by Simon Parke
Terence would smile. She didn’t understand how bad it could be . . . and how ‘bad’ was a great deal worse than ‘illegal’.
‘I mean, who cares what anyone else thinks?’ she asked. ‘It’s not like my mum and dad are exactly thrilled at what I do.’
He hadn’t thought of her parents. ‘Do they judge you?’ he asked.
‘I suppose. I mean, they still love me; they still really love me. But, you know—’
‘You do not think judgement poisons love, leaving it cold and dead?’
A crucifying pain in his gut, like sharp nails pressing. He did not like talk of love.
‘I don’t know what you mean!’ said Cherise. Was he off his bloody rocker?
He was aware that something had grown between them over the months . . . like a flower in a dry land. Trust grows discreetly between vendor and buyer. No commercial relationship is ever just that; it is either less or more, and his time with Cherise had been more. She was paid to act, of course she was, but you can only act so much. She was a sweet girl and he wanted to protect her, though nothing mattered, not really . . . nothing had mattered for a long time.
*
‘Hello, Curly!’ she said now, looking up from the foot of the asylum steps.
Cherise looked lovely in the lamplight.
‘Hello,’ he said.
When she’d asked what to call him, he’d said ‘Curly’. He had a shaved head now but it had not always been so. He’d had curly hair when younger, ‘when I still had hopes and dreams!’ as he put it. ‘And hair.’
‘You’re still Curly inside, that’s the main thing,’ she said cheerily. She liked to cheer people up, liked the last words to be hopeful words; life was better that way, better when it was hopeful.
But Terence wasn’t still Curly inside. Hope had left the house some time ago. Young Curly, who’d dreamt of being good, dreamt of arms to hold him, warm against cold, had left quietly by the back door, his departure unnoticed.
‘You must come up here for a moment,’ he said, through the chill night wind.
Cherise was hesitating, her hair blowing wild. ‘Can’t we go back to Church Street? It’s bloody freezin’ out ’ere.’
‘I want to show you something. And then we’ll go back. I’ve ordered a taxi.’
Cherise liked the idea of a taxi. ‘I’ve got the matron’s outfit,’ she said and Terence nodded.
‘Good.’
‘So what is it I must see?’ she asked, climbing the ten steps to the asylum front door with difficulty. The Bybuckle steps were not made for high heels.
‘Give us a turn, Mr Clown!’
one of the children shouted. They were bored after school, standing outside Morrisons. And Tara watched the clown respond, clearly delighted to be asked.
He was riding the unicycle he’d been carrying, up and down, round and about, while attempting to juggle two oranges. Everyone was happy, cheering away, and he stayed on his bike, even though he dropped the oranges. And this was the good thing about clowning: things could go wrong, and people still liked you. They were liking him outside Morrisons, Tara could see that, and she was almost enjoying it herself – until she recognized him as the estate agent fellow. And that changed everything.
She’d found him creepy when buying a property through his agency. After the first viewing, she’d made sure she was never in a house alone with him again; his lack of boundaries was uncomfortable. And seeing him in full make-up now made her feel ill.
‘You’re a rubbish juggler!’ shouted one of the children.
And instead of hitting him – his initial desire – Geoff made a ‘What do you mean?’ gesture and picked up the oranges again. He looked at them for a while, polished them with his sleeve and then attempted to juggle again. He gave himself a few successes, drew some applause, threw them higher and higher, looked pleased with himself – and then deliberately messed it up, to everyone’s amusement . . . and his own deep chagrin.
With big gestures, he indicated he would try again, and with his fingers held high, got them counting down from ten, building the tension.
‘Ten! – Nine! – Eight! – Seven! . . .’
On reaching One!, he started juggling again, getting ever more excited at his success – he was a pretty good juggler – until he rather deliberately dropped them again. He hit himself in theatrical fashion on the forehead and fell over to more laughter.
He got up, bowed, took the evening shoppers’ applause, picked up his unicycle and continued happily on his way, still angry at that rude little sod of a child, but somehow enlarged by the performance – more content in himself, a bigger and better person and made so by the applause.
Tara watched him disappear into the darkness, going God knows where, but thought only of Katrina.
She hadn’t been herself recently, Tara was well aware of that. And now a client had turned up, a booking made – and no sign of her! Just a ridiculous note on her desk saying, ‘I have to go out. Sorry. But I have to.’ Tara had had to explain that Katrina was ‘unavoidably detained’ and send the poor man away.
And this wasn’t good, not good at all. She had never had to do that before. Katrina had always been so reliable and she didn’t want to lose her. But what was the girl thinking?
She followed the clown down the street towards the sea.
The torchlight wobbled
in the asylum dark. Held by an uncertain hand, it moved slowly and silently towards him.
‘Hello,’ said Peter to the shadow behind the light. ‘Is that you, Cherise?’
He’d entered the asylum by the front door; he needed to find the girl. She hadn’t been at Church Street, so she must still be here. There’d been no sign of Tamsin on his arrival. Perhaps she was held up, but he couldn’t wait. He texted again but got no reply. The time for waiting was over, so he went inside and stood in the hallway for a while, listening. There was nothing to be heard but the damp drip of a leaking roof, well soaked in recent days; the smell of a rotting mat was strong tonight.
He moved quietly through the hallway and then down the dark corridor, feeling his way along the cold walls before stepping through the rusted swing doors into the cavernous Gladstone Ward. Here was the largest single repository of madness in Stormhaven, through which generation after generation of the struggling and insane had stumbled. The abbot feared further insanity tonight.
The faint light at the windows – diluted orange from the street lamps – left the space strangely obscured, blinding the night eye for the middle darkness. He was immediately aware of Rosemary. She felt present.
‘Are you here?’ he asked quietly. ‘Can you see me now? Rosemary?’ Her final moments had been lived in this desolate ruin of a room. Did she loiter, perhaps, a ghost – or angel – tied to the place of the unresolved? ‘Can you help me?’
It was then that he saw the torchlight moving towards him, and at first it seemed kind, almost an answer to prayer. Here was a light in the dark – the lady of the lamp, walking the ward, calming troubled souls, until all were at rest. But the torch jerked a little and stayed silent. The light moved towards him, but not in hope. This was no kindly light . . .
‘Is that you, Cherise?’
Silence. The abbot stood still but the torch continued its approach.
‘He loves me,’ whispered the voice behind it.
‘Who loves you?’
‘And you won’t spoil this. You have spoiled enough this evening.’
The torchlight had come to a halt, a few yards away. It now shone steadily in his face. Only slowly did he see the gun, held in the unsteady hand like an open-mouthed goldfish.
Peter sensed that this was the whisper and the body of a woman.
‘What are you doing here?’
asked Blessings, who’d noticed two police cars outside her house. They were hard to miss.
The homes that surrounded the south side of the golf course, where the clubhouse sat proud, were not much bothered by traffic at night. Estate agents called it ‘a hav
en of idyllic calm’. So when two cop cars arrived at speed, with full bells and whistles, they received attention from the householder.
‘You weren’t going anywhere, were you?’ asked Tamsin, walking towards the judge, a silhouette in her front entrance.
‘Only to bed,’ she replied, pulling a shawl around herself in the cold. Tamsin wasn’t noticing the cold.
‘Because we just wanted a little chat about Rosemary.’
‘Really?’
‘Can we go inside?’
Tamsin almost felt sorry for this lone figure in her elegant doorway. She did seem very alone.
‘No,’ came the reply. ‘Not unless you have a warrant. Do you have a warrant?’
‘I just thought it would be warmer for you.’
‘Such concern, Detective Inspector. But why would you – and half the Sussex constabulary, it seems – want a conversation about Rosemary at this time of night?’
Tamsin had arrived with four other police officers in case of trouble. They lurked at a discreet distance, though obvious enough in the shadow of the gates.
‘New information has come to light, Mrs N’Dayo.’
‘I hope it’s good.’
‘You didn’t like Rosemary, did you?’
The judge paused. ‘I’d be very careful, Detective Inspector.’
But Tamsin was bored with the judge pulling rank. ‘I’m not sure we need to be too careful, Mrs N’Dayo. Indeed, maybe the time for being careful is quite over. Is the abbot inside?’
‘Inside where?’
For the first time Tamsin faltered a little. He must be here. How could he not be here by now? And then a voice called out in the darkness.
‘Ma’am,’ said one of the police team. She turned round. ‘A message.’
She’d given him her phone, to keep an eye. ‘Give it to me.’
He stepped forward, exposed now in the security light that splashed across the gravel driveway.
‘It’s from the abbot.’
‘Give it to me.’
‘What’s going on, Detective Inspector?’ asked the judge.
‘Excuse me a moment.’ Though something inside her already knew. She gazed down on the message.
I’m at the asylum. Where are you? Get here now.
Tamsin drew breath and saw only an abyss before her eyes . . . an abyss into which she was falling.
‘There’s been a mistake,’ she said. Her mouth could hardly speak.
‘A mistake?’ said the judge, smiling horribly.
And of all the people to witness this cock-up, to be the victim of this cock-up . . . Blessings N’Dayo, the high court judge! Did it get any worse? She could kill Francisco with his damn stupid story.
‘We were merely patrolling in the area.’
‘Patrolling for what?’ asked the judge. ‘Lost golf balls?’
With amused disdain, Blessings was quickly in charge.
‘A false lead,’ said Tamsin.
‘And there was I thinking you were accusing me of murder.’
‘No, nothing like that . . . a misunderstanding.’
She heard herself sounding ridiculous. The cars were parked square across the driveway to foil any getaway, and lit up like a funfair. Blessings’ smile was one of contempt . . . and then pity.
‘We’re leaving,’ said Tamsin.
‘I’d invite you in for a drink, Detective Inspector; but incompetence so exhausts me, I simply don’t have the energy. But I’ll manage a phone call to your superiors in the morning.’
Tamsin nodded. There were no words available in her head, no polite words, no usable words to a judge familiar with her rights . . . to a judge so misused.
‘I’ll bid you goodnight, Mrs N’Dayo.’
And with that, Tamsin turned, cheeks burning, and walked towards the car. She bent down and climbed into the back seat. She hadn’t been able to speak an apology. She’d tried but it hadn’t happened.
‘We need to get to the asylum,’ she said.
‘Bybuckle Asylum?’
‘Just drive, for God’s sake.’
‘You let me handle this,’
said the voice behind the torchlight. The abbot sat in a corner, the gun still pointing towards him. It was a voice he recognized but also one that confused him.
‘How did you get here?’ he asked.
‘I ran.’
She must have run quickly. The abbot had hardly dawdled.
‘And why the gun, Katrina? There’s really no need for a gun.’
‘Because maybe you are not so helpful here and need persuading a little.’
‘And you are helpful here?’
The figure in the dark stiffened. ‘Yes, I am helpful. I believe I am. I can reason, he listen to me; and you will just be a big noise, trust me.’
‘I don’t trust you, Katrina, not in this affair. And sadly, neither does he.’
‘He trust me!’
‘He doesn’t trust you. You’re going to be in his way tonight.’
‘I called out to him, he knows I am here, that I love him. So Cherise will be all right now.’
The abbot paused . . . listened to his breathing. Sometimes it was all there was to do.
‘He trusts no one, Katrina. That’s why he’s alive today.’ Silence. It was the second encounter of the evening that they shouldn’t have been having. ‘Does he know you have a gun? Is it his gun?’
‘You won’t spoil this, Abbot. Like I say, you have spoiled enough this evening.’
Katrina was determined to stay in control. She just had to be here, to make sure nothing went bad. Terence was a good man. She wanted to live with him, she knew that, but he needed to stop seeing Cherise, to stop talking with her . . . because he was a good man. And he was her man, Katrina’s man. But then the abbot was rising to his feet.
‘So let’s go together,’ he said. ‘Where are they hiding?’
‘Sit down!’
But the abbot did not sit down.
‘You’re badly mistaken, Katrina.’
And then out of the darkness, Fran appeared.
The stone steps were steep,
slippery and narrow, leading down from the street, a half-hidden access. The two police officers moved cautiously in the dark, closed in by creviced walls either side, the paint eaten by salt.
‘We used to come down here when we were kids,’ said PC Goss. ‘The place still had nutters in then and we just wanted a laugh.’
Tamsin nodded. She could see why he’d never made sergeant. Enlightenment was yet to bother his consciousness.
‘And did you get in?’ she asked.
‘Sometimes, if they left the door open.’
‘There is a door down here?’
‘Well, there used to be, ma’am. I mean, if they haven’t blocked it up. It’s basement access, so it was, well, pretty spooky. Dark. I remember it as pitch black. It’s like a secret floor, really.’
‘Beneath the wards?’
‘Yes, I think maybe the Grade A crazies were kept down there, as a punishment. That’s what someone said. Who knows? I mean, what can you do with a nutter? I think they put ’em down in some countries and you can see why.’
Tamsin neither wanted nor needed his company any more.
‘I’ll take it from here, Constable. You know what you have to do.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Don’t let me down.’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘And three bags full, ma’am,’ he felt like saying as he turned to go back up the stairs. He didn’t say it, he wouldn’t dare. A bit stuck-up, that DI. A looker, obviously, everyone knew that, but an ice maiden, never let you near, always keeping you away.
As for Tamsin, this was her best chance of redemption. She’d reckoned on being too late to enter the asylum by the front door; it would surely be locked, or watched, events having moved on? A more private entrance seemed wise. And then the revolting Goss had revealed a back way in; not a well-known path, so perhaps, Tamsin thought, she could be
clever. And she needed to be clever after the night she’d had.
Goss disappeared back up the steps. He could help the armed response unit, local knowledge and all that, or he could crawl back under the stone he came from, Tamsin wasn’t bothered. She continued down, step by hidden step, a cold handrail for help, the smell of urine, arriving finally at a pile of sodden rubbish, cans and the like, thrown down the steps.
And before her now, an old metal-framed door. Would it open? And what lay behind it?
*
‘What’s going on?’ asked Fran, standing in the damp gloom of Gladstone Ward.
‘Stay away,’ said Katrina, still waving her gun. ‘Leave now. You should both leave now.’ She pointed the weapon towards Fran. ‘Leave now!’ she shrieked.
And something inside the young man turned. He was sick of women telling him what to do: the judge, that detective, now this woman. Like his old Sunday school teacher, the witch. He moved towards Katrina.
The abbot watched.
‘Give me the gun,’ said Fran, holding out his hand . . . but she stood her ground. ‘Give me the gun, you stupid woman.’
Katrina was shaking.
‘Give him the gun, Katrina,’ said the abbot, gently. ‘It will be all right. He doesn’t want to harm anyone. You don’t want to harm anyone do you, Fran?’
‘Give me the gun,’ he said.
‘Do as he says,’ said the abbot, rising slowly from his crouched position. Had he misread the situation? He was beginning to wonder, but Katrina did as she was told. A desperate figure, she shouldn’t be here, why had she come? Slowly, she handed the gun to Fran, relieved to be rid of it and scared.
‘I don’t want anyone hurt,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t hurt anyone.’
‘Now where’s Cherise?’ asked Fran, pumped up. There was no answer. ‘Where’s Cherise?!’
‘We don’t know,’ said Peter.
‘Of course you know.’ He was becoming familiar with the gun in his hand, the power it gave.
‘And how can you help Cherise?’
‘I think I can teach her a lesson, Abbot.’
‘I’m not sure she needs a lesson. Not from you.’
‘Oh, she needs a lesson. You don’t make a fool of Fran.’
