by AB Morgan
My interest was piqued at the word nudity. ‘Are you sure? No name, no clothes, and not talking. What’s that about? Has he lost his memory do you think?’
‘Not a clue. I was only told that the police are bringing him over on a trolley, but I don’t understand why. There was no information from Dr Mutter-a-lot indicating that the naked man couldn’t walk. He must have prayed himself to a standstill, I assume.’
On that Monday in September 1994, the day ‘Jesus’ arrived with us, we had one available admission bed.
The ward telephone had rung loudly, making Emma and I jump, breaking our concentration. There were only the two of us in the oppressively hot ward office at the time, trying desperately to finish updating patient records and prepare handover information for the next shift. As it had been such a warm, sweaty, sticky-gusset day, we were tired and a little tetchy.
Emma had growled when she’d picked up the phone, but managed to disguise the resignation in her voice as she announced brightly, ‘Pargiter Ward, Staff Nurse Emma Foster speaking.’ She and I had exchanged tense glances, and collectively held our breath, praying that we could finish the shift without a new admission.
Emma had jotted down the details given over the phone from Dr Siddiqui, the on-call psychiatrist stationed in A&E, and as she did so, I couldn’t help noticing that she had become a tad irritable.
Emma had looked at me despairingly and mouthed a few choice expletives, indicating her exasperation. She then made a gesture with her left hand, forming an okay sign, placing her hand towards her forehead a number of times. Helpfully she mouthed the word ‘dick-head’ leaving me in no doubt as to her opinion of Dr Siddiqui. I admonished her with a threatening stare and firm shake of my head. I motioned to the surrounding large windows, which were required for an effective level of patient observation, but which resulted in a goldfish bowl of an office, within which we were permanently on show. In the summer months, the goldfish bowl became a see-through sweatbox. Most unpleasant, as working environments go.
‘Okay, Doctor, we’ll expect them in the next thirty minutes or so. Can you please ensure the police know to ask for Staff Nurse Monica Morris when they get here? Oh and thanks for the heads-up on the clothing issue, we’ll see what we can find.’ It was my turn to complete the onerous admission paperwork and organisation. Emma knew this and was wearing a smug expression as she put down the phone.
Several minutes later, with the rest of the staff informed of the pending arrival, a bed space in a dormitory prepared, and a brief moment found to make use of the staff toilets for a wee, the police made an appearance via the lift with a man handcuffed to a patient trolley. ‘Are you Nurse Morris by any chance?’ asked a tall, thin policeman.
‘Yes, gentlemen, that’s me. You’ve found the right place. I’m Monica Morris. Welcome to Pargiter Ward. Would you mind wheeling the gentleman this way?’ I instructed the two officers to wheel the gurney onto the ward and into a wide reception space away from the main corridor.
‘We’re calling him Jesus,’ the shorter, more rounded of the two policemen proudly announced. He was a cheerful, chubby man with dimples embedded indelibly in his cheeks from permanently grinning. ‘He looks like Robert Powell. You know, Jesus of Nazareth.’
‘He’s more than likely some foreigner who had a smoke too many in Amsterdam, silly bastard,’ the tall, thin sergeant volunteered. Adding unhelpfully, ‘Looks a bit Spanish.’
‘Then we can’t call him Jesus, it would be “Haysoos”,’ was the swift riposte from the cheerful constable.
I decided to put an end to police banter before they became more carried away, and asked why it was that ‘Jesus’ was handcuffed to a gurney. I was actually concerned that no one had thought to inform us that this Jesus was a bit on the violent side.
‘It was the easiest option,’ offered the chubby constable by way of explanation. ‘When he walked cuffed between us, his blanket kept falling off and he’s a generously endowed young man. You know. Well known in Australia … big down under!’ He then laughed uproariously at his own joke.
‘Thoughtfully put,’ added Emma, who had joined the welcome party. It was at that moment that Emma and I looked down at the young man on the trolley, covered in a grey blanket. He had dark wavy shoulder length hair, olive skin, and the most beautiful face. I believe it was his serene expression, well-muscled shoulders, swarthy good looks, and glacier blue eyes that prompted the most unprofessional of responses from my colleague.
‘Jesus!’ exploded Emma, spitting out the remnants of a ginger nut biscuit she had hastily grabbed before leaving the ward office.
I produced a weak ‘bloody hell’ under my breath, but the constable didn’t miss a trick.
‘I told you, ladies. Jesus of Nazareth as I live and breathe.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ I replied curtly. ’Can you help us to understand why you handcuffed this man to a trolley?’
‘Oh yes. Simple really. It’s because he had already exposed himself to the general public, so we thought it safest to cuff him to the trolley and that way he couldn’t pull the blanket off, if he suddenly had the urge to do so.’
‘Oh, so no particular risk of violence we should know about?’ I asked, just to be quite sure.
‘No, not that we are aware of,’ confirmed the tall, thin sergeant.
I turned to our new patient. ‘Oh crikey, I’m so sorry, sir. This is not how we welcome patients on to our ward, but they do usually arrive on two feet and not on a trolley. Let’s see what we can sort out for you in the way of clothes, and then we’ll settle you in. Okay?’ I felt ashamed at how badly Emma and I had both reacted. Even though I didn’t know whether or not this man understood anything I had just said to him, I had to apologise. ‘Would you like a cold drink?’ I asked. They all looked as if heat exhaustion was not too far off.
Once the trolley had ceased to squeak and sway, Mark knew he had arrived at his final destination. He had no idea exactly where he was. All he had seen of his journey through the hospital were fluorescent strip lights on ceilings, but he knew he had made it. He congratulated himself. The acute psychiatric ward; part one of the mission accomplished. Throughout all the banter, Mark had lain silently on the trolley. He was still having trouble not reacting to the witty repartee as the ludicrousness of the situation had suddenly struck him as being most amusing, especially when a nurse had showered him with biscuit crumbs. What a welcome!
Focusing incredibly hard not to respond to comments being made about him, he managed to remain resolutely mute. This part of the plan was important to get right, he realised. The minutes ticked by, and due to the tension of the situation, Mark was becoming hot and sweaty under the blanket. He was thankful when at last the two nurses and the policemen joined forces to help find him clothing, uncuff him and allow him to dress. Even more relief arrived when he could accept a plastic beaker of refreshingly cool water.
Having partly regained his dignity once the handcuffs were removed, Mark was able to sit up on the trolley. He took a good look around at the neglected décor of the ward, where he set eyes upon the nurses who had welcomed him so vocally to Hotel Bonkers. He was unsure as to what was in store for him next, and he was going to be wholly reliant on picking up clues from the staff.
‘Thanks, gentlemen. We appreciate your help.’ I said to the two policemen. ‘I’ll leave you in Emma’s capable hands. If you’re lucky, she’ll let you have one of her biscuits.’
‘Yes, not a problem,’ Emma replied from the chair she was standing on with her head in the lost property cupboard. ‘Oh dear, it’s a shame we haven’t much in the way of clothes that actually fit. I’ll keep rummaging for a shirt,’ she suggested. I was more concerned that we couldn’t even find a pair of underpants for Jesus. What did that say about the state of the NHS?
Jesus remained strangely calm and silent throughout the admission proceedings. When the blanket was removed, it was clear that he wore only sandals, and not a stitch of clothing. Scruffy, well-worn leathe
r sandals were the only thing he had in his possession, but he had neat feet and they didn’t smell, I noticed. He didn’t appear to be a member of the great unwashed; his hair was clean and shiny, he was a healthy weight, and had neatly manicured hands. All of which would indicate that he was not likely to have been street homeless. Apart from those incidental observations, we had nothing to go on to help us to identify the man now in our care.
‘Right, let’s get these necessary forms filled out. Name: not known. Address: not known. Age: not known. This isn’t going to take long, Em. I’ll have to put down the same as they did in A&E.’
‘Yep. Can’t see any other option.’ She nodded approvingly.
‘Okay then. Name: Mr Trainman, it is.’ And that was what we decided to call him for the duration, or at least until he offered to inform us of his true identity.
Clerking him in as a new admission to Pargiter Ward was challenging. We had no facts to record, other than the presence of an extraordinarily handsome young man who looked like the actor Robert Powell and, or, Jesus. Emma and I decided that calling him Jesus would potentially offend any sensitive souls, so we kept that name for our personal use only.
Jesus Trainman was shown around our dingy and dull, but otherwise clean ward where we tried to keep the atmosphere settled and secure. On the whole we succeeded in achieving this, however, young Greg was not too settled at that particular time, possibly because Margaret on ‘one-to-one’ duty had developed a sore throat from reading out-loud non-stop for over an hour. Greg was becoming restless and was talking to himself about the devil and demons and suchlike, and was pacing up and down in his room with his troubling thoughts on show for all to witness. Jesus looked saddened at this sight as he passed by.
It had been much worse the week before. Greg had been so disturbed that he had managed to barricade himself into his single-bedded side room where he had smeared his own faeces over the walls. Everywhere. We had to call in reinforcements to deal with the chaos and the smell. It was grim! Things improved once we had sorted out different medication, and through creative invention, discovered that the spoken word was soothing for this young man. After that we read to him out loud, everyday.
It was Margaret’s turn to read to Greg. A seasoned healthcare assistant, she was sitting in a chair positioned inside the doorway of Greg’s side room, and was conspicuously distracted by our new patient as he walked past her on his way to the dormitory beyond. I walked beside him, paperwork in hand.
Jesus Trainman was wearing a pair of beige belted trousers that were far too short for such a tall man, and consequently they flapped around his calves. Emma was still searching lost property for a suitable shirt, and so our Jesus was bare-chested, and that chest was incredibly well toned, I happened to notice.
‘Margaret,’ I hissed out of the side of my mouth as we passed by. ‘I can see what you are thinking by the expression on your face. Shame on you at your age.’
Margaret blushed with the embarrassment of being caught out, but despite this could not take her eyes off Jesus Trainman, and neither could I. As part of my job, I was required to ensure that our new patient was comfortably settled on to the ward, and carefully observed. I convinced myself that I was not staring in a lecherously appreciative manner. I was.
With the help of ‘Gina the cleaner’ our diminutive but unflappable Sicilian ward cleaner, I rustled up tea and biscuits for Margaret the healthcare assistant to ease her sore throat, and for Jesus, who accepted these with a slow gentle nod. There was no hint of suspicion, no guardedness, and he seemed to look right into my soul with those crystal-clear blue eyes, framed by impossibly thick long dark eyelashes.
He simply did not speak.
Mark continued to take in his shabby, paint peeled surroundings. The walls were a pale NHS green, as was the lino on the floor. How uninspiring. Was green supposed to be a relaxing colour or something? It had also been a depressing sight to see the troubled young man in his room pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Mark was even more appalled when he realised that he was being led along a corridor towards a dormitory. God! I hadn’t predicted that, he thought. Sharing with other blokes was not what he had in mind. He had stayed in some rough hotels in his time, but never had he been required to sleep in a dormitory full of mad men!
He caught sight of himself in the reflection of a Perspex-fronted noticeboard and was mildly amused by how bad he looked in a pair of ankle-flapper trousers. Hardly a winner in the fashion stakes. Apart from this dreadful sight, the other sense being assaulted, was his sense of smell. Everywhere was tainted by the stench of cigarette smoke; stale dog-ends. Revolting. He then tuned in to the sounds of the ward. There was a persistent humming, which turned out to be emanating from an extraction fan within the stinking hole of a patients’ smoking room. The hum of the fan was overlaid by an endless babble coming from at least two televisions. Mark assumed these were being watched by patients in a lounge area elsewhere in the ward. He would have an exploratory walk around the whole ward when he had the chance, he decided. Not too far. With no underpants on he was all too aware of the potential for chafing! Mark laughed at himself for that one. There were plenty of times in his life when he’d had to go commando. I think that may be the least of my troubles, he predicted.
Being mute had its disadvantages, and these were becoming increasingly apparent. He couldn’t ask advice, for directions, for information about the ward or about the staff. In fact he had disabled himself quite considerably. He could only listen and watch in frustration.
Through a set of oversized windows, he could see directly into the main ward office, which was centrally located, giving an all-round view of the corridors and the ward entrance. How convenient. Despite a deliberate search, Mark could not see any CCTV cameras, so he had to assume that they did not exist. Good. He watched through the glass as the two nurses chatted and busied themselves.
4
Who is Jesus?
Emma and I desperately needed to communicate with each other to discuss our new guest. At the earliest opportunity, we rushed off to the ward office, leaving ‘Gina the cleaner’ chuntering away to Jesus in her unusual mix of English and Sicilian. He seemed to appreciate this as he watched her working, mopping, dusting, and chatting.
‘Bloody hell,’ Emma said, a gleeful look on her face. ‘Bloody, bloody, bloody hell!’
‘I know what you mean. He’s gorgeous.’
‘Bloody hell.’
Emma and I continued in this way for a while, interrupted only by brief silences and the odd giggle. Pathetic. We put our heads down, not wanting to be seen behaving like a couple of teenagers.
‘Is he foreign do you think?’
‘Could be. But foreign or not he doesn’t look barmy,’ I ventured, while making up a case note file for Mr Trainman (real name unknown).
‘He doesn’t have that usual haunted look, I must say. He certainly isn’t manic, and what’s more he doesn’t come across as obviously being depressed, just tired. So, we can only conclude therefore, that it must have been a rapid recovery between Hollberry railway station, A&E, and here? Did they give him any sedation in A&E? And where is that damn doctor. He needs to finish clerking in and to decide what needs doing next.’
‘There’s nothing on the paperwork from A&E to say he was given any medication when he was there,’ Emma replied to one of my streams of questions. ‘Those eyes are so amazing,’ she added distractedly. ‘But you’re right, he doesn’t seem Billy-bonkers. Still, time will tell.’
Emma then remembered to inform me that the police had promised to try to trace the mystery man’s train journey via CCTV at the stations on that line, in an effort to work out where he had come from.
‘They said they would be checking missing persons and various other avenues of enquiry, and they agreed to keep us updated as to any progress they made. Most helpful of them, I thought. We could do with finding a relative, I suppose.’
‘Yes, he must have parents somewhere.’
‘Not funny!’ I grinned nevertheless. Our efforts to obtain useful information about Jesus were proving less than fruitful, and the usual assessment and history-taking approaches yielded scant results. The written information from Dr Siddiqui was not much better. It did however, go into a bit more detail about Jesus being seen to be preaching and praying, naked on the station platform, before being detained by the transport police, who by-passed jail and came directly to hospital A&E.
‘He must have been speaking at that point,’ I suggested, ‘because how do you preach without speaking?’
I raised the same observation with Dr Siddiqui when he came to the ward to complete his part of the required admission documentation. Dr Siddiqui was a rather short, balding Asian man with eyes that were puffy and tired looking, and he had unusually pointy ears. Ordinarily this would have made him vulnerable to the obligatory nickname, based purely on physical looks, however in his case, he was often referred to as ‘Dr Sticky’, because that was how he pronounced his own name. I always felt that he was rather nervous on the whole, and not at ease with either patients or staff.
Arriving on the ward, Dr Siddiqui and Mrs Anna Brown decided unilaterally not to bother trying to speak to our Jesus again, as this had been entirely unsuccessful in A&E not an hour before. Strangely, Dr Siddiqui outlined a working diagnosis of: ‘psychosis, possibly drug induced’. This was a bit peculiar because, apart from the passing comment from the policeman earlier about Amsterdam, there was no other mention of drugs being suspected. Not even as a possible cause for a young man to go flashing a platform full of commuters, although it was entirely possible. Jesus did not smell of cannabis either, I realised.