Mad Worlds

by Bill Douglas

  “What do you mean – GPI?”

  “General Paralysis of the Insane – a nurse told me. There’s a couple of other lads in here with it. They say if Larry’d had the medicine earlier he could’ve got better. But he’s got worse. When he had your bed, I used to get right deafened with his swearing.”

  So, it was nothing personal. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The sooner he got away from here, the better. “What happened to your wife, Fred?”

  “Don’t know. She divorced me long ago. And I don’t want to know.”

  John slipped down under the bedclothes again. His head was bursting. He drowsed until tea arrived. A generous though marginally edible offering. He gobbled the lot and finished by licking the rubber plate. Survive!

  When Maclean came with the medicines, it was a relief to gulp down his passport to oblivion.

  15

  Tuesday 1st – Wednesday 2nd May 1956 – in Aversham.

  Cajoling Becky into accepting the spoonfuls, Heather could feel her resolve weaken. She and Becky didn’t have to face the cold unwelcoming darkness at home tonight.

  “You look fair played out, m’dear.”

  “It’s been a long day, Elsie.” Heather managed a smile. “Tea’s helped revive me.”

  Elsie’s arms reached out. “Let me have the bairn. I’ll change her nappy.”

  “Thanks.” She passed the inert bundle across.

  “Was everything all right with your folks, m’dear?”

  This intruded. “Yes, Elsie – except that Mother had a bad headache.” She didn’t want to start discussing her parents, even with her friend. Her resolve strengthened.

  “Must be terrible that, m’dear. Sure you won’t stay?” That concerned look.

  “No, thanks. I must get on with things in the house.”

  “Could I go ahead of you, lass?” said Mattie. “To take the crib and sort your lighting – while the bairn’s being seen to?”

  “Please, Mattie.” Managing the crib would have been okay, but that dark hallway was spooky.

  Mattie went off with the key while Elsie helped Heather get her things ready and prepare Becky. “All’s sorted, lass.” Gosh, Mattie’d been quick.

  After the goodnights, she took the key and went with Becky to the empty house. The hallway radiated brightness. It was almost welcoming.

  She carried Becky upstairs to the crib and stayed on in the bedroom. She didn’t want to linger downstairs with the bloodstains on the carpet. Her eyes would surely keep being drawn to them. She’d tackle removing this gruesome reminder of what must have been an uneven gory struggle for John. But not tonight.

  Fatigued yet restless, she lay watching Becky. When Mother similarly watched her all these years ago, was it pleasurable or a chore? No doubt Granny had done this (surely not as a chore) with Mother when a child, and with her. These motherhood thoughts were sustaining.

  Lying under the bedclothes without John was strange and lonely. Not that there had been, for ages, even tenderness. But while his snoring kept her awake, it was a sign of being alive. Oh for that snoring now!

  Through the night, Becky kept waking and needing nappy changes. Welcome relief from half-waking nightmarish thoughts and fears.

  Gnawing at her was anxiety about John. She must get a visit.

  Wednesday 2nd May 1956 – in Aversham.

  Feet on the desk, Sam Newman was enjoying his cigar. Woodbines were his stock-in-trade, but this morning he’d splashed out.

  He’d spent a boring half-hour yawning over a backlog of paperwork, then at nine o’clock the internal rang. The MOH. “Newman, come to my office now please.” Shit! At least the boss said ‘please’. Okay – he hadn’t phoned Tickler. En route to the MOH’s office, he rehearsed his excuse and braced himself.

  But the Medical Officer of Health, beaming, greeted him with excellent news. “The Health Committee have agreed to the appointment of a second mental health officer. And from the first of July, you will be titled ‘senior’, with one extra increment on your salary.”

  “Thank you, Sir!” He couldn’t have guessed this was coming. He accepted the handshake, got back to his room and slapped the desk. No, he hadn’t misheard.

  Five minutes had changed his world. Senior! He went straight to the tobacconist’s.

  Now he was savouring his recognition. It was well earned. And the killer workload would ease. He’d questions to ask. How would the incomer be recruited – and would he, Sam, have a say in this? Where would they put the man’s desk (as his own room was too small to accommodate that)? But whatever, the world felt good.

  He looked at his watch. Half-past nine. Better get on with the paperwork before the planet went mad. He stubbed the cigar and hunched over the desk again.

  He was up to last Saturday. Missing the match had been a right downer. But Rovers lost seven-nil and his presence at the ground couldn’t have worked the needed miracle. “One-way traffic,” the team coach said, “worst day of my life.”

  So the trip to Springwell with the beautiful Mrs Chisholm had been a damn good alternative. Mrs C had been in a mess after, and would hardly speak, but then having your mate at death’s door in the loony bin probably wasn’t much fun. He’d felt for her. Like a father would – though boy, he’d love to get her into bed.

  Saturday night, one call, but he hadn’t needed to go out. Sunday, two calls. Only one a callout, ending in a woman agreeing to a voluntary admission. He’d been glad of the excuse to leave home for a while as Ella had been in a grumpy mood.

  Ella. He laid his pen down and, leaning back in his chair, resuscitated his cigar. He puffed, enjoying the heady aroma. Ella was the other reason the world felt a better place. Monday, Tuesday and this morning, she’d been in good humour. Smiling at him. No mention of an affair. Even trying a few steps out of the wheelchair yesterday evening and laughing as she collapsed onto the settee. They’d kissed. Glimpses of happier times together. Of course it wouldn’t last; the specialist said there would be ‘up’ periods, though the long-term prognosis was grim.

  The external phone rang. He snatched up the receiver. “Newman.”

  “Mr Newman, it’s Mrs Heather Chisholm. Please can you help?” Sounded desperate. “I want to visit John, but I keep getting blocked when I try to phone Springwell.”

  He could picture her – naïve and seductive. “I’ll do what I can when I’m next out there.” He’d love to be able to comfort her. He took down the phone number of Mattie’s shop.

  *

  That afternoon, Newman had cause to visit Springwell. McNab rang. “High wire act, Sam. Trinity church caretaker, Bert Knowles, is on their tower with a loudhailer – says he’ll jump.”

  Why didn’t they let him? “Okay – Tarzan coming.” He took details, carefully stubbed out his cigar and went straight to the car.

  He arrived at the church to find a crowd being kept back by two policemen. The voice from the loudhailer was distorted and unintelligible. With a policeman’s help, he pushed through, into the church, and gained access to the tower steps.

  Dodgy this. Softly softly, or the guy might jump. Attract attention, invite an explanation. He could see through to the top now. Things had gone quiet. Maybe the guy had jumped. Then he saw the loudhailer and, holding it, the man.

  “Hello,” Newman shouted. “I won’t come any closer. I just want to hear what you’re saying. The loudhailer isn’t clear.” He had the man’s attention – maybe.

  “I am the Messiah, returning to my people.”

  Delusional? Don’t argue, or challenge in any way. “Yes, so you are the Messiah. Look, my name’s Sam. What is your earthly name?”

  “Bert. I have been told I am the Messiah.” The man was looking down at him.

  “Bert, you’ve gone up high to tell everyone you’re the Messiah? Not to jump or anything like that?”

  “A space has been cleared for me below, so that I can throw myself down. The scripture says God will give orders to the angels, and they will h
old me up, so that not even my feet will be hurt on the stones.”

  Tough one, this. “Look Bert. You are the Messiah. You’ve proclaimed it, and people are listening. Do you think jumping down could seem like showing off? Though of course I’m sure you would not intend to show off.”

  “I do not want to show off – just show people I am immortal.”

  “But people will know you are immortal, as you are the Messiah.”

  Bert had lowered the loudhailer and was still looking towards him. “Bert, another thing’s struck me. If you jump, it could scare people, and make them run away, instead of welcoming you – which is what you’ll want them to do.”

  The man disappeared from view, surely to jump. He heard the loudhailer blare unintelligibly. He waited. Silence. Bert had jumped.

  Then came a hoarse shout. “Sam, my disciple, you go ahead and clear the way. I am going through the door to meet my flock.”

  “Will do, Bert.” He went down the steps, through the door, and waited with the police. His leg ached.

  Poor guy, Bert – wrinkled, getting on. Looked bewildered as the police escorted him into their van. “Unhand me. I am the Messiah. Where is Sam, my disciple?”

  Sam was in his car – and followed to ensure the emergency admission into Springwell. While he was there, he’d try getting Mrs C a visit.

  In Springwell, then Aversham.

  The business finished – forms completed, Bert sedated – Newman’s thoughts turned to Heather. Jock Mackenzie agreed to his using the internal phone and gave him the number he wanted. He dialled, his hand trembling.

  “The Medical Superintendent’s office. Miss Bewlay speaking.” Who else? A voice to rally the troops.

  He explained his whereabouts and reason for ringing – reminding Miss Bewlay of last Saturday’s visit and emphasising how distraught Mrs C. had been.

  “Mr Newman, stay there and I will ring you.”

  Well, she hadn’t exploded. He told Jock what had happened and waited by the phone. After an age, it rang.

  “The Medical Superintendent has consented to Mrs Chisholm paying another special visit. Her husband is recuperating in our Infirmary and will shortly be transferred to our Male Admissions Ward. It is permitted for Mrs Chisholm to visit the patient there on Friday 11th May at two o’clock.”

  Over a week? Still… “Thanks for your help. I’ll pass that on today.”

  As if he hadn’t spoken, she continued, “Mr Newman, I assume you will escort Mrs Chisholm. You will please ensure she is in our Main Hall while the patient is brought down from the ward.”

  That was a cheek, but he relished the idea of spending time with the luscious Mrs C. “Yes,” he replied, “though –” The phone had gone dead.

  He had a laugh with Jock, then drove back to the office. He rang the shop to leave a message, and found he could give the news directly to Mrs C.

  “Springwell have suggested I give you a lift – there and back,” he volunteered.

  Silence. Was she turning him down? “Yes please. But you must be busy?”

  “No problem. I’ll call around one o’clock. If something does blow up, I could be late, even very late – but I’ll still come. Okay?”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll be ready whenever you come.”

  He went back to his cigar. And his paperwork – though he abandoned this soon after, to luxuriate in dreaming about the lovely Heather Chisholm.

  16

  Monday 7th May1956 – in Springwell.

  Early in the morning, John lay in the darkness, replaying that sunny day long ago – when Dave vanished. Over the years, he’d often replay the happenings on first waking– though some days the haunting would catch him at odd moments. And he’d found that anger can fuel a determination to survive.

  They could strip him of his clothing, belongings, and dignity, but they could not strip him of his treasury of memories – good or bad.

  *

  “Watch out for yourself on Admissions,” was Maclean’s parting shot from Infirmary. “You get all sorts before some are moved on – and there’s the odd violent psycho.”

  John could take care of himself once he was fit. And if somebody killed him – so what! Would anyone care?

  But now, having been escorted pyjama-clad to sit on the edge of a bed in Admissions, he looked around warily. The ward seemed nigh empty.

  A white-coat appeared and tossed a bundle onto the bed. “Chisholm. I’m Mr Mullen, the Staff Nurse – that means second-in-command here. Change into these.”

  Not his. “Where are my clothes?”

  “Patients’ personal property is removed and kept for them. Change pronto. The consultant psychiatrist – he’s the god – is coming to see you.”

  The god? Chilling. Better get on with it.

  He struggled into a grey shirt. The grey trousers would grace an elephant’s wardrobe. Ludicrous. “These trousers are too big.”

  Mullen laughed. “So’s you won’t try and escape. No belts either.”

  So be it. He finished dressing by squeezing into a grey woollen jacket and sat on the bed, awaiting the god’s arrival.

  He rubbed his eyes and massaged the top of his head. If he could demonstrate his sanity, maybe the god would let him out of this crazy place.

  “Chisholm.” Mullen’s voice. “Move it. God wants you in the office.”

  John rose, and paused till his vision cleared. Another big white-coat was at his side, nudging him towards what looked like a side-room on the ward – the office.

  After a step, he had to grab his trousers. Clinging to the waistband, he followed Mullen, who entered through the open doorway. He shuffled in, the white-coat beside him, and heard the door close. Seated behind a large desk was a bespectacled, bird-like man – gazing down at an open folder. The god?

  “Chisholm, sir.” Mullen stood to attention. Reminiscent of that hellish parade-ground. Must be in the presence of hallowed authority.

  There was no chair. He stood slouched, a white-coat at each elbow. A prisoner awaiting sentence?

  The bird-like man looked up at John and pronounced with emphasis. “I am the consultant psychiatrist.” Yes, this funny little bald-headed man was the god.

  John couldn’t suppress a giggle. He listened for further introductions, but none followed.

  “Emotionally labile,” he heard, as the god shifted round to nod in the direction of another white-coat standing to attention in the far corner.

  “Sir,” came a barked acknowledgement.

  Ominously familiar. Sarge the Voice!

  “Tell me your name.” The god was staring at him.

  “John Chisholm. Look, I want to –”

  “This is not about what you want, Chisholm.” The god was shouting, his pale cheeks colouring. “You are a patient, you have been certified insane and detained here as you tried to kill yourself and your wife. I will diagnose you and you will have the treatment that I prescribe.” The god jerked his head downward to look at the folder.

  John remained silent. There was no future in confronting this guy, who held all the cards. He must cooperate.

  The god looked up from the folder and, leaning forward, peered at him. “What age are you?” The tone was gentler.

  “Twenty-five – no, twenty-six.”

  “And what is your date of birth?”

  Stupid – the god obviously had this information. “Twentieth April 1930.”

  “And when did you come into Springwell?”

  “Twentieth April 1956, on my twenty-sixth birthday.”

  The god appeared satisfied, grunted, and returned to looking at the folder.

  John glanced at Sarge. The man stood erect, his eyes fixed straight ahead. The god’s specs glinted as he looked up. “Why did you try to kill your wife?”

  “I didn’t. We had a row.” He paused. The god was peering at him, nodding as if to say ‘continue’. More encouraging. He added, “She has a lover.”

  He stopped. The god was staring at him like he was s
ome curiosity.

  “Have you seen your wife at intercourse with this other man?”

  “I haven’t, but I know –” He halted, searching for words that wouldn’t come.

  The god looked away, towards Sarge, and said loudly, “Deluded, skits.”

  “Sir,” replied Sarge.

  “I’m not skitting – I’m serious,” he yelled at the god, who was looking down and writing something. Now both his elbows were gripped tightly.

  The god laughed and nodded at Sarge, who barked out a laugh.

  What a pantomime. Mad. They must all be mad in here.

  “Hm.” The god studied the folder again, then looked towards Sarge. “ECT, course of twelve. Start three weeks from today. But get the patient back to full strength first. We mustn’t be seen to kill him. Call Singh to do a physical on the day. Meanwhile, paraldehyde twice daily and the airing court. The patient can go now.” The god looked down at the desk and picked up his pen.

  “Sir,” boomed Sarge.

  “But I’m not –”

  “Shut up.” A loud whisper in his ear as he was forcibly led off, protesting his sanity while hanging onto his waistband. This encounter had been a shambles.

  As soon as they’d exited the room, Mullen said, “Shouldn’t have tried skitting him, man,” then burst out laughing. His fellow white-coat, one of Sarge’s heavies from the padded cell, also guffawed. Was everyone mad here?

  Freed from the grasp of his minders, he shuffled to his bed, flung himself onto it and lay seething. He’d been ridiculed. Some damned excuse for a psychiatrist! But his mind was too cluttered for him to focus clearly.

  He swung his legs off the bed, and when he stood up had to grab his trousers. He stumbled to the reeking bog – aware of being watched and shadowed by a white-coat. Ablutions completed, he sought out Mullen. His anger had a focus.