by Amy Cross
Dark Season VII: Testament
by Amy Cross
Kindle Edition
Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved
Published by Dark Season Books
This edition first published: February 2012
http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you enjoy it and wish to share it with others, please consider buying them their own copy. Feedback is always welcome. The author reserves all rights in respect of this work.
Other books in this series:
Dark Season: The Last Vampire
Dark Season II: Sentinel
Dark Season III: Army of Wolves
Dark Season IV: The Civil Dead
Dark Season V: The Life, Death, Life, Life and Death of Martin Keller
Dark Season VI: Gothos
Prologue
I can see it in their eyes: they're all terrified of me. It takes six of them to pull me from the bed: two on each arm, two on each leg, one to keep my head steady and a sixth standing by with a tranquilliser in case I manage to get free. As they carry me to the wheelchair, I start to struggle. I know what they're going to do, and I have to stop them. They don't understand, they'll never understand, what it will be like for me if they take me through that door. I can never leave this room.
As they try to put me in the wheelchair, I manage to get an arm loose. I grab the head of one of the orderlies, pull him towards me, then slam his face down into the arm of the wheelchair, breaking his nose and probably a few other bones. He falls away, blood pouring out of him, and I feel the familiar prick of a needle sliding into my shoulder from behind.
“Get him out of here!” shouts one of the orderlies, as the injured man is helped away.
The straps are tightened around my wrists and ankles. For a moment, just a moment, I feel the tranquilliser start to do its work, coursing through my veins. I'm supposed to sleep now, but it doesn't really work. They've tried everything, up to and including industrial elephant-grade drugs usually used by veterinarians to bring down large animals. It's cute, but they never really have any effect. If they want me to stop fighting, they'll have to kill me.
“We're going to take you to the observation room, John,” says one of the orderlies, leaning down to stare directly into my face. “Just for a short visit, do you understand? No-one's going to hurt you and it will all be over in less than half an hour”
I turn and stare at the door, which they've left open. They don't understand what's happening here. They don't understand how important the lead walls of this room have become to me.
“John, we have to take you to the observation room,” the orderly continues, speaking carefully and clearly, speaking close up into my ear this time. “There's really nothing to be scared of. Just relax and we'll be back in your room in no time, okay?”
The wheelchair is turned to face the door. I'm calm, but there's a reason for this: I'm gathering my strength, every ounce of my power, because one thing is very clear. There is no fucking way I am ever leaving this room.
“Okay, John,” says another orderly. “Calm down and enjoy the trip”. He starts to wheel me towards the door. At first, I don't do anything. I'm waiting until I have as much strength as possible. Finally, as the wheelchair is about to leave the room, I break free of the restraints, get to my feet, pick up the wheelchair and smash it into the faces of two of the orderlies. They crumple to the floor,.
I feel three or four little needles slide into my back, and I turn to face the final orderly, who has stabbed me with the last remaining syringes.
“Don't hurt me,” he begs. “Please don't hurt me!”
At this point, I make a mistake. I pause for a moment and regard him with something approaching compassion. I could snap his neck, or rip his head from his shoulders, but for just a split second I consider letting him live. And those few seconds are all he needs to run towards me, pushing me backwards and out through the door. By the time I hit the ground, the ringing has started in my head and the agony is so intense that I have to scream.
“Come on -” says the orderly, who has followed me out and is now sitting on top of me, “Don't be such a fucking baby”. He thinks he's going to drag me down the corridor. He thinks he's going to be the one who, after years and years, finally succeeds in getting me away from the room. Instead, I throw him into the wall and manage to crawl back through the door. I pull the door shut. The ringing has stopped now, and the only sound is the moaning of a few injured orderlies who I should have killed anyway. I crawl over to the darkest corner of the room. I need to rest. I need to recover my strength. When will these people learn? I must never leave this room. Not ever. All our lives depend on this.
1.
“Vampires are not real. Vampires are a fictional creation with their roots in 17th century medieval European mythology, updated periodically to reflect the fears of new generations. They exist only in books and films such as Dracula and Twilight, or in subcultures where people appropriate the identity of the vampire in order to modify their own sense of self. Do you agree or disagree with this statement?”
I stare at Dr. Penfold for a moment. He's a thin, old man with white hair and a kind but professional face. “Profoundly disagree,” I say eventually.
“Okay, Sophie,” he says, ticking a box on his form. “Next question. Belief in the paranormal, or supernatural, is a kind of emotional comfort blanket. It keeps us from facing the truth about existence beyond our mortal lives, which is that there is nothing else. Vampires and suchlike are in fact a secular substitution for the gods of old. Do you agree or disagree with this statement?”
I stare at him. I've been staring at him for half an hour now, and he still doesn't understand. “Profoundly disagree,” I say carefully, slowly, in the hope that he finally understands me.
He ticks another box. He opens his mouth to ask another question, but then he seems to have a different idea. “Sophie, I'm wondering if you understand the terminology that I'm using. Perhaps the concepts I'm introducing are a little above your level of education...”
“Profoundly disagree,” I say. “And I find your argument patronising, to say the least”.
He sighs. I feel like sighing, too. This is the third day in a row that I've had to sit here while Dr. Penfold reads out his lists of statements, most of which I disagree with. How much more of this am I supposed to take? It's as if he wants to drive me mad.
“Sophie, let me be clear about this,” Dr. Penfold says. “You won't leave this facility until you admit that your delusions about vampires are all in your head. I'm very serious on this point. Your parents were very clear on this -”
“My mother,” I say interrupting. “Not my parents. My mother. My father's dead”.
Dr. Penfold nods. “I'm sorry. Your mother was very clear, she's worried about you after what happened on Monday and she believes you need some time to readjust to reality”.
“What happened on Monday?” I ask.
He seems hesitant. “What happened on Monday doesn't matter. What matters is what happens today, and tomorrow”.
“I'm serious,” I say. “What happened on Monday?”
More hesitation. “Sophie, it's important that you consider the difference between reality and fantasy. What is happening to you now is real. The stories you tell about vampires are not real”.
“Vampire,” I say. “One vampire. Not vampires plural”.
“One vampire is no more real than a thousand vampires,” he says icily. He looks at his papers. “You were mugged last year, I see”.
I nod.
“Was it traumatic?”
I think about it for a moment. The mugging was the incident th
at led to me meeting Patrick for the first time. If I hadn't been mugged, maybe none of this would have happened. Then again, I kind of get the feeling that Patrick was going to come into my life somehow, sooner or later. He seems to have been constantly loitering on the edges, waiting for the right moment to approach me. “It was definitely traumatic,” I say eventually. “It hurt a lot”.
“Yet you seem to have no major injuries”.
“It was a long time ago,” I say. “The only reason I reported it was because I lost my wallet and I wanted to see if it had been handed in”.
“Was it sexual?” he asks.
“Do you mean, was I raped?” I reply. “No. Patrick saved me before anything like that happened”.
“Patrick is the vampire”.
I nod. “Yes, he is”.
“And he lives in an underground cave, correct?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I can tell he doesn't believe me and, to be honest, saying these things out loud is a little strange. “Correct,” I say.
“And he drinks blood, this vampire?”
“Not often,” I say.
“Does he turn into a bat?”
I shake my head. “He's not a cartoon character”.
“And are there other vampires?”
“There were,” I say. “But now he's the only one”.
Dr. Penfold nods, lost in thought. “And on the night of the mugging you were walking home alone, and it was past midnight when this happened?” I nod. “Sophie, doesn't that strike you as self-destructive behaviour? A pretty young girl like yourself walking home alone in a city, so late at night. Don't you think we're seeing a pattern of behaviour that is quite troubling?”
I hear the door open behind me. Turning, I see one of the orderlies waiting to escort me from the office. I guess the session must be over for now.
“What happened to your nose?” I ask the orderly, staring at the big bandage in the centre of his face.
“Our next session will be on Friday,” says Dr. Penfold. “Before then, I'd like you to think about what we talked about today, and perhaps try to come up with a list of reasons why we don't seem to have made very much progress. Perhaps try to work out what it is about your attitude that is maybe blocking us from reaching a point where we can find some common ground”.
I take a deep breath, then I sigh. “Isn't there anything I can do to prove this to you?”
Dr. Penfold looks around the room. “Is he here now?”
I shake my head. “He's not invisible,” I say. “And I can't just call him. He... He comes when he wants to come”.
“Perhaps he'll come to visit you,” Penfold says.
I stand up and head to the door. “There's no need for anyone to come and visit me. How long until I get out of here?” I ask, turning to face him.
He smiles, but it's a sad smile, one that seems to suggest he's not happy about the situation at all. I guess he's frustrated that I haven't started to break yet. I won't, either. “You'll be allowed to go home when you've shown progress,” he says vaguely.
“Which means?” I ask.
He sighs. “I think you'll have to admit that the whole vampire story was made up, before I can consider letting you return to the outside world. You'll have to come to me and tell me, directly and clearly, that the whole vampire story is something you made up”.
“I'll never say that,” I tell him. “Because it's not true”.
“We'll see,” he replies.
I turn and head to the door. I'm ready to go back to the ward anyway. These meetings with Dr. Penfold are boring and tiring at the same time. Not a fun combination. But before I go, I have one more thing to say to him. I look at him and smile. “If you don't believe me, all you have to do is give me a pregnancy test. I think he got me pregnant”.
He stares at me. “Okay,” he says finally. “I'll arrange it”.
2.
After lunch, I head down to the basement. After the events of yesterday, which resulted in five orderlies needing medical treatment for a variety of injuries, I feel it's time to check on Mr. Tarmey myself. Of course, this is the same ritual we go through every month: I order Tarmey to be removed from his room, he attacks and fights off my orderlies, and I end up coming down to try to persuade him to cooperate. So I imagine he's expecting me right about now.
I knock on his door before opening it. I've learnt to give him a moment to prepare for visitors. You never know what he's doing in there, hidden away in his little lead-walled room. He seems perfectly happy, reading and meditating and working out. In fact, were it not for the fact that he pointedly refuses to leave the room, I'd say John Tarmey is more or less perfectly normal.
“Come in,” he says.
I open the door and find he's sitting on the edge of his bed. It's very obvious that he was doing something else when I arrived, but whatever it was, he's tidied things away and is now waiting for me to enter.
“Do you know why I'm here, John?”
He sighs. “Because I broke the noses of half a dozen of your employees yesterday?”
“Actually, only two of them suffered broken noses,” I say. “The others suffered a range of injuries including a fractured cheek, two fracture eye sockets, several missing teeth, two broken arms and one lost earlobe. I think that's a record. You must be very proud”.
“You're the one who should be proud,” he says. “You're the one who keeps sending them in here”.
“So it's my fault?”
He shrugs. “We both know what happens when you try. You're the one who insists on pushing things”.
I walk over to his desk and look at the pile of books. Some Kafka, some George Bernard Shaw, and the complete Harry Potter series. He certainly has eclectic tastes. “Do you think I should give up?” I ask, picking up the books to take a look at them. “Should I let you rot down here alone?”
“Yes please,” he says.
I look at the papers on his desk. He has been writing again. I would dearly like to read his work, but I know that he would not allow that.
“Tell me,” he says. “You're in here alone with me. The walls are made of lead. No-one can hear a thing from outside. You've seen what I do to your men. Aren't you scared?”
I turn to him. “Scared of you?”
He nods and stands up. He's a tall man, with thick black curly hair and dark, menacing eyes. “Don't you worry that I'll turn on you? After all, this is a psychiatric hospital. Don't you worry that your patients are a little unstable?”
I smile. “We both know you're not unstable,” I say. “In fact, I think that's part of your problem. Everyone is a little unstable from time to time in their daily lives. But not you, Mr. Tarmey. You're absolutely the most stable person I've ever met”. I look over at the door. “Apart from when we try to take you out of this room, obviously”.
“Obviously,” he repeats.
I pick up another book from the desk. Dracula, by Bram Stoker. I thumb through the pages.
“You believe in vampires, Dr. Penfold?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “But I have a patient who does. She thinks she has made friends with such a creature”.
“Stupid kid,” says Tarmey.
“People believe what they want to believe,” I reply. I put the book down. “My job is to temper their fantasies with a little reality. It's a fascinating book, Dracula. The original, I mean. Back when vampires were creatures of horror. These days, they tend to be featured in fantasy stories rather than true horror. But when you think about it, they really are monstrous and horrific”.
“That they are,” says Tarmey.
I head to the door. “I have to get back to work,” I say. “Are you sure you wouldn't like to come up with me?”
“No thank you,” he says, watching as I head out.
I start pulling the door shut. “I'll get your out of this room one day, Mr. Tarmey,” I say.
“We'll all suffer if you do, Dr. Penfold,” he replies, as the door slams shut.
&n
bsp; 3.
“Why aren't you afraid of clocks?” asks Alex, the nice but clearly mentally unwell guy who has decided to sit next to me as I stare out the window. He seems to be about my age. Young, messed up. “Horrible things,” he continues. “Always ticking, always counting down towards the end”. I ignore him, but he keeps talking. “Do you know what it means when all the clocks stop?”
I turn to him. “What does it mean?”
He leans close to me. “It means you're dead”.
I smile and nod. “I'll remember that”.
He grins. “It's not important,” he says. “It's potatoes for dinner today. I saw them bringing in sacks of potatoes. What do you think it means?”
I open my mouth to say something, but instead my name is called out from across the room. “Sophie Hart!” shouts an orderly. “Visitor!”
I haul myself to my feet. “Sorry, Alex,” I say, heading over to the orderly, who escorts me the short distance to the visiting room. There, I'm not particularly surprised to find my mother waiting for me. She looks sombre and sad, and very tired. The room doesn't help: it's small, pretty bare, and has no furniture other than the table in the middle and a few chairs.
The orderly shuts the door, remaining in the room as I sit opposite my mother.
“How are you getting on?” she asks.
“Not bad,” I say, “considering you committed me to a loony bin”.
She's clearly unhappy with the term 'loony bin'. “It's a psychiatric hospital. And I didn't have you committed, I had you brought here for an extended evaluation”.
“I think you'll find,” I say carefully, “that forcing me to be here is kind of the same thing as committing me. Even if you don't want to say the words”.
My mother sighs. Over the years, I've become so accustomed to her just sitting on the sofa watching TV, it's actually something of a surprise to find her out and about in the real world. She seemed to be increasingly disconnected, but now she has apparently reconnected in the most annoying way possible.
