The psychiatrist pressed the buzzer and spoke into the security box to the guard.
‘Mr Greg Roylance to see patient, Miss Charlotte Stevens.’
At that moment, a yellow bus with three armed guards pulled up. The back doors opened and five prisoners linked by chains, wearing orange boiler suites, climbed out. The prisoners stood behind the psychiatrist, flanked at rifle point.
Another much louder buzzer went off, an amber light flashed and the electronic steel door slid open. The psychiatrist waved to George the security officer, in acknowledgment, then an inner door with steel bars disappeared into the wall.
He knew the drill; he put his money, keys and watch into the tray then walked through the metal detector. George got out of his chair and did a brief body search, always apologising as he’d done for the last twelve years. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, he left George in peace with his evening newspaper.
The tall good-looking, early forty-something psychiatrist, with chiselled features and dark wavy hair, made his way to the door with the notice pinned to it: ALL VISITORS TO CHECK IN.
At the desk, he signed the logbook with his name, date and time. Colin, the guard on duty, handed him his visitor’s pass and the maximum-security door swipe. Greg clipped the pass to his coat.
Visitors had to be escorted at all times, so Colin picked up the desk phone and dialled the extension.
‘Mr Jefferson, Greg Roylance the psychiatrist, is here to see you.’
Although Mr Jefferson, a short portly balding late fifties man with a thin trained moustache, was governor, he still liked to keep close links with all the inmates, as he called them. He and the psychiatrist had known each other for 12 years, since 1976 when Greg’s patient, Charlotte Stevens, had been admitted as a 26-year-old.
‘How is she this evening?’ Greg inquired.
‘She’s waiting for you, Greg, to come home from work as usual,’ Mr Jefferson replied with a grin.
They walked up a flight of steps to Ward A, then along the corridor to the fifth room with the large picture window and the steel door. Amongst the smells of disinfectant, bleached linen, alcohol and waxed floors, they watched her for a while through the one-way window.
‘She’s far more responsive since we moved her out of the padded cell,’ Mr Jefferson highlighted, ‘but we still make sure there’s no sharp objects anywhere. Only plastic cups and saucers; same goes with knives and forks.’
The psychiatrist nodded in agreement,
‘Best to be safe than sorry. What about restraints?’
‘We only have to put the jacket on when she’s having her medication and, as you know, she always makes a fuss when she’s having her electric shock procedure. The treatment room reminds her of the abuse she suffered as a child in the closet.’
‘We have tried various things before to calm her down,' the psychiatrist said thoughtfully. 'However, I'll keep working on it.' He took out his notepad and scribbled. ‘I’ll check her out when she’s having therapy.’ Then he looked up from his pad with an idea. ‘I think we should try background music. It might help to soothe her.’
‘We could give it a try,’ Mr Jefferson responded, ‘It certainly can’t hurt.’
Jefferson picked up the clipboard hanging on the door. ‘This morning the usual phone-call scenario with her mother - she got all upset, thought she was back in the closet.’ He thumbed through some pages, ‘Oh, she wanted a white coat on the small side. Said it was for Lucy to take to school for her cooking lessons. The orderly gave her one from the laundry room, He asked me first. I didn’t think there was any harm.’
‘At least, we’ve reduced her schizophrenic characters down to three,’ the psychiatrist said, ‘including being my wife.’ He rolled his eyes while Mr Jefferson chuckled. ‘Let me in and I’ll take a look at her.’
‘OK, Greg. I’m off home now so let your-self out with the swipe card then ring for the orderly. He’ll escort you back to reception. I’d like to stay but it’s our wedding anniversary and the wife wants me to take her for an Italian.’ They both laughed.
As Jefferson used his maximum-security door swipe, the bulletproof glass swished aside. The psychiatrist stepped in and the glass swished closed behind him. It was safe. With a camera in every room and twenty-four hour monitoring, he didn’t have to worry much.
‘Honey, I’m home.’
Charlotte appeared from the little kitchenette wiping her hands on the striped apron. ‘Hi Greg. You’re early.’ She walked over and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘I’m making us a nice fish pie for dinner. Give me twenty-minutes and could you lay the table and open the wine? I bought a screw top at the supermarket instead of those awkward corks. Also please tell the kids to wash their hands.’
‘OK, honey,’ Greg replied. He had played this charade countless times. It got her in the right mood for therapy, which was to follow. However, this role-playing had often made him wonder whether it was he or his patient who was mad. He laid the table with the plastic cutlery. ‘Have you two washed your hands?’ he said loudly, so she could hear.
Mark and Lucy ignored him and looked at the television. No one could blame them because in reality they couldn’t answer back. The two child mannequins had come from the fashion department of a high street store, school clothes included.
They’d been Greg’s idea. He’d attended a lecture at Edinburgh University given by the eminent psychologist, Dr Frans Hoffman. Studies had shown that sociopaths and psychopaths behaved well and responded to role-play therapy in a social bonding family environment, something that was usually lacking in their childhood and important character-forming years.
To be sure, this was safe for psychiatric staff, they had tested similar mannequins. Using various household objects, they had smashed them up to see whether they would splinter and could form a possible weapon she could use on herself or others.
Charlotte glanced at the kitchen wall clock. It was 6:25 p.m. In five minutes, as always, the bell would ring announcing the start of the evening shift. This heralded a big exodus on all floors with the new shift taking over, including reception and the surveillance room.
She closed the women’s magazine with the fish recipe and slipped it back into the rack with all the others. The Institution allowed her magazines. It was one of the perks as a lifer. Her favourite was WOMAN'S MONTHLY. Every now and then, there was a free sample inside.
‘Is everybody sitting ready?’ she shouted from the kitchen, ‘I’m dishing up.’
‘Yes, honey,’ Greg replied.
Charlotte appeared with a tray and pie dish. She sat it down on the place mat in the middle of the table. ‘
Mind everyone, it’s very hot,’ she said. With her oven gloves, Charlotte removed the lid. Then, one-by-one, she spooned out portions of invisible fish pie onto the plastic plates.
Greg sniffed his plate,
‘Umm, honey, it smells gorgeous.’
‘Now tuck in, everybody,’ she said. ‘Greg, did you pour my wine?’
‘Sorry, honey, I clean forgot.’ Greg was about to get up when she waved him to sit down.
‘I’ll get it, Greg. Don’t let yours get cold.’
‘Thanks, honey.’
Charlotte got up and hesitated,
‘Now where did I put that cork screw?’ Then her face brightened, ‘I know, I left it in the kitchen.’
Behind Greg, with a soundless first time throw, she found the target. She had practised during the security shift changeovers.
While she was away, Greg pretended to eat his invisible fish pie and said loudly,
‘This tastes really good, umm, doesn’t it kids?’
Suddenly the 6:30 p.m. shift bell went off. He looked at his watch, the time was moving on. Get this nonsense over as soon as possible then start her therapy schedule, he thought.
Greg looked at Mark and Lucy; heads positioned with their glass eyes staring at the television. His attention wandered to it.
Some adverts were on. Then a puzzled expression came over Greg’s face. It was unusual for Charlotte to forget, even though this was just role-play. He shouted over the television,
‘I thought you said the wine bottle was a screw―’
Shluck! Greg heard the sound and felt the instant pain. For a fraction of a second, he looked down and saw the end of the free sample from WOMAN’S MONTHLY. The knitting needle gift, the one fixed to the inside of the back page, which mailroom security had failed to find and remove. It was now sticking through the back of Greg’s neck and out his Adams apple.
Greg coughed. A large bubble of blood appeared from his left nostril while looking at Charlotte in disbelief, not quite able to comprehend.
She was grinning at him.
‘Want some more pie, Greg? There’s plenty left.’
It was all in slow motion. He looked down to the blood spurting in jets onto the white tablecloth, then to Mark and Lucy sitting quietly watching the television. Greg coughed a lot of blood and made a gurgling noise. He tried to get himself up.
Charlotte kissed him affectionately on the head.
‘You feeling OK, Greg?’ She was still grinning at him.
He tried to say something to her, but she was becoming blurred and distant.
Greg had probably forgotten all about it. In the state he was in, no one could blame him for not remembering - knitting needles come in pairs.
The second one slammed home, right next to the other one. A darts player would have been proud of the grouping. It woke him up for a second. This time he clawed at it like a zombie - jerking and gurgling with eyes rolling around like marbles in a pouch. There was one final spasm before he slumped forward onto the table.
‘I guess, Greg, you’ve had a hard day? I’ll do the washing up.’
Greg’s tongue lay in a puddle of blood on the plastic plate, like a pigs head on display in a butcher’s window. She stroked his forehead thoughtfully with a glazed look in her eyes.
The 6:30 p.m. television news jolted her back to reality; what she should be doing. Charlotte looked up at the security camera, the one she’d covered with her first time throw using the tea towel. Now there wasn’t a lot of time. Around three or four minutes at the most while the surveillance room changed shift.
Charlotte unclipped Greg’s visitor’s pass and got his swipe card. Then she rolled him onto the floor. Pulling him by the legs, she dragged him into the bedroom. A trail of blood marked his route. With great effort, she got him up onto her bed. Charlotte covered him over with the sheets and bunched them up to cover his face. She looked pleased at the result.
She slipped on the white coat she’d been given from the laundry room and fixed the visitor’s pass. In the mirror, she adjusted the hairpiece from Lucy’s mannequin. The bedroom camera: quick! She got up on a chair and removed a pair of panties from the lens. Then she dashed back into the dining area and with a broom, flicked off the tea towel from the other camera.
With Greg’s brief case, she looked the part - a visiting doctor that forgot to sign in. George and Colin would be off duty now and due to cost cutting, replaced by evening contract security.
Charlotte looked at her two children.
‘Goodbye, Mark, goodbye, Lucy.’
She waved to them, but they were too busy watching the television. Using the swipe card the door swished open. She gave one last look.
‘Goodbye, white room.’
The guard had just settled in front of the security monitor with his coffee. He nodded at the screen and mumbled to his colleague, ‘Looks like five on ward A is having an early night again.’
Mint Imperials
Steve and Nigel sat together on the leather sofa wearing their kaftans. They had the television on low volume and were ignoring the Crimewatch appeal about the second gay man from South London to have gone missing in the last three months. With the current hot spell it was another warm, early July evening. Now and again, a hint of vanilla gently found its way from Caribbean incense sticks slowly burning in the hall. With the patio doors open and sipping a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, it was as if they were back on holiday in their Tobago villa.
They were both in their early thirties. Steve, who was browsing a holiday magazine, with his fair hair, blue eyes and chiseled features, was the taller of the two at five feet eleven. While Nigel, short and slightly portly with sparse dark hair, was thumbing through the pages of Gay Monthly. They say opposites attract, which couldn’t have been more true in their physical differences. They’d often joked about this, but love conquers all and they couldn’t imagine life without one another.
‘You know, that David Beckham looks such a tart in those underpants adverts with all the bulge and everything,’ Nigel frowned at the page. ‘If that’s supposed to be a turn-on, all I can say is, don’t bother.’
‘He’d be too high maintenance for you, love, even if he wasn’t straight,’ Steve scoffed looking up from his holiday brochure. ‘Anyway, what do you reckon on Tobago again? It would be the perfect place for our honeymoon. Just look at these villas.’ Steve passed the magazine over to Nigel.
‘They look fantastic,’ Nigel’s brown eyes widened, ‘you reckon we could afford this, darling? Don’t forget, we’ve just taken on a whopping mortgage for this place.’
On the back of Steve’s promotion to junior partner within a large city firm of chartered accountants, three months ago they had purchased their large semi-detached in Surbiton, just opposite the golf course.
Steve and Nigel had a lot in common, collecting Caribbean artefacts being one. Holidaying there twice a year, the house was full of voodoo masks, skins, rugs, spears, and shields including every conceivable carving from under the hot Trinidad sun. However, Steve also loved his golf. More so, now he could afford to join an upmarket club. Everyone at work was into golf, with one of the directors being a member of the course just across the road. Nigel didn’t mind. He wasn’t sport minded, and he wasn’t going to nag Steve about being left alone on the odd Saturday afternoon or Sunday morning. He was grateful Steve’s money could afford their luxuries - a nice semi-detached, and now a dream honeymoon. Sometimes, Nigel did feel a bit insecure and dependent. Being an assistant in a local travel agent didn't exactly bring home the bacon. However, it helped pay some bills and they got their Caribbean holidays heavily discounted with a bit of fiddling on his side.
‘Don’t worry about the mortgage,’ said Steve, ‘I’ve got my six-monthly bonus coming up. We’ll have more than enough to cover the reception and the honeymoon.’ He hugged Nigel, ‘I just want us to be happy. And listen,’ he said, excited, ‘I’ve just had a fantastic idea. Let’s go all Caribbean for the wedding reception.’
Nigel frowned,
‘I can’t see all our friends going out to the Caribbean for the reception, including your sisters and my brother.’
‘No, no, silly Billy; I meant here in our back garden, we can hire a marquee and dig a Caribbean barbeque pit. Like the one, they had at that Trinidad festival last year. Remember how they wrapped all that lamb and pork in banana leaves then buried it under hot coals and stones.’
Nigel’s face lit up.
‘God, it was so tender, you didn’t need a knife.’
‘We can organise the meat with the local butcher.’ Steve continued, ‘Counting relations including friends, I reckon on around eighty for the reception. Let’s make a list.’ He reached for the pad and pen kept in the magazine rack for crossword doodling.
‘We must hire a DJ,’ Nigel said, getting all excited himself now, ‘with plenty of Bob Marley over the sound system.’
‘Great idea, love.’ Steve made some notes.
‘And we’ll state on the wedding invitations that everyone should come in Caribbean dress,’ Nigel said, motioning him to jot it down.
Steve scribbled on the pad and then looked up,
‘And a genuine Caribbean black wedding cake served with hard rum sauce. Yummy-yum.’
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‘Sounds great,’ said Nigel, ‘but who the Christ are we going to find to make us that?’
‘Don’t worry, love, we’ll sort it. Now,’ Steve sucked thoughtfully on his pen, ‘I’ll have to get confirmation from the butcher, but I reckon two whole lambs and a large pig should do it.’
‘Talking of pigs, pity we can’t use him next door,’ Nigel said with a smirk.
Their next-door neighbour, Ted, was a raging homophobic and a racial bigot. Whenever he got the chance, Ted was not backwards in letting them know his dislike for queers, as he called them.
They’d had numerous heated exchanges with him, mostly about the conifers overhanging his side of the fence, or the noise from their sound system playing steel band or reggae. Another time, it was their security lights coming on and waking him up whenever a fox or their gay cat, as Ted christened it, was in the back garden. Unbeknown to Steve and Nigel, Ted threw stones and mud at Sophie if he saw her pooing on his lawn. And last, but not least, Steve and Nigel’s car parking. Ted hated anyone encroaching on his driveway or parking outside his house.
During arguments, Ted has told them more than once in his colourful vocabulary exactly what he thought of Niggers, Dykes, Kites, Pakis, Wops - even the garlic-stinking French didn’t go unscathed. To back it all up, he even had a small BNF poster in his front window.
Mavis, Ted’s wife, suffered in silence. She only smiled at them if they came face to face. Ted had warned her to keep herself to herself.
‘I’ll drink to that, love,’ Steve said raising his glass. ‘It’s a pity we can’t spit-roast the bastard. His wife would probably thank us for it. I ran into her once in the supermarket. She’s quite nice to speak, too. God knows what she sees in him.’
‘OK, enough of that cretin, let’s get back to the list,' Nigel said. 'Perhaps he’ll have a heart attack soon. Now, wedding invitations?’
Steve made a note on the pad. ‘As we’ve booked the registry for the second Saturday in August, that’ll give us around five weeks to send out and get back the RSVPs. Now, we’ve agreed on the banana leaf invitations, so I’ll phone the card people tomorrow and get ninety printed to be on the safe side.’
From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories Page 5