Song Of The Psychopath Read online

  This book is dedicated to Michael. A truly talented and inspirational man. I’m forever thankful he was my brother, and I shall miss him always. R.I.P

  Song of the Psychopath - Text copyright © Mark Tilbury 2021

  Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2021

  All Rights Reserved

  Song of the Psychopath is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  The author respectfully recognises the use of any and all trademarks.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Warning: The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.

  Song of the Psychopath

  Mark Tilbury

  Also by Mark Tilbury

  The Revelation Room

  The Eyes of The Accused

  The Abattoir of Dreams

  The Liar’s Promise

  The Key to Death’s Door

  You Belong to Me

  Torment

  The Last One to See Her

  A Prayer for the Broken

  Praise for Mark Tilbury

  Mark Tilbury has taken on a very dark and almost taboo subject and deftly created a story that deals with these issues sensitively and with compassion and the end result is a book that I honestly can't recommend highly enough.

  5* review of, The Abattoir of Dreams, from, The Haphazardous Hippo

  A story that will send your pulse racing and your heart soaring. Another utterly brilliant novel by one of my favourite authors.

  5* review of, The Key To Death’s Door, from, By The Letter Book Reviews

  This has to be my favourite book by the author, it has all the elements I enjoy in a thriller, an excellent plot, strongly depicted characters, tension, scenes that shock, gut punching ones where you really feel for the main character, and a hell of a twist.

  5* review of The Last One To See Her, from, The Book Review Cafe

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Eight years earlier.

  The girl sits alone in the dark with no discernible memory of who she is, where she is, or how she got there. The sounds of wind and rain swirl around inside her head, but external awareness is absent.

  A fleeting image: sitting above the ocean, waves kissing the rocks below with foaming lips. Gulls overhead, their piercing cries ripping jagged holes in the darkening sky.

  ‘I am,’ she whispers. ‘I am, I am, I am.’

  The room is about ten feet square. It houses a single bed, the chair the girl’s sitting in, and a large fifty-five-inch monitor fixed to the wall opposite the bed. The chair is wooden, and similar to those used to electrocute inmates on Death Row. The girl’s wrists are strapped to the arms. Time no longer exists. Reality is an illusion, and that illusion is reality.

  Music suddenly blares through speakers fitted into the ceiling. Karma Chameleon by Culture Club. Boy George’s sultry voice weaving like treacle through the lyrics. The rich melody instantly addictive.

  The music inspires to dance, and her heart thumps to the rhythm.

  ‘The colour of love,’ she mumbles. ‘The colour of love is… black… black… black.’

  A blinding white light illuminates the room. As the music fades, she is suddenly aware of her identity.

  The door opens, and a man walks in. Black jeans and a white tee-shirt. He is tall, slim, with neatly parted dark hair. His tee-shirt makes it appear as if his head is floating in the light surrounding him.

  The man smiles, but his dark eyes remain predatory. ‘Good afternoon. How are you today?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you dream?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘I was by the sea at Granny’s.’

  ‘Granny Meredith?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How was it?’

  She tightens an imaginary ponytail. ‘We had scones and strawberry jam for tea.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘I like Granny Meredith, but I like her dog, Murphy, the best.’

  ‘What kind of dog’s she got?’

  ‘A black Labrador.’

  The man chews his lip, continues. ‘I’m going to ask you a series of questions, okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you remember your name?’

  ‘Of course I do. It’s Bella.’

  ‘Bella who?’

  ‘Bella Rosenberg.’

  ‘And how old are you, Bella?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘Do you remember why you’re here?’

  ‘’Cos my mum and dad died in a car crash.’

  ‘That’s right. Then you went to live with Granny Meredith, but she couldn’t look after you anymore, so you came here to stay with us.’

  ‘I miss her.’

  ‘I know. But it’s for the best. You have to be a big girl now. Suck it up, as the Americans say.’

  ‘Can I put my makeup on today?’

  ‘Have you been a good girl?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay. But on one condition.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s somebody who wants to see you tonight. If you promise to be good to him, you can wear your makeup.’

  Bella’s stomach tingles. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Just a man.’

  ‘Have I met him?’

  ‘No. But he says Bella’s the prettiest name ever.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Don’t you like your name?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It suits you. You’re the Belle of the ball.’

  She giggles.

  ‘Beautiful, too.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I want you to t
ake a shower later and put on your makeup and a pretty dress. How does that sound?’

  ‘Cool! And my long blonde wig?’

  A smile creeps onto the man’s lips. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘I like dressing up. Especially when you say nice things about me.’

  The man flaps a hand. ‘I only say what I see.’

  ‘Is the man coming here or am I going to his house?’

  ‘You’re going to his place.’

  Bella’s stomach flips over. ‘Is Dave driving me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t like Dave.’

  ‘Don’t worry about him. I’ll tell him to be especially nice to you and buy you a pizza on the way home.’

  This pacified Bella; pizza was the next best thing to her phone. ‘Great.’

  ‘Good girl. I’ll get Dave to come and take the straps off soon.’

  ‘My wrists hurt.’

  He nods. ‘I only strap you in to stop you hurting yourself when you have a seizure.’

  ‘Why don’t I ever remember the fits?’ Bella asks.

  ‘Because you have blackouts. But I’ve found a new medication that will help stop them.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A drug called Low Sensory Disruption.’

  ‘What does it do?’

  ‘Blocks the pathway to the part of your brain that’s damaged.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But don’t worry about that for now. All you need to know is I’m working extremely hard to make you better.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Anything else before I leave, Bella?’

  ‘Can I have some ice cream?’

  The man grinned. ‘Tonight, Bella, you can have whatever you want.’ He walked out of the room and locked the door behind him.

  A soft, female voice whispered through the speakers. The lights went out, and Bella was once again plunged into darkness. The voice told Bella to accompany her to the forest and sit with her amongst the trees. To embrace the warm rays of the sun filtering through the shade.

  This was the safest place on earth. For now.

  Chapter One

  September 8. Present.

  Tommy Scarlett gawped at his mother, father, and sister standing around his hospital bed with Dr Larkin. He didn’t recognise any of them. He only knew who they were because Larkin had told him that morning they were visiting. They might as well have been distant relatives from a remote Scottish island.

  Dr Larkin, as usual, seemed to be regarding him with a suspicious look in his eyes as if Tommy was a dangerous animal and had to be treated as such.

  The younger woman, his sister, was crying. Thin lines of mascara ran down her face. She blew into a handkerchief and stuffed it in her jacket pocket.

  Larkin fiddled with his glasses. ‘How are you feeling today, Tommy?’

  Not too bad considering you told me I spent a week in a coma, have a fractured skull, a broken wrist, three broken ribs, and haven’t a clue how I got them. ‘Like shit.’

  ‘Quite. Do you recognise any of your family?’

  Tommy scanned the faces and shook his head.

  His mother took a step towards the bed. ‘I’m… your mum.’

  Tommy scrutinised her features for clues. Her painted smile, torn along the edges, dark-blue eyes, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings. Nothing. Zip.

  The woman turned to Larkin. ‘When will his memory come back?’

  ‘Could be weeks. Even months. As I told you in the office, Tommy’s suffering from retrograde amnesia due to a major head trauma. I’m afraid it’s one step at a time at this stage.’

  ‘We’ve got all the time in the world,’ his father said, moving alongside his wife and reaching for her hand. ‘We’ll be here for you every step of the way, Tommy.’

  Tommy tried to think. Seek a clue in the large moustache and the swept back greying hair. Again, as with Mum, not a trace of recognition. Larkin had told him he was lucky to be alive. Why did people say that? As far as Tommy was concerned, there was nothing lucky about waking up in hospital in agony and not having a clue who the fuck you were.

  His sister sniffed and blurted, ‘I’m sorry, Tommy. I’m so sorry.’

  He frowned. ‘For what?’

  ‘Let’s not get into any of that now,’ Dad said. ‘The only thing that matters is getting Tommy well again.’

  His mother nodded and fiddled with the buttons on her cardigan. ‘Do you remember me sitting by your bed and talking to you every day?’

  Tommy shook his head. How was he supposed to remember that when he’d been in a coma? That week was spent in a black hole; never mind the fifteen years preceding it.

  ‘Sometimes it helps,’ Larkin said. ‘Even if it’s only on a subconscious level.’

  His sister moved closer to the bed. Took Tommy’s hand. ‘I’m Danielle.’

  Tommy tried to return her weak smile. Couldn’t. His emotions were as fractured as his skull.

  Larkin scratched his chin. ‘I’ll leave you folks alone for a while. If you need anything at all, press the buzzer for a nurse. Please try to remember this is new territory for all of you, so don’t push too hard. Let things run their natural course.’

  ‘As a zombie?’ Tommy said. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  His father shook Larkin’s hand. ‘Thanks for everything you’ve done, Doctor.’

  ‘No problem.’

  As soon as Larkin left the room, Tommy’s mother perched herself on the edge of a red plastic chair next to the bed. ‘We’ve been so worried about you. Dr Larkin told us it was touch and go for the first few days.’

  Tommy tried to take a deep breath, but his broken ribs seemed to be wrapped in barbed wire.

  ‘Have you any idea where you’ve been for the last year?’ his mother asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘The police have been searching for you. Friends and family, too. Even Uncle Casper came all the way from Brighton to help.’

  Who the fuck is Uncle Casper?

  His mother fiddled with her buttons again. ‘I don’t see how you could just vanish off the face of the earth for a year and end up crawling along a country road in the middle of the night. If that driver hadn’t come along when he did… well, I dread to think. You must have a guardian angel.’

  Tommy’s stomach crimped. ‘Missing for a year?’

  His mother nodded. ‘A whole year next month.’

  ‘But where did I go?’

  Dad intervened. ‘No one knows, son.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find out eventually. But none of that’s important right now.’

  Mum squeezed Tommy’s hand. ‘I’m just thankful you’re safe.’

  I’m not. I wish I’d been left in the middle of that road and died. Anything but this shit-kick pain and a head full of sand. He wanted to ask Danielle why she was sorry. Was it her fault? Had they had a row?

  Mum let go of his hand. Sat back. ‘Dr Larkin says if you continue to improve physically, you might be allowed home at the end of next week.’

  ‘What day is it?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Thursday.’

  He counted on his fingers. ‘Eight days.’

  His father grinned as if his son had solved a complicated mathematical equation. ‘That’s right. And you might even get some of your memory back by then.’

  Tommy wasn’t sure he wanted to remember.

  Danielle tried to smile, but it looked broken around the edges. ‘We can go through pictures on the laptop when you get home. It might help to jog your memory.’

  Tommy thought Danielle’s red hair made her appear as if her head was on fire. The mascara trails on her face seemed like smoke trails. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I’m so sorry for what I said.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Tommy asked.

  Dad stepped in again. A bouncer guarding the door to enlightenment. ‘Nothing. Danniele’s just upset. We all are.’

  ‘But why? Did
we fall out over something?’

  Dad smoothed down the ends of his moustache. ‘Leave it for now, son. Dr Larkin says we have to take things slowly, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.’

  Tommy tried to gather his thoughts, but it was like trying to catch balloons on a windy hill. ‘I need to know, Dad.’

  ‘We’ll sit down together when you’re back home and see if we can’t try to piece this puzzle together.’

  Puzzle’s a fuckin’ understatement. I didn’t even recognise my own face when the nurse brought me a mirror.

  ‘I’ll cook a nice meal to celebrate when you come home,’ Mum said. ‘Spag Bol with Parma cheese.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ll even make my own special sauce. Much better than the stuff they sell in the supermarkets.’

  ‘Sounds… nice.’

  ‘You’d have lived on it seven days a week if you could,’ Dad said. ‘I swear you must have Italian blood in you. How’s your head feeling?’

  ‘Like it’s been stomped on by an elephant.’

  Dad nodded. ‘Are they giving you enough pain medication?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Just say if they’re not, and I’ll have a word with them.’

  ‘I’m sure the doctors know what they’re doing, Charlie,’ Mum snapped.

  Charlie stepped down from his authoritarian stance. ‘Yes… well, when I had that slipped disc, they only gave me paracetamol to come home with, and they were about as much use as Smarties.’

  ‘Good job you had the whiskey in the cupboard, then,’ Mum said.

  ‘You’re telling me. I’d have gone off my rocker without something to knock me out. I spent three months in that bloody bed. And as for the sick pay. How’s anyone supposed to live on that?’

  Mum nodded. ‘No one cares about the likes of us. We’re on our own when things go wrong. And don’t get me started on the dairy. Not even a bloody phone call, and it was their milk crates you were lifting. Anyone would think—’

  ‘I’m really tired,’ Tommy interrupted. ‘I need to sleep.’

  Mum squeezed his hand. ‘Of course. Is there anything you need?’

  Just my mind back. ‘No… thanks.’