Mad Worlds (10 page)

Early in the morning, John lay in the darkness, replaying that sunny day long ago – when Dave vanished. Over the years, he'd often replay the happenings on first waking– though some days the haunting would catch him at odd moments. And he'd found that anger can fuel a determination to survive.

They could strip him of his clothing, belongings, and dignity, but they could not strip him of his treasury of memories – good or bad.

*

“Watch out for yourself on Admissions,” was Maclean's parting shot from Infirmary. “You get all sorts before some are moved on – and there's the odd violent psycho.”

John could take care of himself once he was fit. And if somebody killed him – so what! Would anyone care?

But now, having been escorted pyjama-clad to sit on the edge of a bed in Admissions, he looked around warily. The ward seemed nigh empty.

A white-coat appeared and tossed a bundle onto the bed. “Chisholm. I'm Mr Mullen, the Staff Nurse – that means second-in-command here. Change into these.”

Not his. “Where are my clothes?”

“Patients' personal property is removed and kept for them. Change pronto. The consultant psychiatrist – he's the god – is coming to see you.”

The god? Chilling. Better get on with it.

He struggled into a grey shirt. The grey trousers would grace an elephant's wardrobe. Ludicrous. “These trousers are too big.”

Mullen laughed. “So's you won't try and escape. No belts either.”

So be it. He finished dressing by squeezing into a grey woollen jacket and sat on the bed, awaiting the god's arrival.

He rubbed his eyes and massaged the top of his head. If he could demonstrate his sanity, maybe the god would let him out of this crazy place.

“Chisholm.” Mullen's voice. “Move it. God wants you in the office.”

John rose, and paused till his vision cleared. Another big white-coat was at his side, nudging him towards what looked like a side-room on the ward – the office.

After a step, he had to grab his trousers. Clinging to the waistband, he followed Mullen, who entered through the open doorway. He shuffled in, the white-coat beside him, and heard the door close. Seated behind a large desk was a bespectacled, bird-like man – gazing down at an open folder. The god?

“Chisholm, sir.” Mullen stood to attention. Reminiscent of that hellish parade-ground. Must be in the presence of hallowed authority.

There was no chair. He stood slouched, a white-coat at each elbow. A prisoner awaiting sentence?

The bird-like man looked up at John and pronounced with emphasis. “I am the consultant psychiatrist.” Yes, this funny little bald-headed man was the god.

John couldn't suppress a giggle. He listened for further introductions, but none followed.

“Emotionally labile,” he heard, as the god shifted round to nod in the direction of another white-coat standing to attention in the far corner.

“Sir,” came a barked acknowledgement.

Ominously familiar. Sarge the Voice!

“Tell me your name.” The god was staring at him.

“John Chisholm. Look, I want to –”

“This is not about what you want, Chisholm.” The god was shouting, his pale cheeks colouring. “You are a patient, you have been certified insane and detained here as you tried to kill yourself and your wife. I will diagnose you and you will have the treatment that I prescribe.” The god jerked his head downward to look at the folder.

John remained silent. There was no future in confronting this guy, who held all the cards. He must cooperate.

The god looked up from the folder and, leaning forward, peered at him. “What age are you?” The tone was gentler.

“Twenty-five – no, twenty-six.”

“And what is your date of birth?”

Stupid – the god obviously had this information. “Twentieth April 1930.”

“And when did you come into Springwell?”

“Twentieth April 1956, on my twenty-sixth birthday.”

The god appeared satisfied, grunted, and returned to looking at the folder.

John glanced at Sarge. The man stood erect, his eyes fixed straight ahead. The god's specs glinted as he looked up. “Why did you try to kill your wife?”

“I didn't. We had a row.” He paused. The god was peering at him, nodding as if to say ‘continue'. More encouraging. He added, “She has a lover.”

He stopped. The god was staring at him like he was some curiosity.

“Have you seen your wife at intercourse with this other man?”

“I haven't, but I know –” He halted, searching for words that wouldn't come.

The god looked away, towards Sarge, and said loudly, “Deluded, skits.”

“Sir,” replied Sarge.

“I'm not skitting – I'm serious,” he yelled at the god, who was looking down and writing something. Now both his elbows were gripped tightly.

The god laughed and nodded at Sarge, who barked out a laugh.

What a pantomime. Mad. They must all be mad in here.

“Hm.” The god studied the folder again, then looked towards Sarge. “ECT, course of twelve. Start three weeks from today. But get the patient back to full strength first. We mustn't be seen to kill him. Call Singh to do a physical on the day. Meanwhile, paraldehyde twice daily and the airing court. The patient can go now.” The god looked down at the desk and picked up his pen.

“Sir,” boomed Sarge.

“But I'm not –”

“Shut up.” A loud whisper in his ear as he was forcibly led off, protesting his sanity while hanging onto his waistband. This encounter had been a shambles.

As soon as they'd exited the room, Mullen said, “Shouldn't have tried skitting him, man,” then burst out laughing. His fellow white-coat, one of Sarge's heavies from the padded cell, also guffawed. Was everyone mad here?

Freed from the grasp of his minders, he shuffled to his bed, flung himself onto it and lay seething. He'd been ridiculed. Some damned excuse for a psychiatrist! But his mind was too cluttered for him to focus clearly.

He swung his legs off the bed, and when he stood up had to grab his trousers. He stumbled to the reeking bog – aware of being watched and shadowed by a white-coat. Ablutions completed, he sought out Mullen. His anger had a focus.

“I need braces if I'm not allowed a belt.”

“Patients don't get braces either. And the boss said you've to wear these trousers.” Mullen started to walk away.

“But –” he struggled to think. “Who is this boss?” he yelled at the retreating figure.

“You heard Mr Mullen.” The white-coat now stood facing him.

“Yes. And –”

“Chisholm,
I
am the boss.” The emphatic gravelly rasping from his rear told him it was Sarge the Voice. “Look at me when I address you.”

Half expecting a punch, he turned to face Sarge. The swarthy face glowered down at him.

“See these,” growled Sarge, holding up both arms to show a broad blue ring round each sleeve of his uniform. “I am the Charge Nurse here, which means I am the boss of this whole ward.” The face was only inches away – tempting for an uppercut – the voice menacing. “Have you got that?”

“Yes.” The man's breath was straight from a sewer.

Sarge drew himself up, puffing out his chest. “I am Charge Nurse Parker. And if you dare to address me at any time, you will call me ‘sir'.”

John stood motionless and silent. Sarge's hostile green eyes were boring into him.

“Is that understood?” Sarge was bawling now.

No point getting another hammering in a no-win situation. “Yes – Sir.”

Sarge turned away.

John shuffled back to lie on his bed. He imagined giving Sarge a hiding. And let him have one minute alone with the shit they called the god!

He must have dozed off. Next thing, he was being shaken and a voice thundered in his ear. “Wakey – tea.” The heavy pointed to a room beyond the beds, where a number of men (presumably fellow patients) were gathering, with white-coats in attendance. “Go to the dayroom and sit at the table.”

He went as directed and sat down at the wooden table. Certain he was being stared at, he kept his eyes averted. He didn't want confrontation with madmen. Amid a confusing babble he heard shouts – some of them abusive. Though far from hungry, he ate the fish paste and margarine sandwiches put in front of him on a black rubbery plate. Some feast! Then he gulped eagerly at the lukewarm brew (funny flavour – could it be laced with parahaldehyde?) from a rubbery mug. Must take anything on offer, to build up his strength.

He sat with head bowed and elbows on the table. After an age, Mullen yelled, “Stay in your seats. Mackay and Snoddie, do your stuff.”

He was aware of the table being cleared. He heard muttering among white-coats at the end of the table, then, “All okay, Sir.”

He looked up and glanced to each side. The table – or rather, the row of tables – was clear.

“All leave the table,” Mullen shouted.

The room was bigger than it had looked – with a couple of broken-down armchairs. Some patients made for those, some stood around, others went toward the beds. He made for his bed and stretched out on it.

“Medicines. Come up when you're called.” Mullen's voice.

When his turn came a white-coat escorted him to a hatch at the office, where he gulped down the now familiar liquid. Then he was hustled towards bed.

Lying in bed, before the blessed paraldehyde kicked in, he had a fleeting image of that bird-like god horror. What was this ECT?

John awoke to a hullabaloo. “You're pigs, filthy pigs!” A ginger-haired pyjama-clad man was sitting up in the bed opposite and being restrained by white-coats. “You pigs,” the man bellowed. A great voice. The whole ward must know the guy's opinion of the white-coats. The newcomer had some presence!

Suddenly all was quiet and, raising himself to sitting, he could see an unmoving blob of ginger on the man's pillow. Another protest snuffed out.

He lay, starting to doze. A figure loomed over him. “Chisholm – shaving. Keep yourself still or you'll get your throat cut.” A white-coat heavy. Another Niven? Well, maybe it wouldn't be so bad if his throat was cut.

“I'll keep still.” He stuck out his chin and shut his eyes. But the big man, with quick confident strokes, was gentler than Niven – and this process couldn't have lasted more than a minute or two. At least something was better on this ward.

“Get yourself dressed,” said the white-coat, and went away.

John put on the ill-fitting clothes and, after the mandatory visit to the bog, went to the table for breakfast. He sat, his head aching, eyes fixed on the table, trying to ignore the hubbub.

A dark rubber bowl appeared in front of him, containing a kind of thin watery gruel. He excavated most of the contents with the rubber spoon, then raised the bowl to slurp the remainder. ‘Seconds' were two slices of bread and marge. The tea was weak and lukewarm.

“Snoddie, Mackay – get cracking.” Mullen's voice.

He sat with head bowed while the table was cleared and awaited the order to get up. This breakfast was reminiscent of hard times. After Da's accident, Ma had carried on making porridge (watery and salt-less), every morning. Usually there wasn't margarine on the (often mouldy) bread; after Da died, sometimes there was no bread.

At last, after talking among the white-coats, Mullen yelled: “Medicines.”

When summoned, John downed a tiny spoonful of paraldehyde, then asked one question he'd awakened with – and learned that ‘he skits' was ‘he's schiz'. “Short for ‘schizophrenic',” Mullen said, and called the next man for medicine.

He stood for a moment, stunned. A white-coat ushered him away without explanation, but he knew what was meant. The god had pronounced him mad.

Maybe he was mad. En route to his bed, he heard a loud groan and saw the ginger mop opposite moving on the pillow. Big Voice lived.

He threw himself onto his bed. He recalled overhearing the deputy head last year in the staffroom tell a colleague about an ex-teacher. “Gone crazy. Schizophrenic, her mother says. Poor Bess – very sad.”

Fascinated, he'd stared at them. The deputy glanced across and remarked loudly on the weather.

It was none of his business. But in the library, he found a medical textbook.

Now they said he was schizophrenic. Was he really? And whether he was or not, the term ‘schiz' was derogatory, de-humanising!

“Chisholm!” Mullen stood over him. “Raise yourself. The boss said last night you've to go on the airing court.”

“What's the airing court?”

“Outside, an exercise yard. Move it – sharp.”

John went as directed to join a gang of men assembled by a door. ‘Airing court' sounded interesting. Outside. A chance to escape this hellhole?

His hopes faded when he shuffled out. The courtyard was forbidding, with high walls that were surely not scalable. He was lined up with two other patients and required to walk round and round. Though glad of the fresher air and a reviving cold wind, he'd scarcely call this exercise. Still, it was better than nothing. At each corner, great-coated men wearing peaked caps stood guard.

First time round, keeping his head down, he heard a familiar voice. “Chisholm, your card's marked.” Niven? He glanced up. Yes, those bulging eyes were glaring across at him. Well at least that bully wasn't on his ward.

He tried talking to the patient walking next him, but the man eyed him suspiciously, grunted, and looked down at the concrete. He tried again, but the man remained silent. The other man in John's threesome seemed to be staring into the far distance as he walked. There wasn't much chatter anywhere else either – but an occasional “shut up”, presumably from a guard.

The only relief from the boredom came when a patient ahead of him yelled “Kill”, broke ranks to charge at a guard and was repelled, then frogmarched off.

An idea came. If all the patients charged at once, they could overpower the guards.

His head wasn't right, but maybe the cool air was helping. Plodding round, his mind churned with misery. Heather, his beloved beautiful soulmate, surely had a lover. Yet she'd come to hold his hand? Becky – he loved their baby, and missed her cries and chuckles.

A whistle blew. Half-time? He wished! Mullen had re-appeared and shouted, “Admissions, line up in your threes over here.” From the other end of the court, someone else bawled out a command, and men started to line up by a different doorway. So that was it. There were patients from another ward. He could see Niven with them, shouting orders. Looked like the sadist had moved wards (as the patients were too fit for the Infirmary), but thankfully not to Admissions.

John moved slowly with the queue into Admissions and made for his bed. “Lunch, Chisholm,” he heard a white-coat shout. Yes, something smelt good. He sat down at the table. For the first time since imprisonment, he was hungry! The large rubber plate before him held mince and mashed potatoes, cauliflower, turnips and carrots. The rubber knife and fork were hardly up to the task, and he finished by licking the whole plate surface to get all the goodness – something he'd done as a kid.

He gobbled the stodgy pudding amid watery custard, drained the rubber mug of its lukewarm tea, then sat with head bowed.

“Mackay and Snoddie, get moving,” commanded Mullen.

This time he looked up and watched. Mullen and two other white-coats hovered while the two named patients – one huge, the other small – went along the rows, collecting up items, clanging and clattering. Hey, most of these things couldn't be rubbery. Why didn't they give him proper cutlery?

Impressive, the deftness and lightning speed with which the two patients were sorting the items – knives, forks, spoons, plates, mugs – into separate piles. Skills that were wasted in this dump. Job done, they returned to their seats. Then the two white-coats went through each pile and shouted numbers to Mullen.

Weird. They really did count everything back in. Were they that short of cash? But of course, this was the loony bin.

Shuffling back towards his bed, he figured it out. They were scared he might get something to use as a weapon, or an escape tool. Yes, a real knife could be useful – even a fork, or a bit of crockery. That was why they counted everything back in, and why they gave him rubberies.

“Get back in the day room, Chisholm!” A booming command from Sarge, standing by his office. “This isn't a holiday camp. Move it, you lazy bastard.”

He hesitated. The day room? Of course – where they had the meals. He turned and walked back. Must behave, lie low for now.

Tables clattered as they were dismantled and stacked and Mullen kept shouting to direct the operation. Patients stood around, with one or two sitting.

John found an empty broken-down armchair and leaned on the back of it.

He swung round as someone prodded his elbow. A ginger-haired man – must be middle-aged, though with a boyish face – surely the guy from the bed opposite.

“What's the take, old boy?” said the man, sinking into the armchair.

“What do you mean?”

“I'm a new boy. These pigs messed me about today and I haven't got over it.” Ginger-hair rubbed his eyes. “Damn them all. What happens now?” The man had a posh accent – posher than anyone he'd met, even the lecturers at uni.

“Dunno. I'm a newcomer too.”

“These guttersnipes have no respect. I'm a baron, you know. A nobleman.”

He'd heard of barons, and recalled seeing one on
Pathe News.
But he never anticipated meeting in person a guy from those so-called ruling classes – anywhere, never mind in a loony bin! He could still see Da stomping round the room, shouting “Damned nobility and gentry, they're the problem,” – and Ma, who'd been in service with a Lady, bending to whisper, “They're our masters, John, look up to them.”

John gaped at Ginger-hair. “Baron!” He found the notion of ‘privilege' distasteful. But the pompous one was a fellow prisoner and seemed friendly. To show respect, the nobility were addressed differently. “What do I call you?”

The man stared back. “Oh, ‘m'lord' will do. I am a Lord and I have a great mansion and estate.” Looking down, he muttered, “Well, I had until they slung me inside, into that dump of a private asylum. I was stuck there for years.” He turned away, raising his voice. “They told me I was getting out, the liars.” He was booming now, and a wider audience – other patients and a white-coat – were showing interest. “They brought me here instead. Appalling. This is even worse!” The Baron got up from the chair. A big man, portly; he looked majestic.

John watched the Baron shamble away in the direction of the bog. The man was obviously having the same trouser waistband problem as he. So maybe social class didn't matter in here. One good thing about the place?

Then it struck him. Surely a true nobleman wouldn't be put in this dump – a public institution, a county asylum. Was ‘m'lord' a con man, or just mad?

*

One afternoon, Sarge emerged from his office and yelled, “Airing Court!”

“Sir,” Mullen replied, and set about lining up patients.

“Stay behind, Chisholm, you miserable wretch!” Sarge bawled.

John sprang to attention – an automatic response.

Sarge turned to stride back up the ward. “Bring him to my office, Mr Clark.”

“Come,” said the white-coat shaver, ushering him along to follow Sarge.

Standing outside the office, chaperoned by Clark and waiting for Sarge to invite them in, he wondered what this could be about. Maybe he'd get a beating.

He heard muttering, then the phone being slammed down, followed by something like a curse. “Come in!”

Clark opened the door, nudged him in, and stood erect. “Sir.”

Sarge stood behind the desk. Eyes blazing from a flushed face, hands clenched into large beefy fists.

“Chisholm, you're a fucking high-fallutin' intellectual waste of space. Stand to attention!”

John bristled, but did his best to comply, still clutching his trousers.

“Why the hell would anybody want to see you, eh?”

“I don't know, Sir.” Confusing. This man was surely crazy.

“Nor do I. The Lady High Almighty, our Medical Superintendent's sidekick, rang me about a visit. Now your visitor's come half an hour early – and will have to bloody wait.” He banged his fist on the desk. “Clark, you dress this madman proper, take him down, stay with him, then bring him back to see me.”

“Sir,” replied Clark.

A visitor? His head was spinning. “Who – Sir?”

“Your missus, the stupid bitch.”

Heather! He felt the adrenalin rush as Clark ushered him from the office.