Head Case

by Ross Armstrong

  Mark appears around a corner and skulks over to roll in the single shaft of light that shoots through the curtains from the streetlights outside. Then, seeing the phone ring, he jumps up, looks at it and then at me, beckoning me to put it out of its misery. He falls into the crook of my arm and gives me a knowing look that I can only interpret as rousing encouragement.

  Buzz. Buzz.

  He certainly seems to have more faith in me than he used to.

  Buzz. Buzz.

  I open my eyes wide and put the phone to my ear.

  ‘Hello?’ I say.

  No answer comes back. Just a sound like a wave, or a shirt against the speaker, or a long ‘shh’.

  ‘Hello?’ I say again.

  Then nothing. Then…

  ‘I’m… I…’ comes the voice.

  ‘Hello? Who is it?’ I say, despite knowing already. I am a directory of voices.

  ‘I… I’m… I…’ it comes again.

  ‘Who is this?’ I say. Quieter now. Patiently willing them on, but giving them room. I think I already know what they want to say.

  I wait in the silence of my room. In the silence between us.

  Just the distant movement of ripples across the wires.

  Then a shh.

  Or a wave.

  Or the rustle of a shirt.

  And then he says it.

  ‘I’m Mr White.’

  I punch myself hard in the arm to check I’m not dreaming. Yet, I already know I’m wide awake.

  Now the silence is from my end.

  Then a thought takes shape and crystalizes.

  And it starts to make sense.

  28

  ‘So close I can feel it,

  Your face, your feet, your hands,

  Your body.’

  ‘I saw a face yesterday,’ I say, as Ryans sits me down.

  He scratches the back of his neck and puts his feet up on a footstool. His office is far more welcoming than the room full of machines we were in last time. Talk is all we can really do now that the bullet shards have put the proverbial spanner in the works regarding any further scans. We’re left with pen and paper, sometimes pictures, sometimes shapes to rearrange.

  ‘Good. That’s interesting,’ he says.

  ‘Is that normal? To suddenly see one?’

  ‘Look, I remember years ago, when scientists were experimenting with using LSD, some test subjects started forgetting faces. They thought their recognition would never recover, then slowly it did.’

  ‘What’s your point? Other than that the sixties was weird.’

  ‘People have been trying to understand and affect that part of the brain for years. Scientists, governments, cults. So my point is, everything is a voyage into the unknown, for both of us.’

  ‘Okay. So it is possible?’ I say.

  ‘Anything is possible,’ he says, after which I look up expecting to see a smirk, but it’s clear he is deadly serious. ‘Except for people who claim that after a stroke they can suddenly play the piano or talk Japanese; unfortunately, that sort of thing is what we call in the medical profession “utter bollocks”. I mean the realities of the brain are far more amazing than any of that kind of fiction. But, I digress. You were saying… you saw a face?’

  ‘It was in the paper. The face. I won’t bore you with details…’ I say.

  ‘No, please do, this is all very exciting… well, interesting. I really think you look better. You seem like something’s happening, a development. So please, tell me. Tell me everything.’

  For now, I’m going to hold it over him. The fact he somehow sourced Anita’s number and called her against my wishes. I’d given him her name in confidence, early on, as I drifted in and out of consciousness. A thought hits me about Ryans that hasn’t before. I am a big story, in some circles. Local news. Neurology. Niche markets, perhaps, but however much I try to ignore it, people are aware of me. And Ryans has always had an insatiable appetite for my stories.

  ‘Well, obviously I can’t talk too extensively about my work. Certain things are secrets…’ I say. Ha. That’s a laugh.

  ‘… but I was looking at a picture, from ten years ago, and I saw a face. One that’s been on the tip of my mind for a while now. I found the picture, almost by chance, and then there she was in front of me.’

  ‘What sort of face? Male, female?’ he says, crossing his legs.

  ‘It was a girl. I went to school with. I sat next to her in biology and she left when I was fifteen, I think. Strangely, I’d stumbled on a tape in my wardrobe from my old camcorder recently, and she… she was on it. And I could almost recognise her. I felt I remembered something about her moving schools, which, it turns out, she did. And then a year later I now find that… she went missing.’

  ‘Incredible. And did you know? Is it possible you knew this before and it had been hidden in the recesses… do you think? A stowaway thought. That she went missing?’ he says, talking a mile a minute now.

  ‘No. I… I’m sure I didn’t know. I don’t remember attaching too much significance to her. She was a pretty girl. A crush for a while. I kissed her once. But I couldn’t really tell you much about her. Even if I have suffered some memory loss, I’m sure I never knew she went missing.’

  My chest is pounding, Ryans seems to notice and softens his manner slightly. He analyses my face. I put my hand to it, I’m flushed.

  ‘Go on. I don’t want to push you, but go on. If you can, Tom. It really is very… err…’

  He leans down and pushes a Dictaphone forward. I didn’t notice him turn it on. It almost puts me off but I do want to go on nevertheless, so I can get to the next thought.

  ‘And the prevailing feeling is… more than confusion… more than… trying to work anything out… it’s guilt, because I don’t remember my parents’ faces, or my grandparents’, and they’re all gone. You know, they say – people say – of old people, things like… “oh, left alone in that big house with just their memories…” that sort of thing, they say. But memories can do a lot for you. You can live a whole other lifetime with memories. It’s time travelling for the heart. But mine don’t have faces attached. It’s only struck me now that if they’re gone in my head, then it’s like they never even… existed.’

  Without looking I find a tissue on my right and give my face a single dab. He’s visibly touched, but that doesn’t stop him pushing the Dictaphone just a little closer.

  ‘And you got that from the picture of her?’

  I blow out hard to gather myself. My emotions seem relevant and yet still incongruously sudden and overwhelming.

  ‘Yes, because I never gave that girl a second thought, not for a long time anyway, but she’s the only one I see. That face. Sarah Walker. And what’s more, I’ve been dreaming of her.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since the accident. I know it sounds mad. I’m not mad.’

  ‘I know you’re not. Tom, look at me, I know you’re not.’

  ‘Good,’ I say, my tissue now damp with tears.

  ‘And did they ever find her? This Walker girl.’

  ‘You know, it’s stupid I… I had a brief look, on the web, to see what I… and then I gave up. I had a lot on my mind, last night.’

  Amongst other things, I was thinking how I’d broach his betrayal. My eyes zero in on his pad. He writes greedily in purple ink. I don’t know whether I’m to be the subject of an article or a case study. Perhaps he wants to bring me to a convention and parade me around. Perhaps there is some award or money at stake, I don’t know. Some value in me that I heretofore have not quite grasped.

  ‘Any other news?’ he says.

  ‘Yes. I got a call just before I got here. They found a girl’s leg a while ago. We thought it might be one of our girls, but it wasn’t.’

  ‘Yes, I read about that. How awful, how macabre.’

  ‘Well, now they’ve found the rest of her.’

  The moment takes me over and now I’m telling him everything. I’m only reliable in my unre
liability. I can see him trying to stay calm; you can’t be squeamish in his line of work, but then not many patients bring so much blood in with them.

  ‘And…’ he says. Almost afraid to hear what comes next.

  ‘Katherine Grady, she was called. They don’t think it had anything to do with our missing girls. She had been cut around the top of the thigh. The rest of her was intact. They don’t know why they cut the leg off. They went through bone. Went through the femoral artery.’

  ‘Is that what killed her?’ he says, his hand to his mouth.

  ‘No. She was shot in the back of the head, then they took the leg off. And what’s stranger? There’s already a man in prison for her murder. Been there for four years. He’d confessed to killing the five men, but not the three women he was done for, of which Katherine was one. A man named Edward Rampling. So that’s another conundrum. So there we are.’

  I leave that in the middle of the room for us to struggle with, before Ryans tries vainly to lift proceedings.

  ‘But is there any news on the shooting? Tom?’ he says.

  ‘Which shooting?’ I say.

  ‘Your shooting,’ he says.

  My fingers drum out a rhythm on my knee. I’m looking at him and don’t like what I see. I’m not sure what he’s getting at, what he wants; he’s not a therapist is he? I don’t know why he seems to want to make me feel vulnerable.

  ‘No. It was a stray bullet, that’s still their belief. Some kid called Eli has thrown a few names our way but nothing turned up. Looks like he was just trying to get a shorter sentence on gun possession or… I don’t know what. But they do think it was a gang. Perhaps shooting at someone on the bus. A lot of people scattered after it happened; it was mayhem, apparently. They infiltrate these gangs and find out where the firearms and drugs are coming from. The sort of operation they’re working on, they don’t want to jeopardise for anything, not even an officer down. So they have their suspicions but they wait, they play the long game and when they’ve got everything they need they’ll move for whoever’s near the top. I can already see you’re making a face, but don’t…’

  Ryans shakes his head innocently and adjusts his position.

  ‘… because the police do a bloody good job around here, mostly. And if this does in some way help them close down a gang, who are at the core of the North London smack trade, or… then I’ll be happy to have been a small part of that. And that’s what they say, so good on them, I say, and what do I need closure for anyway? I’ve moved on.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Already? Yes, already. Can I go now?’

  ‘This sudden swing…’ he’s thinking. ‘Is the brain producing too much of this or that. He’s a slave to his mind…’ But I am my mind, I’m not ashamed of that, and my mind is on to him.

  ‘I want you to consider something…’ he says.

  I feel like he’s trying to cover me with a glass tumbler.

  ‘…which might be irregular. But it’s merely a suggestion.’

  I’m not sure I like where this is going, but I stick around to find out. I raise my eyebrows and wait for the rest.

  ‘I know that you’ve done incredibly well. I know that your job can be dangerous. And I know that, at times, someone to talk to is the best thing one can have. And a human is even better than a cat… ’

  I don’t know where he’s going with this but I hope it’s not what I think. I’ve already had two women keen to share my bed, I don’t want an aging neurologist to be next.

  ‘My wife and I are fortunate enough to have a big space near Clissold park, too big for us really. You could have a floor. A study, a bedroom, a bathroom. And you could stay there until you felt absolutely on top of your game.’

  I see. He wants to keep the project close, just in case anyone breaks it.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say, standing.

  ‘It’s just a suggestion,’ he says, staying still in his chair.

  ‘I am on top of my game. Thanks,’ I say, turning to leave.

  ‘That’s it then?’ he says.

  I stop. A white feeling shakes me from the inside out.

  ‘That’s it,’ I say, as I grab a glass paperweight of his from his side table and slam it into the wall. It shatters and he flinches as the shards settle like falling snow.

  ‘And if you call Anita again, I’ll…’ I say, unable to think of anything. So I just slam the bloody door.

  *

  My phone goes as I head to the station. It’s an afternoon to evening shift and they will have their hands full with whatever they think they’ve found.

  My phone vibrates: Mr White. I’m pretty sure that’s what the shape says. I hit the ‘accept’ button.

  ‘I don’t know what to do, I’m so… I’m so… scared, I… I just need you to tell me what to do. Can you do that? Please, Mr Mondrian…’ he says.

  ‘I shouldn’t even be talking to you. Okay? But I thought about all the scenarios objectively and you’ve only one option. You have to tell the police everything.’

  The line goes quiet. The sound of waves.

  ‘I know, I know. I’m kind of scared.’

  I hold the phone away from my face for a second before continuing.

  ‘Asif. If you used the computer, then I would come out and say that. I don’t know if they have anything else on him or not, but if those messages came from you then you should speak up, because it couldn’t get much more serious than this,’ I say, and I don’t wait for a reply as I reach the station.

  Inside, Levine seems light and relieved and wants to talk to us about ‘how well we’ve been doing’. I keep playing with my phone a second longer than I should because I don’t really respect him.

  He brings us into the debrief room and talks casually, with the air of a man off the hook. It looks as though they like what they’ve found with Mr Akhtar. They think those girls could be coming home soon and the arrest looks good for their statistics.

  My phone rings. I make an apologetic face to both of them and step outside to take it. I’d been dropping in comments intermittently throughout the week to Levine about having had trouble making my next appointment with Ryans, so I’m hoping that’s what he thinks it’ll be about.

  I answer it and stand with my back to them, but within glancing distance. The untended grass under my feet has hardened due to the frost and taken on the look of an aging officer’s short back and sides, salt sprinkled and world-weary. The edges are so unkempt they bubble ice cold mud onto the pavement. After muttering into the phone for a while I hang up. There was no one on the other end of the line, to be honest with you. I’d used an app I downloaded last night. I set the timer for four minutes, just as we reached the station. I have things to do right away and I don’t want my time wasted with friendly chit-chat.

  Useful, these apps. This one’s a clever little thing. It calls you. Even mutters to you on the other end of the line when you pick up. I see Levine’s eyes are not on me, and I push the speed dial for the number I need.

  I get the automated message and choose option one. It rings.

  ‘He-hello.’ He offers no other introduction. He’s probably still trying to buy that hat stand. I’m not good with faces but I’m a killer reader of a voice. When you lose one sense the others get stronger, they say.

  I was hoping I’d get him. I know he’s not a bastion of school rules and procedure.

  ‘Hello, Jim Thompson here. Physics,’ I say.

  ‘Hi Jim. How are you?’ says the receptionist, as if he speaks to Jim every day. I suppose it’s better to fake it rather than admit you haven’t a clue who anyone is.

  ‘Yep, fine. Listen… I’ve had people drifting off in the last five minutes at the end of last lesson on a Tuesday and Thursday, claiming they have to get ready for their after school clubs.’

  ‘Okay, Jim,’ he says.

  ‘So I’d like the names of the teachers that run Computing on Tuesdays and Running Club on Thursdays. And all the students in those two groups, for good
measure,’ I say, biting my lip. I’ve already got Miss Heywood’s Wednesday Art Class list. I obtained it on my own personal time.

  ‘Err… I don’t know if we have those kind of lists,’ he says.

  I pinch my thigh inside my pocket. I see Levine laugh about something through the window.

  ‘You don’t have them? Or you don’t know if you have them?’

  I hear muttering in the background.

  ‘Yeah. Err… hang on a sec,’ he says.

  I think on this occasion I might be disappointed. Bartu looks to me and I wink. He just goes back to Levine and his chat.

  ‘Hi, Jim?’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘Mandy’s found the lists actually.’

  ‘Oh good,’ I say.

  ‘Shall I zip it over to the physics inbox?’

  ‘No! No, then I have to pick it up and sometimes someone else picks it up and then it’s not down as a new message and I can’t – I’ve got my pen and paper out now, so why don’t you go ahead.’

  ‘Okay, Jim,’ he says, through partially gritted teeth.

  ‘Mr Hargreaves takes Tuesdays and he’s got Charlene…’

  And two minutes later I have my names and the muttering in the background starts again.

  ‘Sorry, what’s your last name again, Jim?’ he says.

  ‘Sorry… chh… bad line… physics.’

  I hang up, tuck the pad away and head inside with a pocket full of pupils and a new purpose. One of those names, I recognise.

  ‘Let’s walk,’ I say, as Bartu comes out to meet me. I offer a salute to Levine, who is framed perfectly by his office window, incarcerated within it. A house husband to the force. I keep my eye on him as we walk away, and he gets smaller and smaller.

  ‘What was the call about?’ Bartu says.

  ‘First, what did you get from Levine?’ I say.

  ‘No, you first!’ he says, pleasingly irate. I’ve got enough stuffed into my head already and feel like releasing the pressure.

  ‘Okay, first thing is, you should tell anyone who thinks the Katherine Grady murder has nothing to do with our lost girls that they’re an idiot.’

  ‘I’ll put it on my to-do list. How did you come to that then?’

  ‘Because of that severed leg. I’m still grappling with it, but I’ll give you the whole picture when I’ve looked into the Ed Rampling trial. The second thing you should know is that I hacked into Tanya Fraser’s Facebook account.’