Mad Worlds by Bill Douglas Read Free Book Online

her beloved ever be the same? What of Becky’s future – with a lunatic father? And if he did come home, how could he keep his job after being branded a loony? How would she meet the bills? John’s pay wasn’t great, but it paid the mortgage. Would his pay stop now?
    Her world was collapsing. Her parents! At least they had money – with Father an ex-bank manager. Only fifty miles away, but they hadn’t visited for ages.
    If only she could rewind to before that fateful evening – two years ago – when she took John to meet her parents. It was okay at first, though uneasy, stilted.
    Mother saying, with obvious admiration, “First class honours indeed,” and John blushing, staying silent.
    Father’s opening salvo: “What does your old man do?”
    John’s: “Old man? You mean my da – he’s dead. He worked as a miner.”
    Silence, Mother glancing at Father, then saying, “Oh dear, what did he die of?”
    John’s: “Lost both legs when a tunnel collapsed down the mine. He was stuck in the house, in a wheelchair, and died of a thrombosis a couple of years on.”
    Mother’s: “Oh dear – and your mother?”
    John’s: “My ma took on three jobs slaving for filthy rich families. She died of overwork.”
    Silence, then Father’s: “I’ll uncork the wine.”
    John never drank wine. But after his second refill, Mother’s: “What about your religious belief, John?”
    John’s: “I’m with Karl Marx. Religion is the opium of the people.” Her lapsed Catholic fiancé – saying something that went down fine in the Students’ Union.
    A cooling in the atmosphere, as her churchgoing parents exchanged glances.
    John’s continuing with pronouncements in similar vein, raising his voice. She trying vainly to help him modify his comments, lighten the tone.
    Her parents wouldn’t want him for a son-in-law! An atheist and a socialist?
    And Mother’s penned ‘we decline’ to their registry wedding invitation – ‘Sorry darling, we’ll be abroad’ – radiated with unspoken vibes. Vibes whispered in her ear by Mother later that evening. “Uncouth, not good enough for you, darling.”
    They’d come once since Becky’s birth. When she was sunk in misery, not up to talking much. When silent unease between husband and parents screamed at her.
    But this was a desperate time. Surely they’d rally to help their daughter and grandchild? She’d ask Mattie in the morning if she could ring from the shop.

6

    Friday 20 th – Saturday 21 st April 1956 – in Springwell.

    John came to in semi-darkness, his head exploding. And that stink – of sick? He tried to raise his hand to wipe his brow, but couldn’t. His arm was trapped in some coarse material. Damn! He was wrapped in a sort of tent – yes, maybe a canvas sheet. And his legs rubbed against each other. Had he been stripped? He struggled weakly and unsuccessfully to free his limbs, then lay, blinking his eyes and trying to figure where he was.
    A dim nightlight on the ceiling gave some help. He lay on a mattress – rubbery and lumpy – that was on the floor and in a corner against two walls. The other walls looked close, and he couldn’t see any furniture. Surreal. A prison cell? He rolled along, off the mattress and onto the floor. Hey, this floor felt a bit like the mattress.
    Growing fury helped him struggle from the canvas sheet. Yes, he was starkers but for underpants. Well – some kind of elasticated rubbery pants, covering a wet towel. He lifted himself to sit on the edge of the mattress and bowed his head into his hands. A familiar stink. Hadn’t peed his pants since he was a kid.
    It was coming back in an eerie dreamlike way. The mental man, the GP, scrapping with the cops, helplessness. This had to be – not prison, but, worse, the