by Shaun Meeks
“Now get on the ground, face down, hands behind your head.”
I did as I was told. I tried to avoid the glass as best I could, but some of it poked into me regardless. As soon as I was on the ground, the cop was on my back. He dug a knee into the back of my neck, and placing me in cuffs. I was limp, not going to struggle, in hopes of avoiding some extra attention from his fists or boots. Seeing as I was in a very public place and no doubt people had already started to pull out their cellphones in hopes of recording some tragedy they could post online, it was doubtful the cop would try anything until we got somewhere much more private.
Once I was secured, he called in to his dispatcher and told them he had someone under arrest and needed additional units. He asked someone close by if they needed medical attention. I heard an unearthly sound that could have been a voice, and knew it was the melted-faced guy who’d touched me.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Another strange, gurgling noise. “Okay, but I’m going to need statements from the three of you. So stay put.”
I was then pulled to my feet. My wrists strained against the cuffs and I winced at the pain, but it was short-lived, at least. Before taking me to the back office—as he was Pay Duty, he didn’t have a cruiser—he grabbed my Tincher off the floor. He told the store manager to stay with the victims and we were off.
The room he took me to was small, with a scarred desk and a few chairs. Not much else. I wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be a lunchroom or where they just brought people who might get arrested for shoplifting. Whatever it was, it was nothing to write home about.
The officer pushed me down into a cheap, weak chair and tossed my knife down on the other end of the table. He pulled out his notebook, scribbled down a few things, and then began to read me my rights.
It’s weird. If you watch a lot of TV or movies from America, you get used to the Miranda warning there. The whole right to remain silent speech appears in almost any movie or TV show with a cop as a main character. Well, in Canada, it’s nothing like that at all. You pretty much have one right here, and that’s to telephone a lawyer.
“Alright, sir, I’m letting you know you’re under arrest for assault, and possession of a weapon. It’s my duty to inform you that you have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay. You have the right to telephone any lawyer you wish. You also have the right to advice from a legal aid lawyer. You may apply to the Ontario Legal Aid Plan for assistance…”
He went on, providing me a phone number from the back of his memo book, and asked if I wanted to call a lawyer and if I understood my rights. I told him I did understand and no, I didn’t want to call a lawyer. I didn’t know any lawyers, really, so what use would that be? I could try calling some legal aid lawyer, an underpaid newbie that might be good one day, but what where they now? Nobody. They’d be someone more willing to try to deal my life away than listen to the truth.
There was one choice though, something that might help.
“I don’t want to call a lawyer, but I would like to call one of your detectives. Jonathan Garcia? He knows me, and he’ll believe what I’m going to have to tell him.”
“Why don’t you tell me instead? If a simpleton like me can’t wrap my head around the story of how you smoked some meth or crack and attacked three people with a huge-ass knife, I’ll call the detective for you. How’s that sound?”
Not good. There was no way I was going to be able to tell him or anyone else they might send about what had happened or what I do. It had to be Garcia or someone else I knew. I accepted that this was not going to end any time soon, so I just lowered my head and let him rattle off about how I was an asshole, a psycho, and he’d make sure he showed up at court to throw the book at me.
“Guys like you, I’m sure you have a record as long as Yonge Street. You think you can just wig out and get away with it, and you usually manage to wriggle out of any real charges, right? That’s why you’re still out here walking around with normal people. You probably gave up your dealer or some other skid, and you’re back out to get your fix and fuck with people. Well, not this time. My brother’s a crown attorney, and I’ll be the star witness against you.”
Maybe I did want a lawyer after all. I sat back in the chair and stared at him for a second, trying to think of something to say; clever or helpful, I didn’t care. He was looking at me like someone he’d just caught having sex with his daughter, and every time I had an idea, I bit it back, not wanting to make it worse.
He pulled his memo book back out and started writing again.
“So, what’s your name?”
“Dillon,” I told him, knowing I was defeated for the meantime.
“Last name?” I told him my wallet with my driver’s license was in my back pocket. I didn’t really want to talk. I wanted to think, and it looked like I was about to have quite a bit of time to do that. It was still early enough that if they took me down to the station, processed me, saw I had no previous charges, and maybe contacted Garcia, I’d get out of all this and still make it home before midnight.
He told me to lean forward, pulled my wallet out, and then ordered me to stand up. I did as I was told and he asked if I had any weapons, needles, or drugs on me. I told him that aside from a pair of gloves, a set of keys, and a cellphone, I had nothing else on me. He relieved me of all of that, and when he threw my cellphone down on the table, I saw the screen was shattered beyond anything salvageable. Great! Another notch added to the amazing day and week I was having.
He continued to roughly search me for anything I might have missed. Sure, maybe I had a rocket launcher, or a dildo hidden somewhere. He found nothing, and pushed me back down onto the chair. Then he went back to writing, and I went back to thinking.
What was going on? Things were starting to make less and less sense. It would be one thing if I was just stressed out and my mind had snapped, but could I be so far gone that I was seeing the crazy shit I’d just seen, hearing those weird sounds, and feeling that darkness spreading over me? That was something, it had to be. There was no way that could all be in my head. I was starting to feel like someone on a bad trip, as though I’d had a drink spiked with LSD and the world had gone batshit bananas. I was off the wall like Lucille Ball.
The memory of the melted-face guy touching my arm and the black stuff on me made me want to suddenly puke. I could still feel the cold darkness all over, surrounding me, trying to pull me down to some hellish death place. There was nothing to compare the feeling to. It was like a physical form of depression, or what a slow death must feel like. If this was what Chance had been going through, maybe having his head ripped off was the best thing: a relief. And there was still the chance I would be joining my deceased client in the world of twist-off tops. If this wasn’t just some sort of madness I was sharing with the man, something I was seeing because of his case and my own personal break down, then there could be something out to get me, something from the church. I needed to get back to Niagara Falls, or at least give Winger a call and see if she’d pieced anything together.
There was a knock at the door and the officer turned to me.
“Don’t move a muscle, fuckhead!” he barked, and I obeyed. I watched as he opened it. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting them to send a sergeant. How are you, ma’am?”
“Fine. What’ve you got?” a woman asked, and then the cop who’d arrested me moved out of the way and she walked in.
I was fine for five seconds.
She was normal-looking, dark hair pulled back in a bun, dark eyes, and a face as stern as one could be. She walked right over to me, hands on her hip, shaking her head as she came, and then it all went to hell.
I couldn’t help the sound that came out of me as she came apart. It was my new living nightmare. I opened my mouth and made the most unflattering sounds as I pushed away from her, toppling over in my chair, doing everything I could to avoid her drooling al
l over me. I was in mid-fall and she reached out, the arresting officer running across the room yelling at me to calm down. I hit the ground hard, my cuffed hands behind my back crushed under my weight and for a second I was sure my wrists were broken.
I lay there, looking up at the stained ceiling, but the lady’s melting-chocolate-bar face came back into view, trying to coat me in her mud-slick mouth drippings. I tried to kick her, yelled for her to get the fuck away from me, not to get that shit on me. I may have even called her a monster, or a demon, or both. I’m not sure. As soon as I swung my leg at her head, I saw something in her hand and felt my world light up in a way I’ve never felt before.
It was the first time I’d been tasered.
But not the first time I pissed myself and passed out.
The darkness of unconsciousness was kind of nice.
And Then the Days All Become One
The next time I opened my eyes, I had no idea where I was. I was groggy, and found I could barely focus my eyes. My mouth felt as though it was full of paste and I was filled with a terrible need for water. I tried to call out for someone to help me, to give me something to drink, but when I couldn’t find the words, so I quickly gave up on that. I figured it might be better to figure out where I was and how I’d gotten there.
One thing I could tell: I was strapped down on a very hard bed. My arms, legs and head felt as though they were glued down. It was so bright in the room; the hum of the florescent lights sang out like cicadas on a hot summer day. I did manage to call out then, but nobody answered, so I guessed I was alone. I tried to sit up, but the straps held me down firmly. There was no way this was a jail. I’ve never heard of getting this kind of treatment at a police station, so that could only mean one thing, and it wasn’t good.
Towards my feet, I heard a door being opened and I started to call out.
“Hey, who’s there? Where am I?” I was surprised anything came out of my mouth this time, though the sound of my own voice seemed alien to me.
“Oh, I see you’re finally awake,” said a man with a soft and gentle voice “Good. I guess the sedatives we gave you when you arrived have worn off a bit.”
“Why was I given sedatives? Was I in an accident?” My mind was still a shadowed hallway, too foggy to remember anything beyond waking up in the morning. “How bad is it?”
From my peripherals, I could see a man pull up a chair and sit down beside me. I assumed he was doctor, though he wasn’t dressed in a lab coat. Instead, he wore a light blue sweater over a plaid shirt, no tie, and looked down at me through thick, horn rimmed glasses. He smiled and sat down so he was just out of sight. I stared up at the ceiling while he flipped through some pages and cleared his throat.
“I’m Doctor Marshall. Can you tell me your name?”
“It’s Dillon, I think,” I said, confused, hoping he was going to untie me and tell me what was going on. “Can you let me out of these restraints?”
“Not right now. They’re on for a reason. Can you tell me where you live and the current date?” I had to think about it for a second, and then I gave him the best answer I could. I hoped it was right. “Very good. Now, I know you must be a bit confused, out of sorts, but I want to ask you a few questions and help you. What’s the last thing you remember, Dillon, before you woke up here?”
I tried to recall, but everything seemed so foggy still. My head hurt, my body ached, and my mouth was so dry. Still, I ran through my memory as best I could and tried to bring anything up—just catch a whiff of a small memory, a piece of something I could grab hold of and ride towards something bigger. I looked for a ripple, a trickle of my past, and there was something there. Water. The lake. I was sitting in my car, drinking coffee, and looking out over the water during a storm. But why was I there? Did something happen there? Did I fall in the water?
“Anything coming to you, Dillon?” he asked, and I told him about the lake. “And why were you there?”
“I wanted to think about something. I was stressed out, I know that, but I’m not sure what it was.”
“That’s just the sedatives. It’s good you’re getting pieces. It’ll all come back soon. Now, do you remember what you did after leaving the lake?”
“No. Not really. I guessing I fell in the lake or there was some sort of accident. I figure whatever happened next was bad, and that’s why I’m here.”
“I don’t want to give it to you, Dillon. I need you to think and let it come to you. Think back to the lake, you’re in your car. Where did you go after you left there?”
I closed my eyes and used my memory like an old VCR; let’s hit instant replay. There wasn’t much to see there. Everything was grey. It was like I was sitting in my car, looking out at the water again, only a fog had started to roll in and was burying the world, my memory, in a blanket of haze. I went to the lake to think, to sort things out. Then I left. I drove my car away from the lake, headed down the road to…
“I was going to Godfrey’s,” I said, as something crept back into my head. It was a small, but certain memory.
“Who’s Godfrey? A friend?”
“Sort of. He’s more of a business acquaintance,” I told him. At least that was still there and easy to remember, so I at least knew it wasn’t amnesia. I knew him, my name, Rouge…oh no…I knew why I was at the lake! I was messed up about her, and having to break it off with her, but I didn’t really want to. So why was I? Why did I think I needed end my relationship if I didn’t want to? I didn’t share that with the doctor, though.
“Alright, Dillon. Let’s follow that road and see where it leads us. You left the lake and started to head over to Godfrey’s. Do you remember why?”
“I needed to talk to him about something.”
“Was it personal or work-related?”
“I’m not sure,” I told him, unable to remember where he even lived at the moment. I knew I was going there, but every time I tried to put it together, I just kept coming back to thinking about Rouge, her face dancing around in my head.
“Okay. I’m going to show you some pictures, and I want you to tell me if they mean anything to you.”
“What kind of pictures?”
“Sketches for the most part. We found them in your car.”
I told him it was okay, and then from his direction came a note pad. My eyes had a bit of trouble focusing as he opened it to a page that had been marked with a small red flag sticker. I blinked a few times to clear my vision and saw a few strange, hand-drawn symbols. I knew them, but how? They seemed familiar, but it was more like déjà vu than an actual, solid memory. I couldn’t remember the context of any of them, though I knew I was the one who’d drawn them. How I knew that detail is anyone’s guess.
“I’m not sure. I think I remember them, but I can’t put my finger on what they are. Did I draw them?” I asked, wanting some sort of confirmation to my suspicion.
“I was hoping you could tell me, Dillon. There’s a lot I hope you can tell me, but maybe you should rest a little more and we can take this up later.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on? Please. Am I hurt? Is Rouge okay?”
“Who’s Rouge?” Good! If they didn’t know, that meant she wasn’t with me when whatever happened, happened.
“My girlfriend.”
“You have a girlfriend named Rouge, as in the French word for red?”
“Her name is Rouge Hills. Well, her stage name is, but I just call her that all the time.”
“Stage name?”
“She’s a burlesque performer,” I explained, and gave her real name and tried to give her phone number, but it wasn’t all there. Not a surprise. With smartphones, who remembers anyone’s phone numbers these days? “Her number is in my phone. You can get it there. Can someone call her and tell her I’m okay?”
“Your phone was broken when they brought you in. Guess it happened duri
ng the incident.”
“What incident? What happened?”
“I need you to let it come back to you. The sedatives and the medication may be making things a little difficult right now, but it’ll come back to you, Dillon. It’s better the memories come back naturally so we can know what happened wasn’t a psychotic episode. So, do your best to work things out, and when I see you next, you should be able to tell me what happened and then we can go from there.”
Psychotic episode? What the hell happened? Suddenly I wasn’t so sure I wanted to know.
“Can you at least take these straps off me?”
“I’m afraid not. I will remove the one for your head if you promise not to try anything improper. Deal?”
“Sure,” I said, a little indignant maybe. What was he expecting me to do, bite him or something?
He reached over me and undid something and the pressure on my head was relieved and it felt so good. It felt as though a weird tension was suddenly gone from my neck and shoulders. He pulled the straps away from me, and I turned to look at him, and almost laughed when I saw he looked almost exactly like Mr Dressup, the guy from the kids show in the 70’s and 80’s. I didn’t though, because I got a flash of his clipboard and there was something on there that told me I really had no idea what had happened.
“Where am I?” I asked, even though I’d started to have a pretty good idea where we were.
“All in good time, Dillon. Try to get some rest and I’ll be back soon. When I do come back, maybe we’ll both have a few more answers for each other.”
He stood up and walked across the room. I watched him go, and a nurse met him there. He told her to ease up on the sedative, but to continue with the Clozapine. I knew what that was, and it made sense seeing as the clipboard in his hands had the CAMH logo on it. CAMH was the new way to be politically correct about it. Calling it the Center for Addiction and Mental Health sounded so much better than the Queen Street Mental Hospital.
