Breakdown (3 page)

“Huh?” Life swam, making me lose my anger under the bed somewhere and almost clamber under there looking for it. Anger. I could focus with anger. “What... rugs—”

“Rugs?”

“Drugs. What have you fucking given me—” Fear crept right on through any anger. The taste of orange juice hitting my throat, other drugs making me feel all nice and compliant like, then—“
No fucking drugs
.”

“Sedation,” said Craig. “You need to be aware you will be sedated over the next few days just to help you calm down. Jack, you need to calm down.”

“Calm—” I choked a laugh, hands going on my head, gaze going on the door, away from good old fucking Craig. “You—” Screw this. Out. I wanted. “Out.”

An arm slipped around my throat, taking me down after I’d tried to bolt.

“Okay, mate, easy,” a voice said calmly in my ear. “We’ll try this again in a few hours. You really need to calm down now.”

Other feet pushed on through to the room, came close to my head, then another sharp prick came to my arm. Someone was explaining sedation, about four point restraints, about calm, but things went pretty dark damn quick, and sleep... the bed was just a few inches away. I knew what crawled out of the drugged-up darkness, how they liked to tear me apart, and the bed... underneath, there was enough space under there to crawl in and hide.

“Okay, ready to try this again?”

I let an arm drop over my eyes, mumbling something along the lines of get stuffed. I needed some more sleep.

A gentle shake at my arm. “Can you tell me your name, Jack?”

Giving a peek up from under my arm, I screwed up my face. “Jan... you just said my fucking name, you ass.”

“That Jan Richards? I’m Craig. You’re in the Master Circle’s psych unit, Clearwater. Can you tell me your name, Jack?”

Easing up slowly onto my elbows, I looked at him. “You just said my fucking name,
Craig
.”

“Not one for early mornings, huh?” Craig winked down. He wasn’t as slim as David had been on reception, or as good-looking. I remembered that much. Nose was crooked towards the tip, looking as though he’d kissed a few fists at some point, but then, this unit was tied to the MC. All staff would have military backgrounds to deal with the departments they evaluated. Craig’s eyes were like small black pinheads, almost lost in the bush brows that would have looked more at home in someone’s back garden with wildlife roughing through them. Brown hair was greying at the side, but he looked young, more my age, maybe a year or so older, thirty? Thirty-one? He also had this paleness to his face that suggested a forgotten grunge youth. He just needed a few piercings to go with it. “So what’s your name, Jack? And now I mean surname.”

“Harrison,” I said, injecting as much bastard into it as possible. Life felt calmer, a little happy, but not the natural sort. This shit came with an acrid taste and the offer of addiction.

“Date of birth.”

“March 15th.”

“Year?”

I told him and Craig grinned down. “Thirty in a few weeks, huh?”

Yeah. Right. I went to ease off the bed but a hand on my chest stopped me. I let him know I’d break it if he didn’t fucking move it. He didn’t. Just gave it a minute, then pointed at the railings that were still up on the bed. “How about you show some patience whilst I get these down, then I’ll give you a tour.”

I looked at the door. “How about you show me the fucking exit.”

Craig gave a jerk on the bed and the railing came down on one side. “Doesn’t work like that, Jack.”

“Sez who? You?”

“The Court Order.” Craig was around the other side, but I had no clue how he got there. “You need to be aware that you are here under sectioning and your rights...”

“Yeah, fuck this.” I got off the bed and walked out of the room. It took me into a corridor that branched off at the end. Nurses were talking by a nurse’s station, but just past that...

I made it over to the double doors marked Exit. “Out.” Trying to push it, I gave up and looked back. “Where’s the fucking card to open it?”

They carried on talking as Craig came over. “Jack, I can either take you back to your room, or you can take the tour. I’d prefer the latter, where you take in where you are and exactly what will be happening,” he said quietly, no tension there in his voice. “Once I know you’re settled, I can let Halliday know and his multi-disciplinary team will assess you, starting with a doctor and a basic physical examination. Bloods will also be taken then.”

“
Open the fucking door
.” I backed into the door now, breathing coming hard, heavy. From the smell and look of how empty the corridors were, it was touching dinner time. Low chatter could be heard off to the right, and beyond the nurse’s station, where no doubt the staff room and pharmacy sat, those nurses still stood talking so fucking calmly, although it was obvious they were there to back Craig up if the nod was given. Again that same expensive decor carried on through to here. “Work,” I mumbled, turning back to the door. “I need to get to fucking work.”

“No distractions. Let’s go for a coffee instead, eh?” Craig tugged gently at my arm and I looked at him.

“Coffee?” I pulled free again. “I don’t need or want your fucking ponced-up coffee.”

Craig eased off. “Look at your hand, Jack.”

Blood tainted the pads, most bits black and dried under the nails, but some specks were fresh, some...

“If going for a tour, maybe a coffee, is easier than trying to explain where that blood has come from, can you one hundred percent say that you’re in the best frame of mind to walk out of that door let alone oversee the safety of your employees at work?” Craig nodded at another nurse. “Can you tell me why you have blood on your hands?”

Jan backed off, wiping a hand over his mouth as Gray, standing just feet away, groaned. Glass crunched under Jan’s shoes; thousands of pounds of artwork had been torn from the gallery walls and broken with a baseball bat, leaving the gallery and priceless art in tatters. But Jan and Gray were looking over, backing away from the blood staining my hand—

“Jack,” said Craig, quietly. “Are you aware you’re scratching at your right hip?”

Underneath a fresh dressing, there it was—fingers were scratching out a wound that didn’t seem to hurt let alone even itch. Fresh blood mixed with the dried stains on the pads of my fingers, the jogging bottoms caked with dried blood. The image was there of a knife, of a branding mark cut out, angled to perfect degrees, to—

“Ah,” I mumbled, still staring down at my hand. “What the—”

“Gonna have to start a swearing box for you, Jack. One for every time you say—”

“—fuck.”

Another nurse brought over some antibacterial wipes.

“Take this,” she said, offering it over.

Breathing became deep as the wipes were held inches from me. Then whispering, mostly from Craig, something about getting Halliday, about OCD... about...

Whispers.

“
Shut the fucking whispering up
,” I shouted. It had the desired effect, and I rubbed into my forehead to ease the growing agitation as the hall fell quiet again. Shit. I gave a hard sigh. “Shush. Please.”

“Take it easy—”

He tried to reach out... touch, and I backed away from Craig, took a step away with raised hands. “Look.” I gave another hard sigh. “Everything’s fucking peachy. Just... just give me some”—
fucking
—“space.” Whatever else was playing there in his eyes eased as he backed away. “I don’t like being fucking locked up. I’m used to... outdoors. I work outdoors.”

“Then how about a tour?” said Craig, quietly. “Just see how big this place is without jumping out of the nearest window?”

Giving a glance around, I calmed my breathing. “Considering my rights seem to have taken a running jump out the window with Jan, you tour away. Can’t guarantee I’ll give a fuck, so keep the cock and ball torture sessions prep talk to a minimum.”

“No ball torture here,” said Craig, giving a wink, “that’ll be three buildings over. Marked Master’s session. Here, we just have therapists.”

“Yeah? You know there’s only the definite article ‘the’ in there that separates
therapists
from
rapists
; both come with mind fucks. And I’ve played with some of the worst.”

Craig didn’t drop his smile. “But you’re up for that tour? Good. Didn’t fancy going Hannibal Lecter and carting your bound ass around on a porter’s trolley.” As I narrowed my eyes at him, he swept his hands off into the corridor to his left, real big fucking hands. Yeah, he’d probably manhandled some of the worst too.

“Considering you’ve been out for a while, I’ll explain your rights and all about your Independent Mental Health Advocate when we get back to your room.” Craig nodded at the woman who was still holding the wipes out. Giving a smile, she moved off. “You know about classified information with any aspect of the Master Circle, but I’ll also run through a reminder of the Official Secrets Act and make sure you’re aware of how they affect your patient rights on disclosure.”

He’d started to walk, trainers barely making a noise on the marble floor. I followed, but not before noting his
get my ass out of here
card wasn’t around his neck.

“Jan,” said Craig, looking back. “Before both him and Mr. Harrison left, they made a decision that Jan will act as your named relative.”

I glared at his back as he carried on. “Yeah? Fucking peachy of him.”

“I brought him up to speed with the legal side,” said Craig, passing a stairway. “I’m not sure how much of this you know, Jack, but Jan will have powers that, for instance, can stop you being held under a Section Three. Although the Approved Mental Health Professional, in this case Doctor Halliday, can override that if he sees fit.” Craig glanced back again. “Jan made me promise to tell you that he’s there for you when you need him.”

“The bastard puts me here, made sure my rights were fucked off, and he’s there to... talk when I’m ready?” I snorted a cold laugh. “Christ, I really bloody pick these pricks.”

“Your dad,” said Craig, pushing open a door and waiting for me to go through. “He just said he was sorry.”

I flicked him a look.

“You ever been admitted to a psychiatric hospital, both voluntarily or otherwise, Jack?”

“Oh yeah, fucking loads of times with a trainee Dom. Love a straight jacket scene, me.” It wasn’t top of my wish list, and no doubt differed a hell of a lot more on the thrill score compared to this, but yeah, straight jacket sex could be pretty fucking hot, especially with a good Dom behind it.

Craig let the door shut behind him and grinned over. “I meant away from your Master Circle Dom training.”

“Do you think the MC would employ my ass if I had been sectioned before?” I said as he led us past a number of spacious lounges, Craig even named them as such; saying there’d be certain times of the day when I could kick back and relax away from the therapy sessions and classes. Each room was marked with the non-descript ‘room 1, 2, 3, 4’ depending on which one we came across.

“I had a chance to catch up a little on your case history with the MC whilst you were—”

“Drugged to my bollocks.”

“—sedated,” said Craig, giving a wry smile. “You’ve been through cognitive therapy and taken medication since puberty because of your OCD and Conduct Disorder. How did you cope with them?” he asked. We passed some more rooms, and from a brief look inside it showed they were basic therapy rooms. Massage, spar, even aromatherapy, the latter having three women who offered over waves and hellos as we passed by. Christ, this wasn’t your typical home-away-from-home here, well not my terraced two-up-two-down anyway.

“Jack?” said Craig again. I hadn’t answered, and I wasn’t going to.

“You read the file, right? You know exactly how I handled them.”

“Hm. Your conduct disorder. It saw you push against any authority.”

I hated his fucking smile.

“Jeez, who’d have known, eh?” He waggled his eyebrows and it stole my attention away from room six. The latest homed a few pool tables, table tennis and other recreational games. A few residents had wandered back up the corridor and had pushed on through to play a bit of pool. Surprised me a little, I had no idea this place had detainees. But as this was MC based, they had to be tied to the MC in some capacity, either on the technical, trainer, or trainee side, and no doubt all sworn in under the Official Secrets Act. The sound of a table-tennis ball hitting pad dragged my attention away. Craig was leaning against the door, arms folded, that listening but not listening to me indifference on his face, mostly hidden by how he kept watch on the table tennis.

“You want a game, Craig?” said one of the players, a five-foot fifty-something old man with thick round glasses, and barely looking like he could see over the table let alone hit anything. But the game was already mid-flow and the little man was giving his opponent a run for his money as well as fitness level. He could have been a pro for how he was giving it some. The question was there on whether he was ex MI5, maybe MI6. He didn’t look bulky enough for MOD.

“No thanks, Alf,” laughed Craig, “I’m still suffering from a sprained wrist from the last match.”