Breakdown (11 page)

I shook my head. “Just... the confusion over the first time. Gray... I woke in his bed just before I touched nineteen, and Gray left for two months after that, not calling.”

“Did you ask him what had happened?”

I shook my head. Some places you didn’t go with Gray; that always looked like one of them.

“Okay.” Halliday sat forward slightly. “That’s something we can look at. In the meantime, on top of your OCD, Personality Identity Disorder, and Conduct Disorder, you’re showing long-term signs of chronic Post Traumatic Stress. The recent events have worsened it and brought its own stresses, but I think PTSD is something that you’ve been battling with for years.”

“Well, looks like I’m gonna need a bigger business card: B.A., Hons, M.A., ODD, PID, PTSD, CD. I’m getting a right old collection of acronym and initialism going there.”

“No OCD?”

I looked at him as more movement came from behind the door, just a rustle of clothed body scraping smooth wall. Christ. Didn’t Craig take a day off? Fucking ironic how I was the animal in training now, all we were missing was the cameras.

“It was almost there for a moment, Jack. That look that said you don’t have OCD. Look at it from this point of view, what have you been doing at your garage lately?”

“Working.”

“Working?”

“Fucking working.”

“Just working?”

I frowned, then—

“Please stay, Jack. Just until Halliday has seen you. He’s on his way. An hour, maybe two. Then you can work.” Jan groaned, nearly crushing me as he came in close. “I’ll go with you and name each part to stop you thinking if that’s what’s fucking helping you... I can bring cotton wool to stick up your nose,” he said, trying a smile, “or worse, some of Ed’s socks, because, Jack, I’m getting so fucking desperate right now, and I’ll resort to stuffing anything up your nose just to get close to you.”

I choked a chuckle. “You taking the piss, Richards?”

Jan came in quick, kissing hard. “Fuck yes—always, if it gets you to laugh like that again...”

“Not just working, no,” I mumbled to Halliday. “Just...” I shrugged, swallowed sickness. “Afterwards, I couldn’t stand to be around him, how he smelt.” I wrinkled my nose. “He’d seen everything, I fucking hated that, but his smell... Vince, he kept Jan close, or some items of his clothing close, every time Vince touched. All I fucking smelt was Jan.”

“And by working?”

I shrugged. “The smell of grease, oil, rout—” I stopped that there.

“Routine?”

I frowned.

“Jack, are you aware you’re scratching at your hip again?”

I stopped what I was doing and glanced down.

“If you couldn’t work? How did you cope?”

Get him to let me go, Jan. Please. I need to go. I need to, to work. Please, please, please. Get him to let me go.
I didn’t. Such a fucking pussy because—
“Real men get dirty, don’t they?”

“Jack, are you aware you’re still scratching at your hip? Would you like to drop your photo casually on the table instead?”

I stopped as instantly as Halliday mentioned it and glared over. “Normal, I wanted fucking normality.”

“Like the young man who watched the spaghetti hit the floor and scatter, only he wasn’t allowed to find peace in normality? And what happened if neither the boy or man found peace in normality?”

“
Okay, I get it—I fucking get it
,” I shouted. “I’d screw up in bad ways.”

“Easy.” Halliday leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’ve got that fight or flight back in your eyes, Jack.”

The door had got my attention, and I didn’t know it had until Halliday said that.

“What you’re doing now, it starts a vicious cycle with your other disorders. How you try and distance yourself emotionally from the traumatic event by running one minute, or how that startle reflex, that need to run, comes in with exposure to items like the restraints, it overloads your system and you lose time.”

“Fucking head case.”

“No, chronic PTSD, something that started as a teen with events surrounding your mother, then again with her and Vince, in adulthood,” said Halliday. “And talking about it doesn’t feed the disorder: you know this, it’s no different than your other disorders. The symptoms are signs that tyrosine and thyroxin levels are too high. They are hormone imbalances that are produced through psychological stress.” His smile was soft. “And hormone imbalance is something that can happen to anyone who’s been through trauma like yours. Not madness, not insanity, but a severe stress disorder that plays havoc with your other disorders.”

I eased back, looking at him. “Imbalance?” Imbalances could be worked with, medication prescribed to help sort the imbalances out, diet, all that crap. “You can fix this shit?” Jan, Gray. I could fix that if my bloody head was sorted.

“No magic solutions, Jack. You know that, too. Disorders are never cured through medication, but with therapy, medication, and diet, we can help control them a little better for you.”

“That...” I got to my feet, paced a little. “That’s something, right? I mean, Jan... I—” I needed out. Not run, just walk casually in case they attached any swagger to madness too. That window must have been wide fucking open because I was shaking now. “Talk, pills, and eat. I can do talk, pills, and graze for fucking England.”

Halliday watched, then—“Jack, can you sit back down?”

“Sure, sure.” I sat on the edge of the settee, my left knee doing a bouncing all of its own. That door looked so fucking close. Then I caught Halliday’s watchful gaze. Right. Too eager. Relax, stop bouncing like Tigger, quiet breath in, deep breath out. Calm. Good bloke time.

“My recommendation will be that you are sectioned under section 3 of the Mental Health Act.”

I looked at him. “What?”

“That means six months here with treatment.”

“Six...” I was back on my feet. “
Six
fucking
months
?”

“Six months,” said Halliday. “Your blackouts aren’t controlled; neither is your self-harming and aggression levels. Jack, sit down, please.”

I didn’t, just looked down, more glared at the bastard.

Halliday just stared back, not saying anything, not until I looked away, forcing calmness. Angry bloke worked just as shit as good bloke had.

“Please, you can’t keep me here for six months.” Oh just fucking great, straight into pleading bloke now.

“You’ve previously had cognitive behavioural therapy,” he added quietly. “What I’d like to do is mix trauma-focused cognitive behavioural therapy, but as well as recent trauma focus, I want a core focus on past trauma too. Among group sessions and a general recreational plan, I’d like to bring in techniques like exposure-based experiences. When you’re relaxed, more towards the end of the day when stress levels are lower, a systematic exposure to the sights and visual stimulations that you fear will look at desensitisation, at breaking down your fear of certain situations by frequent exposure.”

“No drugs? I mean, if I’m here for six months I’ll need some really strong fucking drugs to keep my ass from
finding the fucking door
!”

“Don’t shout, please.” And Halliday shook his head. “You will continue to be sedated for the next week, just to try and bring your blackouts under some control. After that? No, no drugs. Usually the antidepressant Paroxetine would be advisable with PTSD, and I know you’ve been prescribed it in the past for your OCD. But because of repressed OCD inclinations, I’d like to bring your OCD to the forefront. I don’t want it suppressed by medication. You will be closely monitored for any signs of stress, and if in the future your OCD levels become normal by your standards, I will reconsider a medication plan then.”

“Six months?”

“Six months.”

“You’ll fuck up my MC career because of a sectioning, whether it’s one, two, or three months.”

“Patients who have been sectioned have gone on to have healthy careers within the MC.”

“Yeah? I’ve never seen any nut jobs.”

Halliday snorted a smile.

Yeah, MC. You saw what they wanted you to see.

“I’d also like to look at bringing in Virtual Reality sessions,” added Halliday.

“Oh sure, bring ’em all out. It’s not like my ass is going anywhere anytime soon.”

“VR is a three-dimensional programme, where you wear a visor. As well as sights and sounds associated with the trauma, scent can be incorporated into the programme.”

Jan.

I looked away, well aware of where that was going.

“Jack, is there any part of the recommended therapy that you feel uncomfortable with? Or any questions you need to ask?” Halliday said quietly.

“I don’t need to be here for six fucking months.”

Something was pulled from Halliday’s pocket and I backed away a touch.

Gray’s photo slept quietly on the red leather, just inches from Halliday.

“If you can pick up the photo, let it drop casually on a surface, we’ll talk about time.”

That big kickass spider was back in the room, and I swore the photo would sprout eight legs and clamber over any minute. I wasn’t scared of spiders, and I certainly wasn’t scared of—

“Jack, are you aware you’re scratching at your side, making it bleed?” Quiet. “Are you able to go casual with your photo and stop?”

I looked from the photo to the door, back to the photo.

“This is for your safety, your peace of mind, Jack,” Halliday said quietly, and the photo was suddenly gone, Halliday now over by me. “It is done at your pace, even if you can’t yet see what pace you need to take in order to order what’s going on inside of your mind. This can’t be for anyone else but you, no matter how long it takes.”

“I need...” Talk. “I need to talk to Jan... Gray.” Yeah, and how many times over the past few months had Jan and Gray needed to talk? How many times had I pushed them fist-first away?

Halliday was quiet for a moment. “Jack, you have to prepare for the fact that they might need their space to come to terms with what’s happened. That they might not want to talk to you.”

My fingers took my attention again. Like hell they wouldn’t want to talk. Jan always needed to talk.

“Mr. Richards will be made aware of the section three recommendation. If you have any objections, you can discuss them with him, your Independent Advocate, or me. Please be aware that all decisions are ultimately under my care.”

I wiped a hand over my face. “I’m not going anywhere, am I?”

Halliday eased into a sad smile. “Your pace, Jack. No one else’s.”

“And I pick up that photo, you’ll let me go?”

Halliday gave a small smile. “Can you pick up the photo?” It was back in his hand again, and I backed away.

“Okay,” said Halliday, slipping it into his pocket, “Along with the therapy we’ve discussed, which I’d like to start this time next week, I’d also like to bring in something else, something that might seem a little... odd.”

“Odd? In a fucking psych unit?” That didn’t sound too good. “And only one session a week with you?”

Halliday nodded. “You blacked out after our last therapy session. I need to give you time to adjust, to pace. Slow. Easy. Nothing too fast, no overloading your system.”

For the fourth time in as many minutes, the old man poked his head around the door, flicking over a look, then a nervous smile before he disappeared again. Sat there on my bed, I tried to scare him off with a glare, and it had worked the first time, taking him longer to peek back around the corner than the other times. Then he’d just given me that dumbass grin before diving back out from cover again and smiling at me from over by the door.

The drugs and blackness of another week made life one long time-lapsed piss-up, and despite the drugs, I still felt like crawling back under the covers and staying down, just sleep. Craig’s ball-busting, regimented
wake my ass
schedule kept me dancing and on my toes but the blackouts themselves had at least earned me some time-out in my own room. Today was the first time the door stood open without someone checking in every fifteen minutes.

It was getting close to dinner, but the thought of eating in one place with the latest ex-serviceman loonies left a bitter taste, one that made sure a glass of water was washed down. Okay, not glass. I wasn’t allowed glass yet. The plastic mug sat at my feet, and the old man kept peeking around the fucking door, his gaze kept going between me and the cup.