Stranger Than Kindness

by Mark A Radcliffe

  Adam had collected other people’s experiences and used them to colour his view of the world. By witnessing dismay he had been infected with it. You don’t have to do bad things to be shaped by badness, he had learned, you just have to be close to it long enough and it somehow makes your soul blister and swell as if it had been stung by a large invisible bee. And all the time the smell: there were days when he wondered if he was incontinent. He was twenty-seven. He felt old. Really old, like forty or something.

  He had stolen five tablets, minor tranquilizers, a week after Graham had killed himself. He didn’t take the good ones: he didn’t feel he deserved the good ones. He could have gone for the pink ones that make you feel calm and help you sleep. Or he could have gone for the brown ones that knock you out. Instead he went for the white ones. It was a ridiculous choice. They were useful in managing agitation and anxiety in old and dementing people but rubbish for anything else. If he had thought about it he would have considered his theft self-defeating, even self-harming, rather than tranquilizing, but Adam had always been told that his biggest problem was that he thought too much, so he had stopped. Drinking randomly helped with that sometimes and, since Catherine had left, so did sleeping with people he didn’t love. Or know.

  And now here he was again. Like he always was. Trying to keep a straight face. Wondering if he was awake. The office was referred to as the goldfish bowl: three sides of reinforced window and one brick wall, designed like someone had circled the wagons. The idea was that nurses could see most of what was going on in the day room while they drank tea or argued with each other about ECT, Phil Collins or Norman Tebbit. There were three large filing cabinets pushed back against the wall; the rest of the office was lined with desks covered with a variety of notes, phones, books and stationery trays. The walls were pale blue, different from the industrial yellow of the rest of the ward, and it was quiet, not just because the mad people were not allowed in but because there was a carpet and the ceiling was lower, so there wasn’t the inevitable echo.

  Adam glanced up and murmured hello to the smartly-dressed, stick-thin twenty-something woman who had slipped in and was sitting in the middle of the office waiting to speak. He carried on writing. He was placing on record the fact that a patient, Michael Wells, had removed three or maybe four of his own teeth with some slip joint pliers he had borrowed from a porter. The entry in the notes concluded: ‘Medication administered. Dental appointment arranged.’

  After introducing herself by profession, Trainee Clinical Psychologist, but not by name, the young woman began badly. ‘I don’t know if you realize it, but actually Maureen Marley’s condition is quite rare.’

  He was being patronized by a trainee with the social skills of a skip who wanted the opportunity to work with Maureen Marley, to ‘understand more’ and maybe even ‘offer something that may prove a little more substantial than simply drugging her.’

  Adam smiled but said nothing. She’s as oblivious to her rudeness as she is to her nutritional needs, he thought.

  The thin woman continued: ‘I just wonder, given the unusual presentation, if filling her full of anti-psychotics that are not making the slightest bit of difference is the best we can do?’

  ‘I wonder that about most of the patients,’ Adam said.

  ‘Well, quite.’ The psychologist seemed encouraged at the hint of humanity from the charge nurse, who had graying skin and what looked like a hangover. She saw a gatekeeper, a guard in a loud shirt with bloodshot eyes.

  ‘So why Maureen Marley and not, say, Michael?’

  ‘Who is Michael? I’m sorry…’

  ‘Michael Wells is the man in the anorak pacing up and down beside the television pulling rather violently on his ear. He removed some of his teeth last night because he believed that they were responsible in some bizarre dental way for the voices in his head. Having held long and earnest conversations with the BBC news over the last two weeks and become increasingly animated—an energy that has grown exponentially with his approaching discharge into the community—it all became too much and so he borrowed some pliers, went off into the grounds where nobody could see or hear him and wrenched his teeth from his mouth. He thought they were antennas. That’s quite a thing isn’t it? He talks to himself a lot, looks angry, doesn’t wash, has a swastika tattooed on his head.’

  ‘Schizophrenic.’

  ‘That’s what they say.’

  ‘Not in itself unusual…’

  ‘I think tattooing a swastika on your head is quite unusual. What do you think that is about?’ Adam asked gently, probing, giving the impression at least that he wanted her opinion.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Tattooing a swastika on your head: what might have persuaded him to think that was a bold but alluring fashion statement?’

  ‘Well…’ The woman crossed her legs and settled back a little into what Adam assumed was her clinical posture. ‘Given his diagnosis and the virulence of his symptoms I assume the voices in his head told him to.’

  ‘Right,’ nodded Adam. ‘But why?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the psychologist. ‘I would have to assess him.’

  ‘You see, I think that might be interesting. I would guess you have to have a lot of self-loathing in you to stick an immovable swastika on your head. I wonder if we could help him with that at all? And Michael is an unfashionable soul. Not the sort of man who attracts the right kind of attention. He might really benefit from some psychology time. Maureen Marley gets a psychologist every time one of you needs to do a case study, but Michael… What do you think?’

  The Psychologist looked at him with barely contained irritation. She sighed and uncrossed her legs. ‘I didn’t come here to talk about Michael.’

  Adam smiled. ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘So what about Maureen Marley? If you are uncomfortable I could always just speak to the consultant.’

  Adam laughed. ‘Frankly, I don’t care if you phone Princess Margaret, the answer is no.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I wonder why you are being obstructive?’

  Adam turned towards her, eyebrows raised, offering, he hoped, just a little of the contempt he was feeling. ‘Obstructive?’ he thought. Obstructive would be ensuring that Maureen Marley is off the ward twenty minutes before you arrive here, when you think you have an appointment to see her. Obstructive is ensuring that all the side rooms are in use when you come to visit anyone at all. Obstructive is keeping the patients’ notes locked so that you cannot borrow from them to write your wholly pointless assessments and instead have to go and talk to the patients while they are watching Coronation Street. ‘“Why are you being so astonishingly arrogant and self serving?” strikes me as the more realistic question,’ he said. The young woman reddened and stood up, preparing herself for an exercise in assertiveness. Adam chose not to give her the space and added: ‘This is about us having a difference of philosophy. I think clinical decisions should be based on patient need. You think they should be based on whatever you fancy doing.’

  The psychologist sneered. ‘I look forward to you meeting my boss: he has a way of dealing with people like you.’

  She picked up her bag and marched out of the office, slamming the door with Adam’s words ringing in her ears: ‘You might want to consider a doughnut.’

  When Anna got off the bus and began walking down the main drive of the hospital she could see Maureen Marley sitting on the steps outside the main doors. The sun was shining, there was no breeze and as Anna drew closer to the main entrance—which was fronted by a water fountain that didn’t work and a flag pole without a flag—she watched Maureen smoking a roll-up and staring at her shoes. Maureen Marley didn’t look up once, didn’t move except to draw on her cigarette, but didn’t seem remotely surprised when Anna approached and sat down on the steps beside her. Maureen may be mad but she wasn’t stupid.

  ‘Why they sen
ding me to that house?’ she asked, barely moving her lips ‘It smells.’

  ‘It did smell, didn’t it? Lavender and carpet freshener, I think.’

  Maureen let out a snort of fake laughter, just a brisk shrug of the shoulders and an exhalation born of manners rather than glee. ‘It’s a girl’s house.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m working on it,’ Anna said softly.

  ‘I’m not moving there. I’ll get a flat. Get a job.’ Maureen sounded defiant but unconvinced.

  ‘Cool,’ Anna said. ‘Got anything in mind?’

  ‘Bus driver,’ Maureen Marley said.

  ‘Got a licence?’ Again Anna tried to sound gentle.

  ‘They teach you,’ Maureen said, like a twelve-year-old trying to convince his dad he will be an astronaut regardless of his fear of heights.

  ‘Well yeah, but not from scratch I don’t think. You’ll need a driving licence first.’

  ‘I could get lessons, pass my test and then do it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Anna, knowing that she couldn’t but not knowing why.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to drive a bus,’ Maureen Marley said quietly. ‘Or a train. Do you think you need a driving licence to drive a train?’

  ‘No idea. Don’t expect so, it’s not like they have a clutch is it?’

  Maureen Marley shrugged. She didn’t know about clutches. She looked up for a moment and out of the hospital at the cars driving past, drawing on her cigarette. ‘These people trying to punish me. They is not God.’

  ‘I don’t think they are trying to punish you—’ But Maureen Marley turned and glared at her and Anna changed tack. ‘Would a different house be OK?’

  Maureen turned away, stared at the flagpole and smoked her cigarette. Later she would go to the bookies. Afterwards she might go and look at the trains. Maybe get on a train, see where it went. ‘Man needs to be free,’ she said quietly. ‘Man is free.’

  There was a knock on the office door. It was Michael Wells. He still had thin lines of dried blood on his bottom lip and his black beard looked oily, probably because of the soap that Grace had used to try to clean his face up after she had found him in the bathroom with a hand full of teeth and a mouth full of blood. Now, as he stood waiting for the door to be opened for him he looked embarrassed and pale. Adam got up, went to a drawer, took out a packet of John Player Special and removed three cigarettes. He strolled over to the door, opened it and looked at Michael, who said nothing but fixed his stare on the cigarettes in Adam’s hand. His skin was yellow and his mouth was swollen. His greasy black hair hung down over his swastika tattoo and he seemed to have retreated into his filthy blue anorak. Adam paused until Michael looked up. His eyes were glazed and wet. After acknowledging that Adam had a face he returned his gaze to the cigarettes.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Adam asked quietly. Michael made a noise and shrugged. ‘If it is too hard… if things are too difficult… tell someone, please.’

  Michael shuffled from foot to foot, he turned away from Adam and turned back again, he glanced up at the ceiling quickly with a vacant expression and then he looked at the cigarettes. Adam handed them to him and Michael turned and walked quickly back to his dormitory. As he walked he was shaking his head and occasionally hitting himself in the face with the open palm of his hand.

  Adam could see Libby over Michael’s shoulder. She was in the day room and seemed restless, disturbed even. She was sitting down, standing up again, sitting down, tapping her feet and standing up again. After Michael had left he walked over to her.

  ‘Are you OK, Libby?’

  ‘Of course I’m not OK. I haven’t got a body.’

  ‘You seem more agitated than usual,’ said Adam quietly.

  Libby looked past Adam and into the office from where he had just come. ‘What’s he looking at?’ she said angrily.

  Adam turned round but nobody was there. ‘Who, Libby?’

  ‘Him. That one in there.’

  The office was empty. Tim Leith, the ward doctor, was walking down the corridor toward the office but he wasn’t even close to Libby’s eye line. ‘I can’t see anyone Libby,’ Adam said softly. Libby tapped both her feet on the floor and pulled at her cardigan. Libby hadn’t looked at Adam properly in years but she looked at him now, looked at him like he was a liar, or at least that is what Adam saw. Saw enough to say: ‘Really Libby, I can’t see anyone.’ Libby stood still for a moment; her face stopped twitching as she seemed to mull over the words. She made a low humming noise, very quiet, almost like a growl, and then she walked away.

  When Adam returned to the office Tim was waiting for him.

  ‘Have you spoken to Libby lately?’ Adam asked.

  Tim was a short round-faced man with a foppish fringe and a range of cord suits, today’s being a brownish-green colour. He always wore a waistcoat and sounded like the landed gentry. Adam liked him. He worked hard, he listened when someone was speaking and he seemed to like people. Good qualities in a doctor. Not necessarily great for his career though. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  Before Adam could answer Grace came into the office. Tim blushed. He always blushed when he saw Grace. Grace was kind enough to pretend not to notice.

  ‘What did the skinny psychologist want?’ she asked.

  ‘Career advancement. I need to pop out for a minute, are you OK here?’

  ‘Sure. Where are you going?’

  Adam smiled at her. ‘I’m going to go and be manipulative with the consultant. Won’t be long.’

  Grace laughed. ‘Manipulative about anything in particular?’

  ‘Yes, that skinny psychologist. We need to set a few boundaries before we find ourselves back in the days when the people who couldn’t afford the circus used to come in here to look at the mad people at the weekends.’

  ‘Can I come and watch?’ Tim asked.

  Anna passed the two men in the corridor just as she was approaching the door to the ward. She was wearing a dress, black with a cream trim, the first time she had not worn trousers since she had come here.

  ‘Hello.’ Adam spoke without suggesting he was going to stop. ‘I was hoping to have a very quick word with you about Maureen Marley later if you are around.’

  Anna nodded. ‘I’ll be here for a couple of hours and I wanted a word too.’

  Anna was standing in the large doorway and Adam was past her now.

  ‘I’ll be back in twenty minutes,’ he said, adding: ‘Nice dress.’

  ‘Me too,’ Tim said. ‘I’ll be back then too. And it is a nice dress’.

  Grace was still in the office when Anna got there. The day room was empty apart from the singing cleaner, frantically polishing the old wooden coffee table. Grace opened the office door and asked Anna if she wanted a cup of tea.

  ‘Yeah, go on then.’ Anna put her bag inside the door and the two women walked down toward the kitchen.

  At first sight Grace’s name did not suit her. She was measured in her movement. The way she expressed herself came from her eyes rather than her tone of voice or her body. She had that pretty round face and the smoothest of skin. It wasn’t until you spent a little time with Grace that you noticed she made you feel calm. Not chemical-cosh calm that made you nervous because you knew your mood did not correspond with the reality it swam around in, but more a herbal-tea-with-Radio-4-in-the-background calm: soothing, at ease.

  ‘I was working late last night,’ Anna said quietly, wondering how well Grace knew Adam.

  ‘Make sure you take the time back.’ Grace was looking for clean cups. Having found two she went to the fridge to smell the milk.

  ‘I was surprised to see the charge nurse arrive after ten and go and sit with Libby. What’s that about? Are they related?’

  Grace eyed Anna. ‘Don’t think so’.

  There was a pause as they made tea. Grace poured water; Anna put the milk back in
the fridge. Both women moved calmly through the silence, gauging how comfortable they were with each other. Anna may have passed some intuitive test because it was Grace who spoke next. ‘Adam has had a funny few months. He worked on this ward when he trained and I remember he said he would never work here again, but after Graham died he couldn’t stay on the acute ward. He didn’t say anything but it seemed pretty obvious…’

  ‘Graham the suicide with the bleach? I heard about that. Horrible.’

  ‘Yeah, Adam thought he should have seen it coming. He thinks that is the point of being here, to see things. He was playing chess with Graham…’

  Anna nodded. If it had been her she would expect to see it too, and it didn’t occur to her that she wouldn’t have done.

  ‘You know how after something shocking happens you look back to whatever happened before and see it differently? See that there were clues there that if you had been open-minded enough you would have seen? We did that. We all did that. There were no clues. Either Graham decided completely spontaneously to drink a litre of bleach or he was so at ease with the decision he had made that it lifted some burden from him, because he was so relaxed that day. He chatted to me over breakfast about my holiday. He walked back to the ward from the shops with one of the students and actually told her why he thought she would make a good nurse and then… well… he was with Adam for about twenty five minutes and Adam…’

  ‘Adam didn’t notice anything.’

  Grace had been leaning against the kitchen worktop looking at the floor but she raised herself now, looking Anna in the eye. ‘He’d have seen it if it was seeable.’

  ‘Of course he would.’

  ‘No, I mean it, he would. He had—has—a brilliant eye did Adam, could really see, or sense, what was going on in people. I get that what you see is this shambling, distant… lummox but don’t be fooled.’

  ‘Lummox?’ Anna laughed.

  ‘Not diagnostically accurate?’ Grace smiled.