Breakdown (9 page)

“Sure,” I mumbled and Steve got his attention as I headed into the kitchen.

“How’s your dad, Ste?” I heard my old man ask. Steve did the odd Saturday morning at my old man’s garage. They’d tried to drag me along since I’d gotten out of juvy. It worked on the odd occasion, but Cutter had a more tempting way of asking me to work on cars, and mostly those that needed encouragement to open up to me.

As conversation filtered through, my old lady stood by the hob, stirring a small frying pan of bolognaise. Give her some dues, it smelt the part tonight, but the little frying pan was full to the brim and escaping over the sides, leaving behind a help me trail that looked like diarrhoea as it tried to crawl to freedom on the hob.

“You ever considered using a bigger pan for that?” I said, flicking a frown at the mess. Hating the mess. She really needed a bigger pan for shit like that.

Humming softly, black eyes found mine and her spoon slipped slightly, causing a little bolognaise to escape. “Damn.” She huffed at the mess herself, then smiled over as I stared down at it. “Spaghetti’s in the top cupboard, and stop trying to get out of tea. I heard what you said in there.”

“You did, hmm?” Finding the spaghetti where it should be and ignoring the calm that settled feeling it there, I handed it over for slaughtering.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the packet off me. Eyes softening, she waved toward the door. “You can escape now. But be warned, I’ll save you some for later.”

Great. From slimy spaghetti, to dried and crusted over with bug-filled bolognaise. I didn’t need telling twice to get out, in fact—

A clatter of pan hitting the floor, followed by a startled cry, it forced me to stop and jerk back. Bolognaise was all over the floor, even the pan hadn’t finished its rolling, seeming to spin and twist gleefully away from my cooker in a
can’t catch my escaping ass
fashion. My old lady did her own little dance as hot sauce and mince meat covered a touch of her work shoes and foot. I grabbed at a cloth and ran it under some water before crouching down to get it off her, clean it up. Just get the fucked-up mess away from skin.

“It’s okay, baby.”

She came down, her hand drifting over mine, stopping me from touching.

“S’okay.” Her voice was nothing more than a breath against my face. “Wait.”

I flicked a look to the bolognaise mixing with the grooves of the floor tiles, then how some of it forced the cupboard door to cry as long streaks ran down the smooth surface.

“Not so bad, is it?”

Giving a frown, I blinked as my old lady brushed my cheek, leaving wetness behind. Fingers were stained a deep red with bolognaise, and now it stained my cheek too.

“Not so wicked, is it?” Her smile was so sweet. “Not so wrong?”

Someone must have pissed on my grave then, forget walking on it, because that need to wash, to rub at my cheek, her feet, the floor— it crushed my insides, bringing its own heat that forced out some really screwed-up shivering.

“Don’t...” she said quietly, holding my hand, stopping me as I went to wipe away the mess stinging my cheek. “Keep it there. Get dirty, boy. You know real boys get...”

I flicked a look at the pan, how it slept quietly a few feet away, huddled up against the cupboard door. It was strange, but the bolognaise wasn’t in one puddle by the hob, where it would be if it had fallen. Instead it had escaped a few feet away, in a line, almost as though—

“Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall, drinking his ale and living life up.” I heard my voice, but like fuck did it sound like me. “Neighbours next door didn’t like him much, so did he fall or was he push...”

The door came open and the grip was gone from my wrists, the tea-towel grabbed off me as my old man came in.

“Hey, heard that. What the hell happened?” He crouched down and a grip at my shoulder made me face him. “Jack, look at me, boy. You okay?”

Only I couldn’t look away from the mess on the floor for too long. “Slipped.” I went to grab the towel from my old lady, making her give a startled cry with the snarl I gave.

“Hey, gentle, son,” said my old man. I didn’t know I wasn’t being until I saw the startled look in my old lady’s eyes. She’d pulled the tea-towel to her as if I was a rabid dog out for a last snack.

“Ah... Sorry.” I was up, backing away, but so fucking careful with the twists and turns I gave to dodge the spilled bolognaise. Couldn’t stand it fucking touching, but the edges of each splatter on the floor were blurring, almost tripping me up. “Just... sorry. ’kay?”

“Jack.” I didn’t know how, but my old man and his easy smile was there, a hand rubbing at my arm. “It’s okay, just an accident, just—”

But life blurred a little too much, and the loss of control had me panicking and finding a way to retain a hold as—

A gentle finger resting against his chest had my old man backing off.

“Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall,” I said quietly, giving a smile, “drinking his ale and living life up. Thing is, her indoors didn’t like him much, so did he fall, or was he—

Jack. Age 30

Head pressed hard against the padding of the seclusion room, I heard it fall again and again from my lips. “Did he fall or was he pushed; did he fall or was he—”

“Jack?” said Halliday.

I screwed my eyes shut,
needing
the comfort of the seclusion room as it pressed into my forehead. “Not her. Not her, for godssake...”

“What did your mother do, Jack?”

There was a chuckle, and again the worry was there that it was mine. “Burned herself pushing Humpty Dumpty off the wall, but didn’t cry out. Just licked at the scald, let the blister form, then chuckled away as she watched his pieces scatter on the floor.”

“Jack?” Someone sounded concerned.

“Humpty Dumpty... Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall, drinking his ale and living life up. Her indoors didn’t like him that much, but did he fall or was he pushed?” Blackness started to creep in and I scratched at the padding on the wall to keep it away. “Threescore men and fourscore more, wouldn’t let him pick himself up off the floor.”

“Jack,” Halliday’s voice was just another whisper, “she wouldn’t let you order the mess once it had been dropped casually on the floor?” Quiet. “Vince used the same technique with his rape, with tying you down so you couldn’t reach it. Do you know where he could have gotten that idea from at all? Do you—”

I cried out, trying to find the exit, once, twice I turned, twice people were in my way and darkness slammed in hard and fast. Part of me called it out with both hands, that
Come the fuck on, show me what you’ve got, I’ll take the whole fucking world down with it
. And in amongst all of the screams as I hit out—freedom. No fear, no grief, no hurt: just blood, just chaos. I willed it on—
th’fuck
did I will it all on, because seeing anything else? Seeing her and how real men were supposed to get dirty, I didn’t want to see it. Hurt too fucking much.

For once there was quiet, one that almost lulled me back to sleep. But my foot itched, just the ball of the left foot, and it screwed a little with my head when my body ignored the command to try and scratch at it. Soft spotlights dotted the ceiling, but night darkness hugged the edges of the room, giving everything an
early hours of the morning
feel. No windows were on offer to tell me for sure. The door cast a lovely arc of light over the floor that complemented the spotlights in the ceiling, but again, it had that subdued feeling. Or maybe that was just me. The bed was comfortable, easing some aches in my body, and everywhere was warm enough not to need a blanket.

But that itching still annoyed my foot, and again my body denied me the right to just ease the growing heat down there. Lifting my head to try and find out why life felt so numb didn’t help either. The room did one fucked up dance with the motion, and I willingly gave up, resting back down, content to stare up at the lights before eyelids felt too heavy to keep open anymore. Shuffling came from the foot of the bed, just a scribble of pen, something scratched on paper, and the need was there to ask whoever it was to scratch my foot, but by then, I was gone.

Itching. It was really pissing me off now and I groaned my way out of sleep, not happy with being pulled out of it. The intent was there to rub my foot on the sheets, but I only managed to disturb a foot restraint.

Life went very still.

Back over by the door, life came and went in the corridors outside, the sound of low chatter, the clatter of feet and the push of a trolley. Food drifted over: bacon, sausages, other scents that should have had my stomach clambering happily off the bed and skipping off after the food call. Instead it fought the need to throw up and I needed to try and scramble together a little dignity, which didn’t mean adding throwing up on myself to my shit-list, now I was tied down to a fucking bed.

“How you feeling, Jack?”

Life still must have been drugged up, because I never heard Craig come in, or maybe he’d been here all the time, a chair being scraped back a moment ago giving a big fucking hint. Now he was just there at my side and I had to squint away the light in my eyes if I wanted to look up at him. If I wanted to. There was no will to make eye contact, and I looked over at the wall, just watching the shadows.

“Foot’s itching, hmm?” he said quietly. I’d tried to ignore it a second time, but only managed to rattle the restraints in the process as I tried to ease it. “Okay. Here’s how this goes again,” said Craig. “
You
remember I’ve been doing this for a long time and I’ve seen all manner of blackouts. Yours is nothing different, nothing new. Then you tell me your name and a few other details, and I’ll remove the restraints.”

The seclusion room fell quiet for a moment and I almost drifted off again.

“Name.”

“Jack...” That itching started up again. “Jack Harrison.”

“Who’s the president?”

“Huh? We have a Prime Minister here, you dick.”

“What’s her name?”

I saw where this was going. “She’s a he.”

“Sort code and nine digit number to your bank account.”

“You have my wallet and have no doubt cleared me out by now, anyway.”

“Gotta try these things.”

“Don’t. Not again. Not unless you want to live out your life carrying your balls in a gift basket, pretty bow ’n’all.”

A chuckle. “Okay. How old are you, Jack?”

“Nearly thirty and fucking tired.”

“You’re not in a scene here, you don’t screw anything, even tiredness,” said Craig. “And it’s just the same old sedative. It’ll wear off soon.”

I choked a chuckle but a tear crept over the heat on my cheeks. “Had to bring in the big guns again, hmmm? Drugs and everything.”

A tissue brushed the runaway tear. “Anything to keep the patients happy and stoned, I mean sedated,” said Craig, and tugging came at the shackles around my left foot. He’d moved again and I hadn’t noticed. “Just means I got to play night watchman, which really means I got it easy and had the chance to catch up on my writing.”

Now my foot was free, it instantly sought relief in the covers. “You... you don’t get enough paperwork to fill in?”

“It’s the MC,” said Craig, now working my other foot free. “Passing one qualification just means you get to study for another.” He tutted out loud. “Halliday’s the sort to make sure we’re kept stimulated while we’re on night obs.”

Yeah, Gray was a Dan higher than me in martial arts, always teaching, always learning. One kill always led to another and...

Gray.

I closed my eyes, just briefly. “How long did you keep me out?” Time slipped, sometimes just for hours, but it had been for days in the past.

There was quiet for a moment, then I flexed my fingers as a strap was tugged free from my hand.

“A few hours the first time, but you kicked into life not long after and we had to give a stronger sedative that’s kept you out most of the night. You’ve been out since yesterday morning.”

Pain met my right fist, like I’d slammed it repeatedly into glass windows and only cried
Christ yes
to the deep cuts and grazes it created. More aches ran into my shoulders, hips, the usual signs that the shit had hit the fan. Times like this I was grateful I couldn’t remember. It was best not to. “How’s your no four-point restraint record holding up?”