by AB Morgan
I carried on regardless, and informed him that Mark had experienced an unusual and significant reaction to the drugs he had been prescribed, and that although he was improving, Mark had asked that we let him know the situation. James Lewis, family friend and solicitor, seemed genuinely alarmed at this news.
‘Bloody hell, when did this happen?’
I gave him the general gist of the events and he in turn apologised for not being able to attend the ward straight away. He said that he had a busy day scheduled and wouldn’t be able to visit Mark until the next evening. I gave assurances to Mr Lewis that we were looking after Mark, and that I would let Mark know personally when he would be coming in to the ward to see him. I wondered if Dr Sharman had picked up on the fact that James Lewis was a solicitor.
When I found Mark, he was in a sorry state, pacing endlessly up and down the corridor, agitated, with a look of emotional distress on his usually beautiful serene face. I walked with him for a while, and the longer I did so, the more enraged I became at what Dr Sharman had done to this man. It had been unnecessary to increase or change his medication.
‘I can’t face taking any more,’ Mark said in a detached, but tearful way. ‘I can’t have any more of that stuff, Monica.’
‘It’s okay, Mark. Dr Siddiqui has crossed out that medication on your drugs chart, so you’re not on anything now, nothing apart from Procyclidine if you need it. The effects will wear off soon, and then you’ll be less restless. Try to keep talking to us, and distract yourself if you can. It will soon pass.’
‘How soon? I can’t do another ward round with that man, Monica. He’ll be back on Monday and I’ll be given a bloody injection, like every other poor sod he takes a dislike to. I can’t do it. I can’t. I have to get out of here.’
A charging Sicilian bull came at me, and I was given the telling off of the century in no uncertain terms by Gina the cleaner. She waved her mop at me viciously as she shouted and ranted with a furious look on her face.
She had been trying to clean the floor of the main corridor where Mark was creating endless footfall, almost to the point of wearing a trench into the pale green lino. Gina was seen earlier chatting away to him and trying in vain to persuade him to sit down for five minutes, so that she could complete this task. She was not a happy woman. She understood perfectly well that he was only pacing because of the medication and she gave me both barrels in Anglo-Sicilian swear words and gesticulations. She held me personally responsible.
I agreed with her. My heart was in pain and I could barely breathe. I looked again at Mark. The man was in despair at the threat of having to take more medication. He was right to fear the actions of Dr Sharman, come the following week. The doctor with a deficient conscience, the vindictive, heartless man who was supposed to help people get better, probably would order injections to be given to Mark. This would be done to reassert his power and undermine anything that Dr Siddiqui would have achieved over the weekend. It is the way of the professional bully.
‘We’ll think of something,’ I offered lamely. I tried to reassure Mark, but I was rather distracted by endless intrusive thoughts that found their way into my head and which would not be denied attention. My mind was taking me to a place that I had never previously contemplated visiting. I went there nevertheless.
On Friday afternoon, I was to escort Mark for a CT scan, to the main hospital. I ran through, in my head, a variety of possibilities and the likely consequences to each of these options. They were plans in which I was to aid Mark to take his own discharge, to escape, to leave, to abscond.
It was illegal.
I had good justification for having these thoughts. In my view, if we didn’t have a bully for a consultant, these ideas and plans wouldn’t even have occurred to me. If we had senior managers who cared, then they wouldn’t have employed a psycho as a consultant.
‘How the hell would he like it?’ I asked myself of The Charming One. ‘He’s never even tried Haloperidol or any of those medications he prescribes without consideration. Maybe he’ll get his comeuppance when Richard gets the proof he needs, I thought.
Mark can’t wait for next week. He has to get out of here on Friday. That’s all there is to it. I had convinced myself of this even as I said the words in my head. I was in so much trouble anyway, or at least I would be, when I had delivered that copy of a Section paper that I had in my flat. In my flat! Shit and double shit! Confidential patient information was in my flat. What an idiot I’d been. That simple fact alone could result in my instant dismissal, even if I did not get caught for enabling a patient to abscond while under Section. Despite these sinking realisations, the most impressive conclusion that I reached was that rebellion felt so much better than conceding to the bully. Thus, in my eyes, it could easily be condoned.
I felt more in control having reasoned my way through that series of deep and meaningful concepts, and in the interests of maintaining my own sanity, I went back to the relative sanctuary of the ward office.
There, I had a good thumb through the diagnostic manual, within which Dr Siddiqui had suggested I would find information on narcissistic personality disorder.
What I discovered was painfully accurate. He had been right. The manual described Dr Giles Sharman perfectly.
It read: ‘Narcissistic Personality Disorder; A long term pattern of abnormal behaviour, characterised by exaggerated feelings of self importance, an excessive need for admiration and a lack of understanding of others’ feelings … often take advantage of people around them … disdain and lack of empathy for others … arrogance … a sense of superiority, power seeking behaviour … expect to be treated as superiors … inability to tolerate criticism … belittling others …’
The manual then went on to state: ‘These traits must differ from the cultural norms in order to qualify as symptoms.’
This was him! Dr Giles Sharman.
Was it culturally normal for consultant psychiatrists to behave like this? I didn’t think so. Dr B had not been cruel and callous, and certainly it wasn’t acceptable for a professional with this sort of personality disorder to look after such vulnerable patients.
I thus made a promise to myself that if Richard Huntley had not taken action to ensure that Mark was removed from his Section by Friday lunchtime, then I would escort Mark for his scan, but not bring him back. If I was sacked or struck from the nursing register, it surely would be preferable to allowing any more targeted torture to happen.
Surprisingly, now that I had a plan, I felt lighter. I busied myself with the various tasks on the ward for the rest of the shift, and the whole place seemed to cheer up as a consequence of my positive attitude, and the fact Dr Sharman was not going to be around until the following week.
Emma and I had a brief chance for a catch up on our way home. She was undeniably worried about Mark’s mental state, but both of us were optimistic that the effects of the Droperidol would naturally dissipate in the next couple of days.
Perhaps I should have done, but I gave not the slightest hint to her regarding my plans to help Mark to abscond. She was my good friend, and I did not want to put her in a compromising position. In all honesty, I didn’t want to give her the opportunity to be rational and to talk me out of it, as she undoubtedly would have tried to do.
I popped home briefly to collect the precious copy of the missing Section 3 paper and delivered it, as Richard had instructed, to the offices of Huntley and Greaves, which were situated only a fifteen minutes walk from the hospital. I didn’t even hesitate or give this a second thought. I even met Cheryl the efficient secretary for the first time, in person. We had spoken to each other over the phone for the last three years, and I had formed a picture of her in my imagination, but I had been wrong.
Her voice had made her sound thin and dark-haired to me. She was, in real life, almost the opposite. Cheryl had a smiling round face and a body to match. She wore standard office attire; a neat skirt to the knee with high-heeled court shoes and a smart blouse.
We had a polite chat and I left feeling gratefully unburdened having deposited the evidence of my professional misconduct.
When I returned to my flat, having bought some essentials from the local shops on the way, I told Boris the cat about my plans and he seemed to approve, highly. I was certain that he would not even try to talk me out of my foolhardy intentions, and as usual he didn’t let me down. Good old Boris was not the best at playing devil’s advocate and he failed at debating important issues, such as how I was going to earn a living if I were caught colluding. Like every good cat, he was best at listening, purring, eating and then sleeping. It was more than likely that he would not have been able to deter me, even if he could speak.
I was about to settle down in front of the TV, when I noticed the answerphone machine flashing.
‘Hello, Monica, it’s Max Davis here. I’ve booked the tickets for The Bonus Bonas Band, just like I said I would, and to prove you wrong. Ring me please. How about a drink tomorrow? Emma says you’re on an early shift.’
Suddenly I remembered the test that I had set when I’d had too much to drink at the rugby club. Max Davis was so full of himself that I had challenged him to get tickets for my favourite local band, in the hope that he would fail and never have reason to phone me. I didn’t even give him my number. Emma must have done that. Sneaky cow.
I couldn’t face dealing with his persistence that evening. He would have to wait. I had other things on my mind, which in themselves made watching the telly difficult. I couldn’t concentrate.
Unusually, I was on the rota to cover the ward round on Monday, the thought of which made my heart sink into my slippers. If my plan was successful, then Mark would be officially absent without leave as from Friday afternoon. Dr Sharman, on the other hand, would be returning to the ward on Monday from his weekend of hobnobbing with the great and good of psychiatry at the national conference. I thus convinced myself that the conference was bound to be an overwhelming success, and that Dr Sharman would be glowing with pride and self-satisfaction to the degree that he wouldn’t even notice or care that one of his patients had gone missing.
Mark’s ward rounds had so far taken place on Tuesdays, and the next week that was to be my day off. So there was a slim chance that Dr Sharman wouldn’t find out about Mark until then, which meant that I wasn’t going to be there to witness the bomb of fury explode, if I was lucky.
Eventually, after much convoluted thinking, reality settled back in. ‘No chance, you idiot.’ I knew that was a stupid wishful thought. He would expect to be informed as soon as he returned to sit at his desk. Never mind. What could he do? We would have informed the police and reported Mark as a missing person by then anyway.
All Mark had to do was to avoid being caught for six months. After that, his Section would have lapsed and he would be a free man. I appreciated that this too seemed an impossible goal to achieve, unless Richard Huntley could pull a rabbit out of a hat and make the Section 3 disappear. Now, that would be magic.
31
Time to Go
The next few days on Pargiter Ward, were reminiscent of the old times when Dr B was in charge. There was a lighter atmosphere altogether, and as Friday afternoon approached, no one seemed to notice that I had become nervous, fidgety, and that I was glancing at the clock far more than was necessary. There had been no news from Richard Huntley, and nothing from the offices downstairs, to inform us that Mark was no longer detained under the Mental Health Act. I therefore resolved to keep the promise I had made to myself.
When I found him at about a quarter to three on the Friday afternoon, Mark was grabbing a sweatshirt from his locker in the dormitory, to put on for our trip to the main hospital site. As it was raining, I sourced an old umbrella from lost property for us to shelter under on the way to the Medical Imaging Department. Mark’s CT scan was booked for three pm. By good fortune, the timing of the appointment was perfect. I was due to finish my shift at three, so I could put on my raincoat, and take my handbag with me without raising suspicion. I was only expected to return Mark to the ward and sign him back in once he had finished at the general hospital, and then I could disappear home for a relaxing evening. Nothing would look out of the ordinary to the casual observer as we prepared to leave the ward.
I had suggested innocently to Mark that he should bring some money with him as ‘we could stop at the WRVS shop in the hospital,’ and he could treat himself to a newspaper.
‘Don’t forget that notepad and pen of yours,’ I added ‘and you can interview me while you’re waiting for the scan. You and Phil seem to be enjoying this creative writing course. You’ve interviewed almost everyone on the ward … apart from me that is.’ I signed us both out. We strolled sedately through the shabby ward entrance doors, and took the stairs to the main exit from the psychiatric block.
Mark was peering around intently, taking in his surroundings as if for the first time. He was still subdued in his mood, but he chatted pleasantly enough as we walked.
‘I’ve no idea where I am.’ He reminded me that he didn’t have any recall of his admission other than a vague impression of fluorescent strip lighting on ceilings. There wasn’t much of interest to see. ‘Yeah, I don’t exactly feel short changed’ he conceded.
We didn’t have far to go in the rain, which for Mark was a blessing as he was wearing his trusty sandals, as usual. As was always the way, we were kept waiting for the CT scan, and spent a good twenty minutes in the reception seating area. The conversation during my interview with Mark was non-specific at first, and Mark kept to safe subjects, asking me how long I had been a nurse for, and what my career plans were. He ventured into interesting territory when he talked about his admission to Pargiter Ward, and he thanked me for trying to help him. Despite his awful experiences with side effects and lack of sleep since his admission, he remained temptingly handsome. In that waiting room, he looked at me with those amazing blue eyes and wearing his gift of new aftershave from his friend Mr Lewis, Mark smelt delicious. I controlled my own impure unprofessional fantasies because there was work to be done, and in a radical departure from my moral code and fundamental life principles, I was about to knowingly break rules. I asked Mark to put the rest of the interview on hold, and to write down the vital information that I needed him to have.
He looked mystified at first when I handed him a business card for Huntley and Greaves. Folded up tightly with that card, I passed him a ten-pound note.
‘Put that in your pocket,’ I commanded firmly but quietly.
‘Mark, I need you to listen and write this down so you don’t forget. When we are finished here, we will stop at the WRVS shop, which is adjacent to the main hospital entrance. To get to the station from the WRVS shop exit, walk to the road and turn right. When you get to the big set of traffic lights, cross the road, turn right and then head left over a bridge. You will see pedestrian signs for the station. Got it? Good.
‘Phone your friend, James Lewis, and also you should contact Richard Huntley. I think he’s trying to get your Section revoked, but nothing has happened yet and unfortunately this may be your only opportunity to abscond. Please try not to get caught. Get as far away as you can, and dye your hair or something, so you look less like Jesus,’ I added in desperation, knowing that the police would have to be stupid not to recognise Mark once they were given his description.
‘I’ll be distracted, looking at birthday cards for a while, so you can just leave. Here, take the brolly. Keep your face covered once you get outside in the rain. Good luck, and in the nicest possible way, I hope I never see you again.’
Mark had calmly jotted down the instructions and had nodded his understanding more than once. We both went mechanically through the motions of having the CT scan carried out, and once completed, we left the department, silently plodding through the hospital corridors. Walking into the WRVS shop, we took different directions, and in doing so Mark turned around briefly and simply mouthed the words, ‘Thank you.’
I would l
ike to think that I saw a tear or two, but that was nothing more than romantic invention on my part, and I headed, as promised, to the card section. I pulled out amusing birthday cards to peruse, but failed to read them properly. Instead, I watched surreptitiously as Mark bought a newspaper.
‘Good thinking, Batman!’ I said to myself as he then made his way to the main exit and into the rainy afternoon, putting the umbrella up as he did so.
‘Goodbye, Jesus Trainman,’ I whispered, feeling splendidly gratified despite the knots in my stomach.
I dragged time out by walking up and down various corridors, then back to the Medical Imaging Department pretending to search for my patient, who was long gone by then, and was hopefully getting on a train far, far, away.
Inevitably I had to gather my mental strength for the return to the ward. To put on a convincing act, I ran around the block several times getting wet and breathless before I entered the psychiatric unit, and pounded up the stairs to Pargiter Ward. I broke the news to my colleagues on the late shift that Mark had ‘given me the slip.’ I asked if he had perhaps returned to the ward under his own steam, which he hadn’t, assuring my colleagues that I had already searched through the main hospital as far as I could. ‘He just disappeared,’ I said finally.
‘You can’t blame the man,’ said Staff Nurse Bob. ‘Not after what he has been through the last few days, poor sod. I’d run if I were in his sandals. Good luck to him. Monica, don’t worry. Document what happened, and we’ll report him as a missing person to the police, once we can get hold of them. It’s a Friday and you know how busy they get, so it’s likely he won’t even get picked up this side of Christmas.’