Mad Worlds

by Bill Douglas

  “And?” Newman wanted the full picture.

  The dad recovered his voice. “He sprang up, ran out the back door – I’d opened it to get fresh air – and dived straight into the greenhouse. I dialled 999.”

  Yes, a bit earlier and he might have prevented the bloodbath. So what! He didn’t let the ‘if onlys’ get to him anymore.

  Both parents were weeping. He’d seen it before – so often that he noted it without caring. Bewildered folk, struggling with the onset of madness in their midst.

  At last, knackered and fighting sleep, he’d driven home. 5.30am! To avoid disturbing upstairs, he kipped on the settee – till he awoke to his startled daughter’s scream at eight o’clock.

  The internal phone was ringing. He picked up the receiver and grunted.

  “Mary here, Sam. The boss wants to see you; his office, now.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Dunno, but he’s spitting nails.”

  He couldn’t ignore the injunction. The Medical Officer of Health was boss of Aversham’s Health Department – and liked to remind everyone of this now and again.

  A glance in the wall mirror decided his next act. Bloodshot eyes glared from a swarthy face. Lathering up, he scraped quickly with his ‘sword edge’, smoothed his Brylcreemed hair – still jet-black – and limped at his top speed up the stairs, to knock on the MOH’s door. At the command, he entered. “Sir?”

  “Ah, Newman.” The MOH stood behind the large oak desk. “Sit down.”

  He did as ordered, facing the desk. The MOH remained upright, frowning.

  “You were out last night. I’ve had a complaint. Know what it’s about?”

  Images sped into his numbed consciousness. The daughter – anything sexual? He wished. That husband? Worked up – but he’d seemed friendly. The father of the lad that jumped through the glass? Yes – the delay! “I think so. I can explain.”

  “Good.” The MOH’s frown went. “An apology from you will suffice.”

  “I already apologised to the parents, but –”

  “Parents? What are you havering about? It’s Tickler you will apologise to.”

  The name rang a bell, but not regarding the youngster. Could the dad be the stepfather, with a different name? “To whom?”

  “To Dr Tickler! Says you had the nerve to ring him in the middle of the night to advise giving a patient a sedative.”

  “What?”

  “Is that correct?”

  “Yes, but –”

  “He says you were arrogant and questioned his judgment, and risked a shambles by refusing to organise certifying of a patient who was a danger to herself.”

  Steady, don’t lose it. “No.”

  “Doubtless you had your reasons. I told him I would deal with it. I want you to ring and make a full apology. Herbert T. is one of our finest most conscientious family doctors – and an old friend.”

  “But the woman wasn’t –”

  The MOH held up his hand – a halt sign. “Make that call!”

  Newman limped back to his room and his chair. He lit up and propelled a cloud towards the ceiling. Pompous bighead; knew nothing about mental health. Nor did that fool of a GP.

  He was calming. The boss couldn’t be expected to understand mental health. Grasping the work of other sections in the Health Department would be easier for the MOH. Public health inspectors, health visitors, district nurses and home helps all did great jobs, but ones where intangibles weren’t so critical.

  But his thoughts were spiralling downward. Damn-all sleep, overworked and a target for aggro. Pay not rock-bottom, but being on call 24/7 without recompense equalled a measly rate per hour. One good thing: Two lots with legal authority in certifying – the Justices and the G.P.s (bar Tickler) – bowed to his opinion on emergencies, and readily signed forms.

  External phone. He grabbed the receiver. “Newman.”

  “Police, McNab. Keep your hair on, man. I’ve a nice one, specially for you.”

  Holding the receiver away from his ear, Newman groaned. He rubbed his eyes. “Sarge, I’ve been so bored. The good news?”

  Even on the crackling line, McNab’s broad Geordie accent was distinctive and – today – irritating. “Mattie’s corner shop phoned. Woman with a baby ran in there – scared shitless. Husband tried to stab her. She’s –”

  “Did he?”

  “Na, but he chased her out. She’s in the back-shop. Uniform’ll see you there.”

  “And the husband?”

  “Young lad, teacher. Crackers.”

  Could be messy. “Where’s he?”

  “In the house – 90 Green Drive. Across from Mattie’s, an’ further along.”

  Not out in the sticks at least. “Name?”

  “John Chisholm.”

  “Behave yourself, McNab.” He slammed the phone down, inhaled, and puffed expansively. Yes, he was the department’s mental health expert.

  Adrenalin-fuelled, he limped to the car, revved away from the Department and slowed along back streets of terraced houses.

  Crackers, eh? He’d see. He’d known guys who, tanked up with liquor, could chase the missus – maybe even with a knife. Didn’t mean they were mad. Some women asked for it. Good chance the lad was crazy, though. Young teacher. Could be the stress. He’d seen it before. Or jealousy. Maybe paranoid as hell.

  Turning into Green Drive, he espied at the far end, near where Mattie’s would be, a small gathering. Vultures? Number 78. He slowed right down. Number 90, the green door shut, curtains drawn. Better see the wife first. He stopped a few yards further along, opposite the corner shop.

  Walking over to the shop, he ignored a “what’s up?” as he limped past the bystanders. Police would clear them.

  He flashed his warrant card at the policeman. “Newman, Mental Health.”

  “Missus Chisholm’s in the back-shop, Sir.”

  “And Mr Chisholm?”

  “In number 90. I’m watching the front. Another constable’s at the back.”

  Fine. He limped into the shop. “Newman, Mental Health,” he said to the elderly couple behind the counter. “To see Mrs Chisholm.”

  The woman moved – fast for an oldie. “I’ll tell her you’re here, Sir.”

  He hung back and took the opportunity to buy fags.

  The woman returned. “Go on through to the back-shop, Sir.”

  Approaching the open door, his nostrils twitched. Some perfume! In the small room sat a young woman, a dark-haired beauty, who gazed up at him with sorrowful brown eyes.

  3

  Friday 20th April 1956 – in Aversham.

  Heather didn’t look back until she was in the shop and had her moaning infant seated on the counter in front of Mattie. No, John hadn’t pursued her. She’d guessed not, hearing the front door shut, but hadn’t dared pause to check.

  “What’s up, lass?” The white-haired man’s gnarled face was impassive.

  Breathless, she couldn’t reply.

  “I’ll fetch the wife,” said Mattie, and turning, shouted, “Elsie, it’s Heather and the bairn!”

  “Coming.” Elsie appeared from the back-shop, advancing rapidly past the only customer – a woman studying the shelves. “Whatever’s up, m’dear?”

  “I’m in trouble.”

  “Come on through.”

  She picked up Becky and followed Elsie to a room at the back. She flopped onto a sofa, cuddling Becky and humming till the babe stopped moaning.

  She declined ‘a cuppa’. She must tell her story now, though the idea of doing so was scary.

  The words weren’t coming. She felt a reassuring pat on her hand as Elsie sat down beside her. “Take your time, m’dear.” Elsie’s careworn face radiated concern.

  “It’s John. He went funny, picked up a knife – and I ran.” Her vision was clouding. “I’m afraid he’s gone mad.” She was shaking, teeth chattering.

  “It’ll be shock, m’dear,” said Elsie. “Here, pass me the bairn.”

  Heather r
eleased Becky to Elsie, who started dandling the infant up and down.

  The door opened. Mattie. He looked enquiringly at Elsie.

  “Her husband went all funny and chased her with a knife. He’s still in their house – number 90. She can’t go back and she’s worried sick about him.”

  Mattie scratched his head. “Maybe I should ring the police, see if they can help?” He looked at Heather.

  Still shaking, though less violently, she nodded. She hated the idea, but couldn’t think of any better course. John might harm himself.

  “Can you mind the shop then, Elsie?”

  “Yes. Nearly asleep, m’dear,” Elsie whispered, handing back the child and closing the door quietly behind her.

  Shaken up, but regaining control of herself, Heather cradled Becky in her arms. A sleeping little angel!

  Mattie was using the phone on the wall in the far corner of the room. With his back to her, he was obviously trying to keep his voice down. But she heard snatches. “Mad… with a knife… 90 Green Drive… here with the bairn.”

  Mattie replaced the receiver and turned to Heather. “They’ll be right round, and they’re sending a mental man to see your husband. I’ll join Elsie. She’ll be back through soon.” He returned to the shop, leaving the door ajar.

  She continued to rock Becky. What was the ‘mental man’ – a psychiatrist?

  Suddenly an image of John with the knife blocked out all else. Could he kill her – and Becky? Her eyes were blurring, her face moistening. Might he use the knife on himself? He’d looked wild and dishevelled. Said he’d gone for a swim in the river. He couldn’t swim! So what was he doing there? Did he mean to drown?

  “John,” she whispered aloud. “My rock.” Yes, through her depression he had been – tending to Becky each restless night. In the summer, he’d kept up the builder’s labouring work to bring in cash. What energy, in contrast to her apathetic negative state – but not too surprising from a guy whose approach to college was burning the candle at both ends. And when he started teaching, he’d spent hours telling her about every child in his class – their likes and dislikes, and problems he was picking up. She’d known what he was talking about, yet, uncaring, could barely pretend to listen.

  Voices in the shop. Mental man? Holding Becky close, she crept to the door and listened. No. Mrs Allen at number 86? She returned to the sofa and her musings.

  She must have been awful to live with after the birth. That whole experience, from the dreaded caesarean on, was seismic, and for a while she struggled through a cloud of gloom.

  When some months back, the cloud began to lift, and she could experience joy in caring for Becky and tackling housework, she noticed John had changed. He was jumpy and distant and spent all his time preparing lessons. It stung to get the brush-off when she asked what was wrong.

  She’d soon decided to stop questioning him. He was stressed, under pressure. And she wanted to concentrate her resurgent energies on bonding with her child.

  Then Easter, and his going for work-outs and runs. “This exercise is shaking me up. Olympics next, eh?” he surprised her with one day. She’d thrilled to see a glimmer of a smile.

  “Policeman’s here, outside the shop, m’dear.” Elsie was back. “Says there’s others, watching your house front and back.” She held up a jar of baby food and smiled. “I know what you get for Becky. All right?”

  Heather nodded gratefully and handed Becky over. “Can I use your lav?”

  “Of course, m’dear. Out the back door, on your left. It’s not posh.”

  Relieved of discomfort, Heather stopped by the kitchen sink and looked through to the room. Becky, cradled by Elsie, was gulping down the spoonfuls. Nice. Elsie, her white curls dancing as she crooned to Becky, would have been a fine grandma.

  “Your bairn’s a grand wee eater.” Elsie handed Becky over, then stood up, her cheeks glistening. Elsie – crying? “I’d better join Mattie. Make yourself at home, m’dear.”

  Yesterday’s shock! Finding John slumped in the chair by the front door – hunched forward, head resting on his arms. Back from work early. Wild-eyed, he’d ignored her queries, insisted on going straight to bed and wanted to be on his own.

  Later, when she tiptoed into the bedroom, he divulged something bad happened at school, and said he was wholly responsible. “My neglect,” he added. Talking about it would not help, and he’d sort it out at school tomorrow.

  A tapping jolted Heather from her reverie. Elsie was peering round the door. “Heather m’dear, you’ve a visitor. I’ll leave you in private.”

  A dark-suited man entered, carrying a briefcase. “Mrs Chisholm?” The stranger continued in a low voice without waiting for a reply, “I’m Sam Newman, Mental Health.” He sat down at the table.

  “Yes. Heather Chisholm.” This tanned, dark-haired little man looked nervous – smoothing his hair with one hand, briefcase (flat on the table) clenched in the other. “What do you mean, mental health?”

  “I’m Aversham’s Mental Health Officer, commonly known as the DAO – that is duly authorised officer, empowered under the law to take people of unsound mind to Springwell.” He flashed a card with a photo on it. “Just to confirm.”

  Heather waved her hand. She didn’t need to see his card. “The loony bin? John’s no madman. Anyway, he wouldn’t go there.”

  “Well, if your husband’s having a nervous breakdown, that’s where I have to take him.”

  “Have to take him? No! Surely you can treat him at home.”

  “Not if he’s having a serious mental breakdown. Springwell’s the only place to treat him. It’s the mental hospital. Besides, there’s your safety. The police said he tried to stab you.”

  “That’s not true. He just picked up a knife. But…” She hadn’t thought this through. Becky’s and her own safety came first. Maybe John would have to go there.

  The man produced a pack of cigarettes and motioned it towards her. “A fag?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Mind if I do?” The mental man took out a cigarette and flicked at the lighter.

  “No – I mean yes, I do mind.” Her cheeks warmed. “The smoke would be bad for my baby.”

  The mental man looked disconcerted, but pocketed cigarettes and lighter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think.” He sat down on a chair by the table, took paper and a pen from the briefcase, and faced her. “Tell me what happened,” he said quietly.

  Heather began her story.

  4

  Friday 20th April 1956 – in Aversham.

  John rushed to the front doorway and stopped, gripping the doorknob as he watched Heather speed with Becky towards the shop. He’d chase them – but no, she’d come back. God, he didn’t mean to scare her like that! He slammed the door, retreated to the living room and slumped into an armchair. Thoughts rushed into his head, then faded – like some magnetic force was drawing them.

  His lower back was aching. A dull ache. Yes, his underwear was sodden. He raised himself from the chair and began to strip off.

  He suddenly imagined Dave, soaking and drowning. His body shook, and his eyes felt moist. Great bruv. Looked out for his ‘wee Johnny’.

  Yesterday! He’d panicked. Why did he go anywhere near the river?

  He rubbed his aching forehead, massaging it. But this didn’t relieve his cluttered mind. Was he going mad?

  A strain of music. Hearing things? No, it was from next door. ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. A catchy tune, but he didn’t want to hear it. Heather was always humming it. She was crazy about Elvis. Maybe ‘the king’ was her true love.

  Tap-tap-tap. The front door? But nobody ever called. Heather! He ran to the door, and flung it open.

  A stranger – a startled-looking little man in a suit – gaped at him.

  “John Chisholm?” The man carried a briefcase.

  He heard laughter. A couple of women across the road. What the hell. “So what?”

  “Can I come in?” The man was dark-haired, swarthy, and stank of B
rylcreem.

  “No!” He made to shut the door.

  The man stuck out a foot to stop it closing. “I’m Sam Newman, the duly authorised officer for mental health.” With a smile (or a leer?), the stranger flashed a card with a photo. “I must come in and talk to you.”

  Arrogant sod. “No way. I’m not mental.”

  The man continued. “I’ve just seen your wife, and –”

  “You’ve WHAT?” He glared at the man.

  The man’s face reddened. “I mean, I saw your wife at the shop over there, and from what she told me –”

  “You saw her – at the shop?” The two women were laughing again.

  “Yes. Oh I’d never seen her before. You’d threatened her with a knife.”

  “I didn’t, and it’s no business of yours.”

  “Ah, but it is. Look, can we talk inside?”

  “NO! DAMN YOU TO HELL. SCRAM,” he yelled. He didn’t hear any laughter now. He saw a policeman outside the shop – near where the women were. “You do not want to mess with me,” he added quietly.

  The intruder had retracted his foot. “You need help. You can come as a voluntary patient into Springwell.”

  “The loony bin? Never! Get away from here and leave me – and my wife – alone!” The house shook as he slammed the door.

  He stood, his thoughts churning. Perfumed little toad! The loony bin. He’d die first. Nobody was going to lock him up with madmen.

  Trembling with rage had given way to shivering. Not that his thoughts were scary; he was starkers but for his socks. No wonder those women laughed.

  Galvanised, he ran up to the bedroom and searched for dry underwear and a shirt. After rummaging through drawers fruitlessly, he struck oil in the laundry bin. All niffy – but so what?

  The place reeked of Heather. He inhaled deeply. He struggled to order his thoughts. She used to say she loved him, but now she had a lover? Should he go over to the shop? He couldn’t face that. Would she come home? Was he still a teacher?

  He was pathetic. He’d messed up. He lay back on the bed under the quilt and pulled it up over his head. Maybe he could suffocate? Scarcely. Other options for self-kill? No rope, no gun. Cutting his wrists, or drowning – both possible.