Mad Worlds (19 page)

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.”

Rob could still be mistaken. “So where does Rob say Mr Parker is now?”

“He's charge nurse on another ward they call the Refractory.”

When was it she rang and spoke with Parker? Before Becky had measles. Yes, early June. She drained her cup. “Another cup, Moira?” She was pouring into the saucers. “Sorry.”

“It's a shock for you. Rob's thoroughly reliable. I got him to double check.”

“Thanks Moira.” She fumbled in her handbag and located the aspirins. “I need a couple.” The picture of John being murderous and hating her mightn't be true.

“I think Mr P's a scoundrel.” Moira paused.

She felt like confronting Mr P. The agony he'd put her through – and the trust she'd placed in him! She stood up and took a deep breath. “I hope he rots in Hell. And Moira, I'd never let on how I came by this information – to anyone, him included if our paths ever cross.”

Moira rose to exit, stopped and turned in the doorway. “Heather, be careful. This pretence and visiting – I'm sure he's been trying to get you into bed.”

Ugh. Dirty old man. But Moira was probably right.

That night, Heather barely slept. Becky waking once was a welcome diversion from her turbulent thoughts. She must find out how John really was, and get out to see him again. Near dawn, she decided. It was time to ring Sam Newman!

Sam Newman sat in his office with his feet on the desk, blowing smoke rings. He'd about run himself into the ground. Work pressures were unrelenting. Having Carter as a colleague was like having a wayward child dumped on you. The man's slick appearance and fast talking were more suited to a salesman than a DAO.

He'd insisted Carter come on night call-outs, but mostly he got no reply to his phoning. Then the man started turning up, and yawned throughout – every time. In a confrontation with an angry paranoid husband threatening to get physical, Carter exited fast, leaving Sam to appease the man and tackle the family situation. “Thought I'd only make things worse,” was the excuse. And for once, Carter got it right.

It had been a relief when Carter said he was emigrating to Canada, “Where the future lies. I applied months ago, didn't hear, and assumed they didn't want me.”

Thank God Canada wanted the bumptious one – as the MOH clearly did too. “Carter smartens the department's image,” the boss had responded to Newman's complaint about the man.

Last Friday, due notice was served and Sam no longer had the burden of carrying the useless one. And at last he had the room to himself.

Mary had told him the job was being re-advertised, with a ‘previous applicants need not re-apply'. She'd been asked to ring the ex-relieving officer, and the man was still interested. “You'll like this one,” she said.

He hoped Mary's judgment on this man was as accurate as her misgivings about Carter. With that work background, meeting folk in potentially hostile situations should be familiar ground for the guy.

The MOH had agreed to him being in on the interview (subject to his not being needed for a call-out). The Health Committee Chairman and the Chief Admin. Officer would be there, with the MOH – and Mary taking notes.

At home, Ella had been going through a rough patch for ages. Her sulks and suspicions meant that home was unwelcoming. At least Helen had broken off with that ne'er-do-well. She didn't seem happy either, though.

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

A woman. “Mr Newman – Sam. I need help.” She sounded edgy.

“Heather?”

“Yes, Heather Chisholm.”

“Good to hear from you.” An understatement. Ages since he saw her – he'd been so damned busy – but in his quieter moments, he kept seeing those soulful eyes gazing at him. She was alluring, unattainable. “I'll help if I can.”

“I wonder if, when you're out at Springwell, you can ask how John is, check which ward he's on, and find out when I might visit?”

“Surely will do and get back to you. It might be a day or two, but I'll be in touch.” He clarified when she'd be at home. “I called some weeks ago, with news of your husband, and left a message with your shop friend. Did it reach you?”

“Yes. Thanks. I appreciated that.”

“When I get the info, I'll pop round. Right?”

“Yes, I'd welcome that.”

Great. He wanted to see that friendly voluptuous woman again.

*

That evening, a chance came. A GP rang. “Mr Newman, can you visit a man who's gone round the bend. The wife's distraught. She came back from a break with her mum to find him acting crazy. Says he's not dangerous. I'll join you there.”

Newman was greeted by the stressed-looking wife. “He's normally quiet, a peaceful man. But now he's restless, like he's possessed, speaking doggerel, singing, and pacing round the room. He wouldn't look at me. Then he went to his study – he's a university lecturer. Can you hear him?”

Clattering and singing? “Yes.” Newman knocked on the study door and it swung open. A small man with staring eyes addressed him in nonsense rhyming, then set off round the study, chanting.

He tried to engage the man, following him round, but to no avail. The guy sounded perky though unintelligible; but in his eyes was vacant misery.

The GP arrived, and asked, “What's the score?”

“Manic. No way he'll come voluntarily. Urgency order?”

*

Newman followed the van to Springwell. There he got news about Chisholm from Charge Nurse Mullen and noted the date of next visiting.

Heather yawned. Another sleepless night. Not problems with Becky; night-times were long and invited ruminating. That evil Parker. Was John murderous? Did he hate her?

She prepared Becky's food, and sat smiling as, spoon in hand, the infant managed to find her mouth with much of it. How sad John couldn't see this.

Someone was knocking on the door. This early! “Who is it?” she yelled.

“Sam Newman.”

She rushed to the door and there he was, briefcase in hand. “Sam.”

“Thought I'd catch you before the nursery. Last night I spoke with Charge Nurse Mullen on Admissions. Your husband's had treatment and seems less disturbed. He's certified and there till next April at least. Visiting's on Saturday 27
^th
.”

Next April! But even that was a lot better than the hopeless picture given by Parker. “Thanks for finding out – and so quickly.”

“I'll call for you around 1.30 on Saturday and take you there. Unless I'm out on an emergency, and if so I'll ring the shop.” He was fidgety, like a spring poised.

A tempting offer. It was so much easier by car, but she wanted to visit independently. “Sam, I want to try going by bus.”

“Okay. I thought it would be easier for you. But I suppose I messed up last time.” He sounded hurt.

“No, you didn't. John was unreasonably jealous. You're a good friend.”

He smiled. “I try to be, Heather. Must fly.” He was edging away. “Get back to me if you change your mind about the lift. I'll pop in after to ask how you got on.”

She watched as he limped quickly to his car and started the engine, then waved him off. He'd put himself out to help and responded to her immediately, though he must be busy. He reminded her of someone. Clark Gable? Yes – a mini version. Again, she wondered if Sam was married.

In the last few days, Alf had vanished.

On the dirty laundry with Mac, John learned of Alf's fate. “I spotted Alf in the Annex. Men don't come back from there, so I guess you've seen the last of your friend here.”

A shame – and a blow for the planning! Alf would have been useful. “Sorry to hear it.”

“He's a hardy veteran that knows this place well. I expect you'll miss him.”

Was that a wink? “Yes.”

Washboard at the ready, John looked at the pile as Mac poured water into the tub. “This stinks worse than just shit and piss. Maybe there's sick in it as well.” He turned away, inhaled deeply, then, holding his breath, set to work scrubbing.

“You've got a point.” Mac threw more soap powder in. “That should help.”

The powder fumes made John cough, but the stench was more bearable. As they scrubbed on the washboards, it was Mac who raised the subject.

“You were thinking of escape.”

He trusted Mac fully. “It's hellish trying to plan in there. No privacy.”

“Hmm.” Mac paused. “You need to divert the staff.”

“Trouble is – how?”

“Dunno. Somebody fakes a fit, or cuts up rough?” He turned to face John and grinned. “I think you've a wee gang. I saw you the other week when it was thunder; and after our blether, I had a guess. But don't worry. Nobody else would cotton on.”

The smile vanished and he looked intently at John. “And I'm trusting you, John Chisholm, never – I mean never ever – to say anything about our wee chats.”

“My lips are sealed with glue.”

“Aye. It wouldn't just be getting the sack. ‘Aiding and abetting a patient to escape' – as they call it – is a crime. You can be jailed or get a hefty fine.”

“What! Scandalous!” Forget civil liberties.

“Agreed. But it's the law. So I need you to keep quiet about me – forever.”

“Don't worry, Mac. All this I take to the grave.”

There was another area he needed help on. “We know the ward, but not the grounds – apart from the airing court.”

“Aye, don't go to the court.” Mac turned, looking around. “Just making sure – you'll remember those wartime posters ‘walls have ears'.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Look.” He fumbled in his pocket, brought out a pencil and notebook and began sketching. “Here's the layout. Memorise it. I won't give it you, in case some daft nurse spots it and figures. You want the route that staff take. The night shift come in via the Main Hall, and staff going off duty leave by another door.” He tore out the page and, keeping hold between thumb and finger, laid it flat on the draining board. “See.”

John studied the map, and noted the door to exit by, the driveway, the main gate. Handy – he'd been concerned about bumping into night staff coming on duty and being recognised. “Thanks. Got it,” he whispered.

“Just outside the exit door on your right, there's a wee niche that should be big enough for you all to shelter in when you come out.” Mac added a cross to the sketch.

Mac scrunched the paper and put it in his trouser pocket. “The other thing is the drill for giving in keys and checking out.”

He'd assumed they couldn't simply walk out. He listened carefully as Mac described the scenario and procedures. “Okay, I can visualise that.”

“Right, let's scrub.”

Walking back to the ward after they'd completed their task, Mac gave the bad news. “Tomorrow's my last day. Academia needs me.”

“Sorry.” He struggled for words. This guy was a fellow spirit.

“Aye, I'll miss the wee chats.” Mac looked thoughtful. “But my going might give me a chance tomorrow to divert the nurses. In the evening I'll plan to go into the office, tell the charge how good it's been working here and start a bit of farewell blethering. I'll try to get one more nurse drawn in. Maybe you could distract any others? And you might have a chance to talk with your wee gang.”

“Thanks. I'll work on that.”

“I'm saying good-bye now in case the nurse bloodhounds sniff anything.”

“Okay, farewell. Viva the dirty laundry.”

Mac laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Viva the dirty laundry.”

Ginger would be the best to divert attention. On the airing court in the afternoon, John whispered to his friend, “Escape plan – just listen.” And as they lumbered round – Kong the third man, on the outside and a pace behind – Ginger did exactly that.

“Fine, old boy.”

After dinner, the cutlery counting and the medicines handout, John got the small band of plotters together in the dayroom.
Now Mac, do your stuff
.

He watched Mac enter Mullen's office and engage the charge nurse in conversation. Two other white-coats stood talking. One disappeared in response to a shout from the office. The other was strolling this way.

He whispered in Ginger's ear. “Could you distract him?”

Ginger waddled off unhesitatingly. “I say, my man, can you help me?”

The way clear, John quickly outlined the plan to the others. On a signal from him, they'd act one evening after dinner, late, when it was dark, and preferably when the ward was short on white-coats.

Jimmy said “I'd be happy to lead outside the ward. I can imagine the route.”

Jimmy would be the best guy to improvise if anything tricky arose. “Fine.”

He'd have liked more time to rehearse the ritual for handing in the keys and leaving, but at least he told the others what was involved.

“Right. You all okay with this?” John glanced round the faces. George and Kong nodded; Pat looked blank and grunted. “In the next few days I'll try to speak with each of you individually and go over it again.” He could see how whispered talking on a one-to-one basis could be managed, though they'd have to watch out.

The odds would be against them. But it could work, and he was desperate to escape. Staying out the fourteen days would be a problem. He couldn't go home. But he had friends from uni he'd kept in touch with. Two lived within a few miles, and each would be a good bet for shelter and ready cash.

All had been briefed on the plan. And this evening looked ideal. Niven presided over dinner, with only two white-coat assistants. Mullen was down with flu. Ginger had heard Niven say so, “With expletives I would not care to repeat.”

John could see Niven stretching his legs in the office. One white-coat was by the office; the other stood by the dayroom – hovering and watching.

Any minute now it would be bedtime. Each of the plotters had followed his lead in giving the agreed sign – clenching both fists by their sides. They were ready.

One white-coat went into the office, then came out and yelled “Into your beds, all of you.” The inmates began shuffling towards their beds.

Time for action! Ginger waddled quickly to his bed (now, since he'd returned from Infirmary, opposite the office), flung back the bedclothes, then boomed, “I say, can I have a word, Sir?”

Great melodrama from Ginger, the one patient they didn't ignore. The white-coat stood to attention, then sidled across to the bed. The distraction was working.

John walked speedily to the office and tapped on the door. “Who's this?” bawled Niven. John stayed in the doorway.

“What the hell – you bloody shift it from here, Chisholm.” Niven bounded forth and lifted him by the lapels.

He heard a rumpus. Kong? As Niven pushed him out of the doorway – still holding him by the lapels, shaking him and cursing – John saw the white-coat speed away from Ginger and down the ward. Meanwhile, Jimmy and Pat slid into the office.

John felt the blow to his face. Niven headbutting, with a head like granite! He feigned sinking towards the floor, and, once free, delivered a perfect uppercut. Niven dropped like a stone. The joy of this moment!

Jimmy said, “Alarm's disabled and the phones are off.”

Pat was kicking Niven. John yelled, “Stop!”

Pat stopped mid-kick. “Why?”

“Mustn't kill him.”

“That's right, old boy,” said Ginger. “You'll swing.” Pat moved away.

John knelt beside the motionless Niven. A strong, regular pulse. He removed the belt with the keys and handed it to Jimmy. Then he ran down the ward.

Kong had subdued the two white-coats – and George held both sets of keys, with belts attached. The white-coats lay inert. The big man was grinning. “Sorted them.”

John crouched beside the white-coats. Each had a strong pulse. Phew. “Get them into the office,” he yelled, then sprinted back up the ward.

“What's all this?” a hoarse voice croaked. The trusty Snoddie, in one of the huddles of patients stood gaping.

An elementary complication he hadn't foreseen. “We're trying to escape. Anyone fancy joining us?” Impracticable – but he had to say something!

Nobody spoke – thank God. Most were probably in shock.

Jimmy added, “All of you – please don't do anything except go to your beds. You will not be blamed for this, as they'll know we did it.”

For a minute that seemed like hours, Snoddie and a few others stood as though poised for action. Then, grunting and mumbling, they made for their beds.

John started dragging Niven into the office. “Get the white-coats in here and strip them to their underpants,” he shouted.

Soon there were several heaps – white coats, suit jackets, trousers, belts (with keys attached), shirts, socks, shoes – augmented (
thanks for the tip-off, Mac!
) from an unlocked cupboard. After sorting and swapping, all the escapers were transformed into staff – though some of the garments were ill-fitting. The most useful find in the cupboard was the stash of four greatcoats. One was so huge that only Kong could wear it, and the other three went to Ginger, Pat and Jimmy. He and George, bringing up the rear, would manage with reasonably well-fitting suits. A couple of peaked caps came in handy, especially as one fitted Ginger!

No perfect fits, and some of their outfits were incomplete – but hopefully all should be passable in the dark. There was however a major (unforeseen) snag – a shortage of keys! Only three sets! One per pair exiting – for Jimmy, Ginger and himself. Plus another Pat found locked within the cupboard – and attached to his belt. And on Niven was a separate, smaller, set. John passed them to Kong. He himself would have to rely on distraction, to let George slip out.

The white-coats were all showing signs of coming round, with grunts and moaning. Jimmy and Pat tore up a couple of their (patients') shirts to truss and gag the three. John checked the gags to ensure the men could breathe properly.

So far, all was okay. Except that the three white-coats had taken a beating, which was something he hadn't intended. He should have foreseen this; the pent-up rage exploding.

He glanced at the office clock. “It's too early. Let's wait till it's nearer the shift change.”

An age passed. “Let's go.”

Jimmy shot to the ward door, unlocked it and tiptoed out into the corridor. Pat and George followed, then Ginger shadowed by Kong. Last out, John locked the door.

There was no sign of anyone in the corridor. But they'd better not dally. The night shift weren't due yet; and the possibility of somebody arriving early had been one of the hitches foreseen. Another had been someone going off early. But no, the corridor was empty. They moved silently, keeping the same order.

They reached the exit door. Here John went to the front, unlocked the door and stepped outside. Yes, the dark niche on the right was as Mac described. They could huddle there until it was right to go for the main gate. He motioned the others towards the niche as they appeared, then locked the door and joined them.

“Great place for hide-and-seek,” Jimmy whispered.

The air smelt good. Amidst the raised adrenalin and excitement, John was calm, clinical. So far, fine.

They'd agreed to go in pairs – Jimmy and Pat, then Ginger and Kong, then George and him. All must blend in with night-shift leavers. Timing could be critical.

Keeping an eye on the exit route, he whispered with George to outline how he planned to deal with handing in their keys. The group remained silent.

“Now – good luck.”

Jimmy and Pat set off, and a few paces after, Ginger and Kong. Then it was time for him, and he nudged George. By now other greatcoats and suits – some chattering – were making for the exit.

George and he filtered in. Their luck ran out. The great-coated giant immediately in front, looked round. Sarge. The audible gasp and “Chisholm!” told John he was rumbled.

Blast! But the others could still be okay. Yelling “Can't catch me,” he ran towards the wall at the far side. He glanced backwards. Sarge and at least one other were pursuing. He'd give them a run – he could sprint fast. Taking up rugby league at uni, playing at Wakefield on the wing, had not only earned useful cash but toughened him up. He darted round Sarge and his mate, back towards the leavers. He wanted to draw more of them.

“Stop the bugger – he's a patient,” he heard. Dark figures were leaving the queue and running his way. He turned and headed back in Sarge's direction. He ran at Sarge and side-stepped round – delighting at the roar as he palmed the brute in the face – then jinxed away from another greatcoat and headed for the wall again. He heard puffing and swearing behind him, and risked a glance. Several were giving chase. He halted short of the wall, gasping. He was pretty unfit. They were circling round, to trap him. He dashed through a gap, then ducked and weaved to go another direction. But someone trip-tackled him, and, sprawling on the ground, he felt the impact of bodies pinioning him. Hopefully the others had escaped.

“Gotcha, Chisholm.” He recognised Sarge's triumphant growl. The adrenalin rush over, he lay panting. He heard in the cacophony, “How the hell did he get off the ward?” He was done for. “Hold him steady,” the voice commanded. Strong hands obeyed. His bum stung. Everything faded.