by Shaun Allan
My last day in the mental home was a lifetime ago, and I felt as if I'd aged thirty years. The world had turned in that time and I felt as if I'd been cast off, landing on a celestial rollercoaster that had been through loops and twists and was just about to enter a very long, very dark and very steep tunnel.
Click, click, clickety-click.
It seemed that Connors was actually doing something other than simply dragging Jeremy's nerves over a line of razor blades, each stood like dominos so that, once they'd flayed his nerves they could topple over to maybe slice a wrist or two. The mouse movements and clicks weren't random jabs in the eyes. Probably, he was upping the dosage of Car Crash Kenny or ordering a little extra electro-convulsive therapy for dear Dolly Polly. As far as ECT was concerned, more than enough was about half as much as was really required in the Doctor's eyes. I could imagine that, if he ever fancied a change of scenery, a job on Death Row would suit him. He'd be like Percy Wetmore from Stephen King's wonderful Green Mile, taking sadistic pleasure in the dip of the lights and the screams and the smell of cooked flesh (you want fries with that?) as he flicked the switch to spark up the electric chair. I wondered if he pulled the legs off spiders. Probably not. They only had little mouths so you couldn't hear their screams. He'd hate it in space then, because, so we're told, in space no one can hear you order a Big Mac.
Finally Connors was finished. He pushed the mouse forward, leaving it perfectly perpendicular to the monitor, and leaned back in his chair. Turning to face Jeremy he was silent for a long time. He stared at the big man, his face expressionless except for the occasional dark shadow that flitted behind his eyes. Now you see me, now you don't. What was he thinking? Had Jeremy done something wrong? Connors leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. It was a familiar pose. He adopted it when he wanted to appear concerned but was instead planning his attack. He smiled again. Jeremy, the poor naive soul, smiled back. The doctor's was warm and fake, the orderly's hesitant and doing its best to be real, and the mismatched smiles met each other across the leather desk top and dissolved.
"You seem nervous," said Connors. "Why would you be nervous?"
Jeremy looked shocked. He hadn't expected that. Dr. Connors believed pleasantries were verbal banalities for people who had nothing better to say. They were grass cuttings - snippets of waste cast aside to die. Of course, if you thought about it, once they died they provided fertiliser for the conversations to follow, but he didn't see that. Dead and gone, and superfluous when alive. Small talk was no talk. While others might see speech as corn that, when the heat was applied, popped and overflowed its container, spreading in all directions, to him it was a straight line. You could get in your car and drive from A to B and the indicator light would never blink once. A surgical incision from which any words that might leak out were quickly mopped up and tossed in a yellow sacked bin for disposal in an incinerator. He was more to the point than Robin Hood, and his aim was twice as deadly. But no one would challenge him. Nobody slapped him for an abruptness that was often on the wrong side of rude. He didn't believe that he was wrong and so others tended to follow the same train of thought, even as it drove them off a cliff and onto the rocks far below.
No one would expect him to ask how their day was going or how the kids were. Would he even remember you had children? Perhaps. Knowledge was power and even knowing the details of a person's family made you stronger because it could be used to take them off guard. If they knew Connors would not ask, if he did they would be disarmed. And a disarmed individual was practically sprinkling the paprika on themselves. I said, do you want fries with that?
Still. The fact that Dr. Connors avoided the niceties of conversation as if they were an angry wasp to be swatted away (an act that sometimes made them more insistent on being noticed), didn't forgo the chance that he might ease into a dialogue rather than ploughing in all guns a-blazing. Rambo, he was not. I doubted he could sew a suture Stallone style, sans pain relief, but he'd gladly do that to you.
This. It was... sly. Unexpected. Direct, but off topic. Not that Jeremy seemed to know what the topic was, but the look on his face implied that he was expecting to be torn off a strip or two. It was an almost considerate question, and that made it all the more disconcerting. And clever. Disarm and beguile, then decide whether you want rump, fillet or sirloin as they roll over for you.
"I..." Jeremy floundered. Was the doctor being nice? Or was he trying to trap him? What to say? "I'm fine, sir."
That's right. Deny everything. It came off in my hand. It was like that when I got here. She told me she was 18. I couldn't see Jezzer ever saying that last one. Sure, it's always the quiet ones, but he had honest eyes. Intelligent eyes. If there was a type, he wasn't it. He was... He was nice.
Connors smiled again. If I gave him a warm beer, I was sure I'd see condensation forming on the glass.
"Good, Jeremy. That's good." His name again. Leave, friend, leave. The false sincerity - surely you can see through it?
Jeremy looked blank. He didn't know how to respond. LEAVE! That's how you respond! He nodded. It was the best he could do.
"Now Jeremy," said Connors. He leaned back, his elbows on the arms of his chair and his fingertips together. He was the picture of pleasant, the epitome of ease. How could you doubt him? How could you wonder? "We seem to have a small problem, don't we."
Not a question, a statement. Lay it out, bait it and wait.
"I don't know, sir." Jeremy straightened in his chair. The seat creaked, possibly in fear. It had been in this office for a long time. It had, no doubt, seen many things. Perhaps it knew what was to come and wanted to escape. I could sympathise. I tried to will my friend to hear me. If my sister could read my thoughts then maybe he could read mine too. If I could only project them to him. If I could shout enough in my head then maybe he'd hear me.
"It won't work, Sin." Joy shook her head. "We're here but we're not, not really. Nothing you could do would make a difference. If you picked up one of his pencils, you could stab it in his hand, but he wouldn't feel it. He wouldn't see it."
"I could?"
My spirits lifted suddenly. The chance to hurt him and for him to not know it was me. I couldn't pass on that. He was looking at the orderly without saying anything. He was waiting. Watching. He saw the sweat bead on Jeremy's forehead. He saw it run into the corner of his eyes. He saw Jeremy try to blink it away, not wanting to move to wipe it in case the doctor took it as some sort of admission of guilt. For what, I assumed my friend didn't know. But guilty until proven innocent, your honour. I walked over to the desk and picked up a pencil. There were three, all as sharp as the other. I imagined he honed each to perfect points after every use. No matter. All the better to maim you with, my dear.
His hands were still up in front of him, but I didn't want them. He was watching my friend like a buzzard watches a dying cowboy in the desert, waiting for its last breath to expire so it can peck out the eyes. That suited me. I didn't even pull back for extra force. I just raised my hand and plunged the perfectly pointy tip of the pencil into Dr. Connors' right eye. The eye popped, optic fluids squirting onto my hand. Blood and cerebrospinal fluid - brain juice - seeped down onto his chin and along the pencil, dripping slowly onto the desk. That'll stain. He didn't move. He didn't blink, although a length of wood encased graphite poking out of his eye might have prevented that. There was no reaction whatsoever. I twisted the pencil savagely. Nothing.
This wasn't me. I wasn't savage. I wasn't even particularly fierce. I was confused for a moment. Back when I counted the institute as a home away from hell, I'd always had a grudging respect for my doctor. Up until the point of discovering he wanted me to stay awhile, regardless of my own intentions, I’d thought he was good at his job. Where did all this anger come from? How did I have this new found knowledge of his inner demons? At first I thought it was one of those 'I just knew' things. Maybe finally getting away from this place had opened my eyes. The absence of the drug infused regimen had clear
ed the fog of the last couple of years and I could see what he was truly like. But I didn't think so. There was no feeling of knowing. I'd begun to recognise the signs, or the symptoms, of my curse, and none were present here. I did just know, but I didn't 'Just Know.'
But the pencil. The stabbing. I was sick at myself. I pulled the pencil out. It made a sucking noise - the last dregs of water down a plug hole - and a pop (goes the weasel). I threw it onto the desk, partially in disgust at myself and partially in disgust at the fact that it was a wasted effort. Connors was still sitting there and he was still watching my friend, albeit with only one eye. I walked over to Joy, my head hung.
"See," she said with barely a hint of 'I told you so.'
She pointed to the desk and I turned back to look. The pencil wasn't where it had rolled after I'd cast it aside. There was no mix of blood and fluid, like a half fried egg, pooling on the leather surface. Connors' eye wasn't a punctured wreck, dribbling down his cheek. All was normal. All was right. All was very wrong.
"What?"
"We're not really here Sin. Well, we are, but we're not. It's hard to explain. You could throw things, smash things, trash the place if you want, but it won't make any difference. It won't be real."
"So where are we then? How come I could pick up that pencil?"
"Because we are here, sort of. It's like we're looking through a mirror, but we're in the reflection."
So. We'd climbed through Alice's looking glass. Maybe Joy really was the Queen of Hearts then.
I shook my head. I didn't understand and I couldn't be bothered to try. Joy kept seeming to be making sense, but the real meaning was always evasive. I'd grab for it and it would jump back, staying just out of reach. Catch me if you can! Besides, Dr. Connors seemed to have grown tired of making Jeremy squirm. He'd placed his hands on the arms of his chair and, with a sigh, he stood up.
"Yes, Jeremy. A problem. I would like, if you don't mind, a little help in solving this particular problem. Please."
The 'please' was separated from the rest of the sentence. Not an afterthought, more an emphasis. Go on mate. Give us a hand. Please? Be a pal. Or else.
"Of... of course, sir. Anything I can do to help."
"I'm pleased to hear that. Very pleased indeed." Connors was walking around his desk smiling his smile, crocodile, circling the room and Jeremy, like a hyena waiting for the poor animal to get on with it and die. Jeremy stayed facing forwards, his head down. His eyes flitted from side to side nervously. I wanted to tell him that it was ok. Tell him that I'd sort out Dr. Connors in my own inimitable way. But I couldn't. Jeremy wouldn't hear me and turning Connors innards into outards wasn't something I'd be able to do, as much as I might want to and actually be able to. It appeared the devil on my shoulder was a monster, but he had morals after all. I was sure the angel on my other was smirking a conceited twist of the lips.
"Do you know which problem I'm referring to?" Connors was behind the chair now, looking down on the back of Jeremy's head. He reached into his pocket and, unseen by the orderly, pulled something from his pocket. Still speaking, he pulled a sheath off the needle and pushed the plunger of the syringe up slightly.
What the...?
I shouted out, ineffectually. My warning went unheard as Connors took a step forward.
"We seem to have lost a resident Jeremy. One Sin Matthews has been... Let's say misplaced."
Displaced was more like it. Me. This was all about me. Why bring him into it? What did Jeremy have to do with anything? He didn't help me escape. In fact, he was the one who trussed me like a Christmas turkey in my strait jacket. He left it tighter than Michelle Pfeiffer's Catwoman suit and only stopped short of handing me a ladle to baste myself with - and I almost laughed, considering where I'd planned to end up.
"Yes, sir. Sorry sir." He could almost have been saying 'Sire.'
"Sorry, Jeremy?" He took a step forward. The syringe was a sword poised for a beheading. Considering I'd been pumped full of drugs for the past two years or so, I had no idea of the colours or viscosities of what they'd injected me with. The yellowish fluid could have been happy juice or a massive dose of morphine. I doubted Dr. Connors wanted to plant a big cheesy grin on his minion's mush. "Why would you be sorry?"
I wished he would hurry up. Get to the point or give Jeremy the point. I was standing useless, knowing I couldn't stop whatever might happen and this cat and mouse game was driving spikes beneath my fingernails.
Jeremy shook his head. "I don't know sir. I don't know what to say."
"Well, would you care to enlighten me as to how he managed to leave? You were overly close to him. Did you help him? I am correct, am I not, in assuming that you were tasked with jacketing him? Did you not fasten the straps tight enough? Perhaps you wanted to give him a little room to breathe. I can understand that. They are constrictive, aren't they?"
"Yes sir."
Another step forward. Still the smile. He knew that how something is said carries into the tone of your voice. Scowl and it can be heard. Smile and you could be ordering the drowning of a litter of kittens and it would still sound light and uplifting. Well, more or less.
"Yes what, Mr. Jackson? Yes, you helped him? Yes, you didn't do your job properly and now we have a deeply disturbed and psychotic escapee?"
"No, sir! No! I was agreeing with you, sir. The jackets. They... They're tight, sir. But I didn't. I wouldn't help someone escape sir. Never."
"Well, Mr. Jackson. That's good. I had complete faith in you. You're an excellent employee. I do have one other question though, Mr. Jackson."
Mr. Jackson. No longer Jeremy, friend, pal. Connors had grown tired of his Mr. Sunshine charade. It no longer served a purpose and had been tossed aside like a pencil that refused to impale an eye.
"Yes sir?" Jeremy looked as if he was shaking. I could have happily launched a size nine between Dr. Connors' legs hard enough to send his testicles up into his eye sockets to replace the ones I wanted to gouge out.
"The report. Matthews' case file. It's been moved, Mr. Jackson. I wonder, have you been through my files?"
My case file? I bet that made entertaining reading. I'd written a statement a short while ago telling the good doctor why I was there. He didn't believe a word of it, but he'd said that admission was part of the process of relinquishment. Spill the beans to rid the dreams, or something similar. So I played along. I told my story openly and honestly. It hadn't helped me, but then my demons had their claws so deep into my soul that a few words on a couple of sheets of A4 wasn't going to dislodge them. Unfortunately. And I could see that he'd know it had been moved. I was sure that each file was placed so precisely in its hanger that a micrometer couldn't measure a difference. But why would Jeremy take it out?
"Me, sir? I wouldn't. That's not my place." His shakes were more noticeable. I didn't think he was telling the truth. Bad move, especially when a viper with a potentially poisonous fang was coiled behind you more than ready and willing to strike.
"Are you sure? You didn't sneak a peak? A little late night reading for your so-called Graveyard Shift?" He lowered his hands and put them behind his back, hiding the needle. He side stepped slowly, circling his prey once more. "Are you sure, Jeremy?"
Jeremy looked up. His brow was furrowed, his eyes wide. Sweat rolled down his forehead like boulders chasing Indiana Jones. If he didn't tell the truth, and Connors obviously knew what that truth was, he'd be liable to be crushed under their weight. Just tell him. Don't lie because he'll know. Just tell him. He went to shake his head, but seemed to think better of it. Good. Better. Don't be a fool.
"I..."
"Yes?"
"Yes, Dr. Connors. I did read the file."
Connors straightened up and smiled. The mouse had just taken the cheese and the trap had caught his leg as he scurried off, the bar slamming down to crush the tiny bones.
"Would you like to explain yourself, Mr. Jackson? I'm sure you have an explanation. I'm sure you don't make a habit of rifling through
patients' private records, do you?"
"No, sir! I don't." He was fidgeting more than a Jack Russell told to sit and stay. Calm it man! So you read a report. A slap on the wrist or a dose of Diamorphine in the neck, which would you prefer? You decide. "I just... He was my friend, sir. I just... I was interested. I'm sorry sir. I don't make a habit of it. Honestly. It was just..."
Connors held up his hand - the one not holding the syringe. That stayed firmly behind his back. Jeremy knew when to shut up. I couldn't help the smile when he said we were friends. I had a distinct lack of them recently, but now wasn't the time for warm fuzziness to butt in with its hot cup of cocoa and big bar of Dairy Milk.
"Just, just, just. I know." He was smiling that razor sharp, frost bitten smile again. Relax, it said. I'm just going to slice your throat. It's only be a little cut, honest. It won't hurt for long. "I do understand. I fancy that I'd do exactly the same if I were in your position. Don't worry."
Don't worry, said the spider to the fly, the fox to the chicken, the iceberg to the Titanic. It'll be reet.
"Thank you Dr. Connors." He looked as the iceberg might after getting off with a charge of GBH. He could melt with relief.
"You don't need to thank me, honestly. It's nothing." He paused and his hand returned to his back. Both hands were holding the syringe now, brothers in arms, partners in crime.
I looked at Joy and saw she was entranced by the unfolding scene. She could have been at the cinema watching the latest Bond movie or George Clooney flick. All that was missing was the popcorn, the overpriced Pepsi and the idiot at the back who wouldn't shut up. Perhaps that was unfair - about Joy, not about the idiot at the back. She'd brought me here to show me this, though I couldn't see why or what good it would do. But she knew that we couldn't stop or change any of it so she - we - could merely watch and wait. Feeling impotent, that's what I did.
I found it odd that Jeremy was so docile in the presence of the doctor. He was a trained nurse and I was sure he'd once told me he'd been a teacher, so I would have thought he'd have had experience of dealing with the more difficult or overbearing among us. So why was he such a lapdog, scurrying around desperate to be petted? Was Connors so charismatic that he could charm or hammer anyone to his bidding? I had a vision of the institute becoming a cult under his pervasive aura. I wondered if a mass suicide was on the cards. And was I the first follower to go? I had, after all, tried to take my own life. The fact that I'd failed possibly showed that he wasn't as all powerful as he seemed to think. I didn't believe that, though. I don't mean about him being omnipotent. Rather, I was not under the influence of a crazed psychiatrist. Currently I was being led by the ghost (or whatever she was) of my dead sister. It was semi-voluntary, like being told I had to steal the crown jewels or I'd lose my little finger. I could say no and wave goodbye to my pinky, or I could go ahead and ram-raid the Tower of London and have all ten fingers on the hands that they'd clap the handcuffs on.
