'm past saving – it's what I want, after all.

  'She's not, I found her only moments after she'd fallen unconscious. I got her here as fast as I could.' The woman's voice is so beautiful it's easy to understand how I mistook it for a song. She sounds feisty and determined to save my life.

  I start to panic. Maybe if I could open my eyes, find my voice, I could convince them. Assure them I'll only do the same again and again until I succeed. Warn them that they're only wasting their time.

  I try to prise my eyes open but the lids are too heavy. The surrounding dark grey shifts again, the colour lightening to a dirty cream.

  'Well, if you're sure. But if you get it wrong, you can be the one to answer to them.' The male says, his tone cynical and foreboding. 'Where did you find her anyway? She looks a mess.' He enquires, obviously noting my matted hair, dirty skin and ragged clothes.

  'In a doorway. Next to an empty syringe.'

  And that's where you should have left me! I try to scream, but I can't even manage to open my mouth.

  'And you're sure she has no-one?' The male asks, suspicion in his tone. His question means more than meets the ear.

  'I'm sure, she's alone.' The female replies firmly, her voice closer.

  'Well, you may as well get it over with.'

  No! My mind is screaming in protest. How can thoughts be so difficult to communicate into words or even actions? My body won't do what my brain tells it to and I start to understand how it must feel to be paralysed. But I'm becoming more conscious by the second, my senses gradually returning to me.

  I can feel the woman's touch on my arm; a slight pressure, cold hands, smooth skin.

  It'll only be a few more seconds before I regain consciousness, am able to open my eyes, use my voice or at the very least, make facial expressions.

  Something soft tickles my cheek, brushing against it over and over. A warm breeze is at my neck, sending a pleasurable shiver down my spine. But pleasure all too quickly turns to pain as a knife pierces the delicate skin just to the right of my throat.

  Wincing, I start to doubt myself. Perhaps this isn't a hospital..? Or maybe this is a new technique – injecting adrenaline straight into my veins?

  A burning sensation grips me, travelling quickly from my neck and spreading throughout my body, up to my head and down to my chest. It's as strong as a red hot poker and it intensifies within seconds. It's chemical, like acid pumping through my veins, like my blood has turned to molten lava. It takes over my body and my mind. I can think of nothing but the pain. It's worse than over-dosing.

  A thousand times worse.

  The burning is most painful in my head; my brain is ablaze inside my skull, utterly devoured by flames. I feel it take over and I try to defeat it but I'm running out of strength. I'm screaming inside, begging for relief as it throbs and pulses, moving through the individual sections of my brain until I can no longer think at all.

  What little fight I have left in me dies and I give up, surrendering myself to pain in its purest form. And just as I resign to the realisation that I'll spend eternity in agony – the pain suddenly stops.

  I relax instantly, breathing deeply though I'm not out of breath. My mind goes silent and my body sighs with relief. All around me is quiet; the voices have disappeared. Perhaps the treatment went wrong and they've simply left me to die. Either way, I don't care, so long as the pain has stopped.

  I hear it suddenly; a soft rustling accompanied by a high-pitched, scraping noise. A strange scent fills my nostrils; sweet, like candy or an exotic fruit but nothing I can identify. I can smell other things too, familiar things; like metal and leather, paint and wood. A scent much like cloves fills the air from my right and mingles with the sweet candy smell.

  'Eve?' My name startles me as the female voice speaks calmly. The sound is still the same yet so completely different. It's even more beautiful, light and smooth floating through my ear.

  'Eve, you can open your eyes now.'

  *

  I wake in a small box room, encased by steel – steel walls, steel floors; even the bed I lie on is made of steel with a thin cotton blanket tossed over it. My wrists and ankles are bound by leather straps, buckled tightly with brass. There are two people present with me; one male, the other female. A light bulb hangs directly above my head and a wooden chair stands to my immediate right.

  All of this I know without even opening my eyes.

  All of this I know because I can smell it.

  'Eve?' Her voice startles me again and I snap my eyes open to blink furiously in the light. I stare up at a plain white, plaster board ceiling. At a glance, its surface is smooth and matte; but on closer inspection, I notice the tiny imperfections – a crack, a scratch, a stray thumb print. But despite its flaws, the plaster is perfect; the most magnificent solid matter I have ever laid eyes on.

  I sense that the woman with the pretty voice is very close to me; I hear her clothes rustle as she reaches down to undo the straps binding my wrists. Her skin brushes against mine; ice cold and velvet smooth. She is nervous, her breath is ragged, but is it me making her nervous?

  Surely not.

  'Eve, I need you to sit up very slowly. Do not strain yourself, you need to adjust gradually.' The woman's voice is crisp and clear with a strong, upper-class English accent. Her presence comforts me and bizarrely, I feel as though I trust her, despite the fact that I've not yet laid eyes on her. I do as she asks, steadily hoisting my upper body into a seated position to fully observe my new surroundings.

  The room is sparse and bland, desperately lacking in decoration, yet I've never seen anything as exquisite in my entire life. The air itself sparkles and I glance up at the uncovered light bulb. Within the clear glass is a thin, curled wire; glowing white hot as the air surrounding it crackles and fizzes – creating kinetic energy before my very eyes.

  Firm hands upon my shoulders break my concentration and I tear my gaze awa
y from the bulb, tilting my head back to stare at the most magnificent human being ever to have graced the Earth. Her rich, mahogany brown hair falls in immaculate ringlets, coming to an end just below her shoulders. Her porcelain white skin is without a single flaw or blemish, her deep sea blue eyes are framed by long black lashes.

  'Who are you?' I breathe, staring transfixed at the woman, startled by the strange sound which appears to be my voice. It's nothing like the manly, too-deep pitch I remember; replaced by a husky, sultry tone. The Goddess smiles and my world lights up as the grin reaches her kind blue eyes.

  'My name is Diana,' she speaks softly and calmly, the sound a soothing lullaby. 'Diana Haddix. And this...' she gestures towards the doorway, to the man I'd forgotten all about. 'Is Malachy Beighley.'

  Malachy Beighley stands to my right, his sleeveless arms folded across a muscular chest. His shoulder-length platinum blond hair sweeps across his left eye; half disguising the violent scowl he wears on his beautiful face. He – like her – is some sort of God; the same flawless skin, piercing ice blue eyes and cheekbones to die for. But his demeanour is so unlike his female companion; whilst she is warm, tender and softly-spoken – he is cold, distant and impatient.

  'We have to go, Diana.' His nasal voice is demanding and authoritative but she ignores it, staring at me with concern in her eyes.

  'Are you okay, Eve?' She asks, taking hold of my shoulders once again. In the depths of her irises lies a colour I have no name for, a colour entirely unknown to me before now. I nod my head slowly, catching a whiff of what I can only assume is my hair. It turns my stomach; a churning concoction of grease, cigarette smoke and stale water. Glancing down at my hands, what was once a harmless bit of dirt and grubbiness is now an infestation beneath my fingernails. A clear imprint of my silhouette clings to the white sheet beneath me, a trail of filth and germs.

  I claw at my fingers, desperately rubbing my palms together in the hope that the friction will remove some of the dirt. Diana slips in front of me, enclosing her pristine hands gently around mine, seemingly oblivious to the contamination residing there.

  'I know, Eve,' She nods patiently, her voice smooth like silk. 'All in good time. We have some things to attend to first.' She lifts a hand to touch my hair but I jerk away; I would burn with shame to see her perfect fingers come away covered in grime.

  'For God's sake, Diana, he'll be waiting!' That impatient voice interrupts again and this time Diana concedes.

  'I need you to stand up for me, Eve, can you do that?' She asks and I nod obediently, placing my feet on the floor.

  I feel floaty as I stand; the concrete bounces beneath my worn trainers, like I've lost a considerable amount of weight and a strong gust of wind could carry me away. Diana wraps her fingers tightly around my left wrist as Malachy stands at my right and roughly grips my bicep. They frog march me forward, Diana a little more hesitant than Malachy, but her grip equally tight.

  She pulls the door open to reveal a plain, white-washed corridor. The paint dried long ago but smells, to me, still fresh. The corridor is long, there are no windows, no pictures and the only doors – besides the one we've exited – are two steel ones belonging to a lift.

  I realise with a start that I am indeed in a hospital – a psychiatric one. The signs all point to a mental facility; the bare rooms – stripped of any weapons or potentially harmful implements – the white walls, the straps on my wrists, the strange and painful procedure I'd endured. The only things serving to doubt my assumption are Diana and Malachy themselves. Neither of them looks fit to work in a psychiatric hospital; Diana with her tight black ribbed corset, Malachy with his long dark coat and Kohl-coated eyes.

  Not exactly your typical doctors or nurses.

  As they march me onwards – towards the ominous lift – a sense of panic washes over me; a paralysing fear. It's of no surprise to me that I've wound up in a psychiatric facility, or – as my old friend Davey used to call them – a nut house. I've been heading here for a long time. But now that I stand – flanked by two escorts – ready to meet my fate, my self-assurance fades, replaced by docile despair.

  The drugs they've injected me with are strong; colours are vibrant and lurid, with every smear and imperfection in the pock-marked stone floor noticeable to me. I breathe in every scent as it passes by, strain to hear the slightest sounds. My senses appear heightened, my calmness enforced; I breathe slowly and steadily as I watch a fly groom its legs, perched on the wall more than twenty feet away.

  My grubby old trainers give out a squeak as we reach the elevator doors, halting whilst Diana presses the Call button. We ride the lift in silence to the fourteenth floor, stepping out into another corridor, in stark contrast to the last. Dark wood panelling lines the lower half of the walls – shined and polished to perfection – whilst the upper half is decorated with oil paintings in elaborate gold frames, illuminated by crackling fire torches on either side.

  Cautiously, I step out onto soft springy carpet, marvelling at the intricate art-work as my escorts guide me along. Some are of still life such as fruit and candles, others are portraits; an old man with cotton white hair in an armchair, a faithful dog at his feet. An elegant woman with raven black hair and piercing green eyes, gazing through a window at the cliff's edge below.

  I must be in a very high-class facility for it to house such historical treasures as these and I'm so caught up in the rapture of the paintings, I barely notice when we stop before a set of towering oak doors.

  A stout man is stationed alone just to the right of them, his pale eyes fixed forward, as though we're not here. His stance is upright and official, his attire business-like and smart. He's clearly some kind of guard and, through the haze of drugs, I wonder exactly what he's guarding – and from whom.

  Just beside the door, bolted to the brick wall, is a hexagonal, shiny gold plaque with embossed copperplate font reading: 'Sir Alec Gray.'

  'This is where we leave you for the moment.' Diana's soft voice chimes in my ear and a wave of panic sweeps over me. Inexplicably, with her I feel safe – cared for – and the thought of her leaving me with the intimidatingly titled Sir Alec Gray sets off a chain reaction with panic turning to fear, fear turning to hysteria.

  'For the moment?' I squeak, my voice wobbly and uncertain. She nods, smiling sweetly.

  'Just for the moment.' Her fingers uncurl from around my wrist and she turns to Malachy. With a firm nod of his blond head, the two of them retreat back down the corridor and into the lift. Diana glances back only once to shoot me a small, pitiful smile.

  I take a deep breath and glance at the guard. He avoids eye contact, fixing his gaze on a spot over my shoulder, but reaches out with his right arm to pull the door open. I marvel at his strength; with virtually no effort, the heavy door swings on its hinges to reveal a dark, shadowy room. I stand hesitantly before the threshold, wringing my hands, staring at my feet and willing them to move.

  'Shall I go in?' I ask the guard timidly. He gives me a sharp, impatient nod. With shaky legs, I step through the wide doorway, wincing as my trainers squeak on polished wood. The door slams shut behind me – the sound reverberating around the room – and I am alone in an eerie, dimly lit study.

  Chapter Three

  It's unnervingly quiet in the candle-lit study. The only sounds are the ticking of a grandfather clock and the distinct, unmistakable crashing of the sea on rocks. The room itself is large and rectangular; the décor grand, the furniture antique. The walls are lined with tall bookcases, running from floor to ceiling with elegant claw feet. A grand desk stands before the wall on the left, covered in papers and leather-bound books.

  I'm undoubtedly alone, yet I tip-toe across the room to observe the view. The window is Tudor styled with black strips of rubber forming diamond patterns on the glass. It's intricate and beautiful, but not as beautiful as the mesmerising view beneath me.

  The building stands on a tall cliff edge, the ferocious sea lapping at the jagged rocks bordering the deat
hly drop below. I know by the lift numbers that I'm on the fourteenth floor, but it's by no means the highest. From this awkward angle, the building looks like a fortress, with large stone bricks and arrow slit windows.

  It's a clear night and the moon is full, its silver rays reflected on the water's surface. The stars are bright, burning like little balls of fire, and the sky appears to me a different colour – not black, not blue, but the darkest yet most vibrant shade of violet.

  The view takes my breath away and I forget, for a moment, where I am.

  'Magnificent, isn't it?' A quiet yet commanding voice startles me and I whip around to face the speaker, tensing my muscles and arching my back in poise to attack. Though my feral reactions are far from ordinary; they feel completely natural to me, and I stop to wonder just how badly the drugs have affected me.

  An extremely tall man with shimmering silver hair in a neat buzz cut smiles at me, standing just in front of the desk. His handsome face displays deep age lines which actually serve to compliment his features. He's broad shouldered and well-built, a muscular chest beneath a crisp white shirt, his olive skinned arms dusted with thin dark hair. He's beautiful – like Diana and Malachy – but in a very different way. This man is authoritative and stern, his features wise and aged. His steel grey eyes are cold but at the moment polite – if not a little reserved.