Mad Worlds (13 page)

Survive? John was regaining strength. Escape? He couldn't see a way.

Now his mind was blocked, like it wasn't his own. Over the next few dreary routine-laden days, waves of hopelessness kept coming to replace his fury and torment over his lovely Heather. She and Becky could manage better without a lunatic husband and father. He'd be in there forever and nobody would care. In fact, did he care? He might as well be dead.

Suicide? But how could he top himself anyway – imprisoned, closely guarded? With braces or a belt, he could have tried hanging; but he didn't even have shoelaces, and the sheets were too coarse and strong to do anything with. The windows had bars and were too near the ground anyway. Overdosing was out – with everything stashed in a locked medicine cupboard in the office – as was poisoning, with the bleach locked away. The cutlery was either rubber or too blunt to go through paper.

No. He'd decided against trying suicide. Yet at nights the thoughts kept coming and rolling around in his head. Suicide was a crime. Ridiculous. It was
his
life, and his choice whether to try ending it. And they could scarcely prosecute if you succeeded. Though technically, couldn't they do your family? And what if you botched it? Yes – even to attempt it was a crime.

And suicide was a mortal sin, condemning you to eternal damnation, old Father Murphy had said. You'd no right to kill any human that God had created. God would punish eternally anyone who acted to end their misery? Scary stuff, that didn't square with the central messages of Christianity, about love and compassion.

No, he would not kill himself. But somebody might kill him. Maclean's warning about ‘the odd violent psycho' had been noted; though so far John hadn't seen much to worry about in his fellow patients.

He saw plenty glowering, heard a lot of groaning and grunting, and longish muttering and ranting (often into empty space, and ignored by the white-coats – unless directed at one of them). Tensions simmered between a few patients and sometimes these erupted into noisy skirmishes, whereupon the parties were speedily rendered unconscious. And each protagonist was taken to a cooler – yes, there was another adjacent to the one he'd been in. But no, if there were psycho patients (whatever that meant; maybe everybody locked in the bin was one), he hadn't seen behaviour he'd consider seriously threatening.

Not scary, though sometimes weird. Strangest was a guy, didn't look much older than himself, who stood babbling, face twitching, in the dayroom one evening.

He'd strained to follow the babble, but it sounded like nonsense verse. Then suddenly the man froze, silent and statuesque. Was this a game? The man was still, bent forward, his eyes staring ahead, like a figure in a tableau.

“Don't touch him.” Clark now stood facing the man. He waved a hand in front of the man's eyes without producing a blink. “A catatonic stupor, I think. Is it, Sir?”

“Yes, Clark, that is correct.” Sarge pushed past Clark, bawled an obscenity and pinched the man's arm – without response – then held up a large safety pin. “Now, we'll see if the patient's kidding.”

Sarge yanked the man's trousers down and stabbed the buttock firmly through the long johns. Predictably savage. Amazingly, there was still no response, though the man's face seemed to redden. “Classic. Sort it, Clark.” Sarge walked off, trailed by a white-coat.

“Get back,” ordered Clark to the assembled patients. “Fairnie probably knows everything that's going on.” From a tin in his pocket, Clark took out cotton wool and a piece of plaster, then looked round. “Chisholm, the man'll be okay. Best if you don't stand gawping.”

He'd been mesmerised by the horror show. “Sorry.” He moved away.

There was more menace among the white-coats. Sarge was an outstandingly sadistic bully, gratuitously shoving or kicking patients or grabbing them by the lapel and headbutting. With John, the assaults were verbal – sneering or taunting. Well, sticks and stones… Keep the head down – and someday the dark alley!

Though none of the white-coat underlings could begin to rival Sarge's brutality, John was cautious about them. Mullen and Clark and associates he'd thought were okay. Yet they too could behave a bit like camp guards in that war film where the captors looked nice guys but were ruthless killers. No – any white-coat could be menacing, as a player in this regime. But Sarge was a sadist, out to do him. Niven had shown similar form – good riddance from the ward.

He was getting to know one or two patients. Opposite at lunch yesterday, a small balding middle-aged man kept grimacing. Afterwards, in the dayroom, the man came to sit next him, tapped him on the forearm, and whispered in his ear, “Ssht. You mustn't tell anyone.”

Mysterious, but he was to be the repository of something important and confidential. “I won't,” he whispered back.

The man whispered, “I'm called George – my real name. But,” he paused, glancing around, “I'm a famous science fiction author.”

Gosh, he was in the company of the high and the mighty. First Ginger the lord, now George the best-selling author. John too glanced around. There was nobody near, though a distant white-coat seemed to be looking their way.

“Science fiction – sounds interesting.” He didn't read science fiction and didn't know names of authors from that genre.

“My books are –” George sprang up from the chair, looked quickly around, then sat down and whispered into his ear. “I get my plots via rays from Jupiter.”

John tried to digest this information. “Uh-huh.”

George continued, “I've not told anyone my pen name, and nobody here knows of my writing.”

Intriguing. “What is your pen name?”

George's face twitched, and he whispered, “Ssht. I cannot tell that to anyone, not even you.”

“But how will I know I'm reading your books?”

George glanced around quickly. “You won't. And they mustn't know I'm famous, or the thought police will torture me. I know they suspect, as they all watch me closely and they've extracted energy from me.” A white-coat was approaching. “Mum's the word.” And with that, George moved away speedily.

They hadn't spoken since. But today after breakfast he saw George, finger on lips, winking at him conspiratorially.

The fellow patient he liked most was Ginger – ‘m'lord' had settled for this name. John was pleased when they managed to pair up for the airing court.

“My estate's in Bedfordshire. I should be there now, instead of my little brother. He put me in the loony bin.”

“Why? You don't seem mad.”

“I'm not, but I did crack up. Thought I could rule the world and everything rocketed out of control. They stuck me in a private asylum – a palace compared to this dump. Manic-depressive, they said, and wouldn't let me out. Miserable runt said the money's running low and got me sent here. Much cheaper – huh!”

Ginger sounded more believable than George. Delusions of grandeur? He'd read about these when he'd looked up the book on schizophrenia. Ginger was surely crazy. His stories were so far-fetched.

“Before the war, I toured the capitals of Europe. I won and lost fortunes in the casinos. The women swarmed round, wanted money and a title.” As they plodded along, John would lose track of the tales, which were told in a loud stage whisper. He could almost hear Da's periodic moan about those ‘high and mighty wastrels, the curse of this country', and see Ma shaking her head, disagreeing. Ginger would prattle on, as if no audience was needed.

Sometimes Ginger probably did not have an audience. Though the tales were entertaining – reminiscent of
1001 Nights
– John tended to switch off into his inner world. Images and fleeting thoughts came and evaporated, like they were stolen. As though part of him wasn't there – oddly detached from himself and his surroundings. Dream-like, without dreams. Or more aptly, nightmarish.

One day he heard, “Carrot-top.” Niven. An outstanding figure with his flaming mop of hair, Ginger didn't appear to notice. Certainly the whispered prattle didn't cease.

“Carrot-top, get your fat arse over here,” bawled Niven.

Ginger ceased talking and swung to waddle towards Niven. John too stepped out of the column, and hung back, avoiding confrontation but ready to act if his friend was set upon.

“Do you know who I am, my man?” Ginger, majestic in facing the aggressor.

“You are a fucking piece of shite. Get your hair cut.” Niven shoved Ginger, making him stumble. “Get back in your line. You too, Chisholm.”

“Stupid man,” Ginger muttered, as they resumed plodding round, then prattled on like nothing had happened. Maybe mad, but a great companion.

On the ward, there was no such incident. In fact, Sarge and his gang seemed to treat Ginger with respect – even had the guy in well-fitting clothes.

*

It blew up suddenly. John had noticed the trusty Mackay, a giant known as ‘Kong' (after the legendary gorilla King Kong). A man who commanded respect among fellow patients, yet was clearly subservient to Sarge and his gang. A man who'd at first seemed capable only of growling, and soon proved verbally fluent and amiable. A man who ambled, yet moved at speed on his cutlery task. Not a man to provoke.

After tea, the white-coats lined them up in a queue – apparently randomly, in a long single file that began a few feet short of the hatch in the office and stretched as far as their dining area. This was strange. He started, as a voice immediately behind him boomed out, “What's this for?” Ginger – good question.

“Boss is doing medicines tonight,” Clark said. “Wants it like this.”

Sarge, standing by the office door, surveyed the line, then bawled, “Scum are ready. Open the hatch.”

The procedure started, with Sarge barking out names. Clearly the queue was not a queue. It was a line-up that a patient left on hearing his name – to get medicine at the hatch.

“I say,” observed Ginger loudly, “I'm fed up having to stand around like this!”

For a moment there was silence, then came a low-pitched command, unmistakably from Sarge. “Mackay, sort the bugger.”

John reacted to a yelp behind him, to see Ginger on the ground moaning, and Kong's foot swinging lightning-fast into the body. There was another yelp, then silence. Kong's leg swung back – foot poised in the air.

The white-coats were standing by! He charged Kong, knocking the big man back a pace, and started wrestling. That unarmed combat stuff from the army was handy – and his strength was back. He held the giant in a lock, then felt himself grabbed – by white-coats (he saw the sleeves). With both arms pinned, he had to let go. He was driven backwards, then turned. The floor loomed.

“The legs.” Sarge again.

A weight crashed onto his legs. He felt a sharp pain in the bum and then everything faded.

*

John came to in semi-darkness and silence. That smell. The cooler. His body wasn't right. Not aching all over, but not right. Maybe they'd put something noxious into him. He'd heard of medical experiments with humans, and Sarge didn't like him. He turned over on the mattress to lie face down. They'd spied on him before and they'd be doing it again.

A grating sound, and a shaft of light appeared. “Chisholm.” An unfamiliar voice, clear yet hesitant. “We're coming in. Don't try anything.” Some chance. He raised himself to face the incomers and lay propped by his elbows.

Two white-coats stood over him. “We've to give you parahaldehyde,” said the man. Broad Scots – hadn't heard him before. “Enough to give you the K.O.”

He didn't know either of these guys. Aliens?

“We're the night shift.” They'd read his thoughts. Spooky!

He warmed to the smell that meant sleep. “Right, give me the dope.” He opened his mouth to receive the blessed liquid and gulped it all greedily. He was thirsty.

“You've to stay in the cooler a while yet.”

His next question answered. His thoughts
were
being read. He drowsed off.

John struggled to open his eyes. His head was thudding. He was still in the cell. Somebody was shaking him. A white-coat.

“Wakey, Chisholm.” Mullen. “You're going back on the ward. Now! I'm on duty in a minute.” Glad to oblige, John stumbled out of the cell towards his bed, escorted by Mullen.

“No breakfast today – just a mug of water. And no medicine after.”

Weird. “Why?”

“I'll explain later,” the retreating nurse yelled.

Mullen wasn't joking. After he'd been shaved, had his supervised wash, been to the bog and struggled into his wretched clothes, John was escorted to the dayroom to sit out breakfast. The mug held little water. He was being punished.

He sat, replaying last night's incident. He hadn't figured Kong for violent, but the guy must be a henchman of Sarge. And Ginger got a kicking – probably into unconsciousness.

Serious! And Ginger was his friend. He sprang from his chair, walked as quickly as his constraining anti-escape apparel would allow, scanned the after-breakfast medicines line-up and looked in the dormitory. No sign. Had they killed Ginger?

Joining the line for the airing court, he looked around again. No Ginger!

“Chisholm.” Neck twisting out from Sarge's office, Mullen was shouting. “Stay in the dayroom.”

Well, at least Niven and co. wouldn't get at him in the airing court. He sat down and watched his fellow patients leave the ward. A lone white-coat sentry remained, posted by the door of the dayroom.

Mullen came out of Sarge's office and shouted, “Bring Chisholm here.”

He shuffled along with his white-coat minder. Sarge was going to bawl him out. Entering the office, he was confronted by Mullen, who sat in Sarge's chair. He looked around. No Sarge, thank goodness.

“Chisholm, boss said you've to start ECT today. The god ordered it for your schizophrenia. That's why you had no meal – they don't want you sicking all over.”

“What do you mean, ECT?”

“It's electro-convulsive therapy. Shock treatment. Most patients have had it. But –” Mullen hesitated, “you've to get the all-clear on your physical first, and Doc Singh's coming to check you out.”

Dodgy. They were going to mess him about with electricity. “But I –”

“Doctor'll be here any minute,” Mullen cut in. “I'll start by taking your pulse. Hold out your arm and keep it still.”

John did so and felt Mullen hold his wrist, searching for the pulse. “Patient's ready – over thirty, say ‘when'.” “When,” came from behind – the other white-coat. Mullen – wary eyes boring through him – kept holding his wrist. This was like some kind of slow dance. Not a partner he'd have chosen. “Thirty,” came from behind.

“Right,” said Mullen, and let go of the arm. “Thirty-six. Good.”

“A romantic numbers game?” He didn't expect an answer. This elaborate approach to pulse-taking must reflect their fear that he'd cut loose.

“You'll be having ECT this morning.” Mullen swung round. “Ah, Dr Singh. The patient's pulse is seventy-two, normal.”

The turbaned doctor had joined them. “Thank you, Mr Mullen. Good morning, Mr Chisholm. How are you feeling?”

This guy was at least civil. “Doctor, I don't want any shocking treatment.”

“Ah, the consultant has ordered it to treat your mental condition. But you have been critically ill with the pneumonia. We must establish whether you are physically fit again.” Dr Singh gestured to a chair. “Please sit down and remove your upper clothing so that I can examine you.”

John sat down and stripped to his waist. He felt the cold stethoscope as the doctor tapped his chest in several places, then did likewise to his back.

“Hmm, I detect murmurs.” Turning to Mullen, the doctor said, “Treatment will be delayed for seven days, until next Monday. I will return then to examine the patient.”

Mullen looked disappointed. “The boss, Mr Parker, said the patient'd be fit. He cut up rough last night and they put him in seclusion till I came on this morning. With his pulse being normal, I thought…” Mullen paused, looked unsure.

He
cut up rough?

“But there are murmurs. There would be a risk I cannot sanction. You will note this and inform Mr Parker, please. I must go.”

Well done, Doctor
.
They wouldn't be putting electricity through him – yet.

When Dr Singh left, Mullen turned to the white-coat. “Take him to court.”

So John trudged round with an ache in his stomach where food should have been. He kept his eyes lowered when he heard Niven taunting.
Survive!

After lunch, he asked Clark about Ginger. “He was hurt pretty bad, I heard. I think he's in Infirmary.”

At least Ginger survived the kicking. Would he live, and come back? Funny. Their backgrounds were worlds apart, and he hardly knew the guy (who sounded mad). And the nobility reeked of unfair privilege. But his close affinity with this likeable and entertaining man was the nearest thing to a friendship in here.