The Comforts of Madness

by Paul Sayer

  I was wheeled to a table on which was a pile of white carrier bags. In a little cage on one corner of the table was a ball of string from which one man pulled and measured individual lengths between two screws in the table top before cutting them and laying them in the centre of the table. Next to him was an old woman who threaded the string into the tops of the carrier bags, knotting it to make a handle. Two men opposite performed the same task. Another, younger woman circulated about the table and my wheelchair collecting each carrier bag as it was finished, placing them on a stool, slipping a piece of paper between each ten until she had a pile of a hundred that she would scurry away with down the workshop. ‘Good morning Peter,’ said the old woman at the table. ‘Aren’t you going to say “good morning” to us, then, Peter?’ ‘He,’ said the man opposite, ‘never says anything, doesn’t Peter. Got his head screwed on, knows to keep his mouth shut. Best way.’ ‘That doesn’t mean’, said the woman, ‘that we shouldn’t be polite to him. I’m sure Peter has feelings, just like the rest of us and, if he could, if he wished to, I’m sure he would be delighted to say “good morning” to us and wish us all the very best of good wishes.’ ‘Humph,’ said the man.

  So began my morning’s ‘work’, though of course I took no physical part in this activity. At the end of each week our productivity was measured by the number of carrier bags which had been strung, and Quinn, with some amusement, stuck a small brown envelope with coins in the bottom into my hand where it remained until I was returned to the wards where the Head Nurse took it from me for depositing in some kind of account I was meant to have. Each week, every day of each week, was just the same, though the weekends were free.

  That morning, as he did every morning, one of the men stringing the carrier bags began to grumble about the wispy, obsessional woman collecting them up. ‘Why,’ he asked, ‘doesn’t she wait until we’ve done a few? That way she could take them all at once and save herself work.’ The woman lifted the latest carrier bag from near his elbow. The man snatched it back. ‘Wait, damn you, why don’t you wait?’ She tussled silently with him, her wide eyes pleading for the carrier bag she was stretching for. Grudgingly he relented and she shuffled off to the pile with her prize. ‘See Peter,’ the old woman said to me, ‘see how they behave. They got no respect for each other, no manners, not like you and me.’

  I wondered where Tanya was. In Quinn’s office, no doubt, where he would be making her giggle with weird stories, might even at that moment be passing a fingertip over her hare-lip, smiling at its contours, saying, ‘I know someone who might be able to fix that for you. At a price.’

  Once, one evening when they had forgotten to take me back to the ward, Quinn came up to me in the workshop, two excitable young patients at his side. He began thumbing through a magazine he had with him which was full of photographs of naked women and men. ‘Let’s see,’ he said, ‘Let’s see.’ When he found what he was looking for, he held the magazine open inches in front of my eyes. ‘Maybe this’ll shift him,’ he said, ‘snap him out of whatever’s supposed to be the matter with him. Come on stone-brain, look at that. How about that for a nice juicy cunt? Bet you’ve never seen one like that before, eh? No sir, bet you’ve never even seen one at all. What do you think boys?’

  His two companions giggled nervously, obligingly. Then Quinn became more serious, tossing the magazine aside and pushing his leathery face right up to mine. ‘What makes you think you’re so special?’ he hissed. Then he smiled again, a hard, empty smile, as he reached down and pulled open the top of my trousers. ‘Any life down here I wonder?’ he said, guffawing, reaching for my prick. ‘Anything stirring down there, Peter m’boy?’

  But he froze before he had reached far enough, halted, certainly, by the same secret doubt I had seen in others, the querulous look and fear that asked, Is there yet someone alive in that shell? Some living human being watching and waiting to come back to life to seek retribution against those who wronged him in his time of indisposition? Might there yet be some ember that could burst suddenly into flame, escaping, falling away to earth like a maggot dropping from a carcase?

  Quinn’s behaviour meant nothing to me - I had long since stopped feeling threatened by such as him. I was no longer afraid, quite used to it, in fact; had been for, I don’t know, a very long time, as long a time as it takes to forget fear.

  One of the patients came round with the tea-trolley. On it were blue cups containing sugared tea and orange cups containing unsugared. And one syringe.

  But I was not to receive this drink.

  The telephone rang in Quinn’s office and behind the frosted-glass partition I could just make out Tanya’s turquoise-clad figure as she jumped up and came to the door. She began pulling on her coat. Quinn, belly jutting, stood in the doorway, eyeing her up and down from behind as she jinked her way through this daft circus he called his workshop. A sense of fate jabbed somewhere in my chest as I realized she was coming towards me. Then she was beside me, slight, dark, a little ugly, reaching for the brakes on the wheelchair. ‘We have to go back to the ward,’ she said. ‘You have a visitor.’

  THREE

  How miserable I was becoming - not like me - on this wretched, wretched day. Sunlight lasered through the clouds and filled my eyes with yellow blindness as Tanya wheeled me through the slush back to the ward, saying nothing, contemplating, perhaps, the fact that she too would be apprehended over this new mistake. And I? Who could say what would happen to me now. More time wasted, and my work-time to boot. Ah, that I could feign illness, send a luminescent green flush from my nose, sweat at will, change the colour of my skin. My ancient wish of becoming invisible stirred itself again - though I never really wanted to be completely invisible. It was just my head which, from time to time, I longed to have removed from my shoulders and placed on the end of a string, to have it dangled in my pocket that I might still hear, yet not bear full witness to, the musterings around me.

  I never had visitors. My family, if any were still alive, had certainly forgotten or disowned me a very long time ago. Maybe this was all just a joke, played for Tanya’s benefit or designed as the punishment itself for my own alleged part in the events of the previous night. I had known such behaviour, but this did not seem to me a day for light-heartedness.

  She wheeled me straight into the ward office, a room I could not remember entering since my transfer to that ward some long time before. How often I’d longed to be in that hot nerve-centre with its row of filing cabinets standing like tombstones and its drug trolley chained to the wall. Somewhere in that room was my history. Was it slim? Was it a big fat folder crammed with explanation about the way I was, the chances of my becoming any different, be it for better or worse? I fancied the pages, if there were any, would all be blank, yellowing at the edges; that would seem fitting, somehow. My many medicine cards would be there since I had, up until quite recently, been the recipient of a great range of tranquillizers, anti-depressants, and vitamin pills which had to be crushed; and there would have to be the record of my electrical treatment, tried and dropped many times over the years. But I still fantasized about the eradication of even these basic entries in favour of the white empty pages that would tell all they really knew about me. Yet I cannot deny that I craved to hear their exchanges about me in this their jealously guarded, private cell. Here the handovers took place between the shifts, twice a day, when all the patients were discussed. Could there possibly be great elaborate plans for me, culled from details prepared from their secret observations? I had often wondered about a small red light in the dormitory ceiling, and the clock on the dayroom wall: were not its thirty-second clicks remarkably similar to the sound made by a camera shutter? Could there be wires in the walls? I had contemplated often, with distressing inconclusiveness, that there might be no other earthly reason for their taking me to the toilet, as they did now and again, and leaving me there for hours, except for the purpose of spying on me in isolation. I know, I know, these are not the thoughts of a ration
al man. Indeed, if I had heard these theories expressed by anyone I should immediately have categorized them as brilliantly typical of a certain kind of person with whom I shared residence. But I had much time on my hands, and too little by way of diversion. Though salvation was sometimes close by, usually when I least expected it, for I had often been left near the office by a hurrying nurse and, now and again, I had overheard some of the most comforting words of my whole life filtering through the half-open door at handover time: ‘Peter? Nothing new. What do you expect? No change, no change at all.’ And since I believe mine was always the last name on the list I took even greater reassurance from seeing the receiving shift already leaving the office when I was up for discussion. But nothing lasts, no such thing as eternity; time came and eroded my frail sense of security, leaving me to mull my predicament all over again. Indeed, that very morning, that very minute as I was thinking about the existence of my history, I became unduly puzzled over the recent withdrawal of my medication, to which I had not previously given a moment’s thought.

  A tiring heat poured from two radiators either side of me. I felt a sudden nostalgia for the Industrial Unit, even for Quinn, as the Head Nurse took over from Tanya, twisting and reversing the wheelchair in swift, jerky movements so that it stood at right angles to the desk which dominated the office. The heat was monstrous after the cold outside, and I feared I would be sick. It was no good messing someone like me about this way. I would have to swallow my vomit, perhaps choke to death on it there and then, for it would never come out.

  Behind the desk sat an elderly, palsied-faced, methodically dressed man whom I did not recognize at first in my lathery confusion, but soon realized was Beckerminster, a doctor, my doctor, my consultant, judge and jury, a maker of decisions. So it was before him I was now being brought to account for my aberrations and misdoings. And my guilt descended on me like night -I was to blame for whatever crime they chose to charge me with, and it was with my customary silence that I would have to accept the verdict and sentence passed by this distinguished fellow who glanced at me briefly, sniffed, then set his eyes back to the desk on which was a webby folder. My history? Read to me. Let me see. No. I did not really want to know what was scrawled on those pages in many different hands, in untidy paragraphs dated back to God knows when.

  The Head Nurse stood at Beckerminster’s side. The only sound in the room was the rustling of the pages of my history. Then Beckerminster gargled and spoke. ‘Are you sure you have the, er, authority? Shouldn’t I have some say in the matter? After all, I am the fellow’s doctor, the responsible medical officer, so to speak. And, you know, the prognosis is damnably poor. Wouldn’t you prefer more pliable material? Someone more amenable to the kind of service you offer? He seems happy enough here. Quite stable. Been the same for years. I have to be careful. Ethics and all that. It wouldn’t do to make the wrong decision. The man doesn’t speak for himself, obviously, therefore we must act on his behalf and hope we are fulfilling his best interests. I’ve heard a little about your work. Rumour mostly. Much of it may be quite untrue, but I’m led to believe that your methods are very avant-garde. Correct me if I’m being injudicious, but isn’t your approach to mental instability rather experimental and unverified as yet? I can’t permit my patients to be used as guinea-pigs, you must appreciate that.’

  He looked away over my shoulder to a point from where a woman’s voice descended as if from the ether, saying, ‘Dr Beckerminster, forgive me, but it hardly seems “ethical” to be discussing someone’s life, his history and destiny, right under his nose, while behaving as if he wasn’t even in the same building. Isn’t that right Peter?’ She placed her hands on my shoulders and leaned forward to show me a stiff smile. She was dark-haired, middle-aged, no, twenty-something, I’ve really no idea. ‘I’m afraid’, she said, ‘that it’s part of our operational and budgetary directive to take a case such as Peter’s.’ She stood in front of me, cupping a hand over my temple and squinting into my eyes. ‘You don’t mind if I just have a look at you, do you, Peter?’ She stood behind me again and lifted my arms above my head, lowered them and lifted them several times until my joints began to burn. From a bag on the desk she took a pair of dividers and rolled up my trouser leg to pinch and measure the thin ribbon that passed for a calf muscle. She prodded my carotid then stood back, looking thoughtfully at me. ‘What kind of creature are you, Peter?’ she asked. ‘How do we describe your state, your malady? Are you psychotic? Traumatized? Hysterical? A sad case? Or are you simply having us all on? Tell me, Peter, are you, perhaps, nothing more than an old fraud?’

  ‘Really!’ said Beckerminster. ‘There’s no need for that. The man has feelings . . .’ ‘Does he?’ the woman retorted. ‘We had a similar case only last year. Our techniques proved a resounding success. The details were well chronicled. The Kaufmann case. Have you heard of it, doctor?’ ‘Yes,’ said Beckerminster, ‘and I also heard of the man’s subsequent suicide.’ ‘Mm,’ said the woman. ‘Unfortunately the after-care service didn’t match the acute stages of the treatment.’ Beckerminster, this good, owlish man, looked dismayed, the features of his tired face lined like stone. The woman turned to the Head Nurse. ‘When did he last bear his own weight?’ Then, before waiting for an answer, she leaned into me, sliding her hands under my armpits and, with an unexpected strength, she hauled me from my seat, hugging me to her, my head lolling on her shoulder as she wriggled her arms about my waist, bouncing me up and down on my flailing feet before tiring and dropping me heavily, back into the chair. Her forehead was moist, like my own, and she inhaled quietly, deeply, unsuccessfully attempting to hide her momentary fatigue. ‘I’m not happy,’ said Beckerminster. ‘Not happy at all.’ ‘I can insist,’ said the woman. ‘You know that. And surely,’ she said, ‘surely you could use the bed? Is the world not littered with mildly depressed unfortunates, all sobbing into their pill bottles, pleading for sanctuary in a nice place like this? Such patients can be “cured”, you know that. And what happy statistics they make when they’re sent home, never to darken your door again. And think, are you not being negligent in your service of the best interests of this patient by refusing him the only method of treatment available for such as him? What more can you possibly do for him here?’

  She paced the floor, dominating the room with her tallness and elegance.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘in view of your reluctance to discharge this man into our care, we could come to some other arrangement. How about leave? Six weeks or so? I could demand more if I wanted. Wouldn’t that suit you, Head Nurse? An empty bed for a while? Less work for your famously beleaguered staff?’

  The Head Nurse, his lower lip protruding, avoided her look and made no reply.

  ‘All right, all right,’ Beckerminster said. ‘Have him. Trial period. We’ll say a month, shall we?’

  The woman smiled, looked at me, and nodded.

  The Head Nurse tapped on the window of the office door and beckoned the two boys who had dressed me that morning.

  ‘Bath for this one,’ he said, gesturing to me. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘and look lively. Then get his property together. He’s going out.’

  The two boys looked at him, their expressions absorbing some small, certain disbelief I too detected in the tone of his voice.

  ‘Well?’ he said, his throat squeaking. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘Nothing,’ they replied, seizing the chair and making off with me down the corridor.

  FOUR

  Sometimes I think I must be going mad. I had got it wrong, completely wrong. Certainly my presence beside the attempted suicide had irritated them that morning, and it is true that if they could have remedied the situation by taking their anger out on me in some way, they would have done just that. But I was not to blame, not really, and by the time they had bathed me, combed my hair, filched clothes for me from other patients’ lockers and sat me in the wheelchair with a box of incontinence pads in my lap, I could see that they genuinely did not want me to
go in the company of this woman who clicked primly along the ward corridor, my history in a big brown envelope under her arm. Why, even the Head Nurse himself came to the woman’s small white car to help lift me into the passenger seat, standing by, picking hairs from his grey suit while one of the boys pulled the seat-belt tight across my ribs and middle. I had underestimated him and Beckerminster, and became filled with a vague, cloying emotion. My removal from the hospital was a totally separate incident, wholly unconnected with the business concerning the man in the next bed. I had it all wrong and once more was given to worrying about my sanity.

  The woman climbed in beside me, tossing her bag, and my history, on to the back seat. Without a sign to the attendant party she started the car and we travelled away, out of the hospital grounds, distance suddenly appearing between us and the only home I had known in God knows how many years. The sun was low and dazzling. Hot air came up from somewhere near my feet - they would burn after a while, I thought. I felt a momentary attack of the nausea I had experienced in the ward office, but it soon dissipated and disappeared. We passed through a town where I saw bright awnings above shop windows, bottles of milk on the doorsteps of damp-bricked houses, children, lorries and cars that made me feel giddy and prevented my eyes from blinking. As we made our way out into the country the woman leaned forward over the wheel, smiling. Her name, she said, was Anna.