by Linda Green
‘That’s where you need to go,’ I say to Terry, pointing.
Terry nods. He takes the torch out of his carrier bag. I hadn’t even seen him put it in.
‘You don’t need that,’ I say. ‘Let me take it home for you.’
Terry shakes his head. ‘Matthew says I need to check for rats.’
‘No. There aren’t any, I told you that. They wouldn’t allow it in a place like this.’
Terry shrugs and puts the torch back in his carrier bag. ‘I’m keeping it with me, just in case,’ he replies.
‘OK but you don’t need to get it out again. I’ll meet you back here at four when you’re finished. My appointment at job centre is at half four, so we’ll need to go straight there after.’
‘They’re watching me. They’ll be watching you too. They’ll find you a job where they have cameras. That’s what they do.’
‘Everywhere has cameras now, Terry, but no one’s watching us. It’s just to keep people safe.’
‘Keep ’em peeled,’ he says, pointing to his eyes and then at me, like Shaw Taylor used to do at the end of Police 5. He hasn’t done that for years. I give him an uncertain smile and turn to walk away. Just like the day he started school, I have to bite my lip very hard. I remember then hoping that Mam would make it out of bed to bring him the next day. She did manage it for a bit. She went to an assembly once, told me all about it when I came home that night. Right proud of our Terry, she was. It didn’t last, though. It never lasted. Dad may have walked out on us but the marks he left behind on her were enough to ensure she never forgot him.
*
As soon as I get home, I start cleaning the kitchen. Maybe it’s because it seems the best thing to do to try to take my mind off Terry. Or maybe I’ve got withdrawal symptoms from cleaning the café. I wonder how Danny’s been getting on with Bridget, poor sod. He texted me earlier, saying how sorry he was I’d lost my job and how he’d told Bridget she was out of order. He said there was a card up in the window advertising for my replacement already too. They’ll be no shortage of people applying either, even on those crappy wages.
I know I should probably go to all the cafés in town to see if they’ve got any work going, but right now I’m too worried about Terry to concentrate on anything else.
When I go to the job centre later, they’ll probably tell me I should have got off my fat arse and found something already. They don’t know what it’s like, though, to have someone like Terry to look out for. I feel sick inside just thinking about what state he’ll be in by the end of the day.
By lunchtime there’s nothing left to clean. As I gave Terry the last bit of ham, I have cheese spread in my sandwich instead. I remember making cheese spread and crisp sandwiches for Terry when he was a kid. I’d only put a couple of crisps in each half, so I could make a packet last as long as possible. Terry used to love them, though. Thought it made him right special. He offered me a bite once, but I said no, I’d already had one. It’s the only time I’ve ever lied to him, to stop him feeling bad about having things I didn’t have.
I start getting ready at quarter to three. Not that it is going to take me more than a few minutes. You hear these women saying it takes them an hour to get out the house in the mornings. I’ve got no idea what they find to do in that time. I’m never more than five minutes in the shower and the only other thing I do that takes more than two minutes is my plaits. I suppose it’s a bit strange, a woman of my age still wearing her hair in plaits. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have them. Mam used to do them for me when I was little. It is one of my earliest memories. Her telling me to stand still and stop fidgeting while she separated my hair into sections. My plaits were always neat back then too, which suggests that if she was drinking, it wasn’t too much. She even put red bows on if she were having a good day. I’ve seen them in a couple of old Polaroids. I wish I could remember more about the good days. Sometimes I think I can recall a slight trace of her perfume, a smile when she picked me up from school, maybe the softness of her hand in mine. But I have probably made that up. Because the next thing I can clearly remember is Dad hitting her and sending her flying across the room into the electric heater. I didn’t make that up. He hit her lots of times but that was the first one in front of me. My plaits weren’t always so neat after that. And by the time Dad left, I was doing them by myself. She was too drunk to get out of bed, most of the time, let alone manage plaits.
I stick a bit of deodorant on and change into different clothes. Not that I’ve got anything fancy to wear but I’m not turning up at the job centre in my cleaning rags. I have got some standards. I pick up my bag and check my phone is inside. I’m surprised I haven’t had a call, to be honest. I hadn’t really expected Terry to last the morning. Maybe he will be OK. Maybe if he keeps his head down, stays quiet and gets on with the cleaning, he’ll be able to cope. I know this will not be the case, but it would be nice to believe it, even if it is just for a little while.
*
I arrive outside the shopping centre quarter of an hour before Terry is due to finish. There is a police car parked outside. They are often called to deal with rival gangs of school kids in there. I hope there hasn’t been any trouble. Terry would hate it if a fight had broken out.
As soon as I step inside, I realise that there is a commotion in the far corner by the toilets. A small crowd has gathered. I hurry towards them. I see a flash of a police uniform through a gap and I can hear a lot of shouting. I know instantly that one of the voices shouting is Terry’s. I break into a run. A run I didn’t realise I was even still capable of until that moment. As I approach the edge of the crowd, I can hear Terry shouting, ‘Get off me, leave me alone!’
‘Terry, it’s Kaz,’ I call out. ‘It’s OK, I’m here.’
The crowd turn and look at me as I push my way through.
‘I’m his sister,’ I say. ‘I need to get to him. He’s mentally ill.’
‘He’s a fucking paedophile,’ a woman’s voice calls out.
I freeze, wondering what on earth has happened. The crowd parts to reveal Terry lying on the floor outside the toilets, his head to one side and his arms handcuffed behind his back. A bearded policeman is crouched over him.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I shout at him. He turns to face me.
‘Are you a relative?’ he asks.
‘Kaz, they’re MI5,’ shouts Terry, still struggling on the floor. ‘Don’t talk to them.’
‘I’m his sister. You can’t do that to him. He’s got schizophrenia.’
The policeman looks at me, as if working out if he can trust me.
‘I had to because he was resisting arrest.’
‘Why have you arrested him?’
‘He’s been accused of a serious crime.’
‘Shit,’ I say, quietly, wondering what the hell has happened. I look down at Terry, hoping he’ll be able to tell me something.
‘Kaz, they think I’m a spy,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t spying on her. I were trying to save her from rats.’
‘Pervert. Lock him up!’ a woman with a scraped-back ponytail shouts. I notice a group of schoolgirls nearby, probably twelve or thirteen years old. Three of them are crying. I am starting to feel incredibly uneasy.
I turn back to the policeman. ‘Please get him away from these people,’ I say. ‘Somewhere quiet to help him calm down.’
The policeman tries to help Terry up. I go over and put my arm round him. I can feel his shoulders shaking. His eyes are wild and staring.
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Whatever’s happened, we’re going to get it sorted out.’
‘They were everywhere Kaz,’ Terry says.
‘Who were?’
‘Rats. Dozens of them. I could hear them in cubicles of ladies’ loos. That’s why I were shining torch under door and went under to look for them.’
I s
hut my eyes for a second. Not wanting to believe what I am hearing.
‘Can we get him in there?’ I ask the policeman, nodding towards the little office at the side of the toilets.
‘No,’ he says. ‘My colleague’s in there with the girl.’
‘What girl?’
He shakes his head, his face suggesting that now is not the time to discuss it. I am starting to feel sick. I think I know what’s happened. Terry’s slid under a cubicle looking for rats while a girl was in there. That’s what he’s fucking gone and done.
‘As soon as my colleagues arrive,’ the policeman continues. ‘I’ll be taking him down to the station.’
‘I’m coming with him, then,’ I say. ‘I can’t leave him, not in this state.’
The policeman nods. I get the impression he is glad to have me because Terry has calmed down slightly since I arrived. He is still shaking and muttering about the rats, but he is not struggling now. I stroke his hair. It is flecked with grey at the sides, but I do not see that. I see the scared little boy standing there. The little boy I should have protected from everything bad that was happening around him. The little boy I have let down so badly. I hear Mam’s voice mocking, taunting: ‘waste of fucking space you are. So much for looking after your brother.’
I whisper in Terry’s ear. ‘You’re going for a ride in a police car, Terry.’ He would have loved that when he was a kid. He used to make the siren noise all the time. Drove me up the bloody wall, it did. I wish he wasn’t going in one now, though. This is not how it was supposed to be. This is so fucking messed up.
I look up as I hear another commotion. A policeman and policewoman are coming through the crowd. They are with a woman, probably in her late thirties. Her long brown hair is tucked behind her ears. As soon as she sees the group of schoolgirls she bursts into tears. One of them runs up and gives her a hug. I think she is the mum of the girl in there. The girl that Terry must have scared half to death. The policewoman starts to lead her towards the office next to the toilets but Terry mutters something out loud and the woman looks over at us. She sees Terry and lets out something that sounds like a howl.
‘You bastard,’ she screams. ‘You filthy, dirty bastard.’ She starts to make a rush for him, but the policewoman grabs her arm. The other policeman joins ours and together they bundle Terry forward through the crowd. People are calling out, hurling abuse at him. Terry puts his head down. If his arms were free, I know he would be covering his ears, but he can’t because of the handcuffs.
‘Make them stop, Matthew!’ he shouts. ‘Make them stop.’
We cannot get out of the shopping centre and into the police car fast enough. Terry struggles to sit down with his arms behind his back.
‘Can’t you take those handcuffs off?’ I ask the bearded policeman. ‘He’s not going anywhere, not with me here.’
‘Not till we get to the station,’ he replies.
‘They’re taking us to be interrogated, Kaz,’ Terry says. ‘They know all our secrets. They’ve caught us on camera. They were watching us. It were a trap.
Terry starts singing ‘Trapped’ by Colonel Abrams. I catch the policeman raising an eyebrow in the rear-view mirror. He clearly thinks Terry’s a nut-job. I’m not bothered about that, though. All I can think about is the mum of that girl in the shopping centre. I can still see the anger in her eyes. I would be like that if anyone ever hurt Terry. But it’s Terry she’s mad at. Terry who has done something to her daughter that he can’t take back. Terry, who they have arrested and who’s in such deep shit.
I sit quietly next to him in the back of the car. One hand on his still-trembling leg. The other brushing away the tears from my eyes.
*
I’ve never been inside Halifax nick before. It looks a bit like all the police stations on telly, only maybe a bit smaller and shabbier. The bearded copper takes Terry up to the desk and talks to the white-haired policeman behind it. A few moments later he nods towards me to come forward.
‘I’m going to leave you both with Sergeant Hopkins now,’ he says. ‘He’s the custody sergeant and will explain what’s going to happen next.’
I nod. Terry has at least stopped singing but is muttering to Matthew under his breath. Sgt Hopkins looks at Terry.
‘Right, I need to book you in, first,’ he says. ‘Name?’
‘Don’t tell them, Kaz,’ says Terry. ‘Matthew says they’ve already got a file on me. We’re not to tell them anything else.’
I sigh and turn to Sgt Hopkins. ‘Terry Allen.’
Terry glares at me and goes back to talking to Matthew.
‘Has Mr Allen ever been in custody before?’ Sgt Hopkins asks.
‘No,’ I say. ‘And he’s got schizophrenia. He also needs those handcuffs taken off because they’re not helping.’
Sgt Hopkins turns to Terry. ‘Would you like to be seen by a mental health professional?’ he asks.
‘Matthew says not to tell you anything because you can’t be trusted.’
‘Yes, he would,’ I say quickly. ‘This whole thing is a mess and whatever he’s done, he meant no harm. It’s his first day in job. He shouldn’t even be working but they found him fit for work and made him do this. I told woman at job centre he couldn’t cope but she wouldn’t listen.’
As I say it, I remember that I should be at the job centre for my appointment. I ought to ring them to let them know I can’t make it. Not now, though. I need to get Terry sorted out first. Sgt Hopkins picks up the phone and makes a call.
‘Someone from mental health team will be with you shortly,’ he says, when he puts the receiver down. ‘Do you have a solicitor you’d like to contact, or should I call duty solicitor?’
‘Call Matthew,’ Terry says. ‘Matthew will know how to get me out of here.’
‘Who’s Matthew?’ Sgt Hopkins asks.
‘He means Matthew Kelly, him off telly,’ I say, relieved he is at least old enough to remember.
Sgt Hopkins nods slowly. Terry starts laughing. ‘That rhymes,’ he says. ‘I never realised before.’
*
He’s nice, the psychiatric nurse who comes to see Terry. His name is Michael and he has a hint of an Irish accent, several piercings and smiling eyes. He also gets the police to take the handcuffs off Terry before we go into a little room together.
‘Michael’s here to help you,’ I tell Terry as he sits down. ‘We need to tell him everything that’s happened.’
‘Is he one of them?’ Terry asks.
‘I’m independent of the police,’ Michael replies. ‘My job is to make sure you get the care and support you need.’
Terry sits down and starts singing, ‘What have I done to deserve this?’
‘He’s a big fan of Pet Shop Boys,’ I say to Michael.
‘And Dusty,’ says Terry. ‘Dusty Springfield and Dusty Bin.’
He starts doing the 3–2–1 thing with his fingers that Ted Rogers used to do.
Michael gives us both a wee smile and gets out a big notebook.
‘Terry, when were you first diagnosed with schizophrenia?’ Terry is still doing the Ted Rogers impression, so Michael turns to me.
‘When he were eighteen,’ I say. ‘Though I think he had it before that. He’s been hearing voices since he were about thirteen. Matthew Kelly from Stars in Their Eyes mainly, but we’ve had Cilla Black, Jim Bowen and Ted Rogers at various points.’
‘Matthew’s my friend,’ says Terry.
‘Aye, I know, love,’ I reply.
‘Is there any history of mental health issues in the family?’ asks Michael.
‘Our dad were a fucking psycho, if that’s what you mean. Knocked our mum about a lot. And our mam were an alcoholic and suffered with depression.’
‘Are they not around any longer?’
‘No. Our mam’s dead and our dad pissed off years ago, so h
e may as well be. I’m his next of kin. It’s just two of us.’
Michael nods and makes some notes.
‘And how old was Terry when his mother died?’
‘Ten,’ I reply.
Usually at this point people make sympathetic noises and tell us how sorry they are to hear that, but Michael doesn’t give me any of that crap and I like him for it.
‘Who looked after him after that?’
‘Me,’ I reply. ‘Though I pretty much looked after him from when he were a toddler. Mam wasn’t up to much most of the time.’
‘And is he on any medication?’
‘No. It don’t agree with him. He were dosed up on all sorts last time he were in psychiatric unit but he put on weight and slept whole weeks away. Like a zombie, he were. He came off everything when he got out and he hasn’t been on owt for years. He doesn’t need it, see. Not when he’s just at home with me.’
‘And how many times has he been admitted to a psychiatric unit?’
‘Three. Always because of work. He can’t cope with being out somewhere unfamiliar with people he doesn’t know. He goes downhill fast and ends up being sectioned.’
‘When was the last time that happened?’
‘Back in 2013. He were in there for six months.’
‘And when did these latest episodes start?’
‘Only last few days, since he got letter saying his benefits were being stopped and he’d been found fit for work. He started talking about MI5 again and hearing rats.’
Michael turns to Terry.
‘Tell me about the rats, Terry. What do you hear?’
‘Feet,’ says Terry. ‘I hear their feet. They’re everywhere see, but most people can’t hear them. I heard them today in ladies’ loos. Dozens of them, scurrying about, there were. I got my torch out to find them and got down on floor on my back. I had to go under door because I could hear them, and Matthew said they were attacking whoever were in there.
‘I didn’t know it were a girl, not until she screamed. I didn’t see owt. I weren’t looking at her. I were only looking for rats.’