Lost Lives (Emily Swanson Mystery Thriller Series Book 1) (17 page)

“Can I go to my room? I’m tired from physio.”

Nurse Stevens shrugged. “You won’t make friends by hiding away.”

Back in her room, Emily sat on the bed. Outside, charcoal clouds rolled over the sky.
Think
, she told herself.
Think
.

The first specks of rain hit the window. Clouds tore open and the rest came cascading down in heavy sheets. She replayed her conversation with Grace. What the girl was suggesting—mind control, experimentation— it was preposterous. Wasn’t it?

She shut her eyes, recalling the images that had flashed through her mind. The grand building surrounded by trees, the old woman, the notebooks. They were all connected. But how? Suddenly, it was like slotting together pieces of a puzzle. Suddenly, she knew how they were connected. Alina. And as soon as she made that connection, memories came spilling forth. Alina was a nurse, working at that big old house, where people lay dying inside. Emily had visited there. She remembered roaming through its rooms, being shown around by Nurse ...
Nurse Bates
. And Emily hadn’t been alone. She’d been accompanied by someone. Who? The name struck like a lightning bolt.
Jerome
. Her mind spinning out of control, Emily lay back on the bed. Outside, thunder rolled across the black sky.

March turned into April. Emily drifted through each day, adhering to her scheduled program. She found group therapy sessions deeply uncomfortable. She had no wish to share her innermost turmoil with a group of strangers, or to partake in exercises that left the teacher inside her feeling like a child. These other women were so different to her. Nearly all suffered with various forms of addiction. Most came from wealthy families and had self-admitted or had been coerced into self-admission, either out of concern or to eliminate the risk of further public embarrassment. Emily was the only patient in her group who had no choice about being here.

“It’s early days,” Tasia, the group therapist, told Emily in a voice as syrupy as molasses. “The good thing is you keep showing up.”

Individuals sessions with Doctor Adams were once a week. He poked and prodded at her mind and made adjustments to her medications. Her recollections of her life before the city were intact. It was her time after moving into The Holmeswood that was splintered. The memories that had returned to her were beginning to make some sort of sense, but they came in slow drips. And what she could recall she kept secret from Doctor Adams, from Grace, from everyone else. It was safer that way, until she could fully remember.

Physiotherapy continued. At first, it was as if her limbs had been made of marshmallow. Keera worked her hard every day. Now Emily relied less on the wheelchair and instead made use of a walker. Having regained strength in her hands, she could also forego the humiliation of having someone feed her, or worse, have someone assist her when she needed the bathroom.

Today was Thursday. Emily sat in the art room with a handful of the other women, paints and paper in front of her. Grace sat to her right, filling her page with dancing flames. Angela the art therapist drifted through the room, smiling as she peered over shoulders.

Emily stared at the blank paper on the table. It was strange, all those years of teaching and now here she was, sat on the other side of the classroom. With that thought, Phillip came, and a dull, dragging weight in her heart. Distracting herself, she examined the poster prints that were tacked along the walls—Monet’s
Water Lilies and the Japanese Bridge
, van Gough’s
Starry Night
, Dali’s
The Persistence of Memory
. There were prints she had never seen before. Her eyes roamed over each one, taking in their colours, their shapes and lines. She gasped.

The portrait of a woman was pinned above the sink. She was sat in profile, hands clasped in her lap, auburn hair tied back in a strange, elaborate cone. Her expression was pensive and only the whites of her eyes showed. But what had disturbed Emily was the woman’s elongated, birdlike neck.

“Amedeo Clemente Modigliani.”

Doctor Adams stood beside her, his gaze lingering over the portrait.

“He was an Italian painter. Like van Gogh he suffered the tragedy of posthumous credibility. But of course, the real tragedy lies with the lovely lady you see right there—Jeanne Hébuterne—a beautiful young art student who fell in love with Modigliani. His work was the subject of great controversy. His exhibition of nudes created a great deal of outrage at the time and was shut down by the police on its opening day.

“Horrified that she should be fraternising with such a sinful heathen, Hébuterne’s devout Catholic family promptly ostracized her. But what did she care? She was young and in love. The two lived together in unmarried bliss. Soon after Jeanne gave birth to their daughter, Modigliani vowed to marry her—much to the chagrin of her family. However, the marriage was not to be. Modigliani, who had battled tuberculosis since the age of sixteen, became gravely ill. He died at the age of thirty-five. Hébuterne was eight months pregnant with their second child. The day after the funeral, she returned to her parents’ home, where, inconsolable, she leapt from a fifth-floor window, killing herself and their unborn child. It’s terribly romantic, don’t you think? Sacrificing oneself in the name of love.”

Emily was transfixed. The woman’s strange, elongated neck, her pondering expression—the painting had an undeniably similar style to the one she had found of Alina.

“It’s not romantic,” Grace said, who had been listening to Doctor Adams’ tale. “It’s reductive. And a waste.”

Doctor Adams laughed. “Our young Grace, forever the cynic.”

Emily stared down at the blank paper in front of her, conjuring up the image of Alina’s portrait. She was missing something ... something to do with a name.

“Doctor Adams, how nice to see you!” Angela made her way towards them. “The girls have been coming up with some truly wonderful art this morning, you should take a look around.”

The therapist noticed Emily’s blank paper.

“Having trouble getting started?” she asked. “You don’t need to be Frida Kahlo if that’s what you’re worried about. Just pick up a brush, take a deep breath, let it out, and see what happens.”

Angela and Doctor Adams watched as Emily picked up the brush and dipped it into a pot of red paint. Her hand hovered over the page. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the image in her mind, and then she moved the brush up and down in long strokes. When she was finished, she looked at the two large letters she had painted on the paper: A.C.

Angela raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. What does that mean to you?”

Emily looked at the Modigliani painting. “I don’t know.”

But she did know. Another hole in her memory had been filled. AC. Doctor Alan Chelmsford—the man who had painted Alina’s portrait. The man whose name appeared over and over in Reina Tammerworth’s notebooks alongside another—Doctor Augustine Williams. And from that name came more memories, and as they unwound themselves like the coils of a rattlesnake, Emily felt like she was drowning.

Doctor Adams stared down at the painted letters.

“The mind is always surprising, isn’t it?” he said, his face expressionless. “Like the unfurling petals of a flower.”

Angela smiled. “Did you know, Emily, that Doctor Adams is quite the accomplished artist himself?”

An icy tremor moved through the length of Emily’s body.

“Oh yes. You’ve painted quite a few of the nurses over the years haven’t you, Doctor?”

Doctor Adams did not reply. He stared at Emily. Their eyes met.

“I’d never tell him this, but he’s really rather good,” Angela continued, unaware that her audience had stopped listening. “You should ask to see his collection. Are you all right?”

Emily’s face had drained of all its colour.

“Perhaps you should return to your room,” Doctor Adams said.

“I’ll take her!” Grace leapt up from her seat and in one deft move had unlocked the wheelchair breaks and pulled Emily back from the table.

“Straight to her room, Grace. I’ll send one of the nurses along in a moment.”

Doctor Adams watched Grace wheel Emily away, a thin smile fading from his lips.

They were both silent until they arrived at Emily’s room. Grace locked the wheelchair brakes and leapt onto the bed.

“What is it?” she asked, her body jittery with excitement. “What happened back there? What’s AC?”

“You were right, Grace. Doctor Adams can’t be trusted—because Doctor Adams doesn’t exist.”

“What does that mean?”

“I remember, Grace! He’s been here all this time, hiding behind a fake name.”

“Who?” Unable to control her agitation, Grace bounced up and down.

“Doctor Alan Chelmsford.”

The rest of the story came out in a breathless flood of words—Ravenshill Clinic, Dr Williams, the alleged experimentation on former patients, the Ever After Care Foundation, Alina Engel. As Emily spoke, she felt unbridled relief. She remembered. She had not tried to kill herself. She was not insane. Grace grew increasingly animated. Her eyes bulged in her head. She slapped the mattress with her hands.

“I knew it!” she cried. “All this time, I knew it!”

Emily’s eyes shot towards the door. She leaned forward and touched the girl’s hand. “I’m in trouble, Grace. After what just happened, he’ll know that I’ve worked it out. I didn’t try to kill myself. Somehow they engineered it, to stop me from finding out the truth.”

It all hit her in tidal waves of anger and dread. Everything was clear now. Stepping inside Karl Henry’s house had been like stepping into a minefield. That was why she was here—not because she had lost her mind, not because she had attempted suicide—because they had arranged it.

They were clever. They had used her history against her, convinced the world that she was unstable, dangerous even. She had invented a story to access the hospice, where the sick and the dying lay in their final days. She had harassed its employees and even broken into the caretaker’s home. And why? Because she was a fantasist. She had fabricated this outlandish tale of abduction and murder, of illegal experimentation, to fill the bitter void that had consumed her since her mother’s passing, since Phillip Gerard had leapt to his death. It was all there, all on paper, and anyone who picked up her file and flicked casually through it would come to the same conclusion—that Emily Swanson was completely insane, a danger to society and to herself.

“Why put you here?” Grace pulled her hand away and rubbed it as if she’d been stung. “Why not kill you?”

“Because they don’t need to. They can put me here, keep a watchful eye.” Her voice trembled as realisation sank in. “They can experiment on me. Make me try and forget.”

“Yes!” Grace said. “Just like Helen!”

There were still holes in the story, still memories that were patchy at best, but the facts were all there. Emily was in trouble. Terrible trouble.

A soft knock on the door announced the arrival of Nurse Berlinger. She and Grace eyed each other, and then without saying another word, Grace scurried out into the corridor, taking a wide arc around the nurse as she went.

“Doctor Adams asked me to check on you,” Nurse Berlinger said, entering the room. “Here, he wants you to take these.”

She held out a small paper cup. Emily peered inside and saw two blue pills.

“What are they?”

“Something to help you feel calm.”

“I do feel calm.”

Nurse Berlinger held out the cup and waited.

“I mean it,” Emily said. “I’ll be fine without them thank you.”

“I’m afraid this isn’t your choice. Doctor Adams has prescribed the medication, which means you must take it. If you refuse, then I’ll have to call him and some of the other nurses. Then you will be forced to take it.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Oh but the law says we can,” Nurse Berlinger replied, a smile on her thin lips. “Now, do you want to make this easy on yourself, or do you want to be seen as a non-compliant patient? Mark my words when I say that kind of behaviour will do nothing to help your case when it comes to your review.”

Panicking now, Emily looked from Nurse Berlinger to the open door. The idea of being held down and force fed the pills was too horrifying to think about. Whether she took them willingly or not, Doctor Adams had backed her into a corner.

She took the cup with a trembling hand.

“That’s it,” Nurse Berlinger encouraged. “You’ll have a nice rest and then you’ll feel as right as rain.”

Emily brought the cup to her mouth.

“You couldn’t be more wrong,” she said.

She awoke in darkness, afraid. As her mind eased itself back into reality her eyes adjusted to the gloom. She became aware of the bed, the walls, the open curtain and the window. Someone was here with her. Startled, Emily pulled herself up onto her elbows.

“Get up,” a voice whispered.

“Grace?”

In the darkness, Grace placed a finger to her lips. She waited as Emily pulled back the bedsheets and hauled herself up. Impatient, the girl moved forward, swinging Emily’s legs over the side of the bed.

“What’s happening?” Emily was exhausted. The last thing she remembered was Nurse Berlinger’s cup of blue pills.

Grace rolled up a wheelchair and helped Emily into it.

“I can walk.”

“No time.”

The girl opened the door a few inches. Soft, yellow light filtered in. Grace peered out, listening to the quiet. Then, she was behind Emily, pushing her through the doorway.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Shh! They’ll hear you.”

They moved along the empty corridor, passing the other patients’ rooms, then turned a corner. Grace pushed Emily along at an unnerving speed, until they stopped outside a room. Somewhere behind them came the distant creak of door hinges. Eyes bulging, Grace wheeled Emily inside the room and shut the door. Footsteps moved along the corridor. Another door opened and closed. Silence resumed.

“Grace, what are you doing?”

Still groggy, Emily turned around in the chair. Grace flicked the light switch. The room was unoccupied, the bed stripped of sheets.

“This is Lan’s room,” Grace said.

“Who?”

“Bird Girl. She’s gone. They took her.”

Emily felt the emptiness of the room like a cold hand. “What do you mean?”

“This morning she wasn’t at the window. She’s always there. Always. I came to check on her and found her room just like this. Stripped down. Everything gone.”

“But I saw Bird—I saw Lan this morning. She was there in the window like always.”

Grace moved further into the room. “You’ve been asleep for two days.”

“What?”

“They said you needed time to rest.”

Emily felt hot, frightened tears brimming at the edges of her eyes.

“Lan was here yesterday, right up until bedtime. Then this morning she was gone ... flown away in the night. They said her family came to take her away. I never saw a single person visit her on Sundays. Not one. Her family had her hidden away in here like an embarrassing secret. Why would they come and get her now? And in the middle of the night?”

Emily stared at the empty bed, thinking about Bird Girl. About Lan. Anger churned inside her.

“They took her, just like Helen,” Grace said, curling her hands into fists.

“We need to tell someone.”

“No one will believe us.”

Emily wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I have evidence,” she said. “Connected to the Ever After Care Foundation. Alina disappeared because she’d uncovered something going on there. Reina Tammerworth disappeared because Alina told her all about it. All these missing women ... I don’t even know if that evidence still exists, but if it does, it’s enough to warrant an investigation, and once the police connect the dots, they’ll find this place and they’ll expose whatever’s going on here. Just as they will at Ever After.”

Grace paced up and down, restless and agitated.

“But how do we get to your evidence?”

Emily thought about it. There was Jerome. But he’d been about to leave the city. Even if he was still at The Holmeswood, she had no way of getting a message to him. She wondered how he had reacted to the news of her incarceration. Had he tried to find her? To free her? Or fearful of a similar fate, had he sloped away, trying to forget Emily Swanson had ever existed?

Emily shuddered. They were on their own, she and Grace trapped like hens in a fox’s lair.

“We have to get out of here.”

Grace’s eyes moved feverishly in their sockets. “The problem isn’t getting out of here. The problem is getting to somewhere else. We’re in the middle of nowhere, which means unless you can find a car, it’s a long walk back to civilisation. And you’re not strong enough.”

“I’ll find the strength,” Emily said, grim determination creasing her features.

Grace stopped pacing. “I’ll help you, but you have to help me with something first.”

“What?”

“To get through those electronic doors.”

“It’s too risky, Grace. We’ll get caught.”

“What if Helen is in there somewhere? And Lan. If we go, we’d be leaving them behind.”

“We’ll come back for them with the police.”

Grace grew very still. “We get through those doors, then we leave. If you want my help those are my terms.”

“All right, fine.” Emily knew her chances of escaping from St. Dymphna’s without Grace’s help were nil. “What’s your plan?”

***

The next morning was bright and clear. Sore from her physio session, Emily sat on a garden bench, a jacket pulled around her, watching a group of women plant seedlings into flowerbeds. Grace sat beside her, her knee moving up and down like a jackhammer. Beyond the garden was the red brick wall that circled the hospital grounds.

“It’s climbable,” Grace muttered. “It’s there for privacy, not to keep anyone in. Remember, most people are here because they choose to be.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.” Emily rubbed her aching wrists. “What about the gates?”

“Operated by security guards. Not an option.”

The girl’s eyes moved further along the wall until they came to rest upon a lilac tree, which grew up from the ground like a gnarled hand. Its trunk had divided into several long branches that sloped outwards at almost horizontal angles, creating a bridge to the top of the wall.

“There,” Grace said, nodding at the tree.

Emily shook her head. “I don’t know if—”

“You can and you will.”

The women took a rest from working as a silver-haired gardener showed them the next seeds for planting. Nurse Stevens stood in front of a side entrance to the building, lost in thought.

“We’ll go tonight,” Grace said. “While everyone’s having dinner, before they start the meds run.”

Emily’s throat was dry. She grew stronger every day, walking for longer and longer bouts without support. But was she physically strong enough to make it over the wall?

Her attention turned to Nurse Stevens, who remained unmoving like a garden statue.

“Do you think the nurses know? Do you think they know what’s going on here?”

A door opened and Nurse Berlinger stepped out, waking Nurse Stevens from her daydream. Grace watched as they talked in hushed voices.

“Some of them have to. Which means none of them can be trusted.”

The nurses looked up at Emily and Grace, then started towards them.

Grace and Emily stared at each other.

“Let’s do it now,” Grace said.

“But, there’s two of them.”

“It’ll be more of a distraction.”

“Good morning you two,” Nurse Stevens said. “Not joining in with the gardening, Grace?”

Grace glared at her, then at Nurse Berlinger.

“I’ve been watching you two over the last few weeks,” Nurse Stevens continued. “It’s nice to see you supporting each other. You’ve been very welcoming, Grace. You should be proud of yourself.”

“I am.”

“As much as I hate to interrupt friendship in the making, Doctor Adams would like to see you, Emily.”

Emily’s heart crashed against her chest.

“Why?”

“Oh, you’ll have to ask him that. I’m simply the messenger, but I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Come on, I’ll take you.”

Nurse Stevens held out a hand.

“I can take her,” Grace said.

“I think you should join the rest of the girls. Getting your hands dirty once in a while is good for the soul. Come on, Emily. Let’s see those legs in action.”

Emily’s body had succumbed to a terrible anxiety and refused to move. She stared helplessly at Grace.

“We’ll help you.” Before Emily could protest, the nurses took her by the arms and hoisted her to her feet.

They moved forwards, arms linked together, Grace hovering around them like a fly.

“I’m fine,” Emily said. “I can do it myself.”

Nurse Stevens laughed. “Okay then, Little Miss Independent. Let’s see what you can do.”

She nodded to Nurse Berlinger and both women released their grips.

Unsupported, Emily felt her legs shiver beneath her. She put one foot in front of the other. Her limbs still felt weak, but they held her up. She took another step forward. Then another. Before Nurse Stevens could congratulate her, Emily’s knees buckled. She lunged out, grabbing at Nurse Berlinger, pulling her towards the ground.

“Look what you’ve done!” Grace shouted, barging between the nurses to get to Emily. “You’ve hurt her!”

Hooking Emily’s arm around her neck, she hauled her up. Nurse Berlinger climbed to her feet, brushing down her uniform. Her keychain containing various keys and cards had been torn from her uniform and lay on the grass. She snatched it up.

“Honestly Grace, would you please go and join the others before you make me lose my temper,” Nurse Stevens scowled.

Grace held up her hands. Nurse Berlinger caught Emily by the arm.

“Fine,” Grace said, standing still.

As they led Emily away, she looked over her shoulder. Grace lifted her foot, picked up the key card that was hidden beneath and slipped it into her pocket.

They took the walk to Doctor Adam’s office at a slow pace, Emily’s legs trembling beneath her, anxiety building with each step. As they passed through the dayroom, Emily pointed towards the electronic doors through which she had been taken all those months ago.

“What’s through there?”

“Treatment rooms.” Nurse Stevens smiled. “Come along, Doctor Adams is waiting.”

The doctor was sat behind his desk, staring at his computer screen.

“Ah, Miss Swanson, very good to see you. I’ll be with you in just one moment.”

Nurse Stevens ushered Emily inside, sat her in a chair, then left the room. Another nurse stood in the corner; a powerfully-built man Emily hadn’t seen before. Growing pale, she turned to face Doctor Adams.
Doctor Chelmsford
, she reminded herself.

“How are you feeling today?” the doctor asked, finally giving her his attention.

Emily tried to swallow. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. In fact you’re looking a little peaked. Are you worried about something?”

She watched him pull out a handful of forms from a drawer and add his signature to them.

“Honestly, I’m doing much better. I’m doing well in my physio. I’m sleeping. For the first time in a long time I feel hopeful.”

Across the desk, the doctor slipped a hand under his chin. His eyes flicked to the nurse at the back of the room.

“In fact, I was wondering ...” Emily snapped her mouth shut.
Be calm. Slow breaths. Don’t lose it.
“I was wondering when I can go home.”

“Ah yes. The inevitable question—‘when can I go home?’” Doctor Adams put down his pen. “There’s no simple answer I’m afraid, Emily. There are all sorts of assessments, benchmarks ... we have to be fully confident that you’re mentally and emotionally ready to return to the world.”

“But I am. I’m ready.”

“I’m afraid I don’t agree.”

“But I told you I feel fine. I can’t see why I would need to stay here any longer. I’m not suicidal. I feel better. I’m still working on the physical stuff—but this is a rehab clinic, I can continue physiotherapy elsewhere.”

Doctor Adams was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Emily, as the person responsible for your wellbeing, I feel it’s best to continue as we are. Your treatment order is up for review in two months. Then, if I feel you’ve made adequate progress, we can talk about stepping down your treatment and discharging you.”

Emily swelled with panic. She would not remain incarcerated here. All she had to do was convince herself that she was strong enough to get over that wall. Her body would take care of the rest. They would go tonight, just as Grace had planned.

“Ms Swanson, are you being honest with me?”

Startled by the doctor’s voice, Emily looked up. How long had she been sitting there lost in thought?

“Of course,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I feel much better.”

“This is a very precarious time for you, so being honest with yourself—and with those of us trying to help you—is vital. As you say, you’ve begun to feel better, which is precisely why treatment needs to continue. To let you go out on your own now would be dangerous, not to mention unethical. You’re vulnerable, Ms Swanson. That wellness you feel is exactly what we want to hear about, but alongside wellness you need emotional strength and mental stability, and I fear you have yet to reach those plateaus. So, two more months. Then we’ll review.”