by Phil Walden
As far as
the eye
can see
Phil Walden
Copyright © 2015 by Phil Walden
ISBN 9781512051667
For
Claire Michael Elizabeth Rachel
Chapter One
Cold
Engulfed consumed
The taste of blood
God’s hazy
Drowning with the moon
*
That night at the Woodlands Mental Institution was to prove extraordinary, not only for those who were there, but also for those whose lives would be touched by what transpired.
It began with a young nurse, her face ablaze with excitement, rushing along a white, brightly lit corridor. Her pounding rhythmic footsteps tore through the compliant institutional silence. Whatever he was doing, she said to herself, however important, Thorne simply had to know.
She hurried towards the door of the consultant’s office and threw it open. “I need to see the doctor.”
A lone secretary, irritated by the disturbance, looked up from her keyboard. “He’s busy. He said no interruptions.”
The nurse swept past. “I’m sorry. This can’t wait.”
*
Edward Thorne was irritated even before his wayward visitor arrived. Joe Start had been late. He was always late but this time his arrival well into the evening was particularly galling. More so in that having finally put in an appearance, the journalist now seemed completely indifferent to what he was asking him to do. The psychiatrist’s fist banged down hard on the table. “Damn it, Start. You have to take this seriously.”
Start did not flinch. His back to Thorne, he continued to stare out into the darkness, his tall, lean figure framed in the open French window, a stiff breeze billowing the folds of his shabby suit.
Thorne brandished a weighty file at him. “It’s absolutely vital Woodlands survives.” He slumped back in his chair, took off his spectacles and pushed back his grey thinning hair. He rubbed his eyes. “Well?”
Start couldn’t deny that Thorne’s mission was important or that the story itself was newsworthy and might even gather momentum. But that was the problem. It would need to be followed up, had all the makings of a long running campaign and would take time, effort and commitment. As such, Start wasn’t interested. He swung around. Behind him a gust of wind slammed the French window shut.
“I can see the headline now. Fens’ funny farm folds,” Start mocked.
“You can take the boy out of Fleet Street, eh, Start?” Thorne’s remark was met with a steely contempt. He had obviously hit a nerve.
“Try giving me something newsworthy. Nurse batters patient, doctor plays God.”
“You call that news. I call it scaremongering.”
“Then you’re wasting my time.”
Thorne fought hard to control his anger. Losing his temper would give Start every excuse to walk out and right now he desperately needed his help. Thorne had spent the best part of his working life here. When he had first joined the staff as a consultant psychiatrist, it had been a back water establishment, a dumping ground for what were considered hopeless cases. Buried deep in the country, the hospital had gone unnoticed and unheralded, which was precisely the intention of the policy makers in London, anxious to laud their successes but hide their failures. Over the course of the next fifteen years, he accepted more responsibility, drove through radical change and rose ultimately to be head of the institution. Woodlands was transformed.
The incarceration but subsequently successful treatment of a high society heiress had begun the process. It filled the gossip columns of the tabloids, drawing national attention to his work. Since then he had spared no effort in raising the profile of the hospital until it had become recognised as a centre of excellence in the care offered to the most seriously ill patients. However, the onset of the recession and the ensuing attack on public services had seen the pendulum swing back. The hospital was earmarked for closure. He was not prepared to accept that.
And so Thorne tried again. “Look. If these planned cuts go ahead, this place goes for good. And so do the chances of recovery for some of the most severely damaged minds in the country. We’re their only hope.”
“It’s a non-story. If you were a general hospital, then it might be different,” Start replied.
“I understand that. I just thought you might have some contacts, a way of getting us some wider publicity.”
“Not me. Not anymore.”
They both jumped as the door burst open.
The breathless nurse stood in the doorway. She gasped, “Come quickly! It’s Angel!”
Thorne just about deciphered her garbled words before hurrying along the corridor to the small side ward from which the nurse had so recently dashed. Comforting voices soothed from a small radio set on a table in the dimly lit room. A frail woman in her mid-thirties, clothed in a ghostly white gown stood erect, arms outstretched, bathed in the pale light of a low full moon streaming through the window. She was staring straight out into the darkness. Not one fibre of her body moved.
Thorne stood in front of her. “How long has she been like this?”
The nurse, nervous and wary, stood a little way back. “I don’t know. I’ve only just found her.”
“Has she spoken?”
“Not a single word.”
Thorne stared into Angel’s dull, unresponsive eyes. “This is incredible.”
Start saw his interrogator’s abrupt departure as an excuse to make his escape. However, the secretary, knowing the importance of his visit, had other ideas and despite his surly protestations, managed to cajole him across the wards to bid his farewell.
Thorne was shining a light into the eyes of Angel, who now sat bolt upright in her bed. The secretary quietly coughed.
“Sorry to disturb you, Doctor. But Mr Start. He’s leaving. I thought you’d want to know.”
Thorne whipped round. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
Start leant into the room. “No worries. We were through anyway.”
Thorne threw the light down onto the nearby bed. “You don’t get away that easily. I’ll see you out.”
They marched along the corridor with Thorne struggling to keep pace.
“Take Angel back there. She‘s a perfect example of what I’ve been talking about. What you’ve just seen is a minor miracle.”
“Is it?” Start yawned.
“We’d all but given up hope. No other hospital provides the length or quality of care which could allow that to happen, especially after all this time.”
“Really.”
“Yes. I mean the police picked her up some twenty years ago. She was found collapsed by the roadside in some remote part of the Fens.”
“Drunk was she?”
“She was suffering from hypothermia,” Thorne chided. “She had head injuries, bruising to the side of her body.”
“Some sort of accident then.”
“Possibly. She fell into a coma. She only came out of it five years ago. Hasn’t spoken since,” Thorne added.
Start shrugged. He stopped and looked around. “How do I get out of this place?”
“Down here.” Throne manoeuvred him along a corridor. “After her physical wounds were dealt with, they moved her to a specialist unit. When she regained consciousness, they sent her here. She had and still has acute mental issues.”
“I gathered that.”
Thorne ignored him and pressed on. “The thing is we don’t know her real name. She was never reported missing. No one’s ever come forward to claim her. The nurses call her Angel.”
Start feigned some interest. “So, go on then. I can see you’re dying to tell me. What’s wrong with her?”
>
“It’s called severe catatonic blackout trauma.”
“And for us ordinary mortals?”
“Her mind’s paralysed. No speech and no memory; nothing.”
They reached the hospital entrance.
“There’s never been a case like it. We’ve tried everything. No change,” Thorne continued. He placed himself between Start and the swing doors, barring his way. “Until today, that is.”
“Someone must know who she is.”
“That’s just it. No one does. I’m told the police looked into it at the time. The Press showed some interest. No one with your track record though.”
The journalist delivered a withering look. He threw a cigarette into his mouth and pushed unceremoniously past, pounding down the steps and into the night air.
Thorne shouted after him. “The Start of old would be all over this.”
Start cupped a hand over a lit match and drew in deeply as he pounded towards his car. He wrenched open the driver’s door of a mud splattered London taxi and jumped in. He slammed the door on Thorne’s insistent and accusing voice.
“He’d want to know who and what.”
Start turned the ignition key. The engine spluttered into life. He revved hard but failed to drown out the finale of Thorne’s verbal attack.
“And most of all why.”
The car sped off, gravel flying from the spinning, squealing wheels. Thorne shrugged. He wasn’t wholly surprised. The Joe Start he was trying to reach no longer existed. The fire was extinguished, the passion gone. He watched the black cab move down the straight, sparse drive, through the clutch of trees guarding the gates, before disappearing into the flat, bleak, impenetrable gloom beyond.
Chapter Two
A lithe stewardess worked her way along the aisle of the wide bodied jet, pausing to talk to passengers on either side. She pushed through the curtain to the first class section and stopped by the curled up, sleeping figure of Thomas Catchpole. She gently shook his shoulder. “Excuse me, sir”.
The tanned, handsome face beneath the sharply cut, dark hair jerked awake. A copy of the San Francisco Chronicle slid to the floor.
The stewardess bent to retrieve it. “Sorry to wake you. We land in ten minutes.”
Catchpole took the paper from her. “OK. Thanks.” He had grown used to attentive treatment. In recent years work had ensured at least business class, especially on internal flights, but this was definitely something else. Pre flight champagne and canapés in an exclusive club lounge had been followed by access directly onto the aeroplane, where the section closest to the cockpit held just thirty two seats, all of which reclined into beds. Food and drink had been liberally offered and served by specifically assigned crew throughout the flight. Proof, he told himself of how much they wanted him, how much they needed his vision, strength and ruthless will to win. That last quality had served him well throughout his life. He had every intention that it would continue to do so.
The plane banked sharply. He pulled himself onto one arm and gazed out of the porthole, looking down at the swirling, endless reach of London below. The first shafts of light were beginning to emerge from the east. He nodded, beaming broadly, his face full of eager anticipation and relish.
Catchpole strode through Arrivals, quickly scanning the assembled throng waiting to greet his fellow travellers. His searching gaze settled on a thickly bespectacled and stylish young woman standing directly in his path.
“Lucy Hass?” he asked.
She held out a manicured hand. “Welcome home, Mr Catchpole.”
“Please. Call me Tom.”
Anxiously glancing at her watch, she quickly turned.
“Sorry to rush you. But we’re keen the press conference makes the early bulletins.” Her open arm swept him along.
“Of course, best not keep the sharks waiting.”
She marched ahead. Her fiercely tied pony tail swished from side to side as she moved. He trailed along behind her. He had known many like her in America, intelligent, resourceful and so very, very keen. The same efficient, energetic and purposeful front presented to the world in the vain hope of one day being fully accepted into the political classes, forging a worthwhile career and sampling a taste of power. With hair down, face cleansed and stripped of the mask, what would she look like? Who would she be?
“I’m seconded from Central Office. Happy to help you in any way I can.” He caught up with her. Piercing blue eyes angled up into his. “I’m here to see to your every need.”
*
The conference hall rocked with the prolonged applause of excited party activists. Catchpole paced the wide stage, his imploring hands outstretched. Words flowed from his mouth but the party leader, James Devaney, heard none of them. Instead from his diplomatically chosen position, set amongst the party faithful and towards the middle of the room, he watched Shadow Cabinet colleagues, lined up along the front row, seemingly hanging upon every utterance.
He sighed. He had appointed them all but knew he could trust none of them. The plethora of leaks, designed to weaken his authority and therefore challenge his position, had to emanate from one of them. Who else was privy to the confidential nature of the information fed to the media. Dominic Wilson and Alex McKenzie were able and proven achievers but unashamedly ambitious. They had made friends and manipulated their enemies with shrewd skill to build political bases to threaten his hegemony. Both in their late forties they were becoming impatient, as was the slightly younger Caroline Bruce, who was seated immediately to their right. She glanced back at him and smiled. Devaney smiled back. It was all pretence and they both knew it.
She had been different. He had first come across her as a young party aide, fresh out of university. Her sharp mind and determination had drawn attention and, in time, respect and admiration from both the hierarchy and grassroots of the party. With her popularity and dedication it was no surprise to see her rise effortlessly through the ranks, helped, he liked to think, by his support and patronage. But, in recent years, even she had grown restless and distant, as the prospect of the ultimate prize began to beckon.
Short term pragmatism over long term principle; it was democracy’s fundamental flaw and seemed to inhabit each and every one of them. They had all been shaped in the same shallow image, moulded into a homogenous whole, dedicated solely to the pursuit and winning of power. Harry Spenser, with his sound base of support amongst the right of the party, was meant to have been Devaney’s trump card. Someone younger to threaten the cabal of would be successors, force them to watch their own backs rather than aim daggers at his. Critics questioned Spenser’s judgement particularly his growing nationalism and anti-European stance. Others asked why someone with such a privileged background should even belong in the party let alone be promoted. His family’s long association with Methodism and its philosophy of street Christianity had easily deflected that complaint. However, Spenser had proved a shade disappointing. He’d been careful, content to support and advise colleagues rather than emerge as a distinctive voice in his own right within the Shadow Cabinet.
Now Catchpole swung an arm around, in the direction of a banner proclaiming:
“Twenty First Century Britain: A Fair and Sustainable Future for All!”
His firm and fervent voice boomed: “My message to the British people is simple: this radical agenda will work for you, your family and your country!” He held up his arms in triumph.
The whole hall rose to its feet, applauding with manic fever. Members of the Shadow Cabinet leapt up to congratulate him, to pat him on the back and envelop him in a collective embrace, before turning towards the throng to share in the acclaim.
Lucy Hass, leaning against a side wall, surveyed the ecstatic audience. Her eye caught Devaney’s. She nodded her approval. He lowered his own head in brief acknowledgement. Tom Catchpole had been a shrewd move, he told himself, even by his own devious standards. And to be fair it had been Spenser who had first recommended this new voice from America. He jumped
from his seat and began the long walk to the platform, grasping the proffered hands, the compulsory rictus grin stamped across his face. His position demanded that he gallop up the steps to demonstrate his still youthful vigour, his colleagues parting to allow him to greet the hero of the hour. He held Catchpole’s right arm aloft to resounding cheers from the floor. Patrick Carlton appeared on his left, and raised the other arm. Good old Paddy, the only one, solid, trustworthy and loyal. So here was tomorrow’s headline photograph, meticulously orchestrated: the old, the established and the new, all in perfect harmony.
Yes, Tom was a smart move: young, keen and most of all current, with zeitgeist ideas to energise policy and revitalise grassroots support. He would be a much needed tonic for the party and the movement as a whole. But most important of all, if managed and moulded, he might just be the saviour of James Devaney.
*
To a background of soft music and excited chatter, Harry Spenser plopped cubes of ice into two glasses, each a third full of brandy. He wrapped his stubby hands around them, before meandering his way through the mingling MPs and party workers, buffet food and drinks in hand, gathered in a penthouse suite on London’s South Bank. He passed Lucy Hass, exuding charm and pleasantries as she glided from one group to another, dispensing champagne.
Tom Catchpole lounged alone against a balcony overlooking the River Thames and the brightly floodlit Palace of Westminster. Mesmerised by its shimmering reflection in the dark water below, he contemplated how much he had missed England. The changing seasons, the quiet peace of its countryside, even the relentless showers of rain. It was home, something sun drenched California had never been and never could be. He jolted as a short stocky figure emerged through the open patio door.
“There you are, Tom,” Spenser called out.
