garage. He carried his toolbox back into the house. He took an electric screwdriver out and used it to remove the screws from his son's bedroom door handle, then pulled the casing away and twisted the bolt around and around while he pushed at the door with his shoulder. It didn't make any difference. The chair on the other side held firm. Still, Mr Buckley kept trying. He didn't know what else to do. Behind him, Mrs Buckley kept crying. She didn't know what else to do. Inside, Broken Buckley curled tight on his bed with his knife clutched in his hands. He whimpered each time Bob Oswald tried to get into his bedroom. Go away, go away, go away. But Bob Oswald wouldn't go away. The door shook as he kept pushing against it. The chair holding it slipped slightly. Broken sat up in his bed. His narrow shoulders hunched over. Go away, go away, go away. The door shook again. The chair slipped a little further. Broken made himself get to his feet. He held the knife out before him. His whole arm was shaking. Ahead, his bedroom door was shaking. The chair was juddering, inch by inch, across the carpet. Very soon, it was going to fall. Broken made himself walk towards it. He put a palm to the door. It shook beneath his touch. The chair slid, and then hit his legs. A gap appeared between the door and the door frame. Broken plunged his knife between it. When he pulled it back, it was bloody. He screamed and dropped the knife to the floor. He put his hands to his face. He stared at the door and waited for it to crash open. As he did so, Mr Buckley cried out. Blood dripped through his fingers, which were clutched to his left arm, where the knife had slid in and then out. Seeing what her son had done to her husband, Mrs Buckley screamed and stepped backwards and almost fell down the stairs. Mr Buckley grabbed her. ‘Call Carter, Veronica. For God's sake, he has to come out this time. Telephone Carter.’
So Mrs Buckley telephoned Carter.
Carter telephoned social services.
Social services telephoned the police.
And the police took Broken away.
Mr and Mrs Buckley never heard from Carter again. For a short while, they heard nothing at all. Then, eight days after their son had been sectioned, the police came out to take statements, but as Mr Buckley didn't want to press charges, and as social services had sectioned Broken indefinitely under the Mental Health Act, they dropped the case like a hot brick. Social services, on the other hand, passed Mr and Mrs Buckley around from one department to another. Once in a while they managed to get hold of a social worker who would say things like, Rick? Rick who? Rick Mutley? Not Mutley? Can you spell it? B-U-C-K-L-E-Y – Buckley? Rick Buckley? Give me a minute, will you? Hold on. Oh. Yeah. Rick. Rick Buckley. He's doing great, responding to medication, he'll be home in a matter of weeks.
Neither Mr nor Mrs Buckley could imagine their son coming home. It was as if he no longer belonged to them. In a way, he didn't. Broken Buckley was a patient of the state now. He became one the second he climbed in the back of that police car with his hands cuffed behind his thin back. Bewildered and exhausted, he stared out on streets he had known as a child. Everything seemed to be huge. Everything seemed to be threatening. Broken made himself small by pressing himself into the fabric of the car seat and pulling his legs into his stomach. In his head, the sound of birdsong roared, as did the blood in his ears. He shut his eyes and buried his face in his knees. Oblivious to his terror, the policemen drove him away from all he knew and talked between themselves about football and telly. Broken didn't listen. He hummed to blank out their voices. He didn't see where they were taking him, either. He kept his eyes shut and his face pressed into his knees. When they finally arrived at the secure unit social services had referred him to, they led him across a shingle car park and in through double doors. Inside, people were waiting. Somehow, they all knew his name:
‘Just come through here, Rick.’
‘Hi, Rick. How you doing?’
‘Rick. We're taking these cuffs off’.
‘That's it, Rick. Nice and calm.’
‘Rick. Take it easy. Lie down.’
Women's voices. Men's voices. Hands on his shoulders. Voices behind him. ‘His name's Rick. He attacked his father this morning. No. He seems very calm.’ Footsteps. Another voice. ‘Go and get Dr Gerrald. OK. Let's get him booked in.’ Doors opening. Doors closing. More hands on his shoulders. More voices, soft, in his ear.
‘Roll over, Rick. On your back.’
‘That's it, Rick On your back.’
‘Rick. Do you know where you are? Do you know why you're here, Rick?’ This question, repeated. Broken ignored it. The admissions nurse said, ‘Rick, we need you to get undressed now. We need you to get into this gown.’ Broken looked up. People were staring down on him. One of them was Saskia Oswald. She was standing between two orderlies who were dressed in lawn-green hospital uniforms. She had her hands on their shoulders. She had a glint in her eye. Broken reached down and covered himself up. The admissions nurse persisted: ‘Calm down, Rick. We're not going to hurt you. We just need you to put this gown on. You can't wear your clothes on the ward.’ She smiled. Broken shook his head. He kept his hands cupped over his privates. ‘Rick. I'm telling you. Be good now. Come on, Rick. Don't be a pain.’ Hands reached out towards him. Broken slapped them away. The orderlies stood back with their palms raised. Broken breathed in through his nostrils. He had no spit in his mouth.
More footsteps. Clipboards. A man wearing glasses. A woman with grey in her hair. More questions from the admissions nurse: Hello, Rick, do you know why you're here? You attacked your father this morning. Do you remember? Rick? Do you remember? No answer. Just silence. Gritted teeth. Wide flaring nostrils. Tears in the whites of his eyes. The woman with grey in her hair said five milligrams. The man with the glasses leaned forward. ‘Hello, Rick. I'm Dr Gerrald. We're very worried about you. You're tired. You're hungry. You're confused. We're going to give you an injection. It's going to send you to sleep.’
It took four of them: two orderlies took hold of his arms; two took hold of his ankles. Broken bucked. He writhed. He bared his teeth. After they got the needle in him, their faces became blurred and unfocused; Broken became blurred and unfocused. The fight went out of his body. His head lolled back and then sideways. Darkness overtook him. It was like running into a wall. It was like being sucked down a plughole. Broken swirled. Faces from his past flecked the darkness. He threw his hands out for something to cling to, but there were no sides anywhere near him. He went down and down and down.
When he came out the other side, Saskia Oswald was sitting on his chest. She was chewing gum and laughing. Fancy taking me for a ride? Broken blinked. She disappeared. He tried to sit up so he could see where she had got to, but he had been strapped to his bed. ‘Where am I?’ he shouted. ‘Where am I?’ He fought against the binds across his body. He tried to lift his head and look around. ‘Where am I?’ he shouted. ‘Where am I?’ He thrashed his feet up and down. The bindings around him held tight. ‘Help me,’ he shouted. ‘Help me. Where am I?’ The door to his room was pushed open. A nurse stepped in and approached him. Broken said, ‘I want to go back to before.’ The nurse injected him in the left bicep. The force of it was like a punch from Bob Oswald. Broken swirled down once again.
Over the next ten weeks, this became a pattern: Broken would wake up. He would get frightened. He would shout. They would put him to sleep. If anyone ever spoke to him before these injections, he could never remember. If anyone ever spoke to him after these injections, he could never recall. A needle would go in, the world would turn black, he would sleep. Later, sometime later, he would wake up face down on his bed or slumped in an armchair in the common room. One time, it was the sound of the telephone that woke him. Broken turned his head towards it. He stared and stared and stared. Finally, another patient picked it up and let it drop and shuffled away. Hello? Hello? Hello? Eventually, Mrs Buckley put the phone down and turned her back on her husband. He stood beside her and felt utterly helpless as she sobbed in the palms of her hands. Later, they lay side by side without speaking and worried themselves sick about Rick. Mrs Buckley imagined him staring off into the distance and missing his mum. Mr Buckley imagined consultants talking to him about his mood swings and working out ways they could help. As the summer turned into the autumn, they tried to pretend things were normal. Sleepless nights. Silent meals. The TV masking the sound of their breathing. On the few occasions anyone bothered to ask about Rick, they