The Night Clock

by Paul Meloy

  GRAHAM CAME OVER and put a hand on Trevena’s shoulder.

  “Heard about Ed Leftley,” he said. “Sorry, mate. Could have been any of us.”

  Trevena had worked with Graham Knott for years. They’d been through the wards together and landed jobs with the Crisis Team at the same time, seven years ago, when they were setting it up. He was a big lad, six three, a proper old-fashioned mental nurse. He had a good nature but didn’t take any shit.

  “Thanks, mate,” Trevena said. Graham leaned his backside against the edge of Trevena’s desk. He folded his arms.

  “This’ll cheer you up,” he said. “That girl up on the ward we banged up a week ago. Little self-harmer from the estate? Got that support worker from some rapey charity. Can’t remember what it’s called.”

  “Probably not that.”

  “No, probably not. Anyway, the night staff found her in her room last night putting broken glass up herself.” Trevena looked up, his face a mask.

  Graham nodded. “Gave herself a nasty gash.”

  “Fuck off and make me a cup of tea, Gray.”

  “All right, buddy.”

  LATER THAT MORNING, Graham came over again. Trevena was making notes in a Word document for the impending investigation.

  “Got a little job, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m not a gangster, Graham,” Trevena said without looking up. “None of us are. Especially you.”

  “That bloke who got shot at the play area yesterday. He’s woken up in EAU and they’ve referred him to us because he’s coming out with a load of mad stuff.”

  “And you’ve picked him up?”

  “Mmm. Thought you might be interested in coming over with me and having a look.”

  Trevena stopped writing. He sat back in his chair. Stibbs would never allow it, would see it as inappropriate. “I can’t get involved in the assessment, Gray. Stibbs sees my name on any of the paperwork he’s going to lose his shit.”

  “I know, I know. Just come over. I’ve got his history, what they could give me of it, anyway. He’s a massive pisshead so this might just be the ravings of a very thirsty man, but they’ve got him boated up on Librium so DTs aren’t likely. His name’s Robert Litchin. He sounds like fun.”

  Trevena looked up. Graham was grinning. He already had the paperwork in his hand.

  Trevena closed his document. “Okay,” he said. “I’m in.”

  THE EMERGENCY ASSESSMENT Unit was busy so Trevena and Graham were ushered into the ward by a harried staff nurse and pointed towards the bed at the far end of one of the bays. There was always pressure on beds so someone baring an expression of desperate, calculating hope usually greeted them: please take this patient away from us. Deliver us of this awful mental nuisance.

  They approached the bed. Rob Litchin was asleep, his mouth open, hair strewn across the pillow in scrawls. Behind his beard, his lips looked dry and cracked, like the perished opening to some old, long-ago emptied pot.

  They took two chairs and sat next to the bed. Graham coughed. An eye opened in the sallow face and rolled in their direction. It fixed on Graham and glared.

  “I’m Graham and this is Phil. We’re from the Mental Health Crisis Team. You were referred to us this morning. Did the nurses tell you?”

  The head nodded, just a slight dipping of the chin. The other eye struggled open.

  “You look a bit dry,” Graham said. “Would you like a drink?” He reached for the plastic water jug on the bedside locker.

  “Are you taking the piss?” Rob croaked. He pushed himself up the bed a little so that his shoulders were propped against the headboard. He smacked his lips.

  “Sorry, it’s just water,” Graham smiled and handed Rob a plastic tumbler pearly with age and numberless journeys through the industrial washers.

  Rob eyed them with suspicion as he took a drink. “Thanks,” he said, and put the tumbler back on the cabinet with a hand afflicted with a coarse tremor.

  “Can I call you Robert?” Graham asked.

  “Nah. It’s Rob. Call me Rob. Robert was someone else.”

  “Okay, Rob. So, what happened to you, then?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I know bits. I know you got shot. Must have been terrifying.”

  Rob sighed and closed his eyes.

  “Got shot in the arm,” he said. He confirmed this statement by looking down at the bandage covering his forearm.

  “Nicked the wrist bone, I hear.” Graham said.

  Rob nodded. “Didn’t feel a thing,” he said. “Adrenaline.”

  “Some chemical like that, I reckon,” Graham said.

  Trevena coughed.

  “So,” said Graham. “The nurses told us that when you woke up this morning you were a bit upset. You were talking about monsters on the estate? You were saying you didn’t want to go back home and that you’d be better off dead?”

  “I remember.” Rob said.

  “Do you still feel like that?”

  Rob shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose. What happened to Neil?”

  “Who?”

  “Neil Gollick. The bloke I saved.”

  Graham turned to look at Trevena. Trevena shook his head.

  “He’s dead?”

  “No. No, he’s fine,” Graham said. “We’re just not sure where he is now. I suppose he’s at home. That’s where I’d be.”

  Rob settled back onto his pillow. He looked relieved.

  “Was he a friend of yours?”

  Rob shook his head. “No. Well, we go back a way, you know. School. We used to be friends but he let me down.”

  Graham remained silent. He was letting Rob talk, establishing the all-important rapport. Trevena sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.

  “He let you down.” A statement.

  “Yes. He knew I was knocking off this woman on my estate and he told my girlfriend. Finished me.”

  Despite his years in the job, Trevena was still regularly taken by how easy it was to get people to reveal the most awful secrets. They were desperate to spill.

  Graham was nodding and leaning forward in his chair. “It’s been downhill since then?”

  Rob stared at the ceiling. “All the way to the bottom,” he said.

  “Okay,” Graham said. “Tell us about the suicidal thoughts.”

  Rob blinked, his eyes moist. “What’s the point in going on? I’ve had it. I see things I can’t explain. It scares me. I think about topping myself all the time now. It’s become a persistent thought.”

  Trevena knew they were heading into decision time. They had a duty of care, so it was about risk management now. Graham would probably not offer an admission to the psychiatric ward because of Rob’s drinking. The nurses would despise them for offloading that kind of problem on them. If Rob could persuade them he could keep himself safe then it was probably going to be a couple of weeks of Home Treatment. Still difficult but manageable. Medication would be pointless because of the amount of sauce he was knocking back, so talking and rapport would be the way forward, and trying to make a few changes to his lifestyle. Trevena knew the odds were tiny that they’d see any recovery, but still it was a service they would probably have to offer.

  “What about the things you see around the estate?”

  Rob shuddered and reached out for another sip of water. He sat up and took a drink from his tumbler then remained staring off into the distance with the cup held loosely in his lap.

  “First time I was sitting around the back of the day centre. I was slaughtered. It was about three in the afternoon and I could hear the kids coming out of school. There were big metal bins and I was sitting between two of them. I think I’d been a bit sick.” He glanced up at Graham with an apologetic expression. Graham closed his eyes and nodded.

  “I just got a glimpse of it. A shadow, passing over my head. I remember hearing something, like a clicking sound, like something taking huge strides on stilts. I don’t know. The next time I was walking back to my flat
in the morning and I was sure something was crawling after me up the stairwell. Sounded like someone pushing down on rusty springs. I ran the last bit and shut myself in the flat for a couple of days. Had enough drink in. Then two days ago I was crossing the green going to Balv’s for my morning bottle and as I was walking, my shadow changed into a square. A square, like something had flapped in front of the sun. I stopped, all cold, and watched as it just, well, sort of lay there on the grass under me. A big square shadow. And then things started wriggling out from the corners and I legged it. That thing slid after me, you know. Right up till I got to the shops. Then it disappeared.”

  “What do you think they were?”

  Rob clutched his tumbler in both hands. His fingers were long and bony and pale, the knuckles prominent. He spoke in a whisper.

  “It’s the Angel of Death,” he said.

  “The Angel of Death.”

  “In a machine.”

  “What kind of machine?”

  Rob looked up. “I don’t know. A fucking Angel of Death machine. Look, fellas, I’ve got to get out of here.” He started to slide his legs out of the bed.

  Trevena sat forward. “Rob,” he said.

  Rob looked up. He was scrabbling under his bed for his boots.

  “Have your thoughts about wanting to die coincided with you seeing these things?”

  Graham looked sideways at him and raised his eyebrows. Whether he was impressed with Trevena’s insight or just amused by his unexpected interjection, Trevena didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to hang around and wait to see whether Graham was going to ask.

  Rob pulled his boots out from under the bed and sat up. He was about to put his feet in them and then realised he was wearing pyjamas. His shoulders slumped and he reached to open his cabinet. “I reckon so,” he said as he pulled a pair of combat trousers and a camouflage jacket from the cabinet. He stood on wobbling legs and pulled the trousers on over his pyjamas. He sat back on the edge of the bed and slid his feet into his boots. “Those shadows, and those sounds, man. They made me feel like I was filthy. Pathetic. I didn’t say, but that day in the stairwell. When I got back to my flat and locked the door, that thing stayed outside all night. Creak, creak, creak. I could hear it all evening.”

  “What did you do?” Trevena asked.

  “I passed out eventually but there’s nothing new there. If I’d had tablets, I would have done the lot. Never felt so… hopeless.”

  “And this was when?”

  “About a week ago.” He had his boots on and was struggling with the buckles.

  “Need a hand?” Graham asked.

  “I need a drink is what I need,” Rob said. “I’m drier than Derek Jarman’s garden. But thanks. I can put my own bloody boots on. Despite this assurance he spent the next five minutes jangling and muttering until they were done up in some fashion. He pulled his jacket on and stood up. He put out his hand. “Pleasure talking to you, gentlemen.”

  “Are you sure you want to discharge yourself?” Graham asked.

  “Discharge myself?” Rob said. “I’ll be back in a hour. I’m just going for a pint.”

  Graham was about to say something but Rob interrupted him.

  “I’m joking. I’ll be fine. I need to get home. I don’t like lying about doing nothing.” He shuffled past Trevena and Graham and headed towards the nurses’ desk.

  “Okay, look. If you’re going to go home, at least let us visit you there later. Make sure you’re all right. We want to take you onto our caseload and see if we can help with some of the things you’re going through at the moment.” Graham said as they drew alongside Rob.

  “That’ll be lovely,” Rob said. He waved a hand at one of the nurses standing at the end of the desk writing up notes. She raised her eyes heavenwards and came over.

  “I’m off,” said Rob. “Thanks for everything. I especially enjoyed listening to you give that old boy in the bed next to me a manual evacuation at three o’clock last night. Sensational. Anyway, these lads will be looking after me from now on, so I’ll be on my way.” The nurse looked at Trevena and Graham.

  “You can discharge Mr. Litchin into the care of the Home Treatment Team. Thank you, Sister.”

  The nurse made a face that articulated a complicated combination of professional assent with mild distaste and relief. It was quite a triumph of non-verbal communication.

  Rob stumbled off towards the exit and Trevena and Graham followed.

  At the door Graham asked how Rob was going to get home.

  “Gradually,” Rob said. “With a number of refreshment stops on the way.”

  “We’ll pop over and see you in the morning, then,” Graham said. Before you’ve tied too many on, Trevena was thinking.

  “You’ve got my address?”

  Graham held up the file. “And take this leaflet. It tells you a bit about what we do and it’s got a pager number on the back you can use out of hours if you want some support. See you tomorrow?”

  “Okay,” Rob said. “Why not? I’m not much of a morning person though, I should warn you.” And he turned and walked off, big boots clumping on the tiled floor.

  Trevena and Graham followed Rob down the corridor. Rob turned right at the end towards the exit while Trevena and Graham lingered at the corner debating whether to go to the canteen for a coffee. Trevena looked at his watch. Half past ten.

  “I’ll grab a takeout. I’ve got to meet Zoë at eleven at Les’s to collect a few bits for him.” Trevena said.

  He was referring to Les Branch, one of his patients with schizophrenia who had recently deteriorated to the point where Trevena had had to get him admitted under the Mental Health Act. Les was never entirely well and was chronically symptomatic, but with the injections Trevena gave him and regular support, he remained able to function. He kept pigeons and rabbits. “Pigeons for racing, rabbits for meat,” Les had informed Trevena once, standing with his back turned and his trousers round his ankles, the thin, slightly loamy smell of an unwashed bottom drifting into Trevena’s face, while awaiting the jab to his backside; it was only when Les phoned the office in tears to tell Trevena he had killed all his animals that it was time to get worried. When Les’s illness worsened, usually exacerbated by stress induced paranoia, he would slaughter the lot because he thought they would be better off dead if he couldn’t look after them properly. “I’ve killed all my animals again, Phil,” he’d say. And Trevena would have to drop everything and get round there fast before he did any more harm. Les wasn’t cruel, he wasn’t a sociopath; he just got scared, and Trevena had known Les a long time and felt a lot for the man.

  “You know Stibbs told me he wanted you to take over supervising Zoë?” Trevena said as they headed towards the canteen.

  “No way,” Graham said. He shook his head. “I can’t do that, fella.”

  “I hoped you’d feel that way.”

  “She’s far too pretty. I’d abuse my position and try and give her one. I’m not the mentor she needs, Phil.”

  “That’s what I thought. Thanks, mate.”

  AT TEN PAST eleven Trevena pulled up behind Zoë’s old Volkswagen Golf and flashed his lights. Zoë waved and got out and met Trevena on the path outside Les’s house.

  Les rented a cramped mid-terrace from the Housing Authority. It had no front garden, just a communal verge, mostly laid to dry dirt, which abutted the pavement. Next door had tried to enliven their approach by mounting a concrete birdbath the size of a kitchen sink flanked by two roaring stone lions beneath their front room window. The entire installation had been painted an inexplicable cobalt blue. It was quite probably one of the most dispiriting sights Trevena had ever seen.

  “Sorry I’m a bit late,” Trevena said as they stepped up to the front door. The door was testament to Les’s increasingly florid mental state, an early warning sign not only of his worsening symptoms but also of what lay beyond. Les had repainted it bright red. The paint was smeared and blotchy, having been applied with a sponge. It looked like
the back of a raw, sick throat.

  “No worries,” Zoë smiled, her cheeks dimpling. So keen, thought Trevena. Pretty and bright and young and so bloody keen. She probably wasn’t much older than Lizzie. He sighed at the thought of his daughter, who also was pretty and bright and young, but a little bit fucked up, and keen, it seemed, only on cock at the moment.

  “I thought you might like a look in here,” Trevena said. “Les has been in hospital for a while now and he’s asked me to fetch him some clothes and a few toiletries.” He held up a roll of black bin bags. “It’s like a museum to schizophrenia in there.”

  Zoë nodded, wide-eyed.

  Trevena used Les’s front door key and they went into the small, pokey hallway. Ahead was a bare galley kitchen and to the left a flight of stairs. Despite his familiarity with the inside of Les’s house, Trevena still felt his skin crawl; he acknowledged the feeling as a primal kind of empathy the intuitive sane felt when confronted with true, tragic madness. An awful, lonesome desolation, encrypted throughout the fabric of the house from years of terrifying symptoms. If that didn’t connote a haunting, he was unsure what did.

  They went into the living room, which was the only other room on the ground floor. It was narrow and bare and evinced more of Les’s attempts to brighten the place up. The walls above the dado rail were a nasty, bilious yellow, those beneath a cold, metallic blue. It had the effect of making Trevena feel he was sinking into a pool of stagnant water encompassed beneath a low sky full of light from a sickening sun. The floor was lino tiled, which increased his disorientation and sense of wading across the bottom of a pool. There was no TV, just a smeary glass-topped desk with a radio on it. Two greasy old armchairs were positioned next to each other against the back wall and faced the bricked up fireplace. The room smelt of biscuits gone soft at the bottom of a barrel.

  Zoë was standing by the hearth. There was a footstool in front of the fireplace with a stack of ripped-up paper piled on it. Zoë was picking through it.

  “It’s a Bible,” she said. She picked up a chunk still attached to a piece of spine. She thumbed through it. Trevena noticed that the paper had not so much been torn or cut, but hacked apart by a pair of shears.