Psycho Candy Read online

  Psycho Candy

  by

  Steven hunter

  published by steven hunter at

  distributed by amazon

  The right of steven hunter to be identified as the author this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright, designs and patents act 1988

  copyright © steven hunter 2014

  TO JOANNE WHO TAUGHT ME THE IMPORTANCE OF SMALL STEPS – AND MOSTLY TO OLIVER OUR WONDERFUL SON AND MY WORLD

  PART ONE

  PSYCHO CANDY

  CHAPTER ONE

  ESCAPING ASYSLUM IN TWO THOUSAND AND TWELVE

  Candy sat bolt upright. The overhead light that she had neglected to switch off before her doze, flickered in the otherwise darkened surroundings of her single bed. The shadow on her pillow traced sweat. She pulled the curtain aside, glancing somewhat half-heartedly at the dimly lit dormitory, and its inhabitants of comatose patients, all drugged into their chemically altered nightmares, their reward and escape from the hellish reality of the institution.

  The first pain caught her to the side of the head, somewhere in the temporal lobe, a lightening flash of emotion, foreign, however instantly recognizable in its torturous suffering. She silenced a scream. This would send the nurses running, and then what? More drugs? More electrical therapy? Four hundred volts reaching through her neural pathways; a kamikaze maelstrom, blitzing cells on the pathway to the remainder of her soul. These feelings were terrors she knew but would never vocalize, put into words and make real. Or worse still, make into memories.

  Candy stared from behind the curtain again, this time glancing towards the source of the agony she felt, yet the room was in near darkness. Only the overhead light on the door to make shadows; a void of sympathetic dread.

  She listened emphatically, the only way she knew how, to her mind or brain or whatever, but heard only the nurses up the hall, thinking chaotically about sex and cruelty and number 13 down, whatever the hell that meant, (the crossword, she’s doing a crossword). And her thought-voice; correcting, vilifying, rectifying and explaining. Coping with it all was like drowning in a vast river of foreign emotion; her only option was to keep treading water and fend of suffocation as best she could. The need to shut it all out, to stop the noise and pain overcame her. She knew it was the woman, knew the woman was sleeping and knew what had happened, the terror she had endured for herself, Candy, to undergo the torrent of emotional torment both she and the sleeping figure were now experiencing. Candy knew only one way to make it stop.

  She slipped out of bed, hardly aware of the anxious dampness of her hospital gown or the wetness of the blood against her cheek where she had bitten her lip when the pain had hit home, all the time conscious to pick up the cigarette packet beside her mattress. Concentrate on acting normal, even alone. She tiptoed quietly past the restless body. The smell of sweat was overpowering, yet made a barely welcome thank you to the odour of desperation she could sense in the sleeping woman's mind.

  She slipped through the dormitory entrance and stepped into the darkened corridor of the unit. The cold tiled floor sent a chill through her bare feet and up her spine, causing a shiver that momentarily numbed her brain. The sensation awakened her, created a window of clarity in her mind. Keep your wits about you; this is it, nearly there.

  She mumbled a barely audible "cigarette," to the trio of nurses who sat huddled in comfortable chairs -Freak, should be dead!- and stumbled at the cruelty of the thought, felt hatred for the nurse that had created it so wilfully and retreated awkwardly as the nurse smiled kindly to help her on her way.

  Thick dark smoke clung dankly to the walls of the smoking room, creating ghostlike impressions, an atmosphere of cancerous mist. She surveyed the room, her eyes stinging from the stale cigarette toxins that inhabited the small space, and she eyed the broken air purifier with disdain. Someone could have opened a window, she thought, and then half smiled to herself. The windows don’t open. Too afraid we might slip through the cracks.

  She sensed him then, sitting behind her with a smile on his face. Candy turned to face him, her one and only friend, not just in this place, but in the whole world, she guessed. The massive black man with the long dread-locked hair leaned forward, perched on the edge of his seat. Brekin Jones, another sensitive, and the only person who could help her now; more importantly, the only person who was willing to.

  Strong feelings of love entered her heart and she directed them back at him. There was no need for words. That they could communicate in this way proved invaluable in this place, the need for secrecy a must. However, she knew he would speak. They were alone, and sometimes the need to simply talk was every bit as important.

  "Yah a go lef tiday?" he asked, his deep Jamaican accent tuned to a near whisper.

  Are you leaving today?

  It had taken Candy a while to get accustomed to his use of Patois, the slang speak of his native people. He knew the answer as much as she did.

  She nodded in response.

  "Is just pure almshouse a gwaan, but no need to card di bakra. Yah a go fenneh! Yah a go twi fene, den lumbna feno,” he continued nodding his head sincerely.

  Candy sighed. “In English, Brekin? All of it.”

  “Me say that it be pure trickery, but there be no reason to pretend. Yah gonna feel pain, and throw up, then you gonna pass out,” replied the Rasta, “If yah wanna back out den now di time, 'cause man, Yah a go fenneh! Seen?”

  She understood.

  Still. . . "Is there no other way?" Candy asked, knowing full well the answer.

  Brekin responded with a rueful smile. "Sorry biscuit. Jus remember, Yah a creation stepper; a alias scientist yahso in Babylon. Seen?”

  “Seen,” Candy reached into her packet and lit up a cigarette.

  “Come dung step,” said Brekin, as he began rummaging in his tobacco pouch.

  “In English, Brekin. Please,” pleaded Candy, her head darting towards the doorway for signs of interruption. She knew her empathic gift would give her the heads up if necessary, yet still she was on edge.

  “I'm sayin’, get ready to leave. Okay, sister?” Brekin translated removing a small cellophane wrap from amidst the tobacco which he handed to Candy.

  (take it quickly, now, now)

  Unwrapping it with speed, she poured the fine dusty particles as far into her mouth as she could. The taste was vile and she gagged as she suppressed the urge to vomit, to spit it up and out onto the white tiled floor. Candy could feel Brekin’s concern like a beacon in her heart.

  “Likkle more, likkle lion,” the Rastafarian said softly and she smiled at his goodbye; these words at least having meaning. Then the florescent lights suddenly shone brighter and the room shuddered. Somewhere in the chaos she could feel her friend and then just a blinding pain as confusion overcame her and she was on the floor, could smell the vomit and hear shouts and the sound of running footsteps.

  Her eyelids flickered then shut firmly.

  Soon darkness turned to nothing.

  The telephone sat atop a small circular oak table. She lifted the receiver for what must have been the hundredth time. It was hard to tell, to be sure, however Candy felt she recognized this place. A light shone far in the distance, illuminating the otherwise darkened surroundings. Glancing at herself she realized that she was naked, though in spite of this she felt unabashed, even brazen. She held the receiver to her ear, hearing only the dull hum of a dial tone. She let her gaze wander to the telephone’s connecting wire which stretched into the seemingly infinite obscurity of her location. Replacing the handset she willed with all her essence for the telephone to ring, and although surprised, she remained collected as the first sounds of life emitted from this object of her desire. Not daring to wait any longer she lifted the rece
iver and with mixed emotion, placed it to her ear. Waves of feeling flooded her body, and for the first time she noticed how absent they had been, as she listened tentatively to a voice that she remembered from long ago. From the other end of the line she heard herself say, “Wake up.”

  Candy awoke; the light and memory of her dream dissolving back into her present reality. The steady beep of a life support machine caused her to turn her head. She faced the computer that monitored her for signs of life, like a satellite hovering over foreign worlds, and noticed a jug of water and a plastic cup on the Formica unit beside her bed. Her mouth felt as dry and coarse as desert sand and she gratefully poured herself a measure and drank the cool liquid, spilling a good deal in the process as if there was a delay somewhere between muscle and memory. She supposed perhaps her body would need time to adjust and fully restart and regain control of certain functions. She tried to remember something from her medical past, yet nothing sprang to mind. She guessed that it wasn't just her muscle memory that needed time to recover.

  Taking in her surroundings, she guessed she was in the infirmary, a good twenty miles or so from the institution, and felt a remote wave of security. For the time being she was safe.

  She was alone, in what she suspected was a private room, given only to the goners, a home for incurable cases. She noticed a clock on the far wall, previously missed, and read the time to be a quarter past midnight, give or take. Despite her previous thirst, she noticed no other physical discomfort. How long had she been here? And why was it so quiet? Candy scanned with her thought-voice, a radius of maybe two hundred feet she guessed, but all was silent. For the moment, her feelings were her own.

  She supposed that a nurse or doctor of some kind would be checking on her condition, whatever it was, periodically. However she felt confident she would detect any movement in her vicinity long before any footsteps approached. Yes, for now she was safe. She would think for a moment, take the peace of mind she presently had to devise a plan for her escape. If she could find out her diagnosis, then perhaps it would give some clue as to the best course of action. Although longing already to be free of this room, she would practice patience, a virtue acquired through long hours of study and something she had become accustomed to during her time in the mad house.

  She listened to her mind again, and asked her thought-voice where everyone was. Even should they be asleep she would be able to sense the feelings and minds of other people who were in other rooms, just outside the one she now resided in. A faint murmur came through, a thought-voice, but it was barely legible. She tried again, and this time it came through much clearer (comas, they’re all in comas, they think you’re asleep and never wake up) and nearly screeched with laughter at the irony of the situation. They thought she was comatose, yet it was they who lay asleep, unaware of the threat which had just awoken. How long had she been out for? No matter. The plan had worked. Now, she had only one thought on her mind; escape.

  Noticing the clean white gown she had obviously been dressed in during her blackout, Candy slipped out of the sterile clean bed she had awoken in. The life support continued its constant beeping. Candy began peeling an electrode from her body. She was suddenly unsure what would happen when she disengaged from the machine and stopped halfway. It would think her heart had stopped or something, she was sure of it.

  Fuck!

  She was trapped. It was like being back at the cop shop only this time her guard was mechanical - (Attach brainwaves to the machine put me in there in a loop monitors mind not heart) – and an idea came to her, a revelation of sorts. With delicate concentration, she gently reached out with her thoughts. She could see them then. Faintly drawn words, coloured a grey which bordered on green, a pool of consciousness which flowed in a circular motion. She pushed her eyes closer to the assortment. Now she perceived them as waves, their irregular rise and falls reminiscent of a child's sketch of mountains. This dual perception amazed her. With gentle force and a quick intake of breath, she pushed the scrawling landscape of mind into the machine. For a moment all signs of mechanical life disappeared. Then it quickly resumed its steady beeping.

  Sighing with relief, she began peeling electrodes, firstly from her temples, then the rest that remained on her head, before moving to the grey suckers on her body. It's a fucking mutant android octopus, she thought, giggling to herself. She gazed at the suckers of the mutant octopus. She counted thirty eight in total. She let its tentacles fall to the floor in a heap. The thought of seafood made her hungry and she wondered why. She had never liked seafood. She glanced about for signs of food; a bowl of grapes perhaps, but all that had been left was the water which had relieved her thirst when she had first awoken from her sleep.

  So, down to business, she thought.

  She had no personal possessions to take and glanced down at her attire. She was wearing a standard white hospital gown, clean if somewhat rumpled. She would need a change of clothes, of that she was certain. She would just have to wing it until opportunity presented a solution. Once on the street she could perhaps steal or maybe trade with one of the homeless woman in the city. She knew they were plentiful, or at least had been around the time she had been arrested, and she doubted that the government had resolved the homeless problem whilst she had been unconscious. She doubted they had even tried.

  Summoning what courage she had, Candy opened the door of her small sterile room and peered cautiously around the door frame. Seeing a deserted corridor lined with closed doors, just as her own had just been, she stepped out into the hallway. She decided to take the left route, more out of gut instinct than any logical decision. She had been told, years ago, before the ‘madness’, before any of it really, when she had just started medical school that human beings were unique to the Earth’s species, as they alone did not posses instinct.

  She had accepted this at the time, the arguments to back up the theory being quite persuasive. Perhaps this then was pure intuition. Either way, she had learned to trust her judgement.

  She walked silently down the linoleum corridor, dull overhead lights radiating a diminutive glow, complimenting the eeriness of the hushed environment. Then suddenly, footsteps, making their way towards the doors she too was approaching. A quick glance to her right indicated a nurse’s station, deserted and desolate, a stopping point in the ghost town of the coma ward.

  Candy dived behind the desk, as a radio type blare entered her head. The nurse was whistling internally. Someone’s cheerful, Candy thought, as another feeling invaded her own.

  Yes, it was happiness the nurse was feeling, there was no doubt about it. However it was second hand, belonged to another, and Candy could find no place for it in her world; where happiness had been given in liquid doses from tiny plastic cups and in tablet form. She felt jealousy arise in her, and again sensed a certain irony. Here was a medical professional and she was happy.

  That had been Candy's wish in life. And Candy used to feel this happiness, natural happiness, and she had to bite back the scream that arose in her throat as the jealousy changed to rage. She listened to the doors open, and the footsteps approach the desk. This was her chance and she rose to confront the nurse. The nurse was a petite brunette, with kind eyes and an easy smile that soon disappeared as Candy revealed herself, (quick she’s going to scream, cover, cover quickly she’ll scream) then the nurse was on the floor, trying to bite the hand across her mouth (she’s suffocating, black her out); then she was still. Holding her wrist, Candy was only partly relieved to feel a pulse. It would be so easy, she thought. I could snap her neck, and then… Candy withdrew from the thought like a hand from the fire. There would be time enough to come.

  At the moment however, escape was her main priority. Kill one, then caught, or escape and finish the job, she thought to herself with wry smile and cold eyes.

  Stripping the nurse, then removing her own gown it occurred to Candy that she had no idea how much time had elapsed between her comma like state and her awakening. She turned to the
desk and almost immediately found what she wanted; a desk calendar. She followed the crossed off boxes and came to number 16. The 16th of July. She had taken the powder sometime in early June, which meant she had been gone for over a month. Who had taken care of her in that time? Who had tended to her and brought the water she was probably never going to taste? She felt a sudden wave of gratitude towards that person and then crushed it. They were only doing a job, just like the others, the nurses from the institution. Fully dressed, this time in the guise of a health care professional she made her way again towards the double doors.

  She figured the hospital would be quiet at this late hour and was warmly relieved when she saw another deserted pathway, the same as the one she had just left. As she made her way through the faintly lit corridors of the hospital she was aware of others, patients in other rooms, some asleep, others thinking. "He’ll take me quick, they say it’s quick, over in a heartbeat", "Fucking remote", "How do you work this damned pleasure drip”. However, the feelings to accompany these thoughts seemed dulled somehow, (medicated just like the others, dying dead in mind) and she felt a wave of sadness, unrelated to anything she could put her mind to.

  Following directions from a host of cheerfully coloured signs, a blaring contrast to the otherwise bleak rig-out of the hospital walls, she came towards the exit of the hospital. Freedom was staring her in the face. Quickening her pace with a foot out the door, she was startled to hear a voice behind her cry out. "Can you help me? Please, I’m in so much pain. So much."

  Candy turned to face the owner of this pronouncement, and was greeted with the regrettable sight of a dying old man.

  "Is there anything you can do, please, I‘m in so much pain; can you help me, do anything?" he asked.

  "Escape," Candy replied, "that’s all any of us can do."