The Help Clinic

by WR Armstrong

rooms in equal measure. In, out, in, out: a constant flow of people passed through. Did they all have the same burning questions on their mind as he did, Scott now wondered as he waited for the man sitting opposite him to put him out of his misery.

  After what seemed like an eternity, but which might have been mere seconds, the man finally looked up and introduced himself. “My name is Spires, Mr Markham. My job today is to explain something of extreme importance to you.”

  Scott cocked an ear. “And what might that be exactly?”

  Spires raised a hand. “All in good time. First things first: can I interest you in a drink? Tea, coffee or a soft drink, perhaps?”

  “Nothing, thanks,” Scott replied, wishing the man would cut to the chase. Glancing around the room, he was struck by the fact that, aside from the desk and two chairs upon which he and Spires sat, the room was completely bare. There was no phone, no computer, no nothing, and there was no intercom, so it couldn’t have been Spires who’d called him into the office, like he’d assumed. Now he came to think about it, though, he couldn’t actually remember being called into the room by anyone. What the devil goes on? Had somebody simply beamed him up?

  “What is this place?” he asked the other man, his confusion and frustration rising. Spires settled back in his seat, hands folded across his stomach, and said, “We call it The Help Clinic, Mr Markham.”

  “The Help Clinic,” Scott repeated. “And would you mind telling me why I’m here?”

  Spires ignored the question and asked his own. “What is your last memory before entering this establishment?”

  Scott found himself having to think hard, very hard. He could remember waving goodbye to Candice, and receiving the phone call from Jonas, and he could remember, albeit vaguely, being in the train station, and then....nothing, zilch.

  “I was standing on the station platform waiting for my train,” he said whilst struggling to uncover a more recent memory.

  Spires nodded thoughtfully: “And then what?”

  All of a sudden, Scott broke out in a cold, clammy sweat. He really didn’t like that question, but he couldn’t put his finger on the reason why. All he knew was he had no wish to remember past the point where he’d been standing on the platform. Why not? Had Jonas appeared at his shoulder brandishing a pair of pliers or a baseball bat? Had he jumped in front of the train? He shuddered at the thought. But that was crazy because if he had, he would be dead, surely, and even if he’d survived a suicide attempt, he’d be in no fit state to be sitting here talking to Spires, or would he?

  “Did you actually board the train?” Spires prompted.

  Scott wracked his brains, trying to think, but nothing would come.

  “I can’t remember,” he finally admitted.

  “It’s rare that people can in this situation,” Spires said knowingly. “It’s the guilt, you see. They find it too hard to face up to, and accept.”

  Scott frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  Spires said; “Let’s try it another way: do you recall the train pulling into the station and approaching the platform, Mr Markham?”

  Scott considered the question, and then nodded.

  “And do you remember what was going through your mind at that time?”

  “Jonas,” Scott said automatically. “I was thinking about Jonas. My head was full of Jonas.”

  “Correct,” said Spires as if he somehow knew the answer. “And how did the thought of Jonas make you feel?”

  “Scared,” Scott admitted. “I felt terrified.”

  “What else?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Jonas was about to destroy your life, Mr Markham; perhaps destroy you in a very physical sense. And then of course, there was your family to consider: what might he do to your wife and child?”

  “How do you know this?” Scott asked.

  “That’s irrelevant,” said Spires.

  Scott really didn’t like the way the conversation was going. “Don’t play games Spires. Out with it––what are you getting at?”

  “Denial, Mr Markham––you present a classic case of denial.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “I rest my case.”

  “You’re wrong!”

  “Then why can’t, or won’t you remember?”

  “Remember what, for Christ’s sake?!”

  “Think carefully, Mr Markham: what does the thought of Jonas do to you now?”

  Scott contemplated the question. “The thought of him doesn’t make me feel anything.”

  “And why do you suppose that is?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then I shall enlighten you. The threat is gone. It is as simple as that.”

  “I killed him? Are you saying I killed him?”

  “Not quite...”

  “Are you saying someone else did?”

  Spires shook his head, no.

  “Stop talking in riddles,” Scott said, exasperated, “Just tell me what’s going on!”

  Spires sighed, as if suddenly very weary. “You have to understand Mr Markham; I can help you to remember, but I am forbidden to remember for you. As I said before, this is a help clinic and help and guide is all that we can do here. Now think: we have established that you were standing on the platform waiting for your train to arrive. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Something happened at that point. Can you recall what it was?”

  Scott shut his eyes and concentrated. With some effort he managed to conjure up a mental image of himself standing on the platform, and in doing so, gradually developed a sense of how he’d felt at that time. Yes, he was badly scared; scared for himself and for his family, but he was also angry and desperate and so very ashamed. He’d waited for his train to arrive wanting to kill himself, he recalled all of a sudden. And it would have been so easy. All he had to do was jump in front of the damn thing––it was such a quick, simple and effective solution to a pretty dire situation. But to do that would mean he was abandoning his family, leaving them in peril, and he couldn’t do that, no matter how concerned he was for his own wellbeing. And the idea of murdering Jonas was laughable. Even if by some miracle he was able to dispose of Jonas he would always be looking back over his shoulder, fearful of revenge attacks. He opened his eyes and saw that Spires was observing him intently.

  “Something on your mind?” he enquired of the man.

  “I could ask the same question,” Spires returned.

  Scott frowned and shut his eyes again. Quite suddenly, in his mind’s eye he saw himself leaving the station platform. Where was he going? Certainly not to work. He looked purposeful as he left the station. Outside in the street, it was still sunny, he recalled. Then in the blink of an eye, he was standing outside his house, slipping the key resolutely into the front door lock. And that was the moment it hit him and he burst into floods of tears.

  “Oh my God, what have I done?!” He looked across at Spires like a helpless child, his eyes streaming.

  “How could I do such a thing? What did I hope to achieve?”

  “Who knows what goes on in a person’s mind?” Spires responded. “We all of us have our breaking point. You thought you were acting in your family’s best interests, I suppose. It was the only way you thought you could protect them.”

  “Where are they?” Scott managed.

  “Safe,” said Spires.

  “Can I see them?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “But I can’t live without them. They’re my world.”

  “You should have thought of that before.”

  “What will happen now? Will it be jail? I deserve it.”

  Spires shook his head and surprised him by saying, “I hardly think so, Mr Markham. There are no jails where you’re going.”

  “I-I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t remember what happened after you had finished with your wife and daughter?”

  Scott tried to block the memory, but it came anyw
ay. Candice and Gemma, lost to him forever. Bereft and distraught, he’d turned the knife on himself. The wrists, he’d gone for the wrists; a simple and effective way to end the pain and suffering. But it hadn’t quite worked out like that. Instead of finding everlasting peace, he was being confronted by Spires, and a terrible sense of impending doom.

  “So, there you have it, Mr Markham,” said Spires, “The terrible truth is finally laid bare to you.”

  “This place,” Scott said, trying to collect his thoughts, “Is a half-way house, am I right?”

  Spires gave a slight nod of the head. “In a manner of speaking. The Help Clinic helps guide individuals through the transition period. Everyone has to go through it, you know. Your situation is nothing unusual. You will have to pay for your crime, of course, but I doubt that you will be consigned to the dreaded basement area. Misguided though you were, your intentions were good. Having said that, neither will you be elevated to the dizzy heights of the roof garden where your dear ones now reside. No, my feeling is that you will be returned to the scene of the crime, where you can contemplate the error of your ways.”

  “For how long?” Scott asked, but Spires was already gone, as was the white walled room that was his office. In its place was “the scene of the crime” as Spires had referred to Scott’s nice, tidy house. It was here that Scott would begin to contemplate the terrible error of his ways.

  THE END

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR.

  Dear Reader,

  Thanks once again,

  W. R. Armstrong.