Rookwood Asylum Read online

  As they drove out of the gates Paul saw a familiar figure standing on the curb opposite. It was the gray-haired woman, her eyes concealed by sunglasses, but still apparently staring at Rookwood.

  “Former inmate, you reckon?” asked Mike.

  The offhand question surprised Paul. He had never thought that any of the asylum’s patients might still be alive. But, he reasoned, if it closed down in the Fifties it was possible that people who had been committed to Rookwood might still be around.

  “I guess it’s possible,” he conceded, looking back at the motionless woman. “Or, of course, she could be a former staff member. Maybe worked as a nurse, cleaner, cook or whatever.”

  Mike soon lost interest in the topic, and in a couple of minutes, they had arrived at the pub.

  ***

  The short interview with the police left Declan nervous, wondering how deeply they would dig into his background. He knew the police were short-handed and snowed under with paperwork. Declan was almost sure he had not given them any grounds for suspicion. But then, there were witnesses to what had happened. It all seemed clear enough.

  And it’s not the cops you need to worry about, put in the unwelcome, insinuating voice in his head. Not really. Is it?

  “Shut up,” he muttered, wishing the American’s pal had left his hip flask. “Just shut up.”

  Declan always tried to find something to do, however trivial, when bad memories threatened to well up. He called the maintenance company again, got a terse reply. He called on Sadie Prescott to fix a dripping tap. As usual, Sadie flirted with him in a half-serious way, but Declan wasn’t in the mood for the game.

  Stop putting it off, said the small voice. You have to go eventually. It’s your job, Declan.

  “Bugger off!” he said, leaning back in his office chair, adding to his digital log.

  “Erm, I beg your pardon?” said Kate Bewick.

  Declan jumped up, wondering how the woman managed to move so quietly.

  “Sorry!” he said hastily. “Swearing at the computer, and the modern world in general.”

  “You’re forty-five, Dec,” Kate said flatly, showing no inclination to banter. “I think we should check out – check out what the situation is.”

  Declan knew what she meant, but did not want to admit it. He suddenly felt like a frightened little boy again. He shook off his fear, or at least wrestled it down long enough to stand up and follow Kate. As they walked toward the entrance to the East Wing she talked about all her problems. Mostly, she bemoaned her inability to get workers to stay on the job, the pressure from the company head office in London, and the general cussedness of events.

  “These big blokes with their toolbelts, all very macho, but you’d think they were six-year-olds, some of them,” she complained. “Seeing things, hearing things, getting the shivers. At least you’re sensible, Dec.”

  “Don’t go calling me sensible now,” he said, trying to sound insouciant. “That’ll ruin a reputation it’s taken me years to –”

  He fell silent as he saw a smeared, almost black handprint on the wall ahead. It was almost certainly his, made with the dried blood of the victim. Declan tried not to think of the great fan of bright red blood that had sprayed from the workman’s chest. Declan had grabbed Sammy, tried to pull the drill away. Others had helped, but somehow Declan had ended up with bloody hands. He could not quite recall how.

  The Red Hand, said the little, sneering voice. Now, that’s the symbol of the brave province of Ulster, is it not?

  “Pure coincidence,” he muttered.

  Kate paused in the doorway, frowning at him.

  “Come on, Dec,” she said, impatient now. “I need you to check on what’s been left undone, what needs to be fixed straight away. I’ve got to file a report.”

  “Right, sure, okay.”

  The manager hesitated, feeling guilty, then put a hand on his arm.

  “I’m sorry, Dec,” Kate said. “You can take a couple of days to get over it, no problem. Just help me out now, please.”

  Declan followed Kate through the bloodstained plastic curtain. As soon as he set foot on the old, cracked tiles of the East Wing, he felt a distinct chill. It was like standing near an open fridge door. He fastened a shirt button, almost turned up his collar, as Kate started to point at various incomplete jobs and ask questions. Declan did his best to assess any safety issues but kept being distracted. The spatter patterns of blood on the walls were almost hypnotic, constantly luring his attention away from more practical matters.

  “Okay,” Kate sighed, “let’s move on. I guess we’re both a bit squeamish about – about all this.”

  Declan felt himself relax slightly. At least the other rooms and corridors would be blood-free. He followed the manager out of the bloody chamber, wondering if a regular cleaning firm would be willing to tackle it. He stopped to glance back and assess just how much gore required removal.

  Holy Mother of God.

  “Declan? What is it now? I’ve got a teleconference at three, we need to get this done. What are you staring at?”

  He felt Kate walk up to stand just behind him. She fell silent as soon as she saw what he had seen. Across the wall above the doorway that led into the East Wing were letters, apparently daubed in blood onto fresh plaster. The message was both clear and baffling, a straightforward English phrase that made no sense to Declan at all.

  TELL ANNIE’S STORY

  ***

  That evening, Neve Cotter told some necessary half-truths to her daughter. A man had had a bad accident, she explained, and the other workmen had decided they did not want to stay. This was Neve’s edited version of the gossipy account spread by Sadie Prescott via text and email. She hoped other children at school would not give more information, that Ella would not be shown anything too disturbing on the internet.

  Ella, a quiet child, looked appraisingly at her mother and asked a series of questions. No, Neve did not know when the workmen would come back. Yes, sometimes people did die after accidents. No, she did not know why God permitted bad things to happen. Perhaps Ella could ask Father Carswell in Sunday School.

  Ella looked skeptical. Neve wondered for a moment if she had played the priest card once too often.

  “Anyhow, young lady, tell me about school today. And not in monosyllables!”

  As Ella gave a precise account of her day, Neve checked the mail she had picked up on her way in. There was the usual array of bills, junk mail, and a couple of letters. One was from Neve’s mother and contained a twenty pound banknote ‘to buy a little something for Ella.’ Neve sighed, knowing she would have to call her mother or be called within forty-eight hours. The last piece of mail had a printed address label, a second-class stamp that was slightly askew. As she opened it, Neve held her breath.

  It can’t be, she told herself. It can’t be from him.

  The letter was printed, but signed in a familiar, immature scrawl. It was from her ex-boyfriend, Jeff.

  I hope you and Ella have settled in okay. I think it’s a pity that you walked out on me without leaving me a forwarding address. Sets a bad example for the kid, and it hurt my feelings. Are you trying to turn Ella against me? Me and you had something good, babe, and now you’re pretending it never happened? I don’t like that. No man would, and I’m a man, not a doormat, as you well know. Take care.

  Neve crumpled the letter, made to put it into a waste paper basket. Then she thought of Ella finding it and becoming scared again. She shoved it into the pocket of her jeans. Ella stopped listing things she had done and asked what was for dinner. Neve looked at her daughter for a long moment.

  “Whatever you want today,” she said.

  “Can we order pizza?” asked Ella immediately. “And are you being nicer because Jeff found us again?”

  ***

  Three days later, Declan contacted Paul to tell him the service elevator was fixed. Paul arranged to have his furniture moved from storage into the apartment. Media coverage of the ‘acci
dent’ at Rookwood had faded away, but Paul still felt some nagging doubt at the official statement. An inexperienced teenager was said to have accidentally killed another man. A coroner’s inquest would be convened in due course. Meanwhile, according to Kate Bewick, work on the East Wing was suspended until another contractor could be found.

  “I get the feeling,” Paul said, scrolling through the latest updates, “that a lot of people want this to just go away. Apart from the family of the poor bastard who died, of course.”

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” said Mike, looking over Paul’s shoulder. “It’s not like you’re going to be operating a pneumatic drill or something.”

  Paul closed the news app, laid his phone down on the kitchen table. There was barely room for it amid plates, cups, and pages from the morning newspaper. The clutter all around was a permanent reminder that Mike had allowed his friend to stay over for weeks in a one-person flat. Rent free.

  “It’s their management I’m worried about,” Paul explained. “They seem to have a lot of accidents, failures, breakdowns – I can do without that sort of hassle.”

  Mike did not look up from the football pages.

  “But look on the bright side, that Kate’s a bit of all right,” he opined. “So, if you’ve got plenty of excuses to go and talk to her, maybe Cupid will find a target for one of his little arrows.”

  Paul laughed uncomfortably. Rookwood’s manager was attractive, he agreed. But the thought of initiating any kind of relationship with a confident, career-woman type was daunting. Kate was far too similar to Mari, in fact.

  “Do you never think of anything else?” he asked, by way of deflection.

  Mike held up the newspaper.

  “I worry about Liverpool’s fortunes in the Premiership,” he said. “That, along with work and sex, pretty much fill up my waking hours.”

  Paul got up, tipped the remains of his breakfast into the trash, and ran the plate under a hot tap.

  “You are such a slob,” Mike commented. “Stand aside, newly-single guy, and let me do the washing up. One of the many civilized skills you will need to cultivate when you’re finally living on your own.”

  It was a throwaway remark. But for the rest of the day, Paul found himself dwelling on the simple thought. In the middle of a tutorial on the Monroe Doctrine, he lost the thread of a student’s argument. He was visualizing Apartment 212 at Rookwood; empty, cold, unwelcoming.

  Living alone. Walking into a home where nobody else lives.

  He realized the young people around the table were staring at him.

  “Sorry, people,” he said. “Let’s try that one again.”

  ***

  Jeff Bowman had walked up from the Metro station, hoping to spy out the terrain, perhaps catch a glimpse of Neve, Ella, or both. He had not expected the gates to Rookwood to be open. On the Rookwood website, the apartment building had been presented as a ‘secure place to live’ with ‘state of the art security measures.’ But so far as Jeff could see it was as about as secure as a public library.

  Good, he thought. This will make it a lot easier.

  A large van with the logo of a local moving firm appeared and turned into the gates. It occurred to Jeff that this would cause the usual disturbance and confusion at the entrance. He might, if he was careful, be able to sneak in. However, he did not know how tight security might be at the entrance.

  Should I risk it? If it goes wrong and the cops get involved –

  Jeff stopped, startled. He had nearly walked straight into a woman who was standing on the edge of the pavement. He felt a moment of irritation, but then noticed that the woman was paying him no heed. Instead, she was peering at Rookwood. Jeff estimated her age to be around sixty-five or seventy, and wondered if she was suffering from dementia.

  If I help her, maybe take her home, it proves I’m a good citizen, he thought. A good bloke, not some kind of scumbag.

  “Excuse me, but are you all right?” he asked.

  The woman gazed up at him. Her eyes were strikingly dark in her pale face, with its halo of silvery-white hair.

  “I’m quite all right, young man,” the woman replied, tersely. “I was just –”

  The woman paused and seemed to reassess Jeff, looking him up and down. He felt slightly self-conscious about his work clothes; faded overalls and scuffed boots. That was followed by a twinge of resentment at the woman for making him feel awkward.

  Why do women always have to belittle us?

  “Sorry!” he said, raising his hands in placatory gesture. “Just thought you looked a bit – worried.”

  The woman snorted, and Jeff thought she was going to say something to demean him.

  “We should all be worried about that place,” she said. “It’s troubled. Everybody knows that. If you’re thinking of taking a job there, don’t.”

  She stomped off along the street, heading downhill towards the Metro. Jeff watched her go, lost for words. He wondered if she was slightly crazy. Jeff had heard some vague stories about Rookwood but was far too preoccupied with the injustices he had suffered. But the woman had also planted the seed of an idea.

  Taking a job there, he thought. I’m a qualified electrician, why couldn’t I just bluff my way in?

  Jeff smiled to himself as he watched the moving men start to unload items from their van. It was as if a solution to his problem had been handed to him by some higher power. He had a plan. As he set off back into Tynecastle he began to work out some of the details. It was not flawless, but it could work.

  Then we’ll see who’s in the right, he thought, as he turned to walk back to the station. Then we’ll see who’s in the wrong. That lying bitch will regret smearing me, blackening my name. Turning the child against me.

  Chapter 4

  Paul moved in on Friday afternoon.

  Mike helped bring in the last of Paul’s possessions, and then went out to get a celebratory pizza, plus some beer. The two spent a few hours ‘shooting the breeze,’ as Mike insisted on calling it.

  “It’s not a term I ever use,” Paul pointed out, not for the first time. “Like I never say ‘hubba hubba.’ Nor have I been heard to utter the phrase ‘Aw, shucks.’ In fact, I am more likely to say, ‘Pip pip, old bean, have a buttered scone.’”

  “Hot diggety,” Mike shot back. “Somebody is awfully sensitive.”

  Paul frowned at his empty beer bottle, got up, and walked unsteadily into the kitchen. As he opened the fridge he shouted back at Mike.

  “Mocking my American ethnicity is against university policy,” he declared. “In fact, the next time you exclaim ‘Dagnabbit,’ I will file a formal complaint.”

  Mike made a disrespectful noise.

  “Bring two bottles,” he added.

  “Only one left,” Paul said. “God, I have not been so drunk in – well, maybe I’ve never been so drunk.”

  We’re coming to the end of our little party, he thought. My first guest in my new home will be going soon.

  Paul realized, with a flush of shame, that he did not want Mike to leave. The thought of being left alone amid empty bottles and fragments of pizza almost sobered him up. He stumbled through an attempt to thank Mike for all his help. This, predictably, sped up the Englishman’s departure.

  “Don’t go all sentimental on me,” insisted Mike. “You’ll help me out one day, I bet.”

  Paul closed the door and walked unsteadily back into his new living room. He knew what was coming next. Despite the beer, or perhaps because of it, depression would come. He had fought against it for many years, but the breakup with Mari had brought a wave of bleak thoughts and feelings. It did not take much to bring a sense of hopelessness bubbling up, almost swamping his mind.

  I can beat it, he told himself. I’ve beaten it before.

  He switched on the TV, channel surfed, and found a dumb action movie. He made himself a coffee while heroes and villains fought a deafening gun battle, with a few immense explosions thrown in. The moronic adventure failed to e
ngage him, though. Paul felt emotionally dead.

  God, this is worse than before, he thought. Maybe I should go out, take a walk, get some air. Might meet that Declan guy, or Kate, and have a chat.

  He turned the TV off, gulped down the last of his coffee, and got up. At the same moment, he heard a faint knocking noise. Paul stood listening for a moment, but the sound was not repeated. He went to his door and, still unsteady thanks to the beer, looked through the peephole. He could see nobody standing outside in the dim-lit hallway.

  Shrugging, he grabbed his keys and opened the door, aiming to head down the stairs, but almost collided with a diminutive figure. For a second, Paul got the impression of a child in a loose, ill-fitting kind of robe. There was also a distinctive odor, not too pleasant, that vanished even as he wrinkled his nostrils in distaste.

  Paul’s movement seemed to trigger the hallway lights. The shadows were banished, and he recognized Liz, still in her gray dress and nondescript, flat shoes. The girl was looking up at him, smiling hesitantly.

  “Oh, hi!” he said, stepping back, out of her personal space. “I didn’t see you through the spy-hole thingy.”

  “I just came to welcome you,” she said. “I’m glad you’ve come here to live.”

  “Thanks!” he replied. “Um, would you like to come in for a coffee or tea?”

  She did not reply but stepped inside. Liz looked around, exclaiming at the number of books he had, looking curiously at his desk with its laptop and charging cell phone. Then she stopped in front of the TV, head tilted to one side.

  “Not a big screen,” he said ruefully. “Kind of obsolete, I guess.”

  Liz looked at him strangely.

  “We never had a television. A lot of the neighbors got them when the Queen – I mean, a lot of people had them. But my mother said they were ungodly. An offense against decency.”

  “Wow,” he said, struggling to think of an intelligent reply. “But you don’t live with your mom now?”