Mad Worlds (20 page)

Dr James Braid Macdonald heard the door slam behind him and keys jangling as his escort locked up. He really wanted this job – a challenge at a backwoods place.

“Follow me please, Sir.”

He walked in solemn procession – one white-coated companion leading and another tagging at the rear – across the vast gloomy space towards a door in the far corner. A platoon formation. The plodding on the wooden floor sounded funereal. Fittingly atmospheric. The man in front unlocked a door and held it open.

Macdonald stepped into a dimly-lit passageway and waited while his companion locked the door behind them. This was like a gateway to Hell. Along the dreary corridor (with its stone-flagged floor and walls too dark a brown), they trudged in single file. How many sad tales could these walls tell? There was nothing remotely charming about the sinister pathways. So far, everything was reminiscent of that asylum where they'd imprisoned Auntie.

They reached another solid-looking door. The nurse leading the way unlocked it and held it open for him and his other, much older, escort to pass through. This corridor was a lot brighter, the walls painted cream and the floor carpeted (in institutional brown, predictably, but at least it was carpet). He heard the door shut behind him, and keys jangling, as the door was re-locked. He glanced backward. His ‘lead' escort had gone.

“This is a bit brighter,” he said to his remaining escort, now alongside him.

“Yes, Sir. It needs to be because this is our administrative block.”

Shocking, but not unexpected. “Ah.”

“I'll take you to the waiting-room, Sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Porter. You're Assistant Chief Male Nurse?”

“Yes, Sir, but I retires next month. Near forty years, I been here – ten of these Assistant Chief to Mr Hallman. He runs a tight ship, but he'll not be here much longer neither. Don't know what'll happen then.”

What indeed? Change? “Well, all the best for your retirement, Mr Porter.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Porter stopped outside a door in the corridor. “If you'll wait in here please, with the other gentlemen. It's the ante-room to our boardroom.”

*

Inside the room, Macdonald stood for a moment, looking around. Bigger than he'd have expected for an ante-room. Along the opposite wall, three grey-suited men sat in a row of armchairs, which were spaced well apart – two on each side of another door.

“Good day,” he said, glancing along the row. One man – white-haired with a weather-beaten wrinkled face – looked up at him; the other two sat with their heads bowed. He heard grunting, presumably in response. “Jamie Macdonald. I'm afraid my train from up north was very delayed.” More grunting ensued and the weather-beaten one gave a cough, maybe clearing his throat. The other two carried on staring at the floor. All three looked old – a good ten to twenty years older than he.

“Dr Macdonald, I'm Liam Kenney.” The weather-beaten face now crinkled into a half smile.

He sank into the armchair next to Kenney.

This guy at least seemed human. “Where are you from, Dr Kenney?”

“I'm Deputy here. I'm near retirement age, but I was persuaded to throw my hat in the ring.”

“Well, you must feel you've earned the job.”

Kenney leaned over to whisper. “I don't want it. Too much time on admin, not enough on clinical. But I'll feel obliged to take it if I'm offered.”

“I'm sorry to have missed the tour round.” True. The two-hour delay had been a damn nuisance.

“You didn't miss anything. The boss planned to show everyone round, but cried off sick and cancelled. Normally I'd stand in – but well, I'm a candidate.”

No wonder the others looked grumpy – assuming they arrived on time. “How long –” He started as the door beside him opened and an elderly woman appeared.

“Gentlemen, I am Miss Bewlay, Secretary to the Medical Superintendent.” She paused, then resumed in her shrill commanding voice. “Dr Kenney, you will be interviewed first.” She held the door open while Kenney sprang to his feet and walked through.

The door shut, he was closeted with two morose companions and his own thoughts. He recalled Auntie's tormented look in that asylum, and the vow he took over her lifeless body. The six-year medical slog at Edinburgh had been okay, except for pathology in year four, when he had to re-sit. He hated corpses.

The reason he didn't stay in Edinburgh? Simply Gill, the only woman on his course. “I have to go home, Jamie.” He saw her anguish as she chose between her madly-in-love boyfriend and her widowed terminally ill mother. No contest. And he didn't regret following her to Manchester for his three-year psychiatry training. Life was good. He was set on the field he'd dedicated to and courting the girl he loved.

It was sad that Gill's mum died a few weeks before the wedding. And the other cloud was Adolf Hitler, with his gang of Nazis.

He leaned forward and glanced again at his two fellow candidates. Each was greying, hunched forward, and staring at the floor. They were almost statuesque. He curbed an impulse to laugh. Could they have fought in the War? Surely they'd been too old for active service – and could even have fought in the Great War.

Maybe it was being an only child and having a vivid imagination. Reminiscing was for him a relaxation, a winding down from busy high-stress times. Happy or sad, memories served as affirmation and reinforced his learning from experience.

A year into the War he'd completed his Diploma in Psychological Medicine, married Gill, and joined the Royal Army Medical Corps. In France, he worked long hours, seeing folk with conflict-related breakdowns – not only shellshock, but also other hellish inner torments triggered by the war and separation from loved ones.

Sometimes he was sure he'd helped; sometimes he knew he hadn't – as with those two soldiers who committed suicide. He resisted army pressures to speed getting soldiers back to the front line. Where the soldiers wanted to get back, and he thought they were up to it psychologically – fine. But otherwise he ensured they got not only treatment, but the time they needed for rehabilitation.

A tough induction to psychiatric practice. The haunted faces, the harrowing tales, were still there in flashbacks. Sometimes he'd felt on the verge of sanity, and turned to a nightly whisky to help him sleep. But he survived, kept afloat by letters from Gill and those too-rare leaves with her, by his memories of Auntie – and by the whisky. He raged at God often. Sessions with the chaplains brought him back to worship and prayer. But through France and beyond, the nightly whisky got larger.

The door beside him opened. Liam Kenney emerged, looking unflustered, and, bending over, said in a whisper, “I've blown it, Macdonald. Good luck.” Kenney straightened, and exited by the door back to the corridor.

Kenney seemed a nice guy. At a guess, conscientious.

“Doctor Hastings, will you come with me please.” Miss Bewlay spoke as one expecting to be obeyed, and held the door open. As though electrified, the man in the furthest armchair leapt up and, with military bearing and searching eyes that stared angrily, marched past Miss Bewlay to the boardroom.

Left alone in monastic silence, with a companion who wasn't one (the man sat with eyes fixed on the floor), Macdonald continued reflecting.

He'd craved going back to civvy street, but that wasn't all roses. Early on the nightmares were so bad that he slept downstairs to let Gill have an undisturbed night. He got a clinical/teaching registrar post in Manchester University's Psychiatry Department.

It was not where he wanted to end up. But the quieter life of academia suited him for a time, and allowed him to address his growing alcohol problem. With support from Gill and the local Alcoholics Anonymous, he'd tackled this head-on and gone teetotal. It was years since he'd felt an inclination for a nightly soporific.

Then at a conference came a big moment – meeting Macdonald Bell, the boss at Dingleton Hospital in Melrose. What a guy, enthused by the idea of unlocking the wards – and branded crazy by the old guard, who predicted chaos and carnage.

When the consultant post came up there, he'd gone for it, with Gill's 100% support. She wound down with the practice in Hyde, stayed till the house was sold, and got part-time work in Melrose.

The door opened and Miss Bewlay entered. Hastings couldn't have been in for long. “Doctor Macdonald, please come with me.”

He rose and stopped. “Excuse me. Dr Hastings?”

“His interview is over. He was escorted out by another exit.”

He straightened his tie, insisted that Miss Bewlay precede him, and took a deep breath. Yes, he did want this job.

Waking up in a padded cell wasn't a shock for John. Trying to escape, and slugging three white-coats on the way, wouldn't have charmed the regime. He was a villain, surely to be punished and detained. The only question was what other sanctions or punishments might follow. The gallows? Beheading?

The hatch grated, letting in a shaft of light. A face?

“Chisholm!”

Even in his semi-drugged state, the sound struck a chill. Sarge? He lay looking up at the face. “Who's asking?”

“Who do you bloody think? I'm the boss here on Refractory, and I'm keeping you locked in this cell all day.”

Bad news. Nothing he could do about it.

“You've been a right fucker. I'll see you gets your comeuppance tomorrow.”

Predictable from Sarge. His punishment couldn't be any worse than before. Or could it? When three of Sarge's henchmen came in to give him the expected chemical knockout, he offered no resistance.

John was in bed at last after his first full day in the Factory. It was hard to sleep. The dormitory lighting was brighter than on Admissions. At either end of the dormitory were white-coats, in pairs. At least Sarge wasn't around. Another white-coat sat in the office.

He'd survived, unscathed. But the atmosphere was menacing. And Sarge's presence daytime ensured he would be a prime target for bullying.

There was another dimension. Some of the patients here were the proverbial hard men, the tough guys. Micky, a scowling massive middle-aged man who'd sat jostling him at breakfast, claimed to be from Broadmoor. “I'm not the only Broadie here – there's three other lads.”

He'd heard that Broadmoor housed the violent criminally insane. Micky and his fellow ex-inmates there had obviously been deemed fit for an ordinary asylum – but the guys must have had form. Micky reckoned he'd been in Broadmoor over twenty years. “Strangled me girlfriend. The bitch took over my mind and the voice told me to kill her. I'm from these parts, and they moved me to this dump so's me old mam could come and see me.”

And so many white-coats! Their ratio to patients must be double anything he'd seen on Admissions. Apart from Sarge, he didn't recognise any of them. Some looked tough and mean. Could be contextual – violence breeding violence.

Again, looks could be deceptive. Clark, who'd looked a bully, was quite a caring guy, with a sense of humour. In contrast, Niven and Sarge, as well as looking the part, vied with each other in bullying credentials.

Shouting and heavy footsteps indicated a scuffle opposite the end of his bed. He sat up to look. A man, struggling and yelling, was being frogmarched by two white-coats. “Shut the fuck up,” he heard somebody bawl. And indeed the yelling stopped after two more white-coats arrived. A limp body was carried by two white-coats into a padded cell. “A right bugger that,” one of the white-coats said loudly.

“Shut up,” came from the next bed. The two white-coats carried on talking as they went down the dormitory; one went into the Charge's office. There was silence, apart from muttering in the next bed and bronchitic coughing further along.

He slid down into the bed and sank into reflection.

So far, Sarge hadn't singled him out for the dire punishment promised, or even for humiliation. That could be to do with the large number of patients on the ward – or maybe the fights had kept him off the radar. In three incidents, violence had flared, and one escalated into a brawl, with several patients and white-coats getting stuck in. The scrapping patients were knocked out and put into cells. He'd managed to stay clear of trouble each time.

There were seven cells. And, soon before lunch, he'd seen patients being escorted – one-by-one – into each of these. There was no discernible reason for this.

“Screws' lunchtime,” Micky growled loudly. And indeed the cell occupants were released when the white-coats got back to strength.

After breakfast, John spied George. He'd willed the others to escape while he drew the hunters. But he felt bucked at seeing a fellow non-escaper.

George conveyed in whispers what had happened. “When they recognised you, I surrendered. A fiend twisted my arm up my back.” George peered around. “They must know I'm a famous author and it would be bad to let me escape. Kong fought the white-coats and Ginger yelled ‘Unhand me.' I didn't see Pat or Jimmy.”

Maybe they'd escaped. But Ginger must be captive somewhere in this dump.

And as John lined up to go outside, he heard the ward door being unlocked. In came a party of white-coats bearing a stretcher with a body on it. Sarge emerged from his office and inspected the still figure.

Another victim. This was presumably how he himself entered Springwell.

“Caught the bugger,” bawled Sarge, turning to address the patients. “A lesson. You try to escape, we'll catch you – and we'll cut your balls off.”

Not literally. But with Sarge…? Must be either Paranoid Pat or Jimmy.

“Like Moloney here,” Sarge continued, then said to the white-coats holding the stretcher, “Throw the bugger into cell one, till I'm ready to deal with him.”

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?

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.

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.”

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.”

“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.