Twelve Mad Men

by Ryan Bracha et al.

  "And then what?"

  "At that moment Bohemian Rhapsody came on. Have you ever heard that song, Dr Lewis? I absolutely loathe it. Hailed by all as a classic when in actual fact it is six minutes of nonsense. My sympathy for Shelton was replaced by contempt and I shot him between the eyes as his stupid, sloppy mouth kept trying to smile. Again, I must re-iterate, that it was painless, clean and clinical."

  Dr Lewis has now gone from being professionally fascinated to being personally mentally-assaulted. I'm pretty sure she wants out of here now, but she will have been told to ask about all four of my terminations. The one that, much to my regret, lead to my arrest. Silence hangs in the air and after a minute or so she's still sat there looking like a starving dog so I might as well take the lead here.

  "Presumably you'll want to know about the most recent one as well, Dr Lewis?"

  She fumbles around and lights another cigarette. She looks at me but doesn't make eye-contact.

  "Yes I do, Mr Melluish. Tell me about the man in the penthouse."

  "The man in the penthouse, Dr Lewis, was known to me only as Imnez. I met him for the first time about three months ago, when I'd been getting threatened at work by unsavoury types trying to collect on forged prescriptions. A friend of a friend put me in contact with him, and told me what services he could provide."

  "And he sold you your gun?"

  "Indeed he did."

  "You killed him three weeks later. Why?"

  "Because he was an arms dealer."

  Dr Lewis looks completely incredulous, and raises her voice for the first time.

  "But you bought a gun off him!"

  As ever, I am the reflecting pool of calm.

  "Yes that is correct, Dr Lewis, but I am a man of intellect and virtue. Imnez was selling guns to eighteen year olds who referred to themselves as gangsters, to petty thieves and drug dealers, to anyone, regardless of acumen, who would pay the requisite price. I had to stop that process."

  "By shooting him yourself?"

  She is screeching now. She's lost her professional facade and she's lost control. I've broken her. She won't be back again.

  "Yes. I shot him with the very gun he sold me. Once again, quick, clinical, precise. He was an enormous man though, I shot him three times to be on the safe side. It is to my intense regret that I hadn't thought of the possibility that the CID may have been watching his apartment. I was arrested when I alighted from the lift in the building's lobby and a little while later I found myself here."

  The cigarette protruding from Dr Lewis's fingers has a good inch of ash on it, which falls onto the desk as she jerks herself out of her reverential trance. She shuffles her papers and tries to look like a qualified psychiatrist, whatever they look like.

  "Mr Melluish..."

  "Please Dr Lewis, call me Vincent, there's no need to be so formal."

  She drops her head, removes her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose with her index finger and thumb. The classic sign of someone who is mentally spent. She looks up at me, again without making eye-contact, and almost seems haunted in some way, her eyes wide and pink. She inhales deeply before speaking.

  "Vincent, you freely admit to these terrible crimes, and you show not even the slightest hint of remorse. You seem to view these murders, these killings that you have committed, as no more than everyday occurrences, no more serious than crossing a road or posting a letter. You don't seem to realise that this is not how society operates. I have never met a human being with such utter distain for his fellow man. It is my duty as a professional to report back to the courts that you are a severe danger to those around you and should be kept in solitary confinement for the rest of your life. You are without question sociopathic and almost certainly insane. In all my career, you are instantly the most mentally deranged person I have ever met."

  She looks like she's about to burst into tears, her amateurish analysis having provided some sort of catharsis for her, but she's not getting the last word here. I stand up, and she recoils, even though the clank of the handcuff chain against the steel ring on the wall reassures her that I can't get within ten feet of her. I stare at her and make my eyes boar into hers. I hold her gaze for the first time and she doesn't look away.

  " You may think I'm insane for what I did, Dr Lewis, but all I did was to painlessly end the lives of people who were too unpleasant or stupid to exist. Last week, a pregnant woman in Pakistan was stoned to death in front of cheering crowds because she married someone who worshipped a different invisible man in the sky to her family. Yet a few years ago a wealthy couple drank and socialised as their infant daughter was abducted whilst alone in a foreign country, and they were made martyrs and millionaires by the idiotic general public who bought into their lies. Stem cell researchers have studies which suggest that they could find a cure for cancer within five years, but they can't get public funding because the Catholic church have vetoed it. The Catholic church which has protected clergymen who have sexually abused those that trust them for hundreds of years. These things are the real insanities Dr Lewis, and they happen every single day in full public view and no-one bats an eyelid. I may have terminated four lives, but given the time and resources I would have done thousands, tens of thousands possibly. The fact that I am no longer willing to witness such ignorance and atrocity all the time doesn't make me insane, it makes me honest. And although it may make you feel terribly uncomfortable, there is a tiny, tiny part of you that wishes that you had the will and clarity of vision that I have. You can write up your little report there and go home and watch your soap operas and go out drinking and go to the gym, whatever, but on the day you die you'll realise that your life's work meant absolutely nothing. Mine will mean everything."

  I take in the look of glassy-eyed mesmerisation on her face, and slowly close my eyes and sit back down. She collects her papers together, then without glancing back at me steps briskly to the door and hammers on it frantically. The guard lets her out and looks at me with the standard forced disgust. Once the door is shut I stretch out my leg and with the toe of my boot I'm able to slide the stray piece of paper from her handbag back over to my cot. It is a delivery invoice from Amazon for a DVD box set of Sex In The City. It has her home address on it.

  I will decide over the next twenty-four hours whether Emily Lewis of 16 Bellfield Court will survive, (her choice of viewing material will weigh heavily against her) as tomorrow night the fatter of the two security guards, Gary, will have his weekly adulterous tryst in the cleaning cupboard with the girl who brings the laundry round and my escape plan will be put into operation.

  My work will continue...

  Seven

  “Interesting,” he says, after I reveal my favourite film, “I did not expect that. Usually the hired help around here are so terminally bland. The other guard, Gary, for example, he enjoys the music of Coldplay. He sings those rancid tunes to irritate me. Tell me, did you think it was better than the book?”

  The man seems to want to get into something of a pop culture conversation, and I don’t trust myself not to fall into a trap, but without a further thought I feel my mouth opening, and the words come spilling out like the remains of last night’s vindaloo from a particularly hungover arsehole.

  “I enjoyed them both in different ways,” I say, “the film was less open to interpretation, but it was still a brilliant adaptation. It wouldn’t be my favourite film if it weren’t would it?”

  Miles tilts his head just slightly as he looks at me, an intrigued expression on his face.

  “What’s your favourite music?” he asks.

  “I thought you said I had one chance at redemption?” I say suspiciously. He rubs his chin with his free hand as he laughs.

  “I suppose I did say that, and I do hate liars,” he concedes, “but indulge me all the same, wouldn’t you? I do so hate it when the only conversation I can get out of anybody is all about why I killed her, or why his children will miss him since I shot him, you know?”

&n
bsp; I sigh, well aware that I’m walking a fine line. I shouldn’t be engaging them like this. Miles frowns at my exhalation.

  “Oh, I’m sorry for pining a little intelligent conversation Mr Sighsworth. Gary does have you on a tight lead doesn’t he? Do you have better places to be?”

  I sigh again, a little more impatiently this time, and I roll my eyes. I should have indulged him all along. Just for some fucking peace.

  “Okay, I’m into- Wait. Who the fuck is Gary?”

  Miles’ face cracks into a satisfied grin, and his legs spin back onto his mattress, that same pained crunch of the springs, and he settles down, his free hand comes back to rest on his gut.

  “It would appear I’ve said too much,” he smiles, “I won’t kill you, by the way, a little consolation for you, eh?”

  “Seriously,” I say, “Who’s Gary?”

  Miles closes his eyes as he shifts around on the bed, trying to find a comfortable spot. Says nothing.

  “Is he Bracha?” I ask.

  Miles hums Lux Aeterna, the orchestral theme tune of Requiem for a Dream. The film I told him was my favourite.

  “Does Gary work with Benny?”

  His free hand comes up to conduct the invisible orchestra as he builds up to a crescendo.

  “Answer me! For fuck’s sake!”

  A door slams. Benny. I look down upon the musical fruitcake.

  “This isn’t over, Allen.”

  His performance stops immediately. He bolts upright until the short chain of his cuff halts him, and he eyeballs me venomously.

  “For that, you die tonight.”

  I exit the cell and smash the door closed. Before I know it I’m bounding down the stairs two at a time. Did I lock that door? It doesn’t matter. He’s chained up. I slip back into the ground floor corridor. The therapy rooms pass me by one after the other. Bleeding therapy, intimidation therapy, electrical therapy, medicinal therapy, hypno-regression therapy, alternate therapy. The scratches on the door frame. They’re from finger nails. They’re from men who did not want to enter those rooms. They’re from the inmates here. Not residents.

  I round the corner quickly, and come crashing face to face into Benny. He stands firm and I bounce from him, onto the floor. My torch, once again goes skittering across the hallway floor.

  “Alright?” he asks, an amused look in his eyes as he pulls me up from the deck, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Who’s Gary?” I ask, my fists clenching and unclenching. He looks down to them, and rolls his eyes.

  “You’ve seen Vincent, eh?”

  “Allen, yeah.”

  “That’s what he calls me,” he says, “it’s like a game we play.”

  “A game?”

  “Yeah. It started a while back. He only answers to Vincent Melluish,” he says, “so I started only answering to Gary,” he says, “just to wind him up. In the end it just stuck.”

  None of us says anything after that. I’m still catching my breath, and I let his explanation work its way into my logic filters. I take the time to check his features. Is he lying? I don’t know. It does seem like a plausible excuse. In this place of all places, that seems like a very plausible explanation.

  “Look, I think I’ve got the lights fixed,” he says.

  His eyes remain on mine.

  “I need you to go up and check,” he says.

  His beard is gone.

  “What happened to your beard?” I ask.

  “I just need you to get to the top of the stairs, and shout down if they’re on, that’s all.”

  No. I won’t do it. The fat lump has ignored my questions all fucking night. If he wants any more help out of me then he can start fucking answering them.

  “No, listen to me, Benny,” I say, doing my best to stop from raising my voice, “you had a beard upstairs,” I say, “something’s not right. Who the fuck are you?”

  The echo of a door slamming somewhere above us ricochets from every greasy surface in the place. Benny looks at me, unnerved.

  “You locked Vincent’s door, right?”

  I nod.

  “Yes. I did. I think.”

  “You think? Aw, fuck.”

  Benny turns on his heels and leaves me alone.

  “Wait!” I call out, but he’s gone. I rapidly step after him, trying to keep up with him but for a big guy he can shift. By the time I reach the corner of the hallway he’s gone. The brown sign from earlier. It reads Confusion Therapy. I shout his name. Nothing. I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t do it. The place is breaking me. I let Benny run off to wherever and I head back to the staff room. I’m not doing this anymore. Fuck my bills. Fuck my rent. Fuck everything. I’d rather be unemployed than have another minute here.

  The door to the staff room swings open, and he’s there. Benny. Fat, annoying, bearded Benny.

  “Hey, you’re here, I managed to fix the lights,” he says, “it was just a faulty switch. Emergency over,” he smiles.

  “What?” I ask incredulously, “What the fuck is happening?”

  “What do you mean?” he asks, pulling a beer from the staff room fridge. The buzzing of the bulb overhead scratches at my eardrum. It makes my eyes hurt.

  “You just went upstairs. You didn’t have a beard. You. Who the fuck are you?”

  Benny sighs.

  “I’m Gary,” he says, “Benny’s brother,” he says “Benny’s twin brother.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “I don’t work here,” he says, “I just help out.”

  The Twin Towers

  By Ryan Bracha

  Benny and Gary are identical twins. Except that Gary has a beard. All their lives they were bundled together. A team. A package. Double trouble. They didn’t used to be called Benny and Gary. They used to be called something else.

  When they were twelve, they took up boxing. They would show up together at the local gym, identical bags slung over each shoulder. They wore identical blue shorts, with tight white vests, and they wore identical gloves. They both stood at almost six feet tall even at that early age. The trainer at the gym, Jackie McVeigh called them The Twin Towers, and he coached the boys for years. Had every intention of raising them through the ranks together, a formidable duo that would carry the McVeigh name into the big time.

  The thing was, Gary wasn’t quite as naturally talented as his brother. He would only ever reach the levels of Club Fighter, never to be a true contender, simply a journeyman who’d take his fair share of beatings and walk away with the loser’s pot. Where Benny was the real ability who would likely get his shot the world stage, Gary would probably nurse broken cheeks for months before he could climb back into the ring and take another beating.

  This wasn’t a major concern for Gary, he could take a punch, that’s what he was good at, but Jackie McVeigh, he had other ideas. He had his dream of two championship fighters. The Twin Towers. Once upon a time, he took the boys to one side, and he put something to them. An idea. Jackie McVeigh suggested that Benny fight for the both of them. Gary would show up to weigh-in. Gary would spout shit to the local press about his opponent, and then Gary would head to his dressing room. Once he had disappeared from sight, his brother would reappear, and fight, and win, in his name. Then a few weeks later, Benny would fight under his own name, and the pair of them would be launched into the world of professional boxing.

  Benny liked this idea. He loved it, in fact. Gary wasn’t so sure. He was a man who liked to earn his own recognition, even if it meant losing. He was a man of pride, and honour. After so long, after all of the needling and cajoling from his twin brother and Jackie McVeigh, Gary eventually relented. He’d let them do what they wanted. They would go ahead with Jackie’s plan.

  Months passed, and Benny fought and won as both himself, and his brother. Took local belts as their own. No amateur title in Yorkshire didn’t belong to the brothers. They were celebrated county champions in the local community. They even opened a branch of Jack Fulton in their village
. Their parents were so proud. At family get-togethers they would be wheeled out and forced to spar with one another for the purposes of entertainment. In the blind enjoyment and pride of having two contenders sprout from his loins, the father never ever noticed that Gary’s southpaw stance was what set them apart. Nobody ever noticed, and if they did notice, then they didn’t ever mention it.

  Then, one night, sometime in mid-September, the Twin Towers fell from grace.

  Gary had been lined up to fight a bloke from Leeds. They went through the rigmarole of weigh-in and banter, and Benny was set emerge to take Gary’s place in the ring. Only, Jackie McVeigh didn’t emerge with him. Jackie McVeigh didn’t emerge from anywhere ever again.

  In the build-up to the fight, Gary had approached his trainer. He didn’t enjoy what was happening. He couldn’t stand by anymore and watch his brother do all of the work. He felt like a fake. It wasn’t right. Jackie had told him to keep his mouth shut. Jackie said that they’d all go down for fraud. Jackie asked him if that was what he wanted. Jackie didn’t listen. He had grabbed a hold of Gary’s shoulders, shook him hard. Slapped his face and called him a stupid cunt. Told him to keep his stupid cunt mouth shut if he knew what was good for him. Told him he was a loser. Called him a failure. Said his brother would always be the achiever between them. So Gary took his trainer, and he showed him exactly how much power he had in his fist. He showed him exactly what he’d got in his locker. Gary didn’t stop punching his trainer’s face until his own fist was as broken as the skull of Jackie McVeigh. Even then he had to tug hard to get his smashed paw from the hole he’d beaten into that old face. Then he sat down. Gasping for breath. Looked down at the broken corpse of the man he’d killed. Then a scream. The ring girl had come to check on them. To see if they were okay. They weren’t okay, far from it.

  In the melee that ensued, Gary and his brother Benny disappeared for good. Benny couldn’t stand by and watch his brother go down for his crime. They were brothers. Twins. No bond was greater than that of twins. So they left town, never to return. Left their parents to pick up the pieces. To answer the questions of the police. To accept the violent repercussions that would follow from Jackie McVeigh’s sons. The Gary and Benny of old disappeared. They let their bodies go to shit. The firm muscle in their honed bodies turned to sloppy fat. They started smoking, and drinking, and eating in excess. They lived their lives on the run. They took a job as one person at St. David’s Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Two people, living their lives as one person. Much the same as half of the lunatics that lived there appeared to do. It seemed like a good idea at the time.