The Night Clock

by Paul Meloy

  There’s a shop in town that buys stuff, so he sells his records, his WWII memorabilia and his air rifles. The money goes on drink; there’s a pub near the shop with a stool at the bar he likes to sit on and watch the place fill up. There’s a bus back to his village that runs until 11.30.

  When it’s all gone, he loses the house and moves into a shitty flat on the estate. It’s okay.

  It’s just not okay first thing in the morning.

  ROB WAS ONLY vaguely aware of Gollick lecturing him. He was only one bottle of cider into the day and didn’t like being reminded of things. Gollick’s presence was bringing it all back. Gollick the betrayer.

  He shoved his empty bottle into an overflowing bin next to the bench and set another between his knees.

  “Have you got access to the Internet at your mum’s?” he said, interrupting Gollick.

  “What?”

  “The World Wide Web, Neil? Can you go online?”

  “Of course,” Gollick frowned. “Mother has a high speed connection.”

  Rob looked up at Gollick and grinned. “Well, when you go home for tea, go on YouTube and type in ‘Cowardly copper bottles robbery’ and see what you get.”

  “And why would I want to do that, Rob?” Gollick asked, a brisk current of unease threading up the backs of his legs and into his buttocks.

  “Because,” said Rob, lifting his second bottle to his mouth, “Beanie put the CCTV footage of you creeping around outside the shops and legging it from Balv’s robbery on the net. Everyone’s been pissing themselves at you for months. It’s got millions of hits, Neil. You’re a fucking joke.”

  “Creeping?” Gollick said, which out of all the words in Rob’s sentence he could have highlighted, seemed the one most offensive to his sense of self-regard.

  “Sneaking,” said Rob with relish. “Skulking. Basically, being a gutless twat, which is what we all know you are, anyway, but it’s nice to have the proof, isn’t it?”

  “Proof?”

  And then both men were startled from their discourse by the sound of gunshots.

  GOLLICK FROZE. ROB leaped to his feet just as another shot was fired. He clenched his bottle in reflex and a pale arc of cider spewed from the neck and splashed across Gollick’s boots.

  “That’s coming from the community centre,” Rob said.

  Another shot, and now there was screaming. Both men looked across the green towards the block of buildings that contained the community drop-in centre and the indoor play area, Fizzy Willy’s. The main doors were open and people were running out.

  “Come on, Gollick, you fraud. Come and earn your pay!” Rob started to run across the green, his bottle held in both hands to prevent further spillage.

  Gollick looked down at his boots. His head felt weightless, like a bulb of skin tethered to his body. His feet, however, seemed to be anchored suddenly to the surface of a large, alien planet made entirely of iron. His eyes swiveled towards the community centre. Rob was already nearly halfway across the green, his narrow shoulders hunched and his hair flying. He looked back once, and Gollick could see the expression of disgust on his face even from a distance, and then Rob tripped over his great clumping boots and fell on his drink. Another fountain of cider launched itself from beneath Rob’s chest as he collapsed onto the bottle. Rob got to his feet and examined the bottle. It was flattened and split along its length but still held about half a litre. Rob held it sideways on his palms and continued jogging towards the centre, the remaining liquid sloshing about like fluid in a spirit level.

  There was another shot followed immediately by two more. Gollick did some thinking. His thinking was naïve but steeped in the tradition of self-preservation; what he knew about guns was negligible, so he thought: six-shooter?

  By the time Gollick had managed to unstick his feet and start running across the green, Rob was almost at the steps leading up to the community centre. A few people were still running out, and a woman had stopped to talk to Rob. She was crying, and pointing back inside the building. Rob appeared to be reassuring her. He was nodding. Then he gestured towards Gollick, and despite her distress, both she and Rob had a laugh. Then there was another shot, and Rob ushered the woman away. He waited at the bottom of the steps until Gollick arrived.

  Panting, Gollick drew alongside Rob. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Some dad just pulled a gun in there and started shooting up the soft-play area.”

  Again, the content of Rob’s sentence seemed to contain information too complex for Gollick to fully comprehend, and he said, “Soft-play area?” His active listening module either hadn’t covered paraphrasing adequately, or he’d slept through it.

  To simplify, Rob said, “He’s shooting the children, Neil. Someone’s called the police but you need to do something.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Gollick cried. “Incapacitate him with my alcohol wipes?”

  “I don’t fucking know. Come on, cunt, in for a penny!”

  Rob climbed the steps and peered into the foyer. There was no sound of movement, but he could hear crying. Some children bawling and adults calling out in distress. “There’s people trapped in there,” he said.

  Gollick lifted his alien boots a step at a time and met Rob at the door. Rob gripped the material of Gollick’s coat at the elbow and pulled him through the doors.

  They crept through the foyer, past all the posters proclaiming welcome in a hundred squiggly languages, and peered into the main hall. At the end of the hall was a desk and a low gate giving access to the play park. Still pulling Gollick behind him, Rob covered the distance across the hall, past the tea and cake counter, and drew up against the wall next to the gate. They could hear crying coming from within.

  “Have you got any weapons?” Rob whispered.

  Gollick shook his head. He was trembling so hard Rob had to yank on his sleeve to get him to stop rattling.

  “Telescopic baton?”

  “No.”

  “Body armour?”

  “I’ve got a stab vest.”

  “That’ll have to do. You go in first and distract him. I’ll get behind that Bob the Builder ride over there and see if anyone’s hurt.”

  “We should wait for the police,” Gollick whined. “I’m not allowed—”

  “Oh, for once in your life stop being a coward. Look at me. I’m fucked and I’m up for it.”

  Rob swung Gollick around and propelled him through the gate. He shoved the support officer across the floor and threw himself behind the ride, according to plan, but instead of doing anything useful, Gollick just stood frozen, staring at the tall, harried-looking man standing amongst the tables in front of the play area. He was pointing his gun at Gollick, and there were tears streaming down his face.

  Rob could see a couple of people hiding amongst the scattered toys. Someone had immersed himself in the ball pit; whether he was protecting his children was unclear but Rob could see the top of a balding head sticking up amongst the coloured plastic balls like a cuckoo’s egg in a profligate and fabulous nest.

  Others were hiding behind the climbing frames and slides. Rob couldn’t see any children. He glanced at Gollick, who was still standing petrified in the middle of the floor. The man with the gun raised it and pointed it at Gollick’s head.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, and fired.

  Gollick screamed but a light fitting behind him and three feet to the left exploded as the bullet struck. Rob figured the guy for a lousy shot, and stood up.

  “Hey! Fucker! Over here!” Rob shouted and stepped out from behind the ride. The man swung the gun towards him, and Rob drew back his arm and launched the quarter full plastic bottle of cider at him. It flew fast and true, and smacked the man in the side of the face. He grunted and fell to his knees. Rob moved towards him, but not before the man could fire again. The gun was pointed back in Gollick’s direction, and Rob leaped across the floor and piled into Gollick as the gun went off. They both went sprawling.

  Ro
b sat up, Gollick cradled in his arms. They were in the open and an easy target, but were saved from further attack because the man, who was sobbing now, was putting the gun to his own head.

  “No,” Rob said, but it came out as a whisper. Whether the negation ever reached the man’s ears would forever remain a mystery because it was obliterated by the sound of the shot that blew his head apart.

  “Ah, fuck!” said Rob. He looked down at Gollick who was trembling in his arms. He groaned. Gollick stirred, looked up into Rob’s face. “He shot me, Rob.”

  Rob held him a bit tighter. “You’ll be fine, Neil,” he said.

  Gollick whimpered. “I can’t feel anything,” he said in a quiet voice. His breathing was rapid and he was sweating.

  “You’ll live, Neil, I promise.”

  “But I’m shot.”

  “No, Neil, you’re not. I am.”

  “Oh,” Gollick breathed. “That’s okay.” Then he passed out.

  PHIL TREVENA ALREADY knew Leftley was dead before he got called into the boss’s office. A colleague had phoned him at home the previous evening and told him in triumph: “That bloke you saw this morning. He’s topped himself.”

  Trevena went in early. He made a cup of tea in the kitchenette off the main office and dropped thirty pence through a slot gouged through the lid of a large coffee jar by the kettle. He nicked a couple of biscuits from the Christmas tin which had been gifted to the Assertive Outreach Team by a service user’s grateful carer, and which was labelled with a sellotaped note encouraging the Crisis Team to get their own biscuits, and then he went and waited at his desk.

  Trevena booted up his computer and tried to get onto eBay but the Trust’s web blocker had already kicked in and denied him access. He sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. He brought up his emails.

  CarolTrevena@aol.com to Phil.Trevena1@hotmail.com

  Can u have Lizzie this wkend? I’ve got a chance to go to France with Clive.

  Sorry its short notice. I know you’re off this wkend.

  He groaned and hit reply.

  Fuck off. FUCK OFF. FUCK O

  “Morning Phil,” said Stibbs from behind Trevena’s left shoulder. “Got a minute?”

  Hit delete.

  Do you want to save this to drafts?

  Yes, he thought. Yes I do. He hit save.

  “Yes, boss. I’ll just grab a couple of biscuits.”

  STIBBS WAS NEW to the team. He’d been seconded from the Later Life Services to come in and shake things up. Everybody knew the Crisis Team was failing. Although the failures were systemic, over time they had become personalised, attributed to individual incompetences, always fertile grounds for scapegoating; because it was easier to blame one person’s practise whenever there was a major incident, and it generated a nice little bit of vindication and professional smugness outside the team.

  Trevena sat in the proffered chair in the corner of Stibbs’s tight little office. There were touches of Stibbs all over the walls: photos, certificates and awards he’d got stuck up there as soon as he’d got the job. Trevena was patronised by motivational poster wisdom everywhere he looked. Stibbs seemed to view the world through a filter of stale aphorisms.

  “I know how the grapevine works around here, Phil, so I won’t waste your time. Nasty business on the estate yesterday. How do you feel about it all?”

  Trevena respected him for his bluntness. He had three pink wafers balanced on his knee and he picked one up and nibbled it while he considered his question.

  How did he feel about a man he had assessed the day before and found to have no mental illness, just a difficult context of social problems, having then gone straight out and shot up a play area and then committed suicide? Ed Leftley had been referred by his GP. He was a normal bloke with normal problems. A month ago he’d split up with his wife and had moved into a flat on the estate. He worked as a van driver but was having trouble concentrating so he got a sick note. His doc started him on some anti-depressants and gave it a month for them to kick in. Ed seemed to be doing well; his appetite improved a bit and he was getting some sleep again. He was seeing his kids and thinking about getting back to work. Then out of the blue he started getting suicidal thoughts. Vague at first, just fleeting ideas that everyone might just be better off if he wasn’t around anymore. Then they started to preoccupy him and he found himself considering ways to do it. Ed was upset by these thoughts and went back to the docs, which is how he got referred. GPs are okay, they’ll normally try and treat a bit of depression but they get twitchy when suicide’s mentioned; too much risk. So the Crisis Team gets to have a look at them.

  Trevena had seen him at home and he was a nice bloke. Pictures of his kids on the windowsill, a wedding photo on the mantelpiece. No overflowing ashtrays or empty bottles of booze. A well presented man in a clean, if barren, flat. Good eye contact, warm manner. Instant rapport. He was easy to assess. He assured Trevena there was no risk to himself or others and he was happy for the team to keep an eye on him over the next few weeks just to make sure things didn’t get any worse. He said he was relieved to get some support because things were difficult sometimes and these thoughts about killing himself were something he’d never experienced before and he certainly had no intention of acting on them. In fact, symptomatically, he was very much on the mend. They had shaken hands and Trevena had said he’d pop over and see him again tomorrow. Ed was sorry to be a bother but Trevena assured him he was deserving of the same care as anyone else, and besides, this was his patch and he had a load of other visits to do on the estate so it would fit in nicely. Ed grinned, a bit abashed. A first episode of depression can really catch you unawares. It creeps up on you. Recovery has an unpredictable trajectory. There’s up and downs; good days and bad days. Don’t worry too much, Ed, Trevena said. We’ll look after you.

  So how did he feel?

  He felt gutted, and said so.

  Stibbs nodded. He looked up at the pin board above his desk as if seeking guidance from his pantheon of chirpy bollocks. You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps… Look busy! Here comes the boss!!

  “Is there anything you need to put in your assessment you might now reconsider?”

  Trevena had been thinking about this all night. And no was the answer. It’s a terrible admission, but it happens. People kill themselves. Although to be fair, in seventeen years as a psychiatric nurse, this was the first time he’d been directly involved. He’d found a guy hanging once when he was still on the wards, but he’d been gone for hours and Trevena had just come on shift. And people he’d discharged, as well as they could be, well, a couple of them had gone off a year or so later and done it, but again, if people really want to do it, they don’t present to services, they go and do it. But he’d never lost a patient he’d been working with, and he knew he got them through okay. Had he been lucky? Oh, definitely. But Trevena was also very good at his job.

  But the system wasn’t as forgiving as it used to be. There was no accumulation of good will or appreciation for the stress you were working under. You were only as good as your last fuck up. Maybe that was right. Maybe that was something they should have got their heads around by now. But…Trevena didn’t know. It just all seems so unfeeling, and he was a sensitive guy.

  Stibbs was looking at Trevena again. Big brown eyes. Solemn expression. Pathological narcissist.

  “I’m asking, Phil, because as you know, there’ll be an investigation. The media will be involved. It’s looking very bad for the Trust.”

  God, how Stibbs loved his investigations.

  Knowing Stibbs, and knowing narcissists, Trevena tried his best to reflect him back to himself in his response so Stibbs liked what he heard.

  “I understand the necessity of an investigation, John, but I don’t think I have anything else to add. I asked all the questions and ticked all the boxes. He was risky but he wasn’t mad. I’ve been up all night thinking about this.”

  Stibbs nodded, all sagacity. “You’re a g
ood nurse, Phil. But you’ve been tired, under stress yourself. Do you think you need some time off?”

  I’d love some time off, thought Trevena. I’d love to retire, to be perfectly honest. But he couldn’t let Stibbs see a weakness.

  “I’m okay, John. I need to let this sink in, get some supervision and be here while it goes through. And I’ve got a student half way through a placement. I don’t want to drop Zoë in it now.”

  “She can work with Graham,” Stibbs said.

  Trevena must have looked hurt, because Stibbs turned conciliatory. “Just for a week or two. Graham won’t ruin all your good work in that short a time.” He grinned, but there was surprisingly little humour in it. Clever bastard. Undermine, manipulate, and make you fucking paranoid.

  Trevena’s wafer was sticking in his throat. “I’ll be fine, John. I’ll keep it in mind, though.” He went to get up. Trevena suddenly felt the panic he’d been suppressing up until then beginning to rise and those posters were really starting to generate a lot of anger.

  “Phil,” Stibbs said. Trevena was at the door. He turned, hearing scorn in the little prick’s voice now, and the implied threat.

  “You need to be careful, Phil. This could look very bad for you.”

  Trevena left the office and went over to his desk.

  He sat shaking for a full ten minutes until the rest of the team started to roll in at nine.