" Hullo ....."

  That's what the voice seemed to have said, anyway. Sort of an electronic, robotic sort of voice. Airy and almost gasping. Breathy with a twang.

 I was reading a book. A novel. " Is this how it starts? " I thought.

  I was thinking of Celia. Lovely girl. Copper hair. Cut in what, I imagine, must be what book writers refer to as a " Bob Cut ". Either way, it framed her face and nicely set of her pale, blue picean eyes.

 Heavier set, as I remember her. Someone else I once knew, of similar stature, referred to themselves as an " Egg on legs ". I wouldn't have said so, of either. They were just how they were. Physically.

 One of the lads and I went round to Celia's new council flat, one time. She'd been given a new place, by the council, and it needed some things doing to it. 

 I don't know what. Can't remember now. Just a bit of muscle. Humping and shifting. I recall it took us a bare couple of hours and there we were, all done and having a cup of tea when Celia turned up.

 She had a little boy, I remember. Thought the world of him. Quiet and well behaved little kid. Happy little soul.

 Funny how things bring the memories back. I wonder what's ever became of Celia?

 See; Within a few weeks of that other guy and me presenting her with her ready to move in and settle new flat, she jumped.

 Stepped off the Tricorn, Portsmouth. Feed that into Google and ye sure to find plenty of images of it. Huge, gray monstrosity that won the architect some fucking award, back when he designed it.

 And then the sneering resentment of the entire city, as it sat there, dominating the litter strewn area of Charlotte St market.

 She didn't die. Shattered both legs and her pelvis, so I heard. Can ye even begin to imagine the agony? Every thing below her waist line turned to strawberry jam. To be scooped onto a stretcher by the ambulance men.

 I'd asked her once, about the voices. We were both perfectly lucid then. I asked if they were inside her head. Like the books and films always seem to portray them.

 " Oh, no. " She said. " They may come from, say, behind the television. I'll be sitting there, watching a film, and this voice will come from behind the TV ....."

 And, I guess, one night that voice told her to go out. Get a bus into town. Go up onto the Tricorn. And step out into space.

  I wonder where / how she is now? I'm not optimistic. They had her down as " Bipolar ". " Schizophrenic ". One or the other. Or both? God knows. 

 Fed her just about every fucking pill known to modern science. 

 Still didn't stop that wheedling voice convincing her that drop would be a good idea though. FFS.



 Thankfully, the sound I'd heard was just Chain Dog, sighing in her sleep. Just sparked a memory. Had to get it down. Get it out.

 Stories from the nut house? I've got a few. 

Been there. Done that .....