Delirium (London Psychic) (12 page)

Blake flicked open the Galdrabók, trying to understand why Magnus had kept the book all these years. Why not burn it, or leave it behind when he started this new life? He turned the pages, noting drops of wax on some and marks like blood on others. The edge of one page was heavily marked with charcoal, a substance that lifted off onto Blake's fingertips. The page contained a series of runes and Icelandic spells for charisma, for the inner power to draw people in and make them follow. A wave of anger washed over Blake, and then a deep disappointment in the man he had both feared and worshipped.

He stood and walked downstairs, the book of runes in his hand. Precious knelt by the bed praying, and his father's eyes were locked on the space above the fireplace, where the demon had sat.
 

"I know what you were part of," Blake said, his voice strident, accusing. His father's eyes were flint hard.
 

"I know you took part in human sacrifice rituals years ago."
 

Blake forced the words out. There was a moment of possibility when he could have been wrong but Magnus didn't blink, didn't even flinch.
 

"No!" Precious put a hand to her mouth, but Blake knew she could see he spoke the truth and there was no denial in his father's eyes. Weeping, she ran from the room and down the stairs. He heard the front door bang as she left to find solace in the forest. Part of him wanted to go after her, but this was a reckoning he couldn't run from anymore.
 

"What else did you do in exchange for the power of the runes?" Blake shouted. "Are these demons here to take what you traded for this new life?" He stepped close to the bed. "Do you think that I was given my visions as a curse because of what you did, or perhaps a gift that you should have had instead of me? Well, I want to see it. I want to see everything. I think you owe me that much."

Magnus closed his eyes for a moment, and Blake felt the stillness of the room, waiting for his answer. When his father opened his eyes again, Blake saw agreement, and a kind of relief that he could finally share this burden. He had been holding it alone for so long.
 

Blake held the Galdrabók close to the bed, and Magnus shifted a little so that his limp hand was thrust towards it. Blake laid it on the book, placing his own hand next to it as he slipped into the veils of consciousness, trying to surf the waves of his father's past. Images and sounds flooded his mind, taking him back in time as the shadows circled and he glimpsed an older world of deeper forests and high mountains. He delved further, seeking the sins that haunted Magnus now.

A scream ricocheted through his brain, splintering the vision. Blake's eyes flew open at the sound. The walls bled black and the spiked creatures crept closer to the bed. The floor writhed with a mass of bodies. One hissed at Blake, clambering up the chair next to him to reach the bed. Blake tried to push it off but his hands went right through it. He was still in trance but this wasn't the past – it was right now. Another scream and then a moan and he turned to see Magnus pinned down by several of the creatures. One was sucking the air from his lips and another had a hand inside his chest, squeezing his father's heart, seeping black pus into the man's blood.
 

"No," Blake shouted, trying in vain to pull the creatures off his father. But his hands could find no purchase in the other realm and the creatures paid him no heed, continuing to swarm. They began to rip strips of flesh from the old body, licking the wounds and dripping blood on the sheets. The thing on Magnus' back reared up and bared its fangs, pointed and dripping with venom. Blake could do nothing as it pierced the man's skull.
 

Waves of pain emanated from his father. Magnus shook, his breathing a rasp as he dragged air into his lungs, even as his chest was crushed by the number of creatures swarming over him. The demon at his head crunched its jaws down and Blake could see his father's skull begin to fragment. He babbled, desperately clutching at prayers his mother had taught him from a young age, snatching at scripture long forgotten. The demons were impervious, and as Magnus convulsed, they began to bite chunks from his skin.
 

Magnus screamed in Blake's head but no words came audibly from his throat. Blake wept, desperately pulling at the creatures but his fingers only found air. Magnus' skull split under the teeth of the demon and his brain could be seen pulsating, the veins bulbous on the creamy surface. As the demon peeled back the bone to feed, it met Blake's eyes and he saw the promise of Hell there. With a start, Blake pulled his hand from the Galdrabók, panting with terror. He could bear to see no more.
 

He was back in the lilac room, the only sound the rasp of Magnus' breath, coming slowly now, each one too many seconds apart. His body was barely shaking, and there was no evidence of that other dark reality. Blake wept, kneeling at his father's bedside, his mind flooded with the echo of the visions. Even with his eyes open, the room seemed to flicker from lilac to black as if his dual perception had melded into one reality.
 

Magnus took a last rattling breath, the gurgling from his throat a hideous wet noise, and then his chest was still.

"No," Blake whispered. "Not yet." He took his father's hand, feeling the warmth of his skin. The hand that had inflicted his own scars over years of abuse in the name of God. Blake kissed it, pressing his lips to Magnus' palm and in his mind, he pleaded for more time. Perhaps together they could revoke whatever hold the Galdrabók had over his father. But there was no further breath and Blake sensed an emptiness in the physical body in front of him. What had been his father was gone, and although the Elders and the congregation would believe that Magnus was in Heaven with his Lord, Blake could only see visions of his father consumed by the fiends of Hell.

The door banged downstairs and he heard his mother's footsteps on the stair. Blake stood as she walked in. She saw the anguish in his eyes and pushed past him to the bed, pulling Magnus' body into her arms.
 

"No, no, no," she cried, tears coursing down her cheeks. "Oh my love, don't leave me."
 

Blake couldn't bear to watch his mother's suffering. He needed to get out of the house, for he sensed demonic eyes watching him, calling for him to return to that reality. Whatever the truth, he needed to forget, and there was only one sure way to drown these visions.
 

As her bike took the final corner of the tree-lined road leading to the gates of Broadmoor Hospital, Jamie saw the main building looming ahead. It was an imposing structure, with red brick walls, arched windows and bands of lighter brown brick marking the floor levels inside. Bars on the windows betrayed the true nature of the place, for unlike most hospitals, people here were not free to leave. Jamie felt a sense of trepidation at going in, as if somehow this was all a trick and she would never emerge.
 

Broadmoor was one of the top-security mental hospitals in Britain, according to information Jamie had read that morning. It held several hundred male inmates, and had been designed by a military engineer in 1863 to house what were then known as criminal lunatics. It was originally intended for the reception, safe custody and treatment of people who had committed crimes while actually insane, or who had become insane while undergoing sentences of punishment. It had been a prison, but in 1948 Broadmoor became known as a hospital.
 

Jamie parked her bike and looked up at the building, its military bearing apparent in strong lines and heavy aspect. These days, its function was overlaid with medical jargon, but its residents were still the stuff of nightmares and tabloid frenzy. The Teacup Murderer, an expert poisoner; Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, and Kenneth Erskine, the Stockwell Strangler; the Krays, Ian Brady and even the inspiration for Hannibal Lecter, Robert Maudsley. In a particular gruesome incident in 1977 within these very walls, Maudsley and another prisoner had taken a pedophile into a cell, barricaded themselves inside and tortured him for nine hours, before garroting him and eating part of his brain with a spoon. Maudsley was now in solitary confinement in the basement of Wakefield Prison, in a two-cell glass cage, his furniture made of compressed cardboard. While most mental illness was considered by many to be an imbalance in brain chemistry, this level of psychopathy seemed to portray an entirely different brain altogether.
 

Jamie took off her bike clothes and added them to the panniers. She straightened her trousers and put on her jacket before walking to the gate. A man in a grey suit stood in the entrance hall, presumably the psychologist she was assigned to meet regarding the case. Although his suit looked a bit threadbare, the man's bearing was proudly aristocratic. Jamie had heard that Broadmoor was a highly sought location, a prestigious placement for any psychologist. It was so much more interesting than working with the general population whose troubles were mainly anxiety and depression, a banal litany of monotonous woe.
 

"Dr Taylor-Johnson?" Jamie asked, and the man nodded, holding out his hand in greeting.
 

"Welcome to our little piece of England, Detective. Let's get you through security and I'll show you around."
 

In the main entrance hall, Jamie put her things on a conveyor belt in the same fashion as airport security, and walked through the body-scan machine.
 

"If you wouldn't mind, Detective," Taylor-Johnson said. "We also need a photo for your ID card."
 

Jamie nodded, fascinated with the high level of security, even for a short visit.
 

"Of course, it's not a prison," the psychologist said, noting her interest. "This is a hospital and we care for our patients." Jamie glanced out the window at the fifteen-foot mesh fence topped with overhang and razor-wire. There were cameras on every corner, facing both ways with one opposite so there were no blind spots. Taylor-Johnson followed her gaze and visibly bristled.

"Patients are detained and they're not free to leave, but that is for their own and other people's well-being. They can't be let out, but equally we can't let them loose in a prison." Jamie could hear a defensive tone in his voice. This was clearly a subject he had to address frequently. "Broadmoor provides physical, social and mental health care with the aim of rehabilitation."
 

"Is this reception area the main focus of your security?" Jamie asked.

"There's the physical security, of course," Taylor-Johnson said, "but we also have procedural security, counting the patients, and regular rounds, so we always know where everyone is. We have relational security, as well, and trust with the patients so they tell us when things are amiss. We also communicate with the control room, logging everyone's movements. It's a hospital," he emphasized again, "but these methods keep everybody safe."

"You have a control room?" Jamie asked, imagining banks of computers, no doubt similar to police monitoring stations. Humans were indeed the most dangerous predators, and this place looked ready to tackle any situation fast.
 

"Of course, but it's all for the patients' benefit, and to prevent any kind of … situation."
 

Jamie was aware that there had been a couple of escaped prisoners in Broadmoor's history. In 1952, serial killer John Straffen had murdered a young girl within hours of escaping, and since then, others had made it over that security wall. There was now a network of sirens that would sound in the nearby towns and villages in case of any escapees. Jamie thought briefly of the siege of Frankenstein's castle, the terror of suburbia at the approach of the monster. But these men looked ordinary, people you wouldn't even look at twice in the street, the monster only in the pathways of their own minds.

"Patients are constantly monitored," Taylor-Johnson continued as they walked through the hospital. "Of course, psychopharmacology is critical for treatment, and the drug dosage is adjusted based on an individual's behavior and response to medication. Patients also have three to nine months of assessment by a multi-disciplinary team while a care plan is developed."

"Do you have any problems with drug use inside?" Jamie asked, thinking of the store at the back of Monro's private office.
 

Taylor-Johnson shook his head, pausing at a reinforced glass panel.
 

"This is the drug bay and you can see it's all automated. Everything is highly controlled, and everyone is searched on the way in and out."
 

Jamie watched as a robot arm picked a packet of pills off a shelf and dispensed it to a slot where a nurse picked it up.
 

"Medication is critical for dampening the immediate symptoms and behavioral problems," Taylor-Johnson continued, seemingly intent on proving the safety of the hospital. "There's a broad range of choice in antipsychotics and antidepressants these days, and we find the best combination for the patient with the minimum of side effects. Of course, the drugs may control some issues, but unfortunately they can't help with mending relationships or enabling the patient to return to real life, so we have other therapies for that."

As they continued to walk down the corridor, Jamie glanced into a side room. There were art projects laid out on benches, and a couple of men painting. Taylor-Johnson paused to explain.

"Illness doesn't get better without treatment and that takes time. Occupational therapy structures the day, so the patients have some kind of work to do, and we've found that patients engaging in meaningful activity don't act up."

Jamie could see that patients here had a reasonable quality of life. Broadmoor Hospital was now designed to care for and rehabilitate instead of functioning as a simple prison, but not all would agree that was appropriate.