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she?”
    â€œPlease, I want to help you.” The mental man stepped back, and raised the briefcase belly-high. A protective weapon? “My name’s Sam. Can I call you John?”
    It would be easy to despatch this shit. But… get an answer first. “Where’s my wife?”
    â€œShe and your baby are resting in the back-shop. I’ve come in to check if you’re alright.”
    â€œI am, so you can go – Sam!”
    â€œIt’s not as simple as that, John.”
    Another dark-suited man magically appeared beside the mental man. “Hello, Mr Chisholm.” The mental man faded to the background as the speaker advanced and held out his hand. “John, you know me – Dr Smith.”
    His GP, a sad-looking old man he hadn’t seen for months. A bit worrying, all this. He ignored the proffered hand. “Why are you here?”
    â€œCan we go into your living room, John? It’s rather cramped here,” said Dr Smith. “Please, we need to talk.”
    Why? But what was the harm in shifting to the living room? He could throw this pair out anyway. “Okay.” He stepped backward into the living room to allow the doctor entry. “But only you.” He motioned with his fist. The mental man stayed in the hallway.
    â€Mr Newman told me you’re not well. I think you should go to Springwell for treatment.”
    The loony bin. And this was his own doctor! He shook his head and banged it with both hands. “Never. Leave me alone. I’ve had enough – of you all, life, everything.” He pointed to the door. “Get out!”
    The mental man had slithered forward with his briefcase. Funny, the GP tapping the man on the elbow and nodding, before scurrying out.
    â€œYou need treatment. The doctor and I agree, and I know the magistrate will too,” said the mental man, now further into the room. “If you won’t come voluntarily, you’ll be certified.”
    â€œNever!” Fists clenched, he advanced on the mental man.
    A figure jumped in front of him. A barrel-chested giant in uniform.
    Nothing to lose. A playground scrapper from earliest schooldays, John punched the policeman solidly in the stomach, drawing a groan, and followed with a head butt. He turned to grab a chair. A tornado hit his legs. Copper number two, with a crash-tackle that smashed John against the chair and onto the floor. Prostrate on his front, his legs were being crushed. He tried to move, but his arms were pinned.
    The mental man said something about an order and taking him to Springwell. Dr Smith was kneeling with a syringe.
    â€œNO!” he yelled, and heard “yes”. Then his arm stung, and the scene faded.

5

    Friday 20 th – Saturday 21 st April 1956 – in Aversham.

    Late afternoon, the mental man was shown by Mattie into the back-shop. “Here are your keys, Mrs Chisholm. Thanks. Your husband’s been sedated. We’re taking him to Springwell. He’s being certified, and he’ll be kept in.” With a “can’t stop”, the mental man turned and started back through the empty shop.
    â€œFor how long?” Heather yelled. Fear for her and Becky was now uppermost. The image of John with the knife, and that look on his face, were both scary. What if this mental man was wrong, and John came straight back?
    The mental man paused, half turned and shouted. “A long time. Sorry, have to rush.” And he disappeared.
    Her questions would have to wait. In any case, Becky claimed her attention by waking and starting to whimper.
    â€œYou shouldn’t go back to that house on your own tonight, m’dear,” Elsie said, and Mattie added, “We want to see you and the bairn safe.”
    A welcome offer. “I’ll need Becky’s crib and a few other things.”
    â€œAye, you go over the road and leave the bairn with me,” suggested Elsie.
    â€œI’ll come and give you a hand