Twelve Mad Men

by Ryan Bracha et al.

  Nevertheless she does as I demand, retreats up against the wall, where we've agreed she must stay. No interference.

  Another of my regular requests is to replace her but the hospital wouldn't comply. Said there wasn't anyone suitable.

  Fine, I'd replied, but get rid of her. Anyone but her.

  Who? they'd said.

  I know it's a ploy. Designed to shake something out of me. But it won't work. I resist. Paint these days.

  And write a bit too.

  April 2nd

  It's my birthday. Another year on. Friends, those I hadn't driven away, told me I should get back in the saddle. Whatever that means. Sounded dubious.

  And I find it hard, meeting people. Even harder after the love of your life was taken in a meaningless accident.

  I'd no desire to meet anyone. Ever again. But Jane wouldn't have it. Behind my back signed me up to an online dating agency. I only learnt about it when I received an email from an interested party.

  "All the rage," said Jane, then told me to shut my mouth, which had flapped open like a hangman's trapdoor.

  "Have you been keeping the diary as we discussed?" asks my shrink.

  "No," I lie.

  "Ok, good." She speaks with such certainty it's as if she can see into my heart, into my soul.

  I slap some more oil onto canvas, build another layer of red onto the yellow, make it burn hotter.

  I recline, stretch my spine, hear the tendons click as everything falls back into place. There's not much more I can add to the display for now. The flames are there, as are the screaming faces.

  It's supposed to be therapeutic, but all it does is make me relive the nightmare.

  April 3rd

  Had a great night out, felt like I'd never stopped laughing. First time that had happened for... well, forever. Too long. Got so drunk I'd finally given into Jane's nagging to go out on the date her agency organised.

  I've been back at work for a few months. Being an accountant at a medium sized company isn't a source of hilarity at the best of times. The finance department has its own office and very few visitors. Only other accountants seem to want to discuss fascinating stuff like cash flow ratios and net present values.

  Now, sales and marketing the next space along, they seem to be a laugh a minute. I'm surprised any work ever occurs. Training? Even worse. There's one guy, a northerner, never shuts up. Said it was his job to talk. Talk shite in reality.

  But I digress.

  I agreed to the date.

  Stupid mistake.

  "Is that it?" she asks.

  "What is it with all the questions?" I bite back, immediately kick myself.

  "My job," she says. Probably pleased I've reacted.

  I stand, retreat to my bed, lie down, keeping my eyes averted throughout. I shutter my vision.

  No mattress, hard board. At first they'd kept replacing the mattress, but, once I'd burned it a couple of times, the guards gave up. They didn't want the hassle. It's my way of increasing the punishment. Self-inflicted. For killing everyone. A tiny price to pay.

  I feel, more than hear her move again, glides on by. I fight down the anger. It's what she wants.

  Because she knows not to do it. I've painted a rectangle on the cell floor. Dashed lines as a demarcation. Like the technical box football managers cannot stray out of during a match. It's where she's supposed to stay, but often doesn't. If I'm to be observed, let me have some control.

  She's appraising my work, evaluating what it means. But it's simply a photo. A memory.

  April 4th

  The date. It went like a dream.

  "Best just to get on with it," Jane had said. So I did.

  She was as nervous as me. Turns out we work for the same company, but different buildings. She's in R&D, a boffin. Bright, very assured in her work, soft as putty in her personal life, though.

  Difficult divorce it seemed-aren't they always? I'd replied. No desire to discuss it, so I didn't press.

  We ate Italian. She laughed at my wine choice - Lambrusco.

  "No one drinks that anymore," she'd said.

  "Very under rated," I'd replied.

  The rest of the evening was a blur. Probably because I drank too much. Nerves.

  But I got her number. And a kiss. On both cheeks.

  Very European.

  "What are you trying to express?" she asks.

  I click open my eyes. Stare at the bulb overhead. It's behind toughened glass way up high, so it's hard to reach. But not impossible. Plastic too. So nothing sharp to slash my wrists with. Not that I want to die. Too early.

  I've managed to paint it red, much to their disgust. Something else they've eventually given up on. Tried to clean it off when I was out exercising, but I'd just paint it again.

  Of course it's red. What else could it be?

  "Death," I reply. Click my eyes shut again and watch the film playing in my head.

  April 30th

  It's a whirlwind. You hear about these things, but never believe they'll happen to you. Romances that blossom like spring flowers. Barren, cold earth one day, glorious blooms the next.

  We've seen each other constantly. She's stayed around at my place. Met the kids. My son hated her, no-one can replace his mother, of course. But my girl doted on Susan. Her presents, a continual stream of Disney DVDs probably helped.

  But then the kids have been a mess since their father left and their mother died. I'm just the stepdad, no genetic relationship binds us. But I feel a powerful responsibility. For the kids have no other family, my wife was an orphan.

  Jane wasn't so keen either, despite her earlier conviction. Says she's heard stuff about Susan.

  I don't care. Think I'll ask Susan to marry me soon. Give the children a mother again...

  I can hear her flipping through my art. The rattle of frame against frame as one knocks into the other.

  Oil is the latest medium. I've done watercolour, pen and ink, charcoal. But none have the dramatics of oil. It's the texture, see.

  I turn my head away. Don't want to see her face, can't see her face. It's too painful.

  Instead I raise my arms, stare at the scars. For I have them on the outside, as well as on my soul.

  Livid, puckered, ever present. I pick at a scab. Make the crimson flow.

  May 16th

  I can't fucking believe it. We're through. Over. Finito. Asked her to marry me. Flashed the expensive ring. She'd said no! Really lost her temper with me, said I'd ruined everything.

  I'm confused as hell. Ruined it how?

  She won't return my calls. My daughter is missing her, the boy and Jane don't. But for me light has turned to dark once more.

  "Look, you're bleeding again," she says.

  I can feel her leaning over, vision boring into me. It's definitely, I'm certain it's down to the guards. At her behest though. But it won't work.

  Keep my eyes closed, maybe she'll go away. Slither back to her own space. Leave me mine.

  "Cat got your tongue?" I know she likes that reference.

  "No." Not feline, a lizard. "You're making me uncomfortable."

  She apologises, but the expression lack sincerity. Hovers over me a moment longer, just to demonstrate I'm. It the boss. Retreats again. Temperature drops a little. But I'm sweating, like I've been leaning against a radiator on full blast.

  Pop open my eyes. They're feeling dry, but I can't cry.

  On the wall are flames.

  May 23rd

  The police have finally been. At last responded to my repeated calls. But a stony faced female PC, called Armitage, gave me a serious dressing down, rather than the support I'd hoped for.

  Told me to leave Susan alone. She ignored my protests of innocence. That it was she harassing me. Mud flinging accusations of seeing another woman. I'm not. A case of not wanting me, but no-one else being able to have me either, I think.

  Armitage wouldn't or couldn't accept that I was the one being harassed, rather than the harassee. Seems i
t has to be the man, can never the woman.

  She gave me a severe warning. Then left.

  My cell. It's on fire. Flames are everywhere. On every wall. Feet high, reaching as high to the ceiling as I can. I feel her tracing the patterns out, brushing her claws on the brickwork.

  Sets my synapses off.

  May 26th

  So I took things into my own hands. Bought a camcorder. Set it up in a bedroom, overlooking my drive, the street beyond, the fence and the park behind. Where she stands often, under a tree to watch me.

  Showed the footage to Armitage. I'm determined she'll believe me.

  But apparently it's not proper evidence, she said.

  Eventually she agreed to talk to Susan, there was a slew of reluctance in her voice. But I'd threatened to go higher, see her bosses, speak to the press. Generated a tic under her eye. As she left Armitage suggested I should keep a diary.

  First good idea she'd had.

  June 1st

  It did no good. Susan denied everything, even though I know it's her. PC Armitage told me again it was a lack of hard evidence. Slashed tyres, phone calls with no-one at the other end, smashed windows. Means nothing. It could be anyone. So I can't go around accusing people until there's a certainty of conviction.

  I told Armitage we can all make assumptions, asked her if she was a lesbian. It went rather quiet then...

  "Why are you here?" she asks. More questions.

  "You know why."

  "Tell me anyway."

  Anything to shut her up. "I killed people."

  "Did you?"

  I shrug. "They're dead."

  "Atonement then."

  "Yes. Every second of every day till it's my time."

  "But it will never be enough."

  "No."

  How can it be?

  August 9th

  Today I wished I'd died.

  The kids were home, couldn't stay at their friends any longer. Something woke me. A 6th sense. It was very late, or early depending on your perspective. The clock said 2.05am.

  Checked on the kids. Both asleep in their beds, curled up.

  I went downstairs, one step at a time. Listen after each minuscule descent. It was utterly silent.

  In the kitchen I found the cat. Sprawled at a funny angle. As I bent down to take a closer look, felt a sharp blow at the back of my head.

  Darkness.

  When I awoke it was light. But not because of the sun. My house was alight. I tried to get up. But didn't get far because of the steel handcuffs that bound me to the fence. Ratcheted tight around my wrist.

  "Don't worry!" she'd shouted, framed in the doorway, flames at her back. "They'll feel nothing."

  I struggled to understand her. Too much to take in. Head hurt.

  "It's not fair they suffer for your errors!"

  She smiled at me, then closed the door.

  Claws ripped out my guts right then. I pulled at the cuffs, tried to yank my arm off. But there was nothing I could do but watch my house burn. Flames licked upwards, blew out windows, turned everything to ash. It roared.

  I was still screaming when the fire brigade and PC Armitage arrived.

  They brought me here that day, and I've never been anywhere else since.

  I feel a hot finger on my cheek.

  "Observe me," she says.

  "No." A whisper.

  "See me!"

  "No!"

  But I can't help myself. Look up into her face. Susan's. She's on fire. Leans over to kiss me. Flames belch out of her mouth.

  I scream.

  Five

  Benny lights another cigarette for each of us, before passing one to me. Keith screams again. Another lick of the flames from whoever.

  “It’s probably because he’s ginger,” says Benny, blowing smoke out as he says it.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well, they can’t handle the heat as well as most, can they?”

  “I think that’s just the sun,” I say, “I’m sure we all deal with fire the same.”

  “I was kidding,” he says.

  “Oh.”

  He laughs as he takes another drag on his cigarette.

  “You’ll need a better sense of humour around here, mate,” he says.

  You need to be funnier, I don’t say.

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” I say, and take another drag. The nicotine influx has become the norm by now, and it’s now the carcinogens that are working on my senses. The taste of the tar leaves a bad taste in my mouth, and I flick my second cig away, half finished. Benny seems unimpressed, but says nothing. Instead he changes the subject.

  “I’m gonna need to go and carry on with these lights if we want to chill out later,” he says. I nod with a half-smile and a roll of my eyes that mirrors that of the one he’s been practising all night.

  “Do I need to carry on here then, yeah?”

  “Do you mind?”

  Do I mind? Do I have a fucking choice, is a better question. I shrug. He pulls more joy from the cig, and flicks away the butt, before he closes the window. His hand wafts away the smoke as if it makes a difference. There’s nobody of authority other than us around here, and the corridor stinks of smoke anyway, so even if there was it’d probably be a huge case of closing the door whilst we watch the horse galloping off into the horizon. A thought occurs from earlier, and I start to take my chance to ask a question but he speaks before I do.

  “Okay, cheers. It shouldn’t be too much longer,” he says, pulling himself upright and straightening his trousers. As if he needs to. The fat, and that massive cock are doing the ironing for him.

  “Who’s Bracha?” I ask.

  “I think I know what the problem is,” he says, “I’ll sort it,” he says, “then we can order a curry or something.”

  “Is he the boss around here?” I ask.

  “What kind of curry do you like?” he asks, “I prefer something hot, but I like it to have flavour,” he says, “y’know?”

  Benny neither answers my question, nor awaits a response to his own. He just slaps a hard hand onto my shoulder and walks away. The moonlight casts a pale blue glow against his big back as he wanders away from me. I look out onto the grounds of St. David’s. My imagination invents yet another something skipping through the bushes and across the grass, and I turn to mention it to Benny but he’s gone. The door to the stairs remains still. I shake my head, but it’s not doing anything to fetch Benny back into the hall. The light above Keith’s door flickers into being. The moth makes its way along the ceiling some more, and goes toes to toe with the radiance behind the plastic casing once again. This place is doing my head in.

  I cough some fresh tarry phlegm from my throat, swallow it loudly, and then I let my gaze settle on the first door on my right. It’s another grated door. They always seem to hold the fruitiest of cakes in my short experience so far. Before I know what’s happening I’m standing there before it. I let my eyes flicker to the name plate. On the slate it reads Wilson, Mark, but beneath, probably by the same hand the same prankster from Furchtenicht’s door, probably Benny, it reads Mary Magdalene.

  Fuck’s sake, I don’t say, as I knock a steady rhythm onto Wilson’s door.

  Mary Magdalene

  By Mark Wilson

  “Hello? I’m here to fix the lights. Can you get in the corner, please?” I press my ear up against the door, listening for shuffling to confirm that he’s done as I asked. All I hear is a rhythmic slurping, slap sound. I listen a little closer. The meaty slurp sounds like it’s coming from a distance away so I slip my key in the door, turn and push gently, keeping a firm hold of the handle, in case I have to slam it closed again.

  Peeking my face through the grate, I see Wilson in the corner. More precisely, I see the back of him. He’s sitting in the corner like I asked, but I get the distinct impression that he was already there before I came knocking. He’s not that tall, and only lightly built but even from behind it’s clear that he’s powerful. He
has that wiry, coiled spring musculature, I can see it in the movement of his shoulder. I can see his body quite clearly as there’s nothing covering it.

  His right arm is moving with some force, repeatedly hammering away at something as he sits. He’s talking to himself, but I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. It’s not the accent, it’s his voice, so gentle. Like he’s talking to a lover. He’s facing the wall to his right, staring at a photograph. I move a little closer, just close enough to hear better and get a look at the image. It’s a tattered photo from some sort of boarding school. There are about a hundred kids, half a dozen nuns and maybe twenty priests, all standing in rows posing for the camera. I peer in a little closer and start counting. Fourteen of the priests and two nuns have a very thick, very bold tick made with a red marker on their faces.

  I cock my ear to the left and hold my breath. Wilson hasn’t made a move, just that piston he has for a right arm pumping up and down in a decidedly masturbatory manner. So long as he’s happy. I take another step closer, finally I can hear that gentle voice.

  “Cotter, Docherty, McNally, O’Donnell, McGuire…”

  He lists surnames, maybe ten, maybe twenty and starts again, tugging at his cock with each name whispered. I’ve somehow forgotten why I’m here or the danger present and lean in for a closer look.

  Wilson stands and turns quite gracefully as my foot scuffs the stone floor a little louder than intended. The cock-bashing hasn’t stopped, or even slowed, it hasn’t changed pace, I’m suddenly very grateful that it hasn’t sped up. He tilts his head very slightly. His shaved head glints in the moonlight and his eyes widen as he takes me in. There are scars on his chest, low down just above the abdomen. They look nasty.