Fraser.
The last thing they needed now was opposition.
Fraser.
Vernon’s breath came in short, angry gasps. No, Fraser must not be allowed to disrupt the research programme.
No matter what it took to stop him.
Kelly checked in John Fraser’s office, in the labs, in the library.
He was nowhere to be found.
As she made her way back across the polished wooden floor of the Institute’s reception area she spotted him outside, clambering into his familiar red Datsun.
Kelly ran out on to the gravel driveway and across to the other investigator who had already started his engine and was in the process of pulling out.
He saw Kelly but did not slow up until she had reached the side of the car and banged on the window. He rolled it down.
‘What do you want?’ he said, sharply.
‘Where are you going?’ she wanted to know.
‘I’m taking the rest of the day off,’ Fraser said, sarcastically. ‘I’m going to find the nearest pub and have a few beers. Maybe some shorts to wash them down.’ He jammed the car into first, the gearbox groaned in protest.
‘What you said in Vernon’s office,’ said Kelly. ‘What did you mean?’
The roar of the revving engine almost drowned out her words.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Fraser.
‘About the research,’ she said. ‘You said it would benefit one person in particular. Who did you mean?’
Fraser stepped on the accelerator, the back wheels spiining madly. A flurry of pebbles from the driveway flew into the air.
‘Did you mean Vernon?’ she persisted.
‘Ask him,’ hissed Fraser and drove off.
Kelly watched as the Datsun disappeared from view along the tree-lined drive.
She stood silently for a moment then made her way back towards the main building.
She was not the only one who saw Fraser drive away.
From the solitude of his office on the second floor, Vernon had watched the entire tableau.
He stepped back out of sight.
Dr Stephen Vernon poured himself another scotch and returned to his chair beside the fireplace. The gentle strains of the New World Symphony issued forth from the record player and Vernon closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the soothing sound to wash over him. It did little to relax him and he jerked his eyes open almost immediately, seeking comfort instead in the whisky which he downed almost in one gulp, allowing the amber liquid to burn its way to his stomach.
Outside, the wind stirred the branches of the trees and clouds gathered menacingly in the night sky, like dense formations of black clad soldiers.
Inside the house the fire was warm, the room bathed in the comforting glow from the flames and the two lamps which burned, one behind him and the other on the table nearby. But, despite the warmth, Vernon felt uncomfortable. As if the heat refused to penetrate his pores. He swallowed some more of the scotch, regarding warily the A4 size envelope which lay on the table nearby. Only when he had downed the last dregs of the fiery liquid did he find the courage to open the envelope.
Inside was a file, a ring binder, and there was a letter paper-clipped to it.
Vernon read it hastily then balled it up and tossed it into the waste-bin beside him. His grey eyes narrowed to steely slits as he opened the file. The first page, neatly typed, had the familiar notepaper headed: FAIRHAM SANATORIUM
It also bore a photo. A ten by eight, glossy black and white of a woman in her middle forties, a warm smile etched across her face. Even given the monochrome of the photo there was a welcoming radiance about the eyes and Vernon found himself gazing deep into them. The photo had been taken six years earlier.
He turned the page and there was another picture, smaller this time, more recent.
If he hadn’t known he would have sworn it was a different woman.
The welcoming glow in her eyes and the warm smile had been replaced by a
vision from a mortuary. A gaze devoid of understanding stared back at him from sockets which looked as though they’d been hollowed out of the skull with a trowel. The mouth was thin-lipped, little more than a gash across the face.
Hair which had once been lustrous and shiny now hung in unkept hunks, unbrushed and lifeless like kelp. Set side by side the most recent picture seemed to exist almost as a mockery to remind him of what once had been.
Vernon swallowed hard and read the report: SUBJECT NAME: VERNON. JANET (CATHERINE. NEE HAMPTON. AGE: 50
MARITAL STATUS: MARRIED. DATE OF COMMITTAL: 14/5/78 TRUSTEE. VERNON. STEPHEN
PHILLIP. RELATIONSHIP TO SUBJECT: HUSBAND. DIAGNOSIS: DEMENTIA. PARAESTHESIA, CHRONIC PARANOID DEMENTIA, SERIOUS IMPAIRMENT OF SENSORY-MOTOR FUNCTION.
CAUSE:
Vernon closed the file and slammed it down onto the table, almost knocking over his glass. He snatched it up but found, to his annoyance, that it was empty. He looked across at the half-empty bottle of Haig and contemplated re-filling his glass once more but, eventually, decided against it. The file lay where he’d put it, a memory as painful as a needle in soft flesh.
Six years.
Dear God was it that long since he had been forced to commit his wife? That long since …
The thought trailed away but he knew that he could never erase the memory of what had happened.
What had sent her to the verge of insanity.
Vernon got to his feet, turned off the fire and extinguished the lights, then, carrying the file, he trudged upstairs not bothering to put on the landing light. He moved slowly but easily through the darkness until he came to the locked door.
The wind had increased in strength and was howling now, like a dog in pain.
Vernon paused before the door, a cold chill enveloping him like some icy invisible glove which squeezed tighter the longer he stood there.
From the pocket of his cardigan he produced a key and, steadying his hand, inserted it in the lock.
There was a sharp crack from beyond the door, like bony fingers on glass, skeletal digits playing a symphony of torment in the gloom.
He turned the key.
The lock was well-oiled and opened without difficulty.
Vernon stepped into the room, shuddering as he did so. He felt like an intruder in this room. Like a thief in a church.
He heard the harsh clacking of the tree branch against the window and it startled him momentarily but, recovering his composure, he reached over and turned on the light.
The room smelt slightly of neglect, a faint odour of damp mingling with the more pungent smell of mothballs. There was a thin film of dust on everything.
On the bedspread, the sideboard, the chairs, even the photos. He crossed to the wardrobe and opened it. Her clothes still hung there, the smell of naptha more powerful now.
He had kept her in this room for three months before finally committing her.
For three months after it happened he had brought her food and tried to feed her as a parent would feed a helpless child. For that was what she had become.
His Janet. His wife. The woman he had loved so much.
The woman who had been reduced to the mental status of a cabbage by what she had witnessed those six years ago.
He had tried to cope as best he could, he had tried to help her but she had withdrawn deeper inside herself until Vernon had felt as through he were nursing a corpse. Only the movement of her eyes, bulging wide constantly, gave any indication that she was even alive. He had used all his expertise to try and salvage what was left of her sanity but finally he had lost the battle and had her committed to Fairham. The doctors there had made no progress though perhaps it was not surprising when he considered the events which had sent her into this death-like state of catatonia. It would, he
decided, have been enough to send anyone insane.