For All Our Sins. T.M.E. Walsh
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pulling at his cheeks, examining his eyes.
His pupils were like saucers. His shock of jet-black hair stood up on end, making him more scarecrow-like than ever. His brown eyes looked like hollow black pits, with dark circles underneath.
He sniffed at his reflection and ignored the sudden knocking at his door. He could just about hear it over the stereo, and as it continued, Clyde began to bark again.
Ashe poked his head around into the living room and stared at the door. He glanced down at his clothes: a faded olive green T-shirt and black boxer shorts.
The knocking continued and Ashe glanced through the spyhole. He banged his forehead hard against the door in frustration and cursed under his breath.
It was another resident and all Ashe knew was that they lived above him.
He threw open the door and stared at the man in front of him, dressed in his pyjamas and dressing-gown. Ashe’s arms were outstretched, gripping either side of the doorframe.
‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’ said the man, his voice raised over the din of the stereo. ‘It’s nearly midnight and I’ve to get up for work in five hours.’
Ashe shrugged his shoulders. ‘How is that my problem?’
The man frowned, taking a step forward. He was taller than Ashe but at least ten years older.
Ashe may have been quite short for a man, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in girth. His T-shirt pulled against his stocky frame, a mixture of muscle and fat caused by too much alcohol.
Still, the man squared up to Ashe and uttered some profanity before hearing a snarl.
Looking down he saw Clyde at Ashe’s side, his teeth bared, ready to strike at the first command. The man looked back at Ashe who grinned, grabbed the collar around Clyde’s neck and yanked him back.
‘He wants to play,’ said Ashe. ‘Shall we see who wins?’ Clyde barked, his jaws and teeth smashing back together, drool splattering over the floor.
The man backed off, pulling his dressing-gown tight around his body. ‘If you could turn the stereo down, I’d appreciate it.’
Ashe made a gesture of a salute. Clyde pulled forward as the man rushed back up the stairs to his floor. Ashe yanked his collar hard, bent down and tried to soothe him with hushed words. When Clyde had calmed down, he licked Ashe’s face, and followed him back inside the flat.
Ashe stopped his CD from playing and replaced it with another one. He hit the play button, turned the volume up higher and grinned before returning to the bathroom.
He found his stash of skunk hidden in a small bag inside an aftershave cap, still attached to a half-empty bottle.
He went back into the living room, slouched on the sofa and reached for the bottle of whisky on the coffee table.
He knocked back a few swigs of the amber-coloured liquid from the bottle and flicked stations on the silent television. He nodded his head to the pounding rhythm from the stereo, and rolled his joint.
***
It was an hour later when Ashe awoke again, still sitting on the sofa. Clyde had gone to his bed in the kitchen and Ashe realised the CD had ended.
So what was that banging noise that’d woken him?
He sat up, listened, and realised someone was knocking on his door again.
He slumped back into the sofa, hand rubbing his forehead. His head was pounding and he struggled to see.
The knocking continued.
Getting up, he stumbled towards the door and peeked through the spyhole. All he could see was red.
He blinked his eyes tighter, then opened them wide as he moved away from the door, deciding whether to open it or not.
Someone knocked harder on the door again and, with anger rising in his gut, Ashe retrieved his baseball bat from the bedroom. He came charging back and yanked the door open with force.
‘You’ve got a death wish, mate!’
He blinked harder as his vision tunnelled.
The neighbour he’d been expecting was replaced with a young woman, around his age with flowing red hair and piercing green eyes.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘What are you after this time?’ He stood aside and let her in. He looked her up and down before closing the door after her. ‘I’m out of cash, so if you want paying like last time, I’ll have to owe you,’ he sniggered childishly. ‘You can tie me up this time, if you want.’
The dog snarled at her as she moved to the middle of the living room.
‘Quiet, Clyde. You know she’s dope.’
She eyed the dog with defiance, staring into his eyes, which provoked him further. He barked, splattering more drool on the floor. He looked ready to attack her.
She felt the knife against her leg inside her jeans pocket. She squatted down to the dog’s level. She smiled as she outstretched one arm, beckoning him towards her.
A concerned look flashed across Ashe’s face. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t do that, he’s pretty hyper right now.’
His words were sluggish, which meant the timing couldn’t be more perfect for her. ‘You saw me the other day, didn’t you.’ It was a statement rather than a question. ‘You overheard what you shouldn’t have.’ she said, turning her head to glance at him over her shoulder. ‘That’s your problem, isn’t it? Always listening behind doors, lurking in shadows…’
Ashe tried to remain poker-faced.
The dog snarled again. ‘You should go,’ Ashe said at length.
‘But I’ve not stroked Clydie-baby yet,’ she said, returning her attention to the dog. The knife seemed to burn through the fabric of her jeans, right through to her skin. ‘Come on, Clydie-baby… I’ve brought you a treat.’
Stokebrook Secure Hospital NHS Trust, Buckinghamshire 2011
Amelia stared down at the identification tag fastened loosely around her wrist. She looked around the room that had been her prison for the past three years and longed for the pain and the charade to end.
Stokebrook Secure Hospital is a high security psychiatric hospital in the Buckinghamshire countryside. It houses two hundred patients who have been detained under the Mental Health Act 1983 for mental illness, severe mental impairment or psychopathic personality disorders.
Amelia Williams fell into the latter category and was housed in the Dangerous and Severe Personality Disorder Unit (DSPD). This is the second hospital of its nature in England alongside Rampton Secure Hospital in Nottinghamshire.
Three years ago, Amelia had attempted to murder a man who she claimed had tried to rape her. She’d been found unfit to plead in a trial and had been placed at Stokebrook for her own safety and that of the general public.
It’d been little consolation to Amelia that she’d escaped trial and a prison sentence. She’d pulled off the perfect act, making doctors and psychiatrists believe she had a personality disorder and was therefore not aware or responsible for her actions.
In reality Amelia had always known exactly what she was doing. She just didn’t care that she enjoyed her thirst for violence.
But being in Stokebrook hadn’t been plain sailing like she’d envisaged. Locked up with others like her in nature (or worse) and having to maintain her act was starting to take its toll.
Amelia was tired.
And restless.
Every time she closed her eyes she could still see the images of the past. A bloody staircase. A broken body at the bottom, close to death.
She’d