Maureen Johnson - The Madness Underneath

Except that morning, everyone decided to switch things up. Jazza lingered in our room. Gaenor came over to borrow shampoo. Eloise came by to talk. And then, when the coast was finally clear, I found my escape route blocked by Claudia, who felt that this was clearly the moment when the bulletin board in the lobby needed cleaning off. She would not move .

9:30 came and went. Then 9:35. Then 9:40. By 9:41, I went into a slight panic, which set off a brain wave. We had a house phone on every hallway, with emergency numbers listed next to it, along with Claudia’s office phone. I called her, left the phone off the hook, and when she went into her office to answer, I ran through the lobby and out the door. At this point, I was in real danger of being seen by people heading to class, but there was nothing I could do about that. I could only hope that by running and by not being in a uniform, I would confuse people enough that they wouldn’t realize it was me. This seemed extremely unlikely, but I am prepared to lie to myself on occasion to make life more palatable.

I hate to run, as I think I have mentioned, but I ran that morning. I ran like a thing that runs, almost running directly into people as I took the corner onto the busy shopping street. For a moment, I thought Stephen had left without me or not come at all, because there was a smug little red Smart Car in his usual spot, but then I saw the police car across the street. I continued my run right across the street.

“Made it,” I said, getting in and clicking the seat belt triumphantly into place.

I don’t think Stephen considered successfully getting into a car by nine forty-five—well, nine forty-seven—in the morning to be a major triumph. He just didn’t understand how complicated my life was.

“Don’t look so happy to see me,” I said.

“Put this on.” He handed me what looked like a black bowler hat with a white-and-black-checked band around it. There was a fluorescent-yellow police jacket as well.

“Why?”

“Because you’re riding in the front. You have to look like you belong. Put it on.”

I slapped on the hat and put on the jacket. They were both just a touch large, but not too bad. At least these were for women. I’d worn Callum’s before, and those were huge. There was a heady plasticky-rubber smell coming off the jacket, and it still had square folds all over it, like it had just come out of a package. I examined myself in the side view mirror. I looked…not exactly like a policewoman, but not entirely unlike one.

“I like this. Can we turn on the siren?”

“Stop it,” he said.

There was a stiffness to his whole demeanor that suggested he had not liked my ultimatum. He was taking me, but he was angry.

“Do you realize the sort of place we’re going to?” he said.

“I realize we’re going to a mental hospital.”

“To meet a murderer.”

“I’ve met a murderer before.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s probably why I agreed to this. I think. It’s a good thing Callum’s taking Boo over to the hospital to have her cast removed—I didn’t have to make any excuses about where I was going.”

It was a miserable morning, overcast as ever. The car’s windows had fogged up from the moisture, and the windshield wipers beat back the gloom and the almost imperceptible rain.

“I understand you and Callum went out the other night,” he said.

“He told you?”

“He didn’t. Boo did.”

“He wasn’t supposed to tell Boo either,” I said.

“He didn’t. Boo just knew.”

“How?”

“Boo is very observant,” he said. “She always seems to know what we’ve been doing. She said Callum was ‘glowing,’ which I suppose means that he looks very happy after he’s been patrolling.”

“Or he’s pregnant,” I said.

Stephen let this pass.

“Well, since you’re going on official business, here is the background: The victim, Charlie Strong, was a recovered alcoholic. He continued to run his pub after he stopped drinking, but had a policy of hiring people who were in recovery as a way of supporting the process. Sam Worth, the suspect, had such a history, and a recent one. History of Class A drug use, two charges of possession. He was jailed for two years for beating a man half to death with a metal chair. He was high on acid at the time and thought the man was trying to steal his ears.”

“Steal his ears?”

“Apparently Sam took quite a lot of drugs. So he has form.”

“Form?”

“Form…a past. A criminal record. History of drug use, history of violence. No drugs were found in his system at the time of arrest, though. He claimed innocence at the scene, but changed his plea once he was in the cells. A week ago, he attempted self-harm or suicide by beating his head against a wall until he was bloody and concussed. That’s when he was transferred to a mental health facility. What they’re trying to determine now is whether he’s fit for trial. So that’s where things stand.”

On that cheery note, Stephen went silent. There was a throbbingly pink advertisement on the bus in front of us for a musical called Foot-tastic. It featured a photo of a man and a woman who were smiling so hard, I had the feeling that their skin might just unzip and fall off their skulls.

“I’m going to fail everything,” I said, just for a change of subject.

“You don’t sound overly concerned about that.”

“Just keeping it in perspective,” I said coolly. “I’ve dealt with worse recently.”

“True,” he said. “But you have to move on.”

“I have moved on.”

“I mean, you need school.”

“Are you giving me a stay-in-school lecture? Is that what’s happening here?”

“I’m not giving you any lecture—your marks are your problem.”

Maybe it was best if we didn’t talk right now. The occasion wasn’t really one that invited carefree banter, and when I just keep talking, things often got weird fast. It was time for quiet now.

The Royal Bethlehem Hospital didn’t look like a mental hospital, not that I have much experience on the subject. It was brick, very American looking, like an administrative building on a college campus or something from Main Street, Anywhere, USA. Big windows, red roof, tiny square turret on top. It was cheerful and efficient, even if it was draped entirely in cobwebs of fog. We parked right out front, in a space reserved for official vehicles.

“Here is how this will work,” Stephen said, turning the car off. “This man is accused of murder. Remember that. I will do the talking. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” I said.

“Even if people ask you questions, you do not answer. They can’t hear your accent.”

“Got it.”

“Close up the coat and keep the hat on. Look like you’re meant to be here. Technically, you are impersonating a police officer, so we have to do this right.”

Everything was fine until we actually went through the front door.

I call it “water park feeling.” I always think I want to go to water parks. The idea of going on a water slide always seems like a good one. I like pools; therefore, it follows that I should like a park made of pools. And every summer, without fail, I make this mistake and end up going to Splash World, where I remember that I hate water parks, because they are not about pools—they are about slides. They are about heights. They are often about slides that reach to great heights that are enclosed, and as any shipwreck survivor would be happy to tell you, water and enclosed spaces are bad combinations. Add to that the free-fall aspect, and you have a combination that the reptile part of the brain abhors. The brain says no. The brain says bad. The brain says you will fall and then you will drown, or possibly both at the same time.