Rookwood Asylum Read online

As Paul ran off the turf and onto the gravel pathway the sound made the stranger turn and look. Paul waved, and the man waved back before moving off into the dim-lit interior.

  ***

  Jeff Bowman waited until the jogger had gone by, then moved to the window again. He had seen Ella running across the lawn toward the woods. That meant Neve was alone in her apartment. He felt a sudden urge to go up there, confront her, impose his will on the woman. On his woman. Jeff had to stop himself from doing it, knowing it would be risky. She had called the police on him before. No charges had been brought, of course. It was just one of her ploys, a way to make him look small, weak.

  The games these silly bitches play, he thought. And yet, they can’t do without us. Look at this place. No way she can afford to live here, not with a kiddy to raise. She’ll welcome me back if I time it right. The breadwinner. The man of the house.

  Jeff looked around at the half-finished walls and ceiling. He had no intention of actually working at Rookwood, it would be far too big a job for two guys, never mind one. It had been far easier to get in than he had feared. All he had to do now, after making a show of assessing the problem, was submit a quote for the work. He would make it so low Kate Bewick would jump at it. Jeff could tell the manager was desperate to get the job finished.

  Another woman trying to do a man’s job and obviously floundering, he thought. God, when will this feminist lunacy end?

  Something fell, a loud crash from the corridor, or maybe a neighboring room. Jeff held his breath for a moment, then relaxed. He had been jumpy since arriving, and would be glad to get out of the East Wing. But he had to pretend to do a thorough check. He made some notes on his tablet computer, nothing fancy, but enough to fool a non-expert. Then, when he had Kate’s permission to be at Rookwood, he could keep an eye on his girlfriend and their child. For a while. So he could plan the next stage.

  They’ll stop you.

  The thought, profoundly unwelcome, took him by surprise. Jeff was used to being in control, setting boundaries, even in his own mind. Self-doubt was one obvious mark of a weakling. Yet as soon as he dismissed the first troubling notion, another one arose. And another.

  You’ll fail. You’ll look weak and stupid. She’ll humiliate you. The kid will see you, emasculated.

  “No!” he exclaimed, and his voice echoed in the empty room. “No, that’s garbage. I just need to plan this carefully before I make my move.”

  You’re scared. You don’t really know what to do. Spineless.

  Jeff shook his head, cursing loudly now. He felt rising anger, directionless, chaotic. But then he noticed something else, along with the infuriating, belittling thoughts. The room seemed to be growing darker and the air colder. Hairs rose on the back of his neck, and he spun around, sure there was someone behind him. There was nobody there.

  But there is somebody here, came the sneering thought. A gutless wonder called Jeff.

  “Shut up!” he shouted.

  Jeff started to walk across the room, heading for an external doorway. But when he tried to push out through the plastic sheeting, it seemed to wrap itself around him. A gust of wind must have struck the side of the building then, because Jeff was shoved back into the room. And now he was not alone. Shadowy figures, their faces blurred, clustered around him. They were whispering, discussing him, commenting on his weakness, his failure.

  “He needs to man up. He needs to do something. He needs to take back control of his life.”

  For a moment, he felt terror. But then the phantoms came closer, and he felt their thoughts merging with his. It became impossible to tell where Jeff ended and the cold, nebulous strangers began. Into his mind seeped visions of what he might do, what he could do, what he should do. Where he had felt doubt, now he experienced an icy clarity.

  “Yes,” he said, as the whisperers swirled around him. “Yes, I see it now. She needs to be taught a lesson.”

  ***

  Ella kept a record of her discoveries in a small notebook. A few months earlier she had seen a TV documentary about Charles Darwin and decided that, like him, she would note everything down. This evening in Rookwood she had spotted several varieties of beetle, plus earwigs, centipedes, and a really huge spider. She felt frustrated at not being able to take pictures of any of them to identify their species and made a note about that, too.

  ASK MUMMY FOR PHONE SO I CAN IDENTIFY INSECTS

  She underlined the sentence twice, then closed her spiral-bound notebook. She stood up and looked around. Shadows raced across the grass, climbed the front of Rookwood. The sun was obscured by big, dark clouds that threatened rain. Ella decided to go in rather than risk getting wet.

  That’s sensible behavior, she thought, as she picked her way out of the wood. Mummy will be pleased with me. I can ask for ice cream.

  The American man who lived on the floor above Ella was jogging around the West Wing, heading back to the entrance. He waved at her, and she waved back. Just because her mother did not like someone did not mean Ella had to shun them. Besides, he seemed lonely.

  As Ella walked into the foyer there was a rumble of thunder, followed by a downpour. Rain bounced on the pathway outside and drummed loudly on the windows. The doors of the elevator that was still working were just closing on the American. Ella ran up the stairs, anticipating ice cream, planning out the next phase in her campaign to obtain a phone.

  “Something bad might happen.”

  Liz was standing at the top of the stairs, between Ella and her apartment. The girl was looking down at Ella.

  “What do you mean?” Ella asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Liz stepped back, around the corner, so that she was out of sight. It was an odd thing to do, and Ella advanced cautiously up the last few steps, peeped around the corner. Liz was gone. Ella wondered how the teenager had disappeared. Then she heard someone coming up the stairs behind her.

  “Hello, Ella.”

  She recognized the voice at once, but before she could run a hand seized her by the arm.

  “Now,” said Jeff, “it’s not polite to ignore people. Hello, Ella!”

  His grip grew tighter, painful.

  “You’re hurting me!” Ella cried.

  Jeff grinned down at her, and for a moment Ella thought she saw another face somehow blended with his, a masked face with strange, gleaming eyes.

  “I know,” he said, and shoved her across the hallway, toward the apartment door.

  ***

  Paul crossed to his apartment from the elevator and paused as he unlocked the door. He thought he heard raised voices, maybe coming up the stairwell. He concluded that maybe somebody had their TV turned up loud and had perhaps left their door open.

  Once inside, he grabbed a soda and started to undress, planning to take a shower after his run. He felt better, more upbeat, almost daring depression to try and claim him now. He sauntered over to the half-open window to look out at the city. The rain falling on Rookwood had not yet reached Tynecastle, which was still bathed in golden, evening sunlight. Again, voices came from somewhere below, and along with them a dull thud, as if something had fallen. Or someone.

  Not a TV, he thought, feeling uneasy. Something happening on the floor below.

  There was a shattering sound, immensely loud in his quiet apartment. He looked down just in time to see a man sailing out into the air in a wide arc. The man was dressed in overalls, flailing his arms as he flew, accompanied by a myriad of glass shards. It looked unreal to Paul, like a clever visual effect in a movie. But there was something grimly final about the crunch of impact as the figure struck the turf. The man lay still, head bent sickeningly under his body, limbs splayed like a ragdoll.

  Paul stood frozen, trying to process what he had just seen. Someone was screaming, a woman it sounded like. When the screamer paused for breath Paul heard a child sobbing, and thought of Ella. He rushed out and scrambled down the stairs, almost running on the first-floor landing.

  “What happened?” gasped the Irishman.<
br />
  “I dunno,” admitted Paul.

  The screaming had stopped. When they entered the Cotters’ flat, they saw Neve sitting on the floor, in a corner by the window. The glass had been shattered and the curtains were billowing inward. Rain was already darkening the edge of a white rug. Ella was standing, looking out at the storm, crying more quietly now.

  Declan rushed over to Neve, asking her if she was all right. The woman looked up, seemed not to recognize the Irishman. Feeling awkward, an intruder rather than a helper, Paul walked around Ella until he could hunker down and look her in the face.

  “What happened, honey?” he asked.

  Ella reached up and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her shirt. Then she looked Paul in the eye and spoke.

  “Liz stopped the bad men.”

  Chapter 6

  “How wide would you say the gravel driveway was, sir?” asked Detective Sergeant Farson.

  Paul shrugged irritably, not seeing the point of the question. Farson had gone over his statement several times already, apparently not satisfied with some of its aspects. Paul was still shocked by the violent death he had witnessed. They were standing in his apartment, looking out at the scene below. The body had just been bagged up and taken off in an ambulance. Now, Paul could see a uniformed officer recovering and bagging fragments of glass.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “It’s about ten feet wide, something like that. Why?”

  Farson opened Paul’s window a little wider, gestured down at the damp turf. The rain had stopped a few minutes earlier. The contorted outline of the body was clearly discernible.

  “Jeff Bowman landed on the grass, not the gravel,” he said. “Which means we can reasonably conclude he didn’t fall out of the window, nor was he simply pushed. No, he was hurled, thrown, flung. Doesn’t that strike you as a little – peculiar?”

  Paul stared at the detective, then joined him at the window. Farson was right. It had been right in front of Paul but had not registered properly, presumably thanks to the mental trauma.

  “You’re right,” he said, wonderingly. “The guy flew out there, he didn’t just fall. Like he’d been shot from a catapult. Jesus!”

  Farson snapped his black notebook closed, slipped it back into his pocket.

  “Yes, sir,” he said evenly. “And the only other people in the room were one frightened woman, and an even more frightened ten-year-old girl. No sign of the Incredible Hulk or similar characters. So officially, it’s an annoying detail we can’t really explain and will, therefore, play down.”

  Paul felt confused.

  “Will you classify it as an accident, then?”

  “I won’t classify it as anything,” Farson said briskly. “Not my job, I just gather facts and interview witnesses. But the guy attacked his former partner and her daughter – that much is undoubtedly true. It could be argued that he fell out of the window in a struggle. Which is plausible if you’re not actually looking at the scene. If I were a gambling man, I’d put money on the coroner reaching that conclusion.”

  Paul nodded, still confused.

  “That’s all for now, Mister Mahan,” said Farson. “I’ll be in touch if we need to talk to you again.”

  Paul nodded, walked the officer over to the door. As Farson stepped out into the hallway he stopped, turned, and raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, just one more thing,” he said. “Did the little girl say anything to you? When you entered the flat?”

  Paul hesitated, and Farson reached into his lightweight jacket, took out his notebook again.

  “I think she said something about – about a bad man,” Paul said finally. “I can’t be sure.”

  Farson held his notebook for a moment without opening it, then put it away again. He smiled, nodded.

  “This is a weird one, isn’t it?”

  Before Paul could think of a reply, the detective headed down the stairs. Back inside his apartment, Paul watched as a cab drew up outside the police perimeter. Neve Cotter appeared, weighted with baggage, followed by Ella, then by Declan Mooney carrying more bags. The little girl looked up as the cab driver helped stow their things in the trunk. Ella gave a little wave, and Paul raised his hand in farewell. He knew the Cotters were going to stay with Neve’s mother, ostensibly until the smashed window was fixed. But he wondered if they would ever be back.

  Should I move out? But where would I go? Back to Mike’s?

  He ruled out leaving for now and tried to make sense of what Ella had said to him. On the face of it, it was crazy. Liz had not been in the apartment, and even if she had been, a teenage girl could not throw a grown man out of a window. Paul had not been wholly honest with Farson because he did not want to appear crazy or subject Ella to any more police attention.

  Maybe she imagined Liz somehow rescuing her? Kids have made up weirder things. But why?

  Suspicions about what Liz might be had grown impossible to ignore. Paul did not believe in ghosts. But when he pondered his experiences since moving in, he found he was afraid of them, despite his disbelief. Yet, Liz had seemed as real as anyone else. Merely a strange human being, not a conventional idea of a spook.

  A ghost that puts a drunken academic to bed, he thought. British tabloids would pay good money for that one.

  Paul closed the window and decided to call Mike. He needed to tell someone, talk through the situation. He hoped that Mike’s pragmatic way of thinking would explain it all away, make sense of his strange experiences. But then it occurred to him that talking on the phone was not the best way to discuss whatever might be happening at Rookwood. He texted Mike instead, suggesting they ‘talk over some stuff’ at work the next day.

  He had just sent the text when there was a loud rap at the door. His heart fluttered for a moment at the thought that it might be Liz. But when he checked, the distorted view through the peep-hole showed the face of Sadie Prescott. Paul opened the door, wondering what the head of the Tenants Association might want. He hoped she would not ask for a subscription.

  “Doctor Mahan, I wonder if I could have a word?”

  Paul gestured her to come in. He soon discovered that Mrs. Prescott’s idea of ‘a word’ was a continuous barrage of talk, delivered in a voice used to addressing meetings. The gist of her monologue was that People Were Concerned, and Something Must Be Done. Paul took advantage of a pause to offer her a seat and a cup of tea.

  “No time, no time, but thank you!” she exclaimed. “I’m too busy trying to coordinate our response to the phenomena.”

  “Phenomena?” Paul asked.

  The woman made a sweeping gesture that seemed to embrace the building, the grounds, and Paul himself.

  “The haunting, Doctor Mahan,” she said, in a stage whisper. “The psychic forces besieging us.”

  When he did not respond, she proceeded to explain just what response she had in mind. Paul felt his heart sink as Sadie Prescott outlined her plans. He felt even worse when she asked if he was prepared to take part.

  ***

  “So, what’s this about?” asked Mike Bryson, slumping into the chair facing Paul.

  “It’s complicated,” Paul replied.

  Mike rolled his eyes, looked around Paul’s cramped office.

  “You do have a way of making things more complicated than they need to be,” the Englishman observed. “Can you sum it up in a few words?”

  Paul took a breath, bracing himself for his friend’s reaction.

  “My apartment building might be haunted.”

  Mike looked at Paul for a moment, then nodded.

  “Okay, now can you sum it up for me in a lot more words?”

  Ten minutes later, Mike emitted a low whistle.

  “Either you’ve actually gone bonkers, which seems unlikely as you’re so dull in other respects,” said the Englishman. “Or there really is something paranormal going on. I mean, I read about the drill incident, and then this guy going out of the window. But I never realized things were so – well, strange.”

/>   Mike got up and started to pace back and forth, a mannerism Paul recognized as part of his friend’s lecturing style. He smiled to himself, despite his anxiety, knowing Mike had at least got his brain in gear.

  “Okay, you think this Liz might be an actual ghost,” Mike said. “And that she threw this unpleasant bloke, Bowman, out of the window?”

  Paul shrugged.

  “That’s what the little girl said, or implied.”

  Mike stopped pacing and darted a finger at Mike.

  “She said, according to you, ‘Liz stopped the bad men.’ Not bad man, singular.”

  Paul made a helpless gesture, did not bother to reply. Mike resumed his pacing.

  “You felt some kind of presence in the East Wing,” he said. “More than one entity?”

  “Could be. I’m a little hazy on that whole incident,” Paul admitted. “But it seems like a complicated situation. That’s why I wanted to talk it over.”

  Mike threw himself back into the creaking office chair.

  “I’m not exactly an expert on actual ghosts,” the Englishman admitted. “Sure, I teach students about Gothic horror, but you seem to be living it. What you need is an expert. I suppose you could always try Rodria.”

  The name was vaguely familiar to Paul. He recalled some kind of scandal a few years earlier, but could not remember the details.

  “Max Rodria?” Mike went on. “Paranormal researcher, works in the physics department. Allegedly. He seems to spend a lot of time publicizing his research, a lot less time actually doing it.”

  They discussed Rodria, whom Mike disliked for his egotism, while admitting that ‘scientific ghost-hunters are thin on the ground.’ Eventually, as they ran out of time, Paul agreed to approach the physicist, as it could do no harm. The friends parted with promises to meet up for a drink. After Mike had left, Paul looked up Rodria on the university’s intranet and sent him a carefully-worded message.

  ***