Mad Worlds (3 page)

Sam Newman needed this fag. Leaning back from his office desk into the upholstered chair, he drew deeply, then exhaled in gentle short puffs, delighting in his blue smoke-ring creations as they drifted upward to join the cloud near the ceiling.

Last night had been hellish. Folk on his patch seemed to have conspired in a ‘let's go crazy' jamboree. As the sole mental health officer authorised to get mad folk from the borough of Aversham into Springwell Mental Hospital, he'd had to sort out the lot. Maybe wouldn't have been so bad if Springwell had been nearer. It was a good eight miles out, built well away from the gentrified folk of Aversham, who didn't want to be too near their local loony bin. And much of the journey was along twisting country roads.

Seven damn phone calls from GPs. Three ending up call-outs! The first, triggered by an over-wrought husband hounding a panicky GP – to see a perfectly sane woman – took into the early hours. A bit of first-aid marriage guidance smoothed things. And he'd smiled as, home again, he rang a crusty, sleepy-sounding GP back at two a.m. to advise that the woman's hubby felt in need of a sedative.

While he'd lain unable to sleep, a second call-out came – then another as he was labouring to crank up his precious Morris Minor engine. He went to the latter call-out first, to find an agitated, depressed middle-aged woman being dissuaded by her daughter from taking an aspirin overdose. Sighing heavily and suicidal, the woman was certifiable. Her GP was there to sign the form and administer sedation, and the magistrate and duty psychiatrist complied in the certifying. After pleas from the exhausted-looking yet compellingly attractive and persuasive daughter not to involve the police, he drove her and mother – huddled together in the back seat – the few miles to Springwell. The relieved-looking daughter hugged him – ah, the promise of that moment – but insisted on getting a taxi home.

“Damn!” A sharp familiar pain as the fag end singed the tips of forefinger and thumb. He re-opened the packet. Two fags. Better stock up soon as possible.

To get to the remaining call-out, he'd navigated the country roads speedily as he dared. He arrived outside a Georgian mansion to see an unconscious youth on a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance and an older man and woman climbing in.

He could still hear the ambulance-man yelling. “Casualty. Lad's lost gallons o' blood. Ran through glass. His folks are goin' too.”

Following the blue-light-flashing ambulance on a five-minute drive to Casualty at the Infirmary, he had a thought. If he'd been there earlier, could he have prevented this? He rehearsed an explanation to the parents. At the Infirmary, he'd found them sitting in the waiting-room, looking stunned.

“Sam Newman, Mental Health.” He flashed his card.

“We're Mark's parents,” said the mum.

“Look, I'm sorry –”

“Spare us the drivel. What can you do to help our son?” The dad got up from the chair. A beer-bellied giant, eyes popping – in his face and ready for a punch-up.

“Cecil, tell the man what happened.” From the mum, a command.

“Yes, it would help us find out what's wrong with your son.”

The dad stepped back and puffed out his red cheeks. “In the night I heard thuds and shot downstairs. Our boy – he's seventeen – stood there in his pyjamas, with books all over the floor. I asked him what he was playing at, and he shouted ‘the voice told me'. He was staring, like into outer space. Then he flung himself into an armchair and just lay there, in a funny position, with his eyes staring.”

“Has he behaved like this before?” asked Newman.

The dad ignored the question. “I bawled at him, but couldn't get an answer. It was like I wasn't there. I got desperate, rang our GP – he's a personal friend – and he promised to send help right away.” The dad paused, drawing breath. “I went back and Mark was still in that same damn position. Bloody weird. Mother came down and tried talking…”

“It was as if Mark had frozen into a statue,” said the mum. “We didn't know what to do. We sat watching, and waiting for help.” Her eyes were moist.

“In the end I grabbed his arm to get sense out of him. And…” The dad's voice was breaking.

“And?” Newman wanted the full picture.

The dad recovered his voice. “He sprang up, ran out the back door – I'd opened it to get fresh air – and dived straight into the greenhouse. I dialled 999.”

Yes, a bit earlier and he might have prevented the bloodbath. So what! He didn't let the ‘if onlys' get to him anymore.

Both parents were weeping. He'd seen it before – so often that he noted it without caring. Bewildered folk, struggling with the onset of madness in their midst.

At last, knackered and fighting sleep, he'd driven home. 5.30am! To avoid disturbing upstairs, he kipped on the settee – till he awoke to his startled daughter's scream at eight o'clock.

The internal phone was ringing. He picked up the receiver and grunted.

“Mary here, Sam. The boss wants to see you; his office, now.”

“What's it about?”

“Dunno, but he's spitting nails.”

He couldn't ignore the injunction. The Medical Officer of Health was boss of Aversham's Health Department – and liked to remind everyone of this now and again.

A glance in the wall mirror decided his next act. Bloodshot eyes glared from a swarthy face. Lathering up, he scraped quickly with his ‘sword edge', smoothed his Brylcreemed hair – still jet-black – and limped at his top speed up the stairs, to knock on the MOH's door. At the command, he entered. “Sir?”

“Ah, Newman.” The MOH stood behind the large oak desk. “Sit down.”

He did as ordered, facing the desk. The MOH remained upright, frowning.

“You were out last night. I've had a complaint. Know what it's about?”

Images sped into his numbed consciousness. The daughter – anything sexual? He wished. That husband? Worked up – but he'd seemed friendly. The father of the lad that jumped through the glass? Yes – the delay! “I think so. I can explain.”

“Good.” The MOH's frown went. “An apology from you will suffice.”

“I already apologised to the parents, but –”

“Parents? What are you havering about? It's Tickler you will apologise to.”

The name rang a bell, but not regarding the youngster. Could the dad be the stepfather, with a different name? “To whom?”

“To Dr Tickler! Says you had the nerve to ring him in the middle of the night to advise giving a patient a sedative.”

“What?”

“Is that correct?”

“Yes, but –”

“He says you were arrogant and questioned his judgment, and risked a shambles by refusing to organise certifying of a patient who was a danger to herself.”

Steady, don't lose it. “No.”

“Doubtless you had your reasons. I told him I would deal with it. I want you to ring and make a full apology. Herbert T. is one of our finest most conscientious family doctors – and an old friend.”

“But the woman wasn't –”

The MOH held up his hand – a halt sign. “Make that call!”

Newman limped back to his room and his chair. He lit up and propelled a cloud towards the ceiling. Pompous bighead; knew nothing about mental health. Nor did that fool of a GP.

He was calming. The boss couldn't be expected to understand mental health. Grasping the work of other sections in the Health Department would be easier for the MOH. Public health inspectors, health visitors, district nurses and home helps all did great jobs, but ones where intangibles weren't so critical.

But his thoughts were spiralling downward. Damn-all sleep, overworked and a target for aggro. Pay not rock-bottom, but being on call 24/7 without recompense equalled a measly rate per hour. One good thing: Two lots with legal authority in certifying – the Justices and the G.P.s (bar Tickler) – bowed to his opinion on emergencies, and readily signed forms.

External phone. He grabbed the receiver. “Newman.”

“Police, McNab. Keep your hair on, man. I've a nice one, specially for you.”

Holding the receiver away from his ear, Newman groaned. He rubbed his eyes. “Sarge, I've been so bored. The good news?”

Even on the crackling line, McNab's broad Geordie accent was distinctive and – today – irritating. “Mattie's corner shop phoned. Woman with a baby ran in there – scared shitless. Husband tried to stab her. She's –”

“Did he?”

“Na, but he chased her out. She's in the back-shop. Uniform'll see you there.”

“And the husband?”

“Young lad, teacher. Crackers.”

Could be messy. “Where's he?”

“In the house – 90 Green Drive. Across from Mattie's, an' further along.”

Not out in the sticks at least. “Name?”

“John Chisholm.”

“Behave yourself, McNab.” He slammed the phone down, inhaled, and puffed expansively. Yes, he was the department's mental health expert.

Adrenalin-fuelled, he limped to the car, revved away from the Department and slowed along back streets of terraced houses.

Crackers, eh? He'd see. He'd known guys who, tanked up with liquor, could chase the missus – maybe even with a knife. Didn't mean they were mad. Some women asked for it. Good chance the lad was crazy, though. Young teacher. Could be the stress. He'd seen it before. Or jealousy. Maybe paranoid as hell.

Turning into Green Drive, he espied at the far end, near where Mattie's would be, a small gathering. Vultures? Number 78. He slowed right down. Number 90, the green door shut, curtains drawn. Better see the wife first. He stopped a few yards further along, opposite the corner shop.

Walking over to the shop, he ignored a “what's up?” as he limped past the bystanders. Police would clear them.

He flashed his warrant card at the policeman. “Newman, Mental Health.”

“Missus Chisholm's in the back-shop, Sir.”

“And Mr Chisholm?”

“In number 90. I'm watching the front. Another constable's at the back.”

Fine. He limped into the shop. “Newman, Mental Health,” he said to the elderly couple behind the counter. “To see Mrs Chisholm.”

The woman moved – fast for an oldie. “I'll tell her you're here, Sir.”

He hung back and took the opportunity to buy fags.

The woman returned. “Go on through to the back-shop, Sir.”

Approaching the open door, his nostrils twitched. Some perfume! In the small room sat a young woman, a dark-haired beauty, who gazed up at him with sorrowful brown eyes.

Heather didn't look back until she was in the shop and had her moaning infant seated on the counter in front of Mattie. No, John hadn't pursued her. She'd guessed not, hearing the front door shut, but hadn't dared pause to check.

“What's up, lass?” The white-haired man's gnarled face was impassive.

Breathless, she couldn't reply.

“I'll fetch the wife,” said Mattie, and turning, shouted, “Elsie, it's Heather and the bairn!”

“Coming.” Elsie appeared from the back-shop, advancing rapidly past the only customer – a woman studying the shelves. “Whatever's up, m'dear?”

“I'm in trouble.”

“Come on through.”

She picked up Becky and followed Elsie to a room at the back. She flopped onto a sofa, cuddling Becky and humming till the babe stopped moaning.

She declined ‘a cuppa'. She must tell her story now, though the idea of doing so was scary.

The words weren't coming. She felt a reassuring pat on her hand as Elsie sat down beside her. “Take your time, m'dear.” Elsie's careworn face radiated concern.

“It's John. He went funny, picked up a knife – and I ran.” Her vision was clouding. “I'm afraid he's gone mad.” She was shaking, teeth chattering.

“It'll be shock, m'dear,” said Elsie. “Here, pass me the bairn.”

Heather released Becky to Elsie, who started dandling the infant up and down.

The door opened. Mattie. He looked enquiringly at Elsie.

“Her husband went all funny and chased her with a knife. He's still in their house – number 90. She can't go back and she's worried sick about him.”

Mattie scratched his head. “Maybe I should ring the police, see if they can help?” He looked at Heather.

Still shaking, though less violently, she nodded. She hated the idea, but couldn't think of any better course. John might harm himself.

“Can you mind the shop then, Elsie?”

“Yes. Nearly asleep, m'dear,” Elsie whispered, handing back the child and closing the door quietly behind her.

Shaken up, but regaining control of herself, Heather cradled Becky in her arms. A sleeping little angel!

Mattie was using the phone on the wall in the far corner of the room. With his back to her, he was obviously trying to keep his voice down. But she heard snatches. “Mad… with a knife… 90 Green Drive… here with the bairn.”

Mattie replaced the receiver and turned to Heather. “They'll be right round, and they're sending a mental man to see your husband. I'll join Elsie. She'll be back through soon.” He returned to the shop, leaving the door ajar.

She continued to rock Becky. What was the ‘mental man' – a psychiatrist?

Suddenly an image of John with the knife blocked out all else. Could he kill her – and Becky? Her eyes were blurring, her face moistening. Might he use the knife on himself? He'd looked wild and dishevelled. Said he'd gone for a swim in the river. He couldn't swim! So what was he doing there? Did he mean to drown?

“John,” she whispered aloud. “My rock.” Yes, through her depression he had been – tending to Becky each restless night. In the summer, he'd kept up the builder's labouring work to bring in cash. What energy, in contrast to her apathetic negative state – but not too surprising from a guy whose approach to college was burning the candle at both ends. And when he started teaching, he'd spent hours telling her about every child in his class – their likes and dislikes, and problems he was picking up. She'd known what he was talking about, yet, uncaring, could barely pretend to listen.

Voices in the shop. Mental man? Holding Becky close, she crept to the door and listened. No. Mrs Allen at number 86? She returned to the sofa and her musings.

She must have been awful to live with after the birth. That whole experience, from the dreaded caesarean on, was seismic, and for a while she struggled through a cloud of gloom.

When some months back, the cloud began to lift, and she could experience joy in caring for Becky and tackling housework, she noticed John had changed. He was jumpy and distant and spent all his time preparing lessons. It stung to get the brush-off when she asked what was wrong.

She'd soon decided to stop questioning him. He was stressed, under pressure. And she wanted to concentrate her resurgent energies on bonding with her child.

Then Easter, and his going for work-outs and runs. “This exercise is shaking me up. Olympics next, eh?” he surprised her with one day. She'd thrilled to see a glimmer of a smile.

“Policeman's here, outside the shop, m'dear.” Elsie was back. “Says there's others, watching your house front and back.” She held up a jar of baby food and smiled. “I know what you get for Becky. All right?”

Heather nodded gratefully and handed Becky over. “Can I use your lav?”

“Of course, m'dear. Out the back door, on your left. It's not posh.”

Relieved of discomfort, Heather stopped by the kitchen sink and looked through to the room. Becky, cradled by Elsie, was gulping down the spoonfuls. Nice. Elsie, her white curls dancing as she crooned to Becky, would have been a fine grandma.

“Your bairn's a grand wee eater.” Elsie handed Becky over, then stood up, her cheeks glistening. Elsie – crying? “I'd better join Mattie. Make yourself at home, m'dear.”

Yesterday's shock! Finding John slumped in the chair by the front door – hunched forward, head resting on his arms. Back from work early. Wild-eyed, he'd ignored her queries, insisted on going straight to bed and wanted to be on his own.

Later, when she tiptoed into the bedroom, he divulged something bad happened at school, and said he was wholly responsible. “My neglect,” he added. Talking about it would not help, and he'd sort it out at school tomorrow.

A tapping jolted Heather from her reverie. Elsie was peering round the door. “Heather m'dear, you've a visitor. I'll leave you in private.”

A dark-suited man entered, carrying a briefcase. “Mrs Chisholm?” The stranger continued in a low voice without waiting for a reply, “I'm Sam Newman, Mental Health.” He sat down at the table.

“Yes. Heather Chisholm.” This tanned, dark-haired little man looked nervous – smoothing his hair with one hand, briefcase (flat on the table) clenched in the other. “What do you mean, mental health?”

“I'm Aversham's Mental Health Officer, commonly known as the DAO – that is duly authorised officer, empowered under the law to take people of unsound mind to Springwell.” He flashed a card with a photo on it. “Just to confirm.”

Heather waved her hand. She didn't need to see his card. “The loony bin? John's no madman. Anyway, he wouldn't go there.”

“Well, if your husband's having a nervous breakdown, that's where I have to take him.”

“
Have
to take him? No! Surely you can treat him at home.”

“Not if he's having a serious mental breakdown. Springwell's the only place to treat him. It's the mental
hospital
. Besides, there's your safety. The police said he tried to stab you.”

“That's not true. He just picked up a knife. But…” She hadn't thought this through. Becky's and her own safety came first. Maybe John would have to go there.

The man produced a pack of cigarettes and motioned it towards her. “A fag?”

“No thanks.”

“Mind if I do?” The mental man took out a cigarette and flicked at the lighter.

“No – I mean yes, I do mind.” Her cheeks warmed. “The smoke would be bad for my baby.”

The mental man looked disconcerted, but pocketed cigarettes and lighter. “I'm sorry, I didn't think.” He sat down on a chair by the table, took paper and a pen from the briefcase, and faced her. “Tell me what happened,” he said quietly.

Heather began her story.