“Are you still having nightmares?”
“God, yes. Aren’t you?”
“How bad is it?”
He shrugged miserably.
“Ah, Noel. I suppose I didn’t see what you saw – I didn’t witness an exorcism or frankly I’d be in here – locked in Solitary. It was bad enough seeing her like that so it must be a hell of a lot worse for you. Is it like reliving it every time you go to sleep or–?”
“Yes and no, more a feeling of being constantly watched. I’ve got this thing about keeping the light on because I could swear that while I’m sleeping there’s someone suspended over me in the dark, staring at me from the ceiling. It’s human but shaped like a crab with its head on back to front…I dream it’s really there, but when I wake it’s gone. Then the minute I shut my eyes again it’s back, sort of like a continuous nightmare that reverts exactly to where it was before, determined to send me mad… Oh I don’t know. Maybe time will help.”
“Well, drinking won’t that’s for sure. In fact it’ll make it a whole lot worse, but you know that.” His eyes were bloodshot. An already lean man, he’d lost a considerable amount of weight too. “I’ve never seen you like this before. You don’t even drink much normally. It’s serious, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
“I wonder why it’s getting worse?”
He shook his head. “It’s wearing me down, Becky.”
“What do you expect from Harry? Have you thought about counselling?”
His eyes locked with hers. “Becky, you and I both know this is something a counsellor can’t fix. You know what this is.”
She nodded. “Yes, yes I do and I’m sorry. It’s just I wanted to give you normal sound advice and not jump straight down that route again. I get enough stick at home about it.”
“You’re not still affected as well, are you?”
She nodded. “Not like before. But it kind of stays with you…never really goes away, I’m afraid. Anyway, I’m sure Harry’s the best person to go and see – good idea. And I’m always here for you, you know that.”
“Thanks, I know, but you’ve got other worries now and besides, surely you want to try and forget?”
She took another sip of coffee. “I seriously wish I could, but to be honest I’ve got the exact same feeling as you about being watched. I’ll tell you something now. Do you remember the day Celeste died, her telling us that Ida was really Lilith? Well a week ago Ruby came out with the same name – said Celeste, who’s her spirit guide now by the way, was telling me to find out about Lilith because I was with child. I don’t suppose you ever gave Ruby that name?”
“No, of course I didn’t.”
“No, sorry. Sorry. Well it’s bloody spooky that’s all. Lilith is supposed to be a demon that hates pregnant women and kills the new-born. All nonsense you might think, except she’s got white eyes – exactly as Celeste described – and oh, Noel, I couldn’t tell anyone else this for obvious reasons, but when I’m alone at night I see her in my bedroom mirror.”
“A year ago I’d have said that’s your imagination and hardly surprising, but–”
“Yes and I’d convinced myself it was precisely that - I’d seen those images time and time again researching Lilith, and we know how the subconscious mind can play tricks on us when we’re tired or scared to death?”
He laughed. “You’re not kidding. But how is this demon woman supposed to actually hurt you? I mean in the real world?”
“Well, she can’t, can she?”
They sat without speaking for a few minutes. In the corridor a tea trolley clattered, and in an upstairs room a phone rang and rang.
“So why is Ruby suddenly asking for Alice, do you think?” said Becky. “She hasn’t mentioned her daughter to me at all. Not once.”
“It came out of the blue this morning,” said Noel. “I went in with her meds and we got chatting, then all of a sudden she said, ‘I need to see Alice.’”
“She didn’t say why?”
“Nope. That was it. After that she turned to stare out of the window humming that infernal nursery rhyme, her eyes all glazed over.”
“She’s gone very internal again, hasn’t she? Talking to her other parts, of course. It’s an amazing landscape she’s got in there. Have you seen what she’s drawn for Claire?”
“The rooms and tunnels in her mind? I know, it’s incredible. It’s such a shame Amanda resigned because Claire hasn’t got the time to do it really. I’m convinced if she got the right person Ruby could, if not recover, at least function in the real world again, aren’t you?”
“Hmm, well we might have word on that soon.” She smiled. “I’ve got to train up Sandi next to cover my maternity leave, but I do know Isaac’s released more funding, so with Claire promoted to consultant hopefully when I come back we’ll have a full complement of staff again.”
“Thank Christ for that. Sometimes I feel like I might as well bring a sleeping bag and move in.”
“Ditto.”
“Just going back to Alice for a minute, though, what did the report say? Is there something we can pass on to at least reassure Ruby? She seems very agitated all of a sudden.”
Becky gulped the rest of her coffee and checked her watch. “Oh, sorry, yes. Finally they replied – good of them, eh? And it’s not much either – just a two-line memo stating she’s responding well to speech therapy and is now back on the unit.”
“Back?” Noel shook his head in confusion.
“Quite. That’s why I rang straight away, and this time I got through to a therapist, who said she was new – Judy Harper. It seemed she was fostered out, can you believe? She lasted three days before screaming the place down and attacking the other children. Oh, and worst of all, she then went missing. They found her wandering around Tanners Dell for God’s sake.”
Noel frowned. “I don’t understand. So the child is rescued from a satanic cult, had her tongue cut out, and they put her with foster parents after just a few months? I don’t get this.”
“I don’t either. And as you know I’ve asked repeatedly for news of her progress and repeatedly been fobbed off. I’ve been so busy and preoccupied I had to assume she was being well taken care of. Now I’m not so sure. Not so sure at all.”
“What about a visit from one of us then? They need to work with us if we’re going to reunite mother and daughter at some point.”
“Absolutely. And she’ll have DID like Ruby: they need to be treating her for multiple personalities, and sooner rather than later. I mean, what if she runs away again? Ruby ended up a drug addicted prostitute at fourteen – we can’t let history repeat itself.” Becky stared at Noel as the thought occurred. “And she kept heading back to Tanners Dell too, didn’t she? Hmmm….running away to return to a place of terror – now why would they do that? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well this is why we need to talk to Alice’s psychologist. I don’t know either. Ruby’s the only case of DID I’ve ever looked after.”
“I’ve had a few, but no one with poly-fragmented DID and I’ve never had to look after a victim of RSA. There are things we don’t know… but I do know these children need to feel safe. They need to be safe before any kind of treatment can start. They’ll get nowhere with Alice until she feels that trust, and if they foster her out again she’s hugely at risk. For God’s sake it’s supposed to be a secure unit she’s on.”
“But no one will be at Tanners Dell even if she does manage to get there, have you thought about that? The place is sealed off with police tape. Deserted. And the police knew where to look and brought her straight back, so why do you think she’s at risk? Surely these people will be long gone?”
“Because Callum says they’re positive from what Ernest Scutts and Crispin Morrow are bragging about inside, that they didn’t get all of them – not by a long shot.”
“What exactly have they got to brag about?”
“That they raised Lucifer and they did a good job; and that we have no idea
just how good a job yet. They’ve got them both in isolation now. One of the blokes unfortunate enough to be sharing a cell with Scutts was found howling and screaming the walls down at three in the morning. It took four wardens to hold him down.”
“Alice has suffered enough. We need to make sure she’s safe.”
“Yes,” said Becky, standing up. “And I’ve got a strong suspicion she isn’t.”
***
Chapter Seven
Bridesmoor.
1583, September
The rain set in around mid-August and drizzled on, turning berries to mush and the crops black. They would starve again this winter. And the plague had spread. Several cottages now had crosses nailed to the door in an attempt to stem the contagion, which had finally reached Bridesmoor, though no one knew how: the main routes to town had been blocked and no one had ventured either in or out.
Speculation on their misfortune was rife, spilling onto the church path after Sunday service. Perhaps, it was vengeance from the gods, or more likely witchcraft: the pestilence had been brought on the wings of a raven or the breath of a wild fox. Both of these red-eyed familiars had been seen skirting through the woods recently; ravens cawing from the forest, their blackened wings flapping into the autumnal evenings like the ragged cloaks of old churchmen. Harbingers of evil, said the elders who knew about these things and had seen it before. They no longer dared venture into Five Sisters woods after the witch had been hanged, hauled from her cottage by the mob many years ago. Her restless spirit haunted those woods, they said, and now she was back to wreak her revenge…in the guise of another…
Every lone woman, especially those who offered their services as a midwife, used herbs as medicine or kept animals, locked themselves indoors and barred the windows. In town, the gaols were full of women accused of witchcraft. Stripped and shamed, birthmarks became proof of the devil’s mark; the testimony of women whose young had died after being wet-nursed was used against them; even the word of children as young as five or six claiming an elderly lady had looked at them strangely, was justification enough to hang them.
At just after ten o’clock when the rest of the family were fast asleep, and the sound of her father’s snores reverberated through the walls, Magda slipped out of the cottage. The night was black; the sky a rumbling, ominous brew of bruised clouds that blew swiftly across the moon. Pulling her cloak around her she dropped the cowl hood low over her face and sprinted across the fields into Carrions Wood unseen. No way was she going to be blamed for this second year of bad luck. The guilt would not gnaw through to her bones, or burst through her skin in bubonic pustules; she was a survivor and there was power in that. Power in what she could do. Power over men. Men who would protect her.
Ambrose had kept his word, allowing her to slip away during the sacrificial ceremony so she would not have to watch her sister’s fresh, virginal blood soaking into the lush grass. Once the young couple had been slaughtered, the frenzied celebrations had begun - with spiked wine and dancing until the precise moment the full moon shifted into the centre of the ring, at which point the crowd fell quiet, the young couple were buried where they lay, and the party trooped gravely home.
Now the villagers would be saved. Now they could rejoice in the knowledge that abundance would swell on the hedges and weigh down the trees, fatten the animals, plump the grain and produce healthy new-borns. Good times were coming.
As payment for her life, Magda permitted Ambrose to maul her body; his pathetic groping laudable, the musty old-man stench of him repugnant. But he kept in place a protective veil between her and those who eyed her suspiciously – her own mother for one. So for now…for now…the most influential man in the area would serve his purpose. The power though, oh, the power – what a taste it had given her.
William was waiting where he said he would be – by the twisted old oak to the east side of the mill. If he hadn’t a wife she would be safe, would she not? Warm, comfortable, fed, and free from the pact with Ambrose…If he hadn’t a wife…
The heat of him pulsed in the blackness of the woods as she drew level on this wild night. Grabbing her waist, he immediately swung her round to the hard slam of his lips, the grip of his fingers digging into her flesh. They fell to the ground as one; he hitching up her skirts, pulling at her undergarments, she arching her spine to take him in fully. Together they clawed and gasped like animals, tearing at each other’s clothes, locked in the moment they had been desperately craving. Ever since one July evening after another loathsome pawing from Ambrose, when she’d wandered along the river just that little bit too far.
With dappling sun dancing on her bare skin she had waded into the water wearing nothing more than the white, cotton dress, which had captured Ambrose, letting it ride to her thighs, the cool freshness of it washing away the foul memory of tissue-dry hands that had poked, prodded and pried.
A handsome man in his mid-forties, William had been on his way home, as she knew he would be, when he stopped to watch her bathe. Deliciously conscious of his intense stare, she leaned back to rinse her hair, reclining in the flow, letting the soaked cotton of her dress cleave to her flesh as it rose further up…and up…
Now, silvery leaves crowded overhead in a ring of spectators, peering down from a black sky as repeatedly he rammed into her, pounding her spine into the dirt of the forest floor. He had her by the hair, levering his hips so he could plunge harder and harder and harder. “You dirty bitch, filthy harlot, village whore…”
This man, she wanted him. The black hair, the glinting hazel watchfulness of his eyes, the only man around here with money, respect and property; how his muscles strained against the white of his shirt and filled his breeches as he strode around in black leather boots and coat tails. A head taller than most, William the miller exuded dominance. They said that pale, weak wife of his could not bear children, miscarrying repeatedly… They said he beat her…well, that’s because he didn’t love her. How could he? This was a man who should possess a strong, beautiful girl who would bear him healthy children, roll around with him in his bed and satisfy him in every way, which she most definitely would. A man who needed to meet his match.
Her strong thighs wrapped around his back as the ferocious intensity of his lovemaking grew with each powerful thrust, dizzying her senses, sanding the skin off her back, crushing her arms with his weight as he shoved her shoulders into the ground, baring his teeth until at last, “You fucking, dirty little tart, damn you filthy, fucking disgusting bitch…” With a roar he finally released his weakness and his pleasure and his pain.
And inside the blackness of her mind she smiled. She had him.
He rolled onto his back, wreathed in sweat, panting, and she inhaled the raw, masculine scent of him, reaching over to stroke the black curls away from his elegant face. Oh, his wife had to go. Somehow Lisbet had to go. Did ever a woman want a man as badly as this? She could give him everything he wanted and more. The sons he should have…
“I’m pregnant,” she whispered.
Not a sound broke the empty silence of his answer.
***
Chapter Eight
Mental Health - The Child and Adolescent Unit
Present Day
Becky was shown into the art room by the receptionist, who pointed to a pale, solemn-looking girl by the window. The psychologist supervising her was one of those women of indeterminable age – short, grey hair cut around her ears, no make-up, pleated skirt and flat, comfortable shoes, although with a virtually unlined complexion. Late forties or early fifties? Becky smiled, already liking her as she stood and held out her hand. Behind the glasses, her eyes were a deep, cornflower blue.
“You must be Becky? We’re just playing a little game, aren’t we Alice?”
Alice did not respond, concentrating instead on carefully packing a doll into a small cardboard box.
“Hi,” Becky said, taking the proffered seat. “Thanks ever so much for agreeing to see me, Judy. I really wanted to talk to you
.”
Judy kept her voice low. “Likewise.” Nodding towards Alice, who was humming distractedly, she added, “I don’t think she’s with us at the moment but best to keep our voices down all the same.”
“Yes, of course,” Becky murmured back. “I’m just so relieved to be able to talk to someone about this. The thing is, like I said on the phone earlier, we’ve had Alice’s mother, Ruby, with us for nearly three years now, and she’s making good progress; but as I’m sure you can imagine she’d like to see Alice. Anyway, I’ve tried making contact with the staff here for months but had no response. This is the first chance I’ve had.
Frowning, Judy lowered her voice to little more than a whisper. “I’m glad you came, Becky. I’m not particularly happy about the situation either. I only had the referral four weeks ago and that was by default. And I was surprised – very – that Alice hadn’t been assigned a psychologist before that, and even more shocked to realise she’d been sent to foster carers, particularly when I found out they were based in the same area she came from.”
“Sorry? You’ve lost me – come again?”
“Bridesmoor. She was sent to a family in Bridesmoor.”
For several seconds Becky stared open-mouthed while she computed the information. “Wait a minute, you’re kidding – they sent her to Bridesmoor? And you’ve only just been assigned? But…I don’t understand. So she didn’t see a psychologist for seven months? At all?”
“Nope. Looking at her notes she had intensive speech therapy, and after being assessed by the psychiatrist he was of the opinion that what she needed the most was a family environment.”
“Good grief. I wish I’d known sooner, but I never had a single reply to any of my queries – I must have sent a dozen emails and rung Dr Mullins’ secretary as many times again. You’re the first person I’ve managed to speak to either on the phone or in person.”
Magda: A Darkly Disturbing Occult Horror Trilogy - Book 3 Page 5
