Maureen Johnson - The Madness Underneath

I know it the minute I approach the turnstiles and buy a ticket, because that’s when you can smell the chlorine. As soon as it hits my nose, my reptile brain wakes up, checks the files, and sends up the warning. And this is why I always end up claiming I have cramps and holding the towels while gleeful children run around me, totally unafraid.

On this particular morning, it wasn’t chlorine I smelled. But as we walked through the front door, I caught the faint bite of antiseptic and the strange and false odor of recycled air that comes from a place with no open windows. Hospital smell.

We started at the front desk. From there, we were taken to a series of stations through a series of doors that had to be opened with swipe cards. Stephen had to show something called a warrant card, which turned out to be his police identification. He signed documents on clipboards.

I could tell, as we progressed through the building, that we were moving to more and more serious levels. In the beginning, there were paintings on the walls, paintings done by the patients. At first, the paintings just hung. Then they were bolted. Then they were gone and the walls were a plain off-white and everything else was a soothing light green. Everything was calm, orderly, and official.

Finally, after some last papers were signed, we were taken to a room with a heavy door, with large, very serious bolts on the outside and a tiny window just big enough to peep in. We were let inside, and the door was locked behind us.

My first impression of the man at the table was that he was big. He had a few days’ scraggly beard, which was blondish-gray. He was dressed in the hospital-issued clothes, which looked like scrubs. His hands were cuffed together on the table, but this didn’t feel necessary. He slumped in his chair, looking feeble and defeated. There were cuts and bruises on his forehead from where he’d banged it into a wall.

The room was bare except for a few bolted-down chairs and the bolted-down table. There was a CCTV camera in the corner of the room, behind a protective coating of thick plastic, with just a circle cut out to expose the lens. Stephen looked at the camera for a moment. The red light on the side suddenly blinked and went off. No cameras. This was a private interview.

There were two chairs on either side of the table, but I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to sit next to Stephen, or if this was his job and I was supposed to hang back.

“I’m Constable Dene,” Stephen said. “And this is WPC Devon.”

I guess my real last name, Deveaux, was too distinctive, and Devon sounded more English.

Sam raised his head slightly.

“Constable?” he said.

“I realize you’ve probably been talking to a number of people of a much higher rank.”

“Done talking. I’ve told you lot already.”

“And I realize you might not want to tell your story again,” Stephen went on. “I realize you’ve had to tell many people, but we’re going to need you to tell us again.”

“You afraid to sit down?” Sam asked me.

Actually, yes. I was terrified of sitting down. How nice of him to notice.

“PC Devon,” Stephen said, without turning around, “why don’t you sit down?”

Now all the attention was on me, and it was possible that nothing would go forward if I didn’t peel myself off the wall and sit in the chair. I was, I reminded myself, not a trained police officer or mental health professional or anything like that. I was a high school student, a foreigner, and someone who had gotten into all of this completely by accident, and it was not my responsibility to be big and brave here. But I had demanded to be here.

I unstuck myself from the wall and planted myself in the plastic chair. I put my hands in my lap, where they were safe from germs and whatever else it was I feared in this room.

Now we could continue.

“I know this is difficult for you,” Stephen said, “but it would be helpful, and you’ve been very cooperative. We know that.”

Sam sighed—an all-body sigh that rounded his shoulders.

“I don’t want to. I’m tired.”

Sam’s chin sunk into his chest, and he examined the locks that bound him to the table.

“In your own time,” Stephen said. “We’re not here to bring you any trouble. We’re here to listen.”

Sam turned his attention to me. His eyes had a yellowy cast.

“You’re not police,” he said. “Are you?”

“WPC Devon is an observer from our Care in the Community division,” Stephen said. “I’ll be asking the—”

“You’re not,” Sam said. “I don’t think either of you are police.”

Stephen produced his warrant card, opened it, and slid it across the table. Sam leaned forward to have a look at it.

“And where’s hers?” Sam said.

“She doesn’t carry one in her capacity,” Stephen said smoothly.

“Why doesn’t she talk?”

Sam had clearly figured me out. Of course I wasn’t a cop. A small child or a dog could have figured that out. I guess I thought that since Stephen came up with the idea, it might actually work.

“She’s an observer,” Stephen said again. “If her presence upsets you, she can go into the hallway and we can talk alone.”

“I want to know who she is,” Sam said.

There didn’t seem any point in playing this game any more.

“I’m Rory,” I said.

“You’re American,” Sam replied.

Stephen didn’t make a noise, but I could see the sigh shrugging through his frame.

“Who are you?” Sam asked. “How did you get in here?”

“I’m here because bad things have happened to me.”

That got his interest.

“What kind of bad things?”

Stephen cleared his throat loudly. “I don’t think this is—”

“What kind of bad things?” Sam said again. His eyes were locked on me. This man was supposed to have murdered someone with a hammer. Being here, talking…these were possibly not the best ideas I’d ever had. But talking is still my thing, and talking was better than not talking.

“I was stabbed,” I said. “At Wexford.”

“You’re that Ripper girl,” Sam said. “They said it was an American girl. She’s the Ripper girl.”

That last one was to Stephen, who was forced to nod.

“Why did you bring the Ripper girl here?”

We were so far off track now that Stephen had no immediate reply to this quite reasonable question.

“You saw the news reports,” Stephen said, after a moment. “Do you remember how the suspect was never caught on CCTV?”

These words had an immediate effect on Sam. His arms went slack, and the restraints clanked against the table. The rest of his body became more alert.

“I think something in that cellar wasn’t quite right,” Stephen said.

Sam shook his head, as if he had water in his ear that he needed to dislodge. “No,” he said.

“Sam, I don’t think you wanted to hurt Charlie. Did you hurt Charlie?”

“I already said I did!”

“But did you?”

Sam began to cry. Tears dribbled down his face, getting stuck in the stubble. He turned his head back and forth as if trying to shake his face dry.

“What was in that cellar, Sam?” Stephen pressed on. “Why did you call Charlie down there?”

“I did it…”

“Sam.” Stephen’s voice had taken on a deep, steady tone that was kind of hypnotic. “Sam, you called him downstairs. Why?”

“The floor. I just wanted to show him the floor…”

“What about the floor?”

“The cross,” he said.

“What cross?”

“When I went down for the tonic water, there was no cross on the floor. But then when I went back down again for the crisps, there it was.”

“The cross?”

“It was drawn in chalk,” Sam said. “I thought there was something wrong with my head. And I got near it, and suddenly this glass came out of nowhere, like it had been thrown at me. I yelled for Charlie…”