Bedlam - Friday

[xp_daytripper]

"PC Acland? I'm Caitlin Sheppard. I was Amanda's case worker for a while. Is it true that you've found her?"

The woman's concern sounded genuine, Acland thought, greeting her in the reception area and ushering her into the interview room. Patel was fetching the girl - Amanda - from her cell. To look at, Caitlin was an ordinary-looking woman in her mid-thirties with chestnut hair tied back and the slightly-strained look of someone with far too many cases and not enough hours in the day.

"It seems so," he replied, waiting until she had taken a seat before sitting opposite her at the small table. "The fingerprints are a match, even if the physical description isn't exact."

"So WPC Patel mentioned on the phone. She also said Amanda was... confused? Delusional?" Caitlin bent and extracted a thick file from her bag. It landed with a slight thump on the table, Amanda's name and date of birth on the printed label.

"Kid's been spouting gibberish since we picked her up. She was drawing on the walls of an arts supply shop, talking to herself and didn't want to come quietly," Acland replied frankly. He generally didn't like social workers but this one seemed a bit less airy-fairy than most. "Could be drugs but the doctor didn't find evidence of use and I would have expected her to be coming down by now. I'm more inclined to think she's had some kind of psychotic break, but I'm certainly no expert - we were just holding onto her until a bed freed up at one of the local places."


"Well, she showed signs of certain patterns of thought when she was younger," Caitlin admitted, opening the file and leafing through it. "Fascination with the occult, belief in magic and witchcraft... she insisted she was a witch at one stage. But considering her upbringing, it wasn't entirely unexpected."

"Oh?"

"Her father - or the man who claimed to be her father, we were never able to establish whether he was or not - was a very disturbed individual. He ritually abused Amanda from a very young age, culminating in an elaborate scarification when she was eleven." Here she passed over a photograph. It showed a skinny, undersized girl with tangled blonde hair standing in front of a plain grey wall in her underwear. Across her torso was a healing pattern of scabs, lines and letters and symbols cut into her flesh. The blue eyes in the picture were his suspect's, huge just as lost-looking. Acland winced and handed the photo back. Caitlin shook her head sadly. "We tried, but the experience traumatised her more than was fixable, really - she was always something of a problem placement. Emotional instability, anger management issues, post traumatic stress... The scars were impossible to heal and she felt disfigured by them. School was a nightmare - we tried every combination, but at best she was barely functionally literate by the time she was fourteen. Discovering her genetic status only made things worse. We tried, but in the end..." Caitlin let the thought trail off. "Would I be able to talk to her? I'd like to know where she's been, maybe get her some of the help she needs."

"WPC Patel is bringing her to a secure interview room now. She's either refusing or unable to give her name, so maybe a familiar face will help." Acland stood, "I'll take you to see her myself."





"The Guardian, the Grey Guardian, he's always there, will always catch you when you fall..." She doesn't have anything to draw with, not since the cranky woman plod took the pen away - she'd palmed it earlier. It helped, in the cell, that she could draw. She can think better when she can draw. But the woman had taken the pen away and shouted at her before putting her alone in this room with the table and the chairs and the recording machine in its sturdy case. You have the right to remain silent... How could a machine record silence? Exercise in futility, really. She exhales heavily on the laminate table top, tracing out the figure in the condensation with her finger. The Guardian has exaggerated long arms, fingers extending even further.

"Reaches out, stretches, holds on, that's his gift, never lets go," she whispers earnestly. For some reason there's was a lump in her throat and a voice murmurs Promise me you'll never leave, in her ear. "By my name." Her voice cracks. "By my name I promise." Only that won't work if she doesn't know her name, will it? Everyone has a name. What's hers?

There's a knock at the door and she starts, train of thought derailed. The nice constable comes in, followed by a woman she hasn't seen before.

"Hello, Amanda," Caitlin said, smiling gently. "Do you know who I am?"

Blue eyes clouded, confused, and her fingers twitched spasmodically on the table top. "I don't..." Then clarity came and her brows drew together in a frown. "Betrayer. Liar. Fake. Everyone leaves." Her finger stabbed at the table in emphasis. "Sod off."

"Amanda, I explained that. I was pregnant, I worked as long as I could, but I had to leave for a while to have the baby..." Caitlin began, voice gentle but firm. "But I'm here now. To help you. Won't you talk to me?"

"Words lie." There was something almost childlike in her voice, although the tone no less venomous and there was a certain cunning in the glare. "Talk all you like, it's all lies, lies or half-truths. As long as you get what you want, you'll say anything."

"I've never lied to you, Amanda," Caitlin said, taking the seat opposite her whilst Acland stayed hanging back, watching the scene unfold. "I always tried my best to help you. You told me once I wasn't half-bad, for a do-gooder, do you remember that?"

"Normal life. You promised me I'd be normal only I wasn't, I'm not, worthless, that's what I am, that's what he called me..." Her voice rose, the words spilling out in an increasingly rapid babble. "Dirty little mutant girl, no-one will love you like I do no-one will want you, might as well let me do what I..." Images poured through her head and she staggered to her feet, pushing the table away and sending the chair tumbling. Too much, there was too much pain. Torment, neglect, abuse, violence... who was she, that these were her memories? "I don't want it!" she cried out, hands pressed to her eyes as if to block what she was seeing. "Not this, not me, I can't..."

"Amanda..." Caitlin was on her feet also, moving around the table but not touching her. "It's all right, what you're seeing, it happened a long time ago..."

"NO!" she shrieked, lashing out at the hand and catching Caitlin across the face. The woman stumbled back even as Acland darted forward to restrain the girl. "Holding me down, you're all holding me down, filling my head with lies! I don't want them, I don't want this, I WANT TO GO HOME!"

"Get out of here," Acland barked at Caitlin, who nodded wordlessly and fled, still holding her hand to her face. The silent alarm had been tripped and Acland could hear the booted feet of whoever was closest coming to help. "Now then, kid, calm down, we aren't going to hurt you," he said soothingly, trying to herd her into a corner where he could restrain her. "We'll see you home, we just need to find out where it is, all right?"

She watched him warily, hands raised in fists in front of her and as he made a grab at her she swung. He'd been expecting it this time and he managed to turn so it only grazed his shoulder - if the girl had some actual weight behind the punch he might have felt it, but she was nothing but skin and bones and voice by this stage. Pinning her against the wall with his forearm across her upper chest, he glanced over at the uniform who entered. The room was ringing with her shrieks.

"Kid went nuts and smacked the social worker. Help me get her back in the cell," he said over her incoherent screaming, then grunted as a tattered Doc Marten caught him in the shin. "Watch her feet, she kicks like a bloody donkey."

"Let me go, you fuckers, I won't do it, not again!" She started thrashing again as PC Tobias grabbed for her arm. "You can't make me!"

"What set her off?" Tobias asked as between them they expertly carried the struggling girl out of the room and back to the cell block. "I know social workers aren't popular, but this is a bit extreme. isn't it?"

"Wish I knew," Acland replied. They reached the cell, the custody sergeant holding the door open and unceremoniously deposited the girl inside. She bounced to her feet again, flinging herself at the door as it closed and hammering at it with her fists, shouting obscenities. "Sorry, sarge," he apologised. "Hopefully she'll wear herself out soon."

Patel appeared, grimacing at the noise but a certain smug triumph on her face. "Doesn't matter if she does," she said, holding up another fax. "Word from Muir Island - she was a patient there in March 2005. They're notifying her next of kin and sending someone."

"How soon?" Sergeant Plummer asked as the screaming reached a particularly high pitch that drilled through all their heads.

"A few hours."

"Thank God for that."






It's cold and she's in a box. A Box, the Box, no, that isn't her, she doesn't work that way. She sits on the concrete floor, curled into a ball, bruised and aching fists tucked into her chest. Her throat feels raw from screaming and her toes throb inside the boots. Metal, too much metal, it has beaten her the same as it always did. She fought as long as she could, but in the end her body gave out and she's helpless. Next time they come, they'll be able to do whatever they want and she won't be able to stop them.

"Help me," she whispers to the people in her head, broken voice nothing more than a squeak. "Please help me. I can't do this any more."

Silence. Only silence. Silence and an army of stick figures, marching across the wall. Uncurling her hand, she lays her fingers on the two closest.

The Man in Black. The Wolf.

"Hurry," she says, and closes her eyes, letting her hand fall.