Rookwood Asylum

by David Longhorn

  “You’re a Seventies throwback, Mike,” Paul answered, smiling. “After what I went through with Mari, you think I’m just going to dive into another relationship?”

  “Relationship?” Mike’s voice rose an octave. “Mate, you need to get back on the horse, get your leg over. Nothing complicated, just a good bit of old fashioned –”

  “Gotta go, train’s here,” Paul said, ending the call. “See you later. I’ll bring a celebration curry, plus a bottle of something.”

  As the train rattled its way through the suburbs of Tynecastle, Paul pondered his next move. He could move most of his stuff out of storage, take up residence in a new home. That fresh start would be the ideal time to begin a much-postponed project; his new book.

  No more excuses, he told himself. You’ve got to get something out there. Publish or perish.

  The train stopped and more passengers got on. A young woman sat opposite Paul. He noticed her short skirt and fine legs in sheer hose. He made himself look out of the window, think of something irrelevant. He recalled the missing cat posters on the trees outside Rookwood. Then he tried to visualize the face of the gray-haired woman.

  What was it about her that seemed familiar? Paul wondered. I must have seen her somewhere before. But where?

  ***

  “Hey, kid,” said Doug. “Want to do me a favor?”

  Sammy looked up from his phone. He had wolfed down his sandwich and Snickers bar so he could spend more of his lunch break playing Space Fruit Jamboree. He was about to level up, but he could not ignore a senior worker. And everyone was senior to Sammy.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” he said cautiously.

  “You know that Irish bloke, Declan?” Doug asked. “Well, could you go and find him and ask him if he’s got a reversible drill?”

  Sammy stood up, put his phone away, and looked suspiciously at Doug. The older man had fooled him before. He had never heard of a reversible drill. Seeing Sammy’s expression, Doug held up his hands in a show of contrition.

  “Oh, now come on, lad!” Doug protested. “This is important. You see, those oversized holes of yours need to be filled in, and for that, you need a reversible drill. But we ain’t got one – not standard equipment, you see. Declan’s a general handyman, so he might have one lying about. Get it?”

  Sammy nodded reluctantly. Just because he had never heard of a piece of specialist equipment did not mean it didn’t exist. And if he refused to help Doug, and Doug complained to the foreman, Pavel might simply sack him. The thought of going home to his mother and little sister gave Sammy a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go and ask.”

  It’s a lie, said a little voice in his head. It’s a dirty trick, a lie, another way of making you look stupid.

  Sammy tried to ignore the voice, but then it was joined by another one. As he made his way out of the East Wing and into the main block, his head seemed to be filling with voices. He stopped in the corridor to put his hands over his ears, but it had no effect. Far from it. The voices grew louder. And they were all telling him the same thing. As the corridor lights winked out, he heard all the voices become one. It was a sneering, superior voice, posh and full of itself.

  They are going to get rid of you, Sammy, they are going to ruin your life.

  “Shut up!” he hissed, and started to run down the corridor, heading for the foyer, wanting to simply be in the sunlight.

  ***

  “Wow!” exclaimed Mike Bryson. “You really can’t afford this. You do know that, right?”

  “It’s cheaper than it looks,” Paul said patiently. “As I’ve told you many times.”

  “Well, it’s your overdraft,” declared Mike, stopping his Peugeot outside Rookwood. “Let’s get all your tatty possessions inside this pristine dwelling place, so you can start dragging it down to your level.”

  Paul had to laugh at that. He had been couch-surfing at Mike’s place for over a month, and his friend had not once complained. This was despite Paul’s tendency to cover every available surface with books, journals, coffee cups, and the remnants of fast food meals.

  “I’ll have to be careful not to mess the place up,” he admitted, standing by as Mike opened the trunk of the Peugeot. “All sorts of fancy rules on tenant’s behavior.”

  Mike handed Paul a couple of boxes of books.

  “Well, the point is you’ve got a place of your own now – a fine bachelor pad!”

  Both elevators were out of order today. Mike rolled his eyes, asked if there was a service elevator they could use. Paul admitted that he had not asked about that obvious point the previous day. There was nobody in the small office Kate used. They put the boxes down and went in search of Declan, who almost ran into them as he emerged from his office.

  “Ah, sorry fellas,” he said, when Paul explained the problem. “But the service elevator is on the blink as well. I can help you shift anything awkward, furniture and that, just give me a call.”

  Paul put Declan’s number into his phone. As he finished, he looked past the Irishman, then stared. A large group of people seemed to be advancing along the corridor toward them in semi-darkness. It was a menacing sight, and Paul felt a sudden irrational frisson. Then the lights flickered, and all he could see was one moon-faced young man in workman’s clothes. Declan turned, greeted the stranger as Sammy.

  “See you later,” Paul said. “Gotta get working on that slipped disc.”

  As they began the climb to the second floor Mike began to ask about neighbors. Paul decided not to mention Liz.

  Besides, he thought. I’m not sure if she actually lives here. She didn’t say she did, not in so many words.

  “You’ve gone a bit quiet,” said Mike, over his shoulder. “Not having second thoughts, are we?”

  “Nah,” Paul responded. “I’ve got a good feeling about this. Fresh start, fresh challenges. It’s all good.”

  Perhaps it was just being in the stairwell, but Paul thought his voice sounded hollow.

  ***

  “Are you sure it’s a reversible drill you’re wanting, son?” Declan asked. “Not a tin of striped paint, say? Or how about a long stand? Maybe I could do you a pail of steam, since I’m at a loose end?”

  Sammy felt the sinking feeling again, butterflies in his stomach. He had been made a fool of, again. He was away from work, and his lunchbreak was over. Pavel might even now be wondering where he was, cursing the useless apprentice. Declan, seeing Sammy’s expression, smiled wanly and touched his arm lightly.

  “Ah, it was that Doug that sent you, wasn’t it?”

  Sammy nodded.

  “That bastard,” said Declan, “trying to drop you in it. I’ll come back with you, have a word with Pavel, how would that be?”

  Sammy shook his head, unable to speak, shook off the Irishman’s hand. Anger, a volcanic rage that he had never felt before, seemed to possess him and drive all thoughts from his head. His vision seemed to fail for a moment, his surroundings growing darker, blurred, awash with shadows. Shadows that spoke.

  They’ll never give you a chance, any of them. It’s just like at school, making fun of the stupid boy, mocking you, so unfair.

  Sammy could only just hear Declan talking to him, see the Irishman’s concerned expression. The builder turned away, began to walk back towards the East Wing. Around him the shadows crowded, faces just visible at the edge of his vision, words filling his mind with anger, hatred, despair. He felt himself swept along on a tide of exultant rage, and gradually, all that was Sammy was washed away. What was left was a shell inhabited by dozens of minds that jostled and bickered for control.

  Sammy, now a spectator in his own body, watched himself push through the plaster-spattered plastic sheeting. He was in the East Wing proper now, and the voices in his head grew louder, more strident. They called for revolt, for blood, for death and destruction. Part of Sammy still wanted to resist their call, to do the right thing. But the mob infesting his skull was too strong, too
loud, too full of rage.

  Rage at the living. The dead are so angry.

  Sammy saw Doug, smirking, his mouth moving, a finger pointing. The chorus of fury was too loud to make out anything Doug said, and soon the jokester was frowning, clearly puzzled, asking a question. Sammy walked right past him, into the old operating theater where Pavel and the others were working. Pavel frowned, asked a question, but again, Sammy could not hear him. Instead, he walked over to the masonry drill, picked it up, turned, walked back out of the room.

  Doug was coming along the corridor, smirking again, but this time the mocking smile faltered. Sammy felt his arms raise the drill, press a finger down on the button. Even with the furious roar of the voices in his head, the powerful whine of the motor was still audible. It sounded good. It sounded inevitable, as if everything had been leading up to this moment of blood and pain and terror.

  Doug reacted too slowly. He was still walking towards Sammy, still bringing himself into danger when he realized what was about to happen. Doug flung up a hand and the drill tore into fingers, sending flesh flying against the walls. Blood spattered over Sammy’s face. His body lunged forward, the raging mob not caring if he fell, if his stolen body was injured. The important thing, the only thing, was to drive the whirring metal into Doug.

  Sammy, still a spectator, felt a thrill of horror mingled with satisfaction as the drill did its work.

  Chapter 3

  “Hello!” said Mike. “I think one of your neighbors is checking you out.”

  Paul thought of Liz, and almost dropped the boxes he was carrying. It was not the pale girl, but an actual child Mike was talking about. The girl had ginger hair, huge blue eyes, and was wearing a dark school uniform. Paul realized she was the child who had been peeping at him earlier.

  “I’m Mike, what’s your name?”

  The girl looked up at Mike with a disapproving expression.

  “Children are not supposed to talk to strange men,” she said. “You know that.”

  Mike looked abashed, but only for a moment.

  “I’m not strange,” he protested. “Just a bit peculiar at times. And my transatlantic friend here is as respectable as they come.”

  Mike indicated Paul, who smiled at the girl. Now that he could see her more clearly, the child he had caught watching him when he had been viewing the apartment before looked a little skinny, undersized, her expression wary. The school uniform seemed slightly shabby, with traces of what might have been oatmeal on the black-and-green plaid skirt. The girl was standing on the landing peering at them, and behind her the door to an apartment was open. A woman’s voice called out.

  “Ella? Who are you talking to?”

  “Just some men,” Ella replied. “They’re moving boxes. One says he’s peculiar.”

  “Just moving in, upstairs,” Mike called. “Nothing strange about us, honest.”

  The woman who emerged from the flat was plump, with flaming red hair braided into what looked like a copper cable hanging down her dark jacket. Her manner was harassed, her expression slightly hostile.

  But Brits often look like that when you first meet ‘em, Paul thought.

  Mike, always garrulous, introduced them both. The woman still looked sour, but had no option but to reciprocate. She was Neve Cotter, her daughter was Ella, and they were running late. There was a meaningful pause as Neve waited for the men to get out of her way. Then mother and child were gone, with just a perfunctory ‘Good Morning’ from Neve. Ella gave Paul a long, appraising look just before she turned the corner of the stairwell.

  “You could be in there,” Mike said. “Overworked single mothers, they can’t afford to be picky when it comes to dating.”

  Paul shook his head in mock despair. Since Paul had split with Mari, Mike had spent almost every waking hour telling his friend to get back into the dating scene. Paul had repeatedly pointed out that he had no intention of doing anything of the kind. Mike ignored him.

  “Seriously, mate,” Mike said, as he dumped his boxes in the middle of Paul’s new living room. “You need to get back on the pony.”

  “Don’t you mean the horse?” Paul asked.

  “Baby steps,” Mike shot back. “Start small. Get to know the redhead on the first floor, try out a few lines, maybe invite her round for dinner.”

  “I need to actually move in first,” Paul pointed out. “And since there’s no working elevator, that might be difficult. What with me needing a bed, and so forth. In the meantime, let’s at least get the rest of the stuff out of your car.”

  The ambulance arrived just as they reached the bottom of the stairs, its piercing siren rendering all talk impossible. Declan was standing in the foyer, hands covered in blood, standing by a flustered-looking Kate Bewick. The siren cut out, paramedics rushed in, and the manager proceeded to lead them towards the East Wing.

  “Has there been an accident?” Mike asked.

  Declan looked at the Englishman, pale-faced, clearly confused.

  “I went after him,” he stammered. “I thought the lad was looking upset, a bit out of it, so I went after him. If I’d been a bit quicker –”

  Declan looked at his hands.

  “We should get you cleaned up,” Paul said, speaking gently. “Is there a washroom?”

  As Declan washed the blood off, he tried to describe what he had seen. Paul gathered that a building worker had seriously injured, or maybe killed, a colleague. Paul, standing in the doorway of the washroom, peered out as the paramedics carried out a stretcher. The figure on it had its head covered.

  “Guess he’s dead,” Paul said quietly. “Jesus, that’s awful.”

  “Too right,” Mike replied, craning to see. “But look who’s coming now.”

  A police car was drawing up. Declan, who had finished drying his hands, froze when he saw it, and Paul noticed the Irishman move sideways, putting Mike between him and the door. Kate Bewick met the two uniformed officers at the door, then ushered them along. Once the cops were out of sight Declan seemed to relax and led the friends back to his office.

  “So, was it deliberate?” Mike asked, as Paul poured boiling water into three mugs. The smell of instant coffee filled the small room.

  “Looks like it,” said the caretaker. “But it’s bloody insane. That lad was as meek as a – as a lamb. Not too bright, maybe, but nice enough. And now this.”

  “You mean he attacked someone?” Paul asked.

  Declan nodded.

  “It was bloody carnage in there, man!” he whispered. “I’ve not seen anything like it since – for a long time.”

  Mike produced a hip flask and poured a measure of ‘the good stuff’ into Declan’s mug. The Irishman thanked him, took a gulp, choked slightly. Again, Paul noticed the patch where the tattoo had been erased, but decided not to ask about it. Instead, Paul and Mike between them coaxed out some details of the incident.

  “There have been accidents before,” Declan added. “It’s why the East Wing’s still not finished. Everything goes wrong there. Power surges, floorboards giving way, the roof collapsing. Bloody place is jinxed. If it was up to me, I’d just knock it down, make do with the other two blocks.”

  Mike slapped Paul on the back.

  “Well done, pal,” he said with mock-heartiness. “You’ve moved into a cursed asylum.”

  “Piss off, Mike,” Paul replied sourly. “I’m sure it’s just a run of bad luck.”

  Declan finished off his coffee, put the mug down. He looked out of the window, over the pleasant, sunlit turf that fell away toward the gates. A flock of black birds was rising from the lawn. Paul wondered if they were rooks.

  “Maybe it is bad luck, but – this place,” Declan hesitated, then went on. “It’s got a reputation. East Wing especially, but the whole place – the history is dark, not pleasant. I looked into it at first, then I stopped looking.”

  Voices in the corridor told them that Kate was on her way back, accompanied by the police. Declan stiffened, and Paul saw a hint of pan
ic in the caretaker’s face. Then the Irishman became impassive, took a breath, straightened up.

  “All right, gentlemen,” Declan said. “Best get along or the Peelers will be taking statements, wasting your bloody time. And yes, you can move the rest of your stuff up. Business as usual, eh?”

  In the event, the police showed no interest in questioning anyone and departed a few minutes later. The construction workers left shortly afterward. Declan pitched in to help Paul and Mike finish up faster and told them the workers would not be back.

  “They quit?” Paul asked, surprised. “I’d have thought they couldn’t afford to just walk off the job.”

  “The foreman just gave up,” Declan explained. “He said he couldn’t work in these conditions. Kate naturally assumed he was after more money, but when she offered to bump up their bonuses they still buggered off.”

  They finished moving boxes to Paul’s apartment, and Declan promised to chase up the ‘useless wankers’ who were supposed to fix the elevators. He predicted that Paul would be able to get his furniture out of storage in ‘a week or so, tops.’ Paul thanked the caretaker, but wondered if he would really be moving in soon. He remarked, half seriously, that the jinx on Rookwood seemed to be hindering him a little.

  “Ah, it’ll all work out,” Mike said cheerfully as they stepped out into the sunlight. “And when you do move out of my place, you will miss my home cooking. I can always bring one of my famous curries round for the housewarming.”

  “I can feel my stomach rejoicing at the mere thought,” grimaced Paul.

  He glanced up at the front of the building and saw a face at a window. It was looking down at him from the second floor. He thought it might be Liz, and took a step back, shielding his eyes, but the glare from the sunlight meant he could not make out any features. Then the face was gone.

  “Come on,” Mike said, “we passed a promising pub about a mile down the road. See if they do real ale, decent grub.”