Louder Than Sirens ➳ Larry

day four

day four

The rusty door hinges squeak open as Louis walks into the main office. There's a long, wooden desk against the furthest wall. An old woman with white hair shifts through a stack of overflowing files and folders. Her circular-lensed glasses teeter at the tip of her nose. Her face is long and narrow and filled with wrinkles.

Framed photographs and metal plaques decorate the eggshell walls. One photo in particular catches Louis's attention— the original Whittingham Asylum constructed in the late 1860's. The old building was made of bricks and stone, standing only two stories tall. It was surrounded by an iron fence and thriving flowers.

The old asylum burned down at the turn of the century, causing its temporary closure and reconstruction. The police had suspected incendiary, but the arsonist was never found. The new building, which still stands today, is much larger and extravagant. It holds upwards of five hundred patients. It draws in sick people from around the country and across borders, despite its poor reputation

Louis frowns at the old, faded photograph. He blinks a few times before turning towards the desk, standing in front of the white-haired lady. She doesn't look up from her paperwork until Louis awkwardly clears his throat.

"Oh, hello," she smiles, showing a row of yellowed teeth. "You must be Mr. Tomlinson."

Louis nods. "You must be Mrs. Emmerson," he notes, eyeing her nametag.

"I am indeed. How can I assist you?"

"I was wondering if I could see a patient's file." Mrs. Emmerson raises an eyebrow suspiciously. "For investigative purposes, of course," he clarifies.

"Why do you need it?"

"I'm afraid that's classified, ma'am."

"Right," she hums. Her pallid, chapped lips press into a thin line. Everything about her is pale, from her skin to her clothes to her ashen eyes. "What's the patient's name?"

"Harry Styles," Louis says sweetly. His name makes his heart swell.

She glances up from the stack of vanilla-coloured folders. "Harry Styles?"

"Yes."

A look of concern crosses over her face. She seems scared, perhaps, as if the very sound of his name sends her into a state of pure fear. Maybe he has a bad reputation.

"He's dangerous," the woman says softly, carding through the organized files in alphabetical order. Her bony fingers curl around Harry's folder, which is significantly fuller than the others. She slides it across the desk into Louis's awaiting hands.

"Thank you," Louis murmurs. He tucks the file under his arm, frowning. "If you don't mind me asking, why do you think he's dangerous? Did he do something?"

Mrs. Emmerson sighs quietly. "Harry's a sweetheart sometimes, but one of his personalities is manipulative and dangerous. Deadly, even."

"Zayn?"

"Yes, I believe that's what he calls it."

"What did he do?"

The woman leans back in her squeaky, leather chair. She shuffles the files to straighten them again. "Everything you need to know is in there," she says, eyeing Harry's folder.

Louis nods briefly to show his gratitude. "Thank you, ma'am. I appreciate your help."

Mrs. Emmerson smiles as the detective leaves the office, letting the door click shut behind him. The office connects to a wide, open lobby near the front entrance. Patients in white gowns scatter across the tiled floors, sitting on benches and wandering around cluelessly. Barred windows reveal the asylum's garden with overgrown weeds and vine-covered fences. The blank sky is as grey as smoke and as dull and lusterless as coal.