Father of Lies

  Sarah England

  Father of Lies

  Prologue

  Something woke him. His eyes snapped open. Heart slamming against his ribcage.

  Beside him, Jack’s wife slept deeply, silently.

  His ears strained into the darkness. Who or what was there?

  Seconds passed. Nothing. It had been nothing. He slumped back against the pillows. A bad dream, then? Just a nightmare, that was all…thank God. Nothing to worry about.

  Once more, sleep dragged him down into heavy-limbed oblivion, and he began to sink gratefully into its depths. The warmth of the bed. The lead of exhaustion in his bones.

  Then came a tiny tap - barely discernible, but definitely there - perhaps simply branches scratching against the bedroom window, though? Yes, that would be it.

  He kept his eyes shut, not wanting this, a tiny part of his brain on alert: should he get out of bed? Just to make sure? What if one of the kids was wandering around? If only his dead legs would move. So tired…

  God, it was unbelievably dark in here. Was it usually like this? Such blackness? Like a porthole ripped into the night - the entry to an eternal abyss - with no air. Sweat clotted on his skin. November. Should be cold, right? Maybe he was ill? Had a temperature?

  High on the wall above him, the time glowed in digital green. It was 3 a.m. Precisely.

  3am and wide awake. Just like old times - being a junior doctor on call - waiting for news on a post-op patient, the subconscious always on alert for the bleeper - what if you’d overlooked an internal bleed? What if their lungs were filling up with blood as you slept? You never switched that off…

  There. It came again. Quite distinctly this time. Three sharp taps on the window pane directly next to his right ear. “Let me in!”

  Twenty feet above ground?

  He tried to sit up. To reach for the lamp.

  But nothing happened.

  He tried again. This time to lift his own right arm. But his limbs remained as heavy and unresponsive as that of a corpse. Oh God, a stroke? Paraplegic? What the hell was going on? He couldn’t move…A sharp intake of breath lodged like a nut in his thorax - swelling, choking. His lungs gasped for air as once more he attempted to force himself into a sitting position. Couldn’t breathe out and couldn’t move. A nightmare. Okay, this was just a nightmare. A bad one.

  The digital clock flicked to 03:01 a.m.

  A fresh wave of icy sweat surfaced all over his body. Which remained pinned. Firmly. To the bed.

  Hannah… Hannah… His wife’s name formed on his lips yet no sound came. The words remained in his mind but nothing happened to make them real. Locked-in syndrome? Was that it? Something terribly wrong with his nervous system - or a panic attack? Yes. He’d been working too hard and worrying about that girl on the ward. The one he’d tried to treat this afternoon. Yes - a panic attack. Okay - that’s exactly what it was. So stay calm then. Try to just breathe. In and out. In and out.

  Convincing himself. With a voice as soothing as honey to a sore larynx. As the digital clock clicked to 03:02 a.m. And the vortex of blackness engulfing the bedroom began to work itself into a shape. A shape, which was recognisable and yet not…as some kind of creature…now crawling towards him; pawing at the covers; heaving its slithering form up onto his chest, its breathing wet, rattling, and laboured. Compressing his chest with an iron force.

  This wasn’t real…it couldn’t be…

  Foul breath in his face…the creature sniggering delightedly…as it whispered the words, which would be etched onto his brain for the rest of his life, “Good Morning, Jack. Wakey, wakey. It’s showtime.”

  ***

  Chapter One

  Drummersgate: Medium Secure, Forensic Psychiatric Unit for Women.

  October 2015

  Drummersgate Hospital sits alone on sodden Derbyshire moor land. Two wings adjoin at right angles - Riber Ward for the medium security patients, and Ash Ward for those under review.

  Each client has their own basic facilities - consisting of a sparsely furnished bedroom and an en-suite bathroom. There is a communal art room, a gymnasium, and a large cafeteria with a flat screen TV fixed high on the wall. An office equipped with security staff and cameras, alongside a small reception area for visitors, connects the two units.

  The upstairs level of the building houses two staff meeting rooms - one for each ward - and private offices for Dr Hayes and the Medical Director, Dr McGowan. In addition, there is a staff lounge and some overnight accommodation facilities. At the far end of the corridor, above Riber Ward, there is also a solitary confinement bay, and a suite of treatment rooms. Manicured gardens planted with box trees surround the unit, which is reached, by a long, poplar-lined driveway. Around the entire area are high electric fences. And to the rear, mile upon mile of desolate moors topped with flattened tufts of heather.

  In winter the sound of whistling wind underneath the doors, through cracks in brickwork and around rattling window panes, overrides the pulsating radiators cranking out heat through ancient pipes. Those inside raise their gazes to the roof whenever another strong gust buffers the slates and grasps the eaves, threatening to lift the roof clean off. God knows what would happen then!

  Within each of the ten-bed units, are the female patients. Listless yet restless, dull-eyed and caged, most of them are here for indeterminable years, while society tries to work out what to do with them - with those who have debilitating personality disorders for which there is no cure; the ones who have committed crimes they barely remember let alone admit to or care about; and the seemingly impossible cases. Like Ruby.

  ***

  Riber Ward Staff Room

  Case Meeting. October 2015

  The psychiatric team had reached an impasse. Yet again.

  Ruby, the girl kept under strict, locked supervision in Room 10, had been at Drummersgate for almost two years without a hint of improvement.

  That Friday afternoon the day had set to mizzle - a band of greyness crawling across the moors and plunging them into an early dusk. The fluorescent lights in the meeting room above Riber Ward buzzed and flickered, making the faces below appear peaked and drawn.

  Dr. McGowan sighed heavily as he picked up his notebook. He still liked to jot down notes in black and white, never quite trusting today’s gadgets - certainly not with the thoughts and suggestions of his trusted colleagues. And definitely not when it came to case histories like Ruby’s. But with an ever increasing workload he did need the notes. They really were getting nowhere fast with this young woman. Although many patients took years to recover, and some were never discharged fully, it was unusual for a client to not only show zero improvement on any parameter whatsoever, but to actually deteriorate.

  He was, however, not a man to be beaten, and there was possibly one more trick up his sleeve.

  The rest of the team knew they’d got to Ruby, the last one on their list, by the way the mood in the room pitted into weariness. The yawn was contagious. What was there left to say? To suggest?

  “Let’s have some more coffee,” Martha said. “I’ll pop the kettle on.”

  “Good idea,” Jack agreed, as one by one the others in the team nipped to the toilet or checked their iphones.

  He glanced at the clock. Ten minutes and he really needed to be on his way to a court case in Leeds. In his mind he was already half way there - racing against the outpouring traffic. Still, he’d had an idea to put forward and it was doubtful anyone would object. It had to be worth a shot.

  A sleety wash of rain spattered across the darkening windows. God, he was tired. Drained, he thought, would be the right word for how he felt right now. Sometimes, he’d just go and park the car at a supermarket somewhere, flick on the central locking and stay there - the o
nly place he could go for some peace - to filter through the escalating chaos of his life, sorting and filing the day away, anticipating problems, pre-empting demands. Eventually, with some semblance of cerebral order, he’d start up the ignition and hope Hannah had cooked something that day, instead of walking in to find a sink piled high with dirty dishes, worktops strewn with discarded fish-finger or pizza boxes, the TV on loudly, and the children fighting.

  He smiled as Martha returned with the drinks. Good old Martha, as kindly and maternal as her name - Martha Kind - suggested, handing round a tray of swilling coffee in plastic cups with plastic spoons. ‘It isn’t good but it’s hot,’ she liked to say. She’d been their key social worker for nearly twenty years now and heaven only knew what a nightmare it would be if she ever left - threatening to retire to that ‘bungalow by the sea.’ Whatever would they do without her? She took a quick slurp of her own before shrugging on her bobbly brown coat, and reaching for her walking stick. “I’ll leave you to discuss Ruby again, then. Good luck! You’ll need it!”

  Becky, the ward sister, called after her. “Hey, wait a minute. Need a quick word before you go, Martha. We’ll only be a couple of minutes here.”

  Becky looked at Jack’s questioning eyebrow and shrugged. “Well we’re onto Ruby again, aren’t we? I never thought I’d say this but I honestly think she is the one patient who really does have to be kept isolated and sedated - possibly forever. We can’t have her kicking off every five minutes. Not only do we not have the staff - there’s only me and Noel on again this afternoon, by the way - but it upsets the others and then we’re in lockdown again.” She folded her arms and took in a deep breath. “I really am sorry, Jack - but upping the dose of Olanzapine just made her worse!”

  “Well that’s because she doesn’t have schizophrenia,” Amanda chipped in with that dry, told-you-so voice of hers.

  Jack looked hard at Amanda Blue, the hospital Psychologist. “Yes, Amanda. But she does have psychotic symptoms. It was worth trying. Anyway, we’ll reduce the dose and increase the haloperidol to calm her down. The thing is, and what I wanted to put to you all, was…”

  Beside him, Claire Airy, the new specialist registrar, suddenly interrupted. “Sorry…sorry, but I’ve been reading a paper by Dr Silver, and she has a patient who sounds very similar to Ruby.” She flicked through her electronic notebook. “Apparently, she had a breakthrough with counselling …”

  Jack looked at the clock again. “Dr. Airy.” He took off his glasses and ran his palms over and over his face, then put the glasses back on again. “Believe me - counselling is never going to cut it. I’ve had endless discussions with Kristy Silver, who I know very well. But Ruby is the most disturbed, violent, unpredictable and unresponsive patient we have ever had at Drummersgate. Every DSM classification with a forensic history has surely passed through our doors - but not only is there no diagnosis with Ruby, there is no frame of reference either. Anywhere. Ever. We really have tried everything!”

  Becky nodded in agreement. Drained her coffee and made to stand up.

  Claire Airy’s face flushed. She remained seated. “Dr Silver’s paper was about someone just like Ruby. It recommended …”

  “I read it, Claire,” Jack said wearily, reaching for his jacket. “Anyway, I have a proposal …”

  “As long as it’s more sedation,” said Becky.

  Amanda shrugged. “And as long as I have full security if I have to take her to the art room again,” she added, still raw from the time she asked Ruby to draw pictures of what was on her mind - the team’s most recent attempt at trying to get to the root cause of the problem. The incident had crawled under her skin and chilled her to the core. However could that frail, frightened-looking young woman have known such vile words and drawn such shocking images? Ruby had sneered and poked fun at Amanda, positively demonic in her salacious knowledge of every misdemeanour Amanda had ever committed. The horror of it had dirtied her soul and could never be washed away.

  There had been one other patient in the art unit that day. An older woman who had been a client at Drummersgate for fifteen years. Who now lay in Doncaster General Hospital with a pencil-shaped wound through her retina.

  “I’m actually going to try hypnosis,” said Jack.

  Silence hung in the air for several moments as the others took in the information.

  Claire’s eyebrows were nearly in her hairline. “But surely continued therapy will eventually draw out the trauma…I mean…”

  “Oh please,” said Amanda. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do for months now, only we never get beyond drawing eyes and knives. Every one of us has drawn a blank. And frankly, if anything she’s getting more aggressive the more therapy she has.”

  “Hypnosis, though? Are you serious, Jack?” Claire persisted.

  “I’m very loathe to use hypnosis, to be honest with you,” he conceded. “In fact I haven’t used it on anyone for over six years…but…” He looked steadily at Claire. “Dr Airy, I do know where you’re going with what Kristy Silver states in her clinical paper, but Ruby doesn’t have the same diagnosis as her client. He has straightforward PTSD from child abuse. That’s the whole point - with Ruby there is no DSM diagnosis and no case history apart from her own violent assault. I can’t even get as far as symptom classification - nothing fits.”

  Claire stared back at him. “Might it not be too dangerous, though?”

  But Jack had already stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Gotta dash. Claire - can you go over to Riber and alter Ruby’s drug sheet for Becky? Great - much appreciated. I’ll be back in first thing tomorrow!”

  Amanda called after him. “When are you planning to do this hypnosis?”

  “Monday - late morning. That okay with you?”

  Amanda nodded. “Fine. Have a good weekend, Jack! Doing anything nice?”

  Jack picked up his briefcase and smoothed down his unruly greying hair, the bane of his life, and smiled ruefully. “I have five children, Amanda…why do you think I work Saturdays?”

  The door shook on its hinges as he left. Receding footsteps echoed through the tile-floored corridor.

  After a moment, Becky said, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  ***

  Chapter Two

  Riber Ward

  Becky peered through the porthole window at Ruby, who was sitting on the window ledge in her bedroom, knees curled up to her chest. Rocking. Singing quietly to herself. The same lullaby she always hummed, over and over…‘Four and twenty blackbirds…’

  She tapped on the window before unlocking the door, then softly making her way towards the armchair by the near wall. She didn’t speak, but tucked her feet up underneath her, waiting until her presence was felt and accepted. Ruby wouldn’t look at her - but she’d know who was there.

  “How are you feeling today, Ruby?”

  Ruby’s singing tailed off as she turned to look at Becky with a puzzled expression. Then abruptly she faced the window again and began to hum - a loud, monotonous, ‘mmmmmmmmm’ - which rose in volume and tone, along with an increasingly violent rocking motion, so that her head kept hitting the wall behind with a sickening crack.

  Working herself up again, Becky thought. God, what on earth had made this woman this way? Somehow she’d functioned in the outside world for over twenty-five years before she’d put herself on the radar with an attempted murder charge, and made it to the unit. Now twenty-seven, and sometimes as rational and cheery as the next person, it was clear she’d been seriously damaged at some point in her life. But who could help her if she wouldn’t talk? And with no known relatives and no identity, it was all the more a mystery. Who was she and where had she come from?

  But to ask…again…and risk the wrath of the raging monster within…well not today! And definitely not alone. Best to try and calm her down before she did herself an injury. Becky’s hand hovered over the panic alarm she kept on her person at all times: if she touched Ruby in an effort to stop her from harming herself
, the situation could escalate in any number of ways and she’d need help.

  Outside, the insidious mizzle from the moors had darkened the evening to a foggy gloom, reflecting the women’s ghostly faces in the window; an oblong of buttery light bathing the sodden lawn.

  Ruby’s rocking was escalating, the humming reaching jet-engine proportions.

  Becky kept her voice low and even. “Ruby? It’s Becky. Would you like some tea? We’ve got chocolate digestives today! Come on, love, you’re hitting your head. There’s a good girl.”

  The humming ceased unexpectedly.

  Ruby swung round. The stare blank. Eyes dead.

  This was new. Becky waited.

  Ruby’s stare was so vacant it was as if her very soul had backed down a long corridor and slammed the door shut behind her. The person inside the body had absolutely vanished.

  The atmosphere was static. Charged.

  Becky forced herself to stay seated; to keep her voice steady. “Ruby?”

  Suddenly Ruby’s eyes flickered back to life. Someone had stepped up to the plate. Someone other than Ruby, though: gone the appearance of hostility, of wild-eyed mistrust, or sly knowing. Instead the whole face had softened - years falling away - until a dawning expression of untold shock and horror, recognition even, passed over the fragile features, like that of a small child recalling a terrible nightmare. Her bottom lip quivered and then her whole face crumpled like damp tissue paper, and she began to shake violently, tears cascading down her cheeks in an unexpected rush of raindrops.

  Becky’s instincts broke through. She rushed forwards and took her in her arms. “It’s okay, Ruby. It’s okay. Whatever it is…whatever it is…it’s okay now. You’re safe here. You’re safe.”

  Ruby’s body seemed to have collapsed in on itself, until she was so tiny there was nothing left, save a few feathery bones.

  “I promise it’s okay. We’re going to help you. There are things we can try. Dr. McGowan has an idea, and we’re going to try and unlock whatever it is that’s hurting you so much.”