Persona - A Disturbing Psychological Thriller (8 page)

‘Ginger!’ Ryan laughed. ‘How the fuck did you get in here?’

Ginger smiled mischievously. ‘Ways and means, boy. Good kip?’

Ryan yawned. ‘Yeah. What’ve you been doing?’

‘Ah, training – running, weights, that sort of shite. Why ain’t you got a TV set?’

‘Because I’m not paying a hundred quid for two channels of shite.’

‘Don’t pay then, watch it for free.’

‘I’ve got better things to do than dribble in front of a fucking screen.’

‘I get your point, lad, but you have to keep up with the news. D’you listen to the radio?’ Ginger asked.

‘No. It’s all adverts. They piss me off. I read the paper.’ Ryan pushed himself up and leaned over the side of the bed.

Ginger stared at Ryan’s naked body. ‘You’re in good shape, boy,’ he said. ‘You feel ready to put that muscle to good use?’

Ryan stared at Ginger and spoke seriously. ‘I think I’m ready.’

‘You killed before?’

Ryan closed his eyes and concentrated. ‘… I think so.’

Ginger laughed. ‘You fucking
think so
? Jesus, you’re one in a million, boy. It’s not the type of job you forget!’

‘Well I remember people dying in front of me. I remember killing them, but I can’t separate fact and fiction.’

Ginger’s eyes narrowed. ‘I see, I see,’ he said. ‘So either it’s real, or you imagined it?’

‘Yeah, but I could have been dreaming.’

Ginger nodded. ‘Well, all that’s needed here is a bit of soul searching. Tune into your psyche and search for dates and times. Find names and locate the wounds. That’s all the information we need. I’ll be back. I’m just taking a shit.’

Ginger left the room. Ryan massaged his temples. Where was his past? He believed it was out of his reach now. So much of his time was spent fantasising that it was hard to tell what had really happened. Certain things could never be forgotten, but ordinary events he thought might have been real had blended with his imagination and appeared indistinct. It was so hard to focus on the past, but that didn’t bother him. Though he owed his stature to it, it was the future that was important now. Moving forward was his priority. He had to find the priorities within that priority.

Ginger returned and sat down. ‘Any progress?’ he asked.

Ryan sighed. ‘No.’

‘Look within boy,’ Ginger advised, inches from Ryan’s face. ‘Expose your darkest secrets. You know you’re safe with me – I’m your friendly, fucking therapist! Tell me, Ryan. Tell me what you’ve done.’

Ryan’s sealed his eyes shut. ‘Blood,’ he affirmed. ‘So much blood...bones ground into concrete...screaming...’

‘That’s good, lad, that’s beautiful,’ Ginger whispered. ‘Keep it going, let it all out.’

Ryan’s face creased up with distress. ‘Pain, so much pain. Why did I have to suffer that?’ Abruptly, he opened his eyes. That was not him, those memories weren’t his. They were misleading. ‘I’m getting confused,’ he said.

‘That’s okay, son.’ Ginger gave him a light punch. ‘Good try. I’ve decided it’s redundant anyway. You know what you’re doing for fuck’s sake. You’re Ryan!’

Ryan ran his hands through his hair. ‘My head’s like a fucking minefield,’ he announced with some distress.

‘That’s not a problem. It’s all about self-fulfilment.’ Ginger rummaged around in his pockets. ‘Fuck, no weed!’ He turned back to Ryan. ‘Each mine, lad, is a goal. You achieve that goal, that mine will deactivate.’

Ryan smiled. That was so right. Only Ginger could communicate it so simply.

‘Take me to a mine,’ Ginger demanded.

Ryan tensed up. Ginger was rigid. ‘You found one, boy?’

‘Yeah I’ve found one,’ Ryan said indifferently, staring at Ginger.

‘What’s it say?’ urged Ginger keenly.

‘Queer.’

Ginger jolted back and screwed up his face. ‘Meaning what?’

Ryan spoke decisively. ‘I’ve got to fuck a geezer up the arse.’

Ginger pushed his chair away. ‘Well you can let that fucker explode!’

13

Despite the fact that the text in front of him resembled nothing more intelligible than blurry black blocks, Dave kept typing. For the first time, he was conscious of the keys around him. They sounded like footsteps in a busy shopping mall. He could feel pressure building inside his head and rubbed his face with his hands. Refocusing on the screen, Dave realised it was pointless - there was too much on his mind. He couldn’t pay attention to work.

Deciding to relax in his chair for ten minutes, Dave interlocked his fingers behind his head. He’d make the time up afterwards. He was so worried about Ryan - what his friend might do, or indeed have done, he had no idea. Ryan wouldn’t tell him his plans, because he knew he’d disapprove and try to change his mind. Ryan was incredibly stubborn and just as motivated, and that was a disturbing combination. Usually, you’d have a man with the enthusiasm to commit a crime, but peer pressure would dissuade him; or someone who would disregard all the advice given, but then lack the self-discipline to carry out his intention. There was no weakness to exploit in Ryan.

What also didn’t help was the fact that Ryan had never been inside. He’d never been suspected of any of the assaults he’d committed. Dave had never wanted to see him banged up, but the incompetence of the police had increased Ryan’s confidence, which might now inspire him to kill. If he got caught
then
, it wouldn’t be a slap on the wrist - they’d throw the key away. Dave shivered.

Anyone else had normal friends, normal relationships and normal lives. Fate had drawn him to Ryan and cursed him with a hazardous path. In retrospect, though, he had to admit he’d never been bored. Ryan kept him alive. But he also kept him afraid, and that was some price to pay...

Dave knew it wasn’t all Ryan’s fault, and this contributed to his tolerance of the man. Genetic inheritance was an unfortunate burden – to some extent your life was pre-determined by the traits of your parents, meaning that a pristine mind was an unattainable ideal. Everyone has free will and can take whichever path they choose, but they’ll traverse it with their creators’ essence influencing every decision. This could be beneficial if your parents were upstanding people, but Ryan’s weren’t. Dave thought of Ryan’s parents in the past tense, as Ryan considered them irrelevant. Dave tutted - if only Ryan understood how very misguided that idea was, because some of his father, Will, was
indelibly part of him.

Ryan had disassociated himself from his father because of his incarceration. If Ryan would accept that Will influenced his actions, then maybe he would resist the extreme tendencies Will loved to nurture, so he could avoid slipping into the same situation himself. This made sense and Dave felt he’d pinpointed a new argument with which to challenge Ryan. He hoped that one day Ryan would listen. Ryan didn’t like to talk about his parents though.

Will - so named by his army mates, since he would disregard commands given during practice attacks and ardently fire at will - had his son and wife call him by the same nickname. He was six foot two, wiry, with a rugged, mean face and pale blue, penetrating eyes. His hair was silver and shaven almost bald.

He was mad. Dave had formed this conclusion at the tender age of eight, when he’d met Ryan.

‘Punch me in the nuts, Davey Boy!’ Will would roar at him. At the time, Dave couldn’t throw a punch, but Will would persist. He’d later learn that Will had perfected the art of withstanding pain. Dave would thump him as hard as he could and Will would stand proud, point to his private parts with both index fingers and gloat loudly: ‘Steel fucking balls!’

Will had served in the Falklands War, claimed to have killed five ‘Argies’, and, according to him, had been a shit-hot soldier. He’d been discharged from service for beating up his company commander shortly after his battalion’s return from theatre: ‘Fuck it,’ had been his reaction. ‘Best move I ever made. Bloke was a cunt. Wish he’d fucking died.’

Will had no concept of a civilised world. He’d joined the army when he was sixteen, the same time that Karen had given birth to Ryan. It was the perfect environment to hone his talents. His new family would encourage him to get in fights, which was the best thing he’d ever heard. Life was a contest, in which he was pitted against everyone he didn’t know. His body was covered in scars. It was little surprise that after Will was kicked out of the army he was soon locked away. And that was for murder…

Karen was a sick and evil woman. Though Will was insane, he protected his son and tried to bring him up the only way he knew how – to be self-sufficient, resourceful and never take shit from anyone. It was the best way as far as he was concerned, and in his warped world, Ryan was to be a replica of him; a similarly macho character who wouldn’t cause his father shame.

Karen, however, used Ryan as her victim.

The story of how Karen and Will met involved violence again. Will, sixteen years old and staggering home after a heavy night out, stumbled upon a fight in the middle of the road and was amused to discover two girls involved. Karen was stamping on the other girl’s stomach. ‘I don’t fucking beat you up,’ she screamed, ‘I fuck you up for life! I put you in intensive care!’ Karen dropped to her knees and pounded the beaten girl’s pelvis with her fists. ‘I’ll have you dribbling in a wheelchair, eating out of a fucking straw, and shitting in a bag!’

Will was impressed. It seemed excessive, but if two geezers had the hatred to kill each other, then why couldn’t two girls? Course as a bloke you never actually killed your opponent, just gave them a fucking good hiding. This bitch wasn’t going to stop. For the first time in his life, he intervened in a scrap. He wrapped his arms around the girl on top and pulled her away.

‘What the fuck are you
doing
?’ Karen screeched, kicking her legs out as if possessed.

‘You gonna kill that bitch?’ Will asked her.

‘Fucking
right
!’ She struggled incessantly.

‘Why?’ he shouted.

‘‘cause she’s a fucking
whore
!’

‘Then kick the shit out of her. You kill her, you’ll get put away.’

‘I don’t fucking give a shit!’

Will was becoming annoyed. He’d tried to help both of them out and now he had a schizo bitch in his arms. The heated tempo was firing him up too and there was no one to hit. He didn’t hit women. That was forbidden, as women couldn’t defend themselves.

‘Let me the fuck go!’

‘Or what? What you gonna do to me, bitch? I’m gonna hold you like this till you calm down!’

It wasn’t long before Karen stopped struggling. ‘You see that alley over there?’

‘Yeah, what about it?’ Will asked.

‘Take me there and I’ll suck your cock.’

Which was exactly how Will had expressed the tale to nine-year-old Dave. Will had laughed when he added that Ryan was conceived to the tune of ambulance sirens…

Dave thought how most girls mature during motherhood. Bringing a child into the world was an emotional, precious experience. Not for Karen. There was no intimacy, no love. Ryan was there to amuse her and keep her entertained, by whatever means necessary. Dave felt a rage building inside him. It was so unfair, so wrong. If only someone had reported it. Karen was shrewd: when Will returned on leave, she treated Ryan differently. She feared what Will would do to her if he found out what she’d been doing to his son. Only Ryan and her knew.

‘Dave?... Dave?’ He jolted and looked up. His colleague looked concerned. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.’ Dave wheeled himself back to the keyboard.

While driving home, Dave recalled an experience Ryan had shared with him. It took place three years ago, when Ryan owned a house.

Midnight. Ryan put down his book and went to the toilet. Hearing rustling in his back garden, he dried himself off, moved to the back door and quietly turned the key. He pulled the door toward him and listened. A small animal, probably a cat, pawed at a tree trunk at the side of the garden. It was pitch black outside, so Ryan grabbed a torch and approached it quietly. As he drew closer the cat glared at the light and ran off. Ryan crouched down, remaining as silent as the night. Moments later he heard a desperate high-pitched cry, a pause, and then another one. And then there was no pause – the creature was in some distress. Ryan crawled to the source and shone his light on a young sparrow sitting by the bark of a horse-chestnut. The sparrow tried to hop away, but was weakened with fear. ‘Come here, mate,’ Ryan whispered softly, ‘you’re safe now.’ He reached out, covered the bird with his hand and then gently lifted her up. Retracting his hand to his stomach, he ran his fingers over her feathers, assuring her that everything would be all right. Carefully, he stood up and walked indoors. He found a shoebox and placed the bird inside it. He searched the cupboards and found some cotton wool, which he used to line the base of the box. Then he carried the box out to the shed and put it on one of the shelves. He stroked the baby sparrow, delicately wrapped some wool over her, replaced the lid and went to bed.

After waking, Ryan dashed to the shed, hoping so badly that the baby sparrow had survived the night. She had. He picked her up and held her to his chest. Her tiny eyes looked helplessly at him. It was his will to decide her fate – she was dependent on him. He stood at the bottom of the garden, dawn fresh and bright around him, lowered himself onto his knees, and then moved his cupped hands towards the ground. He felt the grass on the back of his hands and opened them up. The baby sparrow hopped onto the grass, waited for a few seconds, then hopped up the garden, stopping every few feet. When she reached the top, where the grass ended and mini-woodland began, she cried out. She did this again and again. Ryan saw the mother sparrow appear on a tree branch ten feet in front of her. The mother tweeted loudly and the baby moved toward her, until she was underneath. The mother chirped at her, but the baby couldn’t fly. The mother flew to the ground and hopped further away, stopping every ten feet to wait. The baby followed her in spurts. This continued until the mother had guided her baby out of Ryan’s sight. Ryan rested his hands in his lap and smiled. He told Dave it was the warmest smile he’d felt for years. He choked with emotion and stayed in the same spot for hours, contemplating the moment.