Mad Worlds (21 page)

Heather put Becky down to sleep and the babe nodded off. Good-bye to teething? She put on Elvis's latest record, ‘
Love Me Tender'
, and settled with her book.

Knocking on the door? Yes. She switched on the hallway light.

“Who is it?”

“Sam Newman.”

She unlocked the door and threw it open. “Come in, Sam.” He looked grave.

“Thanks. I have news.” He entered and sat down at the table.

She sat down opposite. “About John?”

“Yes. Oh, it's not to say he's ill or anything.” His expression was more relaxed. “But you'll not be allowed to visit tomorrow, I'm afraid.”

“What! Why?”

“Well, apparently John tried to escape and didn't make it.”

“Escape… and didn't make it?” She forced a deep breath.

“So they tell me.”

“Goodness. Is he hurt?”

“They said he's okay. They've transferred him to the Refractory Ward.”

“Refractory Ward?” Rang a bell. Moira said Parker was Charge Nurse there!

“Yes.” He shifted in the chair, looking at the table. “It's for patients that give them trouble.”

“Are you sure he's been moved?” She took another deep breath.

“Yes. I got the story today, after Springwell rang and asked me to take back a patient who'd escaped and walked into a police station. And,” he looked up at her, “I'm afraid John's not now allowed visitors. I'm sorry, Heather. That's all I'm told.”

Her eyes were misting. She rose. “Cup of tea, Sam?”

“That'd be welcome, thanks. It's been a long day.”

In the kitchen she put the kettle on and got out cups and saucers. John must have been desperate. Were they punishing him, and if so how? Moira said Refractory was for violent patients. Would he be attacked there? Would he ever get out? She spooned in tea and poured boiling water into the teapot, jerkily. “Ouch!”

“What's up?” Sam was on his feet, coming toward her.

Her forefinger stung and was reddening. She laid down the kettle and put the lid on the teapot. “It's okay. I poured hot water on my finger.”

He was at her side. “Cold water.” He turned the tap on. “Keep your finger under it for a few minutes. I'll take the teapot and cups through.”

“Thanks.” Stupid, missing the teapot. A decent man, Sam – caring and unselfish. She turned to watch as he carried the tea from the kitchen.

Her finger was numbed from the soaking. She turned off the tap, returned to the living room and sat at the table facing Sam.

“How's the finger?”

“Okay. Thanks for the first-aid tip.” She reached for the teapot, started pouring the tea and put some in the saucer. “For you. Sorry.”

“No problem. You've had a shock.” He stretched across, lifted the saucer and tilted the tea into his cup. “Nice music. I'm an Elvis fan too.”

Another good thing about Sam. “I'm crazy about his music. John's not so…”

“No. Look, I'm sorry about John. Have you other family?”

“Yes, my parents, but they live a distance away.”

“No sisters or brothers?”

“No. Except…Well, I had a brother. Edward.”

As she started to tell the tale, she sensed an impending deluge. Too late. Her face was streaming. She sat back and accepted Sam's handkerchief. “Sorry. I'm all right now. It's just – with John, and then talking about Edward…” She stopped again, dabbing her face. She must look a mess.

Sam was peering at her. “You sure you're okay?”

“I will be.” She passed the hankie back, and managed a smile. “I won't bore you with the rest of my tale. Anyway, I don't feel like talking about it just now.”

“You're not boring me. And any time you want to tell me, I'll want to listen – to the full story.” He drained his cup and rose.

“Thanks for all your help, Sam.” She followed him towards the door.

He stopped and turned, so that she nearly bumped into him. “I'll keep an ear open about John when I'm at Springwell, and let you know of any change about visiting.”

“Thanks.”

“You're certainly going through it, Heather. Now, don't take this the wrong way. You look like you need a hug. And I'm happy to give you one. No strings.”

She stepped forward into his outstretched arms and they hugged. She clung on. His arms were protective, holding her gently, now clasping her to him. Arousing – something she hadn't felt for ages. But… She withdrew.

He looked flushed as he stepped away. “That feel better?”

“Yes. I'm good.”

He opened the door. “'Bye. Take care. See you soon.”

“Thanks Sam.”

Closing the door, she wondered again. Is he married? She returned to the table and sat a few minutes, replaying what had just happened. She could still feel the comfort of Sam's arms around her, and smell his Brylcreem. When did she last feel aroused like that?

Enough. She picked up her book and tried to read. But images of Sam and imaginings of John being tortured kept coming. She put the Elvis album on to re-play. But somehow that didn't feel right and she switched it off again.

Through the night, waking from dozing, it was Sam's presence she could sense. And her finger throbbed. She got up and took two aspirins. Becky was asleep. Why wouldn't the babe wake up crying, needing Mum's comforting?

*

Newman bounced over the pavement, hardly aware of his leg that dragged. The hug had transported him into a world he hadn't thought he'd experience again – that of long-ago passion and primitive urges. Heather was even more beautiful and sensuous than Ella in her youth.

John knew it would happen. The taunting resumed. Taken by a white-coat into the office on Refractory, he was greeted by Sarge.

He'd never seen Sarge grinning hugely like this. What delight was in store?

“You won't ever leave here, Chisholm. You're lucky though, because your misery will end. I'm getting you a leucotomy. We'll slice your brain – assuming we can find one. It's how we silence troublemakers – and it gives them peace of mind.” Sarge bellowed with laughter.

“Like you did to Kong, you bastard!” A mistake maybe, but he'd nothing to lose.

He offered no fight as he was hoisted by the lapels and shaken. “You call me that again and it will be the last thing you say,” Sarge roared, green eyes bulging from his purple-red face. “And when you dare to address me again, you remember to say ‘Charge Nurse Parker, Sir'. You are scum! I will see you get your come-uppance, Chisholm, this Monday morning's ward round.”

Released from Sarge's clutches (how he'd missed that uplifting sewer breath), he had a question. “Charge Nurse Parker, Sir, may I ask –?”

“You may not!” Sarge bawled, and nodded to the white-coat standing erect and poised. “Take this abomination to the airing court.”

*

Trudging round, John could think only of Sarge's leucotomy threat. Mac told him a leucotomy “Not only changes but damn well extinguishes a guy's personality.” To punish troublemakers! And crucifying, compared with the electric shock stuff. The Shocker was a battering – that he'd about recovered from – but “A leucotomy,” Mac had said, “can mean living death for life.” Could it erase his treasury of memories?

A scandal, anyone undergoing such horrors in the name of treatment! He'd be better off in prison, serving his sentence without ‘treatment' and then being freed.

John woke early and lay seething. Kong had joined the unhappy band, de-humanised in the guise of treatment! And now he himself was to be rendered a bona fide zombie.

Monstrous injustice – an abuse of power to silence and suppress. Like the way officialdom dealt with Da after the accident; though this was probably worse.

Yes, he and his folks had experienced injustice. Hurt that was the downside of being human. It hadn't felt good – but maybe the anger helped fuel the single-mindedness with which he pursued his studies and his career.

He recalled his awakening in early days at uni, to realms of gross injustice he hadn't known. A psychology essay on homosexuality alerted him to how the law and policy discriminated in a way that must violate human rights. While his strongly heterosexual self couldn't figure how guys would want sex with each other, it must be wrong that doing so could earn them a generous break in prison. And mark them as candidates for psychiatric shock treatment!

And talking for the first time with non-white guys gave him insights into the prejudice, sometimes open abuse, that they encountered. Like the sign ‘No blacks or coloureds' outside the odd boarding-house, the ‘N-word' whispered or spoken aloud, stuff through the letter-box, a message on the house wall… While John had read about and admired Gandhi's non-violent stances against discrimination, he hadn't been aware of racist practices in the UK.

His course essays had reflected sadness and anger at suffering caused by racism and homophobia. But what he faced here – a deliberate assault intended to reduce him to a vegetable – was as cruel as anything. And in the name of treatment!

Stirrings on the ward. He'd better get up.

He was on red alert for Micky. Vengeance would be a powerful motivator for the ex-Broadmoor man; and the last thing he'd recalled about that incident was hate staring from Micky's eyes. A scary mad beast!

In a fair fight, he'd beat Micky. But was there such a thing in here? The likelihood was an onslaught that would surprise him. Micky might even recruit his ex-Broadmoor pals to help in the bashing.

There were a lot of patients on this ward, and an army of white-coats. He searched patients' faces, without seeing Micky's. Maybe still in a cell?

He did, though, find Paranoid Pat, standing, head bowed, in a corner of the dayroom. “Pat – it's John,” he said.

Pat didn't look up, and whispered corner-of-the-mouth, “I know.”

Strange. But on Refractory everything was. “Why're you whispering?”

“Buggers'll be watching us.”

Good point. Co-conspirators, surely facing mega torture. “They caught you.”

“Surrendered myself – though they still gave me the K.O. to get me here. No money or fags. And I've some business with Nosey.”

A white-coat was heading their direction. Pat slouched away.

*

In the night, John lay wondering. What did ‘some business with Nosey' mean? A deal with the almighty Charge Nurse Parker? Impossible. Or an assault? No hope there. Pat was a wiry fellow, but even catching Sarge off guard he'd be squashed.

Yet Pat ‘didn't lie'? Intriguing.

*

In the morning John asked a white-coat about Micky.

“Sent back to Broadmoor.”

So that threat had gone. But in this cauldron, he couldn't ever relax.

After breakfast a tumultuous brawl drew in the white-coated army. He spied Pat and went over to whisper “What about your business with Nosey, Pat?”

“Nosey's gonna see the god Monday, get my brain sliced.”

So that was it. The dreaded leucotomy. “I'm on the same hit list, Pat.” Pat glanced across the ward. The fight hadn't finished. “I'll kill Nosey.”

“You've no chance.”

For the first time, he saw a smile on Pat's face. “Maybe I have.”

“Oh?”

“I've a wee blade. Got it outside, put it up my bum, then hid it in here.”

He didn't ask where. This was just Pat's madness!

*

But after the meal that evening, John heard a loud growl – ‘Nosey Parker', from along the ward – then a wild-animal howl of fury. He turned to watch.

Sarge, red-faced and cursing, had lifted Pat by the lapels. High. Back went the head and the stiff upper torso for a harder-than-usual headbutt. Then the incredible happened. Pat's hand swept across Sarge's exposed neck, and the brute dropped to the floor, blood spurting from the wound.

Hunched over his desk, losing the battle to catch up with paperwork, Newman kept yawning. Work had been consuming, and home more demanding of his presence, with both his wife and daughter pretty depressed and relationships in the household increasingly fragile. The days had flown without him asking about Chisholm and visiting. But now he had what he needed to justify calling on Heather.

The phone had wakened him around four a.m. He'd thought the GP was panicking. “A Mrs Black's rung. Her husband Sid went mad. Got out of bed, stood raving, and then chucked a bible through the bedroom window.”

“So he shattered the glass?”

“No, he opened the window first.”

“Is he violent?”

“No, but his wife's afraid he might kick off.”

Probably a domestic. “I'll go later in the morning.”

“No. I need you to go now! I told her you'd be there.”

So he'd gone. As well he had. Entering via an unlocked door, after knocking went unanswered, he heard a scream. The wife? He found her – staring, wide-eyed – in the kitchen doorway.

“Sam Newman, Mental Health. Your doctor asked me to call.” He followed her stare. A night-capped man stood by the back door, breadknife in hand. “Sid Black?”

The man nodded. “The Devil's in that bible. Tilly don't believe me. She mustn't go out the back.”

“Sid, that's our family bible. I'm going out.” She took a step, and screamed.

Sid had raised the knife, waving it. “I can't let you, Tilly.”

“Stay back here, Tilly,” Sam cut in. “Sid, how do you know the Devil's there?”

“The master told me. You welfare mysteria won't believe it. Go away.”

Deluded – sounded paranoid schizophrenic.

A good hour and a half later, Sid had dropped the knife and, muttering, slumped into a chair.

Newman had summoned the police and followed the van to Springwell. He'd arrived there just as men came in for the early shift. The business of certifying completed, he'd got from Jock Mackenzie the date of next visiting, and the okay to phone Refractory. He wanted news of Chisholm.

Charge Parker responded, “That murdering bastard. No visits – ever!” Then Parker's tone softened with, “Give my regards to Mrs C.” And the line went dead.

How did Parker know Heather?

The important thing was that he had a valid, pressing reason to call on Heather. He'd go this evening, when the child would be in bed.

He yawned, and lit another fag. He could feel the adrenalin buzz. He'd see the woman he lusted after. The sensuous memory of that hug, where she clung to him, ranked with his all-time highs. She'd been about ready to give herself to him.

Career suicide, an affair could be. But in any case how much longer could he stand this job? Impossible sometimes! The action with patients was okay. The rubbish pay, being forever on call and short on sleep, weren't exactly plus factors. And support? He was ‘Senior' to a non-existent team.

Enough daydreaming. Must get on. This paperwork was doing for his head.

Ringing. The internal. He lifted the receiver, and held it away from his ear. Mary. “Boss wants to see you. Now.”

He limped up to the MOH's office and knocked on the door.

The boss sat at his desk. “Sir, you want to –”

“Yes, sit down. We interview for Carter's successor next week, on Thursday, six o'clock. If you're free, be there. We've two candidates – Grayson from last time, and Jonathan Little, Springwell's Assistant Chief Male Nurse. Little comes with sound qualifications and excellent references. His is a late application, but it is very welcome. He's obviously outstanding. I met him at Springwell. A nice young man, and highly intelligent.” The MOH stood up.

He hadn't met Little, but the grapevine around Springwell told him the man was having a breakdown and being given a brilliant reference to try to get rid – to a DAO job somewhere, anywhere. He too rose. He'd say something. “Sir –”

“Newman, I have pressing matters to address.”

What was the point? Chances were he'd be landed with another useless DAO to wet-nurse. He exited the room.

*

Newman knocked softly on the door of number 90. It was seven-thirty – Becky could still be awake. A light went on in the hallway. “Who is it?” he heard.

“Sam,” he whispered through the letterbox.

The door opened. Heather. “Come in, Sam.”

He entered and stood there, briefcase in hand. Expecting a hug. Daft. He followed Heather to the living room and sat down at the table opposite her. Elvis's ‘
Love Me Tender'
was playing. “Nice music.”

“Yes, I play it a lot. Tea?” Those soft brown eyes were appealing, wooing him.

“Thanks.” She rose. That figure!

He looked at the records on the table and started sorting through them. ‘
Heartbreak Hotel'
, ‘
Hound Dog
'…

“I'll try not to burn my finger this time.” She was shouting from the kitchen.

He got up and went to join her. “You'd better not.” He stood in the doorway, admiring her. “How is your finger?”

“It's healed.”

“Let me see.” He advanced into the kitchen.

She held out a hand. “There.”

He examined her finger, then kissed her hand. She was gazing at him invitingly. Next, she was clinging to him. They stood hugging while the kettle boiled. He kissed her on the lips. Intoxicating, to have her body meshed with his. A familiar stiffening below and full arousal. Heaven.

But she was withdrawing. Her face was flushed. “The kettle.” She wriggled away and switched off the gas. “I'll get the tea, Sam.”

Damn that kettle. “Right.” He went back to the table and sat down.

She came with the tea, sat down and poured it into the cups. Her aim was amazingly true. She must have regained her cool. She stood up. “Let's have another Elvis.” She picked one up from the table.

Sam heard the strains of ‘
Hound Dog
'. “Elvis is King,” he mused aloud. And was ‘
ain't nothing but a hound dog
' a message for him, a man still aroused?

“Why did you call, Sam?”

“I've been to Springwell. Next visiting day's on Saturday 24
^th
, but the Charge Nurse on Refractory, Parker, said John's still not allowed visitors, I'm afraid.”

She looked glum, upset. He was aching to hug her again. But she rose, went to the sideboard and got out a tissue. “They're punishing John.”

“Could be. Parker said your husband hated you. ‘Murderous' was the term he used.”

She was stroking her chin. “I see.”

“Oh, he said he knows you, and to convey his warmest regards.”

“He visited the house once ages ago, to tell me about John.”

She sounded evasive. Had Parker had a hug, or more? “Sorry about John.”

“Thanks Sam, you've been very kind.” She stroked her chin again. “Won't your wife be wondering where you are?”

He forced a smile. “Wife? I've no such problem.”

“Really? Well, I'd like to hear more about you, Sam, if you have time. I notice you're limping.”

An invitation. He'd talk about anything but family. “A war wound. An enemy plane strafed us at Dunkirk, and my leg got in the way of bullets.”

“Gosh, at Dunkirk – you were nearly killed.”

“Yes.” He'd been terrified. A cold sweat was breaking on his forehead.

He felt his hand being squeezed. Heather had stretched her arm across. “Are you okay?” She looked concerned.

“I'm fine. Thanks.” He squeezed her hand back, and she withdrew it. “It's harder than I thought to talk about Dunkirk.” He managed a smile.

“Your work must be stressful, Sam. Are you ever threatened, or attacked?”

“Threatened? Yes. Attacked? Rarely, though I'd a close call last year. I suddenly found myself helpless in the air over a stairway banister three floors up, held aloft by this giant enraged at the mention of Springwell. Luckily the guy started to howl and weep, and grounded me on the safe side of the banister.” He pulled out a hankie and wiped his brow.

She looked impressed. “Gosh, Sam!”

He glanced at his watch. Nearly nine-thirty. Better go, otherwise he'd meet a barrage from Ella, and probably Helen, who moped around the house these evenings. “I hadn't realised it was so late. I'm on call. I'll tell you more another day.”

He rose, picked up the briefcase and went towards the door. He turned in the doorway. She was standing back. Keeping her distance? He'd ask. “A hug?”

She smiled, but didn't move. “I think one's enough for this evening, Sam.”

Teasing him? “You're right, Heather. I'll call when I get more news of your husband.” He went out onto the pavement.

She was at the door. “Thanks again, Sam.”

He got in the car and revved up. Ella's suspicions were now spot on.