Father of Lies Page 2

  Ruby made no sound.

  Continuing to murmur softly, Becky pulled herself away a little. It had been a maternal reaction, an uncontrollable rush to hug her charge like this. But she had to step back: Ruby could change in the flick of an eye, as every member of staff knew all too well. She held Ruby at arms length and looked into her face, expecting to see the tear-stained misery from moments before. Instead she met with glazed, pale blue eyes appraising her as if from very far away, and Becky’s heart skipped a beat.

  A dreamy voice said, “You’re in love, aren’t you?”

  She smiled slightly. “Oh Ruby - I’ve been married for years.”

  Ruby’s eyes twinkled with merriment. “I see him. A big man. He’s solid and dependable and you can trust him. There is a uniform.”

  Becky retreated another step.

  But the information was coming thick and fast. “You’ve known each other for ages. He loves you but you don’t know if you can leave your husband or what the outcome will be. You’re supposed to be together. They’re telling me you have to be careful, though. There is a lot you are going to have to deal with, and they know… ”

  Ruby put her head to one side, screwing up her face in concentration. “You’d better watch out because you are in the fray now…Oh and…”

  “What?”

  “Something really bad is going to happen.” She started to shake again. “I can’t tell her that. It’s the bad man…You have to leave now - all of you…”

  Becky held her shoulders and spoke firmly. “It’s okay, Ruby. This is all in your head, okay? You can hear voices but we are going to help you, I promise. There is no one here who will hurt you. You’re safe.”

  But the blue eyes had lost their glitter and a vacant expression was back in place - the drugged one most of the patients wore - where no one was home because the resident was living elsewhere these days.

  “Ruby? Are you with me?”

  A faint rag-doll of a nod.

  “I’ll get your tea sent down to you, today. Would you like that?”

  Ruby shrugged.

  “Can you remember what you just told me, Ruby?”

  The blue eyes had clouded over, staring at something over her shoulder.

  This was a new development: Ruby had classic psychotic symptoms including auditory and visual hallucinations - nothing new there - but that did not explain her knowing about other people’s private lives like that, unless she was some kind of clairvoyant - something Becky did not, nor ever would, believe in. A cold claw clutched at her stomach as the information sunk in. No one knew about Callum, that was the thing. No one.

  She led Ruby over towards her bed. “Look, most of us have hunches about things, but you mustn’t worry too much. Bad things don’t always happen. We have choices, and I won’t let anything bad happen to you, okay?”

  Ruby wobbled a little, and then slumped onto the single bed, curling up in a foetus shape. Oddly, she began to suck her thumb. “I’ve got a headache.”

  “I’ll send someone down with paracetamol. We’ll talk again soon, eh?”

  Ruby nodded.

  God, she’s such a child, Becky thought, reluctant to leave her. But she had to. Late staff would be back from tea-break soon and she was off for the weekend.

  “See you on Monday, okay?”

  Hurrying down to her office, Becky closed the door shut behind her and sunk onto her desk chair, head in hands. Damn, she hadn’t warned Ruby about the hypnosis on Monday morning. Well she could hardly do it now. That psychic thing though…oh my God! The clatter of the tea trolley and distant phones ringing, faded as her thoughts focused into a nucleus of concentration. Ruby could not have overheard anything about Callum. Because no one knew!

  So was the woman psychic? Clairvoyant or whatever? God, if she put that forward in a case meeting she’d be laughed out of the office! No way could Jack or the rest of the medical staff know about this. Especially from someone deemed not to be in control of her own mind like Ruby. ‘Hearing voices is a symptom of psychosis,’ Jack would say. Well yes of course, except… hmm…and here was the rub - not even Becky’s closest friend knew about Callum. There would not have been a single whisper to overhear. No one - absolutely no one - knew. Jesus! She needed a drink!

  Inside her bag she kept a small bottle of brandy - strictly forbidden, of course, but then everyone had a vice of some kind, didn’t they? And with shaking fingers slugged half of it into a polystyrene cup. Knocked it back. Bloody hell, though!

  The phone rang. She ignored it.

  It wasn’t as if she could even discuss this with anyone.

  In all the eighteen years she’d worked here at Drummersgate and the twenty-three she’d spent in psychiatry, Ruby was by far the most disturbing and frightening, patient she had ever come across. Even the other patients, all of whom had committed serious crimes, wouldn’t meet Ruby’s eye. For such a reed-slender girl she certainly emitted a disproportionate amount of fear wherever she went. It was the unpredictability though, that total personality change…from incandescent rage…to childlike rocking and singing…to not being there at all. And now this.

  Once the hammering of her heart began to steady, Becky flicked on the computer and scanned Ruby’s case history once more. At twenty-five, Ruby had been arrested for the attempted murder of a local middle-aged man - Paul Dean from Woodsend village on the outskirts of Doncaster. He’d been found in bed with a knife through his neck by his brother, Rick. Neither of the men had ever seen the ‘crazy bitch’ before. A few local people said they’d seen her wandering around the neighbouring, larger village of Bridesmoor, but couldn’t be sure.

  On arrest, Ruby had been a wild-eyed, kicking, bucking savage - splattered blood clotting in a parted curtain of dark, oily hair, as she spat murderous obscenities. Wearing little more than denim shorts, thigh high hooker-boots and a vest top, her skin was alabaster white, with wheeled, keratinous scars carved into the insides of both arms, across her stomach, and even between her toes. Although the bones of her clavicle protruded like a wasted cadaver and her chest caved inwards, it had taken four grown men to restrain her.

  As for Ruby herself, she had no recollection of the attack. Despite extensive enquiries, it seemed she had no roots, no family, and no formal education. Refusing to talk to anyone and flying into destructive rages, she’d been declared mentally unfit to stand trial. However, during the course of police investigations, it appeared she’d had relationships with various men - rough men who described her in turn as volatile, mad, weird and promiscuous. The only relatively stable point in her life had been when she’d briefly lived at Rookery Mill, south of Bridesmoor village. Prior to that it seemed she had simply not existed.

  A comprehensive treatment regime began at Drummersgate Forensic Psychiatry Unit for Women. For several weeks she had been heavily sedated, until finally she agreed not to attack the staff who tried to help her. Endless consultations with both Dr McGowan and his team were recorded. Symptoms discussed. A variety of anti-psychotics, anti-depressants and sedatives had been prescribed, along with psychotherapy and counselling. Yet almost two years on they were no further forward. No conclusive diagnosis. No chance of her leaving Room 10.

  Becky ran her fingers through her short, spiky blonde hair and put her feet up on the desk. A peevish rain pelted the windows from out of the squally darkness. On the whole this was an enjoyable job - helping people the rest of the world had forgotten about. That old phrase, ‘lock them up and throw away the key,’ applied to most of the clients she cared for. Some of those clients eventually moved into supervised housing, had some kind of a life after Drummersgate. But in Ruby’s case, she could be one of the few who were here for life. Well, where would she go?

  She shut down the computer and stared at the yellow-painted wall in front of her. Soon home time. What to cook for dinner? Not looking forward to standing out there in the dark and the rain waiting for the bus…

  A thought came riding in - perhaps this business of
hypnosis might work? She let Jack’s idea settle for a moment, considering it. On the other hand - what if it triggered one of those terrifying, uncontrollable rages again - the kind which resulted in solitary confinement upstairs in the padded room? Ruby. Such a slight figure, so forlorn and tiny with that lank, mousy hair hanging down either side of her ashen face - such fragile bones you’d swear a strong wind would snap them in two - throwing herself around the room in a frenzied tirade for hours on end. She hardly ever ate. Never smiled. What the hell had happened to that girl?

  She looked down at her own far too robust thighs encased in black leggings - a black tunic covering up her spare tyre, and grimaced. Too many late nights, hurried take-aways, not looking after herself…Maybe a penchant for grabbing chocolate bars on the way home didn’t help, either? Well some of us eat when we’re unhappy…

  Unhappy…was she?

  She shook her head as if to clear it of confusion. Sounded like the late shift were coming back from tea break. Good. A whole weekend off. And Callum to look forward to. God, who would have thought she’d ever have a relationship with a copper? She of all people - who’d been such an anarchist in her youth? But it was like - coming back to life!

  The disembodied words floated into her thoughts without warning. You’d better be careful….

  Her smile faded instantly.

  Noel, her staff nurse, dashed in for his rucksack and crash helmet. “They’re back - we can get off! It’s teeming out there. Are you gonna be all right waiting for the bus?”

  She nodded.

  “You okay, Becks? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

  “I’ve just got this bad feeling.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “About?”

  “Ruby. I feel like something bad is going to happen but I don’t know what or why.”

  He made UFO film noises. “Spooky! Maybe you is psychic and you don’t know it, innit?”

  She forced herself to smile. “That’ll be it. Or it could be they’re doing hypnosis with her on Monday and…she’s ..well…she’s just been a bit odd with me this afternoon. There’s something not right but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s like the more treatment Ruby has the more complex she gets.”

  Noel nodded. Suddenly grave. “Hypnosis? Are you serious?”

  “Jack always said she had PTSD and I think he’s right. But she seems to be getting worse not better. So I guess he’s thinking if he directly connects with her subconscious, we might be able to circumvent her coping mechanisms and find out what happened to her. Start a more effective treatment?”

  Noel narrowed his eyes. “But you’re worried unleashing the trauma will damage her even more?”

  “Possibly. And she seems to have a premonition of doom. And to throw the proverbial spanner in the works, she’s just told me something about myself that she could not possibly have known. It’s really weird.”

  “Oh you mean, she’s the psychic one?”

  Becky grimaced. “Do you believe in all that?”

  Noel smiled. “You’re talking to someone who believes the daily horoscopes, Sweetie! Anyway, are you seriously telling me that someone who hears voices is er…hearing voices?”

  She laughed. “Fair point! Anyway, Ruby will have to agree to hypnosis first.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Jack does it to you without you knowing. I find I tell him all sorts. Usually after a few pints, mind.”

  “Ruby won’t tell him anything. Won’t even see him half the time. I’m probably worrying over nothing. It might never happen.”

  Another belt of sleety rain slashed against the window and Noel drew the blind. “Come on, I’m not letting you wait for the bus up there on your own in this.” He handed her a spare helmet. “I’ll drop you off in town.”

  ***

  Chapter Three

  Woodsend Village. November, 1995

  Late afternoon and Celeste was napping.

  Rap! Rap! Rap!

  She woke with a pounding heart and a surge of annoyance. If this was local kids again - banging on the door then running away and calling her a witch - well it was beyond a joke and she‘d give them what for this time!

  Heaving herself off the sofa, she swished shut the curtains, muttering under her breath as she made her way into the hall. Her steps slowed, however, as she neared the door. A spark of alarm. Through the glass - an outline of a man, dressed all in black.

  A nasal voice called out, “Reverend Gordon here! Anyone home?”

  He was stamping his feet and rubbing his hands, itching to get in.

  Even as she drew back the bolt, her inner self recoiled and a knot formed in her stomach.

  Brushing her aside, he swept straight through to the lounge.

  “To what do I owe this honour, Reverend?” she said, trailing after him, and regretting not having tidied away her crumpled blanket.

  He removed his knitted scarf and tossed it onto a chair. “Just a duty call, my dear.”

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  She bustled around in the small, adjoining kitchen, picturing the man examining her ornaments and books - looking for signs of witchcraft, no doubt! She hurried back with two mugs of tea, sat down and waited.

  He slurped. Took his time. Eventually he cleared his throat and said, “You’ve been having a bit of a rough time from our local scallywags, I hear?”

  Celeste watched him closely. For a man of God he had a pretty murky aura. “Yes.” She couldn’t take her eyes off it. And there was something else too… a dark shadow behind him on the wall.

  “Something wrong?” he snapped.

  You tell me, Vicar….

  “Not at all.” Forcing herself to focus on his flinty, almost colourless eyes with their pinpoint pupils, she took a deep breath and tried to calm her racing heartbeat. Should have protected herself. Too late now.

  “Look, Reverend - we’re not talking about trick or treat, you know? I’ve got kids daubing ‘Witch’ across my front door in red paint. Threats to burn me to death on the bonfire on the Common! We’ve had firecrackers through the letterbox…Quite honestly, I think there’s more to it than just naughty kids. Gerry, my husband, is really suffering with the stress and in his condition I dread to think what might happen if this carries on.”

  “Well it might be best for all then, if you left.”

  Did he really say that?

  The words punched her in the gut. Sending her reeling. “Excuse me?”

  Every now and then, doubt crept in concerning her own intuitive powers: that secret, inner knowledge, which warned her where the heart of darkness lay. As if it couldn’t reside within a person of the Cloth, or someone smiling right into her eyes. And then that doubt would be shattered with a stark truth, and she was, once again, forced to believe in something very few others could even see, let alone understand.

  He took another long slurp of tea. Put the mug down on her coffee table instead of on the coaster. “Well there are people in the village who don’t like what you do, Mrs Frost - the tarot readings, for example, and the so-called healing. I can’t say the church takes a kindly view of these matters, either.”

  “I don’t believe I’m hearing this. I’ve had people come to me in bits with grief, and I’ve helped them more than you ever could. Or would. I’ve alleviated back aches and gout, migraine and insomnia. I’ve never done anyone any harm - only good.”

  “I’m simply pointing out…”

  “While those kids run riot. They should be in school or at home under supervision. My husband’s not well and we can’t afford a house of our own, as you well know. It would take months if not years to get re-housed, and why should we?” Her eyes narrowed as images formed fast and suddenly in her mind - some kind of gypsy camp. In the woods. Dirty children running wild… a black stony-eyed stare from a woman hanging washing - who turns to look at her directly - a curse of a look if ever there was one…

  “As I said - I am simply pointi
ng out, if I could be allowed to speak, that the church will not tolerate witchcraft, Mrs Frost. There’s no need to take umbrage - I’m only suggesting what might be best for all concerned.”

  There was a pause, which stretched into uncomfortable silence while Celeste attempted to recover herself. Her gaze, which had been concentrating on an area just above his head, reverted to his face. “Hmm, yes. Oh you are, are you Reverend? Well you can tell people I’m not a witch, I’m a healer. A spiritual healer. And you can also tell them I’m not going to be hounded out of my own home. Not for you, not for them and not for anybody. We’ve only been here a few months, and it was supposed to be a quiet move to the countryside for Gerry’s health and mine!”

  Reverend Gordon blanched slightly, then picked up his mug of tea again, revealing a stained ring from where he’d placed it. “It would help you, then, if you didn’t run witchcraft classes, would it not? You bring trouble upon yourself, Mrs Frost.”

  Celeste stood up. “Good day, Reverend. And for the record, yet again, I do not run witchcraft classes. Anyone would think we lived in the dark ages. I run a spiritual development group. In a church. Now if you don’t mind…”

  Nodding briefly, he took one last greedy gulp before reaching for his scarf and leaving the room. Once in the hall he let himself out, but and before he could turn and speak further, she shut the door firmly behind him and slid the bolts.

  Too late, though. Way too late.

  She’d felt the warning and still let him in. It was her own fault. A blast of cold, November air swirled around her ankles and she crossed herself. “God protect us this night. Protect us from evil. Please God - protect us this night.”

  But the damage was done. She already knew. Knew as she bounded up the stairs to their bedroom…

  Gerry was a big man. Had worked physically hard - first down the mines, then later in the building trade - wherever he could find some work. Labouring mostly. A few years previously his heart had begin to skitter around in his chest, and his breathing was tight. Angina, the doctors said. Later they diagnosed emphysema too; all due to heavily tarred lungs, carrying extra weight, and now the added stress of little income.