by Bill Douglas
It was Pat. At least the guy presumably had a day or two’s freedom.
*
On the airing court, John’s nearest companion was a strange fellow who kept muttering with head down. Sounded like a diatribe, with “Fuckin’ cunts” audible now and again. “Hello, I’m John,” and “what’s your name?” didn’t seem to register.
He missed Ginger and the dazzling tales. Where could his friend be? On Admissions, or in a cell? Maybe Ginger escaped punishment? Could his friend be a nobleman? No. But maybe not crazy. A good actor who fooled the white-coats?
And what of the stalwart bodyguard Kong?
Abandonment, estrangement? Feeling isolated, even in company. Was this how John Clare the poet used to feel? A century ago, the man was writing from a county asylum in Northampton – imprisoned decades before dying there. Maybe he, John Chisholm, would die in this madhouse. At least he wasn’t in a cell on his own.
Heather, love of his life. Did she still love him? Did she have a lover – or had he imagined it? Anyway could he blame her? Would he ever see her or Becky again?
Deep sadness – again like John Clare. How did the poem go?
‘I am! Yet what I am who cares or knows.
My friends forsake me like a memory lost,
I am the self-consumer of my woes.’
Yes, the man was a great communicator. One of the hardest things was to relay feelings so expertly. Some gift! He envied Clare for having the means to write in that asylum. No hope in this one.
At lunchtime, they trooped inside. In the dayroom, awaiting the meal, two white-coats were overseeing, stationed at opposite ends of the room. He walked towards the one nearer him. He’d try asking about Ginger (hopefully a well-known character in the institution).
Tumbling, the white-coat shouted – felled by a grey battering-ram. Micky, yelling curses, was now astride and thumping the limp figure.
Diving, John grabbed Micky at the shoulders, to prise the fiend off the inert white-coat. Something smashed into his face and he blacked out.
*
It hurt to breathe, and he could smell something – powerful medicine? His head was splitting. “John.” A voice – friendly, familiar. Yes. But who was this, and where was he? Could he have died? “John Chisholm.” An Irish brogue, gentle. He tried opening his eyes. The blurred figure was a white-coat.
“You’ve been hurt and you’re coming to on Infirmary.”
He felt like a steamroller had done him. “Who…?”
“We’ve met before. Charge Macnamara. Remember?”
He struggled to think, but had a good feeling about this guy.
“You were knocked unconscious and badly concussed, to be sure.”
His tired battered brain couldn’t help him remember. “What –?”
“You took a hammering. Doc Burn’s been in to see you and you’re under him for now. We gave you x-rays and your skull’s okay, but your nose is broken. You’ve no other fractures, though your body’s like an artwork gone crazy. We’re monitoring for internal injuries.” Macnamara paused. “How are you feeling?”
“Terrible.” True. But at least he’d escaped Sarge’s clutches.
“Right now John, you need to rest. Mr Maclean has something that’ll help.”
He closed his eyes, then felt a familiar, very welcome, sting in the arm.
Tuesday 30th October 1956.
Talking with Macnamara a couple of days ago had helped John remember. He began to recall trying to escape, and waking in a cell on Refractory. He got a sore head though, when he’d tried to think what happened to land him in Infirmary. Macnamara advised against trying to remember till he felt better physically.
Waking early in the morning, he was now clear about the whole series of events, including the attack. His memory was okay and his head felt better. He was recovering. And at least the attack headed off Sarge’s torture.
Macnamara came and sat down on his bed. “How’re you doing, John?”
“Better than I was.”
“Fine. Can you tell me about the incident that led to you being injured?”
John told him – omitting mention of Micky by name. He wasn’t a snitch. Macnamara was looking at him, listening.
“So you’re saying you intervened to help the nurse being attacked?”
Strange, the Charge’s reply. Sounded as though the man didn’t believe him. “Yes. Is something wrong?”
The Charge scratched his head. “Well, the detail doesn’t square with what I was told. But maybe I picked it up wrongly from Charge Nurse Parker.”
Sarge! “I’d like to know what Mr Parker said.”
Macnamara stroked his chin. “Sure you’ve a right to know how Mr Parker’s account differs from yours. Mr Parker seemed to think you instigated the attack.”
“Rubbish! I saw the white-coat being attacked and thought he might be killed. I pulled his attacker off and was wrestling with him, when someone or something knocked me out.” He leaned towards Macnamara. “I swear to God that’s what happened. I don’t know why the nurse was attacked, but it was a brutal assault.” He paused. “Do you believe me?”
“You sound an honest man, John. And a hero. Maybe I picked it up wrong. I’m happy to have a word with Mr Parker to give your account.”
“I’d appreciate that. He’ll never listen to me.”
“Whatever – your stories differ.”
“What happened to the nurse?”
“Nearly died, they told me. To be sure, the man’s down in the local hospital, recovering, but not saying much yet about what happened.”
“I’m glad the nurse’s recovering.” He didn’t know the man, but the idea of dying from so vicious an onslaught was terrible. Micky had shown Broadmoor form.
Macnamara smiled. “Doc Burn’s coming to check on you later this evening. Though you’re much better, sure you’ll be here with us a while. We have to be certain you get your strength back fully. Make sense?” He cocked his head.
There was no wink. But this Charge Nurse was surely protective as well as caring. An extended stay here would be no bad thing. “Yes. Total sense.”
Tuesday 13th November 1956 – in Springwell.
Able to walk without discomfort, John went down the ward. In passing, he glanced across at a new patient who’d arrived a couple of hours earlier. With his bandaged head propped by a pillow, the man looked dazed. Badly injured? But it wasn’t Ginger, or anyone else he knew.
Later in the morning, he heard a deep roar, then, after a pause, loud whining. The noises came from the new patient with the bandaged head. A white-coat shouted, “Ssht man, that’s a terrible racket.”
Not a great way to treat somebody that was hurt. The whining continued. However, the white-coat was now at the man’s bedside, speaking softly but audibly. “It must hurt. I’ll ask Staff if there’s anything more to help the pain.”
Maclean responded, coming out of the office with the white-coat and muttering something. The white-coat returned with screens and placed them around the bed. An improvement since his first spell in Infirmary, John noted – recognition of a patient’s need for privacy. He heard more talking and suddenly the whining ceased.
In the afternoon, Doc Burn, accompanied by Macnamara, came to see him. “You’re fit, Chisholm. You’ll be discharged from here tomorrow.” And the doc walked off down the ward, accompanied by the Charge.
That was it then. He must face Sarge in the Factory. He repeated to himself, “Survive and escape.” The latter was nigh impossible, but he must keep hope alive.
Macnamara reappeared. “Back to Refractory tomorrow, I’m afraid. I’d have liked you to go elsewhere – but it’s not my call.”
“Thanks. I’ll be okay.” He smiled, though he would certainly not be okay.
Macnamara stood up. “I’ll see you tomorrow before you go.”
Something was nagging at him. “The new patient two beds down…”
“You’d know Mackay – a fellow escaper.”
&nb
sp; “Kong!”
“Surely is.”
“What’s happened?”
“They took the poor man to the General the other day for a leucotomy operation, and brought him back to this ward for recovery. Once the wound’s healed, I guess Kong’ll be for the Annex.”
Bad news. Browncoat Mac talked of patients on the Annex ‘being like vegetables, after punishment by leucotomy’. “Why did Kong have an operation?”
“I really don’t know. The op is brain surgery that should be used only as a last resort to relieve unbearable tension. You might want to go over and say hello later.” The Charge turned away, then stepped back. “But it’s soon after the op, and Kong might not even recognise you.”
Terrible. John couldn’t believe the operation helped Kong in any way. Ginger! “Do you know what’s happened to Ginger – the Baron?”
“Yes. Went back to Admissions after the failed escape.”
Great news. “Is Ginger a real baron?”
“Sure, the man’s in Who’s Who. There’s brackets round his name – a consequence of being detained in here.”
Ginger was for real, not mad. If they could keep a sane nobleman locked up, what hope was there for anyone else?
A roar was followed by whining. He sprang out of bed and went to Kong’s bedside. He peered at the bandaged head, whence came the noise. “Kong,” he said, “hello Kong, it’s John.” The man looked at him and roared – a low guttural bellow – then started whining again. “Kong, it’s John, your friend.” The man roared again. The eyes were staring, not seeming to recognise, the face devoid of expression. And dribbles of saliva ran down the big man’s chin.
Next morning, John tried talking to Kong again. The expressionless face stared through him. No longer the mighty Kong.
He asked Macnamara, “Will Kong recover?”
“I can’t say, for sure.”
But he knew from Browncoat Mac the terrible things that operation could do to a man.
40
Friday 26th October 1956 – in Aversham.
Heather put Becky down to sleep and the babe nodded off. Good-bye to teething? She put on Elvis’s latest record, ‘Love Me Tender’, and settled with her book.
Knocking on the door? Yes. She switched on the hallway light.
“Who is it?”
“Sam Newman.”
She unlocked the door and threw it open. “Come in, Sam.” He looked grave.
“Thanks. I have news.” He entered and sat down at the table.
She sat down opposite. “About John?”
“Yes. Oh, it’s not to say he’s ill or anything.” His expression was more relaxed. “But you’ll not be allowed to visit tomorrow, I’m afraid.”
“What! Why?”
“Well, apparently John tried to escape and didn’t make it.”
“Escape… and didn’t make it?” She forced a deep breath.
“So they tell me.”
“Goodness. Is he hurt?”
“They said he’s okay. They’ve transferred him to the Refractory Ward.”
“Refractory Ward?” Rang a bell. Moira said Parker was Charge Nurse there!
“Yes.” He shifted in the chair, looking at the table. “It’s for patients that give them trouble.”
“Are you sure he’s been moved?” She took another deep breath.
“Yes. I got the story today, after Springwell rang and asked me to take back a patient who’d escaped and walked into a police station. And,” he looked up at her, “I’m afraid John’s not now allowed visitors. I’m sorry, Heather. That’s all I’m told.”
Her eyes were misting. She rose. “Cup of tea, Sam?”
“That’d be welcome, thanks. It’s been a long day.”
In the kitchen she put the kettle on and got out cups and saucers. John must have been desperate. Were they punishing him, and if so how? Moira said Refractory was for violent patients. Would he be attacked there? Would he ever get out? She spooned in tea and poured boiling water into the teapot, jerkily. “Ouch!”
“What’s up?” Sam was on his feet, coming toward her.
Her forefinger stung and was reddening. She laid down the kettle and put the lid on the teapot. “It’s okay. I poured hot water on my finger.”
He was at her side. “Cold water.” He turned the tap on. “Keep your finger under it for a few minutes. I’ll take the teapot and cups through.”
“Thanks.” Stupid, missing the teapot. A decent man, Sam – caring and unselfish. She turned to watch as he carried the tea from the kitchen.
Her finger was numbed from the soaking. She turned off the tap, returned to the living room and sat at the table facing Sam.
“How’s the finger?”
“Okay. Thanks for the first-aid tip.” She reached for the teapot, started pouring the tea and put some in the saucer. “For you. Sorry.”
“No problem. You’ve had a shock.” He stretched across, lifted the saucer and tilted the tea into his cup. “Nice music. I’m an Elvis fan too.”
Another good thing about Sam. “I’m crazy about his music. John’s not so…”
“No. Look, I’m sorry about John. Have you other family?”
“Yes, my parents, but they live a distance away.”
“No sisters or brothers?”
“No. Except…Well, I had a brother. Edward.”
As she started to tell the tale, she sensed an impending deluge. Too late. Her face was streaming. She sat back and accepted Sam’s handkerchief. “Sorry. I’m all right now. It’s just – with John, and then talking about Edward…” She stopped again, dabbing her face. She must look a mess.
Sam was peering at her. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I will be.” She passed the hankie back, and managed a smile. “I won’t bore you with the rest of my tale. Anyway, I don’t feel like talking about it just now.”
“You’re not boring me. And any time you want to tell me, I’ll want to listen – to the full story.” He drained his cup and rose.
“Thanks for all your help, Sam.” She followed him towards the door.
He stopped and turned, so that she nearly bumped into him. “I’ll keep an ear open about John when I’m at Springwell, and let you know of any change about visiting.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re certainly going through it, Heather. Now, don’t take this the wrong way. You look like you need a hug. And I’m happy to give you one. No strings.”
She stepped forward into his outstretched arms and they hugged. She clung on. His arms were protective, holding her gently, now clasping her to him. Arousing – something she hadn’t felt for ages. But… She withdrew.
He looked flushed as he stepped away. “That feel better?”
“Yes. I’m good.”
He opened the door. “’Bye. Take care. See you soon.”
“Thanks Sam.”
Closing the door, she wondered again. Is he married? She returned to the table and sat a few minutes, replaying what had just happened. She could still feel the comfort of Sam’s arms around her, and smell his Brylcreem. When did she last feel aroused like that?
Enough. She picked up her book and tried to read. But images of Sam and imaginings of John being tortured kept coming. She put the Elvis album on to re-play. But somehow that didn’t feel right and she switched it off again.
Through the night, waking from dozing, it was Sam’s presence she could sense. And her finger throbbed. She got up and took two aspirins. Becky was asleep. Why wouldn’t the babe wake up crying, needing Mum’s comforting?
*
Newman bounced over the pavement, hardly aware of his leg that dragged. The hug had transported him into a world he hadn’t thought he’d experience again – that of long-ago passion and primitive urges. Heather was even more beautiful and sensuous than Ella in her youth.
41
Wednesday 14th – Thursday 15th November 1956 – in Springwell.
John knew it would happen. The taunting resumed. Taken
by a white-coat into the office on Refractory, he was greeted by Sarge.
He’d never seen Sarge grinning hugely like this. What delight was in store?
“You won’t ever leave here, Chisholm. You’re lucky though, because your misery will end. I’m getting you a leucotomy. We’ll slice your brain – assuming we can find one. It’s how we silence troublemakers – and it gives them peace of mind.” Sarge bellowed with laughter.
“Like you did to Kong, you bastard!” A mistake maybe, but he’d nothing to lose.
He offered no fight as he was hoisted by the lapels and shaken. “You call me that again and it will be the last thing you say,” Sarge roared, green eyes bulging from his purple-red face. “And when you dare to address me again, you remember to say ‘Charge Nurse Parker, Sir’. You are scum! I will see you get your come-uppance, Chisholm, this Monday morning’s ward round.”
Released from Sarge’s clutches (how he’d missed that uplifting sewer breath), he had a question. “Charge Nurse Parker, Sir, may I ask –?”
“You may not!” Sarge bawled, and nodded to the white-coat standing erect and poised. “Take this abomination to the airing court.”
*
Trudging round, John could think only of Sarge’s leucotomy threat. Mac told him a leucotomy “Not only changes but damn well extinguishes a guy’s personality.” To punish troublemakers! And crucifying, compared with the electric shock stuff. The Shocker was a battering – that he’d about recovered from – but “A leucotomy,” Mac had said, “can mean living death for life.” Could it erase his treasury of memories?
A scandal, anyone undergoing such horrors in the name of treatment! He’d be better off in prison, serving his sentence without ‘treatment’ and then being freed.
Friday 16th – Saturday 17th November 1956 – in Springwell.
John woke early and lay seething. Kong had joined the unhappy band, de-humanised in the guise of treatment! And now he himself was to be rendered a bona fide zombie.