The Madman's Tale (64 page)

Francis waited over by the wall, sitting on the floor, while a number of things took place in front of him. He had the odd sensation that he wished that it was
all a simple hallucination, or perhaps a dream, and that any moment he would wake up, and the usual day in the Western State Hospital would simply begin all over again.

Big Black had left Peter, Francis, and his brother in the stairwell, looking up at Cleo’s body, and had dutifully returned to the nursing station and called Security, and then Doctor Gulptilil’s office, and finally, Mister Evil’s apartment number. There had been a short lull, following the phone calls, during which time Peter had moved slowly around Cleo’s dead form, assessing, memorizing, trying to fix it all firmly in his head. Francis admired the Fireman’s diligence and sense of professionalism but he secretly doubted whether he would ever be able to forget any of the details of the death in front of him. Still, both Francis and Peter did as they had done before, when Short Blond’s body was discovered, letting their eyes walk the entire scene, measuring, photographing, the way crime scene specialists might do, except that neither had any tape or camera, so they were left to form their own internal specifications.

In the corridor, Big Black and Little Black were trying to restore some calm to a setting that defied calm. Patients were distraught, crying, laughing, some giggled, some sobbed, some tried to behave as if nothing had taken place, others cowered in corners. A radio someplace was playing Top 40 hits from the 1960s, and Francis could hear the unmistakable strains of “In the Midnight Hour” followed by “Don’t Walk Away, Renee.” The music seemed to make the whole situation even more demented than it already was, as guitar and vocal harmonies mingled with chaos. Then he heard a patient demanding in a loud voice that breakfast be served immediately, while another asked if they could go outside and pick flowers for a grave.

It did not take long for Security to arrive, followed in rapid succession by Gulp-a-pill and Mister Evil. Both men hurried with that half run, half walk pace that made them seem slightly out of control. Mister Evil pushed a few patients out of his path, while Gulptilil simply sailed down the corridor oblivious to entreaties and pleas from the nervous crowd of residents.

“Show me!” Gulptilil demanded of Big Black.

There were three gray-shirted security personnel standing in the doorway waiting for someone to tell them what to do, blocking his sight. None of the quasicops had done anything except stare up at Cleo’s body since they arrived, and now they stepped aside to let Gulptilil and Evans enter the gloomy stairwell area.

The hospital director stepped forward, and gasped. “My goodness!” he said, astonished. “Oh, my, but this is terrible.” He shook his head back and forth.

Evans craned past him, also taking in the sight. His response, at least at first, was limited to “Damn!”

The two administrators continued to examine the scene. Francis saw that they both absorbed the severed thumb, and the noose fastened to the stairway railing. But he had the curious thought that the two men saw something different from what he did. Not that they didn’t see Cleo hanging dead. But that they were reacting differently. It was a little like standing in front of a famous work of art in a museum, and having the person next to him reach some opposing assessment, emitting a laugh, instead of a sigh, or a groan in place of a smile.

“What bad luck,” Gulptilil said quietly. Then he turned to Mister Evans. “Has there been any indication …,” he started, not truly needing to finish the question for the unit supervisor.

Evans was already nodding his head. “I made a notation in the daily log yesterday that her sense of distress seemed to be increasing. There were other signs over the past week or so that she was decompensating. I sent you a memo last week about a number of patients who needed to be reassessed medically, and she was on it, right at the top. Perhaps I should have moved a little more aggressively, but she did not seem to be in such an immediate crisis that it was warranted. Clearly, that was in error.”

Gulptilil nodded. “I recall the memo. Alas, sometimes even the best intentions …,” he said. He added, “Ah, well, it is difficult to anticipate these things, is it not?” He did not act like he expected an answer to this question. Hearing none, he shrugged. “You will take careful notes, will you not?”

“Of course,” Evans said.

Gulp-a-pill then turned to the three security guards. “All right, gentlemen. Mister Moses will show you how to get Cleo down. Bring a body bag and a gurney Let’s get her over to the morgue promptly …”

“Wait just a second!”

The objection came from behind all of them, and they turned to the sound of the voice. It was Lucy Jones, standing a few feet back, and staring past them all toward Cleo’s body.

“My goodness!” Gulptilil said, almost breathlessly. “Miss Jones? My lord, what have you done?”

But the answer to this, Francis thought, was utterly obvious. Her long black hair was gone, replaced by a sheet of streaky blond dyed hair, cropped closely, almost haphazardly. He stared at her dizzily. It was a little, he thought, like seeing a work of art defaced.

I pushed myself away from the words on the wall, scurrying back across the floor of the apartment a little like a frightened spider, trying to avoid a heavy boot. I came to a rest with my back against the opposite wall, and I stopped, taking the time first to light a cigarette, then pausing for a moment with my head up against
my knees. I held the cigarette in my hand, letting the thin trail of smoke waft up toward my nostrils. I was listening for the Angel’s voice, waiting for the sensation of his breath against the small hairs on the back of my neck. If he wasn’t there, I knew he wasn’t far. There was no sign of Peter or anyone else, although, for an instant I wondered if Cleo might not visit me in that moment
.

All my ghosts were close by
.

For a moment I thought of myself like some medieval necromancer, standing over a cauldron of bats’ eyes and mandrake root, bubbling along, able to summon up whatever evil vision I needed
.

When I opened my eyes to the small world around me, I asked her, “Cleo? What happened? You didn’t have to die.” I shook my head back and forth, closed my eyes, but in the darkness, I heard her speak in the gruff, rollicking tones that I had grown accustomed to
.

“
Oh, C-Bird, but I did. Goddamn bastards. I had to die. The sons of bitches killed me for sure. I knew they would, right from the first
.”

I looked around to see her, but at first she was only a sound. Then slowly, like a sailboat emerging from the fog, Cleo took shape in front of me. She leaned up against the wall of writing, and lit her own smoke. She wore a frilly pastel house-dress and the same pink flip-flops I remembered from her death. In one hand she waved her cigarette, in the other, as I should have expected, a Ping-Pong paddle. Her eyes were lit with a kind of maniacal pleasure, as if she had been set free from something difficult and troubling
.

“
Who killed you, Cleo?”

“
The bastards
.”

“
Who, in particular, Cleo?”

“
But C-Bird, you know. You knew from the moment you got to the stairwell where I was waiting. You could see, couldn’t you?”

“
No,” I said, shaking my head. “It was so confusing. I couldn’t be sure
.”

“
But that was it, C-Bird. That was it. It was all a contradiction, and in that, you could see the truth, couldn’t you?”

I wanted to say yes, but I still wasn’t certain. I was young back then, and unsure, and it was the same today
.

“
He was there, wasn’t he?”

“
Of course. He was always there. Or maybe he wasn’t there. It’s all in how you looked at it, C-Bird. But you saw, didn’t you
.”

I was still undecided
.

“
What happened, Cleo? What really happened?”

“
Why C-Bird, I died. You know that
.”

“
Yes, but how?”

“
It should have been with an asp held to my breast
.”

“
It wasn’t
.”

“
No, alas, true enough. It wasn’t. But still in my own way, it was close enough. I even got to say the words, C-Bird. ‘I am dying, Egypt. Dying …’ which was satisfying
.”

“
Who was there to hear them?”

“
You know
.”

I tried a different tack. “Did you fight, Cleo?”

“
I always fought, C-Bird. My whole sorry goddamn life was a fight
.”

“
But did you fight the Angel, Cleo?”

She grinned and waved the Ping-Pong paddle in the air, rearranging the smoke from her cigarette. “Of course I did, C-Bird. You knew me. I wasn’t going down easy
.”

“
He killed you?”

“
No. Not exactly. But sort of, as well. It was like everything in the hospital, C-Bird. The truth was crazy and complicated and as mad as we all were
.”

“
I thought so,” I answered
.

She laughed a little. “I knew you could see it. Tell them now, like you tried to tell them back then. It would have been easier if they’d listened to you. But then, who ever wants to listen to the crazy people?”

This observation made us both smile, for it was the closest thing to the truth that either of us could muster in that moment
.

I took a deep breath. I could feel a great welling loss, like a vacuum within me
.

“
I miss you, Cleo
.”

“
I miss you, too, C-Bird. I miss living. How about a game of Ping-Pong? I’ll even spot you a couple of points
.”

She smiled before she faded away
.

I sighed, and turned back to the wall. A shadow seemed to have slithered over it, and the next sound I heard was the voice I wanted to forget
.

“
Little C-Bird wants answers before he dies, doesn’t he?”

Each word was confusing, a little like a pounding headache, as if there were someone banging against the door of my imagination. I rocked back and wondered if there was someone actually trying to break in, and I cowered, hiding from the darkness that crept through the room. Within my heart I searched for brave words to respond with, but they were elusive. I could feel my hand quiver, and thought I was on the verge of some great pain, but from some recess I found a reply
.

“
I have all the answers,” I said. “I always did
.”

But this was as harsh an understanding as any that had ever come to me unbidden. It frightened me almost as much as the sound of the Angel’s voice. I pressed back, and as I cowered, I heard the telephone ringing in the next room. The jangling only added to my nervousness. After a moment, it stopped, and I
heard the answering machine that my sisters had purchased for me click on. “Mister Petrel? Are you there?” The voice seemed distant, but familiar. “It’s Mister Klein at the Wellness Center. You have not arrived for the appointment that you promised you would attend. Please pick up the telephone. Mister Petrel? Francis? Please contact this office as soon as you get this message, otherwise I will be forced to take some action …
”

I remained rooted in my spot
.

“
They will come for you,” I heard the Angel say. “Can’t you see, C-Bird? You’re in a box and you can’t get out
.”

I closed my eyes, but it did no good. It was as if sounds increased in volume
.

“
They will come for you, Francis, and this time they will want to take you away forever. They will think: No more little apartment. No more job counting fish for the wildlife survey. No more Francis walking the streets getting in the way of everyday life. No more burden for your sisters or your elderly parents, Francis, who never loved you all that much anyway, after they saw what you would become. No, they will want to shut Francis away for the rest of his days. Locked up, straitjacketed, drooling mess. That’s what you will become, Francis. Surely you can see that …
”

The Angel laughed a little before adding: “… Unless, of course, I kill you first
.”

These words were as sharp as any knife blade
.

I wanted to say “What are you waiting for?” but instead, shifted about, and crawling like a baby, tears dripping down my face, crossed the floor toward the wall of words. He was right with me, every step, and I didn’t understand yet why he had not seized hold of me. I tried to block out his presence, as if memory was my only salvation, and remembering Lucy’s authoritative demand that seemed to cut across the years
.