Psychopathia: A Horror Suspense Novel (23 page)

Toby couldn’t see what was going on. Shadows lurked in his peripheral vision, but it was like someone had cut circles out of his eyes so he couldn’t focus on anything. He wanted to move,
get up, find out what was happening, yell and scream if he had to. He thought he had to.

But he couldn’t move. He tried, closing his eyes and finding his arms, hands, wriggling a finger, waving a hand, shoving his elbow back but he managed none of it. His arms were strapped to his body, trapped. He opened his mouth to scream, to thrash and cry, and from a d
istance he heard a little laugh. That hadn’t come from him – he’d been screaming.

Eyes open again and Toby saw someone, blurred in the corner of his eye, turn around and look at him. Their eyes were empty shadows the shape of eggs. A mouth opened, a gaping maw, and strangled, guttural sounds dripped from it. He cringed away, screamed again.

Where was he? He didn’t know. Searching around in his head, he found some numbers, tried counting with them, latching onto the passing of time.

Things around him moved. The shadows deepened, darkened, gathered round,
peered at him. Twisting his head back and forth, he tried to dislodge them, shake them free, but they bent closer, snatched at him with clawed hands. His mind buzzed and he forgot the numbers. Forgot everything, ran away and hid, turned away from the shadows and scurried to the back of his mind where there was a room he’d prepared specially. It was bright in there, blessedly bright. He sat in the middle of the floor, under the bare bulb, and checked out of the corners of his eyes.

They always kept to the corners
, the shadows. If they came for him, it was from the sides, where he couldn’t see properly. That’s why it was so important to sit in the bright room.

Except there was no one to hear him scream, back here. He sank down on the floor of his mind and knelt there, arms strapped to his chest, the heavy canvas jacket tight around him. He squirmed, but he couldn’t get free. He didn’t know how long he sat there, the canvas straitjacket musty and damp as though no one had bothered to hang it out to dry properly
after the last time they’d turned the hoses on him. It bothered him, the smell, filling the air with mould and rot, and making him think of how one day he was going to be bones and rotting, mouldy flesh. All that precious blood, turned black, wasted.

There was a noise. He lifted his head a little, squinted, but he was still in his safe room, the lights were still on. Out there – out in the corridor – the shadows were coming. He could hear them, the clip clop of their heels on the tiled floor. They were coming, with their empty eye sockets and gaping mouths, their dripping whispers and wailing. They were com
ing and they would snatch him up, drag him from his safe room and take him out into the darkness. It was only a matter of time, and they’d force the door open, flood into the room, dark spectres, taking him away and even though he’d fight and scream, they wouldn’t stop, they’d pick him up and his feet would drag along the floors and if he could see properly, he could have looked down and seen the drag marks from the last time.

They took him, of course they did, and they lay him down on a bed. They took the jacket off and that was good. He hated the smell. But they tied his wrists and ankles down, and someone was fiddling around inside his pyjama pants. There was a sharp pain in his arm, a needle slid into his vein and he couldn’t stay awake anymore, he was dying, always dying, taking so long to die,
they never quite let him die. Sometimes he wished they would.

‘Toby.’

‘Toby, can you hear me?’

He couldn’t see the words. They were in his blind spot. He licked his lips and listened for them again.

‘Toby. I’m Doctor Stebbins. I’m here to help you.’

His eyes were closed. That’s why he couldn’t see. But if he opened them, there would be all the shadows, and he didn’t like everything that lurked in the shadows.

‘Toby.’

The voice was
deep, low, nice. It didn’t yell. It didn’t even seem to mind that he hadn’t answered yet. Maybe he would answer. Maybe this one was safe to talk to.

‘You can’t. None of them are safe.
’ He knew that voice. Well. It hissed at him from the shadows, and eventually it had followed him into the bright room, but it said it was going to protect him. He kept his eyes closed and tried to find it.

‘I can’t?’ he asked it. ‘
Are you sure?’

‘You can’t what, Toby?’ The first voice. The one that said he was a doctor. He shook his head.

‘I can’t talk to you,’ he said.

‘Why’s that, Toby? It won’t hurt to talk to me, I promise.’

He wanted to believe. Something moved next to him. Squatted down and hissed.

‘Don’t listen to him. He’ll only hurt, and pinch and poke and he’ll bring the cold and the dark.
Let me help. I’ll do this. Let me.’

‘You’re lying,’ Toby said. And he wasn’t sure which one he spoke to.

‘I’m not lying. We’re going to work together and get you feeling much better. Do you understand?’

Toby didn’t understand anything. He didn’t even know which of
them had said that. Maybe he had to look after all. Squinting, he opened them just a fraction, peered out through his eyelashes. Someone was looking at him and his heart burst forth, beating twice as fast. He wriggled backwards, expecting that he wouldn’t be able to move. But he could and he scrabbled backwards, arms and legs pushing, shoving until he was falling. He kept falling, and falling, a long way down, a long way down.

‘Let go. I’ll take care of you. Let go.’

Toby let go.

He
hit the ground in a tangle of something, and snapped his eyes wide open. The ground was cold, hard, and he was twisted around in sheets, white sheets and though they weren’t wet, they were tied around him and he struggled.

‘Toby!’

He shoved the voice away, and concentrated on getting loose from the sheets. They weren’t doing that to him again. If they did it again, he would die, he promised he would die, and they would be happy about that, they’d stand over him and rejoice. But if he had to die, he vowed, he’d take as many as he could with him. They were the ones didn’t deserve to live.

Strong hands grabbed him, and he screamed, tried to twist around and bite them. He couldn’t let them do this to him. Not again.
One of them had told him once they didn’t give him anything he didn’t deserve, nothing worse than the things he had done, but that wasn’t true. Everything he’d done, he’d had to. He’d done it for love. Didn’t everyone call love a pure and noble thing?

‘Toby, hush now. Calm yourself. Everything’s all right. You fell off the bed.’

The voice was low, soothing. He didn’t think he knew this one. He stopped struggling long enough to wonder what it said.

‘Ah, there you are, Toby.’

He was lifted, set down on a bed. Reaching down, he touched his ankles, and they were unshackled. He touched his left wrist, then his right. There was nothing binding them either. And the sheet had been taken away. He licked his lips again.

‘Who are you?’ Hi
s voice was hoarse, rusty, the sound of a thousand nails against a thousand boards. He smiled at the sound. But there must be some trick to all of this. They always tied him down. He’d been asleep a long time. Maybe he’d woken up cured. He turned his attention inward. He felt the same as always, inside.

‘I’m Doctor Stebbi
ns, Toby. We met last night, but you might not remember.’

He didn’t. He remembered fighting
, but they put the straightjacket on him anyway, and then took him away – they always did. There was nothing he could do but promise them one day he would pay them all back. Tenfold.

‘What are you thinking about, Toby?’

Blinking, he held up his wrists, but the skin was clear, smooth. Where were the chafe marks? The scars? He shook his head.

‘Why
am I not tied down? You always have me tied. Even while you beat me.’ Had he a sympathiser at last?

He
stared at the man calling himself a doctor, but he didn’t recognise him.

‘We don’t tie anyone down here,’ the man said.

He shook his head. The man was joking with him. Unless he’d been moved. Maybe they thought it had worked this time. ‘Where am I?’

‘You’re in the hospital, Toby. You haven’t been well.’

He was thirsty. ‘And I’m well now? Is that why you’ve moved me?’ Was such a miracle possible? He blinked, straining to remember. He’d dreamed something. He’d dreamed for a very long time.

‘That’s what we’re going to
make sure of. We’ve moved you from the admitting rooms onto the ward.’

There was a pause and he
let his eyes drift around the room. It was surprisingly large. And clean. This was not the ward. The ward had tiny cells, and doors with locks and bars. But he was pleased with this room. He must be going free soon.

‘Toby, ar
e you hearing anyone else but myself talking to you?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘
The whole time we’ve been sitting here chatting, has there been anyone else talking to you? Can you see anyone else in the room?’

He
blinked and looked around. There was someone standing by the door, and he wondered if the door was locked. They always were, weren’t they? Even nice ones such as this.

‘There’s someone standing by the door,’ he said, and licked his lips. ‘I’m thirsty.’

The doctor moved, held his arm out and in it was a cup of water.

‘Is it okay to drink?’ he
asked.

‘It’s water.’

They put things in water. They tricked you and put things in water. Though usually they just shoved powders down his throat and held his mouth closed until he’d swallowed them. They always tasted bitter, and chalky, and he hated them, and afterwards he would pour curses upon them. But he was thirsty.

‘Just water?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

He took it, and it tasted
like water. He drank all of it.

‘So, Toby. Besides the nice man by the door, is there anyone else in the room with us?’

There had been. He patted his head. He thought the other one was hiding in the safe room again. He’d let go, just like he’d told him to. He didn’t know why he’d been there in the first place, but he’d let go, and now there was only one of them. But it was strange, being here. Things were confused. He shook his head. It would clear. His head would clear again, and all would be well. His mouth stretched into a smile.

‘No? There’s no one else in the room?’

The smile widened. ‘No.’

The doctor w
rote something down. He could read upside down, but the doctor had his legs crossed, and he couldn’t see what was on the paper. He didn’t care anyway.

‘
Why are you smiling? Is there someone else talking to you, Toby?’

The smile stayed put, but he closed his eyes and
listened. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened hard. The other one was quiet. He was gone all right, locked in the safe room. Where it was all nice and bright and no one could hurt him. Maybe he’d get lucky and they wouldn’t break the door down. But they always did after a while. Always dragged you out and did things that hurt. One day they’d regret it. He always told them that. One day when he had his strength back, they’d regret it. His face ached from smiling, but he thought the day might finally have come.

‘Toby?’

He shook his head.

‘You can’t hear anyone else talking to you?’

He looked around the room, anywhere but at the doctor. The doctor was looking at him too hard. He shook his head again. He needed time to get used to this. Clear this lingering confusion.

‘Are they telling you not to answer the question, Toby?’

He wanted to go outside, in the sunshine. Home. He wanted to go home, to his little house by the railway – was it still standing? He thought it would be. And when he was there, he wanted to find some company.

‘Is the sun shining?’ he asked. He hadn’t been outside for a long time.
‘I don’t want to go to the fish farm though.’ He’d been allowed to at one time. They’d tricked him. He thought they were being friendly, but of course not. He’d avenge them for that, one day. Maybe there’d be a way for one of them to be his company.

‘We don’t have a fish farm, Toby,’ the man said, and his voice was quite nice.

He rubbed his wrists.

‘Why are you doing that?’

What? He looked down at his wrists, marvelled at the clear skin again. ‘Where are the scars?’ he asked, feeling the suspicion flowing throughout him, even in the tracing of blue veins.

‘What scars are those?’

‘The ones on my wrists.’ Of course.

The doctor leaned closer and held out his hand. ‘May I?’

He let him take one of his wrists in his hand. The doctor’s hand was surprisingly cool and gentle.