Chapter 5
Mick Douglas sat in the intensive care unit at the General Hospital, drinking coffee. Like a true Englishman, he disliked the drink and considered his fondness for the black stuff a distinctive trait of his cousins. But right now, Mick didn’t care: he was tired and sleepy. His shift had ended an hour ago, but he couldn’t go home. He’d been told to wait for some senior investigator from the Crown Prosecution Service and a psychologist. A girl had regained consciousness yesterday and needed to be questioned urgently. The doctor winced. Where were you all? Or do you need to show the public that the justice system works? They’ve even stationed a police officer at the entrance to the ward, and only hospital staff are allowed in, although they’re more likely afraid of nosy journalists. These vultures have been patrolling the hospital for two weeks now, 24/7! How persistent!
He knew what had happened to the girl; the newspapers had described everything in detail, even printed a photo of the bloody closet. He wondered where they got it from? Although… He couldn’t care less; the main thing was that the girl was alive and recovering. He’d personally operated on her, and afterward overseen the little patient’s treatment, and he knew for sure that this time the newspapers weren’t exaggerating; the girl’s condition had been much worse! But she pulled through, and Mick was damn happy about that.
There was a knock on the door, and the “chief investigators” entered without asking permission. First came a tall, gaunt man in his fifties, with graying dark hair, his brown eyes seeming to radiate suspicion and distrust. He was followed by a slender, petite young brunette, her blue eyes, on the contrary, shining with good nature and interest.
“Hello, I’m Senior Investigating Officer Richard Smith of the Crown Prosecution Service, and this is Dr Elizabeth Hunt, a psychologist,” the man introduced himself formally.
“Good afternoon. I’m Mick Douglas, head of the surgical department. Come in, sit down. Tea, coffee?” the tired doctor replied, gesturing toward the sofa.
“No, thank you. We were informed that Rigel Evans regained consciousness yesterday. We came to interview the girl, but first we wanted to hear your professional opinion on the child’s health, off the record. Tell us in your own words, without bureaucratic jargon or medical jargon,” the brunette began asking questions.
– How can I put it to you, Miss Hunt… – Mick began, – Are you familiar with the expression “injuries incompatible with life”?
“Please explain,” the investigator leaned forward.
“When she was admitted, the girl was diagnosed with ruptured internal organs, severe internal bleeding, and two broken ribs. That’s not counting the general exhaustion and blood loss, not to mention the numerous abrasions and bruises all over her body,” the doctor began, “I personally performed the surgery; healthy adults almost never survive injuries like that.”
“What’s your general health? Any old injuries? Anything else you can add?” Smith asked.
“The girl was systematically starved and beaten regularly, leaving behind numerous scars and marks. We’ll also conduct an MRI of her entire body, and I think the results will reveal another dozen or so poorly healed fractures and other internal injuries. What else? She’s silent and enduring pain that would make a grown man whine, and the girl hasn’t cried or asked for help in 24 hours. That’s all for now, I think… Ms. Hunt, you’re the one who should be conducting the interview. She won’t let men near her; I couldn’t examine her, so I had to ask for an assistant. I hope this fear will pass with time.”
“Thank you very much. Please prepare a copy of Ms. Evans’s medical records. We’ll come pick them up as soon as we’re finished,” Smith said, standing up.
“As soon as the additional test results and your treatment recommendations are ready, please notify us immediately. We’ll send a courier to pick up the documents,” Hunt said, standing in the doorway.
“Shove those papers up your asses, you fucking bureaucrats!” Mick grumbled, closing the door behind the guests.
***
“Alice, do you have a list of questions?” Smith asked as they approached the room. The duty officer stood at attention when he saw the prosecutor.
“Richard, I remember everything by heart. Besides, our task is not only to reconstruct the chronology of events, but also to create a psychological profile of the child. To understand the extent of her psyche’s damage and what treatment she’ll need,” the psychologist replied. “And why is there a camera here anyway? Do we really need to record everything on tape?”
“This video footage will be needed for the trial of the late Vernon Dursley’s sister. The public is thirsty for blood, the trial is being rushed, and the first hearing is in a couple of days, and the child isn’t transportable yet. Baron Havers demands results as soon as possible,” replied Detective Smith.
“Okay, I get it. Set up the camera, and for God’s sake, don’t make any sudden movements. In fact, we should call the nurse on duty; we might need her!” Miss Hunt replied, a little sharply. She was infuriated by this attitude toward the child.
While the nurse distracted the girl and the assistant set up the camera on a tripod, they stood in the hallway. Then they were given the signal to enter.
“I’ll go in first, you follow me,” Alice said and entered the room.
As new people entered the room, the girl began to tremble slightly and seemed to shrink back into the bed. While the prosecutor recited his prepared speech to the camera, Alice carefully examined the child. What she saw alarmed her: she looked about five years old at most, extremely thin, her arms and legs like twigs, her collarbones protruding from her hospital pajamas, her thin neck with still-fading bruises from her fingers, the kind you get from a strangulation attempt. Dull strands of black hair peeked out from under her headband. But most importantly, her green eyes, which seemed even brighter against the almost black bruises beneath them, as if glowing. And her gaze: it wasn’t a child looking at the psychologist. It was the gaze of an adult who had been through hell. The girl looked at her visitors with such suspicion and hidden fear that Ms. Hunt knew this conversation would be difficult.
“Hello! My name is Alice, and this is Richard. We’ve come to talk to you. You don’t mind, do you?” Miss Hunt said with a smile as soon as Smith finished his speech in front of the camera.
“No,” the girl shook her head.
“What’s your name?” the psychologist said as kindly as possible. “How should we address you?”
“You’re a freak,” the child replied.
– What, excuse me? I wanted to know your name? – Alice was perplexed, Richard, standing next to her, clenched his fists.
“My name is Ugly. My aunt and uncle said people like me weren’t supposed to have names,” the girl explained calmly and continued explaining to the stupid adults: “Dudley’s normal, that’s why he’s Dudley, and I’m abnormal, that’s why I’m Ugly.”
Silence fell over the room for a couple of minutes. The adults were completely stunned by the girl’s words and didn’t know how to continue the conversation. The little patient simply remained silent, unsure what was expected of her.
– You’re normal! Your name is Rigel. Your aunt and uncle were very bad and stupid people. – The doctor of psychology said a little louder than necessary. – I’m Alice, this is Richard, – she pointed at the man and, looking into the child’s eyes, said firmly: – You are Rigel Evans. Your name is Rigel. You’re normal. But your aunt and uncle were freaks.
“Riigel,” the girl said slowly, as if tasting the new word, and then she smiled timidly and said: “My name is Rigel and I’m normal.”
The adults shuddered; what the child considered a “modest” smile seemed to them like the grin of a madman. On the child’s emaciated face, it looked especially infernal and frightening.
– Hmm… Rigel, girl, what do you know about your parents? – continued Mr. Richard, while Alice was collecting her thoughts.
“My aunt said that my mother was a whore, and my father was a drug addict and a faggot,” Rigel said calmly and asked: “And you don’t know who those whores and faggots are?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Alice said.
“Okay,” the girl agreed calmly.
“Tell me, did your uncle punish you often?” After the prosecutor’s question, Rigel’s face turned pale, and her gaze filled with such hatred that the adults felt uneasy again.
“Always…” the child whispered, then firmly added: “It won’t happen again! No one will hurt me again! I won’t let anyone. Never, ever…”
Silence reigned in the room; the guests again didn’t know how to continue the conversation, and the child had nothing to talk about; she simply answered their questions. Alice slowly approached the girl and took her hand. The touch made her shudder and her whole body tense.
“You. More. No one, ever. Will hurt you. I promise!” the psychologist said firmly, looking the girl straight in the eyes.
“Rigel, I’m sorry, but we need to know what happened THAT evening? Can you tell us how Uncle punished you last time? I promise no one will punish you.” Richard spoke quietly, firmly.
“Yes, I remember,” the girl nodded.
“Rigel, forgive us, we understand this is hard. Tell us how it all happened,” Alice said, looking away guiltily.
– I was dusting when my uncle came home from work, he was angry and drunk. I hid in my closet. I was really scared. My uncle always hits me hard when he’s angry. And then… Then… He pulled me out of the closet and started hitting me, it hurt, I cried. I can’t scream, it will hurt even more. I was lying on my stomach and heard him unbuckle my belt… The buckle hurt more than his hand. But he tore my panties and it hurt REALLY! I screamed, my uncle hit me on the head and covered my mouth with his hand, I bit my hand, he hit me again and it hurt even more, down there. – By the end of her short monologue, tears were streaming from Rigel’s eyes.
Alice hugged the child and stroked her head, whispering nonsense. The senior investigator clenched his fists and flexed his jaw muscles. He was furious. Leaving the room, he called the nurse and asked for a sedative for the girl. After some thought, he asked for one for himself and for Miss Hunt as well. The conversation needed to continue, and to do so, he needed to keep a cool head. There were still many questions to be asked.
***
The interrogation lasted over two hours, and with their questions they learned almost everything about the girl’s life and how she, or rather, I, slaughtered those creatures. Judging by their looks, the investigator and the psychologist completely agreed with me. They even showed me a photo of a fat, ugly woman, which I recognized as Marge Dursley. I remembered all her visits to us. How she would set her dogs on me, laughing vilely. During the interview, I was given a sedative twice, and I think the guests calmed down too. I hope everything went well and they won’t send me to a mental hospital.
As soon as the investigator and psychologist left my room, I sank back onto the bed. I felt sick to my stomach, longing for a shower or a bleached bath. Reliving that poor girl’s life was hard. Really hard. So much longing, pain, and despair. I ran my free hand over my face, wiping away the tears. I was still shaking a little.
Answering the investigator’s questions wasn’t difficult; I simply “switched off” my adult personality and memories. I needed this too; I needed to accept and assimilate my childhood memories. And I succeeded. As I understand it, the two personalities are now merging into one new one, and the more mature one is dominant due to its greater memory and life experience. But I notice some childish traits in myself: my emotions have become more vivid, I’ve developed a curiosity and childlike spontaneity. This is actually a good thing, because at the orphanage I’ll have to interact with my peers, and from an adult perspective, it will be very difficult. Okay, I need to calm down and get some sleep. Sleep is the best medicine.
***
Richard and Alice sat silently in the car in the hospital parking lot, smoking cigarettes and washing them down with coffee from paper cups. The drink was as disgusting as their mood.
“What do you say?” the man asked.
“It’s even worse than I thought…” Miss Hunt sighed.
– Explain?
– At this point, we have a near-complete maniac and killer. She simply needs treatment from a good therapist.
“But no one’s going to pay for it!” the investigator interrupted her and continued, “The girl can’t be placed in a foster family either! Her guardians might not wake up in the morning if they hurt her. She’s already killed and doesn’t see anything wrong with it. And it’s unlikely anyone would risk adopting her; her sweet smile still gives me goosebumps.” Richard shuddered. “And what about the maniac?”
“She’ll take revenge. The girl hasn’t realized it yet, but when she grows up, she’ll subconsciously need to strangle a fat, mustachioed man. She’ll meet them on the street or in a pub, maybe even sleep with one of them… And then she’ll slit the throat of a random mustachioed man, having gotten a “dose” of happiness. That’s what will happen if she doesn’t help now.”
“Are you sure about this?” Richard asked seriously.
“Absolutely!” Alice tapped the folder in her lap. “We have a psychological profile of a serial killer. But we can still help raise a good girl, Rigel Evans. For starters, let the hospital’s staff psychologist work with her. Then we need to find a good shelter, a place where they maintain order and employ professionals. You understand, they won’t forgive us for killing children, and she could easily do that. You’ve heard it yourself: ‘No one will hurt you again.'”
– I understand. We’ll think about it. Although… I have one such establishment in mind; a military friend of mine, a resident of the orphanage, always remembers it fondly and visits regularly. I’ll ask him about it.
– That’s it, let’s go to the office quickly, I’ll hand in the documents and go get drunk in the pub! – Alice said.
“I’m with you,” said Richard and drove the car towards central London.
***
The next day two events happened at once.
First, in the morning, two orderlies brought a small table into my room and placed it opposite my bed, then placed a huge color TV with a remote control on it. A young nurse showed me how to change channels and sternly asked me not to watch programs at a loud volume, and to turn it off immediately after lights out and during examinations and procedures. I nodded in complete agreement. It was getting boring.
Second: after lunch, a doctor and two nurses entered my room carrying a dozen large bags. They contained gifts for me! As it turned out, caring residents of England had organized a fundraiser to pay for my treatment! And when they learned I didn’t even have panties, much less toys, they bought me clothes and toys. When the doctor slowly pulled a new T-shirt with some unicorn print out of the bag and handed it to me, I took it in disbelief and hugged it to my chest, ignoring the tears streaming down my face. These were my FIRST new clothes in this life! After all, a child’s body and perception take their toll. One of the girls, seeing my reaction, burst into tears and ran out of the room. The male doctor only shook his head and assured me that these were all my things and no one would take them away.
– Thank you! – that’s all I could squeeze out.
The next week, while I couldn’t walk, I spent my time watching TV, drawing, and learning to write in the copybooks I’d been given. It was really hard; my fine motor skills weren’t developed at all. I remember when Rigel was about four years old, she found a coloring book and Dudley’s crayons, but for drawing, she was beaten on the hands with a belt and locked up without food for four days. From then on, she was afraid to touch such things. Hmm… It’s time to stop talking about yourself in the third person; it smacks of schizophrenia. But I think it will pass with time.
One of the most important activities was remembering. I tried to recall everything I knew about Harry Potter, but there was so little information! Why didn’t I watch all the films? I should have forced myself to watch it to the end, but at the time, the story seemed too stupid to me. Although, on the other hand, this knowledge could be harmful – this isn’t a movie, but real life, and it is ALREADY very different from what is shown in the films. It’s decided! When I learn to write properly, I’ll write down everything I remember from the films and stories of friends in a notebook. It should come in handy. I’ll look for differences and, if possible, discreetly help my brother.
I endured the medical procedures stoically and silently, obeying the doctor without question, because I could see how worried he was about me. He praised me profusely and was very surprised by the speed of my recovery, saying something about accelerated regeneration and metabolism. I nodded silently. The magic helped my body recover, which is probably why I ate a lot. To be more precise, I was always hungry! That would be more appropriate. The next day, an elderly psychologist came to see me, and we talked for half an hour. She asked how I was doing and what interesting things I’d learned, gave me simple exercises in writing, asked me to draw something, and then checked in on me during my next visit. She was a good woman, I liked her.
As soon as I was allowed to get up, life immediately became easier, and the first thing I did was go to the bathroom. For a week, I felt ashamed and disgusted about going to the bathroom. After going through a rather unpleasant process, as the injuries down there hadn’t yet healed, I washed my face and finally looked at myself in the mirror. What I saw delighted me; when I grow up, I’ll be a real beauty—just look at my eyes. Right now, a skinny, pale girl with a short, buzzed black haircut stared back at me. I had it cut short because of a bad head injury. But my eyes were bright, green, and seemed to glow from within. I smiled, looked toward the shower, sighed heavily, and went back to bed. Yes, my VIP room has its own private bathroom. That’s how important I am! According to the doctor, I’ll be here for another three weeks, so I have time to learn to write properly, and to expand my vocabulary and practice speaking from the TV. I’ll talk to the TV, in a whisper, just in case.
Today is July 5, 1986. I spent a little over a month in the hospital, and according to Dr. Mick, as he asked to be called, I’m almost healthy and will be discharged today. I’m pain-free, I can walk and run comfortably, and I even had two weeks of therapeutic exercises. Thanks to television, I’ve significantly expanded my vocabulary and now speak normally. I’ve also learned to write, properly, not in block letters. Incidentally, all the nurses complimented my handwriting. I’m very grateful to the staff of this hospital; they not only saved my life but also helped me adapt to a new world.
True, there’s a big spoonful of crap in this barrel of honey. One day, Dr. Mick forgot my medical records in the ward, and I got curious. One of the lines read “Infertility due to damage to the reproductive system.” Then a nurse came and took the documents. I quietly waited until lights out and silently cried half the night. And in the morning, I had hope. There is magic! And if there is magic, then there are magical hospitals where they can help me. I remember in the Potter films, all the bones in his arm grew back overnight; here, nothing needs to be regrowth, just a few minor adjustments to his internal organs. So the first thing I’ll do at Hogwarts is go to the hospital wing. I hope they cure me there. Okay, enough sad stuff, time to get going…
Exactly at noon, a short, plump woman with an unpleasant smile entered my room, looked at me with disdain, and introduced herself:
“Hello, my name is Mrs. Cole, I’m from the child welfare department. We’re going to go to your new home now. You’ll like it there; the orphanage at St. Ursula’s Church is a very nice place,” the woman said sarcastically.
I nodded silently in response to her words. I don’t like her, but there’s no other way. The policeman accompanying my aunt took some of her things, the rest we took, and the three of us walked out of the hospital. A new home awaits me.
