“I’m sure everything’ll be fine. Places like this don’t take any chances. And he’s not as dangerous as the media make him out to be.” Crap liar.
She stared out of the windscreen. “You didn’t tell me what happened in your dream this morning.”
“Just a nightmare, love. Nothing serious.”
“You never have nightmares, Phil. Why start now? And why won’t you tell me what happened?”
Like I’m going to tell you.
“It’s connected with this Franklin guy, isn’t it? Or is it Andy Hughes?”
Andy Hughes. Yes, I dreamed you and Nick were sliced to pieces and Andy was holding the knife. Feel better now?
“I’ll tell you later, Kelly. I promise, okay?”
It wasn’t okay, but she didn’t comment. He kissed her cold cheek and stepped out of the car. He raised a hand in farewell, smiling with a confidence he didn’t possess.
An icy wetness stung the back of his neck. He looked at the night sky warily, noting that snow flurries were returning. Now it was colder. Another treacherous night.
The sound of keys turning in a lock made him turn suddenly. The glass door opened and Phil Lotson was face to face with Sam Dawson.
Sam had always been a big man. Even in his first year at Anglia, he towered over Phil. Six feet four, even taller than Andy Hughes, with a stocky muscular build that had increased over the years. Muscles rippled down his bare forearms, and his pectorals bulged menacingly through his thin black T shirt as he closed the door behind Phil.
Another one who doesn’t feel the cold, Phil thought. His hair had grown as well. A thick mane of dirty blonde hair that straggled around his shoulders. His small grey eyes fixed Phil in an appraising stare. Then a broad smile broke out on his wide face. He shook Phil’s hand vigorously, pointed to Phil’s belly.
“Well, well, well. Who ate all the pies, then?”
Phil laughed back. “Leave it, Sam. I get enough grief from my current students, don’t need it from my former ones.”
Sam nodded, still smiling. “Things okay with you? Kelly all right?”
“She’s great, Sam. We’ve got a little boy - well, not so little. Nick’s eleven next April.”
“Eleven! Christ, it’s been a long time. My Suzie’s expecting our second any day now. Don’t think Tim’s going to enjoy having a baby sister, but…” his gaze fell and Phil could see the uneasiness in his eyes. This was no time or place for a reunion. “I didn’t want to disturb you like this, but…well. Come this way.”
Phil followed him down the hallway to the kitchen. Everything was shiny and new, from the glistening lemon paintwork on the walls to the bright blue carpet tiles. Bold, vivid colours. The kitchen was large and immaculate, the cookers and fridges as clean and gleaming as the kettle that Sam now filled. Phil looked around and saw the open serving hatch that was a portal to the sitting room. The same decor as the hallway, with luxurious easy chairs in green upholstery scattered around the room. Framed pictures of modern art reproductions hung on each wall. He noticed that there were no panes of glass covering them, and the TV was firmly fixed to the far wall. He looked at the locked drawers on the kitchen units and knew that only Sam - or whoever else was on duty - would have the keys to the sharp steel utensils within.
The kettle clicked off. Sam poured boiling water into two clean mugs as he spoke. “The Phoenix Unit was open for six months before they put Franklin here. They moved me from the High Dependency unit to here, said I was the best man for the job…the same month Franklin was admitted, funnily enough. Said I was the right man for the job, but that was bollocks. It was more down to my size.”
“What is this place, exactly?” Phil took the steaming mug, shaking his head at Sam’s offer of milk.
“This is a private unit. It has nothing to do with the Fulbourn Trust. The folk here have relatives who pay to keep them here.”
“Don’t like the sound of that.”
“Nothing sinister in it, Phil. They still follow the legal process.” Sam took a sip of his own coffee. “When you’re sectioned it’s initially for six months an approved social worker, a GP and a community psychiatric nurse sign the papers and the patient’s reviewed after that period. Some are sent home after that, or into the care of the community…we get the ones who can’t be sent back, the ones who no-one admits officially can’t be cured.”
“Like Jason Franklin,” Phil whispered, and wondered why he’d lowered his voice. “Where is he?”
“He’s in his room at the moment, getting something for you.”
“Sounds ominous.” He tried to make the remark sound casual. “What is it, a petrol can?”
“Artwork. Stuff he gets up to in Occupational Therapy.” The way Sam said that implied the artwork was more dangerous, more threatening than a full petrol canister.
“You’re not on your own here, are you?”
Sam smiled grimly. “The joys of working for a private firm. Cutbacks mean Phoenix only has three auxiliaries each on eight hours shift.”
“Only one? With someone like Franklin here? My God, that’s - ‘
“Asking for trouble,” Sam finished. He shrugged. “Let’s just say the other two - and the relief - are as physically imposing as myself. It has its advantages. How else could you get to see Franklin?”
And now I’m here I’m not sure I want to meet him…
“Something you need to consider, Phil. I report to the clinical psychologist, a bloke called Longhurst at the end of each shift. They’re not meant to discuss individual cases, but he does with me. Wants to know what he gets up to at night, if he sleeps, if he doesn’t why not, how many times he goes for a shit…”
“Which sounds as though he’s a special case.”
“Very special,” Sam said quietly. “Not because of the celebrity status. He’s got the board very worried.”
“Is he a problem patient, then?”
“Oh, he’s a problem, all right. But not just in terms of violence. He was raging when he came here last year, but the right treatment has…well, suppressed it.” He shuddered and lowered his mug. “Phil, I never saw rage like it. I’ve dealt with some cases in my time, but this rage…it was barely human. He shows no signs of it now, but it’s there. Waiting to spring like…like a genie from a bottle. ‘
Phil swallowed nervously. Genie from a bottle…and he thought back to Andy Hughes and his former student’s own rage.
“As I said, that’s not the only cause for concern. When you meet him, you’ll see for yourself. When you see his artwork, you’ll understand. Problem patient doesn’t even start to cover it.”
“I would prefer the term service user to patient…” a well-spoken but irritated voice spoke from the serving hatch. “Problem or otherwise.”
Phil whirled round, almost dropping his coffee mug in shock. Jason Franklin was leaning over the counter, arms folded and propped on the Formica. In the frame of the serving hatch his slim build looked sinister and foreboding, a trapped wild animal.
And a silent, stealthy one, Phil thought. He hadn’t heard Franklin approach. How long’s he been standing there?
“We are clients, not patients. I keep having to remind Mr Dawson here of that fact.”
Sam was silent, staring at Franklin through narrowed eyes. His fists were clenched. Franklin turned away and smiled at Phil. He unfolded his arms and extended a hand.
“Mr Lotson, thank you for coming at such short notice.” Franklin frowned at Phil’s slowness in accepting that handshake. Phil took it cautiously, half expecting his arm to be wrenched through the hatch and his whole body dragged, bruised and bleeding, into the sitting room where Franklin could work on him.
“Relax, Mr Lotson. Don’t believe the hype.” He released Phil’s hand after a brief but firm handshake. “I’m not fond of fava beans and nice Chianti, either. Now, Sam, I can’t hold a conversation like this. Come in, the pair of you.”
Sam moved to the kitchen door, into the lobby and opened the door that
led to the sitting room. Phil followed warily, and couldn’t help but notice how quickly Sam had reacted to Franklin’s request.
No, not request. That was an order, and Sam obeyed instantly. For a moment Phil was back in the Great Hall of All Souls, wondering who the master was here and who the servant. In that respect, Jason Franklin was just like the head porter.
Franklin leant back against the counter. Relaxed, confident, and not as imposing as he had seemed in the kitchen. There was little physical resemblance to his father. He didn’t have the head porter’s narrow, hard features or his bulk. He was of average height, not much taller than Phil, with a slender, lithe build clad in a navy Reebok sweater and faded grey combat trousers. There was a two day growth of pale stubble on his chin and his light brown hair was tousled and unwashed. He ran a hand through it and Phil saw how small and delicate the fingers were, just like David Searles’.
Jason Franklin gestured to two chairs with a relaxed sweep of his arm. “Sit down. Relax, for God’s sake.”
Phil found himself sitting down cautiously. Sam had taken his seat instantly, another order obeyed without question - but with resentment. Phil looked at him, wondering at the mixture of fear and hatred in his eyes. Sam’s fingers dug into the green fabric upholstery.
Franklin inclined his head, staring at his Vans trainers for a moment before looking up again. “Well, Mr Lotson. Why do you think I summoned you here?” Arrogance, a self-satisfied smirk.
The eyes bothered Phil. The irises were an unusual shade of green, a bright emerald speckled with flecks of gold.
Exactly the same colour as Andy Hughes’ eyes.
Jason Franklin’s eyes had a different quality, though. They didn’t contain Andy’s hard, resentful glare. They had a singular look.
A look that everyone interviewed in the wake of last December’s events remembered clearly and had described in the only word that could be used.
Madness. Seeing it now, Phil knew what they meant. The way Franklin stared at them both was a manner in which he had never been scrutinised before. It wasn’t bright and gleaming, it wasn’t wide eyed and staring. It wasn’t the glazed stare of heavy medication, either - he’d either found a way of avoiding his meds or was unaffected by it.
The look was one that spoke of living in a different reality to others, though much more so. A gaze that spoke of some hidden knowledge, a terrible and ancient secret that set him apart from others more than his madness could ever do.
Or maybe the madness is a result of that knowledge, Phil thought with a shiver. Franklin’s eyes narrowed. Then he smiled.
“Do I make you nervous, Mr Lotson? Knowing what you dreamed this morning? Knowing what your friend dreamed earlier today as well? Does that scare you?”
“Should it?” A challenge had been thrown down, a gauntlet cast. Phil wasn’t going to be intimidated.
“I think it should. A real nightmare, wasn’t it? Your wife and son - and then you. Gutted like pigs in your punt, your blood flowing to join the scarlet waters of the Cam.”
Phil started. He rose from the seat.
“How could you possibly know - ‘
“And it’s almost as bad as the dream Andy Hughes had less than an hour ago. Rob Benson’s dream was a picnic in comparison. How do I know, Mr Lotson? It’s quite simple. I know because I was there. I shared your dream. I stood by you…I died with you.
“Heavy stuff, yes? I know more than you can possibly imagine. And I know that you, and your family, are going to die if you don’t listen to me.” Those eyes bored into Phil’s, the self-satisfied smirk gone. The terrible knowledge burned like a flare. Phil wilted under the glare and felt the seat rushing up to take him.
“That’s it, Mr Lotson. Sit back, sir. Enjoy the ride…”
“Franklin…” Sam warned.
“Shut it, Dawson. You don’t want me to tell Mr Lotson the things I know you got up to in the past, do you?” Franklin turned back to Phil, his snarl replaced with a sad smile.
“You’d think it would be a great gift, the ability to see into people’s minds, wouldn’t you? All the hopes and dreams of your fellow man laid out in front of you. No. Instead you see the filth that lurks in people’s minds, the immoral shit that sloshes around their souls.” He flicked his gaze back in Dawson’s direction briefly. “It’s a curse, Mr Lotson. Simple as that. Because I no longer have any control of whose mind I can read. And it can drive people mad. Weaker, less resilient people have collapsed under the strain.”
“But not you?” Sarcasm dripped from Phil’s words. Franklin was highly intelligent and extremely articulate, that was obvious and already well-documented. He had the arrogance and conceit that went with the self-awareness of his intelligence. But was he really unaware of his condition?
“If you’re not mad, why are you here?”
Franklin laughed. He seemed genuinely amused by Phil’s remark but it wasn’t a pleasant laugh. “‘To speak truth, the world is but a great Bedlam, where those that are more mad, lock up those who are less.’ I’ll let you work out who said that.”
Phil wasn’t impressed. “It’s only the truly insane who have no doubts about their sanity.”
Franklin shook his head, irritated. “No, Mr Lotson. It’s only the truly insane who ignore the warnings all around them. Who punish and incarcerate those who have the awareness and the guts to heed those warnings and do something positive.”
“Positive? Like trying to burn down a building with people in it?” Phil sneered. The newspaper reports were accurate, then. Jason Franklin still believed he was right to do the things he’d done, regardless of the cost to human life. You arrogant, self-righteous bastard.
The moment that thought ran through his mind Franklin’s breathing quickened. Twin spots of red appeared in his stubbled cheeks and the slack muscles in his arms tightened. Phil was aware of a discomforted shuffling in Sam’s seat but he kept his eyes locked firmly on Franklin’s impossibly emerald eyes. It was time to take a gamble.
“Sam, would you mind if you left Jason and myself alone for a moment?”
Even Franklin looked surprised by that. Sam coughed.
“No can do, Phil. Sorry.”
Phil turned in his chair. “Please, Sam. Jason is not going to attack me or give you any cause for grief. Remember, he wanted me here.”
Sam glared at Franklin. “I’m not happy about this, Phil. He’s not to be trusted, he plays games with you.”
Franklin rocked gently back and forth on the edge of the Formica counter.
“I think Mr Lotson’s suggestion is a good one. As he says, I’ll give you no cause for grief.” He grinned. “Twenty five quid or seventy five. Leave now and I’ll say no more.”
Sam’s sharp intake of breath sounded like the hiss of a venomous snake ready to strike. Phil stood up and put a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay, Phil, I’m going.” He stood up abruptly and unclipped a small rectangular object from his belt and handed it to Phil. “This is a Man Down alarm. At the first sign of trouble squeeze the two buttons together. That’ll have the Old Bill down here faster than it’ll take for me to finish kicking the shit out of him.”
“That won’t be necessary Sam. Trust me.” Phil took the alarm without breaking his stare with Franklin.
“Trust,” murmured Franklin after Sam left, closing the door to the hallway without locking it. “Interesting choice of words.”
Phil walked over to Franklin and placed the Man Down alarm on the counter. He stepped backwards and asked “What do you mean?”
“That only confirmed it.” Franklin pointed to the black plastic unit lying within easy reach. He didn’t pick it up. “You send the security out to show that you have no fear of me. So that I’ll feel more relaxed and comfortable in your company: more willing to confide in you. Bloody stupid. The consultants tried that on me when I first came here.”
“No need. He seems more scared of you than you are of him.”
“Because I know what he
is.”
“And that is?”
“Cheap. Very, very cheap.” Franklin cocked an ear to listen for approaching footsteps, or the shuffling of an eavesdropper trying to keep silent. “Well, he’s not earwigging. He trusts your judgement.”
“Why did you call him cheap?” Phil kept his voice low. He hadn’t intended the discussion to start like this but he was intrigued. Whatever Franklin knew about Sam Dawson, it was something Sam was disturbed by, something he wanted to keep secret.
“Twenty five pounds for a blow job. Seventy five for full anal.” Franklin laughed at Phil’s dropping jaw. “Have to pay your way through college somehow, and I get the impression he enjoyed it far more than he would flipping burgers for McDonalds.”
Phil’s eyes narrowed. “And you knew this by…looking into his mind? Or just listening to rumours from other staff? I know which is more likely.” It was still news to him though: he’d always remembered Sam surrounded by good looking girls. And he was married, with a second child on the way…
“You believe what you like, I know the truth. I knew the minute I was admitted here. But I only told him I knew tonight. To make him get you in here.”
Phil nodded slowly. Blackmail - and it worked, it had got him in. Sam was taking one hell of a risk but he obviously felt he had no choice. “Well, I’m here. Now you can tell me why.”
Franklin walked away from the counter, slowly and purposefully towards him. Phil’s back stiffened, his grip on the rapidly cooling coffee mug tightening.
Franklin stood over him. Then he took Sam’s seat and sank into it.
“I shared your dream, remember? Can you remember what the punt chauffeur looked like?”
Phil stared at Jason Franklin and his jaw dropped. Now he imagined the young man’s features hidden under a black cowl. Remembered the face smiling down at him in the punt. “Oh my God…”
Franklin shook his head. “I know, it’s amazing, isn’t it? That’s never happened to me before.” He leant back languidly in the chair, his thin hands clasped behind his neck, staring at the ceiling. “The psychiatrists would have a field day with this one. The symbolism: the blood in the water. You and your family punted down the Cam by a mythical representation of death. And you paid the ferryman - in blood.”
The Caretakers (2011) Page 17
