‘It is Director Templeton,’ the director said, calmly exerting his authority. ‘And yes, we certainly have time for this. It is of the upmost importance.’ Reid shook his head, this time not caring to hide the gesture, but the director didn’t even look back to notice. Instead, his gaze was fixed expectantly on Adrian. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘go on. Tell me about this… other place.’
‘It was horrific,’ Adrian said. ‘The ground was like black rock, but felt a little different under my feet. There were huge mountains and these gigantic pillars that touched the sky. The size of them was hard to comprehend.’
‘Anything else?’
‘There were these… things.’
‘Things?’ Templeton asked, and Adrian nodded, not sure how best to describe them. Then another, more fitting word sprang forward in his mind.
‘Monsters,’ he said. ‘Nightmarish monsters of all sizes. Some in the distance were as big as the mountains themselves. The whole place just felt evil. And the sky was different too. A little like looking up at the night as we know it, but the stars moved differently. And I swear that they pulled together at one point, swirling about each other like some unfathomable eye that hung in the space beyond.’
‘This is good, Adrian,’ Templeton said. ‘And was there anything else? Anything at all?’
Adrian thought, and then remembered the boiling sea. And he recalled that feeling he had, as if something were making contact.
‘I think so,’ he said. ‘There was this expanse of water, if that is the right word. And I somehow felt that there was a presence beneath it. Something that was reaching out to me, in my mind.’
The director’s expression grew even more eager. ‘How so?’
‘It felt like it wanted me. I don’t know how else to explain it. It knew I was there, and it wanted to… claim me.’ Adrian shook his head. ‘It’s hard to explain.’
The director gave Adrian a reassuring smile. ‘Very good, Mr. James,’ he said. ‘I think that is enough for now. I can imagine this is difficult and more than a little distressing.’
‘I guess so,’ Adrian said. The director then got to his feet, groaning slightly as he did, the action clearly taking some effort. Adrian heard the popping of the man’s knee joints as they took on the strain of the rest of his body.
‘Is that normal?’ Adrian asked, ‘Dreams like that, I mean? Does it always happen after taking the medicine, because I’ve never experienced anything like it before. I never knew I had that kind of imagination.’
‘They are normal,’ Templeton reassured. ‘But, Adrian, do we ever really know ourselves? That is the question I am trying to answer here, and this new medicine will help me do that. If successful, the patient will be at ease with who they are. Once that happens, I feel that in most cases our work will be done—there would be no more need for treatment.’
‘And it will work for me?’
The director nodded. ‘I am sure of it. And once it does, all of that suffocating guilt you now feel will be gone. You can live out your life without regret.’
It was a soothing notion, one Adrian had heard before. It was the same promise that had drawn him here in the first place. Still, he wasn’t certain he deserved that kind of relief or absolution.
He actually felt that this place, Arlington Asylum, was exactly what he deserved.
Adrian’s four guests then moved towards the door, but Templeton looked back over his shoulder. ‘That is all for now, Mr. James, I appreciate your candour on this. You are free to wander the ward as you see fit and we will catch up soon. Have a good day.’
Adrian only nodded in response as they exited the room, leaving the door open behind them.
The truth was that there were no good days in this place, only repetition and misery that repeated in an endless cycle.
This was his life now.
This was his punishment.
3
Adrian walked down the long hallway, heading towards the Communal Area—a large room where the inmates in the ward were able to assemble and, if their mental capacity allowed, talk and socialise. He knew in that regard he was lucky. It was a privilege awarded only to Ward B residents.
His ward.
From speaking with other inmates, he knew that the other main area, Ward A, was a place even worse than his current one. Patients there were afforded no time of their own, always under constant observation and therapies. Though Adrian knew that these treatments amounted to little more than torture.
Adrian passed the room next to his own and looked in to see his neighbour, Tom, asleep on his bunk. The poor old guy looked worse and worse with each passing day, so Adrian decided not to wake him.
All the doors to the rooms he passed were the same: rusty iron with small, square viewing hatches cut into them. Most of these doors were now pushed open, indicating the rooms were likely empty. The corridor itself was narrow with dirtied white-tiled walls that ran up to the high ceiling. The floor covering consisted of old, hexagon-shaped tiles, coloured with a slight tinge of green that could just be made out beneath old stains. The area was poorly lit, lending the narrow corridor a claustrophobic feel.
Adrian didn’t know too much about the facility he was housed in, other than the name of it, and that Director Templeton ran it, but he understood that whatever funding or financing the asylum had was insufficient. Very little of the budget seemed to go towards the upkeep of the building, that much was obvious, and the management, such as it was, were happy enough to let the place go to rot and ruin.
He followed the corridor around to the left, passing more rooms as he walked. Sometimes, even though the doors were open, he saw patients inside who had apparently decided not to leave the safety of their four walls for now. One such man—Malcolm—sat on his bed, rocking back and forth and scratching at the skin on his arm that looked red-raw.
Malcolm had been here for months, longer than Adrian, and hadn’t shown any signs of improvement during his time here. If anything, his state of mind seemed to be declining, and there was talk that he may soon be transferred to Ward A.
Adrian carried on to a large metallic double door at the end of the hallway. It contained wide vision panels in the top half, the glass within crisscrossed with wire. One door leaf was open, and Adrian could hear the buzz of voices within, somewhat drowning out the usual background noise of pained moans and cries.
This was the Communal Area.
The large space had maybe thirty people inside, but was so big that it still did not seem full. The ceiling was much higher than that of the corridor, arched and supported on old timber beams. The windows on the far wall were tall and thin, six in total, lending the space some natural light. All were covered with rusted iron bars, reminding everyone inside that there was no way out.
Not that anyone would try, given the number of orderlies present.
Most of them—all dressed in their plain white uniforms—stood watching from their positions against the walls, but some walked between the patients, making sure nobody stepped out of line.
And Adrian had seen first-hand what happened when any of the patients acted up. While none of the orderlies were as bad as Jones, even the less sadistic were still swift and brutal in their methods of maintaining order.
Looking around the gathering of lost souls, many of whom milled aimlessly around the basic tables and chairs that were dotted about the room, Adrian spotted the group he had chosen to interact with most during his stay here.
He made his way over to them, careful not to bump into the subdued, zombie-like patients that stood in his way. They were obviously heavily medicated, to the point of being completely placid, and Adrian wondered if all of them were taking the same medicine that was administered to him.
Watching these patients aimlessly roaming the space caused Adrian to wonder if this was what he had to look forward to.
Was this the ‘cure’ that the director had promised him?
After all, you couldn’t feel pain and torment if yo
u couldn’t feel anything at all.
Which actually sounded appealing.
He reached the table where his four friends, if that was the correct term, were seated. In truth, this was merely a group that had formed through nothing but circumstance—all seemed relatively compos mentis when compared to most of the people here. It was perhaps this fact, more than any other, that drew them to each other.
Other than Adrian, the newest member, the group consisted of Seymour, Jack, Trevor, and Sean. It was Trevor—a sleek man with short, mousy hair—who spotted Adrian first. He raised a hand and waved in greeting—a meek gesture that was quickly withdrawn, fearing the gaze of others. Trevor, it seemed, was his usual self today: a timid shadow of a person.
But he could be different. There was another side to him that Adrian had seen only once before.
Another personality altogether.
Mother.
Adrian took a seat next to Sean, given it was the only space available. Sean was a stick-thin, haggard man who had a severe opium addiction, and he was struggling with being cut off from his one true love in this world.
The man's teeth—the ones that were left—were a mixture of black and yellow, caused not by the opium, but by his complete disregard for any kind of personal hygiene. A result of many years of neglect. His condition and reliance on the drug was so bad that when he tried to eat, he often regurgitated any food back up, along with streams of green bile. To Sean, it was not food that gave him sustenance, but the opium, and without it his life in here was hell.
Then there was Jack, a giant of a man—even taller than Jones—who was also the most gentle soul Adrian had ever met. He had no hair at all on his head, not even eyebrows or facial hair, and had a thick browbone that protruded out over his eyes like a small canopy. He had kind eyes that often seemed lost—like a puppy—and of everyone here, Jack was the one Adrian felt most sorry for.
In addition, Jack seemed to be mute and had never uttered a word in all of Adrian’s time here.
As Adrian sat down, he was greeted by the last member of the group, Seymour, and he knew the welcome would not be a pleasant one.
‘Good morning,’ the large man said. Seymour was not tall, but round, and his clothing struggled to contain a stomach that pressed against the thin cotton beneath. He had messy brown hair that was beginning to grey, and his gelatinous chin wobbled as he spoke.
‘Good morning,’ Adrian replied, waiting for the inevitable additional comment.
Seymour didn’t disappoint.
‘You look terrible, old boy,’ Seymour said, with a chuckle. ‘Even for someone as ugly as you.’
It was typical of the fat man, always quick to tease and put others down.
He was also quick to anger.
‘Anyone hear the noises coming from Malcolm's room last night?’ Trevor asked, quickly changing the subject.
Malcolm Peters was the man Adrian had seen on his journey to the common area, but he hadn’t heard the screams in question. Of course, he had been unconscious all night, lost in his terrible dreams following the dose of medication.
‘I did,’ Seymour answered. ‘Fucking horrible sounds. I reckon he was in pain.’
‘Anyone seen him today?’ Sean asked, scratching irritably at a red patch of skin on his arm.
No one verbalised an answer, but all shook their heads.
‘Heard they’d upped his medication,’ Seymour added. ‘Guess that means it won’t be long until he disappears as well. Just like the others.’
‘You mean it won’t be long until he’s better and released, just like the others?’ Trevor asked.
Seymour laughed. A big, full-on belly laugh. ‘Don’t be so stupid, boy,’ he said. ‘People don’t get better here. And they’re never released.’
‘Of course they are,’ Trevor shot back, but his voice was small and weak, as it normally was in his more placid state. ‘The treatments here work.’
Seymour shook his head with a smug look of superiority. Adrian didn’t like Seymour, but he did tend to agree with him on this point. A small part of him did indeed cling to the hope that this miracle medicine Director Templeton was developing would work, but he was well aware that it was all experimental. The chances of people leaving here, actually cured of their mental conditions, were slim at best. He had come to that conclusion a while ago.
And he’d also made peace with it.
After what he had done, he didn’t deserve to be cured of his guilt.
He deserved to be right here amongst the misery.
‘Trev,’ Seymour said, ‘come on, think about it. In all your time here, can you remember a single person being released?’
‘Yes,’ Trevor said, with a little more conviction. ‘Angus Frey and Edward Simmons. And Alfie, only last week. They’ve all been released and are all cured.’
‘All have disappeared,’ Seymour said, ‘but not all cured. And certainly not released. I can’t believe you thought…’ but then Seymour trailed off, alerted by someone behind Adrian. Seymour’s eyes dropped and his shoulders slumped. Adrian turned to see one of the orderlies—Duckworth, the one from his cell earlier—walking up to the table.
‘All getting a little excitable over here, wouldn’t you say?’ Duckworth asked. He had a mop of red hair and pale skin, but was well-set. No one answered him or even made eye contact. Adrian could see that Duckworth had his cosh—a lead club wrapped in leather—already in hand, and he was patting it repeatedly into the palm of his other hand. Everyone remained silent, hoping the orderly would be happy that he’d proven his point and just walk away. Thankfully, luck was on their side.
‘Keep it down,’ the orderly said and moved on, much to everyone’s relief.
Adrian looked over to see Jack hunched over in his seat, his head bowed, and he rocked back and forth. Adrian laid a hand on his shoulder to calm him.
‘It’s okay, big man,’ he said. ‘He’s gone now.’
Jack smiled, and his rocking slowed.
Adrian was then about to change the topic to something a little less excitable, but wasn’t given that chance.
‘There he is,’ Seymour whispered. Adrian turned and saw Malcolm entering the large room through the double doors.
He looked like hell.
Worse than normal.
Already a tall, gangly man, Malcolm’s skin was now ashen, almost grey, and he had dark purple bags beneath his eyes, one of which always hung lower than the other—seemingly a genetic defect.
And he looked even thinner than usual, too, which was saying something for him. His cotton clothing hung loosely off him as if several sizes too large. He also seemed unsteady on his feet as he swayed over to an empty seat and plopped down into it.
‘Does that look like a man who is getting better?’ Seymour asked, but no one answered.
Adrian felt his gut lurch, and a sudden, queasy feeling washed over him. Last night he had started the same treatment Malcolm was on, and this could well be a glimpse of what he had to look forward to.
Still, that might not be a bad thing.
He thought back to his dream last night.
Not the nightmarish landscape, but what came before.
Activity at the entrance of the room drew their attention as dinner was wheeled inside. Large silver troughs contained the bland, runny slop that they would soon gulp down.
Orderlies began heaping the gruel onto paper plates.
‘All right,’ one of them shouted, raising his voice above the general noise of the room. ‘Anyone who wants to eat, make your way over to the food here in a civilised manner. And make sure you queue—we aren’t fucking animals. If any of you step out of line, you’ll not eat for a week.’ He raised his cosh high in the air. ‘In fact, I’ll make sure to crack your jaw so hard that you won’t be eating for a month. Understand?’
No one needed to reply, and the man didn’t wait around for an answer. The patients in the room gradually got to their feet and started to filter over to their awaiting meals.<
br />
‘Adrian?’ Trevor asked as the group stood up. ‘How was it?’
‘How was what?’ Adrian asked.
‘The medicine. Did you… did you dream?’
Adrian nodded. ‘Yes, Trevor, I did.’
‘Same happened to me,’ Trevor said. He’d started his treatment a couple of weeks ago and had received multiple doses so far. ‘They get worse, but the director told me it’s one of the ways they know it’s working. He says it’s a sign that it’s helping my mind.’
Adrian didn’t know exactly what this medicine was, or what it did, but he wasn’t as optimistic as Trevor. However, he didn’t have the heart to crush the shy man’s hopes. ‘That’s good, Trev,’ he said, and the man smiled in response.
‘Yeah,’ Trevor said, still smiling. ‘It is.’
But his voice faltered, and it was clear that he hadn’t entirely convinced himself.
4
Dr. Thomas Reid was not happy.
He walked alongside Director Isaac Templeton as they made their way back towards the Administration Ward. They passed from Ward B, through the secured door, and then into the Main Hall, which also served as a reception area to the facility. It was a wide-open space with a cluster of desks towards the back where a smattering of administration staff worked, writing up reports and filing paperwork. The front section of the hall had an unmanned reception counter that had not been used for many a year and had gathered piles of clutter that threatened to spill off to the floor. Dr. Reid knew that Arlington Asylum was not open to the public, and hadn’t been for a long time, but the layout of this reception area suggested it once was.
The two distinct areas were demarcated by timber partitions on either side of the room that extended a few feet inwards, leaving a wide opening between. The main walls of the hall were lined with a similar style of oak panelling that ran up to a moulded rail set about five feet from the floor. Above that, the walls were finished in flaking plaster. The ceiling above was arched, giving the area a grandiose feel. In its heyday, it would have been quite impressive.
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