Dark Feelings (14)
The next episode in the Dr Pascha Lyle series published exclusively on Substack
Hello everyone,
Here’s the next instalment of my first ever fiction, Dark Feelings.
If this is your first Dark Feelings post, you’ll want to start with episode one.
I hope you’re enjoying it. This week’s episode was a little delayed just because I’ve had a big week. Apologies.
I’ll return to more regular Deb Does Therapy programming soon…just have to get this story out of my head. As I write, the follow up books in the series keep coming to me.
Love to you,
I’m watching yellow and orange leaves swirling four floors below, in the doorway to my apartment building, talking with Nate on the phone. Behind me, Fi’s laying out pear tarts and making coffee. We’ve just inhaled her veggie lasagne, and chunks of crusty baguette slathered with French butter from the Prahran Market.
“Before you go,” Nate says, “We got Michael’s toxicology report this morning. I’ve informed Pip Wallis…”
“Is there anything in it?” I cut him off, needing to know.
“There is,” he sighs, “Michael had a strong narcotic in his bloodstream, illegal of course, in addition to his prescription drugs.”
“Same as Anton?”
“Same as Anton.”
“Oh. Was that his cause of death?”
“No, it’s officially drowning, but the opioids in his system contributed.”
“Do you think he was in the drain, like Anton…and me?”
“We think so. The bruising, the length of time he’d been in the water…it’s all consistent with that likelihood,” Nate hesitates a moment then asks, “Was Michael someone who used illegal drugs, to your knowledge Pash? I mean, we know Anton had that history…”
He must hear me draw in a breath, trying to hold back fear from my voice,
“No, I wouldn’t think so…” but I’m unsure of anything for certain just now. I had no idea about that dark side of Anton’s history, and I thought I knew him well.
Plus, I’m overwhelmed with sorrow for Michael and his family, terrorised by thoughts of what he went through. It’s a fate Jay likely meant for me too, to drug me and leave me for dead in a dark place.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of horrible news so often Pash,” Nate sounds sad, “But the dead can’t speak, so it’s my job to ask questions to uncover Michael’s side of the story.”
“I know. The hospital says Anton will be awake it in a couple of days. He’ll be able to help. I’ve been ringing twice a day because we still aren’t allowed in.”
I take a breath, unsure if I want to know, “Is there any change to Jay’s condition?”
“No, I’m told he’s unlikely to regain consciousness,” Nate sighs, “Anyway, let’s catch up after the interview with Dan this arvo, hey? Ali and I have some other people to talk with before then.”
“OK. See you soon. Ciao.”
The traffic’s lighter than we expected, so Fi and I rock up at the psychiatric hospital where the forensic ward is located, 15 minutes early. We make our way down the cold corridors to sounds of yelling and dishes clanking in a kitchen somewhere, to the high security wing. Dan Smith’s still being held there, pending today’s police interview and a hearing to confirm his true identity.
At the restricted reception area, I’m dumbfounded that Jay could bluff his way out of here. It feels impenetrable. Fi buzzes the intercom on the solid outer door and announces to the receptionist,
“Hello, it’s Dr Lyle and Ms LeFevre. We’re scheduled to meet Detectives Hawke and White to conduct an interview.”
“Oo, go you Miss LeFevre,” I can’t help smiling at Fi’s unusual formality.
“Well, this is all very serious,” she says wide-eyed, “It’s my first time assisting at a police interview…”
“Sorry, Dr Who?” comes the receptionist’s voice through the intercom.
“Ha, Dr Who!” Fi whispers, then slaps her hand over her mouth to block her giggling, tears springing to her eyes with the effort of stifling her amusement.
“Dr Pascha Lyle,” I enunciate, gritting my teeth to remain composed, and glaring at Fi to stop.
“Push the door,” comes a disembodied command, accompanied by a loud click and a buzzing of the heavy door.
“Sorry,” Fi dabs her eyes with a tissue as we enter, “I can’t do serious for very long.”
We’re buzzed into a bare, windowless foyer, where a security guard painstakingly searches through our handbags on a stainless-steel table. I’m shocked that Jay managed to bluff anybody here, although I’ll bet they’ve copped a lot of flak due to screwing up. Maybe it wasn’t such a tightly run ship before.
When the hard-eyed security guard’s finished his search, he swipes a card to open an inner door and escorts us through to another stark foyer.
“Ah, Dr Lyle?” the receptionist looks us both over intently through the small window of the glass-encased front desk, “And Ms LeFevre, you’re both on the list, and…” she shuffles through a few slips of paper, “There’s a message…um…”
I wait at the window uncomfortably. I’ve never liked visiting forensic wards, and this is a maximum-security wing. Suddenly I’m flooded with claustrophobia, slammed with sensory memories of the cold, airlessness, and the deafening storm in the drain, the feeling of being trapped.
The receptionist’s voice cuts through my spiralling thoughts,
“I have a message from Detective Hawke, he just rang before you got here. He said they will be about 30 minutes late, something’s come up, but he’s still coming for the interview.”
“Oh, OK,” I say, doubting I can stay in this windowless box for that long before we even get started with the interview. I glance at the blue plastic chairs along the wall behind us and decide it’s a definite no,
“Want to wait outside Fi?”
“Happy to, we can sit in the sun,” she gets my drift.
I nod to the receptionist and she pushes the door release buzzer again, “There’s some benches on the other side of the building in the garden,” she says “If the weather’s OK…you can’t tell from in here…”
The security guard looks slightly confused, watching us head down the corridor so soon after arriving, but we don’t slow down until we get to the main doors and burst back into the autumn sun, breathing fully again.
“Are you OK?” Fi asks.
“Yeah, just got flashes of the whole Jay incident again, you know, imagining how he’s been getting out…what could have happened if…I won’t go there…let’s just walk…and breathe.”
“That’s right, don’t go over it, Pashy,” Fi says, “We shouldn’t have come here when you’re still recovering. Bloody Nate asking you to do this…”
“It’s OK. I’m OK. I want this done. I want to help him deal with Jay for good, and to understand how he got our and why he killed Michael, and tried to kill Anton and me.”
The sun peeks intermittently through moving clouds, making the trees glow orange, but I don’t feel fresh or breezy. I feel beaten up and unresolved. My throat still hurts on and off from Jay’s grip, mere days ago.
“Let’s find the park benches Pashy,” Fi says gently, hooking her elbow through mine. She’s trying to distract me, and I appreciate it, “The gardens around this place are gorgeous. Nate and Alison will be here soon, and we’ll get this interview over and go home to Zelda.”
“Sounds good.”
We find the benches the receptionist mentioned, facing a wide lawn behind the building, but we don’t sit. A cool afternoon breeze is coming up and it feels better to keep moving. We’re the only people in sight, and we have the whole enormous park to ourselves.
“The hospital building’s quite new, but look over there,” Fi points beyond the trees edging the large, grassy expanse, “That looks like an original building, do you think?”
I squint against the sun, at the old, two-storey brick building in the shadow of tall gums at the edge of the lawns. Weathered hoardings partially obscure it, and a rubbish skip dominates the overgrown front garden.
“Hmm,” I guess, “There used to be a private psychiatric hospital here, before it was demolished and the new one was built. There was a fire, I think, and it was so messed up it couldn’t be refurbished. It had bad vibes, a long, sad history I believe…not that I ever came here.”
‘How do you know that?”
“Michael told me. He did a residency in the old place before it closed, and he hated every second of it…used to tell me I was so lucky it was demolished before my hospital placements came around. It was like this awful rite of passage everyone dreaded having to do.”
“Spooky,” Fi squeezes my arm, “We’ve got ages to wait, want to walk right around the perimeter?”
“Sure.” We skirt the lawns, following the crunchy gravel path, enjoying the air and open space.
“You know, talking about spooky,” Fi smiles, “The Cure are touring in August, do you want to go?”
“Really? I’d love to. I’ll have to pull out my old Goth clothes.”
“What are you talking about, you’re still wearing them,” Fi laughs, gesturing to my velvet jacket, black tights and Doc Martens. She’s a little bit right, I guess.
“I’ll get us tickets,” she adds, “I’m so excited for The Red Hot Chilli Peppers in October at Festival Hall. That’s going to be insane.”
“Maybe don’t say insane too loudly around here, someone might get offended,” I smile, almost feeling good again, out of the oppressive shadow of the hospital. It’s nice to talk about normal things, fun things, instead of mental illness and stalkers.
“Did you get the Chillis tickets already?”
“Of course. Remember, I was right behind the crazies who slept overnight outside the box office,” Fi nods emphatically.
“Of course you were.”
“What do you think this was?” she changes subject, as we near the isolated building with the scrappy hoardings we saw from the other side of the grounds, “It looks so old and lonely over here, on its own.”
We continue walking beside the tall fence that passes behind the building, the hum of traffic louder here, closer to the road. There’s closed gate and a fancy Mercedes parked inside it, behind the building.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” I shrug, “Maybe the residence for the Chief Psychiatrist, back in the day…”
“Hm. Looks like it’s still used,” Fi looks at the car.
“Who knows.”
We keep walking, out of the shadow of the building, into the small group of stringy melaleucas and tall gums fringing the area that was presumably once its garden.
A moment later we both look back. A loud red car, its engine throbbing, enters through the gate we just passed. Instinctively we stop, watching to see who gets out because the hotted-up car just seems a little out of place.
A tall, bulky man hauls himself out of the driver’s seat, and I catch my breath.
“Oh my god, I know him!” I whisper, stepping behind a tree, pulling Fi with me.
The man opens the back door of the car, bending over to get something out, revealing the top of a massive, ugly bum crack.
“Ew,” Fi whispers, “Who is it?”
“It’s Wayne, from the men’s group!”
“Oh my God, are you joking?” she whispers back, eyes wide, crowding in close behind the tree, “Baby Man?”
“The one and same.”
“Are you sure?” Fi whispers urgently.
“100%”
The passenger door opens and a dark-haired woman steps out, saying something to Wayne I can’t hear. Fi draws in a sharp breath,
“What the….”
She digs her fingers into my arm, “I know her…that’s Lucy…from Yarra Banks…”
“Nate was going to talk to her…”
My mind’s swirling the pieces of this puzzle in circles, trying to understand how they form a coherent picture. Fi and I stare silently at each other for a second, not knowing what to think or do, then we keep watching as Wayne and Lucy, seemingly oblivious to our presence, head for the back door of the neglected building.
“I think we should ring Nate,” I say, and Fi nods. We turn to take off, but before we can take a step, the back door of the building flies back with a crash and Lucy comes back out, propping it open with a rock.
She re-enters, then hurries out carrying a large cardboard box that she loads into the car, before going straight back in for another. We stand frozen behind the tree, watching her.
“I think we should make a run for the hospital,” I whisper as Lucy disappears inside for the third time, and Fi nods agreement. The tall fence curves around the trees before opening out again, so we must skirt the old garden, close to the building in order to leave.
As we move steadily past a side entrance with a rusty chain and padlock on the door, Fi grabs my arm and silently points at a small broken wooden sign above it:
Isadene House deliveries to back entrance.
We look at each other, then keep moving silently. I’m elated we’ve discovered Isadene, connecting Michael to all this too. My pulse quickens and I can’t wait to get to a phone, get Nate and Ali here, hopefully before Lucy and Wayne leave. I don’t understand what we’ve stumbled upon, all I know is, it’s important.
As we reach the corner of the house, a rasping scream cuts through the traffic hum, and bird noise, like a jagged knife. We both freeze on the spot, listening, hairs rising on my arms.
Another longer scream follows, shattering the peace again with the same distinctive voice. I recognise it without question, because it’s the voice from the drain, the same scream.
It transports me back there immediately, to the promise of death, and the girl who undoubtedly saved me.
“It’s Harley!” I hiss to Fi, “Run! Get help. I’ll stay here and keep watch…”
“No way, we’ll both go…” she drags on my arm, but I pull away.
“I can’t leave her, Fi.”
Fi hisses back at me, shocked, “I can’t leave you! Let’s go!” She drags on my arm, but I won’t budge.
“Pascha!” she whispers angrily. She never calls me that.
I want to run, but I can’t let myself. My feet won’t move, “Harley helped me when I could have died, and she showed me where Anton was…”
“Let’s go get her some help then…”
“Fi,” I plead, “Please run and ring Nate…stay to the side of the park…the sooner you go…”
“Stay hidden,” Fi barks at me and takes off, sticking to the perimeter rather than going straight across the grass in plain sight.
The scream seemed to come from the front of the house, so I edge a little further that way, avoiding the windows. I have no idea what to do, but finding Harley seems like a start.
A third terrified, angry scream confirms I’m moving in the right direction. Then, as I peek around the front of the building, Wayne steps in front of me, blocking my path, and I gasp, stopping dead.
I feel my heart beating too fast. I’m a long way from the hospital’s windowless back façade, as my eyes frantically measure the distance. There’s no sign of Fi, hopefully she’s already getting help.
“Oh, Wayne,” I begin, “I’m meeting...”
But Wayne isn’t interested, as I feared.
“Pascha Lyle,” he drawls, the same disgusting smirk he used to give me in men’s group curling across his big lips, turning my stomach. Everything happens in a split second. Violence is fast and surreal. I never expect it. I never will.
I jump backwards, turning to run as Wayne lunges forward to grab me, but Lucy’s behind me. I’m lost in a moment of wild scuffling and a piercing pain jabbing my thigh.
Then the gumtree branches swirl, as clouds blow across the blue. Sharp sun pierces through a gap, momentarily blinding me, then everything fades to black.
Adds ‘a thrill of excitement’ to my Sunday. Loving this book