Mo Hayder: Poppet

It’s definitely organic.

When AJ leaves Monster Mother he goes slowly into each leaf, patrols each ward, each corridor – Buttercup, Myrtle, Harebell – checking the other patients haven’t been disturbed. Most are fast asleep, or halfway there – off in the clutches of medication. Some he stops and speaks to quietly. He doesn’t mention Monster Mother and her skin.

He passes the nurses in their TV room, still laughing at Men in Black , and heads back to his office, through the stem and into the admin block. He’s about to open his office door when he notices, about twenty metres further down the corridor, one of the security guards. It’s the mountainous Jamaican guy they call the Big Lurch. He’s standing, hands in his pockets, quite preoccupied with a framed print on the wall. Something in his face makes AJ break step and stop. The Big Lurch glances sideways, sees him and smiles. ‘Hey, AJ.’

‘Hey.’

‘Fraggles asleep are they?’

The Big Lurch is talking about the patients. No one would ever say it to a board member, but the staff call the patients Fraggles after Fraggle Rock . ‘Oh yes, they’re asleep. The magic is always there as long as we keep looking for it .’ He comes down the corridor. ‘What’re you up to?’

‘Oh, dunno.’ The Big Lurch gestures at the print, faintly embarrassed. ‘Just checking this out. Suppose I’ve never bothered to look at it before.’

AJ peers at the framed print. It’s a watercolour of the workhouse from the mid-nineteenth century, when it was new. These prints are everywhere – they show Beechway High Secure Unit in various incarnations: copperplate etchings of it as the poorhouse, framed newspaper articles when a new director was appointed in the 1950s, even the 1980s artist’s impression of the finished, revamped unit with its wrap-around glass windows. He is drawn into the picture, noting the various recognizable parts of the building – the parts that have survived over a hundred and fifty years. There’s the central courtyard, the tower, the axis of the cross which is now the centre of the clover leaf.

‘I don’t like it in a storm,’ the Big Lurch says suddenly. ‘It makes me think about the weaknesses.’

‘Weaknesses?’

He nods. ‘The places those eighties architects didn’t really think through properly.’

AJ throws a sideways glance at the Big Lurch. What he sees there is the fear, the same uneasy look that’s becoming so familiar in the unit the last few days. He can’t believe it, just can’t believe it. He has long learned not to get too friendly with staff, but with the Big Lurch he’s made an exception. He likes this guy. He’s been for drinks with him – met his wife and his two little girls – and in all that time he’s never taken him to be impressionable.

‘Come on, mate. I’ve got enough problems with the patients without the damned security staff turning into big girls’ blouses.’

The Big Lurch half smiles. He puts a finger up to his brow, as if to cover his embarrassment. He’s about to give a neat reply when the lights flicker. Both men put their heads back and stare at the ceiling. The lights flicker again. Then they seem to steady, and the corridor is as normal. AJ narrows his eyes – looks at the Big Lurch. There was a power cut a week ago – the last thing they need is another one. That will send the patients through the roof.

‘Doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo.’ He sings out the Twilight Zone theme and makes ghost fingers in the Big Lurch’s face. ‘Come on, Scooby, let’s go hide under the sofa.’

The security guy grins sheepishly, bats AJ’s hands away. ‘See, that’s why guys don’t share . Because of wankers like you.’

AJ sighs. This isn’t going to be laughed off. The Big Lurch is genuinely, genuinely , not joking.

‘Haven’t you noticed, AJ? Everyone’s calling in sick?’

‘Yeah. I did happen to notice. You do a double shift to cover for people and it kind of etches itself on the memory.’

‘Yes. And you know what they’re saying? The staff?’

‘We don’t need to talk about this now.’

The Big Lurch shifts uncomfortably. Runs a finger around his collar. ‘One of them woke up the other night. He was on Dandelion Ward and he woke up and he says he saw something in his room.’

AJ laughs. Too loudly – the sound echoes down the corridor and back. ‘Oh, come on, that was an angina attack. They took him to the doctor and it was an angina attack.’ He shakes his head. ‘This – this whole … thing … it’s just—’

‘AJ, you know what I’m saying. I’m having a hard time getting any of the guys to do night shifts. If I rota them in I know I’m just going to get a call claiming they’re sick, or their car’s broke down or something.’

AJ puts his hands in his pockets and looks at his feet. He knows where this is leading. Mass hysteria, that’s where. After years of silence on the subject of ghosts and haunting suddenly the stories and rumours are all back. Staff calling in sick, Monster Mother panicked, the Big Lurch antsy. And even he, AJ, getting infected. Dreaming about the damned thing.

He looks up and down the corridor. It is still and empty. The only light comes from the knee-level security spots, the only noise is the ticker-tacker of branches and leaves on the windows. The time has come. He’s going to have to make it official – speak to the clinical director first thing in the morning. They’re going to have to nip this in the bud before the whole unit goes into meltdown.

AS THEY DRIVE it becomes clear that Jacqui Kitson has been trailing Caffery all day. She veers between drunken flirtatiousness, and abusive, furious tears.

‘You’re so fucking fit,’ she says, sucking angrily on her cigarette. ‘I’d give you one if I didn’t hate you so much. You ugly bastard.’

From what he can piece together she has parked her car near his office in St Philips and has been following him on foot ever since. Tomorrow she’s got an interview with a national newspaper. They are paying for her hotel and probably she’s planned it so she could accost Caffery at the same time. She started drinking at lunchtime.

Jacqui Kitson, being who she is, has chosen the Hotel du Vin – because celebrities occasionally stay here and it’s got a bit of boutiquey glamour to it. The staff give pained smiles when she arrives, dishevelled and smelling of vomit – escorted through reception by someone who has the demeanour of a security guard – except for the red stains on his shirt and collar.

Her suite is in the attic – a feature wall papered in bronze-and-black repeat patterns, low comfortable leather chairs and everywhere the painted cast-iron pillars that remain from the time this was a sugar warehouse. Her room looks out over the city centre – at eye level St John the Baptist church, lit up at night, rises into the sky.

Jacqui immediately pours herself a vodka and orange from the minibar. When she goes into the bathroom Caffery empties the drink out of the window and fills it with orange juice. He sets it on the bedstand, then stands at the open window. It is freezing out there – he can hear the tinkling laughter of drinkers coming and going from the bars down in the streets.

He’s been in this part of the country for over three years, and is slowly getting to learn the geography of Bristol as well as he knew the geography of his native South London. He knows all the bars and the crimes that have taken place at street level – can scroll back through the pub brawls and the murders. The barmaid in a place a few hundred metres away, stabbed to death eight years ago by the customer who waited until the place emptied so he could be alone with his victim. A fight that ended with an eighteen-year-old having his face slashed a few metres further down the road. A takeaway next door to that, busted one day nineteen months ago for serving not just kebabs but also crack cocaine and ketamine.