by Bill Douglas
The one outstandingly good thing was Ginger’s reappearance. “There was a huge fuss when they brought me down from the infirmary. Nurse Mullen and another man – said he was the Medical Superintendent, the boss – were there. This boss asked me how I felt about Kong, and did I want him off the ward? I like Kong and we always got on. I’m sure he was just obeying that beast Parker.” He laughed. “They got Kong into the office then and talked to him. Poor fellow, I never saw him look scared before. The upshot is that he’s now my bodyguard.” Certainly Kong never seemed far from Ginger, and was the third person on their airing court walks.
On the airing court, Ginger soon became talkative again, and John was transported into different worlds. Okay, the tales were fantasy, but who cared – they were interesting. Ginger should be an author.
The white-coats clearly thought Ginger was special and treated him with respect. Except for Niven, who was unfortunately now on the ward daily. The man was a bully – but a sly one, as the swearing, threats and shoving didn’t seem to happen when the Charge or other white-coats were nearby.
Surely escape wasn’t impossible – or was it? Today, in a rare moment of silence with Ginger on their airing court walk, he voiced his recurring daydream. “We patients rise up en masse and overpower the staff. We put on uniforms, take the keys, lock the staff in, and walk out.”
Ginger’s response was unexpectedly robust. “Not bloody likely. Can you imagine these men working together on a plan? No, old boy, we’d all be rounded up, given electric shocks and doped unconscious. And they’d slice our brains open, before consigning us to an eternity of torture in this prison.”
Nice to hear Ginger back to his eloquent best! This portrayal of a bleak outcome was probably accurate. But he wasn’t giving up on the idea.
*
Over lunch John heard bangs. Thunder – and lightning. Mullen unlocked the outside door, and, a few seconds later, shut and re-locked it.
“No airing court this afternoon. It’s flooded,” Mullen announced. “You can stay in the dayroom or go lie on your beds.” He turned and went back to the office.
What to do next? John wondered. Not lie on his bed; he felt like exercise. He looked around the dayroom. A group huddled near the entrance to it – Jimmy, George, Paranoid Pat, Alf, Ginger and Kong. John wandered over to them.
There was no white-coat anywhere within earshot. Maybe he could raise the question of escape.
The ward door rattled. A white-coat – Niven – came in and slammed the door behind him, locking it then jangling the keys.
“What’s your problem?” growled Pat.
Niven ignored him and went towards the office, where Mullen could be seen at his desk.
“They’re the mad ones,” said Jimmy. “They should be the patients.”
“What I wouldn’t do for a fag,” said Alf.
“How about murder?” asked Pat, nodding towards the office.
“I don’t want to be clapped in the cooler,” said Alf.
“This air’s poison,” said Pat. “That bastard Nosey Parker took me over – I felt it right through my body. That fucker Niven’s got me too.”
Sarge’s nickname could be spoken aloud now he was gone. Before, it was rarely even whispered. A derogatory play on the man’s name that John wouldn’t be using. No, the man would, for him, always be Sarge. An unspoken nickname that existed only in his own head.
The office door opened and Niven stomped out. “Chisholm,” he shouted.
What now?
“Boss says you’re on the dirty laundry.”
“Again?” he muttered. Fourth week running. The laundry stank.
“Yes Chisholm, you shit. Again! Mr Macleod’s gonna take you.”
Good news. Browncoat Mac, a man about his own age, was great company on the dirty laundry a couple of weeks back. “John, call me Mac. I’m a ward orderly, which means I’m a dogsbody. But I’m paid and I walk away at the end of my shifts. You guys cooped up here – you’re the ones I feel for.”
A man in the patients’ corner? Indeed, Mac had encouraged him to talk about himself, and seemed genuinely interested.
Now Mac was walking towards him and appeared to be grinning. A sudden clatter indicated a fight breaking out in the dormitory. Mac switched direction and ran to help sort things.
“I want to kill these white-coat bastards Niven and Nosey,” said Pat.
“Okay, kill them and let’s get out of here,” said George.
They were moving onto the topic John wanted to explore. Not much hope – but if they didn’t talk about escape, their chances were zero. ”I don’t agree with killing.” He kept his voice low, looking at the rumpus still going on in the dormitory. “How about we knock them out, truss and gag them?” The idea of murdering anyone – even an evil guy like Niven (or Sarge) – was anathema. He’d too much respect for people; besides which, swinging on the gallows in public disgrace wouldn’t be his chosen means of expiring. “But this place must be like Fort Knox.”
“One man,” Alf came in, “who’s dead now, got away. I never knew how it happened, but Slinky said he could make keys out of coins and sardine tin-openers – and that being a trusty helped him do it.” Alf started a fit of coughing.
Interesting. Escape had happened before. Alf had been here the longest, “A trusty for decades ’til I crossed Parker and got slung in the cooler.” A Passchendale survivor, Alf had come in with shellshock, “Though they gave it a fancy name – neurasthenia. I’ve been sane near all the years in here, but I still get nightmares.” Alf’s word should be reliable.
Nobody spoke. All looked interested. John listened as Alf, throat cleared, continued the tale. “Poor Slinky stayed out thirteen days and thought he was free.”
“What do you mean?”
There was a hint of a smile on Alf’s gnarled face. “Well, if you stay out fourteen days you’re legally free. Slinky got the sums wrong. Stayed holed up somewhere; then on the thirteenth day, walked down the High Street and got stopped by a copper that started asking questions. Slinky ran for it – with the copper hollering to stop – was tripped up and caught. They brought him back in a straitjacket.”
That was a tragedy for poor Slinky. And a pity the man died; a key would have been handy. But maybe there was another way – if they acted together.
“There’s an alarm in the office,” said Jimmy. “So we’d have to overpower the Charge first.” This was gathering steam.
John glanced around. No white-coat was overseeing. The group had fallen silent. Maybe the others were luxuriating in the idea of taking out Sarge, or Niven!
Watching the struggle in the dormitory, he had a thought. “How about a diversion? Somebody starts a fight, draws the white-coats, and we take over the office.”
“Sounds good,” Jimmy agreed.
“I could beat up two white-coats at once,” said Kong.
Useful. Kong had resented being put in the cooler after the Ginger incident, then being demoted by Sarge from the cutlery job and not reinstated by Mullen. Though back to being more amiable as Ginger’s bodyguard, the mighty man could still give the impression of a sulking volcano – and surely had the will as well as the strength to take out a couple of white-coats.
Enough for now. “So we can get out. We’ll plan again soon.”
“Hear hear!” said Ginger, quietly. A change of tune from an hour or two back. “We should not be incarcerated like pigs.” A glimpse of Ginger the orator. “I should be on my estate.”
The dormitory row had ended. Mac was coming over for John. The plotters dispersed. But for that memorable few minutes, hope was re-kindled. The genies were starting to believe there could be a way out of the bottle.
35
Monday 1st October 1956 – in Springwell.
The ‘dirty laundry’ was a euphemism for a heap of stinking excrement-encrusted and urine-soaked long-john underwear and pyjamas. “I get an extra penny for doing this,” said Mac, turning the tap to let water into the pile in th
e huge washtub. “Great reward! And they’re too mean even to provide gloves.” He put a cupful of soap powder in, then another. “I wish to god they’d put the lot straight in the machine.”
John had his sleeves rolled up, ready to start tackling the mess. “But then you wouldn’t have heard my fascinating story.”
Mac grinned and handed him a washboard. “Let’s go.”
They set about their distasteful task, scrubbing to tackle the worst stains.
“You know,” said Mac, pausing. “I was on the Factory last week. Nosey’s Charge there now.”
John stopped scrubbing. “Just hope we don’t get him back.”
“Hope not,” said Mac. “But if you do, for God’s sake don’t insult him. Months ago I saw a man – cocky little guy, new to Springwell – get shirty when Parker pushed him. ‘Nosey Parker,’ the man shouts. Parker lifts him by the lapels, curses him, headbutts him and whirls him round. The guy keeps yelling ‘Nosey Parker’ till a couple of nurses put him out and take him to the cooler.” Mac paused.
“The little guy had some guts.”
Mac frowned. “Aye, but the tale has a sad end. Weeks later I saw the guy in the Annex, where they put the older patients who’re no bother. Looked zonked – just sat there staring. The Charge said Parker had got the god to prescribe a leucotomy, which means they sliced the poor guy’s brain.”
A scary tale. “Some treatment!”
“Aye. Anyway, on Refractory Parker’s with the hard men. Nosey’s always treated me like shite, but I didn’t see a lot of him. He’d stay in his office, letting the other nurses do the dirty work and sort out the fights. Maybe he was scared. I could smell murder there.”
“How did you cope?”
“Och, all right. Worst I got was a black eye in one shindig. It wasn’t so bad for me, being an orderly. I guess the patients didn’t see me as Authority. And between chores I could talk with them, and listen to their stories.” Mac would be good at that – helping guys feel respected. “And there’s more staff on that ward. They expect trouble. I think they invite it.”
Mac resumed scrubbing and John did likewise. The Factory was clearly a place to avoid, especially with Sarge the boss there.
Uppermost in his mind was still the matter of escape. He could trust this man – well, to an extent. Could any staff here really be trusted? “Has anybody ever escaped from here?”
“I haven’t heard them talk about it. All I hear about is how we must, on pain of being sacked, keep locking up after us. We get these keys when we come on duty and hand them in when we finish the shift.” Mac paused, filthy underpants in hand. “But I’ve only been here a few months – and I’m part-time.”
“You’re part-time?” It wasn’t a good idea to stay too long on the escape theme.
“Aye. Didn’t I tell you? I’m a student at the university and I only work Sunday Monday Tuesday back-shifts, that is from two p.m. until ten.”
So Mac wouldn’t be one of the ‘in crowd’. There was a fair chance he could be trusted.
They resumed sifting and scrubbing.
“Stand back. Better change the water.” Mac let the sludge out down the drain and poured fresh water in.
“How come you’re working here?”
“A psychiatrist from here came to the uni’s Psychological Society to give a talk on Mental Illness. Said there could be a ward orderly job part-time if I wanted. I went out to see the Chief Male Nurse, a dour old guy who lectured me on keys and took me on. I was interested and needed the extra cash.”
“What are you studying?”
“Psychology and philosophy. Final year. In fact, I’ll have to leave here soon.” What a downer. “Need to get the head into these books. Have to get a good degree; I want to be a clinical psychologist.”
“Hope you make it,” said John. He’d heard of clinical psychologists, who saw people with mental problems individually. He would have been better off seeing one of them than a psychiatrist. And Mac listened well, with a great bedside manner.
“We’ll see. The girlfriend’s taking up too much time just now.” Mac smiled. “You know, I left school wanting to be a psychiatrist and found out then you have to train as a doctor first. It was years too late, as I’d dropped science early in secondary school.”
A pity. Mac would have been a damned sight better than any he’d met.
The tub re-filled and each resumed their task. Soon there were a couple of piles, ready for the two mangles.
Mac broke the silence as they each set about a mangle. “I know you’re a teacher, with a history degree. Do you think you’ll go back to teaching?”
“Some chance! I don’t think I’ll ever get away from here.”
“Is that why you mentioned escape?”
Okay – he’d trust the guy. “Yes. Maybe there was something wrong with me, but there isn’t now. I don’t see them letting me out.”
“I’d help you if I could, but they’re so tight with the keys I can’t see any hope of copying them.” Mac sighed. “And the place is guarded like a prison.”
The man was definitely in his corner. But Mac’s observations reinforced his belief that only a brilliantly planned escape could stand a chance of success.
As they hung the clothes to dry, Mac said, “I’ll tell you a wee story.”
“Go on.”
“In St Andrews, where I grew up, the castle has the darkest, scariest place. It’s called the bottle dungeon, because it’s cut into the rock in the shape of a massive bottle, with a neck at the top that’s big enough to let a man in. It’s deep and was used in mediaeval times for guys who’d offended by way of politics or religion. Not just any guy, but somebody important – like an enemy nobleman – that mustn’t ever get away.” Mac coughed.
“How did they get a prisoner in and out? And food and drink?”
“I’m not sure exactly, but I gather they used ropes. Anyway, you can imagine it. Stuck in the bottom of a rock bottle, with smooth walls, on your own in the dark. Escape was impossible.”
He could imagine. Made the padded cell sound like grand luxury. There would be no way out. “Yes.”
Mac chuckled. “But one man did escape.”
“How?”
“His loving sister was lowered in to visit. After she’d gone, they discovered next mealtime that she was still there. They’d swapped clothes and he’d hoofed it – a free man.”
“Brilliant.”
“What I’m saying is, don’t give up hope.”
“Thanks. I won’t.”
As they walked back into the ward, a thought struck him. “Presumably they let the sister go, as she was innocent.”
“Can’t remember for sure – but I think they were peeved, took a hard line and kept her in there.”
A sad ending. But sometimes ingenuity could achieve the impossible.
*
That night, John lay thinking of the conversations and his fellow conspirators. Yes, that’s what they were – conspirators, who’d floated a few embryonic ideas about escaping. Maybe a core group, who could work on a strategy?
All seemed motivated, and that tale about Slinky helped with the hope of getting out and staying there. Ginger could be useful, in that he clearly had influence with the white-coats. And he could be trusted to keep the plotting secret, as could George and Alf. Kong too – a man of few words, discarded as a trusty.
Jimmy and Paranoid Pat, he didn’t know so well. Jimmy, a quiet well-spoken man, should be fine. A man who “faked insanity to dodge National Service, got certified, banged up, then found I couldn’t get out,” would be an asset.
About Paranoid Pat, he wasn’t so sure. A wiry man with a grim expression who often ranted in a low voice, “I’m paranoid, but I don’t lie,” (and hence the nickname), Pat would obey the inevitable ‘shut up’, then stand glowering. The man could be a bit weird. First time they’d met, John’s nod of greeting had Pat edging away – staring, suspicious, hostile.
Pat had strange ideas. Weeks lat
er, trudging round the airing court, Pat whispered corner-of-the-mouth, “The white-coats are aliens.”
“Pat – you say aliens?”
Pat then told a sad tale – punctuated with the habitual rants. “I’m a science teacher… lunchtime I get a message… aliens are going to invade my classroom lab… I run back there, barricade myself in… I grab a bunsen burner and hide behind a desk… aliens in police uniform and white coats break in… I scorch one of them and hear yelling… come round a prisoner of white-coat aliens.”
There would be a problem if Pat did try to kill Niven – popular though the sentiment was. More importantly, could the guy work on and stick to an agreed plan? Intelligent, hated white-coats, and surely wouldn’t blab to anyone – so? Yes. Pat should be okay in the group.
As soon as chance permitted, he’d try to get them working together on a plan. He saw how they could get out of the ward – and the detail, timing etc. would be vital. But once in the corridor, what then?
36
Monday 15th October 1956 – in Aversham.
Moira was at the door. “Heather, I’ve something from Rob.”
Seated with a cup of tea, Moira came out with it. “Mr Parker’s not on the same ward as John.”
This Heather did not believe. When she’d rung to ask about John, she was put through to this Charge Nurse on the Admissions Ward. So she knew Mr Parker was, as he said, boss of Admissions. “Well, I know that –” She paused. “Unless –”
“One of them moved.” Moira had followed her line of thinking. “Parker was on Admissions, where John’s a patient, but he hasn’t been there since early August.”
If this was true…! “How does this cousin know?”
“Sorry Heather, I can’t tell you exactly, but Rob gets information and statistics from all over Springwell. He writes some of it up for the Hospital Secretary and the Management Committee.”