Chapter 10 (of 12) : I is for...
The Newley Institute -- formerly the Wilderwood State Mental Hospital and even more formerly the Wilderwood Insane Asylum -- is up in the hills north of town. It feels further out than it actually is because the road that leads up to it twists and turns through Wilderwood Forest so much it basically turns back on itself a couple of times before finally coming to the Institute. It makes the road up to Wilderwood Hall, on other side of the north road and a mile or so further up, look like a straight line by comparison.
Eventually the road leads to a covered wooden bridge that crosses over this end of the Wilderwood. They valley is at its deepest here, and it's almost a sheer drop from the grounds of the Institute to the forest below on two sides.
There's a lot of stories about this place. Only the Wilderwood itself has more local legends and urban myths attached to it. Some of these are the kind of thing that Alex Trowley comes out with -- underground labs and mind control experiments financed by the CIA/Big Pharma/Reptillians (or all three) -- and some are ghost stories, because the Institute is a former insane asylum on top of a cliff overlooking a big, spooky forest. No surprise that there's more than a few weird tales about it.
It's one of those that's brought me up here today. The one about my great grandfather's younger brother being a multiple murderer who was locked up here back in the thirties. Since my great grandfather was himself some kind of gangster, and for all I know may have dumped a few bodies in the Wilderwood himself by way of 'business', it's not even the murders that bother me exactly. I mean it's not great, but it's the other thing that's really on my mind.
It's the suggestion that Joseph Wilderwood was driven to kill because he was insane, and that the insanity was hereditary. Ever since Emma and I started looking into our family history we've found too many gaps, too many things left unexplained. There aren't many Wilderwoods, far fewer than would be expected for a family as old as ours. If there is some inherent flaw in our line it would explain a lot.
My only source for any of this is allegations made in a book published a few years ago, but it fits too well with what I already know to ignore it, and the fact that Uncle Nathan almost certainly forced the publisher to withdraw 'The Devil's Blood' from sale suggests there might be something to all of this.
Finding out what might not be easy. There's a very real aura of secrecy about this place that has nothing to do with Trowley's wild claims and everything to do with what the place is these days. The Newley Institute has been, for a long time now, a very upscale private clinic -- the kind of place where the rich and famous come to recover from breakdowns and kick bad habits. That it's so secluded and hard to get to, with only one road leading up to it and miles of nearly impenetrable forest on all sides, is probably as useful now as it was when the patients weren't here of their own free will. According to another story I've been told some still aren't.
The Institute is very expensive, very discreet, and very secure, and the first obstacle I have to deal with is the gatehouse at the far end of the bridge. The guy standing there doesn't look much like a security guard - very smart casual in a white polo shirt and tan slacks - but he does act like one.
I called a cab to bring me up here and the guard says hello to the driver, who he recognises, then asks me if I have an appointment. I don't. I made the decision to come up here in a hurry, and I'm not on the visitor list either.
"I'm sorry," he says, though he doesn't sound it, "but without an appointment I can't allow you to enter the grounds."
There's a reason I went home before coming up here, to shower and shave and put on a suit. No tie, but I'm about as respectable looking as I ever get. Now I get to see if it was worth the effort.
"I need to speak to someone about some family records," I say in my best attempt at the tone my great-uncle uses. "My name's Jamie Wilderwood."
I've never put so much emphasis on my surname in my life.
* * * * *
It works. He checks my ID and then makes a call up to the Institute, and after that he tells me that we can go up and I'll be met at reception. I usually think of my family name as an unwelcome drag on my life, but I could get used to this.
I get out of the cab at the entrance and let it go, because I've no idea how long I'll be here. I've seen the Institute before, but mostly from a distance, and up close it doesn't really live up to its ominous reputation. The main building doesn't look much different from Wilderwood College, being a big old red brick building with narrow windows and peaked roofs, and there aren't even any bars on the windows. Maybe those are round the back.
It doesn't look sinister or spooky. Maybe at night or during a thunderstorm it would, but on a sunny Sunday afternoon it's actually kind of bland. I guess all the weird stuff must happen in the secret underground labs.
Inside it's just as ordinary. It's obviously been modernised at some point, though not to anything near the extent of the way Lauren's dad reworked their place up on Hamilton Hill, and it's light and airy and quiet and looks more like an expensive resort hotel than a clinic, which I guess in a way it is. It's not all new, and there's a couple of big oil paintings of old, serious looking guys hanging in slighty recessed alcoves of the reception area like there always seems to be in old buildings, but I don't give them more than a glance as I walk up to the front desk.
The receptionist tells me someone will be with me shortly and asks me to take a seat. There's not many people around, just a few staff going about their jobs and a few others who I suppose are patients or visitors. No one pays any attention to me as I walk idly up and down the reception area, too keyed up to sit down.
"Hi, Jamie, what can I do for you?" asks a female voice. It's a bit more informal than I was expecting seeing as I got in here by leaning on the Wilderwood name, but when I turn round and see who it is I understand why.
Claire Darby. My friend Kenny's older sister.
Shit. I forget she works up here.
My first thought is that I don't want to talk to her about this. I only know Claire through Kenny, and only very casually, since she and her twin sister are seven years older than him and it's not like they hang out. Still, it's closer to home than I'd have liked.
My second thought is that Kenny is a jerk who couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it and there's no way his sister tells him anything about what goes on up here. If she did I'd know it. So anything we talk about isn't going to get back to him.
My third thought is that if it was Claire who got the call from the gatehouse then they let me in because she knows me through her brother and not because of my flexing of the family name. That stings more than I'd expect it to.
"Oh, hey, Claire." I'd planned on going in very businesslike, but I guess that won't cut it now. Bit of a waste of time going home to get suited up really.
She's very professional though, and once I tell her that I'm looking into some old family history she says to come with her to her office and she'll see what she can do. I can't imagine she'd say the same to any other of Kenny's friends who showed up out of the blue on a Sunday afternoon, so maybe the Wilderwood name is working some of its magic after all.
* * * * *
The admin wing is on the ground floor of the main building, and the offices we pass are mostly small, neat and empty. We don't pass many people in the hallways either.
