The Madness Underneath

by Maureen Johnson

  What time are you picking me up?

  His response was quick:

  Picking you up for what?

  I’m going with you.

  Out of the question.

  My teacher was looking in my direction now. I quickly pressed the phone between my thighs, vanishing it.

  “Let me just cover the things you’ve been able to do so far,” I said. The minute I got out of class, I had called Stephen. I was not giving up on this. I paced the green with the phone to my ear. The middle of the green was actually the safest place to talk. Too many people along the edges. “You convinced my therapist that she had to let me come back to school. You busted into my school’s security system. You arranged for me to be taken to a Tube station in the middle of the night to do a show for Thorpe—”

  “Rory—”

  “Not to mention all the stuff I don’t know about. Oh, and covering up the entire Ripper case with a fake dead body?”

  “I didn’t do that,” he said.

  “You know what I mean. You can arrange it so I can go.”

  “Rory, this is a facility for the criminally insane. A medium secure unit. This man has confessed to murder. This is serious.”

  “And the other things we’ve dealt with weren’t serious?”

  “Of course they were serious,” he said. “But—”

  “Let me ask you this,” I cut in. “If there is something in that basement, and it needs to be taken care of, who’s going to do it? Who’s the terminus? Me. And if you want the terminus to behave, you have to take me.”

  I surprised myself with this last one. It was very blunt. I think it shocked him into silence.

  “I’ll get in touch with you later,” he said.

  And he did. The reply came as I was walking home from dinner.

  I’ll pick you up around the corner from Wexford at 9:45 tomorrow. Sharp. Wear plain white shirt and black trousers or skirt. -s

  13

  THERE WAS ONLY ONE SMALL PROBLEM WITH THIS OTHERwise flawless plan: I was supposed to be in art history at the same time we were going to the hospital. I am not, as a general rule, a class skipper. I’d only ever done it once, and that was entirely by accident. It had happened the year before, back at home. I was running late for school and didn’t have time for coffee. No coffee in the morning makes Rory a stupid girl. For all of first period, I battled to keep my eyes open. In second period, I thought it was third period. So instead of going to second-period French, I went to third-period study hall and went to sleep in the corner of the library, where they have this deflated fuzzy beanbag that no one wants to use because someone claimed there were bed bugs in it. I woke to find myself being shaken by the librarian. They’d realized I was missing from French and put out one of those school-wide Amber-alert things my school does. They track you down. I got a moron reprimand.

  Wexford was a different sort of place. They didn’t follow you around. For my own conscience, I justified this in several ways: 1. Saturday art class was kind of a weird add-on class that wasn’t quite like the other classes. It wasn’t an extracurricular, but it didn’t have that “real class” feel. I may have entirely made this one up, but that was the way it appeared to me. 2. No idea what was going on anyway, so missing one more class would not hurt. 3. Mark was a cool guy and would probably figure I was getting some kind of treatment or therapy. He wasn’t regular faculty, so he wouldn’t have known my whole story or hung out much with the other teachers. 4. I had better things to do: namely, go to a mental hospital and talk to a murderer. That had to be way more important than me examining the works of the puddles and puffy clouds painters.

  I should explain myself to Jerome, at least. He would wonder. He would worry. Would he worry? That was cute.

  Or he’d think I had overslept and missed class. Much more likely.

  I would worry about excuses later.

  I cobbled together an outfit with one of my uniform shirts, and I planned on stealing a skirt out of Jazza’s closet the second she left the room. All I had to do was get out of the building and around the corner without being seen by the wrong people. The wrong people, in descending order of importance, were Jerome, Jazza, my teacher Mark, most of the people on my hall, and my art history classmates. I couldn’t go too early—Jazza would notice if I woke up and left before her (and I needed the skirt). The perfect time, I decided, was nine thirty. Most people went to breakfast then. I could slip out and no one would be the wiser.

  Except that morning, everyone decided to switch things up. Jazza lingered in our room. Gaenor came over to borrow shampoo. Eloise came by to talk. And then, when the coast was finally clear, I found my escape route blocked by Claudia, who felt that this was clearly the moment when the bulletin board in the lobby needed cleaning off. She would not move.

  9:30 came and went. Then 9:35. Then 9:40. By 9:41, I went into a slight panic, which set off a brain wave. We had a house phone on every hallway, with emergency numbers listed next to it, along with Claudia’s office phone. I called her, left the phone off the hook, and when she went into her office to answer, I ran through the lobby and out the door. At this point, I was in real danger of being seen by people heading to class, but there was nothing I could do about that. I could only hope that by running and by not being in a uniform, I would confuse people enough that they wouldn’t realize it was me. This seemed extremely unlikely, but I am prepared to lie to myself on occasion to make life more palatable.

  I hate to run, as I think I have mentioned, but I ran that morning. I ran like a thing that runs, almost running directly into people as I took the corner onto the busy shopping street. For a moment, I thought Stephen had left without me or not come at all, because there was a smug little red Smart Car in his usual spot, but then I saw the police car across the street. I continued my run right across the street.

  “Made it,” I said, getting in and clicking the seat belt triumphantly into place.

  I don’t think Stephen considered successfully getting into a car by nine forty-five—well, nine forty-seven—in the morning to be a major triumph. He just didn’t understand how complicated my life was.

  “Don’t look so happy to see me,” I said.

  “Put this on.” He handed me what looked like a black bowler hat with a white-and-black-checked band around it. There was a fluorescent-yellow police jacket as well.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re riding in the front. You have to look like you belong. Put it on.”

  I slapped on the hat and put on the jacket. They were both just a touch large, but not too bad. At least these were for women. I’d worn Callum’s before, and those were huge. There was a heady plasticky-rubber smell coming off the jacket, and it still had square folds all over it, like it had just come out of a package. I examined myself in the side view mirror. I looked…not exactly like a policewoman, but not entirely unlike one.

  “I like this. Can we turn on the siren?”

  “Stop it,” he said.

  There was a stiffness to his whole demeanor that suggested he had not liked my ultimatum. He was taking me, but he was angry.

  “Do you realize the sort of place we’re going to?” he said.

  “I realize we’re going to a mental hospital.”

  “To meet a murderer.”

  “I’ve met a murderer before.”

  “I know,” he said. “That’s probably why I agreed to this. I think. It’s a good thing Callum’s taking Boo over to the hospital to have her cast removed—I didn’t have to make any excuses about where I was going.”

  It was a miserable morning, overcast as ever. The car’s windows had fogged up from the moisture, and the windshield wipers beat back the gloom and the almost imperceptible rain.

  “I understand you and Callum went out the other night,” he said.

  “He told you?”

  “He didn’t. Boo did.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to tell Boo either,” I said.

  “He didn’t. Boo just k
new.”

  “How?”

  “Boo is very observant,” he said. “She always seems to know what we’ve been doing. She said Callum was ‘glowing,’ which I suppose means that he looks very happy after he’s been patrolling.”

  “Or he’s pregnant,” I said.

  Stephen let this pass.

  “Well, since you’re going on official business, here is the background: The victim, Charlie Strong, was a recovered alcoholic. He continued to run his pub after he stopped drinking, but had a policy of hiring people who were in recovery as a way of supporting the process. Sam Worth, the suspect, had such a history, and a recent one. History of Class A drug use, two charges of possession. He was jailed for two years for beating a man half to death with a metal chair. He was high on acid at the time and thought the man was trying to steal his ears.”

  “Steal his ears?”

  “Apparently Sam took quite a lot of drugs. So he has form.”

  “Form?”

  “Form…a past. A criminal record. History of drug use, history of violence. No drugs were found in his system at the time of arrest, though. He claimed innocence at the scene, but changed his plea once he was in the cells. A week ago, he attempted self-harm or suicide by beating his head against a wall until he was bloody and concussed. That’s when he was transferred to a mental health facility. What they’re trying to determine now is whether he’s fit for trial. So that’s where things stand.”

  On that cheery note, Stephen went silent. There was a throbbingly pink advertisement on the bus in front of us for a musical called Foot-tastic. It featured a photo of a man and a woman who were smiling so hard, I had the feeling that their skin might just unzip and fall off their skulls.

  “I’m going to fail everything,” I said, just for a change of subject.

  “You don’t sound overly concerned about that.”

  “Just keeping it in perspective,” I said coolly. “I’ve dealt with worse recently.”

  “True,” he said. “But you have to move on.”

  “I have moved on.”

  “I mean, you need school.”

  “Are you giving me a stay-in-school lecture? Is that what’s happening here?”

  “I’m not giving you any lecture—your marks are your problem.”

  Maybe it was best if we didn’t talk right now. The occasion wasn’t really one that invited carefree banter, and when I just keep talking, things often got weird fast. It was time for quiet now.

  The Royal Bethlehem Hospital didn’t look like a mental hospital, not that I have much experience on the subject. It was brick, very American looking, like an administrative building on a college campus or something from Main Street, Anywhere, USA. Big windows, red roof, tiny square turret on top. It was cheerful and efficient, even if it was draped entirely in cobwebs of fog. We parked right out front, in a space reserved for official vehicles.

  “Here is how this will work,” Stephen said, turning the car off. “This man is accused of murder. Remember that. I will do the talking. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal,” I said.

  “Even if people ask you questions, you do not answer. They can’t hear your accent.”

  “Got it.”

  “Close up the coat and keep the hat on. Look like you’re meant to be here. Technically, you are impersonating a police officer, so we have to do this right.”

  Everything was fine until we actually went through the front door.

  I call it “water park feeling.” I always think I want to go to water parks. The idea of going on a water slide always seems like a good one. I like pools; therefore, it follows that I should like a park made of pools. And every summer, without fail, I make this mistake and end up going to Splash World, where I remember that I hate water parks, because they are not about pools—they are about slides. They are about heights. They are often about slides that reach to great heights that are enclosed, and as any shipwreck survivor would be happy to tell you, water and enclosed spaces are bad combinations. Add to that the free-fall aspect, and you have a combination that the reptile part of the brain abhors. The brain says no. The brain says bad. The brain says you will fall and then you will drown, or possibly both at the same time.

  I know it the minute I approach the turnstiles and buy a ticket, because that’s when you can smell the chlorine. As soon as it hits my nose, my reptile brain wakes up, checks the files, and sends up the warning. And this is why I always end up claiming I have cramps and holding the towels while gleeful children run around me, totally unafraid.

  On this particular morning, it wasn’t chlorine I smelled. But as we walked through the front door, I caught the faint bite of antiseptic and the strange and false odor of recycled air that comes from a place with no open windows. Hospital smell.

  We started at the front desk. From there, we were taken to a series of stations through a series of doors that had to be opened with swipe cards. Stephen had to show something called a warrant card, which turned out to be his police identification. He signed documents on clipboards.

  I could tell, as we progressed through the building, that we were moving to more and more serious levels. In the beginning, there were paintings on the walls, paintings done by the patients. At first, the paintings just hung. Then they were bolted. Then they were gone and the walls were a plain off-white and everything else was a soothing light green. Everything was calm, orderly, and official.

  Finally, after some last papers were signed, we were taken to a room with a heavy door, with large, very serious bolts on the outside and a tiny window just big enough to peep in. We were let inside, and the door was locked behind us.

  My first impression of the man at the table was that he was big. He had a few days’ scraggly beard, which was blondish-gray. He was dressed in the hospital-issued clothes, which looked like scrubs. His hands were cuffed together on the table, but this didn’t feel necessary. He slumped in his chair, looking feeble and defeated. There were cuts and bruises on his forehead from where he’d banged it into a wall.

  The room was bare except for a few bolted-down chairs and the bolted-down table. There was a CCTV camera in the corner of the room, behind a protective coating of thick plastic, with just a circle cut out to expose the lens. Stephen looked at the camera for a moment. The red light on the side suddenly blinked and went off. No cameras. This was a private interview.

  There were two chairs on either side of the table, but I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to sit next to Stephen, or if this was his job and I was supposed to hang back.

  “I’m Constable Dene,” Stephen said. “And this is WPC Devon.”

  I guess my real last name, Deveaux, was too distinctive, and Devon sounded more English.

  Sam raised his head slightly.

  “Constable?” he said.

  “I realize you’ve probably been talking to a number of people of a much higher rank.”

  “Done talking. I’ve told you lot already.”

  “And I realize you might not want to tell your story again,” Stephen went on. “I realize you’ve had to tell many people, but we’re going to need you to tell us again.”

  “You afraid to sit down?” Sam asked me.

  Actually, yes. I was terrified of sitting down. How nice of him to notice.

  “PC Devon,” Stephen said, without turning around, “why don’t you sit down?”

  Now all the attention was on me, and it was possible that nothing would go forward if I didn’t peel myself off the wall and sit in the chair. I was, I reminded myself, not a trained police officer or mental health professional or anything like that. I was a high school student, a foreigner, and someone who had gotten into all of this completely by accident, and it was not my responsibility to be big and brave here. But I had demanded to be here.

  I unstuck myself from the wall and planted myself in the plastic chair. I put my hands in my lap, where they were safe from germs and whatever else it was I feared in this room.

  Now we could cont
inue.

  “I know this is difficult for you,” Stephen said, “but it would be helpful, and you’ve been very cooperative. We know that.”

  Sam sighed—an all-body sigh that rounded his shoulders.

  “I don’t want to. I’m tired.”

  Sam’s chin sunk into his chest, and he examined the locks that bound him to the table.

  “In your own time,” Stephen said. “We’re not here to bring you any trouble. We’re here to listen.”

  Sam turned his attention to me. His eyes had a yellowy cast.

  “You’re not police,” he said. “Are you?”

  “WPC Devon is an observer from our Care in the Community division,” Stephen said. “I’ll be asking the—”

  “You’re not,” Sam said. “I don’t think either of you are police.”

  Stephen produced his warrant card, opened it, and slid it across the table. Sam leaned forward to have a look at it.

  “And where’s hers?” Sam said.

  “She doesn’t carry one in her capacity,” Stephen said smoothly.

  “Why doesn’t she talk?”

  Sam had clearly figured me out. Of course I wasn’t a cop. A small child or a dog could have figured that out. I guess I thought that since Stephen came up with the idea, it might actually work.

  “She’s an observer,” Stephen said again. “If her presence upsets you, she can go into the hallway and we can talk alone.”

  “I want to know who she is,” Sam said.

  There didn’t seem any point in playing this game any more.

  “I’m Rory,” I said.

  “You’re American,” Sam replied.

  Stephen didn’t make a noise, but I could see the sigh shrugging through his frame.

  “Who are you?” Sam asked. “How did you get in here?”

  “I’m here because bad things have happened to me.”

  That got his interest.

  “What kind of bad things?”

  Stephen cleared his throat loudly. “I don’t think this is—”

  “What kind of bad things?” Sam said again. His eyes were locked on me. This man was supposed to have murdered someone with a hammer. Being here, talking…these were possibly not the best ideas I’d ever had. But talking is still my thing, and talking was better than not talking.