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<title>Chapter 40</title>
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<h2>40</h2>
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<p>Dalmoak State Mental Hospital is a sprawling cluster of
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outhouses dominated by a large, square building with a quaintly
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church-like little bell tower. Its whitewashed walls stand out in
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contrast to the surrounding greenery of the countryside close to
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the river snaking between Lochend and Levenford.</p>
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<p>Passers by on train and in car may catch a glimpse of the
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innocuous-seeming building, which, in some respects, was built on
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the same lines as the old seminary in Arden, now rebuilt after the
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disastrous fire of several years past. From the road, it is
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sheltered by a line of chestnut trees, then a small conifer
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plantation which hides the double perimeter fence, the nearest one
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leaning inwards and topped by the lines of taut braided cable
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connected to insulating saucers and carrying three thousand volts.
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The chain link barrier furthest from the building, parallelling the
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outer, leans outwards, making it difficult to climb. The spirals of
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razor wire braided along the top, sixteen feet from the ground, add
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to the discouragement.</p>
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<p>Dalmoak State Mental Hospital is one of the three most secure
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units for the criminally insane in the country. The second fence
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was constructed after two of the inmates escaped and killed a
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passing motorcycle patrolman to death with a single blow of a
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garden spade which took his head off cleanly under his helmet and
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batted it forty feet into the stand of chestnuts.</p>
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<p>It is here, that some of the most notorious madmen have been
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locked away, without limit of time. Behind the whitewashed walls,
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in a barred room, sits Agnes McPhail, the child minder who one day
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got fed up with the job and let go the six children she was looking
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after. She did this by dropping them from the thirteenth floor of
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the tower-block apartment, holding them by the ankles, then
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watching them dwindle to become red smears on the concrete. Agnes
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sits and counts up to six on her fingers and dreams of falling
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bodies. She eats when told and masturbates constantly hauling up
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her light cotton gown to rub frantically between her legs. Her
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pupils have shrunk down to mere pin-points and she will never,
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ever, get out of Dalmoak.</p>
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<p>There are others too. Tom Muir, the Arden butcher who filleted
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his wife Eadie and offered her as cutlets in his shop window during
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the mayhem summer that's already part of the local history. James
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Collins who starved his wife to death in the cellar of their home
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while he watched pornographic videos in the living room. Annabel
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Monkton, who stuck a knitting needle through her old mother's ear
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and into her brain because she was fed up with the clicking sound
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the old woman made when she knitted scarves. She was well enough,
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between bouts of morbid depression, to take part in handicrafts,
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but they never let her handle anything sharp since the day she
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tried to put a needle into the eye of a frail old woman who had
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been in Dalmoak since before the war for feeding her husband and
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her family to the pigs on their farm.</p>
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<p>O'Day was brought here and the assessment team took over. They
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poked and prodded, tried him on barbiturates, electro-convulsive
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therapy and all manner of things, because in a place like Dalmoak,
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the inmates are lost to the world. They have ceased to be
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considered as human beings.</p>
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<p>Despite it all, the man remained catatonic. He sat still as
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stone in his chair, or on his bed, not moving unless moved,
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speaking to no one, eyes glazed and unfocussed. After the initial
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burst of activity over a newcomer, they assigned him a room of his
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own, watered, fed and cleaned him down when needed. He was a model,
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if un-cooperative patient.</p>
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<p>In the August of the following year the consultant psychiatrist
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retired and after an internal upward shuffle, a new resident joined
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the team. Derek Whiteford was three years out of medical school,
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had interned in Glasgow, and was delighted not only with the
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substantial increase in salary which allowed him enough to treat
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himself to a convertible BMW, but also the chance to work with what
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he considered the cream of mental patients.</p>
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<p>Derek was young and enthusiastic. He had dealt with trauma,
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schizophrenia, depression and nervous breakdowns. Here, however,
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were the real psychopaths, people whose brains worked in different
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ways from the rest of the population, people who heard messages
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from God, from creatures under the stairs, or from whatever being
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they believed in. People to whom the knowledge of good and evil had
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been denied.</p>
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<p>Up in the top corner of C Wing, he met Michael O'Day. The
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notorious <em>Shrike</em> sat staring at the wall, giving not a
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flicker of awareness. Derek talked to him, studying the man's eyes
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for any hint of perception, but found none. He spent a fortnight,
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arranged a battery of tests, trying to find a way in, until the
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lack of response made him give up, disappointed, to seek fresh
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ground.</p>
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<p>It was a year to the day of Marta Herkik's death, with the
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nights drawn in to early dark, that O'Day said his first word. A
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winter storm was brewing over the Cardross Hills, flickering the
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sky green-purple in sporadic flashes. Walter McGowan, a heavy-set
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nurse with a short crop of iron hair and steroid-abuser's bull neck
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had pushed the frail little man back onto the bed. With one
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practiced twist, he'd pulled down the front of the one-piece
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hospital gown, exposing a ribbed and crinkled chest.</p>
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<p>"Washtime, Mickey," he said, jovially enough. The patient was no
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trouble. As long as he was slunged down regularly, he didn't smell,
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and that was fine for Walter. The thin old man didn't care whether
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his cot was wet or dry, so there was no need to bother with the
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rubber sheet. It would soon dry, eventually.</p>
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<p>The nurse stripped O'Day quickly until he lay prone and white,
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then dipped the sponge into the plastic bucket and drew it down the
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man's body.</p>
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<p>"Hot," O'Day said.</p>
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<p>"What's that Mickey?" Walter asked automatically, before he
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realised what had happened.</p>
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<p>"Too hot," the man said, voice little more than a cackle.</p>
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<p>Walter might have had a weightlifter's body, but he was not
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stupid. He had a good paying job here, and he wanted to keep it.
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The new doctor had given them all specific instructions about any
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changes in patients' condition or behaviour. They had to be
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reported immediately. He slung the sponge back in the pail, lifted
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the bucket and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him
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and locking it with a quick twist.</p>
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<p>Dr Whiteford had taken off his immaculate work-coat and was
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heading for the door as Walter came round the corner.</p>
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<p>"Something's happened," the nurse told him.</p>
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<p>The young man snatched his hand up to look at his watch.</p>
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<p>"I've just finished," he said irritably.</p>
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<p>"But you wanted to know. That's why I came right away."</p>
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<p>Derek Whiteford sighed. "All right, what is it."</p>
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<p>"It's O'Day. Up in C3."</p>
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<p>"Go on," the new resident said, taking a step towards the
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door.</p>
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<p>"He just said something to me. He spoke."</p>
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<p>Derek took another step then stopped and spun on his heel.</p>
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<p>"What do you mean 'spoke'?"</p>
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<p>"He just told me his wash water was too hot. Clear as day. It's
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the first time I've ever heard him say anything. I thought you
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should know."</p>
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<p>The doctor's expression changed.</p>
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<p>"You haven't told anyone else, have you?"</p>
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<p>"No. I've just come down."</p>
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<p>"Fine. Let's keep it to ourselves. Don't want to be precipitate,
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do we?" If O'Day had spoken, then it was a sign he could be coming
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out of the fugue. And if that was true, there was a certain paper
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in the first psychiatric examination of the notorious Shrike.</p>
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<p>"Won't say a word, Doc," Walter assured him. Whiteford patted
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him on the shoulder, a patronising gesture, though Walter was ten
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years older than he.</p>
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<p>"Good man." He went back to his office, took off his jacket, and
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got back into the hospital whites.</p>
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<p>O'Day was completely naked, sitting on the bed. Water trickled
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over his ribs. He was staring blankly at the wall, and at first the
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doctor assumed Walter had been wrong.</p>
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<p>"What's this, Mr O'Day. You should be in bed by now."</p>
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<p>The man turned to him, and the vacant look vanished. Whiteford
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felt a surge of ambitious delight.</p>
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<p>"Not tired," he said, vaguely, then more strongly. "No need to
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sleep."</p>
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<p>"Welcome back, Michael. We'd given you up for lost."</p>
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<p>"Lost? Lost souls, hot lost souls, burn forever."</p>
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<p>"No doubt they do, Michael, no doubt they do," Whiteford replied
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gleefully.</p>
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<p>He told none of the other two psychiatrists about what had
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happened. The following morning, he visited O'Day again, before
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seeing any of the other patients. The man was sitting in the same
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position, as if he hadn't moved. As soon as the doctor stepped into
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the room, his eyes snapped open.</p>
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<p>"Ah, the headshrinker," O'Day said slowly, his voice totally
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accentless. "Come to look in my head."</p>
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<p>"Come to have a chat, and an examination too." he brought out
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his stethoscope and without a word, placed it against the man's
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chest, then against the vein in his neck. The blood hissed
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pneumatically. Under the beat, Whiteford heard the faint gurgle of
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turbulence which spoke of valve damage. How serious, he could not
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say. He would have to call in a specialist. He let the stethoscope
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dangle at his neck and drew out the pressure meter, quickly rolling
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the sleeve around the man's skinny arm and pumping the bulb until
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it bit tight then listened again, the systolic reading was high. He
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lowered the pressure, waiting for the diastolic. It was way up,
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over the hundred. The heartbeat was raised too, and under the
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pressure of the sleeve, the wheeze of cardiovascular damage was
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unmistakeable. The man was hypertensive, heading maybe slowly, but
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surely, for a brain haemorrhage. The resident ground his teeth,
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wondering whether to call the general physician for a further
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examination.</p>
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<p>"Not long, I think," O'Day said quietly in his ear, so
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unexpectedly that the doctor drew back.</p>
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<p>"What?"</p>
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<p>"Weak body. Not long." He turned to Whiteford. "And so much to
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know."</p>
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<p>Whiteford made up his mind.</p>
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<p>"I want to ask you some questions."</p>
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<p>"Ask and it shall be yours. Seek and ye shall find. All manner
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of things."</p>
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<p>He turned to the doctor and held his scrawny hand up.</p>
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<p>"But later. I tire in this light. Come later and you shall know
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everything." He stared straight into the young man's eyes. Finally,
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and for some reason he could not fathom, the psychiatrist nodded.
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He undid the pressure sleeve, slung it and the stethoscope back in
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his back and left the room. He closed the door, and when it was
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locked, he reached and inexplicably rocked the light-switch to
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off.</p>
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<p>At eight in the evening, when the consultant was out to dinner
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and the senior psychiatrist was on a night off, Whiteford went back
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up to C Wing and opened the heavy door to O'Day's room. He did not
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put the light on.</p>
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<p>This time the man was sitting, as naked as before, on his bed,
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but instead of being hunched over listlessly, he was ramrod
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straight, his legs folded, hands on his knees.</p>
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<p>"Ah, the seeker of knowledge. The digger into the soul."</p>
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<p>"More the mind, actually," the doctor responded, taken
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aback.</p>
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<p>"Mind, soul, self. There is nothing but the dark."</p>
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<p>"You like the dark?"</p>
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<p>"It is all," O'Day said in that strange flat voice. His white
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body was a thin ghost in the dim light.</p>
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<p>"I want to ask you a few questions."</p>
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<p>"And I will answer, but I need an answer too."</p>
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<p>"Go on."</p>
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<p>"Will you share with me?"</p>
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<p>"I don't know what you mean."</p>
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<p>"Will you join me?"</p>
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<p>"Of course I will," the young man said, baffled. He was so keen
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to start the real file on O'Day that he would have said
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anything.</p>
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<p>"But you must invite me in," the wizened man said. His voice
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sounded sly. "You must ask me to join you."</p>
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<p>Whiteford shrugged. "Very well. I would be most grateful if you
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would join me. Please do."</p>
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<p>O'Day lifted his hands from his knees and reached forward,
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taking the resident's hands in his own, a movement so smooth and so
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quick it was done before the other man had time to react. The hands
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were cold, bloodless. He drew the other forward.</p>
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<p>A trickle of alarm ran through the doctor, then evaporated.
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There was no harm in this emaciated little man. Even if he decided
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to get violent, there was little he could achieve.</p>
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<p>"Will you be one with me?" O'Day wheedled insistently.</p>
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<p>"Of course, if that's what you want. But first I need...."</p>
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<p>"Then join me," the white figure said. He leaned close to the
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young doctor, eyes like pits in the dark. They opened and gleamed
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yellow. Whiteford tried to draw back, tried to pull away, but the
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eyes had snagged him. They grew wider, whirling yellow orange,
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mesmeric circles in the dark. He stopped pulling away, found
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himself leaning forward, began to fall towards the sick yellow.</p>
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<p>Something changed.</p>
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<p>Hot hunger sparked in his mind. The smell of blood was in his
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nose and the taste of it in the back of his throat. A coldness
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welled inside him and he thought of Walter, the big nurse, lying on
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the floor of the pharmacy room, writhing in pain, his belly slit
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from groin to sternum, slathered in blood. He saw the consultant,
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flash Harry McLeish driving back from his dinner appointment,
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bloated and warm. Outside the room, through the frosted glass, the
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lightning pulsed in three sizzling stabs. He turned away from the
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light, feeling it sear his skin.</p>
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<p>The scent of blood was in his nose and his mind was hot and
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sparking with the sudden urgent <em>need</em>.</p>
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<p>In front of him, the skeletal man sat still. He reached for him,
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very gently, feeling the pulse of ailing life. He took the wrinkled
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head in his hands, savouring the touch, delighting in the surge of
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appetite.</p>
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<p>With one sudden flex, he pushed the man backwards so fast that
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his head hit against the tiled wall with the sound of an apple
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trodden underfoot. The air filled with the damp metal scent, and
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something dripped in the dark.</p>
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<p>At nine o'clock, Walter was coming out of the pharmacy, carrying
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a box of rubber gloves for the nightly shit-and-shovel run on D
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Wing when the light went out. He thought a bulb had blown, turned
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to put the box down on the nearest surface when something hit him
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from behind. He spun round and a cold slick ran across his
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belly.</p>
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<p>"Wha..." he started to say, then he was lifted by a colossal
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power right off his feet. He felt himself forced backwards against
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the wall. There was a thud and a popping sound as a sharp protusion
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went straight through his neck. At that moment, he felt the
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slippery wetness tumble from his abdomen, hot softness against his
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legs, then a vast emptiness just under his ribs, just as the gloom
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in the room turned to darkness, to blackness and faded to
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nothing.</p>
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<p>Dr Kirwan, the consultant who had succeeded to the job only
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three months before, came driving up from the security gatehouse in
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his new Jaguar. He spun the wheel, tyres crunching on the gravel,
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killed the lights and stepped out.</p>
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<p>He never saw what hit him. A dark shape lunged from behind an
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azalea bush and snatched him off his feet. He felt himself tumble
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through the air. A sharp obstruction snagged at his foot, pulled
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free and he catapulted onwards. He landed on the high-voltage wires
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and died instantly, his body dancing in death like a puppet.
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Instantly the klaxons blared and one by one the outside lights came
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on. Overhead, thunder exploded as a jagged fork of lightning
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stabbed down at the chestnut trees and hailstones the size of
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marbles began to bounce off the gravel.</p>
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