Rookwood Asylum Page 2

  “Long enough,” retorted Annie.

  There was a distant boom, more screams, more panicky shouting. Palmer thought of the compressed gas cylinders; oxygen and ether. If someone had started a fire, the entire hospital could be destroyed.

  “Don’t worry,” Annie said, her voice strained. “We still have enough time.”

  Two huge arms grasped Palmer from behind, lifted him off his feet. Big Frank’s foul breath assailed the doctor as he writhed, his huge captor giggling. Annie floated back toward the ECT Room. A doctor ran around the corner and stopped at the bizarre sight.

  “Help me, man!” gasped Palmer, struggling against the crushing pressure of Frank’s huge arms.

  The doctor hesitated for a moment. Annie did not seem to acknowledge the man’s existence, but suddenly his stethoscope flew up and wound itself around his neck. The rubber hose knotted itself, pulled tight. As Frank shoved Palmer through the double doors, the doctor writhed on the ground, clutching desperately at the stethoscope.

  “Doctors – are supposed – to help people,” Annie said, her voice a painful croak.

  Even in the grip of the hefty lunatic, Palmer clutched at the hope that Annie might simply die, or at least lose consciousness. He knew that the release of all his other subjects would be hard to deal with, even harder to explain. But with the girl out of action, Palmer might at least have a chance.

  “No,” Annie said. “No hope for you, doctor.”

  Frank lifted Palmer and dropped him roughly onto the metal cot. The leather restraints whipped around like striking cobras and buckled themselves. Then Palmer felt the moistened pads of the electrodes clamp themselves to the sides of his head.

  “Frank,” said Annie, sounding even weaker now. “Turn it up. Turn it up all the way.”

  The big man lumbered around the cot, then gawped at the controls of the ECT machine. The hesitation gave fresh hope to Palmer.

  “Frank,” he said, trying to sound firm. “Frank, you don’t have to do this. You’ll get into trouble. If you let me go, I can –”

  Agonizing pain shot through him. The last thing Palmer, as a living man, saw was Annie, sinking gradually to the floor, a huge patch of dark blood almost covering the front of her hospital gown.

  And then he was in Hell.

  ***

  “Come on, Fatso, get moving!”

  Owen made a muffled protest at the use of his hated nickname, then began straining extra hard to clamber over the wall. It was not a high wall, and the others had had no problem with it. Eventually, Owen managed it, falling into the undergrowth with a squeak of dismay. When he got back on his feet, he joined the rest of the gang for what their leader called ‘the debriefing.’

  “Okay,” said Tommo, “this place burned down four months back because the loonies got out and murdered the doctors and nurses, then set the place on fire. That’s fact, right?”

  Tommo looked around the little group, faces illuminated by the weak, yellow light of his flashlight. He lifted the light, shone it full in the face of Micky, the would-be recruit.

  “People say it’s haunted, the whole East Wing,” Tommo went on, in a low, menacing voice. “They say that anybody who goes in there might meet the ghosts of homicidal maniacs.”

  Micky, an undersized boy of twelve, gulped but said nothing. Fatso and Bill, the other two members of the Black Hand Gang, sniggered and nudged each other. Tommo shushed them, turned the beam on Micky again.

  “If you want to join the Black Hand,” he said, “you’ve got to spend half an hour in there. We’ve all done it, haven’t we lads?”

  Owen breathed in sharply.

  That wasn’t the plan, he thought.

  “Haven’t we, lads?” Tommo repeated, with heavy emphasis.

  “Yeah, definitely!” piped up Bill, the loyal follower. A moment later, Fatso chimed in with a mumbled noise that he tried to make sound affirmative.

  “So, Micky,” Tommo continued, “all you have to do is go in there, find something to bring out – like a document or a surgeon’s mask, that kind of thing – and then come back. You’ve got thirty minutes.”

  Tommo looked ostentatiously at his wristwatch.

  “Starting now, Micky.”

  The smaller boy hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he set off through the overgrown grass toward the East Wing. It was a full moon, and when Tommo clicked off his flashlight, Owen could still see Micky. The boy’s dwindling figure looked very small against the half-wrecked building.

  “Why’d you do that, Tommo?” Owen asked. “We never went in there. I thought we just came here to scare him a bit? Nobody goes in there at night!”

  Tommo’s voice dripped with contempt when he replied.

  “Because, Fatso, Micky smells of piss,” he said. “He’s wet, outside and in. Always hanging around, he’s so desperate to be in with somebody. We don’t want his sort in the Black Hand. But we have to give him a test, don’t we? It’s in the rules. And when he fails his test, we’ll have a good laugh.”

  Bill guffawed.

  “Yeah, when he comes running back like a toddler, it’ll be great. You’re brilliant, Tommo!”

  “Very true,” Tommo replied, preeningly.

  Owen remained silent as the other two began to speculate on how long Micky would last out. Tommo suggested ten minutes, Bill guessed no more than five. But five minutes passed without any sign of Micky, then ten went by and the boy still did not reappear. When half an hour had passed, Owen broke the silence to wonder if Micky might have hurt himself, maybe had a fall.

  “That building is structurally unsafe, my dad says,” he added.

  “Oh, shut up, Fatso,” Tommo retorted, and seemed about to heap more abuse on Owen, but at that moment, Bill pointed at the dark bulk of the East Wing.

  “See! He’s coming back!”

  Sure enough, Owen could just make out someone picking their way past heaps of rubble. Tommo flicked on his torch for a second, just long enough to show their position. Showing a light for too long in Rookwood’s grounds would alert the caretaker, maybe even the police. Micky came straight to them, though, and then stood facing the three Black Hand members.

  “You’re back, then,” said Tommo, his voice surly. “Half an hour. Well done.”

  “I met a girl,” said Micky, his voice oddly flat, expressionless. “She told me you were being cruel. That you’d never let me in the gang. You just wanted to scare me.”

  “Balls!” sneered Tommo. “Like any girl would talk to you. And what would a girl be doing in there, anyway?”

  “Maybe she’s a ghost!” jeered Bill.

  Nobody laughed at that. There was a long pause before Micky spoke again.

  “Then I met all the other people,” he said, as if he had not even heard Tommo’s taunts. “They said you were bad, Tommo. That you’d hurt me if you could.”

  “You’re talking bollocks!” Tommo said, sounding angry now, and a little bit scared. “You want me to give you a smack in the gob?”

  Owen suddenly wished that he could see Micky more clearly in the moonlight. The smaller boy seemed to have one hand behind his back. Owen stepped back a pace as Tommo flicked on his flashlight again, shone it into Micky’s face. The boy’s eyes were wide, seemingly glazed over. What was stranger, he did not blink.

  Like he’s walking in his sleep, Owen thought. I don’t like this.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said aloud, and backed off some more. “He doesn’t seem right, Tommo.”

  As soon as he said it, he realized that Tommo would take the warning as a challenge. The gang leader stepped forward, jabbed a finger into Micky’s chest.

  “Anyway,” Tommo said, loudly. “Just because you spent half an hour in there with your imaginary girlfriend, that doesn’t mean you get to join our gang. Remember I said you had to bring something out? Proof you didn’t just dodge around the corner and hide outside the East Wing.”

  “I brought something,” Micky replied, bringing his hand out from behind his
back. “This do you, lad?”

  Something glinted brightly in the torchlight, and then Tommo was staggering backward, making a gurgling sound. Bill screamed, high-pitched and terrified. Owen did not want to see what was happening, and instead ran back towards the perimeter wall. The beam of the flashlight cast shadows as he ran, not just Owen’s hefty form, but also two others. One was a small silhouette, making a slashing motion with one hand. The other was holding up its hands in front of its face. Owen heard Bill scream again, and start to sob.

  I can do it, Owen thought. I can get over. I got in, I can get out.

  He began to try and scale the wall, hands and feet scrabbling desperately for holds in the weathered brickwork. Behind him, the torch went out.

  Chapter 1

  “Poor Mister Fluffykins,” remarked Paul Mahan, taking off his glasses to examine the home-made poster. “I wonder if they ever found him?”

  Kate Bewick looked puzzled. Paul gestured at the trunk of a tree, one of the dozen or so ancient oaks that lined Blaydon Avenue. Kate examined the faded rectangle with its portrait of a long-haired white cat, then smiled. Her professional demeanor had been ruffled for a moment.

  “Ah, yes,” she said, briskly. “Lost cat. People around here certainly do love their pets! But, of course, it’s a very nice area, good mix of professional people, retirees, some young families – but not too many children! No hordes of youngsters thundering up and down the stairs.”

  She moved on, striding quickly up to the impressive, cast-iron gates of Rookwood Apartments. Kate punched in a code on a panel on the right-hand gatepost. Nothing seemed to happen. Paul, losing interest in the faded ‘Lost Cat’ poster, went to stand by the woman.

  “Sorry!” she said, again sounding slightly ruffled. “Minor technical glitch. I’ll just ask the caretaker to let us in.”

  Kate began to push a buzzer on the metal panel. There was no response, and while they waited, Paul looked through the gates at the building. He had seen online pictures but knew how easily they were manipulated. However, from this admittedly limited perspective, Rookwood looked impressive.

  The building had been constructed from light-colored sandstone in the early twentieth century. It consisted of a central block of three floors, with two wings attached. The main block and the West Wing had been thoroughly refurbished. The East Wing, however, was still a work in progress. The latter was apparent from scaffolding and sheets of green plastic covering much of the structure.

  “Hello? Declan?” Kate called into the grille.

  Again, Paul noticed that she sounded slightly more stressed than might be expected from such a minor hitch. Kate Bewick struck him as a woman permanently wound-up, perhaps a little too close to breaking point.

  But then, look at me, he thought. I’m only looking at this place because my old life fell apart.

  A small voice crackled from the speaker grille, then there was a click and the barely-audible hum of electric motors. The gates opened, swinging back silently, reminding Paul of old horror movies. Kate gestured Paul to go through. He walked inside the bounds of Rookwood, feet crunching on the gravel driveway. Kate got back into her Nissan and drove inside. The gates closed behind the car as Paul got in.

  “How many people have already moved in?” he asked as the little car swept up the curving drive. “I read there were maybe a dozen?”

  “About that,” Kate said breezily. “We plan to have seventy apartments in total, but only forty-four are ready now.”

  Paul nodded, peering up at the impressive façade of the building. He felt its rows of tall, narrow windows gave Rookwood a watchful air.

  As if the place is on the lookout for trouble. Or victims.

  “Isn’t it usual to finish the work before you start renting out flats?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Kate, as she stopped the car. “But we felt that – as there were so many inquiries from prospective tenants – we should let the finished apartments while we added the finishing touches.”

  As he got out of the Nissan a second time Paul heard a high-pitched, mechanical whine start up from somewhere in the East Wing.

  “Some fairly major touches being added there,” he said, half-jokingly. “Is there any problem with noise? Power tools can be rather irritating.”

  Kate was insistent that the apartments were all double-glazed to muffle outside noise. He shouldn’t hear anything from as far away as the East Wing. She ushered him into the well-lit, ultra-modern foyer, where they were greeted by a tall, rangy man with a bald head and a fiery-red hipster beard.

  “This is Declan Mooney!” Kate said. “He’s our caretaker and general handyman. Declan, this is Doctor Mahan, a lecturer at the university.”

  “Ah, you’re the American gent,” said Declan. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “And you,” Paul replied. “And I’ve been over here so long my folks claim they can hear a touch of British in my accent – though maybe they’re joking.”

  Paul recognized the man’s accent as Northern Irish. As they shook hands, he noticed an elaborate tattoo on Declan’s wrist. It seemed to be a Celtic knot of some kind. On the back of his right hand, Paul noticed, there was a bare patch where, he assumed, a smaller tat had been removed.

  “Declan is a treasure,” Kate went on. “Always busy with some little job or other.”

  “Gates buggered again?” the caretaker asked her. “Best just leave them open until the contractor gets off his arse and fixes them.”

  They commenced an involved discussion concerning an automatic opening system that, Paul gathered, supposedly allowed residents to drive in without getting out of their cars. Unfortunately, the system had never worked properly. Declan was of the opinion that this was down to ‘dodgy electrics’ that needed to be ‘looked at.’ Kate, with a sidelong glance at Paul, tried to laugh off the suggestion. Eventually, the caretaker shrugged and grinned.

  “Ah, I daresay it’s just more of those teething troubles, Kate,” he said. “I’ll let you get on now. Nice meeting you, Paul!”

  There was a pair of elevators, one of which was labeled OUT OF ORDER. Paul decided not to ask about the sign, and Kate volunteered no information. But as they ascended in the lift that did work, he could not help asking about Rookwood’s history.

  “Sorry,” he added, “I bet everyone goes on about it.”

  “Oh, everybody does,” Kate said, looking relieved. “I don’t mind talking about it. Some people say the building’s haunted. Things have been heard and seen, they say. But I suspect that’s just imagination. I’ve been manager here for nearly four months, and the closest I’ve come –”

  The lights went out, and the elevator lurched to a stop. Paul tottered, reached out instinctively for the rail, and felt Kate grabbing his other arm. For a long moment they were in darkness, standing close together, neither speaking. Then the lights flickered on again, and Paul felt the metal box begin to rise.

  “Whoops!” said Kate, letting go of Paul. “Sorry about that, another one of our gremlins in the works, I’m afraid.”

  Paul did not reply at first, instead wondering how many other ‘gremlins’ might be lurking in the fabric of the building.

  “I guess,” he said, as shiny doors slid open in front of them. “We can take the stairs on the way down. I could do with the exercise.”

  Paul emerged from the elevator into a pool of multi-colored light. They were at the end of a long hallway by a stained-glass window, about six feet high and half as wide. Paul stopped to study it, guessed that it was from the art nouveau period that pre-dated the First World War.

  “Ah, yes,” said Kate, “one of our little treasures. A dozen or so windows were specially commissioned by the city for the original building.”

  “The asylum, you mean?” asked Paul.

  “Yes, the asylum. It’s one of only three windows that survived the fire back in 1955. The others cracked in the heat, apparently.”

  Paul looked at the window more closely. It showed a wh
ite-robed woman, evidently a saint by her halo, standing in the midst of a crowd. Ornate scrollwork at the bottom of the window bore Gothic lettering. It took Paul a moment to decipher it.

  “Saint Dymphna ministering to lunatics,” he read. “Wow, they were kind of on the nose about mental illness in the old days.”

  “Quite,” said Kate briskly. “We live in more enlightened times. Now, if you’d care to follow me along, I’ll show you the apartment.”

  ***

  An American, thought Declan Mooney, as he watched the elevator doors close. Seems ordinary enough. But you never know.

  He ran the fingers of his left hand over the patch of skin where he had had the tattoo removed. That had been nearly ten years ago, but he could still see the slogan, the flag. It had not been illegal, strictly speaking. But it had guaranteed that nobody meeting him could have doubted his allegiance, his origins. In the right area, it was a safe conduct pass. But if he had simply walked into the wrong pub, asked the wrong guy for directions, the tattoo could have earned him a beating. Or worse.

  As if getting a bloody picture taken off my skin could solve the problem.

  Declan tried to shrug off unpleasant thoughts as he made his way back to the modern office he disliked. He would have preferred a dark little cubbyhole somewhere, or a shed in the grounds. But Kate had been insistent on his membership to ‘the core team,’ and wanted him close at hand.

  Not a bad lass, he thought. And a fine pair of legs on her. But naïve. Not the sort of person to be running a place like this.

  Declan sat down at his desk, turned on his company-issued computer, and began to log the day’s repairs, complaints, and faults. The log on Rookwood’s intranet was fuller than any he had kept in the past when he had worked in Liverpool and Manchester. The building clearly had more teething troubles than average, and it was not even finished.

  The East Wing, he thought. Hanging over us all in its way.

  He closed the online log and got up, stretched. He felt a slight twinge of pain in his neck, rubbed the area for a few moments. Then he set off on his rounds, his daily routine of checking lights and common spaces, making sure nothing else had failed for no readily apparent reason.