Missing
Morning. Tara wakes up alone. Mark’s keys are gone but his old brick of a mobile is on the kitchen table accumulating unanswered messages. With rising anxiety Tara waits until on Monday morning to phone Mr Beaulieu, to see if Mark has turned up for work but there is no show of him there either. Listening to here account of what’s happened Mr Beaulieu tries to allay Tara’s worries. As Mark’s been missing for two days, they decide to report him missing.
When the police ask for a description of Mark, Mike Beaulieu tells them “Well you know, he’s a bit what people round her call a pikey”. “Is that why you use him then Sir, because he’s cheap?” the officer replied.
Tara tells the law Mark mentioned he might go for a walk up on the hill, near the house Beaulieu Builders had recently been working on. He liked the stroll and the views from the top of the hill. The Police decide to look around the area finding nothing unusual on the paths or in the woods. In the Dulwich Woodhouse the one of the staff tells the police “He was here then I saw him walk past at about 3.05 I was up in my room having tidied & locked up downstairs. He seemed to be talking to himself and disappearing in the wasteland/round the corner where Sydenham Upper Station House is.
There’s no railway there, is there?
There used to be & the station house is still there at the top of Sydenham Wells Park Road. The governor thinks it haunted & if it’s not it should be. He say the place gives him a chill every time he sees it”
“As may be the case. Did you see anybody with Mr Turner when he went past on his way to the ghost house?”
“Nobody I could see- like I say she was talking to himself. It was a warm night & I had the window open. I could here him. Just him.”
“Maybe he was on his phone?”
“No, he has left his phone at home”, the second officer cut in.
The Wandsworth job
The guard opens the cell door. A thick set man with a permanent scowl beneath his hooded eyes looks up from is bed.
“Livery, you got a visitor.”
“Who is it? Not another fucking journalist?
“Don’t think so”
“Somebody from probation, a lawyer?”
“No, nothing like that, weird looking guy, Frobenius, say’s he’s one of your own.”
“Frobenius? Never fucking heard of him”.
Livery is sitting at a table in a visitor’s room in Her Majesty’s Prison Wandsworth. A man unknown to him & wearing tennis kit walks and sits down opposite him. The tennis player seems dazed, his head slumped forward chin on chest breathing heavily. He is catching his breath.
Livery looks at the guard raising an eyebrow.
The visitor is seemingly struggling to come to terms with his surroundings as his head rolls round he tries to draw the contents of the room into focus. Slowly he raises his head from the table, the eyes still rolling until, independently the fix on Livery. He smiles. He has regained complete control over his body.
He leans forward over the table, drawing Livery towards him. In Frobenius’s hushed voice he speaks, “It’s weird Sid. After all these years somebody is trying to psych the Golden Wonder job.” Then later. “Have you seen the work of Billy Slunden? Remember him?”
Livery smiled.
“He’s really very good, he’s a psychic artist now he’s all grown up. Should you ever get out of this place you must pay him a visit. His studio is in Forrest Hill. If you can’t get there then maybe you could even send somebody over to take a look for you”. “I could go over in my new vehicle but I think he might recognize me”.
“I’ll bear that in mind”.
As he leaves Mark tells Livery “By the way. Get ready, it’s nearly time. I need the Xlab to finish the job”.
On returning Livery to his cell the guard asked “What was all that about?”
“I’ve no fucking idea”.
Livery made a couple of calls on his mobile phone before quietly hanging himself after lights out.
The long walk home
Mark leaves through the large prison gates. The bone pervading damp & darkness of the Victorian fortress is gently dissipated by the evening sunlight as Mark strolls down the Earlslfield road towards Clapham Junction, his task complete. The sky glows reds and orange the warm embers of the late summer sun set.
Getting nearer to Clapham Junction there is the sound of sirens and whir of helicopters. The acrid smell of smoke . . . there is rioting at Clapham Junction. . . which is well fucked up & it’s on fire! Mark walks stoically forcing on against the surging tide of middle class people flooding from the everyday side away from where the looting is happening, into the up market Northcote Road side. Mark crosses the south circular to the high street where the real people shop in normal shops. This is where the action is, there are hundred of kids looting & enjoying it. Waterstone’s bookshop is immune from the plunderous advance of the raging mob & next weeks paper’s would show it remained so all night. Mark pushes on through the anarchy, oblivious to it, emerging on the other side he finds a line of police in riot gear. Again he seems to ignore its presence. As Mark tries cutting through the police cordon one of the officers in the line addresses him.
PC1 “Where do you think your going?”
Mark stares blankly past the police officer.
PC2 “What have you been doing here, in this riot?”
Again no response.
PC1 “Name?” Nothing. “What are you a mute, or are you hiding something”?
PC2 “Right in the van. Procession of stolen goods & resisting arrest!” He turns his head to address his commanding officer, ”Another easy catch to fatten up the charge sheet, eh Sarge? Doing quite nicely with out really getting involved. They’ll burn ‘em selves out, quite literally, before long.” He turned back to Mark’ “Come on sunshine, cuffs first then in the van”.
Mark didn’t move toward the van but tried to continue in the direction of the train station. PC1 lost it, his anger rose. Holding Mark by the scruff of his neck rammed his forearm into to Mark’s chest “In the fuckin’ van. Now you’re really are resisting arrest, you ct!” Mark threw PC1 back and flattened PC2 before PC2 had even thought of a course of action. With in seconds the whole police line was on Mark, it took 20 of the fuckers in riot gear and with batons to get Mark cuffed and in the van. Unconscious and battle scarred, Mark was thrown onto the floor of the van. A trainee rioter who had all ready been put in the van watched Mark’s performance and commented “Real horror show you put on there with those pigs, boy! Wow! What are you Tyson? No gotta be more Rambo, motherfucker!” Mark was out cold on the floor. When the van was full it made the short journey back the to the station,
At the station, groggy and almost certainly concussed, Mark awaits charge. He appears awake but unresponsive when asked for his Name & address by the Charge Sergeant. The Charge Sergeant turned to his colleague. “What’s the matter with this one? Is he mute or something? If he’s not going to answer let’s make it up for him.” She turned to Mark ‘OK sunshine we are charging you with public disorder, possession of stolen good, possession of drugs & resisting arrest’ then the again the Charge Sergeant turned to her assistant and said “They must have beaten him pretty bad, he’s mute, brain dead or catatonic or something. I think we should get a doctor to him?” ‘Too much to do at the moment, Sarge. Let’s get on. Beside they are easily when they are like this. If only we could do this to ‘em a matter of policy. I’ll get him finger printed & processed’
The assistant officer entered Mark’s details into the database immediately finding a match that of a previously entered petty criminal. He called to the Charge Sergeant
“Hey Sarge! The cabbage matches the description of a missing person Mark Turner from Penge, with previous for theft. The address is Trovid House on the Anerley Estate”.
“Right give’m a ring and see they can come over and ID the cabbage for us.”
The police called Marks’ mum who puts them in touch with Tara who in turn calls Mr Beaulieu. The following day Mr Beaulieu picks up Tara in his van and they drive over to Clapham together, the van inching along the south circular in the direction of the rioting.
“They say Mark is not speaking to them. I have hardly slept Mr Beaulieu.”
“No me neither. It’s a funny business is this, that for sure”. Mr Beaulieu stared out at the busy London traffic snaking it’s way round Brixton Road. Then added “Please, call me Mike”. They had come to a halt. Up ahead he watched an irate driver get out of his car and remonstrate with the driver of the bus behind him. He taught ‘It’s a bloody good job the driver’s of those busses are so high of the ground where nutters like that bloke can’t collar them. Still watching the road he asked “Clapham? What he doing in Clapham? Does he know any body there?”
“Not that I know of. The only places he went were the things he did with you at work. He never mention Clapton”
“It’s called Clapham. We’ve not done any work there in years, a long time before Mark started with us. There was rioting and looting there last night. I just hope Mark didn’t get caught up in it all”.
“No. Mark would not be involved in such things”.
The van swung onto the great traffic island that circles Clapham common. As they drove the towers of Battersea power station would occasionally appear in the gaps between buildings the right hand side, looming in front of the grey sky. They pulled up just before the Police Station, the street was crowded with good citizens with brooms going to help clean up the High Street. Mr Beaulieu & Tara watch briefly before entering the Police Station where Mr Beaulieu introduced himself to the desk sergeant. “Take a seat. Somebody will be out to see you in due course. As you are probably aware we somewhat busy at the moment”.
After about an hour Tara & Mr Beaulieu were called & lead into an interview room where Mark was seated behind a desk.
“Mark!” Tara exclaimed as he went to hug him, but he did not reciprocate, sitting passively & starring straight ahead.
“Come on now lad. It’s not like the pain stripper fumes have rotted your brain, stop messing about.” Mr Beaulieu tried to cajole Mark out of his trance.
“He is like a statue! What have you done to him? You have turned him to stone!” she wailed, her relief turning to anger as it becomes apparent Mark is not speaking and not responding.
“Looks like we got a positive ID” the officer said under his breath before asking what they knew about Mark’s disappearance.
Beaulieu told the copper ‘He’s been missing for 4 days, we reported it 2 days ago but the lad could speak absolutely fine before he disappeared & turned up here. What have you buggers done to him?” “I demand you to get a doctor to him”. Finally a doctor is called for. Tara & Mr Beaulieu return to the waiting room. Following examination the doctor tells them, “In my opinion he seems fine, except for the bruises and scratches. I can see no medical reason why he cannot speak. I recommend we get him into hospital ASAP and get him checked out properly”. An ambulance is summoned and Mark, Tara & a WPC are transported to King’s College Hospital Accident and Emergency department. Mr Beaulieu follows on anxiously behind.
The medics embark on an extensive series of tests and scans on Mark. At one point late in the evening one of the police officers notices Mark has gone missing, from under the gaze of the medics and the police. A search is initiated for him. Calling in the loss of the prisoner the PC’s radio billows “How the fuck an a catatonic patient escape surveillance?” Finally Mark is reported as being out on one of the general wards following a disturbance there. They find him starring at a wall after apparently intimidating another patient.
Late into the night a member of staff approach Tara & Beaulieu as they sit exhausted in the sickly light of another waiting room. After confirming their identity the doctor said “I’m Dr. Chadwick? I have given Mark an assessment.” He ushered them into a consultation room. “There are no obvious physical signs of damage that we can see. But as I believe you have recognized he is in some sort of trance. Have you ever heard of catatonic schizophrenia? He has developed a psychiatric condition, that occurred either before he went missing or something that happened during that lost time. Does he have any history of mental health issues?”
“No”.
“Is there any medication he should be taking?”
Tara shook her head.
“How about a history of drug use?”
“Not that I’m aware of, only a few beers and perhaps a little bit of a smoke,” Tara replied.
“Cannabis or nicotine?”
“Both” Tara nodded.
The doctor mused unconvincingly. “Well that might be enough. On it’s own or compounded with other factors.”
“It’s not to do with paint-strippers, is it?” Mr Beaulieu asked nobody in particular.
“What can you do for him?”
‘In cases like this we have to admit him to a psychiatric unit. The Maudsley is a psychiatric hospital, just across the road from here. We’ll be sending him there.’
“Can I go with him’ asked Tara.
“I’m sure you’ll be able to visit, but I want to be clear. Mark’s is a serious condition, it will probably take a long time to get him back to health”.
The Maudsley.
At the Maudsley Hospital Mark get’s his own room & undergoes more intensive analysis. One day Raj Chadwick the renowned clinical psychiatric & media celebrity/pundit dogged by accusations of plagiarism goes to clerk a new patient. Chadwick has olive skin, almost black hair and thick dark beard that by passed by grey and gone straight to white in places. He is quite stocky but not fat as he is generally energetic and his most obvious feature a sartorial unawareness is his bizarre penchant for beige clothing. He enters the examination room is surprised by the supposedly non-responsive patient immediately standing up to greet him.
“Ah, Professor Raj Chadwick, still up to your old tricks? Please sit down”
“Do I know you?”
“No but I am familiar with your work and I chose my works carefully.”
“You speak very clearly, like a well educated & confident man, not a painter’s lackey”.
“Yes, well I’ve had a bit of an education the past week & as such I know my rights, why don’t you let me go?”
“All in good time. When you get back to your healthy, old self we will release you – back to the police.”
“Back to health and the police? We both know I’m as fit as butcher’s dog and the courts will see me as the victim of yet more police brutality”.
“Well let’s start by you telling me just what did happen to you in the last week? It’s seems rather eventful & intriguing.” Mark did not answer. The moment & who or what ever had answered for him, was gone. To all intents and purposes Chadwick was alone in the room and on completing his examination writes up the other details of the visit but omits the nature of Mark’s episodic speech; Chadwick sees a lot of quite weird cases. The hospital staff implement numerous combinations of treatment regimes but to no avail, Mark remains in a robust catatonic state. Not speaking, responding to external stimuli or eating.
Self improvement I
At the Maudsley Mark is still largely unresponsive. They have noted the sleep walking from A&E to intimidate another random patient. Mark has still not eaten & is being drip feed.
“He seems to honestly not know what he’s doing here or where he’s been”.
“It seems he’s almost completely mindless or his mind has been stolen, borrowed, put up for repossession”.
At a ward meeting the psychologists chattered about this intriguing new case. The psychiatrists debate if returning Billy to Clapham junction may help. Dr Chadwick conjectured at his speculative and controversial best, “I wonder if Mark was hypnotised to perform certain errands. Think of him as being programmed to undertake a predetermined series of tasks in a predetermined order. Interrupt that sequence and the brain no longer knows what course of action to pursue. Mark is no longer in control of the higher parts of his brain and is stuck there, waiting to complete the tests. If we return him to Clapham Junction then the brain may pick up where it left off & re-enter the program. We could be able to find out what he was doing & possibly who, if anybody, responsible for this catatonic hypnosis”. This statement was met with derision from his colleagues at the meeting – particularly those whose opinions mattered more than his did. So Chadwick tried it again on what he though might me a more receptive & sympathetic audience, Tara and Beaulieu.
“I think we have to try everything,” Tara agreed.
In hushed tones Chadwick told them, “Off the record, unfortunately, pretty much all of my colleagues and superiors have vetoed this a course of action. We are to try art therapy first & failing that, which it will, we will try Clapham Junction in 2 days time, but don’t let anybody know.”
Speaking loudly again, with a voice so full of optimism that Tara mused Chadwick might have his own personality disorder the doctor said, “So back on the record. As we are all well aware, nothing seems to be working. We will try some art therapy, if you are willing”.
Beaulieu snorted, “What’s that? You’re going to treat the lad with crayons? Is that really the best you can come up with?”
“The National Institute of Clinical and Health Excellence also known a NICE has been promoting the use of programs offering music, art and dance therapy. Activities include playing musical instruments and creating collages. What do you think”?
“Drawing” Tara said instinctively. “He’s always liked drawing, but he’s not very good at it”.
The following day they tried art therapy. Paper and pencils were placed on the desk in front of Mark. After about 10 minutes the therapist placed a pencil in Mark’s hand triggering the first response from Mark the team had witnessed, since his admission to the Maudsley – other than the of the record chat with Dr Chadwick on the first day. Starring straight ahead his hand began moving rapidly over the paper.
“This has never happened before” the therapist said with a bemused encouragement.
Over a period of an hour a detailed drawing seem to burst out of Mark. “Jesus” sighed Beaulieu under his breath, as the picture took shape “What is going on in his head?”
The sketch was of two figures, on the left stood an old man with gnarled grotesque features wearing something akin to a monk’s habit – or a hoodie. Next to him was a bipedal creature in a large painted mask. The image carried an over riding sense of menace. The top quarter of the paper had been left blank. The therapist called the Dr Chadwick. Who when he came in saw the picture and became more excited than the therapist. They asked Tara and Beaulieu a plethora of questions: Did they recognise the figures in the sketch? Did Mark have similar types of drawings at home? Did Mark have such a mask at home? Has he been the British Museum or the local Horniman Museum, he could have seen such a thing the there? All the answers were the same, negative.
“Mark has never drawn as well . . . er as detailed as this before. I don’t think he’s ever been to a museum in his life” said Tara adding, “Except possibly a museum of sorts in Amsterdam.”
While the animated conversation continued. Mark started to add to the picture a speech bubble in the top quarter. It read: “Dr Chadwick I guess you’d really like to know what’s going on in here? I would too. Back to Clapham?”
“OK. No time to loose, we have to get a conversation going here”. The psychiatrist said nodding to the art therapist, “Get a new piece of paper in front of Mark”. “Yes, we’ll take you back to Clapham Mark, then what will you do? Where will you go from there? What is it you want there?”
The pencil in Mark’s hand stayed in exactly the same spot while Chadwick talked. They stood there expectantly starring at Mark & his paper for the next 15 minutes, awaiting a repeat of the miracle but he didn’t move a muscle.
Chadwick broke the silence “If Clapham Junction’s where he wants to go, then go reason to take him there.”
Return To The junction
Via wheelchair and ambulance Mark is returned to Clapham Junction, as near to where Chadwick believes the police arrested Mark. Mark stands up, gaining his bearings he almost immediately begins walking towards the train station. “Like a greyhound out of the trap!” whispered Professor Chadwick. Mark fishes his Oyster card out of his small brick red shoulder bag and enters the station, where he studies the departure boards, identifies his next train, goes to the platform & waits. Mark boards the London Bridge train; Tara, Beaulieu and the psychiatrist sit in the same bay as him. Mark is oblivious to their presence. He alights at Forrest Hill, easily negotiates the ticket barriers & walks towards Sydenham Hill. He crosses London Road where it is part of the busy south circular, he walks past the artist dens at Havelock and into the supermarket at the mouth of the Mews. Tara, Beaulieu and Chadwick follow him in to the shop keen to see what he is doing.
Despite have eaten nothing for a week at the Maudsley he has stopped for a sandwich, selecting one from the reduced to clear section he heads back toward the checkout. The trio swivel collectively watching him pass, centimeters away but still oblivious to their presence.
“Remarkable” whispers Chadwick beneath his breath.
“Nope. Nothing remarkable about a JS sandwich. Happens all the time.,” replied a member of staff who’d caught the eminent psychologist’s remark. “What is remarkable is when they remember to pay”.
Silently Mark paid for his purchase, opened it, took a bite and headed out of the store.
Mark was walking at pace up the south circular towards central London, past the white Art Deco apartments & flats with stained glass in the window wells. The road is wide, lined with large Georgian and Victorian building and is filled with the almost constant sound of buses straining up the hill. Mark reaches the pedestrian crossing, after pushing the button he waits patiently for the light to change before crossing. The buildings lining the route change, he is now passing terraced flats opposite the Horniman Museum, tower of the museum peers over the bus stop like an enormous cat. A little further up, in front of the museum is a totem pole that stands 6 meters high depicting figures from Tlingit Alaskan legend of a girl who married a bear, with an eagle. The Tlingit are the “People of the Tides” and their totem pole now starring out over the crossing where Sydenham Rise joins London Road watching the ebbs and flows of the traffic on the south circular.
Dr Chadwick points at the Horniman Museum “There are many things around that connect us to and provide glimpses into the past, people, objects, they could be on the street, collected in somebody’s house near you or in a local museum”.
Mark starts up the sharp incline of Sydenham Rise, he is physically fit and going at quite a quick pace. He knows the way everywhere by foot and cuts into an alley, the entrance of which is all but invisible from the road. Leafless trees, reaching up out of the bricks and tarmac, overlook the narrow greasy path between lock up garages and a housing estate.
“Who knew this was here?” breathed Beaulieu,
“He has to walk everywhere as you don’t pay him enough to get the bus” Tara informs Mr Beaulieu.
The following trio are beginning to feel the pace, with only the stocky Chadwick keeping up. Mr Beaulieu is really struggling with out the aide of his van. The final part of the rise becomes really steep where even the hardcore cyclists get off and start pushing. Stopping for breath Mr Beaulieu turns round and looks at the view of the whole of the City of London. “By heck it’s hard going. But its worth it just for the view” panted Mr Beaulieu “Never get to look at it properly when I’m in the van. A bit like trying to look at the scenery at Monaco from a F1 racing car.” At the top of the hill Tara and Mr Beaulieu have to break into a run to try to catch up. “I do hope he’s not going much further.” Mark is now walking along the ridge of the hill to Sydenham Hill House. He opens the gates with key the code and starts to go inside and Chadwick follow him through the gate and onto the forecourt of the house. Mark knocks and waits. After a minute he fishes out the keys from his rucksack, proceeds to open the door with the keys and enters leaving the front door wide open. The house is completely empty.
Squeezing through as the security gate closes Beaulieu gasps “At least we know where the keys are for, but how did he get hold of them?” then on entering the house “Bloody hell. What’s going on here then?” of the property Beaulieu is amazed, “That’s our paint work, but where is everything?”
They hear the sound of shuffling footsteps upstairs.
Awakening
Light, the sound of bird song. New sounds and strange surroundings. Mark’s room down by the Harvester is dark and despite its proximity to the woods and the conservation area the bird song is drowned out by the road noise of the heavy traffic of the south circular.
Mark recognises the old man’s body, the array of untouched medications and begins to realise the full horror of what’s happened. It couldn’t be true. Was he really this old? Had he forgotten his life? Had been so cruelly deceived? Nothing could be done. Hopeless Mark drifts listlessly in and out of consciousness, dreaming of birdsong rising into a cloudless sky above empty roads. There is a loud knock at the door. The first visitor! Maybe they can help me – explain what’s happened. Even if it’s a postal delivery they could get help. A message to Tara. . . With all the urgency he can muster Mark propels himself down the dark hall, his trembling hands on the walls for support. . . I won’t get there in time. . . Please don’t leave. . . Reaching the top of the staircase he hears the sound of a key in the lock. . . carefully he begins the descend. The door opens and peering into the bright daylight he sees his old reflection and shouts, “It’s me! It’s me!”
“Hello Mark! It is me. I’ve come back.”
The new Mark strides boldly into the hall.
“Still here? I wondered how long you’d survive. Old Frobenius isn’t to well, is he? But I guess you know that by now. Sorry about not leaving you any furniture and stuff. I couldn’t risk it. Anyway, let’s get you to somewhere where the know what their doing with old people. I’ve got work to do. . .”
“It’s me! It’s me!” the old man rasped again as Tara and Mr Beaulieu appeared in the doorway behind Mark, “Tara! It’s me!”
Recognising the voice but not the body Tara screamed and Mr Beaulieu blacked out. Having been unsure as to what might unfold when he organized the return to Clapham Junction, Chadwick now stood astonished in an old suburban house on high ridge overlooking London watch the scene unfold. Mark has snapped out of his lucid state and now stood motionless as a raving old man feebly tried to pummel him. Mr Beaulieu was coming to, lifting himself of the floor and complaining about how it must have been the race up the hill that left him feeling dizzy. Tara was gone. . .
