Cruel Minds (2 page)

“I don’t feel strong.”

“How
do
you feel?”

“Guilty.”

“For not being able to save your mother? For not being able to prevent the suicide of a young boy who had been systematically abused by his father for most of his short life? Tell me, how do you stop cancer, Emily? How do you anticipate someone’s behaviour when they can’t even anticipate it themselves?”

Emily looked away. She felt tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “I could have helped him. I was his teacher, he looked up to me. Instead, I behaved like his father.”

“He was taunting you. You’d just lost your mother. You were in a deep state of grief. You lost control just for a moment. Emily, we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t have moments when we’re not in control. Phillip Gerard was not in control.”

“Phillip Gerard was an eleven-year-old boy.”

Silence filled the room.

“Imagine you had a sister and she was sitting right next to you, right at this moment,” Kirsten said. “Imagine she’s a teacher, and she tells you that a boy in her class killed himself because she shouted at him. Does that sound palpable to you? Does shouting at someone drive them to take their own life? Or is there a much more real explanation? What would you say to your sister?”

Emily stared at the empty space beside her, then at the stain on the coffee table.

“We all make mistakes,” she said.

“Yes, we do.” Kirsten picked up her pen and notepad again. “And we’re focusing so much on the loss of life that we’re forgetting something hugely important.”

Emily looked up. “What’s that?”

“That you saved lives.”

“Alina still hasn’t woken up.”

“And you think that’s your fault?”

Emily was quiet as she thought about Alina Engel, the former tenant of her apartment, who had disappeared and whom Emily had found in a comatose state, surrounded by the dead and dying in Doctor Williams’ chamber of horrors at the Ever After Care Foundation. Alina was now back in her native Germany, where she remained in an intensive care unit with little hope of recovery.

“I just wish I’d gotten there sooner.”

Kirsten frowned. “You saved lives, Emily. The patients Doctor Chelmsford was experimenting upon would not be here today if you hadn’t intervened. As for the victims at the hospice, they were terminally ill. They were going to die anyway. But you freed them to die with dignity, not in the darkness of Dr Williams’ attic. You should be proud of what you’ve achieved. And you should place the blame firmly in the hands of the guilty.”

Emily felt a tingling in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, preventing the tears from escaping.

“And therein lies the problem,” she said.

T
he woman stepped out from the shadows, a .45 pistol in her hand. She’d been watching them through the window, fires burning in her eyes. See how they smile and laugh, her expression said. See how together they are, how wholesome. A picture postcard of the nuclear family that society tells us we must aim for. And she was aiming for them. They were in her sights.

As she revealed herself, unpeeling from the shadows and stepping into the well-lit kitchen, the perfect family turned and froze in a frightened tableau; moist, tender meat hanging inches from their open mouths.

At the head of the table, recognition spread across Jerome Miller’s face like cracks in ice. His walnut-coloured skin paled.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t hurt them. They’re all I have.”

The children began to cry. At the opposite end, his wife stared at him, then at the woman in the red dress, who now had all the power, who could decimate the family with a single squeeze of a trigger.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jerome said, ever so carefully putting down his fork and raising his hands high above his head. “It’s me you want. It’s me that’s wronged you. Let them live and take me.”

The woman with the gun began to cry, but her aim held true and steady.

“I loved you,” she whimpered. “And you loved me. You promised me the world. Now you’ve taken it all away.”

“Please!” Jerome begged. “Put the gun down and let’s talk about this!”

The woman in the red dress threw her head back like a lioness and laughed. Her jaw snapped shut. Her face contorted with hate.

She squeezed the trigger twice. Two loud gunshots shattered the air. Jerome flew backwards, crashing onto the table, knocking dinner plates to the floor. His family stared in shocked silence.

“I’m sorry,” whispered the woman in the red dress. She placed the barrel of the gun to her temple and fired. As she fell, the room plunged into darkness.

The silence seemed to last for an hour. Then came the squeak of rollers as large red curtains moved across the stage. No sooner had the curtains grazed each other, they parted again to reveal Jerome, now very much alive and standing centre-stage. His wife and children stood on his right, the woman in the red dress on his left. Other bodies swept in from the wings. As the audience rippled with sparse and unforgiving applause, the actors bowed.

Twenty minutes later, the dingy theatre bar was alive with voices and clinking glasses.

“So, what did you think?”

Emily sipped her orange juice as she looked around. Crushed blue velvet covered the walls. Gold-painted cornice, which was cracked and faded, decorated the edges of the nicotine-stained ceiling. A few of the other actors were gathered around tables with friends and family, who had come to see the show and were now sat smiling and nodding emphatically; a clear sign that they had hated every minute.

Jerome tapped his wine glass as he waited for Emily’s verdict.

“It was terrible,” she said. “Badly written, predictable, not to mention completely misogynistic. But you were very good in it.”

“Thank you, that was very succinct. You should write reviews for the papers.”

“Perhaps I will.”

Shoulders sinking, Jerome said, “Seriously though, for our opening night there was no one here. If numbers don’t pick up tomorrow, we’re finished. Then it’s back to waiting tables for me.”

“Which, to be honest, has more ethical merit than
The Devil Wears a Red Dress
.” Emily twirled the straw in her glass. She looked up to see Jerome’s wounded expression. “I’m sure another play will come along.”

“Thanks for your positivity.” Jerome winced as he gulped his wine. “For the amount they charge per glass you’d think they’d invest in something a little classier. Cheap shits.”

He watched Emily, who was lost somewhere in the space between them.

“What’s wrong? I know the show was bad but you’ve got a face on you like a cat’s ass.”

“I’m flattered you could tear yourself from your ego to notice.”

They both smiled. As their friendship had blossomed over the past months, they’d discovered a mutual fondness for playful banter, teasing each other like siblings.

“Touché,” Jerome said. “What’s up?”

“Bad day at the office.”

“Therapy? What did the delectable Doctor Dewar have to say today?”

“That’s confidential and you know it.”

“Sorry, my lack of boundaries knows no bounds. You know I’m here if you need to talk.”

Emily nodded. “Thanks. But can we talk about something other than my addled mind?”

“But it’s so much fun!” Jerome winked, then reached over to squeeze her hand. “We could talk about my lucrative career path as waiter to the denizens of London. Or the fact your sofa’s going to need new springs soon if I don’t save enough money for my own place. What a pair we are!”

He laughed. It was such a deep, heartfelt sound that Emily could not help but smile.

“You know you can stay with me as long as you want,” she said.

Jerome took another sharp sip of wine. “I know. And I appreciate it. But sooner or later, we’re both going to want our own space. Heaven help us, maybe we’ll both get boyfriends! Besides, not to sound ungrateful, but that sofa is wreaking havoc with my posture.”

“Is it weird? Living above the flat you used to live in?”

“A little. But mostly because I despise the couple that moved in there. Awful people! I shared the lift with them the other day and they behaved like I was about to pull a knife and snatch their wallets. I’m surprised Harriet hasn’t had anything to say about them.”

Emily pushed her orange juice away. Laughter exploded from the adjacent table. The bar had grown suddenly very noisy.

“I don’t think Harriet’s been out of her apartment much. I’m worried about her,” she said.

“I know what you mean,” Jerome nodded. “She hasn’t been the same since her fall.”

“It wasn’t a fall.”

Emily sighed, feeling the muscles in her chest contract. A group of twenty-somethings spilled in through the door behind, their excited chatter adding to the din. Emily’s thoughts returned to today’s session with Kirsten, to her desire to move on with her life. How was she going to do it? She felt trapped; as if the floor was quicksand and she was sinking further and further into a perpetual gloom. The bar closed in around her. Bodies pressed against each other, forming an impenetrable wall between Emily and the exit.

A handsome man called to Jerome, beckoning him towards the bar, where a group of cast members had gathered.

“Do you want to meet the guys?” Jerome was staring at her, concern wrinkling his otherwise flawless skin.

Emily shook her head. “There’s only so much fun you can have with orange juice. Go have fun. I’ll see you at home.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Go, before I tell your friends all about how you never wash your underwear.”

“Emily Swanson, you’re a scurrilous liar.”

Concern gave way to a blinding smile. Jerome leaned over, planted a kiss on her forehead, and then scurried over to join his friends.

***

T
he night was warm and sticky. Londoners were still sat on terraces and crowding the pavements outside of bars, making the most of the above average June temperatures. It didn’t matter that it was Tuesday and there were jobs to go to in the morning.

Emily walked along the Strand, moving away from the towering lions of Trafalgar Square and the tourists still posing for pictures despite the late hour. Soon, she was moving along Fleet Street, once home to the country’s national newspapers and named after London’s largest underground river.

She still preferred to walk than take the Underground. The idea of being squeezed into one of those trains along with millions of other bodies filled her with sweat-inducing claustrophobia. Besides, walking had helped her to get to know the city well. She had learned which streets were the busiest and which backstreets to take to avoid them. Despite the constant push and shove, she was getting better at manoeuvring through the crowds. But if there were quieter, less stressful routes to get to places, then it seemed ridiculous not to take them. And at least she
was
getting to places instead of staying cooped up in her apartment, slowly losing her mind.

Taking a left onto Fetter Lane, she journeyed towards Holborn Circus, crossed the busy junction and continued onto Farringdon. It wasn’t long before she was back at The Holmeswood and sipping valerian tea in front of her living room windows. Below, the street was almost empty. Above, the sky was a muddy green—the darkest London was ever going to get.

Thoughts played over in her mind like an orchestra tuning their instruments. She tried to shut them out, but they were relentless; taunting her, pointing accusing fingers.

Putting down her cup, Emily fetched sheets and pillows from the hallway closet and made up Jerome’s bed on the sofa. Normally, he would make it himself, but she had a sneaking suspicion that tonight he would require a little help. Switching out the light, she padded along the hall towards her bedroom.

This was the worst part of the day, which she approached with quiet dread. Kirsten had told her sleep would be the hardest nut to crack. After being induced into a three-month coma against her will, it was no surprise that her unconscious mind now associated sleep with blind terror. Recovery would take time. The sleeping pills had helped at first, but drugging herself nightly with more chemicals did not feel much like a cure.

Alongside exploring alternative natural remedies, Kirsten had provided Emily with a CD of relaxation exercises. Slipping it into the player, she hit the play button and then sank into her armchair. As calming music began to fill the room, she placed her heels flat on the floor and rested her hands on her lap. Kirsten’s velvety voice tickled her ears.

“Close your eyes. Take in a deep, wide breath through your nose. Now, let it out slowly through your mouth. Imagine you are in a calm place. Somewhere you feel safe. A forest, or a beach. Take a moment to feel the warm sun on your face, a gentle breeze against your skin...”

The bedroom slipped away. Trees grew up. The scent of pine needles hung on the air.

“Take a moment to enjoy your surroundings. What do you see? What can you hear? You feel protected in this place. Nothing can harm you. Feeling very relaxed, you lie down...”

The trees turned to ash. White walls closed in around her. Harsh electric light crackled over her head. Something was choking her, reaching far into her belly.

Emily leapt out of the chair and switched off the CD. All she wanted was peace and quiet. How was she ever going to achieve that when her mind was constantly filled with chaos?

She wanted a sleeping pill. She wanted it now. It took all of her willpower to not pay a visit to the bathroom cabinet. Instead, she forced herself into bed and finished her valerian tea.

When she fell asleep two hours later, Doctor Chelmsford and Doctor Williams were waiting to greet her like old friends.

“Y
ou know what you need, don’t you?” Harriet Golding poured tea from a teapot and with a trembling hand, pushed a cup and saucer towards her guest. Emily sat on her neighbour’s couch, surrounded by piles of books and shelves of ornaments. Her neck muscles tensed. When Harriet began a sentence with those words, it invariably ended with
a man
or
children
.