by Nathan Filer
That night I couldn’t settle.
I must have walked the corridor a hundred times, my bare feet getting cold on the floor. Each time I’d see the nursing assistant with his bunch of keys and his tattered red clipboard. Sometimes he’d be sitting in the bright white light at the front desk, other times he’d be lurking in the shadows, peering through the viewing slats into patient bedrooms. Occasionally he’d raise an eyebrow in my direction, and scan his list for my name.
The staff took turns on observation duty – checking the whole ward every fifteen minutes to make sure nobody had done a runner, or worse. I know this because I observed. They observed me. And I observed them.
When your big brother is calling, when it’s finally time to go and play, if you need to escape from a psychiatric ward – the first thing to do is observe.
The next morning I stood sweating into my dressing gown, whilst the nurse selected my tablets from the trolley, popping them through foil and dropping them into a little plastic pot.
‘Here you go, Matt.’
‘Will you tell me what they’re for?’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘I think you can, if you try.’
I was getting to know this nurse quite well. Her name was Claire, or maybe Anna.
‘Have a go,’ she said. ‘They’re your tablets, not mine.’
‘Did you watch EastEnders?’
‘Sudden change of subject—’
‘Did you?’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday. Did you?’
‘I don’t follow it. Was it good?’
‘I’m not sure.’
She handed me the pot of tablets, and filled a second pot with water from a jug.
On psychiatric wards the nurses don’t look like nurses. They don’t wear uniforms like we did at the care home, and they don’t run around carrying straitjackets like you see in films. Claire-or-maybe-Anna wore a pair of jeans and a cardigan. She had a lip-ring, and streaks of purple in her hair. She can’t have been more than a few years older than me.
‘It’s important you talk,’ she said at last. ‘If you don’t open up, say how you’re feeling, how can anyone know how to help?’
That’s the kind of thing they were always saying. Mostly I wouldn’t respond, but this time I did. ‘My tooth hurts,’ I said. ‘Where I chipped it. Mum keeps going on at me. She says she wants my smile back. If you’re not too busy—’
‘You want to go to the dentist?’
‘Only if you’re not too busy.’
It wasn’t like me to ask for anything, and she was clearly pleased that I had. These are the moments they call progress; something to write up in their notes. I know this because I observed. They observed me. And I observed them.
‘Of course we can go. Absolutely we can. Are you registered with a dentist?’
I shook my head and turned away – not wanting to lie out loud, not wanting her to see my thoughts.
‘Not to worry,’ she said. ‘There’s the Emergency Clinic by the train station. We can sometimes get a slot there. Do you know what, Matt? The policeman who brought you here felt so bad you hurt yourself on his watch, he wanted to take you to the dentist himself.’
‘Why didn’t he then?’
I sort of asked that in an angry way. I didn’t mean to, but that’s the way it came out. I’m no good at long conversations. I could feel myself sweating, feel it soaking into the back of my dressing gown.
Perhaps Claire-or-maybe-Anna was sweating too. ‘Well, they’re not— It doesn’t— It doesn’t work that way because of you being on a section. And you were so confused, it was important you came here first. But he was seeking assurances we’d go as soon as we could. And, well, look, why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll see what I can arrange as soon as I’ve finished up here?’
I stood at the sink, watching myself in the mirror.
I hooked a finger behind my tongue and scooped out the chalky mush of tablets, making myself gag. Then I swilled the evidence down the plughole.
It was turning into a bright morning. The curtains in my room were really thin and didn’t properly reach down to the window ledge. I kept an ashtray on the ledge. We weren’t supposed to smoke in our rooms, but I’d started to anyway, and they weren’t being too strict about it. I’d borrowed the ashtray from another patient, in exchange for a few cartons of Kia-Ora. It was one of those heavy cut-glass ones that you used to see in pubs, and the way the morning sunlight hit it, chunks of rainbow were cast across my bedding.
I took off my dressing gown and lay naked on my bed, letting the rainbows fall across my skin. My restless night was catching up with me. I was drifting into the colours, thinking how beautiful they were, when I heard a sort of growling noise.
‘Hello, who’s there?’ The noise growled again. It was coming from under my bed. ‘Who is that? Stop it. Answer me.’
Then it broke into a giggle, and I knew exactly who it was. I didn’t get out of bed, I just leant over the side and slowly lifted the overhanging sheets. The giggle turned to a squeal of delight.
‘I knew it was you.’
His face was painted orange with black stripes, and the tip of his nose was a smudge of black with lines drawn for whiskers.
‘I’m a tiger,’ he grinned. ‘Do I look like a tiger?’
‘The best one ever,’ I smiled.
He growled again. Then he wriggled out on his belly across the floor, ‘I look like a tiger, but I’m slithering like a snake.’
He always struggled with the letter S, a lot of his time in Speech Therapy was spent on that. He’d got slithering like a snake pretty good though, and I knew he’d want to hear it.
‘Very good,’ I said. ‘You’re getting really good, Simon.’
He beamed with pride, then pounced, throwing his arms around me. I let myself fall under his weight. It felt so good to hold him, I could hardly breathe.
His face scrunched up, ‘What were you doing at the sink, Matthew?’
‘Were you spying on me?’
He nodded, making his nods deliberately too big, bending from the waist, laughing, ‘I saw you! I saw you!’
‘Then you know what I was doing.’
He was over at the sink now, peering down the plughole. He could move anywhere in a blink, he could hurtle through time. ‘Why did you spit out your medicine? Won’t you get sick?’
‘You want us to play together, don’t you?’
He looked at me, his expression the most serious I had ever seen. ‘Forever,’ he said. ‘I want you to play with me forever.’
It frightened me a bit, how serious he looked. I felt a shiver of cold and pulled the blanket around myself.
‘I’m eight,’ he said out of nowhere. He counted out eight fingers in the air. Then with deep concentration, his tongue sticking out, he lowered two of them. ‘So you’re six!’
‘No. I’m not six any more.’
He stayed staring at his fingers, confused. I felt guilty for getting older, for leaving him behind; it was hard to think of what to say. Then I had an idea. I reached into my bedside drawer for my wallet, and carefully took out a photograph that I keep.
‘See,’ I said. ‘Do you remember?’
He climbed beside me on the bed, his feet not quite able to reach the floor. He kicked his legs excitedly, ‘At the zoo! At the zoo!’
‘That’s right. See. I’m a tiger too.’
We went to Bristol Zoo for my sixth birthday party and had our faces painted. Nanny Noo took the photograph of us, our cheeks pressed together, we’re both roaring at the camera. She carried it in her purse for years, but when I once mentioned it was my favourite she insisted that I took it. There was no arguing with her, she absolutely insisted.
I had something else in my wallet too, but I didn’t want to show him it. I didn’t want to build his hopes up in case things didn’t work out. It was a folded sheet of paper, tucked away behind my cash card. The war
d receptionist had printed it off the Internet for me a few days before. She was a nice lady, forever chewing gum, proudly chatting to the cleaners about her daughter; the latest piano grade she was going for, how she was a talented tap dancer too.
I’d waited for a lull in their conversation, which didn’t come. She didn’t even pause for breath before turning to me and asking, ‘Can I help you with anything, lovely?’
‘I need an address,’ I said. ‘Can you look something up for me on the computer?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Um— It’s a holiday park. A caravan park. I can’t remember where it is exactly. I think it’s in—’
‘What’s it called, lovely?’
‘Sorry. Yeah. It’s called Ocean Cove. Well, it used to be. I suppose it might have—’
Her long red fingernails were already tapping at the keys, quick as a machine gun. ‘Ocean Cove Holiday Park in Portland, Dorset. Is that the one?’
Dad drove the Ford Mondeo Estate, with Mum feeding him crisps and bites of apple.
Simon was asleep, with a Transformer hugging his knees. I played on my Game Boy until the batteries died. Then we played a game of who would be first to See the Sea. My parents let me win. Mum blew a kiss into the rear-view mirror.
Dad pressed the button to open the sunroof. He said how good salt air made him feel.
As we rolled over a speed bump at the entrance gate, Simon was shaken awake. His eyes widened, he clapped his hands, unable, as always, to find the right words.
‘Is that the one, lovely?’
‘Yes. That’s it. That’s where—’
She clicked her mouse and Google spat the address out, with a small grainy map.
If she’d asked what I wanted with it, perhaps I would have told her the truth. This is where I abandoned my brother, and it’s where he needs me the most.
Maybe that would have shaken her from her trance; she’d tilt her head sympathetically and say, ‘I’ll tell you what, lovely. Why don’t you wait here a minute and I’ll go and see if any of the nurses are free to have a chat with you?’
But she didn’t do that,
had planned for me, and because as I folded the sheet of paper into my wallet she was already explaining to the cleaner how her daughter was seriously thinking about ballet classes too, but there were only so many days in the week.
I jolted bolt upright. The rainbows had gone, so had Simon. Claire-or-maybe-Anna was standing in my doorway. ‘I’ve booked us a taxi,’ she was saying. ‘It should be here in twenty minutes.’
I rubbed at my face with both hands. There was a damp patch of dribble on my pillow. ‘I think someone’s been asleep again,’ Claire-or-maybe-Anna said. ‘You get yourself dressed. It’s a beautiful day, feels like spring might be saying hello at last. I’ll give you a shout when the taxi’s here.’
I splashed my face in cold water and rummaged through the pile of clothes on my bedroom floor. I picked out my green combat trousers and camouflage jacket. I don’t want to be in the army or anything. I was just going through a phase of wearing the gear, to make myself feel less afraid.
I sat back on the bed to lace my boots. ‘I know you’re still under there, Si.’
He was never any good at keeping quiet. It was like when we used to hide behind the door waiting for Dad. As I shut the door, he broke out in a fit of giggles.
Claire-or-maybe-Anna thanked the taxi driver and told him someone from the ward would ring when we needed picking up. In the waiting room the dentist appeared, a hygiene mask clinging tightly to her chin on stretched elastic straps.
‘Matthew Homes,’ she called.
I turned to Claire-or-maybe-Anna, ‘I’d rather go in by myself, if that’s okay?’
She hesitated a moment. ‘Um. Sure. I’ll wait here.’
I told the dentist I’d be right through. I just needed to go to the loo quickly. ‘We’re along the corridor, second on the right,’ she explained. ‘Come through when you’re ready.’
There’s no security at dental surgeries, nobody watching the doors or strutting around with bunches of keys and red clipboards. As it happens, I was registered with my own dentist. But the Emergency Clinic is nearer to the train station.
When your big brother is calling, when it’s finally time to go and play, if you need to escape from a psychiatric ward – the first thing to do is observe. Then get the hard work done for you. Say, Ahh. I’m a mental patient, not an idiot.
sharp scratch
Denise wasn’t best pleased when I came in for my injection the other day, unwashed and hungover.
‘You smell of beer, Matt.’
‘It’s not illegal.’
She shook her head and let out a tired sigh, ‘No. It’s not illegal.’
We’d gone through to the small clinic/let’s-talk-about-how-you’re-feeling-in-yourself room at the end of the top corridor; the one that always smells strongly of disinfectant. That doesn’t help. I can get a bit panicky at injection times and the disinfectant smell definitely doesn’t help.
Denise opened her bag of tricks and I asked if I could have a drink of water. She gestured to the sink, ‘Help yourself.’
I picked up a mug with the complicated name of a medication stamped across the side, and a slogan about Treating Today for Tomorrow. They’re handed out to places like this by visiting drug companies. Last time I went in the office to borrow the Nursing Dictionary, I counted three mugs, a mouse mat, a bunch of pens, two Post-it note booklets and the wall clock – all sporting the brands of different medicines. It’s like being in prison and having to look at adverts for fucking locks. That’s what I should have said too, because it’s a good point I reckon. But I never think of these things until after.
I gulped back the water and poured myself a second mug. Denise was watching me closely. ‘I was up drinking with The Pig,’ I explained. As if me wanting two mugs of tap water needed an explanation. ‘We had a couple this morning too.’
‘Really, Matt. You’re your own worst enemy.’
That’s a strange thing to say to someone with a serious mental disease. Of course I’m my own worst enemy. That’s the whole problem. I should have said that too. Except maybe not, because she looked tired. She looked upset as well. And usually she might give me a little lecture, but this time she didn’t. She didn’t lecture me. You could tell by the way she let out another sigh that she wasn’t going to lecture me. It was a sigh that said: Not today. Today we’ll just get through this.
‘I’m afraid I’ve some very disappointing news,’ she said.
I told you there was a strange atmosphere, didn’t I? I said how you could cut it with a knife. How you could cut it with the crappy blunt scissors they give us in Art Group.
Denise is a woman, which means she can multi-task. That’s what they say, isn’t it? That’s the kind of blah blah blah people drivel.
‘It’s about Hope Road,’ she said. ‘It looks like we may have to scale back the groups, maybe scaling back on everything.’
‘Oh right.’
‘We’ve been fighting it for a while. But services are being cut right across the Trust. Right across the NHS really. And, well, it seems we’re no exception.’
She was looking at me to respond so what I said was, ‘Is your job safe?’
She smiled at me then, but she still looked sad. ‘You’re very sweet. It’s probably safe, yes. But as I say, we will be scaling back. It’s all taken us a bit off guard to be honest. There’s some consultations due later this week. But it doesn’t look— Well, we’ve decided to start letting service users know, so it isn’t such a shock.’
‘Who?’
‘Service Users. Um— Patients.’
‘Oh. Right.’
They have a bunch of names for us. Service Users must be the latest. I think there must be people who get paid to decide this shit.
I thought about Steve. He’s definitely the sort to say Service User. He’d say it like he deserved a knighthood for being all sensitive and em
powering. Then I imagined him losing his job – and to be honest, that caught me off guard. I don’t hate these people. I just hate not having the choice to get rid of them.
‘What about Steve? Is he—’
‘Well, I don’t really want to get into all that. It isn’t my place. I just wanted to let you know about—’
She trailed off, and I couldn’t tell if it was because she was upset, or just concentrating. Perhaps she had to concentrate not to be upset. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked. ‘Do you want some water?’
‘No, no. I’m fine. It’s just a real blow for us.’
She took a deep breath and let it all out slowly, like with the breathing exercises they get us to do. Practise what you preach, I guess. Then she kind of launched into a script. She said all this stuff that you could tell she’d been saying to everyone. About how whatever way things went, she’d still be working with me. She’d still see me at home and help with my forms and budgeting and that kind of thing. And we could still meet in the cafe that we sometimes meet in. Or go to the supermarket together. Then she finished with this bit about how capable and independent she knew I could be – that she has every faith in me. I’m not saying it wasn’t a nice script. I’m just saying it was a script.
But then I think she slipped off the page, because in all the time I’ve known Denise I’ve never once heard her swear. She’s a very calm person. I guess she needs to be. I’ve never known her get rattled or lose her composure, but as she drew up the syringe, her hands shaking a little, I heard her say under her breath. ‘This effing government.’
That’s exactly how she said it too. She said effing. I never knew people said that for real. It was almost sadder in a way. I didn’t like seeing her like that. I don’t like seeing anyone upset. I’m just no good at comforting people. I did think about reaching out to touch her arm, but what if she pulled away? And I could have said it would all be okay, but how could I know that?
And anyway, we’re not really on the same side are we? I reckon that’s why she decided I was taking the piss, when she turned to see me smiling. It was an awkward smile, but you only really know what a smile means when you own the face behind it. Everyone else just sees the smile they expect it to be.