The postman pulled up while she went to the back porch to fetch her coat.
‘Morning, Mr. Hunter.’
‘How are you, David?’
‘Not too bad. Yourself?’
‘I’m fine. Fine,’ he said as he held out his hand. David passed him his post and Eileen’s, too.
‘See you later.’
He drove off, his little red van’s wheels grating on the gravel drive, off on his rounds.
Eileen came back and Bill passed the post to her.
‘Are you ready now?’
‘Are you being cheeky with me, young man?’
‘Might be,’ said Bill with a grin.
Eileen shook her head. ‘Kids.’
‘I’m thirty, you know.’
‘Oh, don’t I know it. The big kids were always the worst.’
‘That’s the truth,’ he said.
Bill closed her front door behind them while she clicked the key for her car to unlock. They got in and she reversed out onto the road. The gravel crunched under her tyres. She drove slow, but fast enough to catch and pass David. the postman, on his rounds. They both waved. David waved back.
They came to the first T-junction, marked with a big black and white checked board, there to stop idiots flying straight out and hitting a big tree behind it. There must have been plenty of people who’d done it to warrant that big black and white board.
There weren’t any road signs, but then often there weren’t in Norfolk. Back during WWII the road signs had been removed, in case the Germans invaded. Somehow or other, no one seemed to ever get around to replacing them.
They knew the way well enough, though. East it was, east up the coast, and to the community hospital.
*
V.
Bill said goodbye to Eileen in the car park and headed through the main door in the old community hospital toward his appointment, and maybe a short cessation of the night terrors, a small holiday from the circle that went round all day in his head even when he felt pretty straight.
Thing was, even when he felt straight, it didn’t mean he was.
That’s what the therapy was about. Touch base, check in with reality. Talk therapy, they called it, but it wasn’t that, not for him.
He thought of himself more as a kind of Typhoid Mary, wandering through those old thick wooden doors, leaking his poison as he passed. He gave it to the woman at the counter as he checked in on the psychiatric wing of the hospital as an outpatient, thank God. Once he’d been an inpatient, but not here, in this little hospital. They didn’t hold nuts here. Just down the road in Norwich, but not here.
He showed his appointment letter. The woman took the letter and typed his hospital number into her terminal. A small spider skittered down Bill’s arm and he brushed it off. She looked up at him, but he masked it with a smile. One down, he thought.
He could handle the thought of those spiders and crawling things in the day. Didn’t mind if he dropped a few, but he felt a bit guilty about it, too. Like he shouldn’t be doing what they told him to, late at night, but the thing of it was, he felt better when he did what they told him, and worse when he wouldn’t.
It didn’t make any kind of sense, but the woman he saw, Dr. Richards, she didn’t mind. She told him if he wanted to drop off some of his nightmares, she didn’t mind at all.
It did seem kind of rude, now he thought about it, dropping a spider on the receptionist. He thought about reaching down and plucking his nightmare back off her woolen sleeve, but then thought better of it. She might think he was crazy, or she might think he was about to jump on her. She had bold red hair and her breasts pushed against a white uniform. He imagined her in her underwear, for a moment. Then he felt guilty about that, too. What if she knew what he was thinking?
Then he caught himself. Reached into his head and broke the circle. When she waved him through he smiled at her, and this time his smiled felt a little more genuine, had a little more warmth, and she smiled back.
He knew he hadn’t shaved. He knew he was fat, and probably smelled of Marlboro Lights, but he couldn’t do anything about that. The least he could do was be polite.
Sometimes he thought people might know if he thought bad things, so he tried to be polite, but he knew that, too, was part of the circle, and for now, that was broken.
The receptionist buzzed him through to the next room. He went in and took a seat and waited.
The thing of it was, it was never off. Never. Even during the days, when it was in the background, it was always on. Like a TV in the front room, sometimes, while he was off making dinner. Always there. In the background, a drone. But at night…
Well, then the volume was turned way up. But for now it was daytime, and Dr. Richards was standing in front of him holding her hand out.
‘William? You look well.’
‘And you, Doctor.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, with a warm smile. He never did know whether that smile was real or bought and paid for by the National Health Service.
‘You want to come through?’
‘Sure,’ he nodded.
Session start. One hour, counting down. She knew when an hour was up, exactly. He’d never once caught her checking her watch, but if his mind was like a tricycle on a roundabout, hers must be like a metronome.
*
VI.
Dr. Richards sat with her right leg crossed over her left, knees adjacent, calves parallel.
Her body faced Bill. She held no notes, had her hands folded politely in her lap. Bill sat with his ankles crossed, right foot pointing toward the door and not Dr. Richards, not because he was combative, but because he had long legs and it was a small room and the chair was uncomfortable. He crossed his arms, but only because he didn’t have anywhere else to put them, because there were no arms on the chair.
‘William, thank you for coming.’
First name, good start. Already her dress – white flowers on red, small bow on her left breast, like a brooch made of material – was covered with them.
‘Nice to see you. I suppose. Be nice when I don’t have to. You know. Not that you’re not nice. You are. I just…’
Break the circle, start again.
‘Anyway, thanks. What did you want to talk about today?’
Not your place, Bill. Let her run it. Slow down. Go slow over the bumps. Mind your chassis.
‘I thought we’d talk about how you’re feeling today…anxious, nervous…angry?’
‘I hardly ever get angry,’ he said, watching the window, the windowsill. Trying to go slow.
‘But do you ever get angry?’
‘Not often,’ he said, shrugging. He watched them crawling over her from the corner of his eye. Watched them swarming across the room.
‘Not never, though?’
‘Well, no. Not never.’
‘How deep does it go, William?’
‘What?’
‘When was the last time?’
‘The last time?’
‘When was the last time you were angry?’
Bill tried to think about it. He really did. But he could feel them, now. He bit down. Shrugged.
‘You don’t want to talk about that?’
No, that wasn’t it at all. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk about anger. It was that he couldn’t concentrate on squeezing them out of his brain and talk at the same time. Truth be told, it was hard, trying not to look at Dr. Richards’ chest. Thinking, ‘chest’. That was hard. It was hard to think polite, all the time. Just in case. Harder still to think with the Hatheth pushing their way through his scalp. He couldn’t feel pain, not exactly, but…something. Something gross, but not quite. Repulsive, but good, at the same time. Like release, like the rare ocassions he masturbated, maybe thought about Dr. Richards, the only woman he saw regularly, really, apart from Eileen. Tried not to think about Eileen while he was thinking about masturbating and Dr. Richards and all the time the Hatheth were coming forth and pouring across the floor an
d crawling, segmented legs kind of clacking against each other, ungainly, but swift, crawling up her leg.
‘OK, we don’t have to talk about that,’ she said.
‘Good.’
‘Seven?’
‘What?’
‘How deep does it go, William? Seven?’
‘What?’ Bill shook his head. He was getting confused. Shook his head again and closed his eyes.
‘Is there anything you’d like to talk about?’ sighed Dr. Richards.
Yes, he thought. Yes, there is. But I can’t fucking concentrate.
How long have I been in here? How long have I been thinking…ah, fuck. Fuck.
Break the fucking circle, Bill, break it, break it.
He started crying.
‘What the hell is wrong with me?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Bill. Your mind is a little unusual, that’s all. It’s OK to be upset.’ She passed him a tissue from her bag, and he took it. He didn’t do anything with it, but it was nice to have something to hold while the tears ran down his face.
‘I know you said to break the circle, and I try, but sometimes I break it, then I’m right back in there, in the middle of the circle, and it’s whirling round my head. You know? No. You probably don’t. But when I’m in the circle, it’s harder to break out. When it’s just in my head, I can kind of squish it, see? But outside…it’s too fucking…sorry…too big. Too hard.’
‘OK,’ she said.
He shook his head to loosen up. He could feel his neck muscles bunching. When he spoke his teeth clacked together, sometimes, because of the drugs. When he didn’t take the drugs his teeth clacked together, too, but because he was speaking so fast.
‘Every night, they’re there. During the day, I cope. Kind of. Maybe. But nights are worse. Can you, you know…is there something else?’
‘What are you on, now? Dosage?’
He told her. Morning meds, evening meds.
She joted these down on a pad from her bag. Looked at them for a while and pursed her lips.
‘We’re scraping around here, William. I won’t lie to you. You haven’t responded well. There are options, though,’ she said, and he sat forward.
‘I’ll try it.’
‘Well…’
He pounced, just in case she changed her mind.
‘I’m in trouble, here. I’m in a bad way. I know I am. Eileen’s good, you know, but it’s not fair. I’ve got to get something. Knock me out.’
‘The trouble with most of the heavier sedatives is tolerancy. You’re on the maximum dose of temazepam…zomig…I don’t want to…’
Like she was going to say something. Jump in, jump in, Bill. In case she changes her mind.
‘What?’
‘There’s a new drug on the market. It’s been licensed in America for years, but it’s only just become available here...’
‘I don’t care. Can I have it?’
She smiled. He smiled.
Therapists don’t bargain. Patients do that. They bargain with themselves, with their therapists, with their demons.
Thank God Bill didn’t need to haggle, because if she’d held back, he would’ve cried all over again.
‘Pick them up from the pharmacy,’ she said. ‘I’ll put it through now. Seriously, though, I want to see you in a week.’
He felt bad when he left, dead on the hour. He’d left a Krama in there, and it had been worming its way between her thighs. But he didn’t say anything. She didn’t mind, and if he’d told her she might not have given him the pills, and he didn’t want that, because he knew he was nuts, because the Krama had turned its mutant head to look at him and winked as it disappeared up her dress.
Somethings you could tell your therapist. Others, you just had to shut up.
Thirty minutes or so later, with his prescription filled at the community hospital pharmacy, he pushed through the double doors. He turned and looked behind him. Red brick, same thing as always in relief above the door.
1897.
Told himself to stop doing it. Wasn’t even good at maths, but he liked it. It was a good number, and not a time, which he liked more. It was a number the sun could never set on.
Like it had got to 18:59 and just kept rolling right along.
‘Billy?’
‘Hi, Eileen.’
‘How’d it go,’ she said, smiling, because he was smiling.
‘Well, we’ll see. Tonight. If you get a good night’s sleep, it’s because the sandman’s hit me over the head with a great big hammer.’
‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘Let’s hope so. If not, I’ll try hitting you over the head instead.’
He laughed. Felt good to laugh, and for a moment, relaxed and hopeful because he had new pills, the laugh felt good.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Treat you to a fry up on the way back. If that’s OK…’
‘Don’t need to,’ she said.
‘I know. I want to,’ he said, and got into the car beside her.
*
VII.
Bill took his evening cocktail and paced.
His cottage was small, not really the kind of place you could get a good pace on. He went back and forth between the kitchen and his living room, his feet slapping against the linoleum, then just the sound of the old floor boards creaking in the living room. They were the only two rooms downstairs.
He didn’t want to pace upstairs.
He was hopeful, though, waiting for the pills to kick in. It was a hell of a cocktail. If this didn’t work, he’d cry. He’d surely cry. Seemed like he cried a lot lately, but then most people, they saw the things he saw, the things that stopped him from sweetly sleeping and feeling better in the morning…well, most people, they saw those things, they’d be nuts, too. He wasn’t the only one. He knew that. He knew other people thought they were bugged, the Government was out to get them, SHIELD and the Avengers, the fucking FBI, aliens, the dead risen, you name it, people had delusions about it. You couldn’t put limits on insanity because imagination itself is limitless, and the intellect is able to create a more vivid canvass than all the stars in the sky.
Bill knew he was nuts, just as he knew if he could slow down those chemical reactions firing in his brain, slow those thoughts that were like nebula being born each second in his brain, he’d be just fine. Just fine.
He’d be fine in the morning, he thought, and hit his head on the wall because he’d just drifted off while he was pacing.
‘Yes! Yes,’ he cried and laughed and shook his head. His nose was actually bleeding.
He wiped it on his shirt then pulled his shirt over his head without undoing most of the buttons. He held the shirt to his nose but it was just a trickle.
He put the shirt straight into the washing machine and sat at the table, thinking of having a cigarette, but then thinking about falling asleep halfway through and burning his house down. Might be a way to go, but he might take Eileen with him…and he wasn’t ever going down that road. Not now, not ever. Not fucking ever. E-fucking-nuff, he told himself and jumped, because he’d just fallen asleep at the table.
He laughed, a little laugh that caused more blood to trickle from his nose, but it didn’t matter because he was stumbling as he walked up the stairs and fell into bed, in a dark bedroom, didn’t even put the lights on. Just hit the top sheet, top off in a cold bedroom with frosted windows, trousers and shoes still on from his day out, and fell into a deep beautiful sleep.
*
VIII.
Bill woke to the sound of screaming coming from the wall.
He imagined he heard them, screaming at him to let them back in, like the new drug had blocked off the hole in the wall.
But it wasn’t them. It wasn’t him, either.
His head was so groggy, for a second, he couldn’t figure it out, whether it was a dream, or the wall, or his head. But it wasn’t any of those things.
It was Eileen.
It sounded like someone was killing her.
&
nbsp; Still he couldn’t do a fucking thing about it, because his legs wouldn’t work. He tried to shout out, but couldn’t.
Bill, fucking…come…fucking…on.
He loved the old lady, and someone was killing her. In as much as he could think, someone must have broken in. She was being hurt.
‘Billy!’
Sheer terror and she thought to call for him.
‘Caa…’
He pushed at the sheets with all his strength. The scream was losing power.
How long had she been screaming?
Was she dying?
‘Come…’ He pushed, grunting, straining but not getting anywhere.
‘Come on!’ Got to his feet and pushed himself up from the floor when his legs gave way, turned to the landing and the man standing there in the dark, who hit him in the mouth with a fist like a sledgehammer and he was out again, out ‘til the morning, and into a nightmare so real he wasn’t afraid of the things in the wall anymore. Not them, but the man.
*
Part Two
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall...
Robert Frost
From ‘Mending Wall’
IX.
It was dark, still, but there was light in the sky...morning coming. For a second Bill was happy, happy with a full night’s sleep and no terrors. No Yik, No Krama. No Hatheth, crawling into his brain.
But then, both his arms were numb and his foot hurt. He wasn’t sure which was more irritating, but through the haze of his evening cocktail of drugs he couldn’t work up much enthusiasm to worry about it.
They’re not numb, Bill, his mind dredged up after a few minutes.
You can’t move them because someone’s tied your arms up. That pain in your wrists? Your biceps? That’s rope.
It’s not dark, either, because you can sense light, but the light’s behind this sack over your head. You’re on the bed, your arms are tied…
The Walls of Madness (A Horror Suspense Novella) Page 2
