Corrupted Read online

  Corrupted

  R.E HARPER

  Copyright © 2021 R E Harper

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Dedicated to all my friends and family who made this book possible. Your support has been invaluable.

  Special mention to Mrs Ford- the first person who treated me like I wasn't just some naughty child.

  “Sometimes corruption is slowed by shedding light into that which was previously shadowed”

  ~ Paul Wolfowitz

  Prologue

  Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind, sometimes all the fragments of my life don’t make sense and I feel like I’m constantly running around trying to pick up the pieces. Doctor Lesley says everyone feels like that; I guess that’s why I told her to go and ‘Fuck herself!’ Funnily enough she didn’t seem to want to help me after that. That’s what they are all like though. They seem nice at first, we chat, we get on and then they get to know the real me and suddenly they backtrack. It’s like I’ve got some kind of invisible disease; like they are all saints and I’m corrupted somehow. It’s not me though; it’s them! I don’t belong here, and I will prove them all wrong!!

  Chapter One

  What’s Your Party Trick?

  Lucy woke up to the uncomfortable feeling that there was someone in her bedroom. She flung herself upright to catch them unaware, before she realised, she was still in the psychiatric institute and the person was a kind mental health nurse named Elaine.

  “Morning Lucy,” Elaine said smiling, “how are you today?” Elaine was a short and plump jolly woman with shoulder length blonde hair.

  “I’d be better if I wasn’t here,” Lucy replied bitterly, as she ran a hand through her short mousey brown hair. She sighed as she stared around the room that she had occupied for the last 18 months, with its pale grey walls and plain furniture. This was not what she had planned for herself, when she had first moved to the USA 16 years ago, but she had been battered and bruised by a series of bad experiences since then. The idea of spending another birthday in this hell hole was too depressing for words, but she had no doubt that she would probably still be here on her 37th birthday.

  “You’ve made some good progress,” Informed Elaine, coaxingly.

  “Everyone keeps saying that,” Lucy scowled, “but then why am I still here?” She defiantly crossed her arms although she knew it made her look like a petulant child.

  “Breakfast is over in fifteen minutes,” Elaine stated, but Lucy noticed she had avoided the question. Elaine went over to the locked side cabinet by the bed, unlocked it with a key she pulled from her pocket and retrieved a water bottle and a medicine cup with several tablets in it. She handed them to Lucy and said, “so what’s on your schedule for today?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Lucy replied contritely, “I’m sure you have it memorised.” She then tipped the content of the cup into her mouth, opened the bottle of water, and swallowed them all. She turned to Elaine and opened her mouth, wiggling her tongue around.

  “Well...” started Elaine, clearly feeling defeated, “this morning you’re meeting that new Doctor; Doctor Robertson and then you have your group therapy session.” Lucy stood up and went to her desk in the corner; she picked up the brush and then began to slide it through her hair.

  “Great!” she exclaimed, “another psychiatrist; I wonder how long this one will last?” Elaine walked towards the door, but then turned back around.

  “You might just get on with this one; give them a chance,” she pleaded. Lucy rolled her eyes as Elaine closed the door behind her.

  Half an hour later, Lucy was washed, dressed, and begrudgingly stood outside a lime green office door with the number 42 on it in gold. She was just about to knock on the door when it swung open to reveal an eccentric looking man in his early fifties. ‘He certainly doesn’t look like any psychiatrist I’ve ever seen’ thought Lucy. He was wearing smart grey trousers, a white shirt with a dark blue tie, but apart from that he did not look like a regular run of the mill psychiatrist. He had brownish-grey long hair which fell to his shoulders, and a moustache; he smiled and held out his hand to Lucy as she slowly shuffled into the room unsure what to make of him. Lucy looked down at his hand curiously but did not take it, so he shoved both hands in his trouser pockets.

  “You must be Lucy?” he said enthusiastically, “well at least I hope you are, otherwise you’re in the wrong place.” Lucy nodded and gazed around the office; she had been in it many times before as it was generally used for the resident psychiatrist. In Lucy’s experience, the way in which the room was set up usually said a lot about the kind of psychiatrist. There was a plant in the corner of the room, an old small antique bookcase against the wall behind the desk and an old-fashioned painting of a dog on the wall, which Lucy took an instant dislike to. Without waiting for an invitation, Lucy took a seat in the square blue armchair in the corner and the psychiatrist quickly pulled alongside a plastic chair to sit on. “You can just call me Robertson,” he explained, as he sat down opposite her. Lucy shrugged her shoulders narrowing her eyes as she scrutinised him carefully.

  “Is that your name?” she asked, looking directly into his eyes; they seemed kind and wise, but then, Lucy knew appearances could be deceiving. He frowned, looking somewhat deflated by his patient’s lack of enthusiasm.

  “Well, it’s my last name,” he specified. Lucy slouched further down in the chair and rolled her eyes in a dramatic fashion.

  “Then that’s what I’ll call you I guess,” she remarked. Robertson crossed his legs and sat observing her for a few moments in silence. Lucy who did not take too kindly to this, crossed her arms and stared straight back. She was not going to be intimidated by this psychiatrist or any other, because she knew the truth; she wasn’t supposed to be here.

  Suddenly Robertson jumped up, walked over to his desk, and grabbed a blue folder and pen, then he came back to sit back on the plastic chair. Lucy recognised the folder as her own; she had seen her previous psychiatrists go through it before, extremely carefully, as if trying to find something that would explain how or why she had committed a crime. He smiled at Lucy, before he opened the folder and began to scan the documents inside.

  “So, I see you’ve had several psychiatrists,” he stated casually. Lucy sat up slightly in the armchair with a sly smile on her face.

  “They couldn’t handle my shit,” she explained bluntly, “what makes you think you can?” Robertson, undeterred by her attitude, leaned forward towards her with a dead-pan stare.

  “I’m an expert shit shoveler,” he replied quietly. Lucy sniggered, suddenly sitting up and tucking her feet underneath her on the armchair, getting more comfortable.

  “Well…” she exclaimed, “let’s get this exceedingly dull pain fest on the road!” Robertson smiled in response, before placing the folder on the small table next to them.

  “So, you’re British,” he said, it was clearly a statement and not a question.

  “Rule Britannia!” she replied with fake enthusiasm and a small fist pump. Robertson chuckled slightly, feeling oddly amused by his patient’s disposition.

  “How did you end up over here in the states?”

  “Well, I was told this was the land of fortune and opportunity,” she replied, in an impressive southern American accent, “then I came over here and realised that was a load of bull, but I liked it anyway.” Robertson burst out laughing thi
nking how refreshing it was to have a patient who was so forthright.

  “Nice accent,” he stated honestly, “although, I suspect you were not chasing an acting career; fresh start perhaps?” Lucy smiled a knowing smile but said nothing, waiting for him to continue. “We’ll come back to that then,” he offered. “You still in touch with your family? Mother? Brother?” Lucy rolled her eyes wondering why every psychiatrist treated her as if she was stupid.

  “I’m sure my records will give you some indication,” she indicated sarcastically. Robertson shrugged his shoulders and made no attempt to retrieve her folder from the table.

  “But I’d rather hear it from you. That’s not a problem, is it?” Lucy blinked and opened her mouth to say something in defiance, but then she slumped back in the chair, realising that she didn’t want to argue with this psychiatrist, not just yet; he seemed a little bit different to the others.

  “They’ve not visited in a while, but I’m glad,” she offered. Robertson leaned forward in his chair and placed his elbows on his knees with his chin in his hands, poised to listen.

  “Why’s that?” he asked curiously. Lucy was silent for a moment, not only was she not too sure how to answer his question; she didn’t know if she wanted to. She tried not to think about her family too much, because it only reminded her of how they had abandoned her when she had needed them; not believed her when she had told them the truth. However, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, under Robertson’s discerning gaze, she sighed.

  “This is not how things were supposed to be,” she muttered reluctantly. Robertson nodded encouragingly and gestured for her to continue, but when she offered nothing, he decided to question her further.

  “Are you worried they are disappointed in you?” he enquired. Lucy laughed, which seemed to take Robertson by surprise, so much so, that he quickly stood up out of his chair and began to pace around the room. Lucy watched him bemused wondering if she had scared him off already.

  “I don’t care about disappointing people,” she explained, “my brother thinks I’m on my way to an early grave and my mum basically told me that I’m not worth bothering with.” Robertson stopped pacing, put his hands into his trouser pockets and made direct eye contact with Lucy.

  “Families are sometimes a pain in the arse,” he replied bluntly. Lucy’s mouth fell open in shock; surely psychiatrists didn’t just come out with things like that.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be reassuring me?” Robertson smiled, took off his glasses and removed a handkerchief from his inside pocket, which he started to clean the lenses with.

  “Ahhh…” he began, “so you are used to the kind of psychiatrist who usually pats you on the back, hands you a tissue and tells you it will all be, ok?” Lucy’s eyebrows flew up and for a while she just stared at him, trying to figure out whether he was being genuine or whether it was a trick to gain her trust. Robertson stared right back at her, trying to figure out why his new patient was so unlike any other he had ever come across. Eventually Lucy felt uncomfortable with the prolonged eye contact and had to look away.

  “I’m guessing you’re not that kind of psychiatrist,” she said bewildered, “to tell me it will all be ok then?” Robertson shook his head although he continued to smile at her.

  “Sorry,” he replied firmly, “have I disappointed you already?” Lucy paused to consider his question; she honestly hadn’t expected much from him because by this point, she was on her sixth psychiatrist.

  “No,” she answered truthfully, “I’ll admit you’re not what I expected, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing. Hopefully, it means you won’t get scared off like the others.” Robertson came to sit back down in front of her, looking slightly curious.

  “Why do you think they got scared off?”

  Lucy put her feet back down on the floor, leaned forward in her chair and beckoned him closer, as if she were about to impart a secret.

  “I think they were scared of the truth about me and why I’m in here,” she admitted. Robertson also leaned forward in his chair so now they were only a few inches apart.

  “And what is the truth?”

  Lucy smiled serenely but leaned back in her chair.

  “I guess you’ll have to figure that out for yourself,” she replied, “but remember there are different versions to every story.” Robertson held out his wrist and glanced at his watch. “Out of time doc?” asked Lucy innocently, “we’ve not even gotten to the good stuff yet.” Robertson shook his head and sighed.

  “Well, we've got some time left, but not as much as I’d like; this is only an intro session after all,” he replied, “it’s a shame as I think we are just getting to know each other.” Lucy put her feet back on the armchair underneath her and smiled coyly.

  “Oh Doctor,” she stated calmly, “I think we’ve barely scratched the surface, but check my notes and ask me something interesting before the times up.” Robertson blinked, unsure whether he ought to accept the challenge or not. Finally, coming to a decision, he scooped up the folder from the table, opened it and began to read.

  “I see you were sexually abused at the age of 7,” he noted sadly. He observed her for any sign of a response, but Lucy’s expression remained neutral.

  “That’s a statement, not a question,” she explained, “yeah by the church priest…bit cliché, but hey, it is what it is right?” She shrugged her shoulders and waited for him to continue.

  “The way you talk about it makes it sound like you’re over it.” Lucy’s eye’s narrowed and her face flushed red in anger as she wondered who this psychiatrist thought he was?

  “Well, aren’t you a first-class arsehole?” she said angrily, sitting up in the armchair and putting her feet down. “Who gets over that kind of shit?” she continued brashly. “But life goes on, doesn’t it? I put it to the back of my mind and just- it’s gone; byee; See ya! Occasionally it slips out at family birthday parties; that always goes down well.” Robertson was unsure how to respond to her brutally honest revelation, especially when she was being so indifferent.

  “Care to talk me through it?” he requested finally. Lucy started anxiously fiddling with her hair, as her face took on a more pained expression.

  “Do I have to? What’s it got to do with anything anyway? Is that the reason you think I did it?” she asked, “Well I hate to disappoint you doctor, but I didn’t do it, they’ve got me all wrong; I’m completely innocent!” Robertson dropped the folder he had been holding on to the floor and crossed his arms.

  “In all honesty I couldn’t give a rat’s arse whether you’re guilty or innocent,” he explained, “I’m neither judge nor jury. I’m here to assess your mental state to see if you’re fit for trial.” Lucy chose not to respond to Robertson’s rather blunt remarks and instead decided to ask him a question; see how he liked being put on the spot.

  “So how does it usually work?” she enquired, “I mean what’s your party trick?” Robertson brushed a strand of hair away from his eyes while looking rather puzzled.

  “Pardon?” he asked. Lucy rolled her eyes unwilling to believe he didn’t have a go to method that he used in his sessions.

  “Well one of the first psychiatrists I had, Harvey, he tried to use reverse psychology,” she clarified, “Karen used the good cop, bad cop routine and Stephen just shouted questions at me all the time. Think he deserved a spell in this place himself.” Robertson did not respond straight away but sat back in his chair and observed her carefully through his glasses. Finally, he sat up and took a breath, steeling himself.

  “How about we try the more traditional way;” he offered, “good old-fashioned conversation!” Lucy rolled her eyes once more and turned her attention back to the portrait of the dog on the wall; there was something about it she found very unsettling.

  “Conversation relies on both people partaking equally,” she scoffed, not even looking at him, “All the others did, was ask me questions and let me do all the talking.” Robertson tilted his head to the side
and placed a hand on his chin, while he tried to decide how best to proceed with his unwilling patient.

  “You can ask me a question if you’d like?” he suggested. Lucy considered this for a moment; none of the other psychiatrists had ever let her ask them a personal question.

  “Why did you become a psychiatrist?” she asked suddenly, then instantly regretted it, ‘what a mediocre question, I should have asked something better’. Robertson, however, did not seem to think it was a mediocre question as he leaned back in his chair, considering it carefully.

  “I suppose to say I wanted to help people is rather…” he began, but he didn’t get a chance to finish.

  “Predictable, boring; a textbook answer!” interrupted Lucy feeling frustrated; ‘they all wanted to know her story but didn’t like to share anything more about themselves, just giving the occasionally, easy, simple answers’. Robertson removed his glasses, held them against his forehead and sighed.

  “I can already tell you’re hard to impress, but easy to disappoint,” he stated honestly.

  “Even harder to fix!” Robertson put his glasses back on and sighed.

  “That’s ok; I don’t want to fix you,” he replied. Lucy stood up from the chair for the first time and moved towards the bookcase where she scanned the books upon the shelves. They all had titles that she couldn’t even begin to pronounce, once she had scanned a few, she turned back to the doctor.

  “Only study me then.” she noted, in an accusing tone. Robertson lowered his gaze in defeat and held out his hands in surrender.

  “How about a truce?” he suggested, “I answer your question and then you answer some of mine.” Lucy turned back to the bookshelf, before she replied.

  “Why are you interested in anything I’ve got to say?” she muttered quietly, “most people think I’m bat shit crazy.” Robertson grinned in response, which Lucy saw, as she turned back towards him. She scowled and made a move towards the door feeling extremely irritated, but Robertson jumped up from his chair and blocked her path.