Bedlam (4 page)

Chapter Six

They tell me I’m lucky, a miracle, a medical conundrum. I know I am not. The nurses bustle about exchanging glances, discussing me in hushed whispers. They wonder how I survived amidst the butchery, though they refrain from divulging the details. I do not need their indiscretion. I know all there is to know about butchery and the evil which stalks the unwary. They giggle to each other when they think me asleep, swapping thoughts on the man responsible for my salvation. I listen despite my own caution, my curiosity playing Puck, against my better judgment. From their conversation, I gather he has fallen from grace, his unique talent unappreciated and viewed with suspicion by the narrow-minded. My fault entirely; just the first of many ways in which I will poison him, despite my best intentions.

I know he has not yet returned. I would have sensed his presence even through the blackness of drug-induced sleep. I am not upset at his absence. He will come eventually. We have connected and there is only one way this can end.

Confinement unsettles me. The clean white walls of my antiseptic prison dampen my senses. I feel a familiar anxiety ripple in my head. Although to the casual observer I remain calm, inside I fidget mercilessly. I yearn to be out, at one with the elements, and yet I restrain myself, as I am bound to do. The
nurses have become silent. The white-coated doctor tuts and shakes his head at me.

“You must try and eat something,” he says as he scans my chart.

I have no appetite. I turn up my nose at the bland offerings. My senses are dull and it concerns me that I am not quite as I was. I know they are losing patience. They believe me to be awkward. I am not. I am simply waiting.

They send in their interrogators, an inept succession shrouded in false concern. They do not care for me or the horrors I have endured. They care for their reputation, for the case that threatens to overwhelm resources and bring the gutter press down upon them. I stay silent in the face of their questions, their cajoling and implied threats. I stare blankly ahead when they amend their strategy, soften their approach and send in a female detective. I sense her inner turmoil. She is striving to get ahead, to beat the men at their own game. I too have suffered as a pawn to the whims of man, and as such I have some empathy with her, but not enough to alter my chosen course. There is only one person who can help me and I am content to wait.

Eventually the man with the apparent responsibility for investigating the horror that is Bedlam stands before me and asks the question I’ve been waiting for, the key that unlocks my voice and restarts the game.

“Is there anyone we can call who you’d like to be here with you?”

I fix him with eyes he has so far avoided and my lips twitch with anticipation. I feel a familiar resurgence of energy fizzling deep inside. My fingertips tingle and the steady beat of my heart accelerates just enough so that my shallow veins respond with gratitude, creating a flutter which ripples delicately throughout my frame.

“Joe McNeil
...” I whisper gently, and my voice fills the space between us with soft melodious sound.

Chapter Seven
 

“So, what do you think?”

McNeil shrugged. He wasn’t sure what he thought anymore. His mind was filled with images of a young woman who by rights should be dead and yet was a picture of health. Well, he qualified that: not healthy exactly, but she was alive, and he was familiar with that halfway state, had been there himself for the last twelve months.

Alive - but only just.

Going through the motions, one foot in front of the other, inhale,
exhale. He felt strangely disconnected, as if his anchor chain had snapped and left him adrift. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was seriously out of kilter. He badly needed a drink, just the one, to take the edge off. Shoving his hands deep in his pockets to hide the tremors, he slumped against the wall and studied her through the viewing window. Her eyes were closed but he knew she wasn’t sleeping ... and he wasn’t sure how he knew.

“Did you hear what I said?” Dennis rose from the plastic chair and stretched out the kinks from his back. “What do you think?”

“What do you mean, what do I think? I don’t think anything. She survived - end of story.”

“Joey, come on. You saw the state she was in. We mistook her for dead. Now look at her.”

Dennis was right. She’d made a miraculous recovery. Less than two days and, physically, all that was left to indicate she’d been through any kind of trauma were the harrowing black circles around her eyes.

“No, Dennis, Roger mistook her for dead.”

“Yeah, well, that’s debatable,” muttered Dennis. “She looked dead to me.”

McNeil shrugged. They’d been over this a number of times, in the flat, on the journey down and again here in the hospital corridor. He was done with explaining how he’d simply been in the right place at the right time, and that he had no idea how the girl knew his name or indeed why she’d asked to speak to him. He knew Dennis wanted to believe him, but didn’t, and he wondered why he was being viewed with suspicion.

Despite Dennis’ initial reluctance to involve him further in the case, he’d begged a chance to tag along and prove his account, and Dennis had agreed, rather too readily. McNeil had a sense of being manipulated but, for once, didn’t care. He didn’t know the girl, had never known her, yet was sufficiently intrigued by the strange circumstances surrounding her and was therefore willing to be used, if only to satisfy his own curiosity. If Dennis thought he would catch him out, he would be disappointed.

“Okay, so we’re here,” he muttered, feigning disinterest. “We dodged the press, slipped under Mather’s radar. What now? What do you want me to do?”

“Just play it by ear. Go in there and treat it as a standard interview.”

“But it’s not, is it?
A standard interview, undertaken by a detective with an outstanding shrink appointment and suspicion hanging over his head - will it even count as a witness testimony? Let’s face it, if I’m as fucked-up as you all seem to think, I shouldn’t be here at all, let alone anywhere near her.”

“She didn’t accuse you of anything. She just asked for you. Nothing unusual in that
… or is there? You tell me?”

McNeil gave a sour smile. “Well, you better be sure before I go in there, guv. I’d hate for you to have any doubts about my integrity.”

“Let me worry about that, detective. I haven’t completed my report on your antics at the crime scene yet. I might just bin it if you come up trumps.”

“How do you know I’m not going in there to apply a little pressure? Maybe I wasn’t at
Minkey’s propping up the bar the other night. Maybe I was playing trick or treat, Bedlam style.”

Dennis sent him a warning glance. “Joey, don’t push it. You know, even I have limits, and right now I’m wavering between giving you another chance and writing you off.”

“You need me or I wouldn’t be here, Dennis. Let’s not kid ourselves.”

Dennis frowned. “I need the old Joey. Is that
who I have today?”

McNeil ignored him. He wasn’t sure who he was anymore. He just knew his gut was chewed, he was spoiling for a fight and for once he couldn’t blame it on alcohol. He drew in a lungful of recycled, antiseptic-laced hospital air. None of this was Dennis’ fault.

McNeil gestured toward the window and the girl beyond.  “What did she actually say to you?”

“Not a lot, just your name.”

He narrowed his eyes, studied her through the glass and got the feeling she was doing the same, though her eyes were still closed. He shrugged. “I did save her life.”

“And you’re positive that’s all you did?”

“I’d say that was enough, wouldn’t you? If someone saved my life, I reckon I’d want to say thank you.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s all she wants, but while you’re in there receiving her heartfelt gratitude, we need a statement. She’s been avoiding our questions.”

“Avoiding? Maybe she doesn’t have any answers.”

“Well, regardless, a description of the killer would be handy. And by that I don’t mean a hooded fiend or a guy in a vampire costume. I’ve had a belly full of Halloween si
ghtings and crank calls. You’d think people would have better things to do than waste our bloody time when we have a major enquiry and fuck all resources.”

McNeil smiled. “Hey, don’t be so quick to rule out hooded fiends. You need to keep an open mind, Dennis.”

“
An open mind?
I’ll give you an open mind. There’s a monster out there for sure, but he won’t be wearing a cloak and a set of devil horns. He’ll be some sick psycho who works nine-to-five, picks the kids up from school and washes the car every Sunday.” Dennis scowled bitterly, “The only way we’ll nab the bastard is if someone comes forward with information or our little corpse bride starts talking.”

“That’s a bit harsh, Dennis. She’s a victim. Where’s your sympathy? She could be your daughter, for God’s sake.”

Dennis shrugged ambivalently “I don’t know, there’s just something about her. The way she looks at you. She gave DC Anders a right turn.”

McNeil shrugged. “Kate’s a good copper.”

“Exactly. See what you think when you go in. Maybe she’ll drop her guard for you. If she does, we need to know if she saw anything at all. What happened to her? How did she come to be there? You know the drill.”

“And you trust me not to mess it up?” McNeil couldn’t forget the feel of Dennis’ hands around his throat or the way he had spoken about Kit.

“Don’t kid yourself. I’ll be right here watching through the window. Don’t mess up, Joey. I don’t want a repeat of the other day. I see the first sign of any kind of melt down and you’re out of there for good, my report signed, sealed and dropped straight into Mather’s in-tray. Do you hear?

McNeil turned back to the window, leant his brow against the pane and watched as his exhaled breath clouded the glass. His palms were suddenly clammy, his gut churned. Despite his curiosity, every instinct was telling him to walk away, to leave behind the investigation, the job, the life, and not look back.

“Why, Dennis?”

“Why what?”

“I know what you all think of me, that I’m one step away from the nut house. So, why are you risking your career by putting me in there?”

Dennis shrugged. “Because, despite your recent behaviour, you’re a good man and you used to be a good detective. I think you could be again, but you need to exorcise your demons.”

McNeil reached out, slowly and deliberately scribing the word ‘Kit’ in the condensation with his finger. He thought of her warm embrace when he slept. “Maybe I’m happy to keep them,” he murmured softly.

“Then you’re a fool, Joey, and no one can help you.”

Chapter Eight
 

Finally, inevitably, he comes to me. Relief and regret flood my entire being, vying for poll position as my brain challenges my contradictory instincts. This is wrong, I am wrong and I know it.  Regrettably, relief triumphs and satisfaction settles in the pit of my stomach.

Confusion clouds his face as our eyes meet. I’m not surprised. I’ve been told that my eyes are an arresting sight. I am unable to agree or disagree. I do not choose to look upon myself. Nevertheless, he holds my gaze far longer than any man has previously dared. The fear that I expect from him is not evident, merely a curiosity equal to my own. I feel warmth inside, as hope wars with dread, and give in to temptation. I inhale gently and catch his musky scent, traces of soap, a whiff of alcohol and the mints he’s used to cloak it, but nothing more. I will him to step closer so I might test myself further, but he merely cocks his head and smiles warily at me.

“Hi,” he says finally, when further silence would have implied a rudeness that I sense he is trying to avoid. His voice is low and husky. Either his throat is sore or he imagines he will beguile me, as one might when talking gently to a skittish creature. He is mistaken, for in this time and place I am the beguiler.

“Hey, you’re looking well. A good deal better than the last time I saw you,” he continues. “The doctors must be pleased with your progress.”

‘Pleased’ is the wrong word. I suspect the doctors are astounded at my progress but I allow him to continue in this ruse to win me over. I settle back against the pillows and watch with some amusement as my lack of response begins to unsettle him. I sense his need to look away, to break eye contact so he might re-evaluate the situation without my scrutiny, but he resists and I am drawn to him even more because of this.

“You’ve been very lucky …
under the circumstances. Things could have been very different.” He leans back against the closed door, hands in pockets, an attempt at nonchalance while he gathers his poise. Dipping his head just a fraction allows him to study me through a veil of lowered lashes. I smile inside at his cunning.

Lucky?
Perhaps. And yes, things could have been so very different if it hadn’t been for him. And yet I get the feeling that when he refers to me as fortunate he doesn’t actually mean the fact that he saved me, brought me back from the brink. He sees more than he actually understands, and for the moment that’s a good thing. If he understood, he would not think me lucky at all. He would consider me well and truly damned.

“Do you remember anything at all?” He pulls away from the door, steps closer and relief courses through me. He mistakes my soft gasp for fear, which couldn’t be further from the truth. I do not fear him, merely what I might do to him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I should have introduced myself.” He pulls his ID from his wallet, extends it toward me, and I dismiss it with the slightest dip of my gaze. I have no need to inspect credentials representing his authority, his permission to be here.

“Joe McNeil,” he continues. “You asked to see me.”

I did indeed, but for a moment I am content simply to savour his confusion. He pauses, waits for me to fill the gap, and when I decline, he accepts the gauntlet and continues.

“I need to ask you a few questions ... establish your identity … if you’re up to it?” He pulls up a chair and sits, not too close, but near enough that if I chose I could reach out and touch him. I recall the feel of his fingertips, his lips on mine, his breath filling my lungs, guiding me back from past to present. I yearn for a repeat. I resist the temptation. I am, if nothing else, adept at waiting.

“Hello, Joe McNeil.” My own voice is hushed, little more than a whisper. It seems an age since I’ve spoken aloud. Lately my conversations have, by necessity, become internal. One-sided, I know, but more than adequate for self-analysis and self-annihilation. I moisten my dry lips and lower my own lashes. I am by far the expert in cunning. “Please, ask what you wish.”

“Perhaps we could start with a name?” A quick smile and he settles back in his seat as if he expects this to be a long conversation. I hope it is.

I study him unashamedly and wonder if he realises how much he reveals about himself. His hair is short and damp with the morning rain. His clothes are creased, his knuckles scuffed. He wears a tie reluctantly. He is not here out of a sense of duty. He is here because already I am in his head and he is unable to resist.

“A name?” he prompts.

I have been called many things in my time, name calling as opposed to name giving, but long ago I suspect I was cherished enough to have an identity bestowed upon me. I close my eyes and try to remember. There is nothing but blackness. It frustrates me to the point of irritation. I recognise the importance of my answer and, strangely, I do want to oblige. I have no wish to alienate Joe McNeil, the man who is the answer to my silent prayers.

“Call me Nell,” I finally reply. The name is plucked from the dark recesses of my mind, though it feels right as it plays across my tongue.

He smiles again. This time I see a glimpse inside his head, beyond the initial sadness and regret that pierced my shell. I am intrigued by the conflicting emotions. I feel a ripple of guilt at what I intend for him. This man is more tortured than I, and I am intrigued by the notion. That in itself is a first. He kindles interest beyond the obvious physical attraction.

“Nell ... good.
That’s a good start.”

My name sounds far finer when he says it. It comes out with a long held breath, as if he, too, is martyred to relief. I imagine it whispered against my ear, his warm breath caressing my skin. He reaches out across the space between us, his effort to contain the tremor in his outstretched hand quite commendable. My heart bangs in my chest. I am betrayed by butterflies of hope as they flutter frantically in the pit of my stomach, yet I resist his touch. I clench my hands tightly beneath the sheets and leave his hand to fall. It is too soon. I am not yet strong enough. Sadly, he may never be.

He shrugs off my rebuff, bemused but oblivious to my intent, blissful in his ignorance. “Last name?” he coaxes and I pull my attention back. He awaits my reply, feigning disinterest - badly. His curiosity, like that of the cat, will be his undoing.

“Just Nell,” I reply.

A sudden frown knits his scarred brow as he studies me and wonders why I’m being obstructive. I’m not. I’m being
evasive
, for a very good reason - to protect us both. On this occasion, the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth would certainly bring about our downfall.

“Okay, Nell,” he begins, “we need more than that. Can you give me your address? You must have a family. You’ve been here two days. We need to let them know you’re safe.”

Safe?
I almost laugh out loud. He has so much yet to learn.

Family?
Bitterness sears my tongue and I conceal the resulting wince. I have no family, not in the normal, nuclear sense. Maybe once, but no more. I was, until he interceded, simply alone. Now, together whether he likes it or not, we are an 'us' in a chaotic world of 'them'.

My eyes narrow as I recall the silver blade. I wet my lips with the tip of my tongue as the memory struggles free. I take a rapid breath to clear my mind and watch Joe’s brow rise in confusion. I suspect he thinks me odd. He will think far worse of me by the time we are done.

He shrugs. “Okay, no family, but you must live somewhere.” He sticks to the script, to his list of standard witness-victim- suspect questions. I wonder which one he believes me to be and how long he will control his curiosity. I feel it bubbling beneath the surface of his pseudo-professionalism. I meet it mischievously. I welcome the challenge. It distracts me from the anxiety and need that he seems to propagate within me. I part my lips and inhale once more. Still nothing.

“Here, there, everywhere ...” I eventually reply with a soft sigh and the slightest twitch of my lips. I have no wish to reveal
my origins, my lair, the place I go to lick my wounds. He is mine and I have no desire to share him.

He leans toward me, clears his throat, business-like now despite the crooked tie and blackened eye, obviously irritated at my vague response. I have no doubt that he has interrogated many and his current dishevelled countenance belies his experience. On this occasion, however, he is short of the mark and clearly fails to realise that he has met his match. I need to calm his male pride, smooth his ruffled feathers, but resist the overwhelming urge to reach out and soothe him with my touch.

“You saved me,” I whisper innocently. “I remember. Thank you.”

He smiles tightly, his brows knit in confusion as my words tease the silken threads of his memory. I know the recollection of our first meeting burns as hot within him as it does within me. There is no way that it cannot. He may currently deny it, but he is as trapped as I.

“What else do you remember?” he murmurs.

And the net draws ever tighter.

I remember his scent, the feel of his lips, but now is neither the time nor the place to amuse myself with those recollections. “I remember very little,” I reply, and it’s true. He was my first real memory, and as such is imprinted like a chick hatched from an egg. I could tell him what occurred before, on the very edge of nowhere, and I could describe what awaits us in the dark corners of our imagination, but I sense a need to wait. He isn’t quite ready for that.

“You were found beaten and naked alongside the bodies of two men. Perhaps you remember that?”

His words hit me like a blow to the face. My head screams with sudden memory, my heart jolts agonisingly with alarm. I feel a surge of absolute and utter dread. It cloaks me, it squeezes me, until I am forced to gasp for breath.

This game of cat and mouse is suddenly over, frivolous, lustful thoughts dashed instantly from my mind. All my accumulated hopes and fears crumble to ash in the face of reality.

Two?

There should only have been one - Jacob.

I turn to him, my composure now askew, concern and vulnerability seeping silently from my pores. I know he sees only one aspect of me, the side which appeals to his own delicate state of mind, my fragility, as opposed to my depravity, and I am both relieved and fearful for him.

“You know who did this, don’t you?” he asks, and I watch the collapse of my carefully constructed persona as it mirrors in his eyes.

Of course I know the perpetrator of this crime, the director of this freak show, this end-of-the-pier excuse for theatre, for I am the one who unleashed the fiend. In my striving for freedom, for an end to the endless, I have let loose a madman.

A glance at the viewing window reveals Joe’s superior, watching us, suspicion and frustration held at bay behind glass. I have played this game before and I am far cleverer than they
imagine, these bumbling policemen with their obvious subterfuge. And yet, on this occasion, time is my enemy. I cannot still the fear that creeps silently at the mere thought of Jacob, igniting each cell as it journeys from head to heart.

“Why did you ask for me?” he continues, following my gaze, resisting the urge to lean toward me and reveal the urgency of his tone to our audience. And in that small action he compounds our deceit and allows the conception of our conspiracy.

My relief is palpable. We are one step closer, he and I. “You know why,” I breathe softly.

“I do?”

I smile and his pupils widen in response. My smile is legend. I do not bestow it often.

“We are in danger,” I state simply. It is the truth, and if he believes nothing else about me, he must believe that.

“We?”

“You are responsible for me. I am responsible for you. We are the same, you and I, burdened by our responsibilities.”

His brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean,
responsible
? I can’t help you unless you tell me who did this.”

“Jacob.” There, I have voiced my deepest fear and the world has not collapsed around me. There is hope.

“Jacob?”

“He will find us, Joe McNeil. Make no mistake.” I hold his gaze as he falters.

“And when he does?”

I rejoice silently. Belief is not far away. I see it in his eyes. I hear it in his choice of ‘when’ rather t
han ‘if’. It must be encouraged closer.

I withdraw my arm slowly from beneath the sheet and extend my hand. “We must be ready.”

He takes my hand, as I know he will, unable to resist. He is warmth to my chill, rough to my smooth, yin to my yang. I feel every depression in his skin as my fingertips skim his palm. I control the energy triggered by his touch. This is not about me. The pad of his thumb brushes my inner wrist distractedly, and as his gaze follows the gentle caress, I hear his gasp, see his pupils dilate with recognition.

“Who are you?” he whispers hoarsely.

I smile my sweet seductive smile. My slender fingers entwine with his. “Don’t you recognise me, Joe?”

The twin serpents, energis
ed by my quickening pulse, squirm beneath his thumb and he yanks his hand away. Shocked, horrified - but ultimately mine.

Oh yes. He is definitely the
one ...