by David Jester
36
Malcolm remembered a struggle. He remembered fighting someone who had complete control over him; remembered being helpless as they lifted him, twisted him and moved him against his will as if he were a piece of clay that they could mold as they saw fit. He remembered trying to punch, trying to kick, and trying to squirm, but managing nothing more than a tremble; he remembered trying to shout, trying to scream and to bite, but managing nothing more than a drooling mumble.
He slipped in and out of consciousness. He woke up a few times, opening his eyes to see his attackers grinning, chatting, and laughing. He also remembered seeing someone else, the men that had attacked him and Darren had gone and were replaced by a wizened man with a curious expression. He also remembered seeing Darren—his head slumped over the back of a chair—and he even remembered seeing Eddie, who had a curious expression of delight and intrigue on his face.
Malcolm wasn’t sure which of his memories had been real and which ones were dreams, but he continued to remember, continued to experience, until he eventually experienced a flash of reality and he returned to the world of the living. He opened his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time and knew they were going to stay open. He could still feel the drug in his system, the effect it had on his muscles, his nerves, and his mind. He was weak, sedate, and he struggled to think or move, but he was regaining control with every passing moment.
His vision was still struggling and he couldn’t see anything but bright lights beaming into his eyes and causing a painful throbbing in his skull. He wanted to close his eyes and avoid the pain, but he didn’t want to slip into unconsciousness again so he kept them open and tried his best to ignore it.
He heard voices behind him, there were at least two of them. One of them sounded old and calm, the other sounded young and excited. And although he didn’t think they were the attackers, they sounded strangely familiar.
He managed to turn his head, edging his neck muscles incrementally and feeling the strain on his neck, his head, and his back. He saw a shape next to him, a slumped form sitting, hunched over in a chair. He knew it was Darren and he could tell that his friend hadn’t woken up yet.
Like his friend next to him, Malcolm had also been restrained. The ropes tied his ankles and wrists tightly to the chair; he could feel the abrasive material cutting into his flesh. He didn’t know how long he had been out, had no way of telling, but he was slumped forward with his back arched and he had seemingly been in that position for a while, because his back was aching and felt stiff.
His muscles were waking up, tingling with pins and needles as the blood flow was restored. He felt the fogginess in his mind subside, felt rational thought and common sense return. He could see more now. He was sitting on some sort of raised platform with a reflective laminate floor beneath him and pitch black beyond, but there were spotlights aimed at and around him; the glare stopped him from making anything out.
“He’s awake.” He heard the voice behind him say. “Should we begin?”
“Give him time.”
“What about Darren? Are you sure he’s not dead?”
Malcolm felt his heart rap against his chest, he turned quickly towards his friend, quick enough for a bolt of pain to shoot up his spine and explode inside his skull. His sight turned fuzzy, a myriad of dancing stars covered everything he saw for a split second, but when the stars faded and the pain subsided, he saw that Darren was still slumped over, and not responding.
“He’ll be fine,” the other voice said eventually.
“Should I give him a slap?”
“If you must.”
Malcolm watched as someone walked in-between him and his friend. He heard a smack, followed by a snicker from the attacker and a yelp from Darren. Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief, happy that Darren was still alive, but the relief didn’t last. He recognized the person standing in front of him, he’d thought he recognized his voice and now, he knew who it was.
Before Malcolm could say anything, Darren squirmed upright, glared at his attacker and blurted, “Eddie? What the fuck are you doing?”
37
Eddie’s response was a boorish laugh. He threw his head back, his eyes to the spotlights above, and roared hysterically.
“You always were the clown,” he said when the laughter had faded to an echo that bounced solemnly in and around the large room. “But I don’t think you’ll find any of this funny, buddy.” His distaste at referring to Darren as his friend was evident, the word curled off his lip like menace from a snake’s hiss.
He turned around and looked at Malcolm. Malcolm could see him fully now that his eyes had adjusted to the bright lights.
“Hello again, Malcolm,” Eddie said.
Malcolm didn’t reply, he stared into his friend’s eyes, into the evil and corruption that lay within his soul.
“Not feeling very talkative?” Eddie asked.
Still Malcolm stared.
“Well then,” Eddie said, moving aside and drawing the attention of both of his old friends as he walked to the back of the room. “Maybe this will change your mind.”
They strained to see what he was doing, but couldn’t turn around enough on their chairs. They heard a loud mechanical click and saw the spotlights turn. They both turned back around sharply to see that they were on a stage, now illuminated from above. The spotlights had been turned on and they could now see the empty seats in front of them, with two men standing at the front of the stage.
As their eyes adjusted to the change in light, they noticed that not all the seats in the house were empty. Two rows back, with a perfect view of the stage, sat Malcolm’s mother, Darren’s mother, and his stepdad, Ian. They all squinted at the stage, their mouths had been wrapped in tape and their hands had been bound behind their backs.
“Welcome to the show!” Someone announced in a grand and proud voice.
Malcolm and Darren both turned to see a tall man in a white doctor’s coat striding past them. He stopped in the center to stare at them and to let them see him. He had a gaunt and intelligent face, a white beard tufting out of his long chin, and receding grey hair that stretched away from an elongated forehead. He was thin, but he looked proud and wise. Both Darren and Malcolm also noticed something in his eyes, the way he moved and the way he smiled, a resemblance that was hard to miss.
“Malcolm, Darren,” he announced, waving his hand around before placing it behind his back with his other hand. “I’m sure you’re familiar with your audience tonight. Please ignore the two goons on the stage, they’re with me.”
The two patients didn’t flinch at the comment, they continued to stare, looking like doormen at the head of the stage but with an expectant and excited look in their eyes, as if they were about to tuck into a super-sized bag of popcorn and watch the latest blockbuster.
“My name is Doctor Hildenberg; you probably have a few questions for me.” He concentrated his expression, one of devilment, on Malcolm. “And this,” he held out his hand, pointing to Eddie who strode forward to stand by his side, looking happier than he had ever been. “Is my son, Marshall.”
“What the fuck?” Darren spat, feeling a surge of anger that fused with his confusion and fear. “That ginger-fucking-psycho is not your son and his name is not Marshall.”
Marshall turned towards Darren, he looked like he was about to run over to him and throttle him, but a look from the doctor restrained him. “You may know him as Eddie, but I assure you, that is not his name and those people he had been living with were not his parents.”
“You’re mental,” Darren noted. He knew he should keep his thoughts to himself, but his anger was getting the better of him. The fact that his friend—someone who he had played with as a child, someone who he had sleepovers with and grown up with—was siding with this psycho over him made him even angrier. “You’re just like all these other psychos. Who did you steal that coat from? Where’s the real doctor?”
Darren felt the way he did before he’d attacke
d Ian. He could feel his anger taking over him and it only grew stronger every time he looked at the doctor and even more when he saw his mother in the audience. He preferred this aggression to the paralyzing fear he’d felt before, so he didn’t try to suppress it.
“I assure you, I am a real doctor.”
“Fuck off.”
The doctor sighed and turned to Malcolm. “You’re taking this much better than I expected, if I may say so.”
Malcolm didn’t reply straight away. He looked from the doctor to Eddie and then back again. He looked towards his mother, the woman who had abandoned him.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asked.
The doctor laughed, a laugh that Malcolm had witnessed in Eddie just a few moments earlier. “Okay,” he said eventually, raising his hand. “I’ll explain.”
He paused for breath, to let everyone know that he needed their attention, this was his show, after all.
“You three; Darren, Malcolm, and Marshall, were all born here.” He paused to study their reactions; Darren’s face creased, Malcolm gave a blank stare, Marshall had clearly heard it all before.
“As I have been explaining to my son here,” the doctor said, patting Marshall on the head in the manner of a man who has no idea how to act around children. “This is your place of birth and, using the techniques I have honed over the years,” he added with pride, “I have managed to bring you all back here.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Darren spat. “What is that ginger asshole doing with you?” he nodded towards Eddie. “What does he have to do with any of this?”
“He’s my son.”
“Bullshit!”
The doctor sighed and gave a gentle and patient shake of his head.
“How did he get here so fast?” Malcolm quizzed. “Was this all a setup, did he lure us here?” he referred to Eddie with bitterness, as if he couldn’t speak his name.
The doctor shook his head. “He was as oblivious as you were. It’s his uncle who brought you here,” he announced, adding emphasis to suggest that he wasn’t really his uncle. “He was a former patient of mine, easy to manipulate. Marshall had nothing to do with it, but of course, he will be involved from now on.” He smiled. “You’ve been out for a long time boys, hours, we’ve been catching up. We had a lot to catch up on.” He put his arm lovingly around Marshall’s shoulders.
“This is all bollocks,” Darren said, still riding the tide of anger.
The doctor shook his head, as calm as ever. “You have memories of this place,” he said. “You all do. It affects you, it makes you angry, it changes you. You’re frustrated because you remember this place; you remember the hatred, the anger, and the terrible things that took place here. You all remember being born here, suffering here and watching your parents suffer here. But you repressed those memories, you were young enough to do so and you fed off of each other, when one of you began to repress, the others followed. You three were practically brothers, you helped each other.” He nodded slowly, an expression of pride and admiration on his face. “It’s commendable really; the power of the subconscious really is an amazing thing.”
“Shit,” Darren said, but he had a feeling that the doctor was telling the truth. He hadn’t remembered any of the hospital, but he remembered the feelings he had, the creeping sensation that something wasn’t right. He didn’t want to believe a word that the psychopathic doctor said, but he didn’t doubt that he could be telling the truth.
“My son handled things a little differently than you,” the doctor continued. “But his life in this hospital was much more difficult than yours.” He put his hand around Marshall and smiled happily at him. “His mother was a patient here, her and I . . .” he tilted his head this way and that, “well, they said I raped her. But they said a lot of things that weren’t true. The truth is she probably wasn’t capable of ever consenting to anything, but what we did certainly wasn’t rape. By the time she was ready to give birth, they found out about my experiments here at the hospital. They said I was trying to manipulate the patients, that I was trying to mold their minds—”
“Were you?” Darren cut in.
Hildenberg nodded, “Of course I was. I am a psychologist, a proponent of the art of the psychosis. I could hardly advance my understanding and my effectiveness in the field by merely helping people, now could I?”
“Of course not,” Darren said. “That would be stupid.”
Hildenberg made a “hmm” sound before continuing. “They stripped me of my role and they said I was mad, me, mad.”
“Can you imagine that?” Darren mocked.
“They then found out about Marshall here,” he continued, unperturbed by Darren’s comment. “I told them the baby was mine, I wanted to look after him, but before he was born they locked me up. They stopped me going near him.”
The doctor moved his arm away from Marshall and turned around to stare at the audience, to take in the parents and the children. “You two were born at the same time, to equally psychotic mothers.”
The mothers in the audience tried to respond, but their words were muffled by their gags. Hildenberg waved a hand at his goons and they stood up and began to make their way towards the parents who squirmed when they saw them approach.
“They got to keep their babies, you stayed here and waited for them to be released, at which point they took you with them. But I lost my Marshall. They refused to let me keep him, refused to even let his mother keep him. Your parents, these scoundrels,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “helped Marshall get out; they kept him until he found a foster home.” He shook his head. “Of course your fathers had nothing to do with it, they weren’t even patients here. As for your stepfather,” he said, looking towards Darren and then at Ian before shrugging. “He got in the way. I figured I’d bring him along.”
The goons stripped the gags from the parents, each of them gasped and shouted in turn. The obscenities, the screams. They were cut short by the goons who threatened them. Ian, the loudest of the three—screaming at the doctor and threatening to tear out his throat—received a slap across his face for his trouble. When they were silent, Hildenberg raised his head and looked at Darren’s mother.
“Tell him,” he said.
Darren saw a tear roll down his mother’s cheek, saw the expression on her face. He had seen her unhappy before, but this was different. The depression was deep on her face, from her glassy eyes to the wrinkles that creased on her chin and forehead. For the first time in years she was being genuine.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, stumbling over her words as tears took over. “He’s telling the truth, it’s all true.”
Darren felt angry. He was angry that his life had been a lie, that it took one madman and his psycho son to inform him of something he should have known all along, but when he looked into his mother’s eyes, when he saw the sincerity and the pain on her face, he struggled to express that anger. Instead he gave her a warm smile, letting her know that he didn’t mind, that he understood.
“Aww,” the doctor called, throwing his voice like an actor in a proud role. “Isn’t that sweet, eh, son?” Beside him, Eddie nodded exaggeratedly, standing tall and proud, proud to be next to his father, proud to be next to someone who was just like him. “But don’t forget,” he said with a sly smile, “not only is it all her fault that you were born here, and her fault that you’re here now, but it’s also her fault that your father left.”
Darren shot an angry glance at the doctor. “What do you mean?”
He heard his mother begin to blubber, but he kept his attention on the doctor, on the wicked smile that curled the corner of his wizened face.
“I’m so sorry,” his mother mumbled, before the doctor had a chance to speak. “I was in a horrible place, that’s why they put me here. I was down, I was doing some really bad things, I—” she struggled to finish.
“She didn’t want you,” the doctor announced. “You were nothing to her, yet . . .” he thr
ust out a wagging finger, “she still got to keep you. Where’s the justice in that, eh?”
Beside him Eddie shrugged and shook his head, agreeing with his father. “Your father had a little more respect for you,” he continued, “but only enough to walk away from your mother, not enough to stick around to see how you turned out.”
38
Malcolm locked eyes with his mother, exchanging things that couldn’t be expressed with words. He had always been disappointed in her, he hated her for running away, hated her for leaving him in such a precarious position. There was a good chance he would have been forced to live on the streets, forced to go hungry, and she knew that, yet she did nothing to stop it. But, she let him live in the house and he knew that she could have taken everything, could have stripped the house of its furniture, or demanded that he move out. He didn’t care about that though, the fact that she hadn’t done anything, hadn’t even said goodbye, was worse than anything else she could have done.
The fact that she had mental health issues also wasn’t much of a surprise, she had never been the most stable woman, but the fact that she had hid the truth from him all these years was a surprise. She was useless at keeping secrets, she loved gossip and had never been able to keep her mouth shut, so to keep something like this from him throughout his life was hard to believe, yet, he knew it was true.
“So, this was all a setup?” Darren asked, grimacing towards the doctor. “You lured us out here to kill us?”
“He catches on quick, doesn’t he?” Marshall mocked, grinning at his father.
“Why?” Darren asked, ignoring his former friend.
The doctor took a proud step forward, back into his showman role. “This is about justice,” he announced. “I have my son back after all these years, but this place, these people,” he said bitterly, looking at small audience, “took him away from me and they need to know what that feels like.”
