When Evil Calls Your Name_a dark psychological thriller

by John Nicholl

  I held the first photo out in front of me to accommodate my eyesight and laughed and cried simultaneously, in an explosion of conflicted raw emotion. It looked wonderful, truly wonderful. If only I could have been there. If only, if only! Two small words of infinite meaning.

  I held out the first photo at the optimum distance and studied it through my tears. It featured Jack and his new bride, resplendent in their sartorial finery, smiling, joyous on their very special day. Jack was clean-shaven, tanned and glowing, exuding a youthful wellbeing that left me both envious and smiling. He’d come such a long way since the not so far-off days of drug abuse, and it was wonderful to witness, if only in a photographic representation of reality. At least one of us had found happiness. I guess one out of two’s not too bad in this big bad world of ours. I pray it continues. Life really can be so unpredictable, as I hope I’ve already established.

  The second photo featured the blushing bride with her three attractive young bridesmaids, a photo typical of its genre, and if I’m honest, not of any great interest as I don’t know any of them personally. I looked at Marie for a moment or two, observed that she’d put on a little weight around the midriff, and placed the photo onto the bed immediately next to me. The third photo, in contrast, featured a family group, unremarkable in itself, but as I focussed on each individual in turn, it left me reeling. Mum was there, in a garish lilac suit and matching hat with a large prominent purple feather, and so were my beautiful girls, standing and grinning, hand in hand, to her immediate left. Why hadn’t they told me? We’d sat facing each other just a short time before they made the trip, and they made no mention of the wedding. The flights must have been booked, the accommodation arranged, their excitement levels rising exponentially, and yet they didn’t say a single word. As if nothing of importance was planned. As if it wasn’t worth talking about. I’ve never felt more excluded, so insignificant, so utterly worthless. Maybe they thought discussion of the trip would have been too much for me to bear. Maybe they thought sharing their happy anticipation would have rubbed salt in my festering wounds. Or maybe I just don’t feature in their thoughts anymore. No, what on earth am I saying? I’m loved and they had my best interests at heart. Or at least, I’d like to think so anyway.

  24

  Dr Galbraith behaved as if nothing of any great significance had happened the previous week when he arrived at the flat early on the following Wednesday afternoon. He made a quick inspection of each room in turn, pointed out what he saw as the shortcomings, and issued words of praise and encouragement as he saw fit. Overall, he concluded, the state of the flat warranted a five-out-of-ten star-rating, not worthy of reward or sanction. I’d been lucky and had to do better in future. I found myself relieved that he wasn’t overly critical, and silently acknowledged that I was becoming increasingly dependent on him for much-needed validation. He was an important man, an influential man. He’d reintroduced me to the academic world and I valued his opinion.

  We spent the next couple of hours discussing craniology and its tragic historic consequences in Nazi Europe, following which he reintroduced and reinforced the importance of focussing on my studies to the exclusion of potential distractions like friends and family. It was a recurrent mantra: the work was of paramount importance, there was no room for complacency, no room for unproductive relationships, he was my mentor giving off his extremely valuable time, and his opinion mattered above all others. I was to do what he said, and do it without question. I’m not sure when I began to believe it all, but I did, I certainly did. His words became deeply ingrained in my psyche.

  The next few weeks were relatively unremarkable, as I attended lectures when required and retreated to the isolation of the flat at every opportunity to concentrate on my work. I was becoming more introverted, increasingly uncomfortable and lacking in confidence in the company of others. A very different person to the outgoing young student who’d arrived in Cardiff just months before.

  I found myself looking forward to his visits, despite the focus he placed on every aspect of my life, and I tried to put that unremembered night to the back of my mind.

  And then it happened, the day of days, the moment everything changed forever. I rushed around the flat in a whirlwind of inactivity, watching the seconds tick by on my watch, and waiting for the anticipated blue stripe to appear in the result window of my third pregnancy test that day. Yes, there it was again, as clear as day, and there was no point in denying it, however much I wanted to. My usually regular period was late, the test was positive again, and no amount of wishing it wasn’t was going to change that fact. I had a bun in the oven, as Jack would undoubtedly describe it.

  Reality dawned with ever-increasing clarity as the morning progressed. I was pregnant, expecting a child, despite having no recollection of sex. Just that morning’s blank confusion, the painful welts, the soiled bedclothes and his comment, his seemingly throwaway comment, as if nothing meaningful had happened. It made little sense. I respected him, I was increasingly reliant on him in so many ways, but sex? Really? I just didn’t see him in that way. I’d never considered sex for a single moment as far as I was aware. I wanted to understand. I needed to understand. If only I could remember something. Surely I should recall something? The smallest detail may help. He’d taught me a lot. Perhaps it was one more thing he could explain. Perhaps he could still my anxious mind.

  I tried to ignore the rancid stench of stale urine permeating the phone box as I picked up the receiver, dialled and inserted three ten-pence coins into the slot with quivering fingers. It wasn’t going to be an easy conversation, but some things were best said. Why delay the inevitable?

  ‘Hello, Child Guidance Service.’

  ‘Hi Sharon, it’s Cynthia. Can I speak to Dr Galbraith, please?’

  ‘He’s busy with some paperwork at the moment. Can I ask him to contact you as soon as he’s free?’

  ‘I’m in a phone box, it’s urgent, just fetch him, please.’

  ‘If you’re sure? You know he doesn’t like to be disturbed.’

  ‘Yes, please, Sharon.’

  I frantically searched my handbag for suitable coins, placed them in the slot and waited. Come on, Doctor, come on. How important can that work be?

  ‘Hello Cynthia, I hope this is urgent.’

  It was now or never. There was no sugar-coating this particular pill. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  Silence.

  ‘Did you hear me, Doctor?’

  ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘I’m expecting your child. You’re the father. Who else am I supposed to tell?’

  ‘Give me a second, I need to shut the door.’

  ‘Right, Cynthia, let’s see if I’ve got this correct. You’re telling me that you haven’t had sex with any of the vacuous boys at the university? You’re telling me that our brief single sexual encounter has resulted in conception?’

  I still had some residual spirit at that stage, and I was becoming increasingly agitated by his dismissive responses. ‘You’re the father, there’s no other possibility. Please accept that.’

  ‘Is this something you’ve planned?’

  A tear ran down my face. Of course not, of course not! What on earth was he suggesting? ‘What exactly are you saying?’

  ‘You assured me that you’re taking birth control pills.’

  I wouldn’t do that. Why would I do that? ‘I stopped taking them after Steven’s death.’

  ‘I distinctly recall your assurances.’

  I must have been extremely drunk. I guess I may have been mixed up. I couldn’t recall a damn thing. He had me on the defensive. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

  ‘No, no, I wouldn’t do that. But I think…’

  ‘Think, think, you ridiculous girl! The very use of the word suggests significant doubts on your part.’

  I chose not to respond and waited for him to speak again, distressed, dejected and disconsolate.

  ‘Let’
s keep things to ourselves for the moment. I think that’s advisable. We can talk again on Wednesday. Perhaps you can get your story straight by then.’

  I tightened my grip on the receiver and bit my lower lip hard. ‘Wednesday? Can’t you come before then? It’s three days away. Surely in the circumstances…?’

  He sounded a little calmer now, his voice quieter, more reasoned. ‘I’m snowed under, my dear. Pressure of work and all that. I’m afraid it’s completely impossible. I will see you on Wednesday as usual as per our agreement and we will talk then. That’s the best I can offer, I’m afraid. Now is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘Is that clear?’ A little sterner this time.

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Cynthia, how many times do I have to tell you? Call me David.’

  25

  I spent about twenty minutes in the exercise yard this morning, before the foreboding grey sky opened and a torrent of large raindrops flooded the concrete with about half an inch of rainwater. I was rather enjoying my commune with nature, despite being soaked to the skin, but the two attendant guards ushered us back into the building with an urgency that far outweighed the necessity. If the rain had been scalding sulphuric acid, they couldn’t have done any more. We British are so obsessed with the weather, so obsessed with petty bureaucratic rules and red tape. ‘In you get, in you get. Come on, you don’t want to get wet. Move! Wipe your feet before entering the building.’ Well, you get the idea.

  I’ve spent the last half hour slowly drying off in the communal recreation room, waiting for lunchtime, and my English class beyond. I’m onto my second notebook now, and have been able to write in comparative peace despite the throng of other women chatting, arguing, playing table tennis, or cards, or dice, or simply going about their day as best they can within the limits of their lives. Most of them know what I’m doing and let me get on with it, in fairness to them. Lifers are accorded an undue degree of respect in prison world in a way we never would be in the world at large. It’s a strange dichotomy that never ceases to amaze me. We’re the high-status residents best kept onside. The very top of the incarcerated tree. The women with a history of violence and nothing to lose.

  Two or three of the girls have stopped by to enquire how I’m doing, or how my writing’s progressing. ‘How’s it going, Cynth?’

  ‘What are you writing, Cynth?’

  ‘You’re a busy girl!’

  ‘Do you want to play ping-pong, Cynth? Come on, put that fucking book down and have some fun for a change.’

  I issued brief to-the-point replies that were unlikely to offend but that conveyed the clear message that I wanted to be left alone with my reminiscences, ‘I want to get on. I want to finish my story. I’ll have a game in a couple of days, when I’ve got more time.’

  And they would laugh or scowl and move on, slighted but accepting. I’d like to know what they really think of me. Or maybe not, perhaps that’s not such a good idea, now that I think about it. I wouldn’t want to get knocked back down just when I’m starting to feel a little better about myself. Self-confidence can be a fragile beast.

  I’ve received another handwritten letter from Mum, full of positive language and hope of my release, but still no mention of the wedding. Crazy really, when you think about it. It seems Mum bumped into DI Gravel in Caerystwyth a few days ago, and cornered him in a shop doorway until he capitulated and reluctantly agreed to talk to her on a rare day off. I’d like to have been a fly on the wall for that particular encounter. Mum can be quite formidable when she needs to be, despite her diminutive stature. She says he told her there were some unexpected developments in my case, but that he couldn’t say any more than that. Unexpected developments! I have no real idea what that means, and I don’t want to get my hopes up, because it could mean anything or nothing at all. Mum could have it wrong, of course, or he could have been saying just about anything to get rid of her and get on with his day. Who knows? I certainly don’t. Hugely frustrating, there’s absolutely nothing I can do to clarify the situation, however much I want to. I can’t contact him, and I suspect I’m the last person he’d want to talk to, even if I could. It’s just a case of waiting, hoping for the best and fearing the worst. It’s the only way to maintain my sanity.

  26

  I have to admit that I awaited Dr Galbraith’s arrival with a degree of trepidation the following Wednesday, despite or perhaps due to my need to discuss the enormity of events. The three days had passed painfully slowly as I lived with my secret. I no longer had any friends with whom to share my problems, and his insistence that I refrain from contacting Mum and Dad prevented me from doing so very effectively, despite their repeated efforts to contact me. Why was I so compliant to his instructions? Is that what you’re wondering? Well, I’m not entirely sure to be honest, other than to say that I’d become as malleable as warm putty in his Machiavellian hands. I wanted to please him. I didn’t want to disappoint him. I needed his approval. What a sad individual I’d become.

  I jumped when Galbraith knocked on the front door at around 2:00 p.m., and I opened it with my gut twisting and growling like a washing machine on the spin cycle. I just didn’t know what to expect: disapproval, anger, disgust? But, no, he was standing there, resplendent in a bespoke grey pinstripe suit, holding a large bunch of red roses in his right hand and a card in his left.

  ‘Why did you knock? You have a key.’ Not an obvious question, but he usually let himself in. It was his flat, as he liked to remind me on a regular basis.

  He smiled warmly. ‘I thought it appropriate in the circumstances.’ He held out the flowers, but withdrew his hand when I didn’t accept them.

  ‘They’re for me?’

  ‘You seem surprised, my dear. Who else would they be for? In we go, in we go. There’s a vase in the lounge.’

  He sat on the settee and waited whilst I attended to the bouquet.

  I sat in an armchair to his left, rather than join him on the sofa, as he suggested. ‘You seemed angry when I first told you the news.’

  He frowned. ‘It was something of a shock. We made love once, and now there’s a child on the way. Surely you can understand my initial reticence.’

  We made love? He used the L word. I was more confused than ever. ‘I guess so.’

  He relaxed back in the seat and grinned. ‘Now that I’ve had a couple of days to think about it and get used to the idea, I think it’s good news.’

  I was not expecting that! ‘Really? I thought you’d be horrified.’

  His smile melted away and he took on a more serious persona. ‘You’ll have to give up your studies, naturally. You’ll need to join me in Caerystwyth, where I can keep a close eye on you both, but that’s easily arranged. Some things are more important than education.’

  I was taken aback. He’d always stressed the paramount importance of my studies. ‘You’re saying you want me to leave university?’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to your professor on your behalf. I thought it best to put him in the picture. He was fully in agreement. Your welfare must come first. It’s what Steven would want.’

  I just sat there, listening, but not saying another word.

  ‘I see no reason why you can’t return to Caerystwyth with me in the morning. I’ll keep your parents fully informed. No need for you to bother them.’

  ‘I really should ring them myself. I haven’t spoken to Mum for months.’

  He took a brown plastic medicine bottle from his trouser pocket, unscrewed the top and handed me two tablets. ‘Now, I want you to take two of these, my dear. They’ll help you relax. You’ve had enough stress to deal with for one day.’

  ‘I don’t need tablets.’

  He shook his head and frowned. ‘You let me be the judge of that, young lady. Who’s the expert here? You don’t have a medical degree as far as I’m aware. Now, pop them in that pretty mouth of yours and I’ll fetch you a glass of water.’

  27

&nbs
p; Needy Guard appeared at my cell door early this morning when I was still half asleep, banged hard on the metal grill, and tutted loudly in an exaggerated theatrical manner she appeared to find extremely humorous. ‘Have you been a naughty girl, Cynthia?’

  I’d just woken after a long fitful night of disturbed sleep and bad dreams, and just wasn’t in the mood to play her self-indulgent games. ‘What are you talking about?’

  She unlocked and opened the cell door, placed one hand on each of her fleshy hips, and tilted her head sideways at an approximate forty-five-degree angle before speaking again, ‘Oh, I can see someone’s not in a very good mood this morning. Service not up to madam’s required standards? Perhaps you should complain to the management.’

  ‘Is there something you want to say?’

  Her expression hardened. ‘I wouldn’t be quite so cocky if I were you, missy. There’s a police officer here to see you.’

  I jumped to my feet and followed her urgently, hopeful that Mum’s conversation with DI Gravel held some hope, despite my initial caution. Unexpected developments. That sounded positive, didn’t it? Surely it was positive. Please God let it be positive.

  I entered the interview room on tenterhooks, expecting to see Inspector Gravel’s craggy, reassuringly knowing face in front of me, but instead I was met by a surprisingly diminutive woman in her mid to late thirties, who introduced herself as Detective Constable Meira Jones, and asked me to take a seat opposite her across the small table. I felt a surge of disappointment as if struck in the gut, but I reassured myself in the way people often do. Okay, so it wasn’t the inspector, she certainly wasn’t who I’d hoped for, but there may still be good news. Please let there be good news.