By Michael Downes

I had just entered the main gate of the hospital when he said, ‘Hi.’

‘Oh, hi,’ I answered, startled. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

‘Most don’t. I’m usually too well hidden by a wall of bricks, or up to me eyes in mud to be noticed by anyone.’

He was a bricklayer, large and muscular, adding the final touches to a newly completed incinerator, and by the stamp on his overalls it was obvious that he was an inmate of this hospital: Saint Mary’s for the mentally disturbed.

‘Say, ya wouldn’t be the inspector…the new inspector, would ya?’ he asked.

I cleared my throat and looked up at him, for he was considerably taller and broader than poor little light-framed me.

‘Well, are ya?’

I rubbed my thumb nervously along the handle of my briefcase. I’m not ashamed to say that I was scared of him, for I believe in chatting to mental patients in the company of doctors or orderlies – at least one knows one’s safe.

‘Yes…yes I am,’ I answered in a strained tone.

‘Thank God! Salvation at last!’ He pointed his trowel towards the four-storey red brick edifice. ‘Do ya know how many years I’ve been in there?’

Now I dislike frivolous questions, especially when one is expected to answer with a question; but I knew my place and asked, ‘How many?’

‘Ten flamin’ years, that’s what!’

He shoved his trowel in disgust into a heap of wet cement, hitched a leg up onto a stack of bricks, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. All of these actions he performed in a somewhat casual unconscious manner.

‘Look, mate,’ he said, as smoke blew from his nostrils, ‘this place is drivin’ me bloody nuts. Now, do I in all sincerity look like some loony…do I?’

An awkward silence developed. I was contemplating whether or not to walk off and leave him, when he lamented, ‘Okay, I admit I was once mad – ten years ago.’ He shot me a glance. ‘Do ya remember the case? Well no matter, I was crazy then.’ He shook his big meaty head regretfully. ‘Boy was I crazy. Do ya know what I used to do?’ His weather-beaten face took on an expression of mild amusement. ‘Yer not goin’ to believe this, but my favourite pastime was throwing things at people. I would stroll around the city centre and chuck stones, rubbish, anything I could get my hands on at poor unfortunate souls. Once I collected a whole bag full of empty beer cans and stood on a street corner chuckin’ them at passers-by…hitting them in the head! Crazy, wasn’t it?’

I put my hand in my breast coat pocket, produced my horn-rimmed spectacles and started to clean them. It was a rather poor attempt at evading the question and at the same time a feeble show of coolness. He waited patiently for a reply.

‘Well, wasn’t it crazy?’

I didn’t know how to answer him, so I said timidly, as I put on my glasses. ‘A trifle silly on your part, I think. Perhaps just a tiny bit crazy—’

A roar of laughter left him. ‘A tiny bit crazy, did ya say? That’s an understatement, mate!’

He kept laughing, and eventually I began to laugh with him.

‘A tiny bit crazy,’ he repeated between the peals of laughter. ‘Oh, what a joke!’

By now I was laughing my head off too.

When we both regained our composures, I found to my great surprise that the barriers of fear had been lifted. Now there existed a strong feeling of friendship, unity, in having shared a joyous moment. Nothing like laughter to break the ice, I thought. Conversation flowed effortlessly after that. I found him to be comical and intelligent…and witty too. He offered me a cigarette, which I accepted, and he was sorry to inform me that he didn’t have a beer for me; for, he said, with a wink, it was customary for him to have a furtive beer on the job. I grinned at his slyness.

‘Ya see what they have me doin’ – bricklayin’! Cheap bloody labour. I tell ya I should be on the outside earnin’ a crust, better fer me and better fer the taxpayer. Perhaps I could even find me a wife, have kids, go through the whole routine, ya know. But they won’t let me, the rotten mongrels!’ He gave me that casual workman look again. ‘Say, ya couldn’t put in a few good words fer me, could ya?’

It was more a plea than a request. I said I would.

‘Ya won’t forget, will ya?’

I assured him that I couldn’t help but not forget.

He flicked his cigarette butt onto the grass. I took it as a sign of termination to our conversation.

‘Well, I must be off,’ I said.

He smiled, and we shook hands.

‘Ya won’t forget, will ya?’

‘No I won’t forget,’ I said, placing my hand on his broad muscular shoulder. ‘I’ll see that you’re released – don’t worry. A sane man like you should be on the outside, and I’m determined and confident that you shall.’

‘Thanks, mate,’ he said sincerely, and added with a wiry grin, ‘A tiny bit crazy, was it?’

I laughed.

And so I left him to his work as I walked up the gravel avenue towards the hospital. I had not taken a dozen steps when something solid hit me with great force on the back of the head. Instantly everything went blank! For moments I lingered on the rim of unconsciousness. My head seemed to explode within. I staggered and turned round and as I did, came the sharp crack of glass under my heel: my spectacles. A white brick with blood on it lay at my feet – my blood! Then I heard a voice. It seemed so far away, like a distant echo. Though my vision was considerably blurred, I could make out the bricklayer – the inmate whom I had just left. He was pointing his trowel at me and shouting: ‘That’s just to remind ya matey in case ya forget. Ya won’t forget, will ya?’

About the Author

Michael Downes was born in Norther Ireland. He left to travel and see the world. During his travels he worked at many jobs. At present he lives in Victoria in small country town with his eldest son.

Michael didn’t start writing until his late twenties. He has a novel published in the UK. Michael was also awarded third prize in a writing competition. He has a few short stories published in magazines.