Delirium (London Psychic) (7 page)

"Excellent, we'll just repeat that to be sure."
 

The man on the floor was weak but he tried to rise at the words, attempting to drag himself towards the door as his face twisted in desperation at his fate.
 

"Oh no, you don't," one of the guards said, bringing his boot down heavily on the man's back, pinning him to the floor. "Back on the board with you, crazy bastard. The Doc's just trying to help."

The guard's voice echoed with the enjoyment of a man who loved to inflict pain and control, and Blake knew that this patient would only find release if they let him drown.
 

He tried to shift the veils of awareness back to the present time, back to the murder last night. The emotions were so weak in comparison to the people who had been trapped and tortured here long ago, who had died here. But there was a hint in the air, a need for revenge and retribution, for leveling the score on behalf of all those who were lost within these walls. There was also a clarity of thought, a strength of purpose. The mad had been beaten down and abused, judged and tortured for too long and now they had a champion, but Blake couldn't see anything of the details of that particular night.
 

He jolted out of the trance to find Jamie shaking his arm.
 

"Blake, it's OK. Come back now. Please."

He was lying on the floor, a cold sweat covering his body. He shivered as he centered on the present again. Blake opened his eyes to see Jamie's face close to his. For a moment, he forgot the horror of Bedlam and wanted to tilt his head and kiss her, revel in the moment and leave the past behind. But he knew it was too soon, and he couldn't bear it if she pulled away.

"Water," he whispered, sitting up with her help, leaning against the wall and pulling his gloves back on. His hands were shaking a little, the aftermath of the visions that always rocked him.

Blake drank deeply from the bottle Jamie handed him. He could smell the new paint on the walls and it seemed incongruous after what he had just witnessed. It was just one of the strange sensations of his visions, the present always so different from the past.
 

Jamie sat next to him on the floor, waiting for him to recover. He could feel her wanting to ask what he had seen, but she held back. After years of hiding his gift, and witnessing people's generally spooked reactions to what he saw, Blake relished Jamie's acceptance of who he really was.

"It seems your Monro was just one in a long line of mind doctors," Blake said. "Although what we would call doctors now seems hardly appropriate for what they were in those days." He pulled his smartphone from his pocket and searched for more on the Monros and Bedlam. "Here, look, the family was in charge of Bedlam for three generations, making their money from madness and hiding those considered inappropriate from society. The final Monro had to resign because he was 'wanting in humanity,' but the entire family was notorious. They prescribed treatments without even seeing patients, and back then, treatments including bleeding, purging and various chemical concoctions to sedate or shock the patient back to health." Blake scrolled down. "See here, the Georgian mad were treated as chained beasts and Monro was responsible for bloodletting, forced vomiting and blistering. Under their administration, Bedlam used chains and restraints, beating and brutality to manage the inmates. There was filthy accommodation, infected sores from chaining, gagging or bandaging of the head to stop talking, force-feeding to such brutality that teeth were missing, jaws broken and reports of rape."

Blake shook his head. "I saw some of this happening, Jamie, and the reports make it seem somehow acceptable because the medical profession allowed it. But what was reported must have been just the tiniest part of the whole."

"I think the abuse still goes on," Jamie said. "I saw evidence of it in Monro's office. The records of one girl indicated suicide after treatment that can't possibly have been sanctioned officially. But what about Monro's murder? Could you see anything about that specifically?"

Blake trailed his gloved fingertips on the patterned tiles on the floor. He shook his head.

"There wasn't much, as the dominant emotions here are the suffering of those thousands before him. But Monro's murder was certainly one of revenge, and there was no sense that the person who did it suffered from any kind of mental illness. It was as if they were clinically detached, coldly aware of what this man's ancestors had done. I don't think you're looking for one of Monro's patients."
 

Jamie frowned. "But surely to kill him for the sins of past generations seems like the act of someone not entirely rational?"
 

"Oh, I think this Monro was abusing the so-called mad as much as his ancestors had been. The murder was committed here to honor the dead, a repayment of a debt owed to those society put here to forget." Blake paused for a moment. "There was something else, almost a reckless feeling. I don't think the murderer has anything left to lose."
 

"You mean they're not finished?"

"If he or she, and I can't tell which, is some kind of Robin Hood for the mad, then yes, I think there will be more incidents."

"And I have no way of finding out who might be next," Jamie said quietly.
 

Blake took her hand and squeezed it gently.
 

"You can't fight death, Jamie. You can't take on every criminal in London and expect to stop the violence. Just like I can't fight the past, I can only perceive its passing …"

A buzz interrupted Blake's words. Jamie checked her phone and saw a text from Missinghall.
 

You're good to go to Broadmoor. All cleared. Have emailed details.

Jamie stood. "Are you heading back to the British Museum now?"
 

Blake thought of his father's watch, and a shadow crossed his face. "I might be going away for a few days, actually."

Jamie raised an eyebrow. "Anything you need help with?"
 

Blake shook his head. "I'm not quite ready to talk about it yet, but I'll text you later."

Blake watched as Jamie got on her bike and waved, before revving off into traffic. It made him smile to watch her drive away, all black leather and tough exterior but with so much pain and vulnerability inside. As she vanished round the corner, Blake felt the prickle of eyes on his back and he turned, scanning the road for anyone watching. A dark-blue saloon car with tinted windows pulled away from the curb just a few meters away, and Blake watched it go, an eerie sense of eyes on him as it passed.
 

He shook his head, the paranoia surely a hangover from the visions. He had to finish the Timotheus report, but he didn't want to go back to work now. It was time to face the past.

Blake got off the bus at the end of the lane, shivering a little in his thin jacket. Once he'd finally made the decision to come, he had left London as fast as possible and he hadn't brought his thicker coat. It was too much of a temptation to stay at home and avoid the confrontation he had feared for much of his adult life, the memory of his father looming large. Every mile he had come closer to arriving, every stop the bus had made, he had wanted to run back to London. But the room he had seen his father in through the watch haunted his thoughts, and he had to see what was really happening.
 

The little village of Long Farnborough was on the edge of the New Forest National Park, a train ride and then a bus from London, far enough to make it hard to visit without a car. It might well have been the other side of the world for how much he had seen his parents over the years. Blake walked slowly up the lane, the heavy weight of the past making his steps cumbersome. The scars on his hands throbbed, with cold perhaps, or with the memory of pain inflicted here.
 

Blake breathed in deeply, becoming more aware of the woodland around him as the birch and oak trees canopied above. Living in the city for so long, he had almost forgotten the clean scent of the forest, the ambient noise of birdsong and the rustling of woodland animals. The New Forest was actually one of the oldest forests in England, dense with whispers of the past, an echo of times when people lived closer to the earth. The intrepid walker, leaving the footpaths, could come upon an ancient monument or a round barrow from the early Bronze Age. In the past, Blake had tried to read some of the stones and trees around the burial sites, his hands flat against the rough surfaces, but he couldn't pick up any trace of those who had walked here.
 

One last corner. Blake steeled himself as he rounded it and saw the house his father had built with his own hands, the home he had walked away from. The place was simple, as befitted a man of God, and Blake knew his father had never cared much for the physical world, preferring to fix his eyes on Heaven. The red kitchen curtains were open and suddenly Blake saw his mother's face, his heart leaping in recognition. Precious Olofsson had married young, star struck by the prophet's dominance, and her features were still youthful, her black skin smooth. The lines around her eyes were deeper now, and she was still beautiful. Blake saw her smile light her face as she saw him and he almost wept, for there was no recrimination in her eyes, only love and welcome.
The prodigal son returns indeed
, he thought, walking faster to the door as it opened, and there she was.
 

"Daniel," she said, her voice soft and warm, like the bread she used to bake on a Saturday, when he would shape the dough into silly animals to make her laugh. Precious held her arms out and Blake walked into them, enfolding her.
 

"Oh, Mum," he whispered, eyes closed, feeling the prick of tears. Blake dwarfed her now, and he could feel how thin she was, how brittle. How vulnerable. Yet she stroked his back, her strength calming him.
 

"It's OK," she said, her breath warm on his neck. "I know why you've stayed away. But you're here now, and that's all that matters." She pulled away from him, clutching his hands, stroking the gloves as if she caressed the scars underneath. Her eyes shone with tears. "He's worse, you need to see him. The Lord will take him when He's ready, I know that, but the going is difficult."
 

Blake envied his mother's faith, an almost fatalistic view of the world. It meant she had believed his gift was God's will, but that his father's punishment was also meant to be. Perhaps it made life simpler to accept that, but Blake believed in being the author of one's own fate.
 

The sound of chanting came from the upstairs bedroom, rising to a crescendo and then a stream of voices praying in tongues. To some, it was the language of angels and to others, merely the expression of emotion through the vocalization of a meaningless dialect, a babble of incoherence made holy by belief.

"The Elders are with him," Precious said, her eyes shadowing. Blake tightened his arm around her. He knew how little the cabal of male Elders thought of the women in their congregation. Patriarchy was certainly alive and well in this community, a breakaway fundamentalist sect. His heart thumped at the thought of seeing the men, remembering how they had beaten him and others, how he had seen their abuse, and, God forgive him, he had never reported it.
 

"They shouldn't be too much longer." Precious sighed, shaking her head. "They've been interceding with God for nearly two hours. But if the Lord is calling your father, then who are we to try and keep him here? Heaven is a better place, and we must all long for the time when we will join our Savior."

Blake ignored the sense that he should answer her unspoken question. He had lost his faith a long time ago, and could no longer remember whether it was his father he had worshipped, or God himself. There seemed no difference in his childhood memories of the prophet leading the church in prayer, his deep voice extolling sermons that would leave the congregation on their knees, gasping for forgiveness.

The prayers stopped and after a moment, the Elders emerged at the top of the stairs, their voices hushed, faces grim. Blake's apprehension diminished as he noticed how much they had all aged. They had paunches, their faces sagged, and as much as they touted the poverty of faith, there was evidence of too much good living in their soft bodies. Blake stood taller, looking up at them.

Elder Paul Lemington saw him first, falling silent as the rest of the group followed his gaze.
 

"Daniel," Paul said as he walked down the stairs, eyes fixed on Blake. "It's been a long time."

Blake nodded, meeting the Elder's eyes, his gaze unflinching. He had nothing to fear from this man anymore, and looking at him now, Blake wondered how he could ever have been afraid of him. At the bottom of the stairs, Paul held out his hand. Blake looked at it for a moment, wanting to turn away but sensing his mother's eagerness for reconciliation.
 

After a moment, he held out his gloved hand to shake it. Paul glanced down and his pallor whitened a little, confronted by the evidence of his own past sin. How much did these men remember of what they had done to him? Blake wondered. How much did they still inflict on others? Blake pushed the thoughts aside as the Elders filed past him out into the dusk. It was time to face the man he'd been running from for years.
 

"I'll put the kettle on," Precious said. "And bring you up some tea." She pushed Blake gently towards the stairs. "Go on up to him now. He's in the spare room so I can hear him more easily."

The staircase loomed above him, like the ladder of Jacob ascending into Heaven, with his father enthroned at its height. Blake shook his head, remembering the shifting black creatures on the walls of the room above. There was no Heaven here, only his own memories to confront. He trod the first stair and strength rose within him, pushing him up the rest.

At the top, Blake turned into the bedroom, pushing the door open as the bleep of medical machines beat time with his father's heart. The walls were a faded lilac, the same as they had been when he had left years ago, and the room was dominated by a double bed. His father lay curled, eyes closed, one side of his body tightened and hunched, pulling everything towards his center. The covers were twisted around him and saliva dripped from his mouth onto the pillow. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, evidence of a fever or perhaps the exertion of prayer.