Poison in the Well Read online

  ‘I feel good, actually,’ I replied.

  ‘Good,’ said the chirpy doctor. ‘I’m happy to say that we are preparing to release you today.’ He stood with an expectant smile on his face, his eyes widening above the rims of his glasses, waiting for my response.

  I laughed once, nervously, overcome with relief. ‘Really? That’s great. Thanks, Doc,’ I said. He nodded, satisfied. ‘Are you not concerned with my lack of…’ I searched for the right words. ‘I mean, I still don’t remember a lot, of how I ended up here, even who I…’

  Doctor Chandler held up a hand, reassuringly. ‘Not to worry, young man. My team and I have had long discussions and can see no reason to keep you here any longer. Physically, you are well on the mend and I am satisfied with how your wounds are healing. As for the more…cognitive issues, we have help available for you for after you leave here. I see no further reason to keep you in this prison any longer than we have to.’

  I considered his words for a few moments and could find no reason to argue with him.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said again.

  ‘You’re very welcome. You’ve been a very entertaining and pleasurable patient, I must say. Some of our staff will be sorry to see you go.’

  I had no idea exactly whom Chandler was referring to, but my mind instantly returned to April. A rush of excitement made my heart pound and breath shorten momentarily.

  ‘April…I mean Nurse…’ I searched for her surname, but realised I didn’t know it. Doctor Chandler paused and turned back towards me as he reached the doorway. A gentle smile flashed quickly across his face, but was soon gone again.

  ‘Miss Masters, I believe?’

  I nodded, none-the-wiser to whether that was her correct surname or not. ‘Yes, I think so. Will I be able to see her before I leave?’

  Chandler looked at me then, pitifully, sensing the disappointment that he was about to bestow upon me. ‘I’m afraid not. She called in sick today.’ A weight dropped into my stomach as I recalled our last exchange. ‘Nurse Absolom here will ensure you have some fresh clothes to go home in. You didn’t come armed with much in that department, I’m afraid, and we couldn’t rescue the blood from those you were wearing when you arrived.’

  I lifted my head and nodded my agreement and thanks, without looking at him in the face.

  Chapter Four

  It wasn’t a world I recognised all that much. I may as well have been on Mars. Waiting for the taxi that the receptionist had called for me almost half an hour earlier, I tried to get my bearings. I looked behind me at the sign above the revolving doors to the main entrance. I didn’t recognise the name ‘St. Catherine’s District’, but quickly remembered that I could scarcely recall anywhere that my past had taken me so far. Not one place I had been able to call home.

  I turned back around, running my gaze over the neatly-cut lawns, the sun attempting to blind me as it bounced off of the sheer white stone slabs. I suddenly felt dizzy, aware of the twinge returning in my left side. When I spied a vacant bench a few yards ahead, my feet acted first. Taking my weight off of them, even briefly, made the world stop spinning. I leant forward, my head resting against my hands, as I tried to catch my breath. I decided it was the fresh air that had contributed to my vertigo; I couldn’t remember when I last breathed clean air.

  A silver Mondeo pulled up alongside the kerb a few minutes later. I raised my weary body from the bench, my legs protesting at having to support my weight once more. How was I to check the ride was for me? It wasn’t as if I had a name to give him, or even a destination. The receptionist had asked but I couldn’t offer anything up to her at the time. I simply raised my head quizzically as if to ask, ‘You here for me?’ As if he could somehow understand my garbled body code, he gave me a thumbs up, so I climbed into the back seat.

  The cushioned seats felt like heaven on my back. The bed I had lived in for the last few weeks had felt as though it were made of ply-wood come the end. I relaxed almost immediately. I closed my eyes and sighed audibly. The absence of light eased every part of me as I kept them closed.

  ‘Ahem,’ the driver said, rousing me in a cloud of embarrassment. ‘Where to mate?’

  I thought hard for a moment. I had nowhere I knew I needed to be. But I felt the weight of every second passing by as the driver looked at me expectantly, and then with an air of frustration. Then it came to me in a flash.

  ‘Do you know a place called Spinwood?’ I asked.

  The driver’s eyes dropped for a moment, chewing the corner of his bottom lip as he searched his memory. ‘A new one on me, I’m afraid mate. You’ll have to direct me, if that’s ok?’

  ‘Sure thing,’ I said. ‘It’s been a while though, but I should remember it.’ I closed my eyes and eventually recalled to him the estate’s rough location.

  ‘It’s a few miles further out than I normally go,’ the driver said. ‘Usually I charge a bit more.’

  ‘Ah, that would be a problem then,’ I said as a heavy weight returned in the pit of my stomach. ‘I have no money as it is.’ I could feel his eyes on me as I dropped mine towards my lap.

  ‘Don’t worry, chap. Tell you what, I will get the office to charge this one back to the hospital’s account, eh? Doubt the man at the top will even realise.’

  I looked up and couldn’t help but smile, the weight inside me all but disintegrating into the air around me. ‘Thank you so much,’ I said. The driver turned back in his seat, released the handbrake and powered the car away from the kerb.

  I looked back to see the hospital falling away in the distance as the taxi navigated around the bends leading back to the main road.

  Finally, I was on my way again. And I would start at the only place that occupied a dusty corner of my depleted memory bank; my father’s house.

  *****

  After almost half an hour of being serenaded by the gentle humming of the Mondeo’s engine, I was struggling to stay awake. The motions of the car as it took the sweeping bends towards the countryside rocked me gently in the back seat, as if my dead mother’s arms were around me, helping send me to sleep.

  I must have dozed for a moment, as the glare of the street lamps shone through my closed eyelids, jerking me awake again. The driver navigated through a network of new-build housing estates, each house built from the same blueprint as its neighbours. I was suddenly slap bang in the middle of Stepford. So much had changed since I had returned to this place. The estate I observed now had been a flat, lush green field the last time I had seen it.

  It’s amazing how quickly man can deface nature.

  Taking a right turn, the car passed between two more rows of soul-less flat-pack homes and headed straight as the houses began to disappear, the road thinned to a single-track lane and the countryside opened up once more.

  Nerves started to kick in as I realised where I was, drawing closer and closer to the place that still formed whatever shreds were left of my past. My head rested heavily against the window, my breath fogging the view. The sun had long since started its descent, and the clouds formed on the glass by my breath only made it harder to make out many details now.

  But I knew she was out there. Waiting for me to come home.

  No more than a minute later, I felt the car begin to slow as it searched each passing driveway entrance, until the driver recognised the one he was searching for.

  Recognising the dilapidated telephone box on the corner, my heart flipped. At the next turning, the driver brought the car to a stop. The beam of one of the headlights illuminated the rusted metal sign, hanging crookedly now by only one nail.

  Spinwood. I was finally there.

  The driver turned in his seat once more, bid me farewell and good luck with a hearty handshake. No sooner had I let the door shut behind me, I heard the crunch of his tyres on the gravel as he pulled the vehicle around in a tight three-point-turn. Moments later, he was gone. Without even a hint of his headlights behind me in the distance, I felt suddenly alone.

  Only able t
o make out the ragged stone wall lining the long driveway by its inky silhouette against the darkening sky, I slowly made my way towards the house.

  *****

  Spinwood was a stone manor house, built in the twelfth century. Seated within the grounds of an old equestrian farm, which over the years had been responsible for the breeding of many a race winner at the famous Cheltenham Racecourse, only just down the road. The breath-taking Malvern Hills cradled the property, making it an idyllic retreat for just about any sane-minded member of the human race.

  That very notion may go a long way in explaining why it was not your typical happy family home for my father and I, but more on that later.

  The house appeared as a shadowy fortress up ahead as I reached the end of the half-mile-long driveway. As I drew closer, its façade resembled more of a fearsome gatekeeper, standing with crossed arms around its barrel-like chest, preventing me from reaching my destination.

  You see, Spinwood itself wasn’t the building I was aiming for. It had been empty for well over fifty years by now. My father had acquired the property through a ‘contact’ of his, but chose to reside in the smaller cottage tucked away behind the manor house, at the very back of the estate. I remember those few who were as close to my father as I was often enquiring as to when we would move into the main property, thinking that we had chosen the smaller digs as more of a transitional homestead.

  Truth be told, very few actually knew my father that well. His reasons for choosing the cottage over the mansion were known only to a few of us, himself included.

  He sought solitude. He hated open spaces, especially in the months leading up to his untimely death. So The Cider House, as it was known, was his tiny corner of the world to which he could escape. Unfortunately, due to the demons of his own that he was battling, I hardly ever saw a good side of him in that place in the more recent years.

  That was why at that moment, as I spotted the stark-white stone face of the cottage appear as I rounded a corner from the east side of the vast gardens, I froze. I suddenly felt a great chill. The feeling came rhythmically, as if the air on the back of my neck were in fact breaths in between words that I could not hear.

  I felt nauseous as I took another step. I needed food, drink and most importantly I needed to sleep. I pushed through the invisible barrier apparently trying to stop me and rushed to the front door. Pushing on tip-toes, I made myself a couple of vital inches taller. I ran my hand along the top of the door frame. My father had always left a spare key there for me, as he was often away and allowed me to return each weekend from wherever he had sent me.

  Twice I traced my fingers along the dusty frame, but there was no key. Dread started to set in as I realised my predicament; stranded in an abandoned house, at least a couple of miles from the next nearest one, under an increasingly darkening sky. The stark colour of the stone house was all I could see; I could barely make out my own hand in front of my face.

  My bottom lip quivered as I searched the darkness around me in vain, kicking over a terracotta plant pot in my frustration, smashing it.

  Just then, I swore that I heard a noise from inside the house. I pressed my face against the dust-layered glass, but could see nothing.

  Thinking the notion a futile one, I decided then to try the handle of the door anyway. I turned it halfway.

  Click.

  It was open.

  *****

  The same way that the hairs covering a spider’s body, I believed that the hairs standing tall on the back of my neck were acting like sensors, alerting me to any movement and sound in my surroundings. The more I repeated that notion to myself as I stepped through the door and into the unlit kitchen, the less I focused on my fear. I stepped forward, painfully slowly. The absence of movement caused my calf muscles to tighten. Each movement was a momentous effort. Four more steps through to the archway leading into the lounge, they were cramping up.

  I walked into the main living space and paused. Swaying branches from the trees at the back of the property formed eerie dancing patterns on the floor as they caught the beaming moonlight, shining through the grimy rear window. I couldn’t move; something had a hold of me. Not simply my nerves, and my certain knowledge of someone else being in the house, but I was certain of another presence of some kind that was rooting me to the spot. I pivoted, trying to gain my bearings. I hadn’t been in the house for almost two years, and it was almost as if I had forgotten every small detail of the room I was standing in. Nothing felt the same. No familiarity.

  I’m sure it will all look the same in the morning. Yeah, if I ever make it to the morning…

  A clatter of something metallic meeting stone caused me to gasp and spin around almost a full turn.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I called out, barely recognising the sound of my own voice. There was no response. I closed my eyes, summoning courage from whatever dark corner of me it had cowered away into. Taking away whatever remained of my sight in the thickening darkness appeared to awaken my other senses. Suddenly I could smell the musty leather of my father’s old armchair. I remembered now; it was behind me in the corner, between two pine bookshelves that stretched almost to the ceiling. I rarely saw my father sat in the chair reading anything; he was either writing in his journal or staring out of the front window into the courtyard.

  Nothing much ever happened in the courtyard, but I remember watching him as he looked out, sometimes for almost an hour. Hardly moving, never speaking, his chin firmly rested upon his hand. It was as if he was waiting for something to happen.

  Or someone to return home.

  I decided then that I needed to move, had to carry on deeper inside the house. I felt far from alone still. Someone was in there with me and I needed to find out where.

  And who.

  I closed my eyes, waiting for the images of the house to form again, the darkness giving way to a new form of sight within me. I wasn’t asking for much; I simply needed to try and locate the light switches.

  I half-turned, imagining that I was now facing my father’s chair. Another image washed before my eyes, like a watercolour suddenly brought to life. I was stood watching my father, talking to him knowing that he was not listening. It was night-time. He had been sat there for over an hour, this time. He had retired to his seat immediately after our evening meal, which was endured in silence also. I wanted to hear him talk to me. The silence had become unbearable, just like it was now.

  I remembered now what I was saying to him.

  ‘You should have the light on. It is bad for your eyes to sit here in the dark.’

  I found myself uttering these words to myself just as I did then, only this time I was truly alone. There was no-one to hear even my thoughts.

  And then the notion of the other person – whoever this stranger was, if it was indeed a person – flooded back to me. My flight response kicked in, making me want to run for the door, which I had left open. But then, something else inside me clambered above it, stifling my fear for one treasured moment.

  This was not just my father’s house. In every sense of the word, it was my home too. And with my father now dead, the place belonged to me. And I wasn’t going to let anyone or anything take from me my last claim to life in this world.

  Closing my eyes for a moment longer, I returned to that night, watching myself as I took one step towards my father in his chair, and then reaching around to the side of the right-hand bookcase located the light switch. As if I was trapped in a sleep-walk, I opened my eyes and found myself in exactly the same position. I paused as I realised it, noticing that I was stood briefly on one leg, my weight supported on my front leg and my hand on the light switch.

  My thumb positioned itself on the brass switch, ready to flick it up. And then the voice spoke.

  ‘Welcome home, Master Morden.’

  *****

  I span around, almost losing my footing. There was a man in front of me, I knew it now. I could hear him breathing, seeing faint plumes of smoke as they left
his mouth and hit the cool stale air. But I could not see him, for his entire body was shrouded in darkness, save for the blood-shot whites of his eyes, which floated in mid-air, fixed only on me.

  I knew him, but he felt like a stranger to me. The harder I strained my sight to cut through the darkness, the clearer his face became. But I didn’t know his name. I never did. I only knew him by the name by which my father referred to him.

  The Caretaker.

  That was it. Not John the Caretaker. Or Simon, Paul or Bill. The more I had thought about things over the last few months - before the event that put me in hospital and caused me to lose the last few weeks of my life – I hardly remember my dad calling anyone by a proper name.

  He was often called only by his surname; Morden.

  It was as if he wanted nobody to acknowledge that he had an identity of his own, and it was this shroud of mystery that he cast over everyone else close to him. Including me. I never had a name that meant anything to me, I remembered that much now. I remembered that the name he bestowed upon me was like a tag he put around my neck. It was no reflection of who I truly was.

  When he was taken from me, my life spiralled downwards at blistering speed. It only took a few weeks and I was out of control, shunning everyone else that I came into contact with. I wasn’t capable of forming any meaningful bond with any other human being, it would seem.

  Except for April. The blonde angel in the clinical white uniform sprang to my mind again, causing a pang beneath my chest. Closing my eyes, and with a single shake of my head, she was gone again. The darkness returned and I searched through it once more for the familiar stranger who was somewhere in front of me.

  ‘So you can make it here but you couldn’t be there when my dad took his final breath,’ I said, my voice hoarse. My mouth was suddenly too dry to speak. I heard him sigh. Maybe it was even a light mocking laugh, I couldn’t tell.