Sullivan attempted to get away the next morning, and immediately there was an obstacle in his path. That was the issue of the intense pain in his head, accompanied by the crashing wave of disorientating dizziness that washed over him the moment he straightened up. He was cold as well, as people are in the early morning- he knew it was early from the few rays of grey light that managed to infiltrate the tiny gaps in the thick, heavy curtains.
By the time he got through the door, head pounding and icy sweat already pouring from the exertion, he already wanted to give up and just curl up in bed again. No - no, tempting as it was, he was not staying here. He already felt lost, stupid and mortified at his situation, and being trapped in the presbytery was not going to help.
He was three feet from the door and still clutching the wall when Mrs McCarthy's voice appeared from the fog around him.
"Inspector Sullivan!" She exclaimed, "Where on earth do you think you're going?" There was a rattle of something (probably a tea tray, from the clatter of porcelain and silver) being set down, and the small woman marched forward and seized his forearm with more force than Sullivan could ever have expected of such a diminutive lady.
Panic set in.
"No," He croaked, trying in vain to shake the woman off but she had him in a hold not unlike a terrier with a rat, "Get off me."
"Nonsense, now, lets get you back into bed..."
"Get off." With a rather forceful shove, Sullivan detached Mrs McCarthy from his arm. Both of them had forgotten that he was a strong young man in his thirties while she was now a little old lady, and the push nearly sent her reeling. But Bridgette McCarthy was not a woman to be trifled with, and he did not frighten her.
"Get back in that bedroom and I'll bring you some breakfast."
The prospect of food was galling and Sullivan gagged just thinking about it. Mustering most of his strength, he pushed himself away from the wall and stood swaying in the middle of the hallway. As he lurched forward the path downstairs was in sight.
Until Mrs McCarthy realised what he was attempting and barricaded it.
She stood at the top of the stars facing Sullivan square on, arms crossed, jaw set, eyes glaring. Sullivan breathed in and out through his nose, getting angry.
"Let me by, please." He ordered, in a tone anything but polite. No idea why he bothered with the please.
"And watch you fall headfirst down those stairs? I don't think so. Get back in that bed before you land on your face in a heap."
Sullivan's blood was beginning to boil. How dare she interfere with his plans like this? What power did she have over him? How dare she. What right had she to dictate what he did with his life?
He wobbled forward another few steps. Mrs McCarthy did not move a muscle.
"Mrs M?" A voice, Sid's, callled from downstairs. "Any breakfast going?"
The irish woman pointed at the bedroom door. "Back in there, please. I'm afraid you can't leave until the doctor's checked you over, and he'll be here at ten o'clock."
Sullivan snarled. That nosy old cow. She would have that beak of hers stuck into his affairs.
"Get out of my way." He growled. "Or I swear to God, I will knock you down those stairs."
Mrs McCarthy sniffed contemptibly. "Oh go on then!" She mocked. "Right now you look like a feather could knock you down."
He hated to admit it, but she was right. His body fought against him and he found it very difficult to keep it all upright. His legs trembled and shook, weak as watered down milk, and suddenly he lost his balance and fell sideways into the wall.
"There now, can I help you back to your room now?"
"Oh fuck off!" Sullivan gasped, shocked at how his body had deceived him.
"Mrs McCarthy?" A concerned voice called from downstairs. "Are you alright up there?"
Sullivan could sense Mrs McCarthy soldiering towards him, but focussed his mind on not emptying the meagre contents of his stomach on the carpet.
"Bad language doesn't impress or scare me." She warned. "Now will you cooperate with me and walk back in there, or do I call Sid up to carry you?"
"Leave me alone!" He snapped, "Just let me be, you interfering old bitch! Are you incapable of keeping..."
The carpet at his feet was dancing around. Mrs McCarthy said something he didn't hear, the concerned voice got louder, and a figure appeared at the top of the stairs.
No, this wasn't fair. They were ganging up on him now, trapping him, imprisoning him in this awful clerical gaol.
There was a conversation going on between Mrs McCarthy and the figure (probably Sid) while he muttered to himself, clinging to the wall and staring at the ground. He felt a hand close around his wrist, but he swatted it off. Swatted was too weak a word - his assailant yelped in pain and reached for him again, but Sullivan backed away quickly, stumbling backwards until his back hit the wall. He could see relatively clearly - Sid and Mrs McCarthy were both staring at him. Father Brown appeared at the top of the stairs, and asked "Is everything alright?"
Sullivan snapped. Something in him cracked and broke, and rage spilled out.
"Of course it's not alright!" He shouted, "I feel like pure and utter shit, and instead of just leaving me alone like normal people would, you relentless bastards are doing my bloody head in! Just leave me alone, will you!" He roared, "That's all I want! I just want to be alone! Why can't one person in this godforsaken hellhole of a village get that idea in their thick little skulls? I am nothing to do with you! I don't bloody matter! I'm not some goddam lost sheep or wayward choir boy - I hate your bloody church and everything it stands for! I hate this you and every other person in this damned shit hole village - I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!"
Sullivan could just about read their expressions as ones of utter shock. Good. That being said, the three people in front of him were starting to move around a lot (as did the floor beneath his feet) and his head was very, very sore. Still, now that he'd started, he couldn't get stopped, not even as people started to talk over him.
"I don't give a damn whether suicude is a mortal sin or not - it's my life! This is my life, and I don't want some wanker of a priest, or some random old bat, trying to control it! I'm fine on my own, I don't need anyone, I don't want anyone-"
"You are going to keel over !" Sid shouted.
"I'm fine!" Sullivan roared, "You don't know what happened! You don't know what happened to me but I am fine!" The walls around seemed to be beginning to tremble. He pushed himself off the wall and felt like had thrown himself into open water. "I don't need your help! I don't want your help! So just get out of my life and piss off back to..." Nausea. He swallowed grimly. He was beginning to see stars, and not in a good way. "To whatever... to whatever hole you..."
The world was really moving now. It shifted on its axis altogether and threw him off, pushing back from his heels and flying forwards. Sid surged towards with his arms outstretched, and jumped back in horror as the Inspector smacked face down on to the hardwood floor with a sickening thud.
"An interesting performance, I hear."
"Go fuck yourself."
Dr Crawford snorted. Sullivan was back in bed, disgraced, in a similar position he has been in barely an hour earlier. The only addition with a lump on right temple the size and shape of a hardboiled egg.
The doctor had been summoned in great haste, and asked over the phone whether it was safe to move Sullivan in case he'd broken something. He had agreed, but someone was obviously nervous as when Sullivan had regained consciousness, Sid was feeling at his neck and declaring that it was definitely broken, which it wasn't.
"Still, it could have been worse." Crawford reasoned. "Now follow the light..."
He shone a small torch and Sullivan's eyes watered, but followed nonetheless.
"What do you mean," He said, "When you say 'could have been worse?' ''
"You could have died or acquired some very serious damage, like liver failure or bleeding on the brain." He said, and Sullivan realised with a jolt that he was talking about the overdose.
Crawford noticed the way his entire body seemed to tense at the mention of the suicide attempt. Obviously he was not ready to address that yet; the incident on the landing was probably proof of that. That being said, it wouldn't hurt for him to get some anger out of his system.
There was obviously a lot of pain under that tailored blue suit and successful life.
"Why did you take those pills, Edgar?" Crawford decided to chance his arm, and watched as his abrupt manner unnerved his patient. He also seemed shocked at the use of his first name, as if he hasn't heard it in a very long time. Crawford didn't often use first names with his patients, especially ones with titles like 'Inspector', but always made a note of remembering them in case a situation called for it.
Sullivan squirmed and attempted to avoid the doctor's gaze, which was very difficult as he was currently examing the lump on his forehead.
"An accident." He said, in a tone that convinced nobody.
"You took at least twenty three pills." The doctor reminded him. "There's no explanation, godly or scientific, for that to be an accident. No matter how confused, tired or drunk you were."
Sullivan stayed silent.
"May I reccomend seeing a-"
"No."
He expected that.
Crawford lifted his bag and stood to leave.
"It was a nasty bang to the head and it'll make you drowsy, but there'll be no lasting damage. Stay away from any spicy foods, your nausea might linger. If the pain gets any worse, don't hesitate to phone me."
He then dropped a bombshell. "You are to stay off work for at least two weeks. As you've no family in Kembleford I'd advise you to head home-"
"No!" Sullivan's eyes snapped wide open and he pushed himself in a sitting position. "No!" He repeated with the same air of panic. "I don't want to go home! Please don't make me!"
Crawford was startled. "So you made very clear your feelings on Kembleford," He pondered, "Yet you're adamant that you don't want to go home?"
"Yes." Sullivan gasped. "Oh please, please don't make me go back to - just let me at the cottage, please -"
"There's no way I can allow that!" Crawford sounded shocked at the suggestion, "Let you go back to a house where you live on your own, knowing full rightly that there is every chance you'll try again?"
"It was an accident!" Sullivan seemed to be on the verge of tears. He gripped the doctors arm and pleaded, "Please don't make me go home, I want to go back to my house, alright? Please?"
"Either you stay here or you go home."
"Then I'll stay here." Sullivan was trembling. "If they'll let me."
"I've no doubt that they will. Now try and rest -"
"But I can't take two weeks off work! There's paperwork and orders and - I'm in charge, I can't just be off!" Sullivan argued.
The doctor looked at him quizzically.
"Are you really afraid of missing work," He asked, "Or scared that people might be discussing you in your absence?"
"This village is comprised of busy bodies and gossipers that would be tabloid businesses to shame," Sullivan hissed, as if some were listening at the door, "We both know that they'll be talking about me."
''I assure you,'' The doctor soothed, ''After all you've been through, no one in the community would begrudge you a few days off. It's only natural for you to take a little holiday - and everyone will naturally accept that.''
''No they won't, you know they won't, an extended period of absence from the detective inspector will be the only thing they talk about!'' Sullivan protested. ''I hear them talking about me - the men on the desk, and then they go home and tell their wives and they tell their mothers, and their neighbours, and they all go to the WI and all their other little clubs and, and - '' He ran his hands through his hair distractedly, until it was almost as wild as his hair.
Dr Crawford narrowed his eyebrows. ''Don't take this personally,'' He said, in very calm, measured tones, ''But are you prone to paranoia, Inspector?''
Sullivan was still too panicked to be cross. ''Listen, I - stop.'' He held his hands up as if he was reaching out for something, suddenly looking very scared, ''I know what you're doing and I want you to stop.''
''What is it that you think I'm doing?''
''A psych evaluation. You think I'm crazy.''
''I most certainy do not!'' Crawford objected, ''And I have neither the experience nor the training to conduct such a thing, and I certainly do not think you're crazy. The only thing I want to know,'' He said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, ''Is why you felt the need to kill yourself.''
Sullivan bristled. Dr Crawford shook his head.
''You saw my attempt.'' He said, ''Over dramatic as it was, framing myself for murder and whatnot, but my reason was that I knew that a very painful and demeaning end lay in store for me.''
Sullivan moved slightly under the blankets and still refused to look at him.
''But I found a treatment, and God knows how, but it worked,'' The doctor continued, ''And now look at me. Healthy as ever, and living happily ever after with my wonderful wife and my marvellous little girls - twins, two children after being told we could never have one!''
Sullivan did not look particularly inspired by this anecdote. Crawford said his goodbyes and left. As the door closed behind him, he heard a quiet voice mumble.
''But you had half that before you tried.''