Head Case

by Ross Armstrong

  Forever.

  Forever.

  Forever.

  My legs kick. I hear Ryans talking to me from outside. My headphones fall away from my ears. I can’t hold on to the purpling air inside me anymore. I shout. He says something back over the sonic wash in my ears, my terrorised head conjuring harsh white noise from the deafening cacophony of medical silence.

  ‘Aaah!’ I hear myself call.

  His soothing call comes back.

  ‘One more please. Stay as still as you can!’ he says.

  But it does me no good as the belt moves me, and I picture being pushed towards cremation fires. My hands ball into fists and I punch and kick the ring as it comes past. The bullet feels hot in my head, and my body shudders like it’s being pumped with thousands upon thousands of litres and chemicals and volts.

  ‘Stop. Tom? Stop! We’re done. It’s done. It’s finished. Tom?’

  He leans over and puts his body on mine. I feel him. He holds my wrists calmly. He breathes into my shirt. I feel its warmth. I feel his forehead against my cheek.

  ‘It’s okay to be scared.’

  ‘I’m not scared.’

  ‘It’s okay anyway.’

  We stay there for a while, a strange sight, as my breathing returns to normal. Then he straightens himself out and beckons me to sit, as if nothing happened. Like all of that was of no more significance than a handshake. He stays close. Studying me without giving that impression. Putting his hand in between his legs to grab his chair and drag it further towards me.

  ‘That’s expensive equipment, you know,’ he says, deadpan.

  ‘I know. I’m… I mean I am… I mean, I’m… sorry.’

  ‘You may feel like this. We all feel like this from time to time. But you may feel like this when you least expect it. Things are still settling. You’re still figuring out how to be.’

  I nod. His words hold me up and scold me all at once. They’re a reminder that I’m still in rehabilitation. I expect too much of myself. He speaks with utter realism.

  ‘Do you feel… different? You seem… different.’

  ‘It will pass. At night. I’ve felt it before. In the night. It will pass.’

  ‘Everyone wants the best for you, Tom. But I do worry this is all too much too soon.’

  ‘It’s not. I’m fine. It’s been good for me.’

  I steel myself against his kindness.

  ‘No one wants to stop you living a normal life.’

  ‘Good, I’d hope so.’

  ‘But this attack. Is someone… after you? Did you… do something?’

  Not that I can remember. I don’t think it’s anything like that.

  ‘No. It’s nothing like that,’ I say, still rejecting the offer of his gaze.

  ‘Look at it this way, I wouldn’t let you play a fucking contact sport, why on earth shouldn’t I do everything I can to prevent you playing tag with some bastard with a machete? I thought you said that PCSOs just walk down the high street saying hello to shop keepers?’

  ‘Sometimes it goes a bit further than that.’

  ‘Yes, I can see.’

  ‘The way I do it anyway.’

  ‘Yes, I can see!’ he says, his voice strained with concern.

  ‘But I’m going to live my life the way I want to live it. No matter what,’ I say, quietly, mostly breath.

  ‘You can’t take another blow to the head, Tom!’

  It goes quiet. The nurse, somewhere behind me, leaves the room.

  We look at each other for the first time today. I’ve been told this before of course. Maybe that’s why this time he’s shouting it, to make sure it goes in. He goes on.

  ‘You can’t. Most of the time you probably feel okay, better than okay, but never forget that the contents of your head are extremely delicate. It’s held together with science and chance, some luck and a lot of goodwill. It can’t take being shaken around like a snow globe. It won’t survive it. It will fall apart. I’m sorry, but it will. Look, Tom, I’m not going to sugar coat anything. All it will take is one firm blow.’

  I’m calmer now. I don’t know why. It doesn’t suit what I’ve just been told.

  ‘I see smells in colours, have I told you that?’

  ‘Yes, that’s not impossible. It’s a type of…’

  ‘Synaesthesia, I know. I looked it up.’

  ‘Of course you did. I’ll add it to the list. Mild aphasia. Prosopagnosia. Synaesthesia. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes actually. I see patterns, in things. Like the other day I saw a picture, a child’s drawing, I could see the individual strokes that made it with absolute clarity, the psychology behind it even. But I couldn’t tell you what the picture was of, at all.’

  ‘Silly question but do you find this hinders your work?’

  ‘Possibly, but it helps me, too. I found the picture in a girl’s bedroom. I think it’s the key to finding her.’

  ‘Right. What makes you think that?’

  While I think, he writes scruffily on his pad.

  I look down at the squiggles, but they mean nothing to me. He sees I’m looking but doesn’t flinch or get self-conscious for a second. He looks up, waiting for an answer.

  ‘It makes sense to me. It stood out. It didn’t fit the pattern.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of the rest of her room. We were surrounded by attempts at adulthood, and there was this childish affectation. Then the picture told me the artist wasn’t just young, but also had an incredibly low IQ.’

  ‘I wouldn’t rush to judgement on something like that –’

  ‘I can tell –’

  ‘We’ve been trying to discover what’s going on inside the mind using external exercises for years. It’s indistinct –’

  ‘Not for me –’

  ‘Look, we can tell little things from this work, but to profile a person purely from something they drew? Even for someone with significant problems, it’d be difficult to tell the difference between someone who’s had an accident like yours, or a syndrome from birth, or had their mind warped by a cult or –’

  ‘No, no, that’s not it –’

  ‘Or it’s just a child’s drawing.’

  He smiles, takes a sip of water, adjusts the way he is sitting.

  ‘Trouble is, Tom… it’s possible that you see patterns that others don’t see. But it’s also possible that you may see patterns that aren’t really there. Not in any usable sense. Your brain is working on another level entirely. Another level that perhaps has nothing to do with the realities of the flesh and bone world.’

  I place my palms on my knees and centre myself. He’s reciting my well-worn fears. But I push them away

  ‘But –’

  ‘Now, I don’t work in law enforcement. You know, I’ve no experience of that. But knowing what I know I can only advise you that the stimulation of the thrill of discovery, will be setting off all sorts of things in your brain. You see things others don’t, but maybe those things aren’t always… things. It’s only right that I tell you this. But I’m not… doubting you.’

  ‘Well, you are a bit.’

  ‘I’m saying know your limits.’

  He takes out a torch and starts examining my face. Looking into my pupils from about ten centimetres away. Then holding open my left eye with his thumb and index finger and glaring the light source right into it.

  ‘Do you think I could be dangerous to a police investigation?’

  ‘I think you think very differently. I like difference. But I think it could go either way. If I were standing next to you? I have to be honest, I’d be wary of you. Always remember the importance of where you are and what’s at stake. Above all else, remember that. I say that as a professional and as your friend, I hope.’

  ‘So, then. Following the natural direction of… all that. Do you think it’s possible I’d be better off without this job? And that it would be better off without me?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘But you know it ca
n be dangerous. And so can I.’

  ‘I know those things now, yes.’

  The light runs over to my right eye then he withdraws the torch and places it mechanically into his inside pocket.

  I in turn push my hands into my pockets. I peruse the room for a second. It spits and cracks at me. The inside of my retina firing colours against the plain white medical equipment that has me surrounded.

  ‘So, do you think I should quit?’ I say. Honestly, without a challenge. I’m willing to take advice for once.

  ‘I’m saying be careful, Tom. Be very careful.’

  12

  ‘Those pretty eyes that scream for more

  Can drop you screaming through the floor.’

  I hadn’t formally met Inspectors Turan and Jarwar before. It’s possible they were in some unnamed room earlier in the week but I was still getting my head together.

  Jarwar is a cool-mannered, self-possessed woman who had been here before Christmas but our paths had crossed only briefly, I think. There are a lot of faces in the world, I can only catch the smallest few in my outstretched net as they gush past. Even those I wrestle into my clutches are a struggle to keep hold of, like trying to keep a butterfly between two cupped hands. But I’d heard the name and it stuck in my head.

  Turan transferred from another borough this January. It’s customary for PCSOs in the Safer Neighbourhoods team to have some contact with the inspectors from nearby wards, even if it’s Levine that we report to, but this hadn’t been the case so far for reasons Bartu couldn’t explain to me. They were overworked, he guessed, had a relatively large area to cover, that had seen a lot of action recently, and both had kudos that made them sought after.

  Jarwar for her part seemed pretty personable as she sandwiched an introduction in between talking to Levine about checking in with Jade’s parents at 42 Park Drive. The second girl. The girl with the dog and the car. I sat frozen next to Jarwar, and an increasingly softly spoken Levine, prying with my outsider’s ears, but could only glean that she was going over there later in her shift. Levine’s wary of me and doesn’t tend to speak so freely when I’m around. This doesn’t seem to me to be highly professional, but I don’t mind, I don’t tell him everything I’m up to either.

  Turan seems like an altogether rawer character. He’s not plain-clothes, that’s the privilege of the swaggering CID, but he uses his personality and connections to diminish the effect of his badge, integrating himself within the community, trying to limit drug crimes and gang violence. If Jarwar is a classic ‘toe-the-line’ insider, then Turan barely feels like he works for the force at all, and Bartu for one is wary of that. We share these moments now. These honesties that signify our growing trust. You wouldn’t think upon shaking his firm hand he’d have a bad word to say about anyone, but he seems to be implying something about Turan that I’m just not catching. It’s odd, because Turan’s Turkish, too. Not that that means anything. It’s a multicultural world, we’re all free to dislike whoever we please. He’s similar in build to Bartu, maybe a fraction more imposing, but I noted a warmth that he projects with his whole body. He disarms people. It’s a skill he’s mastered. You can feel him meeting you on your level and adapting himself, and I for one appreciate it. It’s certainly a technique that’s way out of my wheelhouse.

  They definitely seemed to know who I was, so maybe I just enjoy the notoriety, but I liked them both a lot. I’m certainly planning to stay on their good sides. We might need them later.

  *

  We wait, my knuckles fresh from rapping on the door of 42 Park Drive, not knowing if anyone will be home. We didn’t call ahead. We just want to get there before Jarwar does, make as little fuss as possible and even less of an impression. I like the look of Jarwar, she’s long-limbed and steely, which tells me she’d be useful in a scuffle and that she probably used to run for her county. She also seems appealingly sexless, possessing elements of both genders in a manner I find quite absorbing. I have friend ambitions towards her but resolve to keep those designs for a later date. We’re in much deeper than we should be and don’t want to bump into her at the deep end.

  The door flings fully open and smacks against the wall. In a towelling dressing gown stands a short, pear-shaped man holding a mug of tea. He is red faced. He looks like he’s been up for days. He says nothing but stands aside for us to come in.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming until later?’ he mumbles, inside.

  I’m not sure whether this is a reprimand or an apology for his appearance, but I decide to ignore it and let Bartu field that one.

  ‘Inspector Jarwar will be along in a while but we wanted to check one thing first.’

  ‘And who the fuck are you then?’ he says.

  It’s not as hostile as it sounds, but it’s not far off. And it’s a question we were hoping in vain might not come up, the idea having been to get in and get out without too much explanation. The mother of the family enters and I decide to take over.

  ‘We’re community support officers. Come to offer our support.’

  ‘You’re what?’ he says. I’m not sure if he’s being slow on the uptake or if it’s meant to be not-so-passive aggressive. I decide it’s the former and repeat myself much louder and with utter clarity.

  ‘Sir. We. Are. Community. Support. Officers,’ I say. There’s nothing stealth-like about this exchange.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Mr Bridges says, specifically to Bartu, pointing at me and then tapping his own head.

  ‘Yes. He… he is. We want to check one thing,’ says Emre Bartu.

  ‘Nah, we don’t want your lot. The bloody part-timers,’ he says.

  ‘And why’s that, sir?’ says Bartu. Indulging with intent to defuse with good humour, just as our training officer taught us to.

  ‘I don’t even agree with your jobs existing. I’m paying for your fancy dress costumes with my bloody taxes,’ he says. Shooting a look to his wife who says nothing. He’s throwing his weight around but I get the feeling she’s the one who’s in charge.

  ‘Be that as it may, sir, we’re here, and we’re here to help find your daughter,’ says Bartu.

  ‘With what? Your whistle and the little badge you got off the weekend course?’ he shouts.

  ‘The training course is a full eight weeks long, sir. The whole process is quite a hassle if you really want to know,’ I say, articulating clearly for him, so he understands.

  ‘Who the fuck is he? Is he all right? What’s his malfunction?’ he says, deciding to aim everything at Bartu, as if he’s my carer.

  As I’m being left out of the conversation my attention wanders. Clothes lie lazily shambled against skirting boards. The wallpaper has the occasional unexpected dark mark that makes its pattern more unpredictable, which I soon identify as cigarette burns. There is the odd carpet tile missing with only glue left in its place, causing a kind of ripping sound from my shoe whenever I happen to stand in it for too long.

  ‘We do understand you’re upset, but –’ Bartu says.

  ‘But fucking what?’ he says.

  ‘We. Just. Want. To. Check. One. Thing,’ I say.

  ‘I tell you what, I’m going to fucking lamp him in a minute!’

  ‘What do you need?’ says Mrs Bridges.

  Mr Bridges is at last subdued.

  ‘We need to see Jade’s bedroom.’

  Mrs Bridges leads the way and luckily her husband stays below. I’d say that’s what grief and worry does to people, but maybe he’s just like that. A bit of an arsehole I mean.

  I don’t waste any time. Forcefully, but with some cursory care for the lady of the house, we shake down the room. She stays leaning on the doorframe, scared to enter as if we are working with chemicals and hi-tech equipment rather than our ham fists.

  Upstairs is tidier than what lay beneath. It looks like Jade enforced more order in her quarters.

  The options fill my mind. I picture the three possible Jades. They surround my head at fifteen-degree intervals.


  The good girl. Keen to obey.

  The meticulous one. Tidy by her own volition.

  The planner, intent on her parents suspecting nothing before her getaway.

  Then these possible girls stare out at me from a cork board photo collage she seems to have made. Printouts from phone photos, I’d imagine, but it’s nice to see hard copy all the same. She stares wanly, like a ghost of herself, captured, cut out and framed. A picture of her at twelve-years old, wearing make up for the first time, I’d say, smiles proudly as I consider what sort of girl she grew up into.

  The versions haunt me as I search through her cupboards.

  Rock band T-shirts, board games and spare bed sheets.

  I rise to fumble behind duvet covers, looking for the holy grail.

  Emre does the same on his side of the room. In the most likely place, the chest of drawers, the place where girls keep secret things.

  ‘What is it you’re looking for?’ she says.

  I look back to Bartu and then continue. We shouldn’t release that kind of information. But then we’re not doing anything how it should be done.

  ‘A diary? Anything like that, which might help us with her whereabouts,’ Bartu says with a bit of savvy.

  He rifles through jumpers and tops, skirts and winter tights, hoping to feel cool Polaroid. This time, we won’t make the same mistake. This time, we will take one or two for ourselves so we have something of our own. Bartu has a link at the lab so, despite my protestations that they’re not the most interesting thing we’ve found, we can check in with them and see what secrets the photos hold, if any. If we can even find another set, that is. If we’re right about the nature of the link.

  Anderson and Stevens. Jarwar and Turan. They’re all fine, but we need to make sure things are done properly. What Mr Bridges and us have in common is a slight mistrust of local police. So we’re going to do an audit, then make some assumptions of our own.

  Then, beneath the bed, under the valance, I see a drawer ajar.

  ‘You done yet?’ she says.

  ‘Very soon,’ I say, eyeing Bartu and dropping to the floor.

  Bartu comes to join me as I struggle with the other drawer next to it. It’s stuck but we pull hard and it comes open.