…silence? Absence?
Paul’s eyes became narrow slits.
…horse and cart. Yeah!
Laura fidgeted and Paul smiled, and moved again.
Laura whispered, “Oh, Mr Lawrence…”
But Mr Lawrence was sleeping like a baby who’d been fed a teaspoon full of brandy.
But Paul was awake and he was enjoying himself. And Laura responded and moved in time with Mr Lawrence’s snores. And as she moved she whispered, “Oh, Mr Lawrence, I think I love you…” But Mr Lawrence was out of it, somewhere else, somewhere where faint hearts couldn’t follow, rattling like a rattler.
The man who looked like a doctor smiled wisely. “Mr Lawrence, isn’t it?”
“I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes?”
“Sit down, you mean?”
“Yes. A few private moments.”
“I hope it won’t involve a prescription?”
“No, not at all.”
“It’s really not on. You could come to my office during office hours. Oh, why not? Come on then. Over there. Does that look private enough?”
“It’s good of you.”
“Yes, you’re right. How is Paul?”
“It’s Paul I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Thought it might be. Well, fire away?”
“His room is filled with baby things. Dolls, rattles, clothes.” “What about the voice?”
“He’s often difficult to understand.”
“Gibberish?”
“Absolutely.”
“Let me give you some background. You need to understand what you’re dealing with. In this country about one person in one hundred…”
“One percent.”
“Exactly. One percent of the population is subject to schizophrenia at some time in life. Loosely that means that in every street of about fifty houses or so someone there suffers from schizophrenia.” “Goodness me, that is surprising.”
“Now you’ll probably want to know exactly what it is. Well, no one knows. If they tell you they do, they’re lying. That’s the top and bottom of it. Opinion is divided. To the layperson it is madness, the lunatic with the split personality. Norman Bates, Jekyll and Hyde. The specialists are in two camps. Some see it as a biological illness and others believe that external factors alone are the cause. In other words no one is born with it. Most scientists believe in the biological condition and indeed, they have a powerful argument. Twins, parted at birth, both suffering from the same condition and so on. They, therefore, are in favour of neuroleptic drugs – thioridazine, pimoxide, orphenadrine, and these do have a calming influence. They certainly silence the voices. As a matter of interest, have you ever considered double glazing for your shop?”
“Not really.”
“You should. You should give it some serious thought. Prices are bound to rise next year. And this year is nearly done. This government is hell-bent on putting everything up.”
“Yes, you’re right. The Dome, the London Eye…”
“The other school considers that these psychological disorders have their source in childhood, that the subject has adopted a behavioural pattern in order to shield himself against family madness. Now this is interesting. Part of the treatment is reparenting – the cathexis technique
– to take the patient back to the baby stage so that they can begin again. You see the connection? Babies, dolls? This treatment is controversial. Some would call it brainwashing, that it breeds dependence and doesn’t get to the root cause which is biological. Both camps are locked in this bitter dispute. The patient, of course, when reason is lost to bitterness, is the loser. The truth, probably, almost certainly, lies somewhere between both camps, as truth often does: that it is biological, but that it is exacerbated by external influence. But there you are. There is nothing on earth more dangerous than the expert. If I were you I’d consider the new PVC lines. It saves an awful lot of time in painting and varnishing and all those uncivilized chores.” “What about the voices?”
“Ah, yes, the voices. They talk to you. Sometimes they call you names, and not your own name. You fear them. They are generally deep frightening voices, unless they are female. Not many are. They are unfriendly and threatening and you can’t turn them off. Pain silences them. That’s why a lot of patients hurt themselves. With knives and razor-blades and matches and, sometimes less obviously, with chicken vindaloo and jogging and visiting the gym. In older people the voices lead to acute persecution complex – paranoia.” “And the outlook?”
“Without help, things will only get worse. The voices, after all, represent one’s own subconscious.”
“They told him he was an electrician and he blew up my shop.” “Exactly.”
“They told him he was a salesman and he sells a lot of ducks.” “Ducks?”
“Yes.”
“Ducks, flying? Yes, that makes sense. Do you have many paintings of ducks in your gallery?”
“They do very well.”
“They’re obviously on his mind.”
“They’re on everyone’s mind, or so it seems. They fly up walls over cheap and nasty gas fires.”
“I wonder if he dabbles with acid.”
“I could ask him.”
“It would explain a lot.”
“The police came. Talked to him. Apparently a girl he knew has gone missing.”
“What was she like?”
“Average, slim. Her name is Sandra.”
“No! No! I mean interests. Do they have anything in common?” “Badminton.”
“Shuttlecocks! Feathers! Ducks! Good grief man! Norman Bates stuffed birds. He was a taxidermist!”
“I see.”
“You could recover your costs easily. Your heating bills would be cut in half…”
“I’ll tell you what,” Mr Lawrence said in all sincerity. “I would like you to come around and give me an estimate. You’ve talked me into it. And when you come perhaps we could discuss Paul a little more.” “Absolutely. Good idea.” He rubbed his red hands together. Mr Lawrence noticed the red scaly patches of psoriasis.
“There is one thing…”
“Go on?” A slight look of concern wrinkled the brow.
“There’s a roof light in the cellar. One of those old pavement lights, you know the sort of thing. You’d have to do something with that.” “My dear Mr Lawrence that will be no problem at all. We’ll sort something out. Would you like a drink? Exactly how many windows and doors do you have in your shop?”
“Enough. A few. Enough to throw light on the subject. And then you can measure up the cellar window for me. That’s always going to be the tricky one for you.”
He stuck up a firm finger. “Don’t you worry about that. When it comes to cellars I’m an expert.”
Mr Lawrence smiled a wicked little smile.
Chapter 28
the villains never slept.
At Hinckley the depression was deep. Helen Harrison’s car had produced a nil return and also, as expected but made all but irrelevant by HQ’s visit, forensics confirmed that the swabbed, bagged, tweezercollected and Hoover-sucked samples from the Gallery had produced nothing new. The team, bleary-eyed from viewing footage from the CCTVs covering the High Road and from the local shops and banks, concentrated once again on the specialized charities and other outfits that involved missing persons.
