Delirium (London Psychic) (23 page)

***
 

Matthew felt the vibrations of the bridge as it started to part, the two halves slowly swinging upwards on their scheduled opening. He sat for a moment absorbing the physical pulse of the structure, wedged into an access doorway at the base of the north tower. He had slipped inside as security guards had cleared the bridge, the routine operation nothing special to them. He heard voices approach and fade again and then only the sounds of machinery reverberated through the structure. It was time.
 

He clutched the gun in his pocket, the unusual weight of it making him feel unbalanced. He had bought the Glock 17 a few weeks ago, when he had made the decision to avenge Lyssa and punish those who had exploited her. In the end, a gun wasn't right for them, but it was a good option for what he had planned tonight.
 

Cracking the door a little, Matthew could see the barriers closed in the distance and the bridge all but empty. The angle of the slope was getting steeper as one half rose into the air in front of him. He needed to get as high as he could, and he wanted one last glimpse of this city of grand beauty. He took a deep breath and started to walk briskly up the ever-steepening incline, every second a chance to be alone up there.
 

"Matthew!" A shout came from the crowd. "Stop!"

Matthew turned, seeing a black-clad figure with the security team. She was waving at him frantically. It was the police officer who had interviewed him after Monro's death. He started to run, panting now the incline was sharper, the bridge still rising inexorably.
 

There were more shouts behind him. Matthew looked back to see her break through the guards and come after him.
She can't catch me now
, he thought, pushing himself harder, chest bursting. Reaching the top, he hooked his arm around the railing at the side of the bridge as the incline steepened further. Matthew looked out at the Thames, winding through the city he loved, and smiled. It was so beautiful.

"Matthew," a voice came from below. "Please wait."

He looked down to see Detective Jamie Brooke, now almost below him as the bridge rose to vertical and they both clung to the side. She climbed towards him, her hazel eyes almost amber in the lights, burning with a righteous anger.

"Stop there, Detective. Don't come any further."
 

Jamie paused below, but her body was tense, ready to move quickly.
 

"I need to know," she called up. "The drug you put in the wine – will they recover from it? My friend was in there. He's a police officer, a good man with a family. He shouldn't have been there."

"I'm sorry about your friend," Matthew said. "But there's always collateral damage, and RAIN never cared for the lives they ruined." His voice softened, and he smiled gently, shaking his head. "But I'm not like them, Detective, and the effects of the drug are temporary. Your friend will be fine in a few days, as will those bastards who deserved it. I just hoped to give them some perspective, some empathy – but I won't be here to see it." Matthew looked out across the water to the battlements lit up before them, a bastion of the British monarchy for almost a thousand years. "I've always found the Tower to be an inspiration. From the outside it's symbolic of strength, but it's really like our minds, full of rooms where nightmares and violence lie hidden. Where skeletons are buried, and evil deeds are committed in the dark. Tell me, Detective, have you stood at the place where Anne Boleyn was beheaded? There's a resonance you can feel, a mental scream that echoes through the centuries. That scream continues in the way we deal with the mad, in the way Lyssa was treated, in the way that RAIN deals with those who are different."

"RAIN will be investigated," Jamie said. "Your speech is all over the news, so you've made sure they will be held accountable."

Matthew shook his head. "I have my doubts about that, but I can't do any more. H
ating means that you're still alive, but I have no hate left now. I've done what I can,
but RAIN is bigger than all of us. You don't know how powerful they are. They take anyone they want and if they're not mad already, they become so in their care. They could take you, Detective, and if I'm still around tomorrow, for sure they'll take me in recompense for my actions. Those who are sectioned have no choice."

Matthew began to climb over the railings, pulling himself up, the veins in his arms bulging at the physical effort required to lift his own weight over the edge.
 

"Don't do it, Matthew," Jamie whispered, reaching towards him. "Lyssa would have wanted you to stay, continue your work. You said you wanted to help others."

He turned his head to look at her, eyes clear and focused. "I know this is my end, and I go happily. But what of your grief, Detective? Perhaps you want to join me. A second's jump into blackness is nothing, a moment of panic perhaps and then oblivion. Is your life as worthless as mine is without Lyssa, I wonder?" Matthew reached out a hand. "Jump with me. End your own suffering."

Jamie looked at Matthew's outstretched hand and thought of Polly's ashes on the shelf in her cold, dark flat. Part of her wanted to take this chance and step with him into blackness. Together, it would be easy, but perhaps it was the hard things that were the most worthwhile in life. She thought of Blake, held in the RAIN clinic, under the authority of the man she'd seen in Scotland Yard with Dale Cameron. She had to help him now.

"No," she said to Matthew. "I have someone who can help me live again. But I understand why you want this and I won't stand in your way. I won't make you suffer any more than you have already."

Jamie backed away and carefully began the descent to the road level of the bridge. She didn't look back, but all her senses were heightened in anticipation.
 

As she neared the bottom of the struts, she called on her radio.
 

"Suspect on Tower Bridge. Requesting backup."

A moment later, a shot rang out in the night air and Jamie turned to see Matthew's body fall from the apex of the bridge. The slip of the wind seemed to whisper 'Lyssa' as he fell, a caress as he went to meet his sister.

Jamie touched her radio again. "Suspect has jumped from Tower Bridge. Gunshot heard, possible suicide. Requesting backup from Marine Police and a river search team."

The Marine Police boat arrived quickly, its searchlight sweeping the dark water for Matthew Osborne. It didn't take long before they dragged a body from the water slightly down-river. Jamie found herself holding her breath, wanting him to have found his escape. The police on deck pulled a body bag out and Jamie knew that Matthew was gone. She was grateful that fate had not been so cruel as to leave him here.

Jamie stood for a moment looking down into the river, the eddies in the current reflecting her indecision. The Detective Sergeant side of her knew she should return to the police station and report on everything, be a part of the Westminster case gathering the evidence. She pulled the photo of Blake from her inside jacket pocket, her fingertips trailing across his haunted face.

The archways of London Bridge were only a few blocks away. Jamie cruised the back streets of the area, her eyes scanning the passages underneath the branching railway tracks, fanning out from one of the biggest stations in the city. The sheer blue sides of the Shard towered over her, a symbol of wealth in this rejuvenated part of London. She pulled into one street, recognizing the looming structures of Guy's Hospital. The arches opposite looked familiar, so she ducked the bike down a side alley. Stopping to pull out the picture of Blake, Jamie could see that this was the place.

The clinic had a professional facade, with opaque glass over the front and discreet signage indicating it was a mental health practice. There were some lights on but no movement or shadows inside. The next two archways had no signage and only the last one had a door on it with just a keypad. Did the clinic stretch further inside the structure?
 

On a nearby corner, a twenty-four-hour greasy spoon cafe was still open, advertising all-day breakfast for a few pounds. It was the type of place that did so well next to a bastion of health, as people craved comfort food and sweet tea when faced with terrible news. Jamie parked the bike and headed into the cafe, ordering a mug of tea and sitting in the window, so she could watch the clinic.

As she sipped the tea, Jamie thought of Blake, lost in his nightmare visions and how she had done Cameron's bidding by involving him in the case. She was responsible for Blake being in there, so she needed to get him out. Lyssa Osborne had died because of what RAIN did to her in there, amplifying her internal anguish, making her believe there was no point in living. Jamie didn't want to lose Blake in the same way.
 

The progression of night changed the types of people walking this area from professionals scurrying home late from the office, to those seeking oblivion from the day's stress. There were nightclubs under some of the arches, their doorways hidden by graffiti elevated to the level of street art through vivid detail and color. The clubs drew seekers and Jamie wondered whether the clinic found some of its clients from those who had lost the path completely.
 

This area of Southwark, south of the river, had been the red-light district, the entertainment area for much of London's history. The Rose Theatre of Marlowe and Shakespeare's Globe had once stood here, the reconstruction of the Globe just minutes from where she sat. The pilgrims from Chaucer's
Canterbury Tales
met in the Tabard, a pub on the thoroughfare on the route to Canterbury near here. Just a street away, there was an unconsecrated graveyard known as Cross Bones for the outcast dead, the prostitutes and their children. The paupers had been forgotten in their own time, but now the place bloomed with flowers, left there by those seeking the favor of the dark shades.
 

There were a number of nurses walking home as the shift ended at Guy's, and several passed the window of the cafe, some laughing together, some with faces fixed in anxiety edged with desperation. Jamie knew that look from years of dealing with the public, of trying to serve those in need and being abused verbally every day and physically far too often. One woman in a nurse's uniform caught her eye, as instead of walking past the cafe, she turned towards the door of the clinic.

Jamie ran out the door and across the road, reaching the clinic as the door shut behind the nurse. Jamie banged on it, hoping that the woman would think she had dropped something.
 

The door opened a crack. Jamie showed her police warrant card.
 

"Good evening, I need to speak to whoever is in charge. We have reason to believe you have a murder suspect here."

The nurse looked suspicious, her eyes narrowing to examine the card.

"We're not open, Detective …"

"Brooke," Jamie finished for her. "That doesn't matter. I need to speak with your night supervisor immediately."
 

At the authority in her tone, the nurse opened the door a little more.
 

"OK, but you'll need to wait here while I get him."

She pulled open the door and Jamie stepped into a waiting area, just like any up-market clinic, with piles of magazines and even a bowl of sweets on the countertop. The nurse indicated a chair.
 

"Please wait here. I won't be long."

Jamie picked up a magazine and looked away slightly, turning back to watch as the nurse entered a number on a keypad by the door and stepped through as it buzzed. Four, six, five, two, nine. Jamie repeated the numbers in her mind and before the door shut, she moved swiftly to stop it closing. As she listened to the woman's footsteps clacking down the hallway, Jamie's heart thudded in her chest. She couldn't wait for whoever was in charge to check on her warrant card, especially if, as she suspected, Dale Cameron was involved in Blake's admission.
 

She heard the nurse go through another door and Jamie slipped into the corridor behind her, closing the outer door firmly. There were several more doors off to the side but for now, Jamie just needed to hide. There was no time to find Blake now, so she needed to wait until they thought she was gone.
 

Jamie tried a few doors. The first was an interview room, just a table and some chairs with nowhere to hide. The second was dark, so Jamie pulled out her tiny flashlight. It was an office suite with computers and a bank of old-fashioned filing shelves on one side, with winding handles to make more space. She ducked inside, pushing the door quietly closed, and wound the shelves partly open, squashing herself down the back, away from the view of the door. Seconds later, she heard voices in the corridor.
 

The angry, low tones of a man interrupted the voice of the nurse, but Jamie couldn't hear what they were saying. She hoped they wouldn't check for her, assuming she had left the building out of the main door. After they had gone back into the front office, she heard raised voices in a discussion and then they faded away down the corridor again.

Jamie waited, concentrating on her breathing for ten minutes, twenty, then half an hour. How long would it be until they had forgotten her and just continued with the routine of the night? She looked around at the files on the shelves, realizing they were medical records, inpatient folders and test results. Jamie pulled one off the shelf near her, holding the tiny flashlight in her teeth to read. There was little to indicate anything wrong here, but the sheer volume of records was overwhelming.

She looked at her watch. It was nearly two a.m., and the adrenalin of the day was wearing off. She was tired, which meant that the people on duty must be, as well. She couldn't go in with guns blazing, she didn't even have a weapon, but she had to try and find Blake. She stood, stretching her limbs.