Delirium (London Psychic) (14 page)

"What do you think about it?" she asked.
 

Taylor-Johnson sighed. "We all have to decide where the lines are, Detective. Between those who are mentally ill and can't help their actions versus those who voluntarily choose to give in to evil impulse. The rehabilitation of the mentally ill is my life's work, so I have to believe that those with true mental illness don't actively choose their path. We need to treat them with compassion, and hope that with therapy and continued medication, they can find their way back into society again. If Monro had his doubts, well, I can understand that. Sometimes, our belief and patience is stretched. But I've seen success here, and I'm sure you've seen evidence overturned against someone you believed guilty, Detective."

Jamie nodded, knowing that as much as she and her colleagues tried, the best was sometimes not good enough and rarely, but sometimes, they got it wrong.
 

"Thank you for your time, Doctor. I'll be in touch if there's anything else I need to know."

Blake ran along the track towards the main road, the Galdrabók heavy in his coat pocket. He needed to get away from the house, from the creatures that dragged his father's soul down to Hell, from his own memories of abuse. Part of him knew he should stay and comfort his mother, be the son she needed, but he couldn't face her perfect memory of the man he now knew as tainted. The images of dark creatures gnawing at his father's body kept looping round his mind and the edge of desperation was making him crazy. The need to drink was overwhelming, and Blake clenched his fists to hold back the anxiety the craving brought with it.
 

He walked towards the nearest town, keeping his thumb out as cars passed. Rain began to drizzle down and soon a car stopped.
 

"You alright, son?" The man was older than Magnus had been, his eyes a welcoming warm brown. "Not a great night to be hitching. Where you going?"
 

"Train station, if that's OK."
 

It wasn't far and the man seemed happy to chat with nothing more than a few grunts from Blake in return. At the station, Blake waved the man goodbye and looked at the ticket office, the entrance almost obscured by the now-pouring rain. In Britain, the nearest pub was never too far away and Blake caught sight of one just behind the car park, lights in the window promising beer and warmth. He needed the oblivion that only alcohol could bring right now, even in this shitty little corner of England. Maybe especially here.

The Bear and Staff was teetering on the edge of rundown, with old stools and wooden tables flawed by ring marks, overlaying each other through years of use. There were a couple of people drinking inside, a group of men who looked like they kept the place going with their custom, and several clearly waiting for the train. The bartender looked up with expectation as Blake walked in, smiling as he approached the counter.
 

"Two tequilas please, and …" Blake looked at the wide selection of ales on tap. "Two pints of Abbeydale's Black Mass."

The British penchant for exotically named ales seemed strangely appropriate given his visions, but already Blake doubted what he had seen. There was no way he could verify the facts of the Scandinavian murders quickly, and the black creatures could have been a result of the pain-relief drugs Magnus had been on. Somehow Blake's visions must have tapped into that perception, because of course, there was no such thing as demons.

The barman nodded. "Coming right up. You waiting for someone?"

He put the tequila shots on the bar, glancing down at Blake's gloved hands.

"Something like that." Blake downed the shots one after the other. The burning in his throat anchored him to this place, in this time, a physical sensation that he had never felt in any vision and helped him center with reality. The immediate rush took the edge off his craving, but oblivion had become harder to reach of late. The barman placed the beers on the bar.
 

"Two more tequilas," Blake said, handing over extra cash.
 

"Must be one hell of a bad day," the barman said, turning to pour more shots. He put a bag of salted crisps next to them. "You'd better have these, too."

The door banged and a whistle of wind rushed in, bringing a taste of rain into the dank bar. Blake glanced up as he gulped at the first beer. Two men in dark coats walked to the far end of the bar, collars turned up against the weather. One of the men looked over, piercing grey eyes raking over Blake's taut face. Could they see the twisted mass inside him, or was that just paranoia? What did it even matter? Blake thought, downing the beer in just a few gulps. He didn't care what anyone thought of him here. He only needed to blur the edges of the world as fast as possible.
 

His phone rang. Checking the number, he saw it was his mother. He let it go to voicemail, guilt washing over him. But he couldn't face her grief, or her unquestioning faith that Magnus would be waiting for her in Heaven.

Blake downed the next two tequilas, savoring the raw power of the spirit. Distilled from the agave plant, it survived harsh desert winds, its spiked leaves warding off predators. Blake drew on that strength now, letting the alcohol work its magic. His limbs began to feel heavy and, finally, his breathing slowed to a more even rhythm and anxiety abated.
 

He pulled the Galdrabók from his pocket, running gloved fingertips across the surface of burnished leather. Whatever past it represented, that was gone now, and this was all he had left to remember his father by. This and the scars. Could his gift really be a punishment from the gods in recompense for his father's sin? Or was there something wrong in his brain? That thought always teetered on the edge of his consciousness and some days he would give anything to have this curse removed. Blake took another sip of the beer … if he kept on drinking this way, he would likely get his wish.
 

There was one person who made him want to stop drinking for good, and Blake found a shadow of a smile on his lips at the thought of Jamie Brooke. The desire to speak to her welled up inside. Her perspective on Magnus and the visions might make everything clearer. She would know he was on the edge of drunk, but Jamie had seen him in a worse state when she had come to him desperate for help in the middle of the night.
 

Blake stood, placing his hand on the table to steady himself as his head spun, the pub fading in and out of focus. The group of regulars looked at him, their stares hostile, hands wrapped tightly around their pint glasses. Blake nodded at them as he walked towards the door, pulling it open with one hand as he fumbled for Jamie's number on his phone.
 

Outside, the air was crisp and chill. The heavy rain had morphed into that peculiarly British drizzle that barely seemed there but still soaked anyone standing in it. The tarmac was shining purple with oil marks from the car park, light from the street lamps turning the dark pools into rainbows. Blake turned towards the back of the pub and headed for a doorway with some shelter. As he heard the first rings on Jamie's phone, the door opened behind him. The two men from the bar came out, looked around and spotted Blake in the doorway. The man with grey eyes smiled, taking out a cigarette and lighting it as the other man walked wide, blocking Blake's exit to the car park.
 

The drunken haze couldn't hide the implied threat and Blake's heart thumped hard against his chest as the men advanced. He felt a trickle of sweat inch down his spine and cursed the amount of tequila he had drunk. His awareness was dulled, his mind heavy, his limbs sluggish. Jamie's line went to voicemail and Blake hung up, focusing on the men in front of him.

"Can I help you with anything?" he asked. "I'm just waiting for a friend."
 

The grey-eyed man took a long drag on his cigarette.
 

"I don't think anyone's coming for you." He indicated the other man. "Except us, of course. And we're friends, really, we are. You just have to get in the car with us."

Blake looked around him, checking for anything he could use as a weapon. "I think you must have the wrong person. I don't know you."
 

"Oh, but we know you, Blake Daniel." The grey-eyed man took another drag and dropped his cigarette to the wet ground, grinding it into a puddle. Blake's eyes flitted to the other man, who moved like a boxer – light on his feet but with surely a hell of a punch. Blake wasn't much of a fighter, but the beatings his father and the Elders dealt in his childhood had cured any fear of physical hurt.

"What do you want?" he asked.

The grey-eyed man pulled a box from a pocket inside his jacket.
 

"You have a remarkable gift, and we want to help you understand it. But if you're not going to come willingly, then it's our – qualified – medical opinion that your mental health issues are putting yourself and others at risk." The other man advanced, arms stretched wide, his eyes inviting Blake to move, to resist. He clearly relished the chance to inflict pain and Blake's heart rate spiked as he saw the grey-eyed man pull a syringe from the case. "For those who may inquire, we had to sedate you in order to prevent further injury to yourself and others in the vicinity. You had to be detained under the Mental Health Act, and, of course, you will have the right to appeal."

Move!
Blake's mind screamed at him, but his body was leaden, his responses dulled. He just needed to get to the car park, where someone might see him and help, or at least he might be picked up on security cameras. The men took one more step towards him. Blake ducked low and charged the gap between them.
 

The thump of an elbow in his back knocked him to the ground. A boot slammed into his side and Blake curled on one side, arms thrown up to protect his head as the blows thudded into his body. His phone went skidding beneath a skip in the alleyway.

"Enough." The grey-eyed man called a halt to the beating. Blake coughed and retched, gasping for air as he fought the spasms in his stomach. The stocky man grabbed his arm and flipped him over onto his back. For a brief moment, Blake felt the rain on his face as a blessing, melting away the reality of where he lay. Grey eyes came into focus in front of his face, and the man grinned as he pushed the syringe into Blake's neck. As his breathing slowed, Blake felt resignation settle within him, like a warm stone anchoring him to the earth. What could they do to him that he hadn't already faced in his visions? He shut his eyes and let the rain soak through him into the hard ground beneath.

Jamie put down the phone. She'd just missed Blake's call and he hadn't answered when she called back. Her finger hovered over redial, and then she shook her head, smiling a little. He was probably out somewhere in a noisy bar and couldn't hear the ring. With a stab of loneliness, she turned to the bookshelf where the terracotta urn sat in pride of place. She gently cupped it with her hand, the coolness on her palm reminding her that this was just a dead object. It might contain the physical remains of her daughter, but in itself, it was nothing. So why couldn't she just scatter the ashes in the bluebell woods that Polly had loved so much? Or throw them to the wind over the ocean? Why keep them here, grey dust and ashes that in no way represented the girl she had lost.
 

Jamie bent her forehead to the urn and knew she was still tethered to the memories. If she scattered these final grains of what had once been life, then she was utterly alone in the world. She thought of the bottle of sleeping pills in the bathroom, the oblivion that would take her away from this constant ache in her chest. Jamie breathed out, a long exhalation. The only way to deal with grief was to work. She walked to the kitchen and poured herself a large glass of pinot noir, taking it back to the sofa. Pulling out her cigarettes, she lit one and the long drag coupled with the wine gave her the tiny boost she needed. She opened Lyssa's diary and began to read.
 

They say it's chemistry in my brain that makes me this way. That some invisible chain of neurons has become polluted. The blackness sits in my head like a cancerous growth. In the past, they could have dug it out of my skull, lobotomized me and turned me into a loon, destroying the bad along with the rest of me.

Now, they pass electricity through my brain and try to buzz it out. With anesthetic, of course, as if that negates the barbarity. I imagine it fracturing into pieces, tiny shards of its disease spreading through the rest of my body. They say ECT is like a reset button, that I'm just a computer that needs a control-alt-delete reboot. They know best. Don't they?
 

But what if this blackness is just a part of me, not separate. What if it is bound into every atom of my body, making up who I am? When they try to rip it from me, or sedate it, or electroshock it away, the rest of me curls into a desperate ball, because they're destroying all of me. I am every color on the spectrum and black is necessary to highlight the bright yellow, and iridescent green, to enable brilliant turquoise to shine. Without black, there is no contrast, and without contrast, life is monochrome.

Jamie laid the diary aside. It was strange, but the overwhelming sense in Lyssa's words was life, a vibrant passion for living and creativity and an intelligent consideration of what life really was. The woman had been a dynamo, whirling through existence, and then she had crashed, ending it all. Jamie looked up at the terracotta urn. Polly had told her to dance, to continue to live, so tonight she would dance in remembrance of her daughter, and for Lyssa. Crushing the end of her cigarette into the ashtray, Jamie packed a bag quickly with her tango clothes and went out into the night.
 

***

Within thirty minutes, Jamie was at the
milonga
. She changed into her silver dress, the one Polly had loved her to wear. She slipped on tall heels, feeling her leg muscles elongate, the accentuation of her form. She pulled the clasp from her hair, letting the black cascade brush at her nape, as ghostly fingers of sensation ran down her spine. It was time to embrace this side of herself again, and in the dance, she could forget the complexities of the case.