If The Bed Falls In

by Paul Casselle

  Samantha held her hand out to Tom, with great warmth and understanding.

  “Pay no attention to him. I’m used to it. I know it looks a little weird,” she said, charmingly.

  Tom involuntarily shook his head from side to side. First the squeaking pushchair, then the mis-coloured eyes, and now…

  “Is that an American accent?” he asked Samantha.

  “Sure is,” she said, “I’m from Baltimore.”

  ▽

  ▼

  ▽

  Chapter 6

  Tom had tried sitting, standing and walking around his house, but his troubled mind travelled with him wherever he went.

  Finally, he had settled into an armchair in the front room. In an attempt to drown out the discordant noise of his brain, he had turned on the television. Rather than the white noise he had hoped for, he was confronted by a news programme. Media obsession had temporarily moved from the ubiquitous terrorist threat, to the financial death of Greece. Today, the country displayed its modern self as dilapidated and decayed as were its ancient relics. In two week’s time, the first – or maybe the last – nail was to be driven in; they had to pay the International Monetary Fund three billion Euros in debt interest. And not only was that impossible, but the Greek government refused to pay anyway. On Sunday, in two days’ time, the Greek people would vote on whether they would accept the international banks proposals or put two fingers up to the lot of them.

  Tom stared at the screen, sighed deeply, and thought about all that had happened to him. How had life become so confusing so quickly? He had learnt to stagger through the unfairness of reality, but now it had found an unassailable weapon; incomprehensibility. What seemed so disconcerting was not the strangeness of his recent delusions – intruders in his house, dreaming that he was some sort of spy, killing Preston and meeting Samantha from Baltimore before he actually met her – but that real life was descending into mayhem around him. Since the financial crash of two thousand and eight everything had gone downhill, in spite of what the media told us. If there was a recovery, why were poverty, unemployment and the need for national benefits on the increase? Why were the banks – and come to that, the governments – increasingly acting illegally with an ever decreasing desire to hide it from us? In stark contrast, Joseph Miller lived in a saner world where the baddies wore black hats and the goodies always triumphed. Maybe that was it? Maybe his mind had become so upset by the random iniquities of real life that he had subconsciously created a world where everything was beautifully black and white. However, what troubled Tom the most was – is that a definition of insanity?

  Tom felt something on his arm. He jerked it violently, brushing away whatever it was with his other hand. He looked at the floor, searching for the culprit. A cockroach scurried towards, and then disappeared under, the armchair.

  He rushed to the kitchen and returned with an insect spray, which he applied in liberal bursts into the two-inch space between the floor and the chair. The phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Tom. How you doing?” said Sarah.

  “Yeah… fine. You?”

  “Yeah, good… good,” she replied.

  There was a moment’s silence which Tom filled by darting his eyes across the floor in search of the brown bug.

  “What you doing?” Sarah asked.

  “Nothing… watching tele… Can you believe this shit about Greece?”

  “I know,” Sarah said, absently, “To lose one empire…”

  “What?” said Tom.

  “No, nothing. Look, I wondered if you’d do me a little favour?”

  Tom was now on his hands and knees, peering into the band of black under the armchair.

  “Sure, Sweetheart. What can I do for you?”

  “Could you meet me at the hospital? I need to talk something over.”

  Tom abandoned his search and frowned. His attention was suddenly drawn to the ceiling. A faint scratching noise was coming from above, like a small army of cockroach soldiers.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “Yes… no, everything’s fine. I just need your input on something.”

  “Well, that sounds intriguing,” Tom said, picking up the insecticide can from the floor, “So, when are you thinking of?”

  “Could you come over now?… Unless you’re busy.”

  “Yeah,” Tom sighed, “give me an hour. I’ve got to wage war on this bloody cockroach invasion first.”

  Tom hung up, and marched upstairs carrying the spray can.

  Tom only had to travel one stop on the tube from King’s Cross to get to the hospital. He emerged into strong sunlight at Euston Square, and started the short walk towards Sarah’s place of work; University College Hospital.

  Although he still felt under pressure from the heaviness of recent events, he now felt better for having spent half an hour exterminating the colony of disgusting insects that had invaded his house. Physically doing something had always been a good way for Tom to lift himself from mental anguish, and leaving the world a better place in the process, made it even more effective.

  Tom’s bumper car mind started to pick up speed, and began to bounce off adjacent ideas. So, he thought, killing things is okay as long as they are a nuisance? Is that right? In the grand scheme of nature don’t the bugs have rights too? Who has the objective view? Who, in this case, has the authority to be judge, jury and executioner? Does the same apply to people? If society is over-run, is a cull acceptable? Tom recalled a question he once posed to his biology teacher at school. ‘What is a weed?’ he had asked. The teacher explained that a weed is any plant that is growing in a place where you do not want it to grow. So, cockroaches in his house were weeds just because he didn’t want them there? Are murderers, rapists and graffiti taggers societal weeds? What about people that are not at all bad, but just too numerous? Are they weeds?

  A hand gently grabbed Tom’s arm. He looked up into the piercing blue eyes of a distinguished older man. Tom pulled his arm free.

  “What do you want?” Tom said with more fear than aggression.

  The man straightened his suit jacket and chewed his bottom lip.

  “We need you to come this way…” the man said firmly, “… Tom.”

  Tom studied the man carefully.

  “Who are you?” he asked, defiantly, “the police or something?”

  The man shook his head.

  “No… no, we’re not the police. You’re in trouble, Tom. You’re in grave danger. We’re here to help you.”

  Tom took a step backwards, and shook his head.

  “Please,” the man said quietly, and gestured towards an alleyway to his left. He smiled.

  Tom craned his neck forwards, and glanced into the shadowy alley. He could just make out a small group of people, all passively looking in his direction. They looked like middle-aged business people. All in suits, apart from one, who had long hair and wore a sort of cape.

  “I haven’t got time,” Tom blurted out, “I’m going to meet a friend.”

  “Sarah, yes we know. But that might be a little dangerous,” the man said.

  “Dangerous? Sarah, dangerous? Who the fuck are you?”

  “My name,” the man said, “is Simon Morrison. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “No! Who the fuck is Simon Morrison?”

  “The man that is trying to save your life.”

  Tom studied the man, and noticed a rifle hanging by its strap from his shoulder. Tom stepped backwards, turned, and ran a few paces. He shot a glance over his shoulder, half expecting the man to be hot on his heels, but Simon Morrison just stood looking quietly empathetic at the fleeing Tom. Behind him the others emerged from the alley and stood with the same pained, concerned look on their faces. Tom ran most of the remaining distance to the hospital.

  Sarah looked pleased to see him, but there was something else in her expression.

  “Hi, Tom. Thanks for coming over.”

  “No problem. What
’s going on? You sounded…” he trailed off.

  “Look, this isn’t easy… Mona came in to see me earlier,” Sarah explained.

  “Mona? What did Mona want?”

  “She told me that she spoke to you this morning.”

  “So?”

  “Tom, what’s going on? You’re sounding defensive.”

  “And you’re sounding aggressive,” Tom responded tersely.

  “I don’t mean to be aggressive. I just think that something’s going on, and you’re not talking about it.”

  “There’s nothing going on! I’m fine. Just a little stressed, that’s all.”

  “Stressed about what?”

  “For fuck’s sake, Sarah. Have you seen the state of our world? It’s all going fucking crazy.”

  “Of course I see what’s going on in the world. You think you’re the only one that has eyes?”

  “No, but I sometimes think I’m the only one that has them open.” He slouched defiantly in the chair opposite Sarah’s desk with his legs splayed recklessly. “You spend all your time looking inside people,” he continued, “but it’s what’s happening outside that’s the problem.”

  “Can you hear yourself, Tom? When did you become so aggressive? I’m your friend, not your enemy.”

  “Really,” Tom said, rubbing his thighs repeatedly and roughly, “I don’t know who’s a friend anymore. I mean, what’s with Mona? First she’s checking up on me then she’s coming to see you to tell tales on me.”

  “What ‘tales’ do you think she’s telling?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sarah. You’re a neurologist, not a psychotherapist. Can you for once just stop trying to analyse me?”

  “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

  “No,” said Tom, banging his hand on her desk, “at me, you’re talking at me.”

  Sarah tried to calm her breathing.

  “Mona mentioned that you asked about Preston.”

  “So?”

  “Tom, what did you mean by asking if he was alive?”

  “Oh, Sarah, for god’s sake. I’d just had a bad dream. I was confused. I didn’t know what the fuck I was saying. Mona can be such a twat.”

  “Tom,” Sarah said gently, “you’re not your normal self. I’ve known you a heck of a long time, and I know this isn’t you.”

  Tom sighed heavily.

  “I know, I know. I don’t know what’s going on with me… I’m sorry.”

  Sarah paused for a moment.

  “So why did you go to the art gallery?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake! And we’re straight back to moany Mona and her fertile imagination.”

  “Tom, Preston called Mona because he thought you were acting strangely. But forget Mona, Tom. Just tell me why you went to the gallery?”

  “What is this Sarah? I have to explain myself to you every time I fancy going to an art gallery?”

  “No, Tom. You don’t have to, but I’d like you to because I think there’s something going on… Are you in some kind of trouble or something?… I don’t know, but I want to know. I want to know if I can help.”

  Tom stood up, and walked over to the wall where Sarah’s many certificates were displayed in gilded frames. He straightened one.

  “Sarah… I think… I may be…” he turned and looked at her. With his index finger he made a circular motion next to his head, “… going loco.”

  He laughed awkwardly.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I keep seeing things and people and… I don’t know. Something seems to be weird, you know?”

  “You’re seeing things!?”

  “I told you, last night… You know, Sarah, the intruders in my house.”

  “But no one was there?”

  “Exactly,” said Tom, “and the weird dream about Preston, and… shit… I am really here, aren’t I? This,” he gestured around the room, “is real, isn’t it?”

  “Tom, can you please sit down and calm down?”

  Tom reluctantly sat opposite Sarah.

  “Look,” Sarah talked slowly, “I know you always think that I worry too much about your past, but we need to rule that out. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you? I’d like to do a physical examination. I can arrange an MRI scan, and we can see if there is anything physically going on… in your head,” she smiled, “… then we can rule that out, you see?”

  “So, you think I have brain damage?”

  “I think that cocaine abuse can sometimes change areas of the brain that subsequently leads to… well… miscomprehensions… Some people see and hear things that aren’t there. Some think they are infested with bugs and scratch themselves raw. But it’s all in their head.”

  Tom sat dejectedly.

  “Sarah, what do you think? Do you think I’ve lost it?”

  “I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’re a talented, creative person that may… just may… have a bit of a cocaine hangover. And I’m sure we can sort it out.”

  “So you just stick me in a machine and have a look at my brain?”

  “Pretty much,” said Sarah with a kind nod.

  “Oh, what the fuck,” said Tom, “let’s do it.”

  Sarah helped Tom onto the sliding bed of the MRI scanner, and strapped his head tightly.

  “I know it’s uncomfortable, Tom, but we need your head to stay very still.” Sarah explained, “Right, I’m going up to the control room, but we can talk on the intercom.”

  “Okay,” Tom replied through tight lips.

  A few moments passed, then Tom heard Sarah’s voice from the speaker.

  “Here we go, Tom. Just relax.”

  With an almost pleasant vibration and a whirring noise, the bed started into the machine. After another few moments Sarah’s voice came again; gentle and soothing.

  “Okay, Tom. You’re going to hear some loud bangs and clicks. Nothing to worry about. Just the machine doing its stuff.”

  As promised the scanner started making banging and clicking noises. Tom’s mind began to wander. He was seven years old, and standing outside the garden shed.

  I pushed the door open. At first I couldn’t see much because Dad hadn’t turned the light on. Slowly, I began to see more as my eyes got used to the darkness.

  Dad was sitting in the old armchair. I looked around the shed not knowing what to do next. To my left was Dad’s hunting rifle. It was nearly as big as me. He lifted his head and stared at me. Then he laughed. I turned my eyes away angrily. The gun was right in front of me. It should have been locked away, I thought, but he never did what other people told him to do. I picked it up and pointed it at him. I didn’t know if it was loaded or not. I just wanted him to feel scared, like he made Mum and me feel. But he just laughed again, so I pulled the trigger.

  I walked over to him and shook his arm. His head rolled forwards, and I jumped. It wasn’t his head, it was meat, like in the butcher’s shop. Red, bloody meat.

  I think that’s when I must have suddenly fallen asleep, and didn’t wake up until the neighbours and policemen woke me up later. They told me that both Mum and Dad were dead, and like our dog Boris, were never coming back.

  ▽

  ▼

  ▽

  Chapter 7

  Tom’s mouth felt dry and his eyes crusty. He tried to move, but his limbs were heavy.

  “Sarah?” he called out in a croaky and almost inaudible voice.

  There was no answer. He opened his mouth to call again, but had barely unstuck his tongue from his upper palette when he was shaken violently by the ankles. He cracked his gritty eyes open, but could see very little. All was dark and deathly quiet. No thumping machine, no alarming clicks. A strong light suddenly shone into his sore eyes.

  “Wake up, Joseph,” said an unfamiliar woman’s voice.

  Tom’s breathing became laboured. He could hear shoes shuffling and sporadic whispering. He struggled to look past the bright light that was so close he could feel its heat on his skin. Slowly a face t
ook shape, emerging out of the dark corona around the intense glow.

  “Is he awake?” another voice asked. This time it was a man, speaking in a deep, southern American drawl.

  “I think so,” answered the original female voice.

  A hand slapped Tom hard across his right cheek. He jerked, startled, and felt a dribble of snot fire from his nose onto his upper lip. The liquid tracked into his open mouth. It tasted metallic. The light moved to one side and a face, a woman’s face, coalesced in front of him. Tom stared, first feeling shock, then anger, then a sickness erupted from his stomach and burnt the back of his throat.

  “Mona?” he said.

  The woman with coffee-coloured skin and tightly curled black hair, looked first to her left then her right at wispy phantoms that flickered in the half light.

  “What?” said the woman, tightly, turning her stare back to Tom.

  “What’s going on, Mona?” Tom looked around, feeling pain in his neck and chest as he moved. “Where’s Sarah?”

  “Who’s Sarah?” the woman asked, bemused. She looked at Tom, expectantly. “Who’s Sarah, and why the fuck do you keep calling me Mona?”

  The woman’s voice lacked Mona’s sycophantic whine, but more shockingly, was unmistakably American. Tom squinted his eyes and bit a painful lip. A large, man’s hand suddenly appeared to one side of his face.

  “No!” shouted the woman, “That’s enough. Sit him up. And for fuck’s sake, get him a drink of water or something. We’re not fucking animals!”

  Two men emerged out of the shadows and swung Tom around into a sitting position. A plastic cup of water was thrust into his hand.

  “And can we have a little light on the matter?” called the woman. There was no movement in the room. “Hello, is anyone listening to me? Turn the goddamn lights on!”

  Lights flickered on, and Tom looked around the room. It was a large, empty warehouse punctuated by random islands of industrial debris.

  “Why do you keep calling me Mona?” the woman asked again, “You know who I am. Or did Boris punch you in the head once too much?”