The Descent to Madness Read Free Page A

protection against the elements. His asthmatic chest heaved with exertion, his legs burned and his feet were sodden from pounding through the puddles of standing water on the pavement, but no matter how far he ran he couldn’t get away.
    The laughter; it followed him.
                  He’d finally cracked. Finally gone mad. He’d put a brave face on everything that he’d gone through over the years; the emigration of his parents, the neglectful missus, the soul-sucking grind. But finally he’d snapped. But the doctors could help; they could give him something. He stopped for a second, bent double, fighting for breath, then the mocking whispers began again. With a desperate groan, he forced himself onwards and they receded behind him once more. He turned the corner and hope blazed through the rain in the form of a white and blue neon sign; NHS Walk In Centre.
                  He laughed manically and powered towards the glass double-doors. He slammed into them hard, yanking on the handle, pushing, then pulling, but they wouldn’t open. The lights were on, the rows of chairs, the desk, the obligatory yucca, all seemed in order. He rattled the doors again, same result – locked! Searching around desperately he noticed an A4 sheet of paper blue-tacked to the inside of the door: CLOSED FOR STAFF TRAINNG.
                  Tears began to sting his eyes as his desperation grew. The taunting voices all about him now, mocking this latest in a twenty-five year string of failures; insidious, relentless whispering that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Banging his fists in futile frustration at the reinforced glass, Stone let out a scream of rage and impotence. Gathering himself as best he could, he span and looked about like a wild animal, trying to think where to go next for help. The voices were getting loud, less whispers now and more like a conversation from across a room. They made it so hard to think. Then the sound of sirens howling in the night snapped him to attention.
    He set off at a run, in the direction of the police station.
     
    ***
     
    “We look like twats” commented PC Steve Webb, for the third time that evening.
    His traditional bobby’s helmet funnelled the rain water perfectly into his eyes, no matte r what angle he tilted his head and the plastic of the rain-mac he wore on top of his uniform was that of the thinnest, cheapest bin-bag; the kind that tears to ribbons as you try to pull it out of your bin at anything over half full.
                  “Cheer up, Steve!” grinned PC Rob Yearsley, walking the beat at his side. “If it’s pissing it down hard enough to wear these,” he gestured at his own mac, “then no-one’s gonna be out and about to see us!”
                  Typical Rob, thought PC Webb, looking over at the tall, gangly youth. Give him a few more years on the beat, that’ll drum the misery into him. To be truthful, the grumpy Northerner was grateful for PC Yearsley’s incessant optimism, not that he’d ever admit it. The Leicestershire Constabulary was hardly the most exciting gig. As the name suggested, ‘The Heart of Rural England’ was not exactly crime capital of the world. Twenty years on the beat and now PC Webb’s every day blurred into one, each day as boring as the last. At least having a fresh face around livened things up.
                  The rain intensified for a minute, driving the two officers into a shop doorway. The shelter was welcome and PC Webb pulled his helmet off for a moment, running his hand through his damp, greying hair, a look of absolute exasperation etched on his lined features.
                  “Here,” he said, passing his helmet to PC Yearsley to hold. “Give us a minute.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a pack of Benson and Hedges, before sticking one in his mouth and lighting up. Yearsley knew better than to argue about the legality of