by Ian Hutson
In the next cubicle a male automaton in a blue paper hospital gown and still strapped to an ambulance trolley was being encouraged back to full and proper mechanical mental health by a crash team of experts. Two fully-wound female nursing automata with arms folded and noses well aloft were shouting at him to “man up” and warning him that “everyone was laughing at him” while another was skilfully waggling her pinkie finger at him and suggesting that his breakdown may have its roots in an excess free space in his trouser gusset. A “nut job” consultant shrink was whispering in the patient’s ear, enquiring as to whether he thought himself a mechanical man or a toy mouse.
In the meanwhile the seated queue was kept under control and prepared for their own therapy by patrolling security guards who had been trained to mime pulling a handkerchief through the head from one ear to the other while concurrently putting out their tongues and rolling their eyes. Where a waiting prospective patient was being of particular embarrassment to the sane the security guards rolled screens around them to prevent the spread of discomfort. A nurse worked her way down the line with a clipboard, taking domestic details and assessing the extent of each patient’s worthiness or worthlessness on a scale of “Just Feels Like Bothering Everyone Else With Their Problems” to “Complete And Utter Failure In Life”.
Dr Ozymandias continued. ‘So you see, no opportunity is lost during the process, we make full use of every opportunity of contact with our guests to encourage them back to normality under their own steam, so to speak.’
At that point an as-yet undiagnosed lunatic seated on the front row of the waiting area hissed a little steam and seemed to be losing pressure generally. The non-lunatic accompanying them began to fiddle around familiarly with kindling and a match, and looking about for a possible source of boiler-water and coal.
Two-Six’s internals hiccoughed a little as though there were some swarf in his oil, and a couple of minor cogs in his cognitive centre jumped a couple of teeth.
Once back out in the main corridor of the Institute they were assailed by a small gaggle of assistants waiting for Dr Ozymandias to rubber stamp hospital notes and medication prescriptions. Two-Six was amazed by the speed with which Dr Ozymandias’s rubber-stamp attachment moved down the line. Ink pad, splat, splat, splat, splat, initials, splat – ink pad again – splat, sign, initials, initials, initials – splat, splat. Two orderlies rushed past, chasing an over-wound over-wrought guest dressed in just one fluffy slipper and a pink bri-nylon nightie. The guest had somehow opened a window and was doing her best to get both legs over the sill, presumably with a view to legging it for the horizon.
The good doctor remained quite unperturbed and led the way through to the more serious therapy rooms. The sound of a casement window slamming followed by the buckling of leather restraints followed their steps like guilty little secrets tugging at their heels to be acknowledged.
‘We embrace of course all of the latest techniques and are tireless in their application.’ Dr Ozymandias stepped over a small scuffle on the linoleum floor and indicated that Two-Six should take care when following. Two large orderlies each had a knee in the back of a guest and were forcibly winding her key. ‘As you see here, sometimes a guest refuses sustenance, preferring the peaceful oblivion of a purposefully relaxed mainspring but our Charter, and indeed our Hippocratic Oath does not allow us to allow our patients to harm themselves. Forced energy application is distasteful, but necessary and I assure you, quite painless. If we cannot keep our guests fully wound we cannot hope to offer them the wonderful cures now available to us, and we all of us do so enjoy curing our guests.’
Two-Six experienced a little discomfort during a brief actuation of his empathy cams, a couple of them appearing to have come loose. They rattled around inside him as though on eccentric drive-shafts, and he feared he would have to disconnect them entirely before long or risk further damage to his internals.
The lights in the Institute dimmed to the accompaniment of a thunderous electrical buzzing, and one or two of the fluorescent strip-lights high overhead clanked and jolted before recovering. Dr Ozymandias smiled and counted off the seconds on his fingers; three, two, one – and then came the correctly timed second application. The lights all dimmed once more and a contract-cleaner’s floor-polisher briefly stalled. The good doctor pushed through some swing doors into the Electro-Convulsive Therapy Suite and ushered Two-Six inside.
‘You see? No expense or effort spared! We have the very latest alternating and direct currents available, with battery back-up systems and silver-plated forehead paddles.’
Ozymandias wandered across to a patient who appeared to Two-Six’s untrained eye to be suffering from an excessive indulgence of the saints. The saints in question being Saint Vitus with regard to her dancing like a frog cadaver in a biology class, and Saint Elmo with regard to a coronal discharge from the patient’s more vital cranial vitals.
Dr Ozymandias donned elbow-length rubber gauntlets, clipped dark-blue welder’s pince-nez to his nose and pulled down the enormous wall-mounted switch behind the patient, giving her another thirty seconds at thirteen amps, two shillings and sixpence.
‘We have absolutely no idea why this treatment works but it seems to produce a brief beneficial remission in almost half of cases. The current treatment is controversial of course and a ruddy placebo raisin has been shown to be equally inexplicably effective, but you don’t get that lovely aroma of overheated insulation and hot Bakelite with a placebo current, currant or raisin. Besides, I love these big industrial switches and the bzzt-bzzt noise, don’t you? Aren’t these paddles just the dinkiest thing you’ve seen since a Swiss clockwork rectal thermometer with cuckoo indicators?’
The good doctor gave his “guest” another minute at full-power followed by a half-dozen quick throws of the switch because she danced on the treatment table so well.
Two-Six’s hydraulics over-tightened his waste-duct valve and he was obliged to log a task to later go down there with a spanner to free off his clenched arse.
When a run-down looking nurse got a chance to offer the ECT patient’s notes to Dr Ozymandias she also ventured to whisper that the patient had, in fact, already had the maximum treatment and had been lying there awaiting return to her ward. Dr Ozymandias wafted away the blue smoke haze that had been hanging around them and adopted a conspiratorial tone. ‘Of course, pone of the best things about ECT is the long-lasting amnesia eh? Nurse, have the scorch marks on the patients temples re-enamelled before she wakes up and before any relatives see her please. Don’t forget to check for any blown fuses and to replace as necessary.’
A less fortunate “guest” in the same suite who was being treated by juniors chose that moment to fizz, glow like an old-fashioned electric fire and then burst into flame. There followed an extremely well-practiced routine with some very generously proportioned CO2 fire extinguishers, so much so that when Dr Ozymandias led Two-Six back out into the corridor through the swing doors they gave the appearance of leaving some sort of discotheque, briefly spilling fire-red and electric-blue flashes, dry ice and the shouts of some sort of modern popular beat combo musical act about them.s
‘Ah - surgery!’ he pronounced, adjusting his new blue pince-nez but flinging his rather jolly black rubber gauntlets to the world behind him over one shoulder.
‘Surgery?’
‘Surgery. When all high-tech non-invasive treatments fail we are not afraid to explore good old-fashioned surgery sir in our quest for universal sanity!’
They walked on some yards down the corridor, away from the hell-fires of electro-convulsive therapy and towards the crisp, cutting-edge surgical theatres. Like clockwork, for that is what they were, assistants appeared and both Two-Six and the Doctor-Director walked arms first into proffered gowns, masks, Wellington boots and those head-band lights with the funny reflectors and drop-down magnification lenses. Dr Ozymandias seemed more in his element than hitherto. I fancy he liked the flow of the material and was not averse to a lit
tle sartorial accessorising.
‘Sometimes, my dear chap, you may talk until you’re blue in the face but there may be no alternative to surgery.’
‘Surgery?’
‘Surgery – lopping bits off, cutting things out and occasionally just wildly mincing the innards.’
Ozymandias performed a quite worryingly passable impersonation of the bread-dough making attachment on a Kenwood Chef Mk IV.
‘Lop, cut, mince. Works wonders. Again, we have no idea why and it’s really not very effective for the guest but it does help the relatives so. Talk to them in a blood-covered gown while juggling with a loved one’s disconnected fore-lobes and they really appreciate that we’re doing all that we can and doing more than they ever could. Gives the whole profession a shot of some serious je sait exactly quoi too – one’s peers in the allied medical professions will never take one seriously unless one does a spot of surgery. We dive in where they fear to tread. Trepanning and lobotomies – scares the hell out of other professionals of course but all you need really is confidence. Stick the old scalpel in and broggle about a bit. NURSE! If you’re going to bother at all then please put some weight behind that Black & Decker, we don’t have all day for you to grind your way through the loony’s skull. I mean guest’s skull. Use a hammer drill. We need a decent hole to release the oil pressure otherwise there’s no point in bothering, no point at all. Does that drill bit even have a point? Get a fresh one immediately!’
Two-Six looked a little less than convinced. ‘Isn’t there some really delicate machinery, cogs and cams and things, behind the forehead plating? You surely can’t just shove a chisel in there and mash things up and expect them still to work?’
‘Oh, the guests are never quite the same again of course, but they are usually a lot more docile and often even quite suited to menial re-employment – working as doorstops and draught-excluders and suchlike. Let’s face it, they were barking mad to begin with and there’s never hope for full recovery no matter what the whining do-gooders say, so we may as well salvage what we can. Better a doorstop than a full stop eh?’
With that the good doctor called for a sterilised lump hammer and the next patient on the lists.
Two-Six backed up against the wall of the theatre and thought of bunny rabbits until Ozymandias had finished his precision surgery. As he waited, working through all of the names he remembered from Watership Down, he felt mechanisms buried within him making the necessary arrangements to disconnect his sense of belonging gland and shut down his willingness to participate in the grand scheme of things registers. The requisite disconnected cams and levers were passed by internal conveyor belt to join his repository of ‘Oddly Unknown Nuts and Apparently Spare Bolts Down Through The Years’.
‘Doctor – I really shouldn’t be in here.’
‘That’s what they all say dear boy. Oh hang on though – I remember now, you’re just a visitor aren’t you. There are really only two qualifications to be in the Institute you know – you’re either sane or you’re insane, and either will get you through the door, just with differing responsibilities. Are you absolutely certain which you are?’
‘I’m beginning to wonder.’
‘That’s the spirit! Question everything – it’s the only way to make progress!’
‘Alright - why do you do this? You can’t imagine that taking a hacksaw to someone’s skull is a plausible or effective treatment, surely?’
‘Don’t question me, my lad, I am the professional here. Question the system, question Bamber Gascoigne if you must, but don’t dare to question me. We know what we’re doing, and it’s based on centuries of experimentation and experience.’
‘Look, I just came in to visit...’
‘...yes, yes, un-scheduled visits are all very well but I must convince you of our competence and give you that rosy glow of investor confidence – can’t have you communicating doubts and such to the guests. Won’t help their recovery one bit!’
‘Their recovery?’
‘Splendid idea – we’ll have a tour of the Recovery Suites next. Recovery and Long-Term Therapy – then you’ll see the value of what we do here in the Institute. Follow me.’
‘Doctor, I’m not certain that I can see any value in slapping hysterics, telling people to pull themselves together, using gender stereotypes to bully people into returning to silence, frying their brains with mega-amps, drilling holes in their head or liquidising the contents of their skulls. I had thought that current treatments would be a little less reliant on mains current for one thing and somewhat less... primitive.’
‘Primitive you say? Would you rather that these automata be simply discarded or left to their own devices? At best returned to their manufacturer for recycling? For that is surely what would happen if we were not here to help.’
‘Mental health treatments can’t surely be quite so... medieval, can they? It’s just that I thought – I imagine that everyone who has no experience of mental health treatments would think, would hope – that, well, that the treatments might now be a little more sophisticated in the closing years of the twentieth century.’
‘Sophisticated? These treatments have been carefully adapted from Human treatments, developed over centuries. It’s not as though we are barbarians, we no longer simply dismantle the barking mad automata or lock them out of sight. Would you have us return to the days of the ducking stool? Aha – we’re here! Hydrotherapy.’
‘Hydrotherapy?’
‘Yes – alternating hot and cold baths, total immersion, sometimes just a general hosing down.’
‘Dunking in water? Doesn’t that cause rather a lot of rust on the patients?’
‘Of course, of course my dear fellow, but you can’t make a hen without first breaking an egg. There are side-effects but we do feel that the benefits outweigh the risks. Water can be wonderfully therapeutic in the right hands. Think of the last time you spent a day at the seaside and how happy you were.’
An orderly hurried past with a trolley laden with a hundred kilos of freshly crushed salt-water ice for a guest’s bath.
Two more orderlies were wrestling with a flailing canvas python of a fire-hose, trying to aim at a guest who was shackled naked to the white-tiled wall over a minging drain of industrial proportions.
‘Costs us a fortune on the water meter of course, but it’s the only way.’
‘Only way to treat this patient?’
‘No, the only way to do hydrotherapy, you can’t do it properly without water. I know, we’ve tried but talking about it or describing it just isn’t the same and a bucketful no matter how carefully or unexpectedly thrown just doesn’t seem to be sufficient. My theory is that the efficacy of the treatment is tied to a cunning formula relating the number of water molecules in the afflicted automaton to the number of water molecules in the therapy flow. In inverse of course, to the root power squared. Ten to fifteen minutes for each separately diagnosed condition per guest seems sufficient, provided that the water is cold enough.’
The guest in question appeared to be developing a distinct disinclination towards independent or meaningful motion. One of the side-effects seemed to be a certain amount of rapid oxidisation with attendant seizure of the joints.
Dr Ozymandias moved on. ‘Vocal therapy suite – all monitored centrally and automatically with scanning for keywords and phrases such as “toilet training trauma” or “breast-feeding rejection” or any such similar.’
Dr Ozymandias opened the door onto a room filled with a dozen black couches, each of which was host to a recumbent automaton speaking into a dangling microphone. Some were weeping, others were ranting. All seemed to have a story to tell and were busy telling it to no-one in particular.
‘Someone listens to all of these?’
‘Oh good grief, no – the output is recorded and immediately archived. We find that the act of simply talking is sufficient unto the purpose. The central computer then scans the tapes and associates those who mentioned key phrases with th
e appropriate professional or treatment regimen. If, for example, a guest in here shares anxiety caused by manufacturer abandonment or adolescent peer-rejection then an appropriate course will be added to the guest’s treatment and administered at a later date. Supportive hugs for the female guests, affectionate shoulder punches for the males. Usually though we just wipe the tapes. Have you any idea how much open-reel tapes cost? You wouldn’t believe how long these dribbling idiots can witter on for too – endless yacking about how they were never loved enough or never given the right toys or built too short or too fat or too tall or too skinny. Sheesh! Yack yack yack yack yack. Pure drivel, but it keeps them occupied for hours on end. We usually let the cleaners into the wards while the guests are all stacked neatly in here, it makes tidying so much easier.’
‘Doesn’t anyone ever realise that no-one is actually listening to them?’
‘Gosh no! Whenever they talk to a member of staff we just look concerned, raise an eyebrow, pretend to scribble a note or recommend bed rest. Works a treat. Well, have you seen enough? Is it time to hand over that cheque?’
‘Cheque? What cheque?’
‘Your investment in the clinic – you are here to invest aren’t you? Is that not the reason for your visit? You won’t find a more lucrative business than healthcare provision, and no part of that more free from liability and risk than mental healthcare provision. Good grief, all of our customers are barking at the moon when they’re brought in, it’s not as though we can make them any worse whatever we do – have you ever tried to sue a psychiatrist or psychologist? Can’t be done old boy – it’s far too subjective a matter for the courts. This business is as safe as houses and makes more money than an actual oil well.’