Dead Scared Read Online Free PDF Page A

floor, he’d ordered the other guests to bring water. From jugs, bottles, ice buckets, even glasses, he’d encouraged everyone in the room to tip water over poor, prostrate Bryony while he summoned an ambulance on his mobile. Scott Thornton had almost certainly saved Bryony’s life. Whether she’d thank him for it was another matter.
    After the seriously injured girl had been taken away, uniformed police had conducted a thorough search of the college and its grounds. A petrol can had been found in a shadowed area of a space called Second Court and the ground around it was soaked in petrol. Bryony’s fingerprints, and hers alone, were on the can.
    Her room a few hundred yards away was neat and orderly. She’d done her laundry that day and returned several books to the library. A typewritten note to her mother was on her bedside table. The receipt for the petrol can was found amongst various other receipts in the pencil tray of her desk drawer. On her bedroom floor were the pipe, mesh screen and funnel bowl she’d used to inhale the fumes of a powerful hallucinogenic drug.
    Her room-mate, a girl called Talaith Robinson, had said in interview that Bryony had been unhappy and unsettled for a while, but that she really hadn’t anticipated her taking such a drastic step. The report had been prepared by a detective sergeant and signed off by his senior officer, a DI John Castell.
    It’s become customary, I learned as I read, to conduct an in-depth investigation into the state of mind of suicide victims. As Bryony’s recovery was still very much in doubt, CID had requested a psychological report be prepared in her case too. Dr Oliver, as the psychiatrist with overall responsibility for Bryony’s mental health, had produced it.
    Dr Oliver’s summary note at the front told me that Bryony Carter was a young woman who felt a strong need to be loved and taken care of, who wanted to surrender responsibility for her own life to another, kinder and stronger partner – a soulmate who would take care of her. The report talked about a strained relationship with both parents. The father, who had a time-consuming job, was rarely around and the mother never seemed particularly interested in Bryony, the youngest of her four children. Bryony had grown up believing herself to be the family nuisance.
    The insecure, unhappy child had grown into a passive woman, aching for love and attention. Although bright and pretty, Bryony was clingy and vulnerable in relationships, even friendships. At Cambridge, she suffered from insomnia and bad dreams. Towards the end of term, she’d been missing most of her classes. She’d been prescribed the antidepressant citalopram by her GP, a Dr Bell.
    The summary was followed by several pages of notes made during individual counselling sessions. I got up, took the empty carton to the sink and poured myself another glass of wine.
    I skimmed through the medical report on Bryony’s condition, mainly because most of the technical detail meant nothing to me. A brief reference to the drug that had been found in her system caught my eye. Dimethyltryptamine, or DMT. I’d never heard of it but a quick Google search told me it was just about the most powerful psychedelic drug known to mankind. A class-A drug in the UK, the substance is normally inhaled and produces short but very intense experiences in which perceptions of reality can significantly alter. Users reported seeing fairies, elves, angels, even God.
    The more I read, the more I couldn’t help a sense of irritation. Bryony had a family, a good education, an opportunity to study at one of the world’s most highly regarded universities. She had an awful lot more than me and I’d never been tempted to ruin a perfectly good Christmas party by getting high and setting fire to myself.
    On the other hand, if Dr Oliver was right, this vulnerable, needy girl had fallen victim to a group of people who got their kicks from the emotional damage and ultimate