Mad Worlds by Bill Douglas Read Free Book Online Page B

reunion with that jumped-up little sadist – in a dark alley.
    He heard, “Go.” A door magically swung open and a large man stood in the doorway. From behind this heavy, the sergeant major voice growled, “Chisholm, you bloody stay where you are.”
    He did this and braced himself as the heavy, and then another equally big, squeezed into the cell. He sat up on the edge of the mattress, watching the white-coated incomers.
    Sarge the Voice now blocked the doorway. “There are three of us nurses, Chisholm, and we’re coming in to give you knockout medicine.”
    Nurses! Not like any he’d known.
    He raised himself to standing, facing his guests as Sarge the Voice also entered the cell. Getting crowded. They expected trouble. Why shouldn’t he oblige? Dammit, he’d nothing to lose.
    â€œSit down, Chisholm,” Sarge the Voice commanded. This man was twice the size of the Aldershot beast, though the rasping voice and offensive manner were uncannily similar. Sarge stood in the centre of the trio, blocking the open doorway.
    John could feel the adrenalin.
Take deep breaths, and wait for them to move.
    The two heavies moved in concert to grab his arms. He slipped through between them, charging at Sarge the Voice, who stepped to one side. Freedom. But no. He hit a concrete abdomen and, caught in a headlock, was forced to the floor. Another heavy!
    Cursing bodies crashed onto him. A steamroller might hurt less, and he couldn’t move his weighed-down trunk or limbs. His head was being raised, his nose pinched and his mouth forced open. Foul-tasting liquid trickled down his throat. He was gulping. Maybe they were poisoning him. Everything faded.

    *
    He was back in the cell, on the mattress. His mouth was dry and on fire, with a taste like sewage. He made to sit up. Just moving hurt. His head was packed with splintered wood. But images of the invaders were clear. He’d charged them, and been done over.
    Slowly, painfully, he raised himself to sitting and blew out his lips. Breathing in, he caught a sewer pong. He blew and sniffed a few times. Whatever it was stank, though it hadn’t killed him. Maybe better if it had. He was a mouse in a trap.
    Nauseous, he managed to crawl to the rubber potty and retched. His guts were being ripped. Only liquid came up, and that stank like a drain.
    He lay on the floor, sweaty and shivery, with a thudding like roadworks inside his head. He’d had enough, feeling like dying but not like doing anything about that. Struggling to think, everything was jumbled. Images of Heather and Becky at breakfast, of Natalie floating, of the Head shouting, blurred as he drowsed into the land of nightmares.

7

    Saturday 21 st April 1956 – in Aversham.

    Sam Newman motored at fair speed along puddly country lanes. This morning’s escorting to the loony bin hadn’t been a problem, as the patient came voluntarily. Not like that mad teacher yesterday. Sam used to like action – but maybe he was past it. As well the police were there. Smashing wife the man had. Must call on her some time; check she knew the score about visiting, try to comfort her. Not that he’d be expected to call. His obligatory visits were nearly all pre-admission.
    He looked forward to Saturday afternoons. The boss had decreed that Mr Newman show up at the office five-and-a-half days weekly; but from Saturday noon, the building mercifully closed for the weekend. And though on standby 24/7, Sam was rarely troubled on Saturday afternoons. Thus free to indulge his passion for watching football, he had this season got to all Rovers’ home matches. Today was special. Last game in the league, and Rovers, one point behind United, would entertain the enemy. ‘Champions at last’, the
Evening News
crowed.
    He pulled into the driveway just on noon. Something he blessed his employer for – this nice two-bedroom semi. Opening the front door, he met a torrent.