Balls

by Tommy Dakar

  Anyway, as Daphne had said, the damage had been done and somebody would have to clear up the mess. They had discussed it at length, running through the whole gamut of possible reactions – disbelief, indignation, resignation, rekindled anger and the like before reaching their conclusion. It was the only way to put a stop to the whole sordid business. Now, before it all got out of control and started to snowball.

  ‘I’ve put your correspondence and the press cuttings on your desk, Dr. Flynch. Quite a lot this morning, I’m afraid.’

  ‘A sign of the times.’

  ‘A sign of the times,’

  echoed Miss Reinhart, not, as you might expect, a bespectacled spinster, a faithful cardiganed assistant, but a rather cheery, rosy-cheeked young woman who was not the least bit shocked or intrigued by Dr. Flynch’s strange occupation. Just what he needed, someone to type letters, answer phone calls and ask no questions. And a smile with the morning coffee to boot.

  On his desk, as promised, were the cuttings Miss Reinhart had so diligently discovered in the previous day’s papers. She was the first filter, reading through the articles and picking out those with any reference to sex. It was up to Dr. Flynch to decide whether it should be binned, or filed away under one of his many categories.

  The first thing was to separate the chaff from the grain, which basically meant throwing out all the heterosexual adultery and general mud-slinging marital slander articles. After that it was a simple job of ordering them into sub-groups, with cross-references where necessary.

  Today’s batch was full of the usual stuff. A whore found strangled on wasteland, a few mindless unprovoked attacks on young women on their way home, a couple of gang bangs, a drop of queer bashing and some domestic child abuse. Nothing to get excited about. But, wait a moment; here was something not quite so common. His interest picked up. Ah, yes, a classic case of self-mutilation. A gem, a pearl. He leant back in his chair and smiled a self-satisfied little smile. Self-castration. A textbook example, how gratifying. To be filed under, let me see, self-mutilation, “K” for Kavanagh.

  ‘Psychiatric help.’

  ‘Psychiatric help?’

  Ron had tried his best to use no intonation, to make it sound as if it were the most logical solution. Got a headache? Take an aspirin. He had thought it best to drain the phrase of its emotional charge, but now he regretted not having added an element of pity. No, on second thoughts he didn’t regret a thing, even if he’d burst into tears as he’d said it Ken would have overreacted anyway, he always did.

  For his part Ken had decided to play surprised (though in reality the only surprise was that big brother Ron had taken so long to come to this conclusion), because that way he felt he could reject the idea better. Ron, I am shocked, I never thought for a minute etcetera. Daphne and Jill waited in the wings for their cues, asking themselves once again: if all the world’s a stage, then who the hell’s in the audience?

  ‘Psychiatric help?’

  repeated Ken incredulously, but a little less loudly this time in case those at the next table should overhear. That had been Daphne's idea, meeting at the Stagecoach Inn where appearances would have to be kept up and voices down. It also helped that they frequented the place very rarely so were unlikely to be uncovered as ‘the mad boy’s family’. Perhaps there had been a certain glimmer in the barman’s eye, but she was sure that discretion would prevail. Jill had understood her reasoning and had managed to persuade a reluctant Ken to bury his prejudices and agree to be seen dead with the toffee-nosed bunch of snobs and poofs he swore adorned the place.

  ‘It’s not what you’re thinking.’

  Here Ron had tried to sound comforting, but Ken heard a sneer, a touch of arrogance, a slight twang of superiority.

  ‘He even knows what I’m thinking now.’

  ‘Well it’s not about strait jackets and electrode treatment if that’s what you’re getting at. I said “psychiatric help”, not “let’s lock him up in a bloody loony bin”.’

  ‘Who do you think you are, eh? Mr. Bloody high and mighty. Of course us proles don’t know anything about modern science, do we love?’

  In the hushed mock rustic surroundings of the Stagecoach Inn Jill hushed him.

  ‘Do you know the difference between psychology and psychiatry?’

 

  asked Ron, unsure himself of the right answer, but with all his confidence placed in his wife’s didactic skills.

  ‘It’s more Woody Allen than Jack Nicholson,’

  explained Daphne with a condescending smile. If the bitching didn’t stop soon they’d end up being barred for life from the bar. Jill stepped in.

  ‘Look, why don’t you explain exactly what you have in mind, and we’ll promise not to interrupt, ok.?’

  ‘Go ahead, go on, don’t mind me, I won’t say a word.’

  Ken was peeved, but consoled himself with one of Auntie’s favourite proverbs – give him enough rope...

  Ronald Kavanagh was in his element. How he loved to chair meetings, to have a turn to speak when all would have to listen, even those dying to interject. Daphne, his faithful secretary, would nod at his wisdom at strategic points in his discourse, while he would dazzle those present with his grasp, how should I put it, (pause), his command of the oratory art.

  ‘Well come on, spit it out for Christ’s sake.’

  In a way Ken was in his element, too. He loved to play the down-to-earth type, the layman with a master’s degree from the University of Life. He liked to think that scientists and History professors weren’t so bloody clever as they thought, hiding behind all those ridiculously long words to cover up the fact that all they could really boast was an excellent memory and the boring person’s ability to swot. Lawyers too, but above all politicians, especially local politicians like puffed up Ronald Kavanagh who thought he could take us all in with those posh –isms and technical jargon. The sort of people who called you ‘Kenneth’ instead of Ken and wished you ‘all the very best’ so as not to say ‘good luck, mate’. A bunch of bloody show-offs, bookworms and arse lickers, with, perhaps, a few (at Jill’s gentle prodding) notable exceptions. Exceptions that, as always, and quite conveniently, proved the rule. Or was it that by playing the noble brute he managed to irritate big know-it-all brother Ron?

  Either way battle was joined and Paul’s fate was decided for him whether he liked it or not. Meanwhile the women, this being a turn of millennium tale, looked on.

  “If Sigmund Freud had been listening and taking notes from the time of Adam, he would still not have explored even a single group, even a single person”.

  Ron had read that once in a book entitled “The White Hotel” by D.M.Thomas, a rather pretentious birthday present from his wife. Except now he couldn’t remember exactly where he’d read it or how it went, only being able to recall what he had gleaned to be the central issue of the novel: that not even the best psychiatrists can understand a bloody thing, that if you’re nuts you’re nuts and that’s about it really. So what hope there was for his kid brother was anybody’s guess. Still, something had to be done, and he was far better off in professional hands than wandering about in a daze on his own giving interviews to the first half-witted journalist who happened to take an unhealthy interest in his case. ‘Kenneth’ was concerned, of course, fantasising about shock treatment, padded cells and what have you, but then he was so ignorant about anything other than cleaning out gutters or roof insulation.

  Once again Daphne had been a godsend, it seemed she had got to know just about everyone worth knowing through her voluntary work. She had arranged the interview, haggled over the fee, dropped the odd political name and, in short, had handled the affair admirably. Above all with discretion, a concept to which Ken was a perfect stranger. Why couldn’t he see that the fewer people that knew that Paul was being... helped at St. Christopher’s the better? Alright, so perhaps it was nothing to be ashamed of, St. Christopher’s was one of the most exclusive homes in the country, a five star hotel for loonies
, but neither was it anything to be proud of. Hey, everybody, my brother’s cut his balls off ‘cos he’s round the bend, so we locked him up at St. Chris’s. At times Ron wondered if Ken wasn’t half mad himself. Thank god Jill had shown a bit more common sense, ‘he needs help, Ken, you must see that’. Funny old cow that Jill, she bends with the wind. Or so it seems. She’d gone on about how beautiful a place it was, its extensive lawns, golf courses, tennis courts, heated pool, the works! And probably the best qualified staff in the country. Naturally she hadn’t mentioned that these amenities cost an arm and a leg, oh no, best leave the economic details to big brother Ron. Still, at least she had shown an interest in getting him put away, that is, admitted. Talking about fees, he wondered if he could manage to pass them off on to the N.H.S., there had to be a way. He’d talk to Gerald about that on Wednesday. As they say, it’s not what you know....

  He stopped and had a little think about that. After a while stroking his goatee he came to the conclusion he usually came to, that it wasn’t who you knew, either. That was fine for Daphne, but there was more to it than simple hobnobbing. It was organisation. Organisation.

  Ken was sitting with his back to the chimney, looking out across the sea of identical suburban roofs, and he too was thinking about a quotation. Not from a novel in this case, Ken didn’t have much time for the written word, placing authors in the same boat as scientists and politicians. Books were boring, and writers had no idea of how to entertain; he usually lost interest after three pages or so. No, this was different, this was The People’s Voice, lyrics, song lyrics, words you could sing and that everybody else knew by heart. The Fool on the Hill by The Beatles. He wasn’t too sure what it all meant, but he had a funny feeling that somehow it was on his side, that the Fab Four would probably have sympathised more with him than ruddy Ron. Or maybe the fool was himself, the rooftop his hill. Or maybe it was just a daft song written about bugger all. Still, not bad, great little tune really. He hummed it quietly and let his thoughts peter out.

  Later, in the van driving back home, it came back to him again, and he started to feel uncomfortable. Guilty was the word. He couldn’t help feeling that they’d contrived to lock up their own flesh and blood, that poor little Paul was doomed to live his days half-drugged amongst arsonists and manic depressives. He imagined him shuffling around in his dressing gown and slippers, babbling on about promises and treachery. One day they’d tell him he was free to go, but he’d tell them calmly that he had no wish to go anywhere else – this is my home! And if they forced him to go he’d lop off a leg or something to get back in.

  At home the kids were in the garden playing catch with the boys from next door. He watched for a while through the living room window. If one of them dropped the ball they had to go down on one knee, then two knees, then one arm, then no arms and out. It seemed that this added stress made them even more nervous than usual and turned the ball into a hot potato.

  St. Christopher’s of all places. Typical of Ron to be the snob even when it was his own brother who was concerned. And Jill urging him on! How on earth were they going to afford it? It was alright for him, he was rolling in it, but roofing didn’t exactly fill your pockets with gold. Thank god Mum wasn’t alive to see us all at each other’s throats like this. As for Dad, I wouldn’t be surprised if he were at the root of all this, the bastard.

  His mind had and automatic cut-off whenever the topic of his father cropped up, and he immediately began to wonder what Jill would have ready for dinner.

  Kavanagh, Kavanagh. The name had stuck in his mind all day like an irritating jingle. He had filed it away, but there had been no archive with that name under ‘self-mutilation’. He wondered if he had come across it in another case he was studying, but Miss Reinhart had run through last week’s computer files and had come up with nothing. Perhaps he was confusing it with something else, Carnegie, or Karamazov, but no, he was sure it was Kavanagh that was bothering him. So Dr. Flynch, who had enormous faith in hunches, especially his own, had Miss Reinhart scour all the archives.

  ‘All of them, right back to the beginning?’

  ‘That’s right Miss Reinhart. All of them.’

  It would take her a few days to go through them, but at least he’d have a little peace of mind at the end of it.

  And Paul? He consoled himself with these thoughts: History is full of examples of people accused of madness simply because their Truth was not at first understood. Jesus of Nazareth, Galileo, Joan of Arc, Columbus, Nostradamus, Van Gogh, George W...... the list was extensive. People with insight, people who knew they were right.

  He heard his Master’s voice as he convalesced – forgive them, Paul, for they know not what they do. To the uninstructed it was an act of lunacy, but we know it was in fact an act of contrition.

  Ron and Ken and the rest of them were only interested in getting him certified and out of the way, but Paul had his own plans. They wanted to save their skins, but Paul wanted to save their souls. He would help them. National and international T.V. and press coverage should get things started. He had rather enjoyed the interview with Sharon, the way she’d been uneasily fascinated by his courage, his uncommon resolve, his air of coherent mysticism. The tingle of imminent fame was not unlike the stirrings of sexual desire which he had so radically cut short. Mr. Swan, as always, had been right; he should not content himself with showing Ron or Ken the light, he had to illuminate the whole wide world.

  2

  Humour shines its light into most dark corners, raising a smile from death to concentration camps, from religion to terrorism. Depending on the subject matter we titter, giggle, chuckle or guffaw. But some things are just not funny, not even in hindsight.

  From Hornsby Drive to Beesdale Avenue there is a short cut across the wasteland which runs along the east side of Kingsley Road. During the day rubbish grows in clumps – rags, discarded furniture, twisted masses of wire and plastic. At night the shadows bloom.

  If I take the short cut

  If she takes the short cut

  I’ll be home in a few minutes

  She’ll fall nicely into the trap

  The ground is rough and uneven, an uncivilised slab of land surrounded by well kept semis, like a street urchin amongst a group of uniformed schoolboys.

  The victim, hereinafter referred to as Miss P., was found at approximately 5.15 a.m. on the morning of the twelfth of October by Mr. Charles Murray whilst on his milkround. According to Mr. Murray Miss P. was ‘unconscious, half-naked, and covered in blood. I thought at first that she’d been murdered’. The discovery took place on an area of wasteland immediately opposite the main gates of Mercury Carriers Ltd. on the Kingsley road. It is unlit, rubbish-strewn and, more importantly, unfrequented at night, hence the length of time elapsed between the attack, estimated by forensics at between 2.00and 3.00 a.m., and the discovery of the victim, at approximately 5.15 a.m. She was taken to Burton General Hospital where her wounds were attended. Due to the ferocity of the assault she was unable to make a statement until the morning of the sixteenth of October.

  What was that?

  Ssh, or she’ll hear

  It’s just my imagination, she says, but her heartbeat increases a touch just the same, as if her fear has picked up on something she missed.

  A girl should not drink too much. A girl should not wear provocative clothing. A girl should not be out after midnight. A girl should not walk home on her own. A girl should not venture across unlit wasteland.

  Now should she.

  But she keeps coming. Like they all do. She knows I’m here, well-armed, waiting for her. But she keeps coming, asking for it, challenging me. What she wants is to feel the heat of the hunt, to feel the power in me, the strength and thrust she is begging for, begging for it. Like they all do, the sluts, the dirty here-I-come bitches.

  The shadows bloom and seem to move, shifting and arching their backs like wild cats about to pounce. And slight rustling noises so tiny they trick you into thinking they
’re harmless, unthreatening, that they’re unable to grow into obsessive breathing, foul-mouthing, grunting. Sounds so small that hatred cannot fit inside them. No, of course not, but her blood begins to pump furiously at the idea, the suggestion, the possibility.

  Miss P. left her home at approximately 9.30 p.m. on Thursday the eleventh of October and went straight to number 14, Hornsby Drive where her friend, Miss Caroline Stratton, was holding a birthday party. She took the shortest possible route, which included crossing the portion of wasteland opposite Mercury Carriers Ltd. on the Kingsley Road. She noticed nothing untoward on her journey from her home at 32 Beesdale Avenue to the aforementioned address at Hornsby Drive, She remained at the house party until approximately 12.30p.m., though the exact time of departure has been impossible to discern as it appears that nobody was taking much notice of the time. The victim herself is unsure, and the other guests on questioning were unable to give a clearer idea, estimates varying from 12.00 p.m. to 2.00 a.m. of the twelfth of October. These times, however, coincide with the Forensic Department’s report which places the attack at between 2.00 a.m. and 3.00 a.m. of the twelfth of October.