footsteps as one of the cops went over to the cell door. ‘Blimey, he’s in the police. It’s John MacDonagh – one of Delaney’s cowboys.’
‘He should know better than to act up like this. We’ll check on him later. He’ll be alright.’
The cell lights went off. A few minutes later they were turned back on again. Then off. Then on, as his guards looked in to see what was happening with their charge. About half an hour later, when it seemed that the officers had got fed up with checking whether he’d killed himself, Mac tried to move his limbs slightly. They were no longer hurting. Only with the greatest of effort could he get any response and he was in so much pain he had to stop. It seemed his body was seizing up. But Mac wasn’t worried about his body. He was worried about his mind. A body could be set right but the mind sometimes couldn’t.
As time drifted by, it seemed to Mac that he was floating in space with clear images of the past and future joining him for the ride. He was ecstatic when he saw Stevie smiling and waving at him. The joy turned to horror when he realised that the boy was in fact John Mac, lying dead, strewn with flowers. A shadowy black figure with deep brown hair fluttered around above him. He couldn’t see her face but he knew who she was. There was silence, followed by extreme noise, joy and pain until he heard another voice, a man’s voice asking, ‘How long has this man been lying here like this?’
There was a pause before another voice offered by way of apology, ‘I dunno. About an hour maybe?’
A stethoscope dangled over his face and then his body turned to fire as his limbs and torso were massaged and then stretched. When he tried to cry out, he found an oxygen mask had been attached to his face and there was only silence belting from his mouth. The following moments were hazy but it seemed suddenly there were a lot of people in his cell. He was gently lifted by three figures in green onto a stretcher and carried out. Two embarrassed men in blue uniforms watched him go.
This was all real.
But the shadowy black figure with brown hair was still fluttering above him. Was she real or not?
When Mac awoke the next morning, he opened his eyes to find a doctor standing over him and a police officer sitting by the bed.
The doctor asked, ‘How you feeling?’
‘Good.’
It was a lie. His arms and legs felt as if they’d been mechanically crushed. He was confused and disorientated. But he knew one thing. The witch with floating hair and wings was gone. And he was still sane.
‘Yes. Well, you’ll be fine physically but we’re going to need to ask you a few questions about yourself and how you feel at some stage.’
Mac nodded with approval and then he looked round. The cop next to him was fiddling with a pair of speed cuffs. Probably eager to cuff Mac to the bed so he couldn’t escape. But behind him was a window. A window with no bars on it. So he hadn’t been taken to a secure hospital.
‘I’m prescribing you some sedatives and some pills to help you sleep.’ The doctor didn’t exactly order him to take the tablets but his voice was firm. He went on, ‘Tell me, have you recently been the victim of any kind of emotional or physical trauma?’
Mac explained the circumstances in which he found himself. He had a history of PTSD. He was careful to emphasise the heartache involved in losing one son and the second blow he suffered when his second son was taken away by his mother. But that was only for the child to reappear in London recently, where Mac had been refused custody and only allowed to see his son under supervision. Then his son had been kidnapped again and the police were blaming him.
‘I guess I must have flipped . . .’
So moving was his explanation that he felt his own eyes moistening while the doctor nodded, as if the origins of his patient’s breakdown were now clear. The cop meanwhile was so embarrassed by Mac’s story that he put his
‘He should know better than to act up like this. We’ll check on him later. He’ll be alright.’
The cell lights went off. A few minutes later they were turned back on again. Then off. Then on, as his guards looked in to see what was happening with their charge. About half an hour later, when it seemed that the officers had got fed up with checking whether he’d killed himself, Mac tried to move his limbs slightly. They were no longer hurting. Only with the greatest of effort could he get any response and he was in so much pain he had to stop. It seemed his body was seizing up. But Mac wasn’t worried about his body. He was worried about his mind. A body could be set right but the mind sometimes couldn’t.
As time drifted by, it seemed to Mac that he was floating in space with clear images of the past and future joining him for the ride. He was ecstatic when he saw Stevie smiling and waving at him. The joy turned to horror when he realised that the boy was in fact John Mac, lying dead, strewn with flowers. A shadowy black figure with deep brown hair fluttered around above him. He couldn’t see her face but he knew who she was. There was silence, followed by extreme noise, joy and pain until he heard another voice, a man’s voice asking, ‘How long has this man been lying here like this?’
There was a pause before another voice offered by way of apology, ‘I dunno. About an hour maybe?’
A stethoscope dangled over his face and then his body turned to fire as his limbs and torso were massaged and then stretched. When he tried to cry out, he found an oxygen mask had been attached to his face and there was only silence belting from his mouth. The following moments were hazy but it seemed suddenly there were a lot of people in his cell. He was gently lifted by three figures in green onto a stretcher and carried out. Two embarrassed men in blue uniforms watched him go.
This was all real.
But the shadowy black figure with brown hair was still fluttering above him. Was she real or not?
When Mac awoke the next morning, he opened his eyes to find a doctor standing over him and a police officer sitting by the bed.
The doctor asked, ‘How you feeling?’
‘Good.’
It was a lie. His arms and legs felt as if they’d been mechanically crushed. He was confused and disorientated. But he knew one thing. The witch with floating hair and wings was gone. And he was still sane.
‘Yes. Well, you’ll be fine physically but we’re going to need to ask you a few questions about yourself and how you feel at some stage.’
Mac nodded with approval and then he looked round. The cop next to him was fiddling with a pair of speed cuffs. Probably eager to cuff Mac to the bed so he couldn’t escape. But behind him was a window. A window with no bars on it. So he hadn’t been taken to a secure hospital.
‘I’m prescribing you some sedatives and some pills to help you sleep.’ The doctor didn’t exactly order him to take the tablets but his voice was firm. He went on, ‘Tell me, have you recently been the victim of any kind of emotional or physical trauma?’
Mac explained the circumstances in which he found himself. He had a history of PTSD. He was careful to emphasise the heartache involved in losing one son and the second blow he suffered when his second son was taken away by his mother. But that was only for the child to reappear in London recently, where Mac had been refused custody and only allowed to see his son under supervision. Then his son had been kidnapped again and the police were blaming him.
‘I guess I must have flipped . . .’
So moving was his explanation that he felt his own eyes moistening while the doctor nodded, as if the origins of his patient’s breakdown were now clear. The cop meanwhile was so embarrassed by Mac’s story that he put his
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