Limbo 56, Mike Morris [best self help books to read .TXT] 📗

have a lady friend waiting for him.” They emerged from a small copse of trees. “There it is,” the old man said, pointing to a large stone building, solid looking but rather shabby. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to the Administrator; he’s a friend of mine.”

They marched up wide stone stairs and entered an atrium. Old pictures decorated the walls, and even older plants stood in various nooks. A threadbare carpet that had once been plush covered the stone floor. They entered a small office and a little man looked up irritably. “Yes, what can I do for you,” he asked in French, pushing aside some official looking papers.

“The colonel,” the old man interrupted, “is dead. He is looking for a high-ranking military officer. And the corporal,” the man gestured towards Harry, “Well, he’s still alive, but he’s looking for his body.”

Shadrach sucked in a gasp and paled. The little man glanced past Harry and fastened on Shadrach. “Anton is perfectly harmless,” he said with an almost unintelligible English accent. “I wish all my patients were all like him.”

“I’m looking for General Cross,” Shadrach stated in his best French, and the little man coughed nervously, mumbling something in incomprehensible English. “I know he’s here,” Shadrach persisted. “Please don’t try to deny it.”

“Shall I translate for you, Louis,” Anton said mischievously, “and then we won’t misunderstand each other.”

“It was his own nephew who brought him here,” Louis said. “The man is utterly insane. He’s spent a lifetime sending people to their deaths, and it finally broke his mind.” He looked earnestly at Shadrach. “I did something wrong, I admit. I know General Cross should be in a military institution, but believe me, the further away from the army he is, the less he suffers. His nephew understands, and paid a large sum of money for the General’s upkeep, all of which I spent on this place and my patients.”

“The nephew is dead,” Shadrach said flatly. “He will not be sending more money. You’d best tell the army, when they get here, what you told me. You can tell them that the nephew promised to send money, but sent none. That way you won’t have to drain your resources.”

Again, the old man interrupted. “Harry,” he said. Go upstairs to room 212. It’s unlocked, and I think you’ll find what you’re looking for in there.”

Louis looked perplexed. “Sometimes Anton talks to himself,” he mumbled uncertainly.

“This is an asylum, not a hospital,” Shadrach said to Anton. “We’re searching the military hospitals for his body.”

“A man wanders into these grounds, almost naked, incoherent, with no memory,” Anton answered serenely. “We couldn’t turn him loose, back into the war, and then he fell asleep and he’s stayed that way ever since.”

“Ah, he’s talking about the patient in room 212,” Louis said. “Tragic case that. We keep him comfortable, bathe him.” With a cry, Harry ran out of the office. “I’ll take you to see the General,” Louis said, standing up.

“I want to be left alone with him,” Shadrach said, and Louis nodded.

“Did you like Natal,” Anton said, and Shadrach stared at him.

“When I wasn’t at war,” he finally managed to say.

“He’s not the man you knew in Natal,” Anton said gently. “That man died, slowly and painfully, piece by piece, battle by battle. He’s paid his dues, just like you.”

They walked down interminable corridors. Disinfectant smells escaped from various rooms, along with something less pleasant. They passed a few orderlies, and mumbling, preoccupied patients, one of whom danced in front of them, waving her arms. “She taught herself sign language,” Louis murmured, “It’s her own invention, but it keeps her happy.” Finally, they reached a heavy grey door. An orderly was just leaving, about to turn the key on a large padlock. He spoke with Louis before striding away with a trolley of half-eaten food. “Sometimes he has to force the General to eat.” Louis said. “General Cross is a person that we don’t allow to mix with the general population here.” The little man shook his head. “You will be safe; we had to chain him up. I’ll wait here and you can take as much time as you need.”

Shadrach pulled his cap down and entered the padded room, shutting the door carefully behind him. After forty years he was about to face the man who had killed hundreds including his brother. Hatred seared his mind. Inside the door, he stopped dead, eyes accustomizing themselves to the gloom. A small window high on the wall filtered enough light to see. A gaunt figure huddled on a narrow bed in the corner, a chain around its waist allowing some movement. A filthy bucket stood by the bed; food was on a small table. Shadrach searched the pale face for traces of the arrogant young killer he had known in Natal and could find none. The years had eaten away any resemblance; no human qualities were reflected in the features, only emptiness remained.

“I ate your food.” The words, spoken in a reedy whine startled Shadrach by their ordinariness. The apparition squinted “Who are you?” The figure straightened a little, the voice strengthened a little. “Do I know you?”

Shadrach approached. “You know me,” he said, taking off his cap. With a screech the General flung himself forward, jerking back with an audible snap, like a mad dog at the end of a rope. Shadrach stepped back in horror.

“You’re dead,” the General screamed. “I killed you years ago, just like I killed all the others.” Blood dripped, unnoticed from his hand. He wiped his face, leaving a red smear across his forehead. His features untwisted, and he sat on the bed, looking at Shadrach. “So I really am mad,” he said in a perfectly normal voice. “I’m hallucinating.” He studied Shadrach with interest. “Yes, you look just like you did forty years ago.” He studied his withered hands. “Blood,” he said. “Look at the blood. So much blood I spilt.” He leant against the dirty wall. “So what have you come to say to me, spirit?”

“I’m not a spirit,” Shadrach told him. He extended his hand. “Touch.”
The old man touched him lightly. “You seem real,” he said wonderingly, “but you can’t be real.” He sighed. “It’s a little easier when I’m mad, you know. I say to myself, ‘I’m insane, I’m in Hell’, and for a moment I forget about the blood on my hands.” He looked at Shadrach interestedly. “That’s a little paradoxical, don’t you think?”

“I’m here to kill you,” Shadrach told him stonily.

“Of course you are,” the General said. “I had you and your brother killed; I sent hundreds of others to their deaths, simply for my own advancement, because I wanted to be a General, like my father.” He studied his hands. “I killed your brother for even less than that. I killed your brother because you annoyed me.” He looked at his hands again. “From that moment I began to have bad dreams. I sent the boy out with three enlisted men – I killed them, too, for no reason. I sent the four of them out, and I sent some of our native soldiers after them. I said they were traitors, selling secrets to the enemy.” He paused and drew a ragged breath. “The sergeant in charge said that they rode up, saluted and then cut them down like the traitorous dogs they were, and I laughed and said “Good work, boys. And I said, I said…,” he groaned. “Tell me spirit, have you ever met a man as evil as I am?”

Shadrach slapped him hard across the face. The old man’s head rocked back and his eyes widened. Once more, he touched Shadrach, examining the hands and the face. “The hands are different, but your face is the same. I believe you. When I became insane, I started to see things differently. You are real,” he said. “I don’t know how, but you are real, and you are here to kill me.” The old man clasped his arms around his emaciated body and rocked slightly. “Go on,” he said. “I deserve it, more than anyone I deserve it. You have your pistol, tell them I attacked you and you had to defend yourself. Kill me,” he said, “Please kill me.”

Shadrach stared at the pitiful old man in front of him. This dirty, demented stranger bore no relation to the man he had known forty years before. The young officer was long dead, and the old General was eaten away from the inside. “I can’t,” he said. “You are wrong. I’m a spirit, and you’re insane.” He backed away from the shrunken figure and let himself out of the padded room, into the corridor where there was some air and some hope.

“Were you satisfied,” the little man asked him. “We’ve done our best, but he’s a self-destructive, hopeless case.”

Walking back, Shadrach noticed a smear of the old man’s blood on the back of his hand. “He cut himself. You should see that he gets it attended to,” he told Louis. “Now, I’d like to see the comatose patient – he’s in room 212, I believe. I’ll find my own way.”

He walked slowly to the room where Harry was standing looking silently at the figure, sleeping peacefully between clean sheets. “Do I really look like that?” Harry asked, and Shadrach nodded.

Harry shuffled uncomfortably. “Did you shoot – him?” he asked.

“I couldn’t,” Shadrach said. “God help me, though, I almost killed him out of sheer compassion.”

“Good,” Harry said, still regarding the figure between the sheets.

“It’s time, Harry,” Shadrach said gently. “It’s time for you to reclaim your body.”

“I’m scared. It’s been so long,” Harry said.

“You can do it, corporal,” Shadrach said, gesturing towards the bed.

And, very simply, Harry climbed onto the bed and merged with his body. A touch of colour appeared on his cheeks, and Corporal Williams blinked twice and opened his eyes. He turned his head and surveyed the room. “Sir,” he finally said. “Where in Hell am I.”

Shadrach grimaced. “That’s a bad choice of words, corporal. You’re in a sort of hospital, and we’ve all been waiting for you to wake up.”

Harry tried to sit up and groaned. “I’m so weak. What happened?” Alarm showed in his face. “I’m not paralyzed, am I?”

Shadrach helped him sit up. “You’ve been in a coma for six months,” he said. “That’s why you’re so weak.” He repeated the story that the Administrator had told him, describing the ragged, battered man, discovered in a battle zone and hidden in the asylum at Dury, for his own good. “You lapsed into a coma and they didn’t know what to do with you,” he said. “Didn’t know whose army you belonged to, or even whether you were a combatant, so they took you in. They fed you as best they could, and gave you liquids. Then I found you. Start to flex your muscles,” he ordered, “you will be able to move around pretty soon.”

“I had some strange dreams,” Harry said wonderingly. “You were in them, sir, I swear.” He licked his lips. “I feel like I’ve known you for a long time.”

“Not unusual,” Shadrach said professionally. “You weren’t in a deep coma, and I spoke to you for a while. The sense of time is often distorted in cases like this. I’m Colonel Jones,” he said. “You tell me what you remember, and I’ll fill you in with what’s been happening out here.” They spoke