Head Case

by Ross Armstrong

  ‘Come on,’ he says, as I notice the vein in his forehead.

  ‘It wasn’t done by a classically functioning brain. Whoever did these pictures, both of them, doesn’t think like us. Doesn’t think like you, I mean.’

  ‘Okay. Okay, that’s good. And where are we going now, may I ask?’

  ‘We’re going to see our expert.’

  14

  ‘Can’t. Get that dah dee dah, dah dah, dee dah…’

  Miss Heywood didn’t look too disappointed to be called out of class. Her denim dungarees, flecked with paint, seemed to indicate that she’s a working artist and will soon be back in the studio. But her world-weary nature tells me she’s been stuck here for far too long and her chances of release are slim to hopeless. The tightness with which her hair is held back etches a portrait of personal strain. And a subtle emerald aroma tells me she’d be a more than adequate drinking partner. Whiskey perhaps. And smoke scent that I think is Gauloises, the cigarette of choice for the avant-garde romantic. Her class, well accustomed to fending for themselves I’d say, drew and sculpted beyond the classroom door.

  ‘Does this… in your professional opinion… look like a drawing that could have been done under duress?’ I say.

  And the penny drops for Bartu. This was another finding. I can picture how they were performed, with a man at their side, watching on, maybe holding them by the back of the neck. Cutting them a bit perhaps. Their hands tense, their pencils shooting across the page, almost digging in and ripping at the paper. These children chosen because they are different, they are special. They think differently, like me. This is the picture I see. Of them, in there, with him.

  ‘Duress? Hmm. In what sense? If we’re talking about year seven, most of their drawing is done under duress,’ she says, resting her elbow on the flat of her other hand and gently stroking the space between neck and chin with the back of her fingers.

  ‘Why do you say year seven?’ Bartu says.

  ‘That’s as young as we go.’

  ‘Could this have been done by someone younger?’ I say.

  ‘Certainly. If you want my opinion…’

  ‘I do,’ I say, butting in.

  ‘… Yes, then let me finish. If we were talking about the age of the kid that did this…’

  ‘We are.’ Maybe I did that one just to annoy her, maybe I’m excited that we’re onto something, maybe I’m flirting, I don’t know.

  ‘… I’d say younger even in terms of ability, but then some of these kids here are well below where you’d expect them to be.’

  She turns and regards her students hacking away at their paper and clay. She bites her knuckle then continues. It’s not a shadow move, it has a purpose. She’s biting down to hurt herself just a bit. Then she says:

  ‘We’re not high on artistic ability. But even we’re a bit above this. I’d guess it was done by an enthusiastic late first-schooler, or a very bad year seven or eight, in terms of ability.’

  ‘Any idea if that sounds like Jade Bridges?’

  ‘None. Don’t have much contact with her. She doesn’t take art.’

  ‘So that’s maybe a maybe?’ I say.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she says

  Bartu, over my shoulder, feels we’re close to something.

  ‘And the question of duress?’ he says, searchingly.

  ‘I wouldn’t say so. Long lines, hard on the paper…’

  ‘The colours clashing as they meet.’ My special area of interest, how ferociously they hit each other, how little they blend.

  ‘Exactly. It’s like they enjoy the work even if they have no talent for it.’ She hits my rhythm.

  ‘And the eccentric choice of colour scheme?’

  ‘Not a choice at all I’d say. They’re just doing it.’

  ‘Their bodies, tense,’ I say, leading the witness.

  ‘No, more in freedom than in pain, it’s a release.’

  The picture changes in my mind. They don’t do it during, only after it’s all happened. Whatever ‘it’ is. They draw with relief, in the aftermath.

  It’s just what I see. It’s just a picture. It’s just a hunch.

  Miss Heywood is roused. This is as much excitement as she’s had all term, but Bartu destroys the mood with necessary reality.

  ‘And what about Tanya Fraser? Could she have done this?’

  The logical next question.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ she says as she presses her back into the classroom door, closing it fully before continuing in hushed tones.

  ‘I know she’s missing. Is this her picture?’ she mutters.

  ‘We can’t say,’ Bartu says.

  ‘But perhaps I can help,’ she says.

  ‘You already have,’ I say.

  ‘Did you find this? Is it related to her?’ she says, coming away from the door.

  ‘We really can’t say,’ Bartu says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Tom…’ he says.

  ‘She’s an artist, one of the only good ones here. She’s interested. Not the best eye but a good hand, the opposite of this,’ she says, staring at the scar on my head. In her mind she lifts a hand to touch it.

  ‘I didn’t notice the strange colours. At first,’ I say.

  ‘Well. They say a lot,’ she says, enjoying the drama currently filling up her world, but mixing it with a decent dose of concern.

  Bartu rubs his face. He’s a third wheel at this point.

  ‘Is there any possibility that whoever drew this… is colour blind?’ I say.

  ‘Every possibility.’

  ‘Good. Interesting. I’m not so good with pictures, by the way.’

  ‘What? The colours?’

  ‘Not so much colours, shapes.’

  ‘Then maybe you should see Miss Shelley.’

  ‘And who’s that?’

  ‘Special needs.’

  Bartu sniggers. I’m not sure if she meant that to be funny or not.

  ‘If that’s what you think, then I will.’

  I hand her my card and she points us in the right direction.

  ‘Did you have any student contact with Jade Bridges at all?’

  We’re in Miss Shelley’s domain. Her classroom, her rules, but a kingdom she rules with a feather touch. The kids are all here, five or six of them sat attentively around a table. They barely look up. Miss Shelley doesn’t mind speaking in front of them.

  ‘No. We’re a small department, underfunded, so we’d know.’

  She holds one of the students by their shoulder as we talk. She’s a half friend, half authority figure. She’s warm, copper-haired and bright.

  ‘Would you know if a student in school was colour blind?’

  ‘If they knew I’d know,’ she responds breezily.

  I review this statement.

  ‘Was that light humour or a real answer? I’m not good with humour, light or heavy.’

  She stands and walks over to grab some printed sheets, then disperses them to the students as we talk. She smiles. She’s comfortable. She makes me feel comfortable.

  ‘No. No joke. People don’t always know they’re colour-blind. It’s difficult to ascertain what you should be seeing, when you’ve only got one pair of eyes, one brain, to last you a lifetime.’

  Well, yes and no, I think. But she’s right in the main. I let it go.

  Bartu puts the picture on the table. The students lean in and stare. A need to know has taken over, our confidentiality is either waning or completely suspended, we rely on the fact that no one knows what they’re looking at, if we’re relying on anything at all.

  ‘I don’t think the colours are a choice. Not only would I call that severe, but I’ll tell you something else, if you don’t mind speculation.’

  ‘Not at all, it’s virtually all we have,’ I say.

  Emre takes a seat on a desk. We’re much too big for this classroom, but here we are, back to school. He takes out his notebook and grabs one of those large green easy-grip pencils from the pot next to him
– I’m always stealing his pen – and now he really does look like a kid.

  ‘Please. Indulge us,’ he says.

  ‘My guess is this person. The girl? Not only does she not know she’s colour blind, but she wasn’t always colour blind. Something may have occurred recently to make her that way. I mean, this is so oblique you can barely tell what it is.’

  ‘So. You’re saying… they’re utterly, obtrusively colour blind… without even knowing it?’ I say, noticing that Bartu’s brow is as firmly furrowed as mine is.

  ‘I taught a kid at a previous school who’d got hit by a bus while out on his bike. He got a hell of a hit on the head but he survived. His only lasting problem was that the world looked different to him afterwards.’

  ‘So…’ Bartu says. Starting to write and then stopping.

  ‘So, he drew like this girl seems to. The colours of the world got so drained that trying to replicate them was guess work for him, but even he wasn’t as bad as this. I started reading up, talking to other teachers and a couple of them said some fascinating things. One of them being… there is a way that the brain stops seeing colour without even telling you it’s happening. You think you understand colour but actually you don’t. You think you’re picking up the same old blue pencil to draw the sky, but in fact you’re not.’

  We pause to take this in.

  ‘That’s my assumption. I’d say that’s what whoever created this picture has. The brain can be a strange thing.’

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ says Bartu, more than glancing in my direction.

  ‘I even heard about a man that thought he could see but was actually blind. It’s all about what your brain is telling you is happening. And it can be a false friend.’

  I’d like to disagree with this but it would be churlish. She holds up the picture and stands. I think this is our cue to leave. We find ourselves taking it back and walking towards the door without even knowing we’re doing it. Miss Shelley has a strange power over us.

  At the door to the special needs and music block she says one more thing.

  ‘Again, this is just a theory; your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘My guess is probably even better to be honest,’ I say.

  They stare at me and I laugh but neither joins in and I infer that the nuances of humour are still eluding me. I opt to let my laugh change to a sober nod and act like it never happened.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Shelley, you are a very engaging woman and I’d like you to have my phone number,’ I say.

  *

  We mull it over in our heads on the way back to the station, possibly because we don’t want to affect each other’s assumptions yet. We want to find our own conclusions and come together when we’ve got something. But it’s also possible we’re already a bit sick of each other at this point.

  ‘If Jade did both those drawings, did she give one to Tanya?’ Emre says.

  ‘We don’t know if they were even friends.’

  ‘We could ask around. Maybe call in on Ms Fraser?’

  He’s pushing it on. I like that, it’s good to know he’s as determined as I am again. It’s sweet. But he needn’t bother.

  ‘Emre, it really doesn’t matter,’ I say.

  ‘And why’s that?’

  The snow starts to come down. It drifts onto us heavy and fast. By the time I finish telling him what I have to say next it will be crunching under our feet.

  ‘I think you’re nearly there,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ he says.

  ‘Come on. It’s good for your cognitive reasoning. Guesses? Then I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Because… we can’t go back to the Fraser house anyway?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Because Jarwar should be close to cracking it by now?’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t say that.’

  Some would say the sky is black at this point, but I wouldn’t. I’d say it’s blue, a very dark blue, but blue all the same. Specifics are important. The moon and streetlights light our way to the station, which is only twenty or so metres away.

  ‘Come on then.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I told you I’d tell you.’

  ‘Well, come on.’

  Tick tick tick. Feel it. Anticipation. Power.

  We’re nearly at the entrance. I take a few more steps. Then place my hand on the door.

  ‘Do you know why Buddhist Monks chant “Om”?’

  ‘Err… I think it’s –’

  ‘Because they believe that was the sound of the beginning of creation. By keeping that vibration going they are strengthening the walls of reality. I’ve been thinking that the picture is a kind of mantra, that helps their captor establish a new reality through repetition, brainwashing them.’

  ‘Okay, that’s interesting—’

  ‘But forget that. Because now I’m not thinking that. Because I’ve realised they didn’t draw them, he did.’

  I go inside. I hear him. His last attempt at a question gets stuck in his mouth, just the sound of air with a vibration somewhere secret within it. ‘Who?’ It sounded like. But I couldn’t be sure. Too late, he didn’t spit it out in time. He’ll have to wait because we must be quiet here.

  ‘Who? Who?’ say his thoughts. As we walk through the Control Room.

  We nod to the passing faces and stride toward the locker room.

  ‘Well. Exactly,’ say my own.

  15

  ‘Horror in the Walker house

  Screaming, moaning in the hall

  The girl in the polka blouse

  Is bleeding through the wall’

  She’s there. Doing lines on a black board. Grey skirt. White shirt. Black tights. Yellow and black tie. It is 4.30pm. I see it on the big white clock through the glass into her classroom.

  I stare at her from a distance. I’ve been at after school football practice. I try the handle. It’s locked. She keeps writing. I am naked. I turn back to see a trail of water across the long hallway along which I’ve walked. I’m still dripping. I hear it pitter-patter on the cream green plastic floor. Chunks of it are ripped off, craters of black show underneath. There’s someone behind me.

  I spin back to her. The handle doesn’t turn. I bang on the window. I need to warn her. But she doesn’t hear. I bang harder. I try to turn the handle. It won’t move. She writes and writes. I turn around. He runs. In slow motion. The blonde man. His tie flies about his neck. I hit the glass harder. It breaks. Behind it, more glass, another layer. I bang and yell and punch the door. My hand is bleeding. I stare down at it and watch it drip onto the floor with a pitter-patter.

  The second wall of glass breaks and I push the bulbous flesh of my hand through it and the nerves beneath feel the air of her classroom. I see her blonde hair hanging over her eyes. I shout. She hears nothing. I gush with blood. It pools like a little ocean at my feet. I make a fist and see to the white of the bone. I kick the handle. The door falls open. As she looks up.

  I glance over my shoulder. Behind me. And he’s right there.

  I don’t see her face.

  *

  I’ve got to stop telling you these, other people’s dreams are a bore and I’m not trying to bore you. That’s the last thing I’m trying to do.

  When I wake, I instinctively reach for my pad and without thinking I write: SARAH.

  *

  It’s an evening shift so we have to catch them before they close up for the night. The surgery shuts at 5.30pm. We meet at four. Locker room. Then debrief room. We disperse our daily lies, the beats we walked, the minor queries, the people we saw. It’s not immoral; if anyone needs us they can get us on our radio. For now, we’re needed here.

  We get there by 5pm and greet the receptionist with little ado.

  ‘Hi there, how are you?’ Bartu says.

  ‘Yes all good. Are you –’ she says.

  ‘Great. We’re going to need a list of everyone in the local area who has been the recipient of a
head trauma in the last two years. Anything from a stroke to a car crash, an industrial accident to a minor sports injury please,’ I say, firing it at her all at once.

  She takes a look at both of us, sees she needn’t ask any more questions. We wear our authority. These aren’t fancy dress costumes, no matter what Mr Bridges might tell you.

  She takes a pen out of her shirt pocket and clicks it while she waits for her computer to load the correct page. Then she fiddles with the fields, presumably, seemingly struggling to bring up the information. I look to Bartu and he does the same to me, casually, like there’s nothing riding on this. I don’t know how long this list will be but it’s a start. All this assumes our man is a local, of course, but the fact that we’ve lost more than one girl tells me this guy wasn’t just passing through.

  ‘Right. Here we are. Should I print it out or…’

  ‘A printout is fine,’ I say.

  This is working out better than I thought. Another receptionist appears. Older. Similarly dressed but glasses half an inch thicker and on a chain. She pulls the younger receptionist aside and has a word, looks swiftly through us and then exits out the back again.

  ‘Okay. We actually need to see some paperwork before we action that printout,’ she says, her enthusiasm to help the nice men clearly amended by her superior.

  ‘Absolutely. That’s fine, we can do that, we can definitely do that,’ I say, looking to Bartu, who nods unconvincingly.

  Then nothing. She waits.

  ‘Perhaps you want to give them a call? Get some paperwork sent over?’ she says.

  ‘Yes. We could definitely do that,’ I say.

  Another silence.

  We definitely can’t. We’re not even supposed to be here.

  ‘Yes, of course, yeah, I’ll radio it right in,’ I say.

  I turn while Emre smiles and makes bad small talk. I walk away from them until I’m facing the door through which we came. I pretend to say a few things into the radio.

  ‘Oh hi. Control? We’re going to need that paperwork sent over. Over.’

  Emre does a review of the weather. Asks if they’ve been ‘busy recently.’