by Paul Sayer
THE COMFORTS OF MADNESS
BY
PAUL SAYER
The Comforts of Madness is the unvoiced monologue of a 33-year-old catatonic patient in a mental hospital ... Peter’s moving dissertation bears witness to a world which denies all rights to the mentally ill ... Lucidly and economically written, Paul Sayer’s novel is a remarkable achievement.
The Sunday Times
Paul Sayer’s powerful and challenging novel is reminiscent of Franz Kafka’s “The Hunger Artist”, another short work that takes on such endless themes as art, appetite, volition and the death-in-life that is psychosis. Like Kafka’s story, “The Comforts of Madness” is wild, extreme, and slightly unbelievable, yet it rings absolutely true.
New York Times
Undoubtedly gripping and, in the best way, shocking.
The Independent
The Comforts of Madness is surely sad, but enthralling in its excellence.
New York Newsday
Sayer’s extraordinary achievement is to have combined a deep imaginative empathy with a vigorous unsociological broadside on the treatment of the mentally ill, and to have done so quite without sentimentality.
The Times
The Comforts of Madness compares to Camus’s “The Stranger”.
Los Angeles Times
A remarkable first novel.
The Guardian
First published in Great Britain 1988 by Constable and Company Limited 10 Orange Street, London WC2H 7EG
Copyright © 1988 by Paul Sayer
Set in Linotron Palatino 11 pt by Rowland Phototypesetting Limited Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
Printed in Great Britain by St Edmundsbury Press Limited Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
British Library CIP data
Sayer, paul
The comforts of madness
I. Title
823’.914[F]
ISBN 0 09 468480 4
eBook ISBN 9780094684805
To Anne and Simon
THE COMFORTS OF MADNESS
ONE
I had hoped to remain unturned, but it was not to be.
The night nurse came with the first ashes of dawn, ripping back the bedcovers, sighing audibly then tossing back the counterpane while he went in search of clean linen. I had fouled the bed, but it would not be much; I did not shit much, was never one for it, a smear on the pad, a marble on the draw sheet, nothing more. The heavy young man returned saying, ‘Come on, out of it.’ He re-exposed my nakedness, cupped one hand behind my neck and with his other gripped one of my rigid, crossed forearms to pull me up into a sitting position at the side of the bed. By clamping my head under his arm he was able to rustle up the draw sheet behind me and position the clean one across more than half the mattress. He picked up my legs, forcing me on to my back and heaved me over the hillock of wet cloth, leaving me lying on my other side. He whipped the wet linen on to the floor, made one frustrated effort at trying to straighten my legs which had a habit of contracting up beneath me when I was in bed, before neatly replacing the sheet, blanket, and counterpane and returning about his weary business of checking the rest of the patients in the dormitory.
None of this was particularly remarkable; it was the same every morning: I was turned before the day staff came to give the red, grey-centred bony points on my body time to resume their normal colouring, thus offering clear evidence that the night nurse had been active, conscientious in the pursuit of his duty, and had not been sleeping instead of keeping watch over the thirty or so men who snored, cursed, howled or simply, like myself, lay awake under his care. I heard the click of his cigarette lighter somewhere up the dormitory and, save for the sound of his sharp inspirations, all was now quiet in this the quietest hour of the night. The heavy, hot young man smoked on in ignorance of the fact that he had missed the man in the bed next to mine.
I should not normally have concerned myself with this man, a new admission, come during the night, weepy and passive as he emptied his pockets and stripped off the clothes which the night nurse dropped in a black plastic bag and carted off somewhere, I don’t know where. I believe I had been asleep, really sleeping, for a few minutes, maybe an hour or two, rare for me, when I woke to see the new man, a ghostly grey in the whispery blue of the night light, grey the same as everything in that light, blade between thumb and forefinger, pummeling at his cheek and neck with a quiet, enduring commitment, lining his stubbled skin, letting out occasional soft gasps before he weakened and laid himself to sleep, to die, the light catching as black the blood which ran down him and disappeared under the sheet.
I, of course, would be to blame for this man’s demise. Somehow I would be at fault, as surely as if I had stolen from my bed and murdered the fellow myself. Me. The stiff one, old clay-boots with his clay head and his old clay balls, a scarcely breathing hotchpotch of hair, skin and bone, who flexed not the smallest extremity, not even a toe, who lay all night like a corpse himself, who had not spoken a word in anyone’s living memory- me, I would be to blame for the nurse’s failure to rest a finger on that short blade the man had somehow secreted into the locker between his bed and mine. They might even try to say I had put it there myself.
And yet somehow I would have to accept that, perhaps, in the way all things that happen in this world melt together, are responsible for their reshaping, reincarnation as other events, other causes, yes, somehow, I might have been at fault over this man’s death. I had never seen him before, it is true, but I would accept whatever retribution was to come my way, for that way one survived, endured, lived on, for what it was worth.
I watched the plain grey curtains and thought about the man at my back. In the hospital grounds a peacock screeched and the blood in my veins moved an inch or two. The daylight seemed early and strong and the curtains became patterned with houses or cathedrals or something. Then they came, the day staff, at the end of the dormitory, their jocularity masking the loathing they felt at having to face another day in this place. After an agony of time one came closer, was behind me saying, ‘Fuck,’ before he ran soft-footed for his colleagues.
The Head Nurse arrived, I could smell him behind me, and before drawing the curtain that divided the man’s bed from my own he snapped, ‘Get him out of here,’ this being the signal for two dark-suited young men to be upon me in an instant, chasing time the way a dog, I believe, chases its own tail. They worked in a frenzy, squeezing my crackling wrists, hauling me up from the bed, slamming empty locker drawers as they took it in turns to glean for clothing. Soon they were pushing my poker arms into a shirt and pullover, the rightful owners of which I did not know. They decided against a tie, an item of clothing easily ignored in times of haste, then one hugged me tightly from behind while the other yanked up my trousers lined, as always, with a fat incontinence pad. Socks, shoes, and I was ‘done’.
They put me in a wheelchair, naturally, for how else, if you were so inclined, would you shift a creature like me? They had long ago, it seemed, given up the pretence of trying to rehabilitate me, struggling daily to try and get me to bear my own weight, feed myself, wipe my own arse. No one seemed more than superficially bothered, and I was happy to have it that way. It seemed as if they had contented themselves with the fact that I still lived, somehow, in spite of my thanatophile appearance and demeanour. So I was carted around in a wheelchair, naturally. Easier. For all concerned.
In their worry for haste these two young men became unnecessarily aggressive, slamming my bad bones into the chair when it would have been just as easy to let me drop. How badly they wanted me out of the way, out of the dormitory to some unused corner of the ward, or even some other part of this rambling hospital; if it had been any later in the morning I am sure they would have sent
me straight to work in the Industrial Unit without a thought that I had had no breakfast, meagre though my intake of food was. At times like this they were inclined to show a certain impiety. ‘What shall we do with him?’ asked one. ‘We could put him outside,’ came the reply. ‘Or in the toilet. Anywhere. It doesn’t really matter.’ The two of them broke into a relief of laughter. Boys, they were just boys. I knew, however, that their real wish was to be back at the dead man’s side, watching, morbidly intrigued no doubt, hopeful of catching sight of some protruding piece of artery which they might be able to name and so impress the Head Nurse. In their giddy indecision they left me at the windowed entrance to the ward - hardly a discreet place - before running back to the dormitory. At any other time I found that place comforting - since I was so prominent, I was curiously ignored by all who passed by me, each assuming, perhaps, that I was the responsibility of someone else. From there I could spend whole hours watching the grounds, wondering at the gardens and their outlines, the rockeries and lawns stepped at mystifying, useless levels. I could see the gardeners unload long-handled tools from their barrow to begin, uncommittedly, turning the cold caked earth in the barren flower-beds. I could fretfully guess at the business of other hospital staff, residents too, as they slouched, jaunted, ran before me, not that their doings should have been any concern of mine - what difference did it make to me? Still, it was a nice game, though not one I could indulge myself with on this particular morning. The sight before me pained my eyes: a thick icing of snow had fallen, gently, furtively, it seemed, to surprise all those asleep in the windless night. A few people were about, their faces bleached and gladdened by the snow, but they paid me no attention as they slithered past the ward, ignorant of the drama within. The dirty white and scarlet livery of an ambulance caught my eye as it bobbled at a funereal pace past the Infirmary, moving away at first then travelling laterally, past the laundry where the early steam of the day was being gobbed from vents in its long, windowless walls. The vehicle turned towards me, heading straight for me, slowly, tentatively, its front wheels probing for the limits of the road made indistinguishable from the gardens by the snow. It skidded a little as it turned to back up to the ward. Two women climbed out, opened the back and heaved a stretcher-trolley down to the ground and up to the ward doors. Someone ran from the adjacent office rattling an unneeded bunch of keys, saying, ‘This way. In the dormitory.’ The two women followed, a grainy urgency etched in their faces which I had not been able to detect through the panes of glass and the film of freezing mist that hung above the snow. The doors were left open for the cold to needle my cheeks and finger my ankles. Indifferent patients ambled down from the dormitory in search of cigarettes. One asked me if I had any, then was already on his way before he had finished his sentence. Soon, from the furthest corner of my field of vision - a reddened and greened extremity that was part reality, part supposition - I saw the party returning from the dormitory with the man hoisted over a shoulder, or suspended by the neck, or so it seemed. But this was simply an illusion, or a delusion, I could not decide which for my judgement is poor in such matters. What I saw was a huge bag of blood feeding into the body on the stretcher. Fools, I thought, letting blood to a dead man. What did he want with blood? But then, when he reached me, I heard him whimper, groan like the wind in the trees, and I realized he was still alive.
The group paused before me. Was sentence about to be passed on my part in this sorry affair? ‘What’s he doing here?’ growled the Head Nurse, who must have had a name, I realize, but I’m at a complete loss in trying to remember what it was. ‘Get him out of the way,’ he said. One of the staff, a girl with a remarkable hare-lip, whose name was Tanya, or it may have been, though it was of no consequence since any name would do, hurried to my wheelchair and pulled me back a yard to repair the slight hindrance for which I was responsible. ‘Further, further,’ yapped the Head Nurse, and Tanya drew me back another yard. She was new to the place and would soon learn that by rights she should have taken me to the dining-room straight away, it would have been better for her if she had, but she paused, perhaps bravely seeking to appear somehow unafraid, somehow involved in the affair. One of the young men looked at her seriously. The two ambulance women silently shrugged off any suggestion of assistance as they handed the nearly-dead one from our company and into the back of their vehicle.
Everyone watched as the red and white doors of the ambulance shrank slowly away, turning off between the dark old buildings of the hospital and out of the grounds. Then the Head Nurse broke the silence and the stillness, locking and bolting the ward doors with deliberation.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘You all know what time it is. Get among them. Breakfasts. Quickly.’
TWO
Thus the new man had been taken from us leaving a hole in my mind that had not been there before. I was slipping, had known it for some time – I could not hope to live a life such as mine and expect to be completely unaffected.
It would be unfortunate if I were to dwell too long on this man whose affairs were his own and whose actions, in truth, are only incidental to this, whatever it is, my story, my confession, (my last, I hope). I did not know him personally, though what I saw of his face seemed familiar. I could not be said to know anyone personally unless you were to count those in daily physical contact with me who pinched me to see if I winced, who dragged me here and there bidding me, ‘Lift your arm, do this, do that, do try Peter,’ (that they say is my name, though I have my doubts). No, I knew no one, least of all this newly cut, not dead man. And those that did see me, enacted their business with me, plied their trade as it were, did they ever pause to wonder at this flaky receptacle that passed for a body, to ask themselves if there was any kind of a soul inside, bearing witness to the suns and moons that passed before its eyes? Too much, I’m feeling sorry for myself again and it simply will not do - I can’t afford such silly, empty sentiment. I must return to the toil of recalling the events of that day, that gaudy bauble that hangs yet aloft in the dark vault of my head, waiting, tinkling and dangling, refusing to go away until I have reached for it. Now I stretch and pull it down for you and I see it bright and terrible in my poor mind’s eye. And there are more. I come across them from time to time in some forgotten abyss at the end of some innocent-looking tunnel. They are often tarnished, given to disappearing before my eyes, and sometimes I wish they had not been disturbed but left to sink in the mud rather than come to light to mock and dismay me with their cheap appearance and unreasoned array. But they go nowhere, simply hide, lie in wait, displaced but not destroyed.
On this day, then, I had thoughts only for the repercussion of the man’s actions among the staff. I sensed I was to be implicated, ah God, I knew I was. Their wish to find a scapegoat for the night nurse’s inefficiency would be irresistible. All day on all of the days they were ever mindful of each other, fretting over their various ranks, careful of their appearance in the eyes of the outside world, and incidents like this served only to unite them in seeking reprisal in advance of any allegations made against them. And their extraordinary conclusion in this case would be that I was to blame.
Tanya sighed behind me as she pushed me into the dining-room thinking, perhaps, that she too, in her newness, her conspicuous unfamiliarity with the ways of the ward, would also, somehow, have to absorb part of this unhappiness, this agitation which changed the colour of the air, which was irrational and frightening. The daily routine was in a loathsome chaos - half-way through the morning and not a breakfast had been served nor a pill dispensed. In the cheerless, spotless dining-room arguments were brewing between some of my fellow residents, with disjointed insults and the gobbledygook of our kind being garbled into table tops and against cream-glossed walls. Some, having helped themselves, sat behind mountainous servings of scrambled egg, some eating, some wondering if they should dare. It would be a bad day all round and I would be glad when it was over, I seem to remember thinking. Staff appeared, drafted in from other wards, march
ing through the doors, their very presence placating the unrest as they seated men at tables, gently but firmly asked for quiet, then began dishing food out from the trolley. Tanya went to it and filled a bowl with the watery residue of the egg which that day would serve as my breakfast. This, as with all my food, was given to me by means of a large syringe inserted into the side of my mouth where once there had been teeth. Since my tongue was a dead thing, resting, glued to the bottom of my mouth, I had developed a contractural action using the back of my throat which worked in relation to my breathing out, allowing the passage of small amounts of fluid into my stomach. I did not ask for more, nor did I seem to need it, and this satisfied the staff too since they could be seen to be doing their best with a difficult case, sustaining him with, as they saw it, intense individual attention. My belly growled as the lukewarm, bitty fluid burned a little track down my throat.
Soon slowcoaches and malingerers feigning illness were being chivvied and got ready for the trek through the snow to the Industrial Unit. I too attended this place every week-day, and Tanya wheeled me back to the locked ward doors where she left me to go in search of a coat. She returned and, with the assistance of one of the young men, began prising the ridiculously short garment over my arms, for I was tall if not too fleshily endowed. Then we were out, a party of twelve or so, Tanya with us as one of the more compliant patients pushed me through the slush, against razored blasts of wind, under yellow clouds pencilled with grey.
The industrial workshop was an airy modern annexe to an old wing of the main building. It smelled of something burning faintly nearby. It was set somewhere off the square at the centre of the hospital, exactly where I forget – it’s of no consequence. Inside, that morning, as on every morning, patients from other wards were already at their benches, or making innumerable trips to the toilets, or drinking water from an oily sink at the end of the workshop, or scouring the floors in their insatiable pursuit of cigarette butts which they would re-roll in strips of newspaper. Tanya began taking our men’s coats to put them on the already groaning pegs near the door when the IU Supervisor, I forget his name, Quinn I think, appeared, grumbling. ‘They can manage for themselves. They know where to hang their coats. Except for that one,’ he said pointing a freshly-lit cigarette at me. He watched with his customary bemusement as Tanya struggled with my too-small coat. ‘Here,’ he said as he came over. ‘Like this.’ He gave a sudden violent jerk on my sleeve to free my flaccid arm. ‘Thank you,’ said Tanya blushing. ‘You’re late,’ said Quinn. ‘It’ll be docked from their pay.’