The Dead Beat by Doug Johnstone

An emergency decompressive craniotomy, one of the newspaper reports had said. Otherwise known as a hole in the head to let the pressure out. She felt the pressure inside her own skull. Took a deep breath and thought about her ECT appointment first thing tomorrow. She still hadn’t checked that Cal was going to come with her. Wasn’t ideal that she had to come to work after, but it was doable. She had a few hours to recover at home. She wondered about trying to explain it all to Billy, but he would be just like everyone else – imagining Jack Nicholson in Cuckoo’s Nest , thrashing around and biting down on a gum shield like a madman.
    She had footage of herself from her first visit. They weren’t supposed to, but Cal filmed it on his phone. She asked him to, so she would know exactly what they were doing. She’d been reassured by all the doctors but needed to see for herself.
    She looked serene in the footage. Under anaesthetic, controlled voltage applied, end of story. No jerking spasms, no furrowed brow, no manic staring in wild-eyed panic. Just resetting the mind. That old IT joke about switching it off and on again. Worked nine times out of ten. Reboot your personality.
    And the feeling afterwards, as if that heavy, wet blanket had been lifted from her mind. Like her body was a landmass after the glacier had melted and the water run off. All her senses were buoyed. She could smell things again. Only then did she realise her senses had been dulled by illness, by medication. She could smell the earthy stink of her armpits when she hadn’t washed. She could smell when she was on her period. She felt alive again, back in the world.
    ‘What are you smiling at?’ Billy said.
    ‘Nothing.’
    They got sandwiches and coffee and grabbed a table next to the window, the Crags looming over them.
    ‘I met Rose today at the hospital,’ Martha said.
    Billy chewed thoughtfully. ‘There to see Gordon?’
    Martha nodded. ‘She had flowers. I thought she didn’t know him that well.’
    ‘That’s what I thought too.’
    ‘And you are best friends.’
    ‘Don’t say it like that.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Like we’re fucking. We’re not.’
    ‘Fine.’
    Billy lowered his sandwich. ‘What were you doing there?’
    Martha shrugged. ‘Just wanted to check on him. I feel connected, you know? I was the last person to speak to him.’
    ‘How’s he doing?’
    ‘Not good. His wife was there.’
    Billy was chewing again. ‘You speak to her?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Anything?’
    Martha shook her head. ‘Not really. She doesn’t think he’s going to live.’
    ‘Shit.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘She have any idea that he was going to do something like this?’
    ‘Don’t think so.’
    ‘What about the gun? Does she know anything about that?’
    Martha shook her head again. ‘Did you hear anything from the police?’
    Billy pulled a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. ‘Yeah, but nothing exciting.’ He unfolded the sheet. ‘It was an Olympic BBM nine-millimetre revolver. It’s a starting pistol, converted to fire live ammunition. It’s easy, a two-hour job. About half the firearms the cops see are converted starting pistols. Means it was definitely bought in a pub or down a back street, no licence or anything. Only his prints on it, obviously.’
    Martha took a swig of coffee. ‘I think that’s what Samantha finds hardest.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The premeditation of it. He went out and bought a gun, that’s a lot of hassle. That’s not just a spur-of-the-moment thing like pills or hanging. He had that gun in the house for a reason. And he kept it a secret for a reason. That’s pretty fucked up. Imagine if someone you loved did that behind your back.’
    ‘Brutal.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    They’d both finished eating by now. Billy took a last gulp of his coffee.
    ‘So, it doesn’t look as if we have a news story,’ he said.
    ‘Doesn’t look like it.’
    ‘Shame.’
    Martha raised her eyebrows. ‘Sure, but it’s kind of more