The Crow Man

By Katie M John

"Will I be reading more from this author? Oh absolutely yes I will as this book is psychological thriller at its best! 5 Stars Goodreads reviewer 

***
IMAGINE YOURSELF ACCUSED OF THE WORST CRIME IMAGINABLE. 

On the surface Grace Waters has it all. Social standing. A beautiful house. Gorgeous twin boys. 
But when their sons are found dead, she soon finds herself trapped in a living, voiceless nightmare. 

Accused of murdering them, and incarcerated into the local asylum for the criminally insane, she soon comes to believe she's the only sane person there. 

AND WHAT HAPPENS WHEN ONE MAN'S VERSION OF SANITY IS UTTER MADNESS? 

As 1950s psychological treatment smashes new ethical boundaries, Doctor Daniel Rose is confident he can find a cure for madness; that he can rebuild a person into the image of the perfect citizen. Only in order to do that, he has to break them first. 

A DANGEROUS OBSESSION.

And when Grace and Daniel's worlds collide, he seizes the opportunity to finally make her his own. 

In this page turning, gripping medical thriller, the reader is taken back to the 1950s and forced to ask the question, what really is the definition of insanity?

******

"Chillingly creepy. Brutal." Lisa Green

"I couldn't sleep until I read the last page." James Pettigrew

"A devastating exploration of women trapped in the barbarity of 1950's psychiatric practice." Mary Haighs. 

"A psychological journey that had me questioning absolutely everything. The storyline is truly exceptional, keeping me gripped throughout." 5 Stars Goodreads reviewer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katie M John
• Release date: Jan 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386141273

Book preview

1.

It was the kind of hour, in the kind of day, where the sky bled grey into the ground. The mist circled the base of the tree trunks.  The grasses of the fields beyond the garden, looked like shards of cruel glass spiking the earth. From behind her, Grace heard the ticking of the kitchen clock. It was a heavy sound for a heavy time of year. Aside from this, the house appeared silent, although she knew it was only a trick of distance. Two stories up, the twins were playing in the attic playroom. It would be far from quiet there.

She paid little attention to the dishes she was washing in the sink. She was too busy staring out onto the grey swirling light. It reminded her of her marriage. The bare trees like the skeletal bones of affection she now held for her husband. She sighed heavily and broke her stare away from the distant fields to take the tumbler of gin and tonic from the worktop. She allowed herself ‘just the one’ at lunch time, although the measures had been getting more generous of late.

By the time her eyes travelled back to the space beyond the garden, the figure was there, standing ominously under the ancient oak tree. The glass slipped from her hand, either from shock, or from the soap suds on her hand. Her chest heaved. She blinked, hoping the sight of the freakish figure was nothing more than a figment of her imagination.

He still stood there.

Instinctively, she glanced towards the back door, praying it was locked. She wasn’t sure she’d make it in time if it wasn’t. There was a supernatural quality to the figure that made her think all efforts to out-run him would be futile.

The figure was a tall man, dressed in a well-tailored suit. Even though he was far away, she could see the cut of the suit was well tailored – sharp and expensive. The kind her husband, Doctor Paul Waters, wore. The figure was neither tall nor short. Neither fat nor thin. He was entirely non-descript; except for his head, which was covered by an old hessian sack, tied at the neck by a piece of worsted thread. Eye-holes had been cut crudely into it, giving the impression of two gapping mouths instead of eyes. The contrast between the rough-cut sack and the suit was startling. Fear beat hard wings in Grace’s chest and she thought for a moment that she might faint.

Muuuum, James called as he ran towards her, I’m hungry!

Momentarily, she turned, automatically responding, Just a minute, sweetie. By the time she looked back towards the monster in the garden, it was gone. Instinct told her that just because she couldn’t see him, it didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Her breath was ragged and sharp in her throat.

He was hiding. Amongst the shadows. In the folds of the mist. Watching.

She wiped a stray piece of her straight, greying-blonde hair from her forehead with the back of her hand. She’d like to cry but her husband had told her it was damaging for the children to see her in an emotional state. Crying was poor form.

She retrieved the pieces of crystal tumbler from the bowl of washing-up water, half-hoping a glass slither might find its way onto her husband’s dinner plate, and then his stomach. It was an unusually horrid thought for such a gentle woman. She’d been brought up to believe gentility was a strength, but there were a lot of things about her up-bringing she had started to question. The bin-lid clanged unnaturally loudly in the otherwise quiet house.

Satisfied the tumbler had only cracked into three, she drained the bowl and wiped her hands on her wool A-line skirt. She’d chosen it to go with the beige cashmere roll-neck her husband had brought her for Christmas. She hated it, it reminded her of his mother. Wearing it was a silent act of revenge against him.

Do you want me to make you some toast? she asked James, who was hopping from foot to foot with excited energy.

Yes, please. Can I have jam?

She smiled and ruffled his hair. Yes, you can have jam, she said bending over and whispering conspiratorially. Just don’t tell daddy. You know how he disapproves of sweet things. Does your brother want some?

James shrugged as if the needs of his brother were the furthest care from his mind. As she watched James run around the kitchen doing an impression of a fighter plane, she smiled, suddenly feeling very foolish she should have let her imagination get the better of her.

At this time of year, the isolated landscape joined hands with the eerie weather and made her prone to flights of fancy. She had always had a vivid imagination. In another life, she might have been an artist. But art was too messy for their perfect existence; too full of feelings and chaos.

When they had moved into the Old Vicarage, she had sworn the house was haunted. An idea Paul had told her was, Quite ludicrous. Of course, he had been right. He was always right, she thought bitterly. The spooky banging and clattering had been the antiquated hot water system. The cold draughts of air on the stairs, the fault of a loose window latch. The sound of a baby crying in the night ... her grief at having lost her infant daughter. Never their grief, but hers.

A botched job of the after-care ensured there was no hope of Grace Waters ever having a daughter. The knowledge was like a constant blade in her heart, which dug a little deeper each time she walked.

She busied herself making toast for her two blond-haired, blue-eyed boys. They were handsome and wholesome. Peas in a pod. Even she had difficulty telling them apart, and they constantly took great delight in playing tricks on their relatives, swapping jumpers and names. From the day they were born, they had been happy children. Grace knew she was blessed, and she knew she should be more grateful for what she had. But sometimes, the human heart doesn’t understand that as it should.

Grace opened the state-of-the-art refrigerator, (a Christmas gift from Paul) and pulled out the home-made jam. Her mother-in-law, Millicent, continually scorned this ‘modern’ approach to food storage, and the last time she had visited, there had almost been blood-shed over Millicent’s precious jam being held prisoner by such a wicked contraption. The memory of it made Grace smile. Millicent was a total bitch but at least she made decent jam.

Catching the toast just in time before it welded itself to the AGA, she proceeded to spread butter and jam like the automaton mother she had become. George, the eldest by five minutes, came galloping into the kitchen on the back of his hobby horse and Grace startled. He was wearing a pillow case as an impromptu helmet, and looked unnervingly reminiscent of the figure she’d conjured in her mind just quarter of an hour before. She pushed the haunted feeling aside and cheerily handed out the plates of hot buttery, jammy toast. The smell of it was enticing. It would be easy enough to make another couple of slices, but instead, she reached for her silver cigarette case and lit one of the French menthol cigarettes. Paul Waters hated overweight women in a way only a true chauvinist pig could.

Grace watched her boys eat and bicker, and play games they didn’t think she could see. She smoked the cigarette and crushed the tip into the heavy glass ash-tray. She looked at the clock. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. It was a long time until bed – longer still until Paul would arrive home after a day at the surgery. She ought to start preparing his dinner. She ought to hoover the rug in the hallway, and refresh the vase of flowers, but increasingly, these things didn’t seem to matter, especially as Paul often arrived late and too drink-soft to notice such details. 

Grace put it down to the stresses of being a GP. People now waited until the evening before calling for the doctor. It was a sign of the times. Or at least this was what Grace reasoned in order to stop the wild and dangerous allegations of him possibly having an affair.

She knew in her heart that he was; but she wasn’t going to admit it. What would be the point? She could hardly leave him. She had nowhere to go. She owned nothing. It was all his. She had no home to return to. As Paul often reminded her, he had dragged her from some dump of an industrial town and made her into, The lady you are today. A woman fit to be a doctor’s wife.

He had given her a clothes allowance, furnished their home with solid wood furniture, and all the latest technology. She wore enough diamonds to remind her of his respect for her as the mother of his children (although he failed to mention the word, love) and he allowed her to pursue her own hobbies, as long as they didn’t interfere in the smooth running of the household or make a mess.

‘Yes, I am truly blessed,’ she said sharply inside her head.

The boys requested their leave from the table with mouths still stuffed with toast and jam. She smiled and waved them away, hoping she might get at least a half-hour nap on the settee before one of them tried to grievously harm the other. If she could get some rest, she might be able to face the horror of the bath and bedtime routine without the need for another stiff gin.

She walked over to the sink and slipped the plates into the water. Part of her was curious to look back over the garden towards the grey space of fantasy where her mind had conjured such a terrifying figure, and part of her feared the monster might still be standing there.

The grey had inked to a darker light, making it impossible to make reality out from the distant shadows. Her view was further distorted by the emerging reflection in the window of a once very beautiful woman who, over the course of six cruel months, had morphed into the very mask of sorrow.

Something needs to change, she whispered. Or else I’ll go mad.

*

Paul arrived home late from the surgery with the smell of whiskey on his breath. It wasn’t unusual. Grace had adapted her cooking so it was mainly stewed meats and mashed vegetables: things that would sit and simmer along with her internal rage.

After taking off his shoes and coat, and hanging his bag up on the hooks in the hall, he made his way to the sitting room with the daily paper under his arm, preparing his pipe as he travelled. Grace, as always, followed behind him, bird-like, and sat on the sofa opposite with her legs joined together at the knees and her elbows resting on them, waiting for some kind of human interaction.

If she was lucky, she’d get a smile and a nod of the head before Paul would flick open the sheets of The Daily, behind which he would offer a short burst of routine questions about her day and the boys’ general well-being. It wouldn’t be more than a couple of minutes before his well-practiced repertoire would be complete. It was never a conversation, just a volley of questions and responses.

She’d ask him if he wanted supper and he’d, more often than not, inform her he had been fed whilst out on his rounds. Grace knew this was a lie. She’d found at least two receipts for out of town restaurants in the last couple of months. They’d not been left around carelessly. Paul was never careless. Grace had searched for them, determined to find proof she wasn’t losing her mind to paranoia. When she’d found them, she hadn’t been sure whether she felt angry or relieved.

When it was clear there was going to be no more conversation, she pottered out to the kitchen on pretence of doing her duties. She removed the casserole from the oven, portioned up two small plates for the boys’ tea the next day and spooned three precise spoonfuls into a bowl, setting it aside whilst she scraped the rest into the bin.

She poured herself a large gin and tonic and sat at the pine kitchen table where she finished her meagre supper in less than a couple of minutes. It would be enough to see her through until the morning. The cigarettes would see off any hunger pangs later. Grace was determined that when the scandal of her husband’s adultery came out (which it ultimately would, it always did) she would be able to walk down the high-street with her head held high, and her figure trim so that nobody could turn around and blame her for letting herself go. They wouldn’t be interested about the inside of her, how her mind was unravelling with grief and rejection, just whether she had her lipstick on, whether her waist was trim, and whether she had deserved it or not.  

Grace took her plate to the sink, washed it and put it in the drying rack before returning to the sitting room to sit with her silent husband. He barely glanced at her when she returned. Picking up a book, she curled herself up in the corner of the sofa. The sound of the clock ticked steadily, counting down the time until bed.

After an hour had passed, Paul folded the newspaper down into the customary quarters and placed it onto the side table before heading over to the decanter and pouring himself a glass of scotch into the ‘wedding crystal’ tumbler. She hoped he wouldn’t notice that there were only five glasses left on the tray.

Would you like me to pour you one? he asked.

Grace looked at him, startled. In the seven years they had been married, Paul had never offered to pour her a drink. Immediately, she knew something monumental was about to be said. Anxiety washed over her and she nodded before forcing herself to smile,

Yes, please, that would be nice.

He handed her the glass before sitting back down in his chair opposite. She could sense he was preparing to broach a difficult subject. Several flitted through her mind. He coughed awkwardly and then seemed to think better of it. Paul didn’t do emotions very well. After several tense moments, Grace swallowed deeply and said,

Was there something that you wanted to talk to me about, dear?

He swiped his nose nervously. Well as a matter of fact, there is.

Oh, she emitted, shuffling uneasily.

I’m worried about you.

Of all the revelations Grace had braced herself for, that had been the one she had not been expecting.

Worried? she asked.

Yes, he replied, taking a gulp of scotch. "I don’t think you’re dealing with... events particularly well."

Events? Grace asked, knowing full well what he was referring to but was too cowardly to face.

Yes, you know, the ... he coughed uneasily. With what happened back in the summer.

Grace felt an irrational swell of rage. It came at her with the force of a storm. Although she sat stock still, back upright on the sofa, in her mind, she was whirling around the room smashing everything in sight. Most especially, she was smashing the porcelain face of her husband until it shattered into some vestige of emotion. She felt her grip tighten around the hard blade-like cuts of the crystal.

It’s understandable of course, he continued clumsily. It’s a terrible thing for a woman to have to experience – the loss of her child.

‘OUR CHILD!’ she screamed silently in her head. ‘She was ours. She was something beautiful and warm and living amongst all of this artifice.’ It wasn’t that she didn’t have the power in her voice to say such things, but that the power was so awesome, she wasn’t sure she could control it once it was unleashed.  

He took her silence as submission. He was wrong.

I’ve been speaking with an old acquaintance of mine; Doctor Daniel Rose, a doctor who specialises in such things. He can meet with you next week – if you’re willing?

Daniel Rose. The name sounded familiar. A vague memory came back from their days when Paul was at Medical School, but she couldn’t quite capture it. Paul had so many friends at Medical School. Always so popular. It was hard to keep track.

Grace downed the rest of the scotch and stitched a smile onto her lips. What kind of doctor is he? she asked suspiciously.

Paul cleared his throat and stood, as if somehow that might distract her. The kind of doctor that will help you in the way you need to be helped. He’s a good man. He’s become a pioneer in his field.

What field is that? The lunatics and the crazies? Her comment came out sharp enough to cause Paul to stop and pull up. He had been arrogant enough to think his doctor badge, and well-practiced bedside voice, would lull her into agreement before she had time to think it through. He looked at her in the way a father looks at a child when convincing them Father Christmas still exists. No, that’s not the case at all, Grace. He’s a doctor who helps people overcome... sadness. And you are sad, aren’t you, Grace?

Despite the promise to herself that she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry, she found tears gathering. All she wanted was for him to be gone; to be out of her sight and to leave her alone. She honestly didn’t care if he walked out of the door right now and never came back.

‘I don’t even hate you,’ she thought. ‘That would involve me somehow caring about you.’

Grace nodded. Yes, I’m sad. I’m sad I have to go and sit in a room and talk to a random stranger when I should be able to talk to you. She fixed him with a hard stare.

He ran his hand around the inside of his collar. It was a nervous gesture she was familiar with. It drew her attention to the stain on it – a light red smudge. The fleeting passing of a pair of lip-sticked lips.

‘You’re getting sloppy. Think your wife is too crazy to notice?’ she thought.

Grace looked at him coldly, wondering what passion a lover could possibly find in such a man. What passion had she once experienced? There must have been a time when she loved him. There really must have been, even if she now found it difficult to recall.

Well, I think we have probably covered all we need to, tonight, he said. I’ll give you some time to think about it. He withdrew a business card from his pocket and put it ceremoniously on the coffee table that sat between them. He tapped it as if finalising the gesture and the conversation.

Grace didn’t say anything and he was forced to make an awkward exit, muttering, Goodnight, on his way out of the door.

When he had gone, she got up and walked over to the decanter to pour herself another scotch. Her head was swimming but somehow, that was preferable to feeling concrete and rational. She pummelled the ball of her hand into the bridge of her nose and stifled the screams that threatened to come.

‘Be careful Gracey – he already thinks you’re cuckoo!’

She walked over to the radio and turned it on. Music filled the room. She lit a cigarette and pulled her hair from her tight conservative bun and ran it loose between her fingers. She wondered if other men would still find her beautiful; still beg her to go to bed with them with their eyes, their lips, their hot soft skin. There had been a time she could walk into a room and the head of every man would turn. She breathed in and smoothed down the front of her sweater, turning to the window to check herself in the reflection.

Her screams filled the house.

Paul, half-ready for bed, ran down the stairs and crashed into the room looking wildly about. Grace was stood facing the window, her hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide with fear.

"There’s somebody – something – out there," she said, waving her hand in the direction of the window.

Paul turned to face the window and saw nothing. Who? Who did you see?

Grace was fighting back the sobs. He was standing at the window, looking in. He was just stood there, staring at me through his mask.

Mask?

Yes, yes, a mask... a kind of hood. A hood with eyes. Like a scarecrow.

Paul emitted a snorting laugh before taking her firmly by the arms and talking to her in his most commanding voice, Grace. Grace. Look at me. You’re not making any sense here. There’s nobody there. Look!

She bit down hard on her lip and tried to steady her breathing. She knew she needed to pull herself together and quickly.

Stay here, Paul said, already leaving towards the door. I’ll go and do a walk around. I know it will make you feel better.

She heard him leave and knew he’d find nobody.

There was nobody to find.

2.

So how long have you felt like this, Grace? Doctor Rose asked with a voice soft and so cold, it reminded Grace of virgin snow. Untouched.

It feels like it might have been forever, she replied.

Forever?

For as long as I can remember.

How far back is that? Doctor Rose asked.

What? How far back can I remember?

Yes.

I’ve already forgotten.

Doctor Rose tapped his pen rhythmically against his notepad. The air in the room was heavy with winter sunlight and the smoke from Grace’s cigarettes. She had smoked her way through three already. At thirty-three, Doctor Rose was the same age as her husband. He was the kind of man who would be fifty before he looked any older than twenty-five. His dark brown hair was smoothed back from his aquiline features and a pair of tortoise shell glasses sat perched on his nose. He was slim and athletic – a boxer’s figure. His white shirt was fitted and starched. His braces held up a pair of expensively tailored trousers.

She had expected to recognise him when she saw him, but she didn’t. She put it down to the fact that at that age, she only had eyes for Paul. He had been such a force of energy and sunlight that he had filled every room and bedazzled her. But now, he too had become an unrecognisable stranger.  

Silence breathed steadily in and out like a tidal swell.

Grace glanced around the office again, taking in the various symbols of wealth and intellect. She was grateful for the activity smoking gave her. Her left leg tapped up and down nervously. On the mantel-piece was a photograph of Doctor Rose on his graduation day from medical school. She knew if she picked up the photo and looked hard enough, she would see Paul’s face, too.

Paul had assured Grace that Doctor Rose was an associate and respected fellow member of the medical profession but not a friend. He had told her she could speak with him in total confidence, and that her trust would not be betrayed. Grace had smiled weakly in response. She knew the men would talk, ‘friend’ or not. That’s what men did. They talked about women until they convinced themselves that women were quite mad. A different species entirely.

Do you forget a lot? Doctor Rose