A FLAWED MIND

By Gloria Watts

He's r unning. He keeps close to the wall, fingernails dragging across the worn dry brickwork. Moonlight chases his footsteps and silvers the nearby oak trees. It illuminates his thin white face, his frightened eyes. Wild thoughts circle inside his head. His pounding heart swells and fills his hollow chest.

* * *

David wakes early, finds the sun slanting through the bedroom window; patterning the grey bedroom carpet. He stretches. He feels good.

Swinging his feet onto the carpet, he stands and strides to the bathroom. The face that stares back from the mirror puzzles him. He lifts a trembling hand to his cheek, traces the bloodied scratches. Fear flickers in his eyes as hazy thoughts struggle to surface. He lets them go, ignores the unease in the pit of his stomach, turns on the radio. Music blares, one of his favourites, it's jazz, and ‘ole blue eyes'. He knows the Sinatra tune and starts to hum. He dresses; sits in his kitchen as it fills with the aroma of hot coffee, he sips at his breakfast cup, replaces it on the table before leaving for the Library.

David's face pales, shocked he sees a number of police officers outside the Library. One large burly officer, stops him at the main door, asks for his name and position, jots down David's details in a small notebook before letting him into the building. Once inside he has to wait with other library staff in the main lobby.

Sweat covers his hands, gleams on his brow and his head starts to ache. The low muttering of his colleagues, their concerned faces start to irritate and the heavy pounding in his head grows stronger. The headaches, they are occurring more frequently, and with increasing severity, they leave him fighting hazy thought, thoughts he can't quite grasp.

The staff's anxious chatter fills the lobby, turns to silence when Julia Masters, the Chief Librarian, walks in followed by a short stout man with greying hair. Her voice is low, when she speaks.

‘I'm sorry to have to tell you . . . a body was found in the basement storeroom early this morning.' She pauses, draws a breath. ‘That body has now been identified. It is the body of Mandy Roberts. The police believe she was killed sometime yesterday.'

Voices, low at first, grow louder; reach a clamour that fills the lobby. Julia raises her hands.

‘Please . . . Mandy is…was our youngest colleague. I know we will all miss her.'

Julia's voice falters; teary-eyed she turns to the grey-haired man at her side.

‘This is Chief Inspector, Don Freeman who is leading the investigation. It's necessary that everyone be interviewed this morning. I ask you all, please be patient and wait in the staff-room until called.' Julia's voice breaks, her low sobs hit the silence. Uncomprehending faces with bleak eyes stare back at her.

The staff-room feels cooler after the heat of the lobby and the pounding in David's head eases. He lies back on the worn sofa; its sagginess a familiar comfort. He closes his eyes, tries to drown out Joe's voice.

'What was she doing in the basement?' Joe's question echoes in the quiet room but gets no reply. He turns to Alisa, his voice demanding, ‘I left same time as you, do you remember Alisa?'

I didn't notice anyone… not sure I remember you leaving.' Alisa smiles her usual slow apologetic smile.

‘It's important we remember Alisa, try to think back.'

Alisa's cheeks take on a rosy glow. She fastens her mild cloud-grey eyes on Joe, fiddles with the silk scarf at her throat. Dislike settles on her thin face. Someone suggests coffee.

* * *

Don Edmunds, thin faced, his salt and peppered hair spilling into bright blue eyes, sits opposite David. His elbows rest on the narrow table between them, the smoke from his pipe drifts in the still air.

“Just routine Mr McMann”

David smiles; the lilting voice a soothing wave above his head sets him at ease. He leans back, fidgets, then relaxes into his chair.

“Anything I can do to help Inspector . . . ?'

‘Just a few questions Mr McMann.' Freeman bends forward; spreads his hands flat against the wooden tabletop.

‘At what time did you leave the premises?'

‘About four-thirty, I wasn't feeling too good, nasty headache.'

‘Can you remember the last time you saw Miss Roberts?'

David hesitates, fights the light fog that lies behind his eyes. He thinks he vaguely remembers . . . her shoes . . . red, no black patent, shiny, high-heels . . . surrounded by books.

‘She was in the storeroom, sorting books. It was about three o'clock.'

‘You didn't see her again after that time?'

‘No I was busy on the desk.' He frowns, fights the throbbing ache behind his eyes, ‘No I didn't see her again Inspector.'

Back in the staff-room, he re-lives the conversation. His memory, how long had it been playing tricks, he wasn't sure - more than a few months. There have been times, whole hours, hours that remain blank, his mind a fog filled tunnel. It frightens him, and his trying to remember brings pain. He'd seen her, slim, petite, her blonde hair pulled back, held with a blue ribbon, yes, he'd seen her in the storeroom sorting books, he was sure of it.

Our ‘Blondie' that's what Joe always called her. Her blonde curls framed a heart-shaped face. Her large eyes, violet-blue, were always slyly downcast, but they held a wicked glint.

She excited him, made him feel strong, protective. She'd…flirted with him…he'd been angry…. He couldn't remember why, but now re-lived anger welled up, flooded through his body, hot liquid pain.

Joe's voice, distant, penetrated David's fog.

‘She liked a little attention, our Mandy. She flirted with everyone.'

‘How can you say that?' Alisa's voice shakes, anger floods her usually mild face, flushes her cheeks. ‘The poor girl was stabbed. A ferocious attack…the police say she didn't stand a chance.'

‘Why wear such short skirts, she invited attention' Joe turns seeking support, ‘Didn't she?'

Alisa's eyes harden, ‘She did not; she hated your comments. You harassed that girl. That's why she'd put in a complaint.'

Suddenly Alisa was powerful, all eyes staring and ears straining, waiting for more disclosures. Joe, slumps, turns away, silence settles.

At mid-day, the offices and the storeroom are re-opened, but the basement remains cordoned off. All staff are asked to return to their in-house tasks. David, tired, his irritability rising, rubs at the soft hammering hot behind his eyes. He wants the day to be over but at four o'clock, he sits facing Don Edmunds again.

‘Mr McMann, I understand that Miss Roberts registered a complaint.'

At the lilting voice, now louder, hasher, David flinches, heat rises, fills his face.

‘So I've just heard.'

‘Were you aware of anyone harassing Miss Roberts?'

‘No.'

‘Can you tell me how you got the scratches on your face? 'Edmund's face bends close to David, his tobacco breath warms David's cheek.

Steel bands wind tight squeeze the breath from David's chest. Words struggle; stick in his throat, play on his tongue, meet the air with reluctance.

‘I don't…remember.'

Freeman stares hard, measures the beads of sweat on David's forehead, notes the glazed eyes, the agitation, the hands that rub, twine, and untwine restively.

‘Perhaps we should talk later, at the station Mr McMann. An overnight stay might help to clear up a few discrepancies.'

* * *

The interview room is small, shabby; streams of sunlight throw gleaming pools onto the wooden table. Two officers stand either side of the door. Edmund is already seated.

‘Sit down, Mr McCann.'

Facing Edmund, his eyes vacant, David tries to answer each question. He gropes for words that dance away just as he tries to grasp them, hold them safe. They are trying to confuse him. He can't remember. He is tired; his shoulders slump, his body slackens. His lips, dry, crack, move without sound.Edmund's voice, comes low, sinister, fills David's ears.

‘You stabbed Mandy Roberts seven times; you killed her in a fit of temper.'

Edmund's face closes in. The smell of tobacco, stronger now and stale on Edmund's tongue makes David heave.

‘Tell me what happened. You killed her I know you did.'

Edmund spits the words from thin lips, leaves them to hang, a hint of nightmare suspended in silence.

The words gradually filter through David's hazy world. His eyes narrow to penetrate the swirling mist. Mandy, yes, she was in the storeroom…storeroom…no, not the storeroom. She was in the basement, long slender legs, fishnet stockings, neat ankles in black patent shoes, laughing…she was laughing. The floor scattered with books. A knife – stabbing. Anger and blood splattered against the book-lined walls. Soft white flesh, torn, slashed, gaping…his body a blazing heat. Gasping for air, he bends forward, a stream of incoherent babbling joining the spittle seeping from his mouth.

* * *

An unrelenting mid-day sun beats down on Edmund's head. He's hot, sweaty, uncomfortable in his heavy blue serge suit; he walks with the psychiatric doctor.

‘How is he, is David making any progress?'

‘Yes, he's doing okay. It's a slow process, but he's responding to treatment. If only he'd sought help earlier, when the headaches started.'

The doctor shakes his head, spreads his hands wide.

‘Headaches and blackouts, don't know how long for; fellow couldn't cope. It often happens. Then finding that girl . . . He remembers a few details - going down in the lift - the lift gate opens, faces the basement door. He remembers the door half open. He saw the poor girl, but only the back of her attacker. He must have panicked, probably ran down the corridor and out through the back exit. I guess he got the scratches from the brambles on the rough ground at the back of the building.'

The doctor shrugs, frowns ‘He may remember more, who knows.'

They shake hand, and Edmund leaves the psychiatric doctor. He walks across the lawn, into the main patients department.

David sits by a large window, the sun streams through patterning the wooden floor, warming his face. He looks up, smiles when Edmunds enters the room holding a handful of dailies.

‘Seen the newspapers?'

‘No, not yet, perhaps I'll read them later.'

‘Full of Alisa's evidence - the silent ‘phone calls; the flowers delivered daily; all traced back to Joe. Mandy named Joe in the complaint she'd registered. Alisa knew that Joe had threatened Mandy to withdraw it. She'd seen Joe threatening her in the corridor earlier that day. Mandy was afraid of him, Alisa was the only one she told.'

Edmund places his hand on David' shoulder.

‘We found the knife, no fingerprints but the circumstantial evidence will stand.'

The soft lilting voice pauses.

‘The doc says you might remember more, given time. Be able to fill in some of the small details. There's one thing still puzzles me. I don't understand why…why you went down to the basement?'

David's steely blue eyes meet Edmund's own, move beyond to see another's wide, black-fringed, filled with terror he'd imagined but never seen. A spine tingling thrill snakes through him.Bitch, she'd laughed at him, teased him, invited with red lips, so close…then pushed him away.

David lowers his head; a sly smile curves his lips. His hand moves, remembers the knife, the soft flesh, the blood…warm as it splattered his face