Chapter 1: India House.
Itried to engage my adoptive mother in common ground. This planned trip horrified me.
"I can't shake a deep feeling of dread around visiting Dad’s murderous brother over in Ireland.’ I whined, eyes pleading for understanding from my caustic tongued mother whom I knew regretted adopting me. ‘I’m scared of walking into a lock up mental hospital.’
Mum hit back with her usual silence, an icy blue-eyed gaze colder than the north wind howling outside. After ten minutes of feeling like I was invisible, she snapped.
"What do you know about normal? You had a start in life that is the lowest that anyone could ever have; dumped into an orphanage.’
I felt sick with shame.
Mum had married her first cousin, so crazy Johnny was also her cousin. My adoptive family were inbred. India House was dotted with cult-like framed family photographs of the Hart family, residents of India, that served to remind me that I was a sorely unwanted cuckoo in a British military nest tightly linked to the Roman Catholic Church.
Perched on the outskirts of the Devonshire moors, my adoptive family’s lonely detached home loomed like a spectral guardian against grey shifting moorland mists. Its weathered stone façade, etched with the scars of time, told tales of the difficult years gone by. Re-named ‘India House,’ because Thomas Hart had been stationed in India and loved it even though he had been the occupying British Army.
AS TWILIGHT CAST LONG shadows over the wintry landscape, the old house exuded an air of mystery, an enigma nestled amid the solitude of nature.
The stones, once grey, now bore the patina of age, veiled in hues of ochre and sepia. Windows, framed by heavy green wooden shutters, stood sentinel against the encroaching darkness of a barren landscape. Mossy tendrils of moorland mist clung to the uneven surface, weaving a tapestry of dusty hues that seemed to thrive in the perpetual glow of a strawberry moon.
APPROACHING THE ENTRANCE, a heavy oak door greeted visitors with an ominous creak, as if whispering morbid secrets to those who dared to listen. Its rough surface bore the scars of countless storms, a testament to the relentless battle against the elements. A brass knocker, shaped like a turbaned Indian, hinted at the weird eccentricity of a home so far out on its own.
INSIDE, THE FOYER, mystery unfolded like a forgotten ballad. The air hung heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and the faintest hint of a spicy fragrance that clung to the threadbare tapestries adorning the walls. The dim glow of plaster sconces flickered, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mimic the elusive movements of the notorious sea mist that swallowed many a hiker wandering lost on the moors.
A winding staircase, its banister worn smooth by the touch of generations, spiraled upward into the darkness, leading to corridors that held scents of times past. The wallpaper, a faded tapestry of intricate patterns, seemed to ripple with hidden currents as if the very walls harboured memories of long-forgotten inhabitants.
IN THE DRAWING-ROOM of India House where the fire crackled in the hearth, worn armchairs beckoned, their turmeric-coloured upholstery bearing the scars of countless tales and midnight confessions. A sepulchral portrait, a stern-faced, Thomas Hart with haughty blue eyes, surveyed the room with unspoken judgment in his military uniform with a backdrop of the British Raj.
Bounding through the dimly lit corridors, came a sprightly springer spaniel named Cazpot, his glossy coat, a medley of chestnut and white, contrasting with the muted tones of the interior. Cazpot’s presence, a constant in the house's narrative, lent an air of companionship to the echoes of isolation.
MY ROOM WAS A CONTRAST, a refuge from all this old-school drama. The walls were plastered with posters of bands that would make my parents roll their eyes. A cringe pink neon sign flickered with rebellious energy, casting a glow over a collection of 90’s vinyl records and a stack of well-worn graphic novels.
My mind painted a different picture. In my head, I was rocking out at a concert with my favorite icon, escaping this whole annoying family drama over going to visit a homicidal maniac in Ireland.
THE ASYLUM STAFF HAD written to my father to demand he fly from England. Dad wanted to take me with him for the company and the idea of it was making me anxious.
Johnny had tried to kill his entire family (my adoptive family) when he was a child. John had crept around the tiny terrace house whilst they were sleeping, carrying a petrol can and matches. The blaze started. John had spent his childhood locked away in an asylum and no one had ever bothered to try to get him out again. The idea of going to sit with him made my head throb.
To forget, I snatched up my pink plastic hairbrush and mimed in the mirror to Marilyn Monroe singing, ‘Diamonds Are a Girls Best-friend.’ The rattling wind outside became the applause of adoring fans, and the shadows in the old house were just the cool lighting effects.
OUTSIDE, THE NOVEMBER wind slammed against the windows, casting weird shadows on tangerine walls. The chill from the moors slipped through the cracks, giving my dimly lit bedroom a kind of spooky vibe. A lone dog in the distance added to the soundtrack, its howls making the current family drama inside feel even more unsettling. My warm breath hung in the freezing air as I wandered ghost-like around the house. The worn-out carpet muffling footsteps, but I still couldn't shake the feeling that disapproving unseen eyes of the Hart family watched from the shadows.
ENDURING THE ABSENCE of heat in the UK’s winter months proved to be a challenge, a relentless struggle exacerbated by the unforgiving grip of financial constraints and the surge in energy costs. The biting cold became an inescapable companion, an unwelcome facet of existence that wrapped its tendrils around every moment, rendering the act of staying warm a luxury.
In the kitchen mum's face stayed stony, giving away nothing. I noticed ugly frown lines on my mother’s forehead as she washed muddy vegetables, enduring life instead of living it. Adoption hadn’t proved the sticking plaster she’d needed. I was a disappointment; I was nothing like her. My mother believed that I was the grim spawn of unmarried sex; a bastard whose very presence sullied their home, reminding them of lust, fornication, illegitimacy and impropriety.
I hesitated, my hand on the doorknob leading to the pantry where I knew a host of delicious baked goodies lay cooling and I was hungry.
Some doors are better left shut,
mum warned, her voice serious. The unfriendly sentiment reverberated through the house like a malevolent whisper.
Feeling slapped and still hungry, I was already planning my grand escape, away from this haunted mess and the rejecting adoptive mother I just couldn't stand.
Dad’s entrance was nothing short of dramatic, a silhouette of darkness against the flickering candlelight, his long coat trailing behind him like the cape of some gothic hero or villain. His distinctive grey-blue eyes, a shade darker than the shadows that clung to him, bore into me as he announced, We're definitely going to have to fly to Dublin; poor mad Johnny really needs to see me. I’ll take you, Chris, teach you a bit about life; you’re far too much of a house mouse.
I raised an eyebrow, but said nothing; I could feel the tension in the air, thick with the horror of my adoptive family’s dirty little secret of a caged brother who’d tried to kill them all. I felt an uneasy camaraderie with him – our mutual murderous hatred for the same people.
REMEMBER, CHRIS, BLOOD ties can be chains. Don't expect any sympathy for having none and you being a bastard,
dad warned as he lit a cigarette, his voice cutting through the ominous hum of the car engine.
I slouched moodily in the backseat, my fawn leather jacket a shield against the emotional storm brewing inside. Yeah, yeah, I get it. Chains, sympathy, got it,
I retorted, my eyes thumbed passing trees, their vulnerable leafless state leaving them exposed to the harshness of winter frosts.
THE JOURNEY TO HEATHROW Airport felt like a road trip. The low hum of the car engine was drowned out by the internal hum of my emotions, a mix of apprehension and excitement that I tried to suppress beneath a stoic exterior.
Heathrow Airport, a hive of activity, assaulted my senses with a clash of sounds and a barrage of neon lights.
I slouched alongside dad, the noise of the crowd doing little to muffle my internal symphony of obsessive thoughts. The mix of perfumes and the hint of cigars created an exotic dance that managed to lift a deep dread about meeting my adoptive uncle, John.
The airplane, a sleek silver steel bird, awaited us on the tarmac spewing mist into the freezing air. As we boarded, my heart pounded with the exhilaration of embarking on my first ever plane trip.
The tight, confined space of the cabin made me feel like a rebellious budgerigar trapped in a cage, eager to spread its wings.
Dad, couldn't we have picked a less creepy way to spend the weekend? Like, I don't know, a movie marathon or something? Instead of visiting an old asylum for the criminally insane full of freaks.
I muttered, my voice a low grumble that barely reached my father's ears.
He glanced at me, his expression stern.
"Chris; you need to see things beyond your own self-obsession. I get it; your mad dreams of Hollywood fame, but is that really likely? You’re not even an actress?’
I felt deeply ashamed knowing that he’d thumbed the pages of my private diary. I stared out of the airplane window feeling like a loser idiot.
"I could one day become an actress; I could write a book and get it made into a movie like Sylvester Stallone.’
"Hardly likely!’ I heard him snort as the hum of the engines intensified, drowning out his contempt for my dreams as the plane taxied down the runway. I gripped the armrest, knuckles turning white, as the world below transformed into a patchwork of lights.
AS THE MILES PASSED beneath the wheels of the journey, I casually sipped on a can of co*ke. The rhythmic hum of the airplane provided a backdrop to solitude, creating a warm space within the busy cabin, but the scent of recycled air mixed with the funk of the passengers made me queasy.
To distract, I flipped through the pages of a stained Vanity Fair, feeling envious of the models and subjects of stories, the crisp rustle of paper blending with the distant murmur of conversations and the occasional chime of the seatbelt sign. The ambient noises of passengers shuffling, electronic devices humming, and the distant whirr of the airplane engines formed a symphony of unfamiliar airplane travel that I began to enjoy.
The toilet, albeit compact, became an impromptu sanctuary. Aiming for a superstar look, to match my new adventurous persona, I deftly applied a fresh smudge of kohl eyeliner, the familiar scent of make-up mingling with the sanitized freshness of the small space. Each stroke of black eye-liner carried a subtle rebellion, a statement against being forced to feel less than others just because I was a bastard.
As I surveyed a punky reflection in the cramped mirror, my inner thoughts swirled with the anticipation of the unknown destination, the myriad possibilities, and the distant promise of adventure beyond the aircraft's metal wings.
I ruminated on the fact I might spot some hot Irish guy and fall deliciously, madly in love. I could write about it all in a novel. I could become a best-selling author like, Jackie Collins and star in the movie of my own life.
I fantasized about how achieving fame would heal me.
I would feel full instead of empty. I would no longer be a grey shadow.
BACK THEN, DUBLIN, with its promise of mysteries and the flickering lights that resembled a phantom on the horizon, loomed closer. The unknown awaited, and with each passing mile, the excitement of a first plane trip blended with the trepidation of what lay ahead.
Deep down, a spark of curiosity flickered that whispered, "What if I like Johnny?’
Chapter 2: The Asylum.
I think I’m going to have a panic attack, Dad,
I muttered, my voice a bitter undertone to the city's loudness.
My father's response was a derisive snort.
Quit your complaining. Dublin's better than that godforsaken England with its snobbish aristocrats.
‘What aristocrats?’
‘Come on, bastards think they’re related to royalty!’
‘Of course, they don’t.’
‘How dare you try to contradict me.’
I sighed and felt tired of his bullying, yet the otherness of another country made me feel free of him.
COLD WIND THAT GREETED us upon landing in Dublin seemed to carry the echoes of long-forgotten Irish myth. The streets, bathed in an eerie orange from the soft glow of street lamps diffused by the persistent drizzle, guided us past the looming navy-gated Guinness factory and into the vibrant city's embrace.
DUBLIN RAIN, RELENTLESS and cold, painted the city in morose shades of grey, each crystal raindrop carrying the stories of Ireland’s battle-weary past.
I felt a flu-like chill seeping and tugged my leather jacket, a gnawing hunger accentuated by rain-droplets that clung to my rosy red cheeks.
He yanked my hand, and as we trudged through the misty streets, I couldn't help but notice the non-stop friendliness of the Irish.
In this little leprechaun's land, everyone's so damn friendly,
I mumbled, the contrast to the grey surroundings not lost. The streets were a lively tapestry of old and new, the shiny cobblestones bearing the weight of centuries of stories. I observed the mix of architecture, from ancient structures with ivy-covered facades to modern buildings standing tall against the bruised blue sky.
ARRIVING AT A RING of terraced homes called Ceanut Fort, I still couldn't shake the feeling of being an outsider.
I inhaled the scent of dirty drains as I watched snot-faced kids yelling in lilting Irish accents who seemed like a different species, their feral nature both intimidating and oddly exhilarating compared to the buttoned-up British.
‘EVERYTHING’S POOR AND rough, but there’s a rush of sea-water in the air around Mount Brown that feels fascinatingly exotic,’ I muttered to my father.
‘Its poor is what it is; the bloody English robbed Ireland of all of its wealth and left us to struggle with a potato famine.’
‘Wasn’t that India?’
‘Potatoes?’ He cast me a weary glance as he rapped on the front door of a tiny terrace built out of yellow brick.
A SKINNY WOMAN WITH frothy white hair and a shocking pink tea dress answered and ushered us both in out of the rain.
I glanced around the tiny space and felt uncomfortable. Aunt Frances' home felt like a rat-trap and the expression she wore of resigned weariness signaled an impending storm.
Inviting me to accompany her over the road to get supper, the steamy Dublin chippy, the enticing aroma of fish and chips became a distraction.
Fish and chips, pet?
Aunt Frances offered with a twisted smile, her red lipstick bleeding into her wrinkles.
I hesitated until I realized I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Yeah, why not! Grease is gorgeous!
Inside the chippy, the air was thick with the smell of fish and the sound of sizzle. The chatter of Dubliners filled the space, creating a backdrop to my whirling thoughts.
The food smells great, but everything else looks creepy and old fashioned – like we’ve time travelled back to the 1940’s.
Aunt Frances' vintage terrace was tiny and the dining table morphed into an arena for familial sadism.
Fresh bread, white butter, and the mouthwatering aroma of fish and chips created an illusion of warmth that clashed with the atmosphere. The conversation, or rather, the discordant symphony of offhand remarks and mocking laughter, echoed through the cramped space, each bitter note settling like a greasy residue.
I perched at the edge of this familial re-union and felt like a ghost.
I recognized myself as an unseen observer in a blood-tied world that mirrored me as an adopted outcast.
AS MORE IRISH RELATIVES arrived, the atmosphere thickened with the scent of whiskey, the frothy tops of Guinness pints, and the constant rustling of endless bags of Tayto cheese and onion crisps with Club orange drink in little bottles.
A clingy haze of smoke hung in the air, adding to the ambiance that enveloped my disassociated sense of self.
Dad, now liberated from the fear of being labelled an IRA member, played a chaotic melody on the piano, his face flushed with both pleasure and the intoxication of the moment.
Observing my father, I felt a mix of pity and admiration—a man seeking solace in a cultural refuge that simultaneously rejected and embraced him. Life had dealt him a bitter hand, and I, in this sea of Irish relatives, felt like a much-rejected orphan, a ghostly, motherless figure navigating the storm of being alive.
My cousin Begonia, perhaps sensing detachment, urged me upstairs with a whispered promise.
I'll show you something grand,
she offered, leading me up into her darkened bedroom.
BEGONIA’S KIND GESTURE felt like a temporary reprieve, a momentary escape from the noisy drink-fest that raged below.
I'm stuck with a bunch of people who don't even feel like my family,
I whispered to Begonia, a sentiment as palpable as the stormy Dublin night outside.
‘I got told they got you from an unwanted kid’s home and you’re not actually my real cousin,’ replied Begonia casting me a look of pity.
My heart sank as the bottle of flowery scent offered by Begonia added an unexpected layer of peach-scented shame to my already negative emotions, like the filthy presence of rejection lingering in her pristine pink bedroom.
DAD AND I PULL ON COATS, the fabric a shield against the black night of biting wind, as we prepare to go visit Uncle Joe in Skerries, a sea-dog with tales as vast as the ocean.
My dad’s brother, Joe’s sailing boat slithers on a deserted seafront, a place that holds the echoes of seafaring stories and the whispers of restless waves.
Joe helps me climb up a rope ladder and heave onboard, whilst dad waits at the water’s edge, feet kicking the surf.
Joe sports a captain's peaked hat, a symbol of his maritime adventures, and shivering beside him stand his handsome sons, Sean and Seamus; their beards, fisherman-style jumpers, and Irish brogues evoke a sense of seafaring tradition.
Joe, tweaked his peaked hat, leaned back in his creaky chair on deck, a smirk playing on his dry lips as to my horror we roughly bounce further and further out to sea.
Sean, the younger of the two sons, shot me a teasing glance, registering my fear.
Ah, Chris, have ye ever heard the tales of the beautiful mermaids off the Irish coast? They say those lovely creatures lure sailors with their songs and then drag 'em under, never to be seen again.
Seamus, the older brother, steering the boat, chimed in with a hearty laugh, Aye, and if ye're not careful, they'll have ye too, Chris. Sucking ye under with their whispers and seaweed locks that strangle the breath out of ye.
Standing across from the trio, I raised an eyebrow in mock disbelief. Mermaids, really? I thought those were just cheesy bedtime stories?
Sea-water splashed over the edge of the boat and a harsh wind formed a delicious salt taste. Joe leaned forward; his eyes gleaming.
Aye, but there’s more truth to those innocent childhood stories than ye might think. The sea holds secrets untold, and mermaids – well, they're part of the dance between land and sea.
Sean, with a mischievous twinkle, added, And don't be thinking they're all pretty and singing. Some say they've got fangs that'd make a blood-thirsty shark jealous.
Seamus tugged at the wheel and nodded.
Aye, and once they've got ye in their clutches, there's no escaping. They'll drag ye down to the depths of the sea, and ye'll be human fish food before ye can say 'landlubber.'
THE SAILING BOAT BOBBED and swayed with the rhythm of the sea. The scent of saltwater and the briny air mingled as Uncle Joe, Sean and Seamus huddled together on the deck, their coarse banter unfolding against the backdrop of the churning waves and my gut heaved with motion sickness.
JOE, HIS CAPTAIN'S hat threatening to fly off in the wind, grinned as he began, Ahoy, me hearties! Gather 'round, and let me spin ye a yarn about the monstrous vampire mermaids of the deep!
The boat tossed, making me grip the railing. The combination of the rolling waves and the tales of flesh-eating sea-creatures left me feeling queasy. I leaned over the edge and violently vomited fish and chips.
Sean, not noticing my distress, his voice carried away by the wind, continued, Picture this – waves crashin'' like thunder, and there it is, a mermaid with long, flowin' hair singin' a seductive tune that'd make a sailor's heart skip a beat.
He laughed steadying himself against the boat's rocking, added with a cruel sneer, But mind ye, it's got a secret weapon – blood dripping fangs like daggers and shiny eyes that gleam like the moon on the water ready to gobble up your liver.
The boat bounced. I tasted vomit. The colors of the sea blurred – shades of
