The HUM: The complete novel

by Michael Christopher Carter

  “Is your wife Welsh as well?” asked the dog handler.

  “No. She’s very English. Very prim and proper,” he added in answer to the querying gaze from the other policeman.

  Geraint disappeared to the bedroom and returned with bedding and a jumper for the German Shepherd Dog to get the scent. Then he and his handler went on their way.

  “Don’t worry. Sabre here will find her. She can’t have gone far in this weather.”

  Geraint watched as the pair disappeared down the driveway and began their search. Surely it wouldn’t be long before Diane was found. And then what? She couldn’t just come straight back home, surely. The crisis team was still needed. She had to recover properly in a hospital. If she came home against her wishes she’d just do more harm to herself.

  It was with dismay Geraint answered a gentle tapping at the door to witness the dog and his master standing forlorn in the porch. “I don’t know if it’s the cold or what. Sabre kept picking up the scent for a few hundred yards in different directions, and then losing it again. Sorry. I really expected to find her.”

  Geraint hadn’t realised until this crushing disappointment that he too had fully expected her to be found. His thoughts and concerns had been of what to do with her afterwards. It hadn’t occurred to him she could escape the dog.

  “What now?” he managed to utter.

  “Well. It’ll be up to the helicopter now. I don’t know if they’ll find her though.”

  “Helicopter?!” Geraint could scarcely believe his ears.

  “Uh-huh. Our best hope is that she’s holed up somewhere warm. I’m sure she’ll be fine,” he added unconvincingly. “You get some rest,” he advised.

  “I need to. I’ve got to be at Cambridge station tomorrow.”

  “Oh yes. I forgot you’re one of us,” he grinned. “If we hear anything through the night, we’ll let you know, but I’m sure she’s safe until the morning. We’ll carry on looking anyway though. Good luck,” he offered by way of goodbye.

  As he locked the front door for the night, he knew sleep would be impossible. Perhaps he’d try reading, or maybe watch television.

  Slumped in his usual chair, he’d long-since given up on his book (he was a slow reader at the best of times) and instead had watched until the end of service on all four channels. He’d seen the news four times on ITV and BBC, all of it bad, as always, which did nothing to alleviate his suffering, and now he was back to contemplative silence.

  The shrill ringing of the telephone exploded from the stillness. With a jolt, Geraint checked his watch: 11:02pm. “Hello,” he asked tentatively.

  “May I speak to Diane Ellis, please?” a female voice inquired.

  Geraint’s thoughts caught up as he realised who it was. “This is her husband, Geraint, speaking. Is that the Crisis Team?”

  “Yes, that’s right. How are things?”

  “Nice of you to ask. Unfortunately, I’m afraid you’re far too late and she’s gone. I’ve called my colleagues in the police force and they’re looking for her with a helicopter as we speak.”

  “Ah, okay.” the voice responded, sounding not in the slightest bit surprised and not acknowledging any responsibility for the situation. “You won’t be needing a visit then?”

  “No. Thank you. I don’t think so. But if she does turn up tonight, which seems unlikely—the police expect she’s hiding somewhere warm for the night—then we may do,” Geraint grudgingly acknowledged.

  “Well, call any time,” she said cheerfully. “I hope we won’t be so hectic,” she added, chuckling inappropriately.

  This sort of thing was par for the course for her, Geraint supposed. “Okay,” he said. “I may call later then.”

  Wide awake again now, he sat in the hallway next to the phone, gazing through the large window onto the driveway of Nutters. He smiled thankfully at Carys sleeping soundly on the couch, covered in the tartan blanket he’d placed over her. He’d leave her there for now, in plain view. A guilty lump grew in his throat at the thought of letting her down. He should have seen the signs. How would she cope without her mum if the worst happened?

  Choking down his dread, he took comfort in watching his peaceful daughter. His gaze returned to the window, staring out for what seemed like an eternity.

  Mind meandering over the events of the last few days, blame weighed heavily. He should have called someone for help way before tonight. It was obvious things weren’t right. That bloody humming noise had driven her to distraction. Even when she’d appeared to be coping there must have been tell-tale signs. Why had he ignored them?

  If anything happened to her; he corrected himself, things were already happening to her; if it was anything irreparable, he’d never forgive himself. How had it got to this? His beautiful wife, unstable, roaming around with a dangerous great knife on her, being searched for by a helicopter? No. He’d never, ever forgive himself.

  Distant bright lights pulled him from his self-deprecation. Frowning, he strained to decipher what he saw. As they came closer, Geraint wondered if his colleagues had spotted her. Avidly he stared to see where the spotlight would fall, keen to catch a glimpse of where she might be.

  Something about the image puzzled him. He couldn’t work out where the helicopter’s tail was. Strange colours he didn’t associate with aviation creased his eyes. What was causing them? A trick of the light? The sound was wrong, too. It didn’t move with the light, just echoed; a strange, directionless hum.

  As the lights grew closer, Geraint’s heart beat wildly in his chest. The shape made no sense. His brain couldn’t work out where the helicopter was in relation to him. All sense of perspective was lost to him.

  The bright light which had drawn his attention wasn’t directional like a spotlight as he’d first thought, but filled the sky with its luminescence. Shaking his head, he fought to comprehend the spectacle. But as the strange lights began to take shape, he was stunned to disbelief. He couldn’t believe his senses.

  He was forced to concede to them, as what could only be described as a saucer shaped craft came clearly into view. The bright light he’d presumed to be the helicopter’s search light effervesced from every surface of the ship, giving an ethereal incandescence like he’d seen depicted in science fiction films. But this was real. He hadn’t realised how a two dimensional film struggled to portray such brilliance; or that those films portrayed anything other than fiction.

  Despite displays of credence in his wife’s tales of alien abductions and UFO sightings, he hadn’t believed them for a second. He knew she was ill. She believed them and he wanted to support her, but now?

  The lights moved closer, becoming brighter until they were blinding; the brightest lights Geraint had ever seen. Dazzling. So intense, they were painful to look at, searing his retinas.

  And then, suddenly, they disappeared and there was darkness. The craft was gone. In its place hovered the police helicopter, its searchlight weaving back and fore.

  ‘I must be cracking up,’ Geraint muttered under his breath.

  Chapter Six

  Psych View

  Geraint was surprised when Carys woke him, tugging at his sleeve. “Daddy? Daddy? Is Mummy home now? Is it time for school?” she asked.

  He realised he had no idea. “Er... No. She’s not home yet, sweetheart. As for school, what’s the time?” Carys shrugged. She didn’t know, but had been awake for ages.

  Having observed her daddy resting on his arms against the glass of the hallway window for long enough, hunger had led her to investigate the kitchen. She’d left empty handed as it was still a shambles from her mummy’s house cleaning yesterday. With no choice, and despite wanting to leave him rest, she’d roused Geraint from his sleep.

  She pitied him. He felt responsible for Diane, she knew; and she also knew it wasn’t his fault. Somehow, she understood there was no right way to proceed where her mummy was concerned. Sometimes, because of this insight, she was the only one who could bring Diane back to normal. Back in
touch with herself.

  Geraint managed to focus his eyes enough to decipher his wristwatch, and to realise his daughter had woken him just in time for them both to make it to school and work on time. A feat all the easier for them already being downstairs and in their clothes (having both slept in them.)

  “Come on, Cariad. Let’s get in the car. We’ll get breakfast on the way.”

  There was no news yet of Diane, which Geraint found strangely comforting. Assuming she’d kept herself safe and warm somewhere, it was natural she wouldn’t be found until she came out of hiding voluntarily.

  They opened the front door to leave but the shrill ringing of the telephone stopped them. Geraint rushed to the hallway and grabbed at the receiver. In his eagerness, he dropped it to the ground where it landed with a crack. Nervously, he picked it up and put it to his ear.

  “Hello?” he inquired, half expecting the phone not to work.

  “We’ve got her. Safe and sound!” Geraint’s sergeant announced, recognising his voice.

  “How is she?” Geraint asked, meaning more than just her immediate physical appearance.

  There was a lengthy pause before the sergeant answered. “Not good. We’ve requested the psych’ to come and have a look at her.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  Another pause. “She’s quite feisty, isn’t she?” he breathed, his huge sigh belaying the understatement. “We can’t get anywhere near her in her cell. “She came in quietly enough. A fireman found her on his way to work. She was trying to get into the medical centre, but it was way too early. Good she knows she needs help though.”

  “Mmm, I suppose. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thank you.”

  With watery eyes, Geraint replaced the receiver. “They’ve found Mummy, Carys bach,” and then in response to her raised eyebrows, “She’s fine. Fine,” he assured in a less than convincing croak.

  With his immediate worries eased, he fretted what would happen next. She wouldn’t be safe at home. Not yet. The same terrible, compelling thoughts would still reside firmly within her. A night in their crazy control might have served to make them all the more powerful.

  His cheeks reddened at the memory of the vision he’d seen whilst drifting off after his phone call from the Crisis Team. Could he ask his colleagues if any of them had seen anything strange, too? Shaking his head to bring him back to his senses, he knew it was madness. He must have hallucinated with the stress of it all and woken still dreaming. The alternative was too outrageous to comprehend.

  Desperately pushing the thought aside, a nagging doubt pulled at his resolve like a snagging thread. If it had been real, the helicopter pilots would have seen it. He shook his head, not knowing if he’d have the gall to ask them. Crazy talk like that might cost him his career.

  The thread of thought was left to hang, unresolved, dangerously ready to unravel, leaving Geraint with a sickening knot in his stomach. Pasting a pale line of a smile onto his grey pallor, he ushered his daughter towards the car.

  He walked Carys into school, pausing at reception, his thick throat allowing no words to pass.

  “Is something the matter?” the receptionist peered at him from over her spectacles, leaning over a large book in which she was writing.

  Geraint cleared his throat. “Er, Yes. Carys might be a little fragile today. She didn’t get much sleep… Her mother, you see? She’s not too well at the moment…” He struggled to explain more.

  “Yes, yes, of course. We’ll keep an eye on her.” Standing up, she walked from behind her desk and stood beside Carys offering her outstretched hand. “Come on. I’ll take you to your classroom.” She smiled at Geraint. “Don’t worry. She’ll be fine.”

  With a teary wave goodbye, Carys disappeared round the corner. Staggering a little, Geraint made it back to the car. The lump in his throat now filled his chest, ready to explode out in a mighty force of pent-up agony.

  Driving but a short distance up the road, just far enough to be sure no-one would see, he pulled over, buried his head in his hands and sobbed. Briny snot oozed from his nose as silent, salty sobs shook his broad shoulders; the silence finally breaking to hideous screeching howls of despair.

  Of course, things were already better now. Diane was safe. She would get better. It would be okay, just as Carys had promised. But the grief of guilt and fear had to be purged. With his wife the responsibility of his capable colleagues, at least for now, he was at last free to release the dam and let some of it out before he burst.

  It was a twenty minute drive to the station, and thanks to giving into his emotions, he was already late. A stab of anxiety returned, so soon after its relief, at the thought of how Diane might be behaving; and how much that behaviour might be denting the respect of his colleagues.

  He arrived, grateful for the available parking space. The large grey building loomed over him in dreary reflection of his mood. Entering the building, he was expected. “Geraint. The psych’s not got here yet. Perhaps you could go and have a word with her.”

  The edgy tone struck Geraint. When he walked to the cells and saw Diane, he understood all too well. Before he’d even entered hers, she noticed him through the peephole.

  She couldn’t hurt him through the door. Geraint hoped it was her knowledge of this that explained why she threw herself at it with such force.

  “You did this to me!” she shrieked. “You called these bastards. I told you to leave me alone! Don’t come near me. I never want to see you again!!”

  Geraint slid the peephole closed. “I’ll leave her to the experts,” he declared with mock assurance. With a cough to disguise his rasping voice, he rushed to his cubicle, slumped in his chair, and planted his face in his palms. Sitting bolt upright, he slapped both cheeks a few times and sighed.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d said such things to him, and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last. One day, he might cope better. Today, he felt it raw. An excruciating pain for which he knew no relief.

  He didn’t know what would make Diane better, nor if feeling better would be enough for her to act differently; or even if one day she might not get better at all and remain hospitalised forever.

  The institutions she’d inhabited over the years were full of people who weren’t expected to get better. People who had given up trying to be normal, whatever that meant. They’d probably been just like Diane once. What would it take for one of her episodes to become permanent?

  When she recovered enough to come home, when might the next incident be? Months? Weeks? He could count on it being sometime, definitely. There was no suggestion, and never had been, that she’d ever be cured. All he could hope was that next time he’d have regained enough strength to survive.

  And how about Carys? She always coped better than him, but now she was frightened of aliens, too. Was she destined for the same affliction as her mother?

  He shuddered, recalling his own sightings last night. Surely it had been a hallucination; fuelled by psycho-suggestion from all that had gone on. And sheer exhaustion. A hallucination might even be an over-statement. A dream. That’s all it had been.

  With that certainty catalogued in his mind, he threw himself diligently into his morning’s work. He’d just begun looking at files from the day before (he had fallen behind because he hadn’t returned after collecting Carys from school), when the phone on his desk burst into shrill cries.

  He looked at it for a moment before answering, anticipating, he wasn’t sure what. Sitting up straight in his chair, he answered on the fourth ring. “PC Geraint Ellis speaking.”

  “Mr Ellis?” the caller still wanted to qualify.

  It was a vague, airy-fairy voice Geraint was sure belonged to a male, but wouldn’t fall over with shock if the caller proved to be a woman. “Yes. That’s correct. Who’s calling?”

  “Mr Ellis,” the caller repeated, happy now, that it was fact. At least everyone was clear on that point. “Good morning. I’m Doctor Richards, Consultant Psychiatrist from Adden
brookes Hospital. I’ve just been in to see your wife,” he/she stated, pointlessly adding, “Diane Ellis,” before getting to the point. “She seems to have calmed down now. I just wanted to check you’re happy to have her home before I sign her release papers.”

  Geraint spluttered into the receiver, “You can’t be serious?! Calmed down! It was less than an hour since she was screaming she never wanted to see me again, and throwing herself at her cell door!” A wave of nausea piqued by anger and fear creased his face into a grotesque scowl. “You can’t have done any proper assessment. She always pulls the wool over your eyes, you lot. It’s me and my little daughter who have to pick up the pieces.”

  A stab of regret at suggesting Carys might be compromised stuck him in the chest. He had no desire for the infamous interference of Social Services. Carys’s teacher had already threatened that. His error appeared to go unnoticed. “What will happen to my wife if I’m not happy to have her at home yet?”

  A brief pause followed before Dr Richards answered. “I could phone to see if we have a bed on the ward, but, to be honest, it was quite full last night. We may have to consider a unit further away. It might mean travelling to visit your wife.”

  “That’s fine. Whatever it takes I’m worried about her, doctor. I wouldn’t be comfortable caring for her when she’s so unwell. She needs to be safe in hospital.”

  It felt like betrayal. Even though he knew it was right, the real Diane hated being in hospital. But she wasn’t being the real her at the moment, and it was the best place to find the real her again.

  There always seemed an unwillingness to admit Diane whenever she volunteered herself to their care. “Hospital is such a horrible place to be,” they always said. He was never sure if a bed shortage wasn’t their biggest concern. “No-one in their right mind would want to go there.” They’d actually said that, Geraint shook his head recalling. There were concerns other inmates might be a bad influence; or worse, harm her. Hospitalisation, therefore, had to be a last resort.