He wouldn’t stay here a minute longer than he had to.
No answer came from his knock, which could mean a dark empty room, or might mean a frightened man hiding. And if he was hiding, he may be about to pounce from behind the door or beneath the bed.
He tried the door. It wasn’t locked. Pushing it open with his foot, he paused before taking a primed step into the room. Arms up in a Kung Fu-cum-boxing stance, he had no idea what he’d do if he got jumped, but being ready for it couldn’t hurt.
Standing stock still, he quietened his breath. If anyone else was breathing in the tiny room, he’d hear them. Happy he was alone, he switched on the light.
It was identical to the room opposite. The same bolted down bed, the same high inaccessible window vent.
Exiting, he decided to check out the toilet before disturbing ‘timid man’, especially as he was even more convinced now that his room would be another carbon copy of his.
The toilet had no liftable seat, but instead a moulded soft plastic multi-purpose base that would suit all functions. All purposes, that is, apart from harming anyone. Nothing to break off here. And no window. He supposed the only room where staff couldn’t see into from the corridor needed to be extra-safe.
The windows from the rooms were likely the same super-strong glass he’d witnessed gorillas at Bristol Zoo Garden’s throwing themselves at. No patient was getting through that, and apart from to cause self-injury, what would be the point? There was nowhere to go; nowhere to hide, nothing different in any way.
If they wouldn’t play ball, there was no way of escaping this corridor. He prayed Doctor McEvoy wouldn’t be conducting his assessment in this high security area. There had to be a fire escape somewhere in the building. If necessary, he would find one and go.
With one room left to check, expecting it to be no different, was it even worth the effort, he wondered. But he was thorough and wouldn’t rest if he didn’t get a peek inside. It might offer something.
It was like Russian roulette; dramatic perhaps, but with one room empty and his room accounted for, this last one would probably be occupied. With his heart pounding in his head, he grasped the handle. Turning it enough to open it if it wasn’t locked, he pushed slowly. It opened.
“Hello. Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.” This time when he paused to listen for breath, he could hear it. In, out, in, out—short nervous little pants. “It’s okay. Honestly. I don’t want to hurt you. I just wanted to see in your room.”
An unmistakeable whimper emanated to his ears. Matthew batted the wall for the light switch and the room burst into light. Sitting a few feet away on the bed, the man from earlier sat facing the wall.
“Hello,” Matthew ventured again, the illumination making the scene feel new. It seemed rude not to try to speak to the man. If his presence was really so disturbing to him perhaps he shouldn’t, but if he could just help him realise he had nothing to fear.
He took a step towards him. The whimpering grew louder.
“It’s okay. Look at me. It’s all right!”
Shooting his hands up to his ears, the man screwed his eyes shut, “La la la la laaa! I can’t hear you. You’re not here! La la la la laaaa!”
Matthew shook his head. He was never getting through to him. About to turn away, something caught his eye. Drip. Blood oozed from the man’s arm, dripping into a large pool on the bed.
“Shit! Are you okay?” How did he find anything sharp enough to do this? “I’ll get help,” Matthew said, but before he turned to go, the question of how was unquestionably answered.
The man shot his head round and screamed, “Leave me alone!” and when he did, Matthew saw blood; a lot of blood: dribbling from the corners of his mouth, a gruesome burgundy coated his teeth.
“Oh my god!” Matthew shot from the room.
“What are you doing?” It was one of the men who’d restrained him before. He took in the scene and screeched at Matthew. “What have you done? You evil bastard!”
As he rushed to the timid man’s aid, the other man hurried through the double doors. Responding to a mouthed instruction from the first man, he flew for Matthew and rugby tackled him to the floor. Effortlessly, he held him in an immobilising grip that seemed to tighten the more he struggled.
Joined by more men, they hauled him up by his arms and legs, splayed him on the bed and proceeded to strap him down. As Matthew wriggled against the indignity, they screamed at him. “Shut the fuck up, Matthew. Evil fucker.”
Matthew wanted to scream out, but words refused to come. His lips didn’t open and soon his eyes wouldn’t either.
Chapter Eight
Matthew screamed out whenever his mind rallied enough to make the effort. He’d been drugged, he was sure, but that’s as far as he got with his deliberations before oblivion clawed at his thoughts, dragging them to the point of nonsense.
Resurfacing, they’d gargle and fire enough fear in Matthew’s mind to call out, but no-one would come, and no-one would help.
“Debbie,” he yelled. “Mum! Dad! Help me.”
For hours, the same cycle, but each time he breached the surface of his consciousness it was with a little more vigour. Eventually he succeeded keeping his eyes open for a minute or more at a time.
Jolting his head from side to side brought spurts of relative alertness and he came up with a plan: to bide his time, be very obedient and get to see the doctor. He couldn’t risk giving them any reason to think he needed further assessment.
He knew they could have no interest in keeping him here against his will if he could explain, but they also seemed to work on a presumption of insanity. Without waiting to hear his explanation, they had assumed his guilt in hurting the nervous man when it was obvious, wasn’t it, what had happened?
No-one considered Matthew might have been trying to help, which while it wasn’t his primary incentive had been what he was doing when they stopped him.
Granted, they caught him fleeing, but that was only because his presence made the man worse. With a sigh, he knew he was examining it too much. Whilst he possibly understood why they might have jumped to the wrong conclusion, that’s exactly what it was. Once he could explain to Doctor McEvoy, it would all be over and they’d apologise, or not, and he’d be on his way.
The perfect Christmas had been ruined, but it was the first of many, he reminded himself. They were no longer on borrowed time. And at least they knew where he was now. He didn’t have to fret about what they might be going through and hoped they could enjoy what was left of the Christmas break without him.
It was an experience. He’d come through the other side stronger, he was certain.
Quietly accepting another meal—breakfast—and grateful he’d been unstrapped to eat it, Matthew sat on the bed, swinging his legs whilst munching on an unfortunately bland bowl of porridge and some cold toast. Demonstrating what he hoped was a warm smile, he asked the nurse who pottered nearby in a poor effort of appearing unconcerned (she was there to watch him, and he knew it) “Will I see Doctor McEvoy today?”
Pausing in her examination of the doorframe she turned to him with a smile. “This morning. He’s keen to see you.”
And I’m bloody keen to see him, Matthew thought but merely turned up his grin and gesticulated his thanks with a triangle of toast.
She waited for him to finish his food. “You’ll not want to see him in your gown, I don’t suppose?” Matthew couldn’t give a shit. Whatever was quicker, but he supposed a barely concealing hospital robe might be distracting. “I’ll fetch you something.”
Matthew dreaded to think what. Goodness knows the state of anything banished to lost property in this place. “Can I just have my own clothes, please?”
She shook her head. “Not safe. Maybe soon, yeah?”
Why did they all do that? Presume to ask him if something suited him by adding ‘yeah?’ to all their sentences. It particularly annoyed him as he doubted his approval was actually being sought. They’d do whatever th
ey wanted regardless.
When she brought what amounted to a grey track suit, he recognised it as being similar to the others attire. If this was some kind of uniform, he could think of a more uplifting colour for the depressed and mentally unwell than grey. With no option but to put them on, it had an eeriness that rattled him; like he’d be wearing this longer than he could bear. At least they looked clean.
“I’ll leave you for a minute to get changed,” she said. Stepping from the room, she turned a key somewhere next to the window and the glass became tinted. Matthew was pleased and surprised that he was allowed to be alone. Pulling the bland items on took less than a minute, including towelling slippers.
Trying to imagine he was at an expensive spa on his way for a treatment, he forced the smile back onto his lips and popped his head round the door. “I’m ready.”
“So,” Dr McEvoy smiled. “How arr ye?” The Christmas tree on his desk tried desperately to raise its needle clad hand. ‘Drink. Please! I’m so thirsty!’ But its temporary nature meant that despite the Tesco label denoting it as a ‘miniature live tree’ it seemed sure to relinquish the title before the celebrated twelve days.
Matthew stared at the feeble thing. It was the only nod to Christmas he’d seen since his arrival. The torn posters on the walls demonstrating perhaps why they hadn’t bothered. Picking up strewn decorations throughout the day would get tiresome pretty quickly, Matthew imagined. And now, his perfect Christmas was reduced to this. He wondered if someone who could ignore such a blatant cry for help from a plant flashing its tiny LED’s for attention was the best person to have caring for the needs of this ward.
Doctor McEvoy grinned lop-sidedly across the desk. His mop of dark brown hair in a neat Lego fringe above piercing emerald eyes. He was so quintessentially Irish, he would have suited a Leprechaun suit instead of the crumpled indication to his position of respectability that hung loosely from his shoulders like he’d recently lost a great deal of weight.
Reassured by the calming sing-song lilt of the doctor’s voice, Matthew answered the question. “I’ve been better, Doctor.”
There was the smile again. This was going well. He’d be home soon. Doctor McEvoy scribbled on a pad. “Uh huh. I’m sure you have. Do you want to tell me what you’ve been up to?”
Matthew didn’t know what he meant and said so.
“You know. In the big outside world?”
Ah, he understood now. It was just his way of asking who he was and what he did for a living. “Well, I was enjoying a wonderful Christmas with my family. We’ve bought a lovely house after I managed to pull off a brilliant deal supplying amphibious craft to the military. It’s my own design. Brian, my partner—business partner,” he over-clarified, “he didn’t think I could do it. It took a long time, to be fair, but it happened and we turned a tidy profit… A very tidy profit.”
The doctor’s friendliness was such a relief. Chatting normally like this was so comforting. “But we’d never enjoyed a Christmas there because my beautiful daughter has been so unwell…” Even though he knew she was well now, just mentioning how close they’d come to losing her choked him up and he struggled to carry on. “So this was our first proper Christmas, and I’ve ended up in here!” he rolled his eyes as if being arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct on Christmas day and being taken to the asylum was just one of those things, but the tear rolling down his cheek was a drop in the ocean of his depths of despair.
“Uh huh.” He scribbled more on his pad, the pen scratching so fluidly it was hard to consider it forming words, and Matthew imagined him doodling silly pictures. “Tell me about your family.”
Matthew was keen to cooperate. The questions, whilst unnecessary, seemed very normal. “Well, there’s my wife…”
“Wife?”
“Yes. My wife,” Matthew said slowly. Why was that hard to believe? Had he misconstrued the word ‘partner’ despite him being extra-clear?
“You haven’t mentioned her before. Where do you see her?”
Not mentioned her? Matthew’s grief gave way to annoyance. Was this guy for real? How much were the NHS paying this joker? Was he fulfilling another Irish stereotype: being pissed?
“Where do I see her? In our home… I don’t know what you mean.” It was a supreme effort to control the anger brewing; catching him by surprise forced him to gulp it down. He couldn’t risk an outburst.
Nodding vigorously, Doctor McEvoy squeezed his features tight in a weird facial contortion. “No, no, don’t worry. You’re doing fine. And your daughter? Where is she?”
“Where do you fucking think she is!” he didn’t say. Instead, speaking extra-slowly—this guy seemed to have trouble with plain English—he told him how she was at home, hopefully enjoying her presents in his unexpected absence. Struggling with the words, every time he thought about where he should be, it filled him with an intoxicating cocktail of emotion.
“Okay. And where is this… home?”
Matthew shook his head in bewilderment. Coughing to regain his composure, he made sure to look Doctor McEvoy straight in the eye, but it was hard. He wanted to hide somewhere and regroup. This weird tint to proceedings was unnerving him.
“Do you mean, what is my address? It’s twelve Clifton Down Road. Bristol. We’re planning to name it but haven’t felt like it yet,” Images of Abi lying stricken in her hospital bed flooded his mind. It was over. This would soon be over.
“Mmm, hmm. And what about your sister, you haven’t mentioned her?”
If I haven’t mentioned her, how do you know about her, Matthew puzzled? “Er, she’s fine, thanks.”
“Fine? Really? Your sister is fine?”
“Look! What is going on? Is there a script you want me to follow? I just want to get out of here and back to my family. I want to cooperate, but you are beginning to piss me off.” Matthew was puce now. Keeping the anger at bay had funnelled it to an acrid geyser of rage he could barely control.
With an irritating calm, he smiled at Matthew. “What do you think is going on? Mmmm? You see, it really doesn’t matter what I think, only what you think. Does that make sense?” he nodded along with his own logic as if every word were a gem of wisdom.
I bet, Matthew inwardly scorned. I’ll just go now then, shall I? “I think my moderately drunken behaviour has been blown out of all possible proportion, and you guys here want to come across like you have done your job before you send me on my way. Well done. You’ve been very thorough. Now I’d like to leave. Please.”
The scribbling took on a furious pace. His eyes sparkled. He was in his element. “And where would you go?”
“Where do you think I’d go? I just gave you my address. Why do you care anyway? What difference does it make to you if I walk out of the door and take a world cruise? What? Tell me!”
“Okay, Matthew. I can see you’re getting agitated. I’m pretty sure what course of action to take, but there are a couple more questions I need to ask. Please don’t take offence. I ask everybody the same.” He cleared his throat and looked Matthew straight in the eye. “Do you have any notion to harm yourself… or anyone else?”
Well not until a few minutes ago. Now I’d quite like to smash your stupid smug face into the desk! “No,” he answered “I don’t”
Slapping his book shut with an air of finality, he said, “Good! That’s good. You’re doing great. It doesn’t matter what you’ve been up to. You don’t have to tell us. You’re here now. Safe.”
This didn’t sound like he was going home. “So I can go now. Can someone bring me my own clothes, please?”
Doctor McEvoy sighed and looked down at his shoes. “I don’t think you should go anywhere just yet. It would be irresponsible of me to just let you go. We don’t want anything to happen to you, do we?”
Blood drained from Matthew’s head to his boots, filling them with dead weight, like the iron in his blood had magnetised him to the floor. It was all that prevented him falling. So they weren’t planning to let him
go. His pale, weary head could summon no suggestion why on earth they wanted him to stay, and he sat open-mouthed and defeated.
What could possibly have led them to the conclusion he wasn’t operating with a full load? “You can’t keep me here.” His ethereal voice echoing from the silence of Doctor McEvoy’s office hit an unfamiliar note that didn’t even sound like him. “On what grounds?” he rasped. “I’m not mad. I’m perfectly sane. Please just let me get home to my wife and daughter!”
Doctor McEvoy sighed again. He’d suffer hypoventilation if he carried on. “Mad isn’t a term we like to use here, Matthew. But you do need some help. That’s all. There’s nothing wrong with that, so there’s not. If you help us, we can help you. You’ll soon be right as rain, so you will.” And with that he leaped from his chair and offered a hand to shake.
When Matthew took it, he used it to help him from the chair and steer him towards the door. Opening it onto the corridor, still holding Matthew’s hand, he paused. “But I am happy for you to have the run of the place. Catch up with the others in the rec room. Enjoy meals with them. It’s all part of the process.”
Gripping onto the doctor’s hand. Matthew wasn’t happy to leave it like that, of course. “If I’m not going home, you have to at least let me to speak to my wife on the telephone, please,” he was careful to include. Holding his gaze until the doctor shrank away from it, his breath wouldn’t come and his heart pounded in his ears as he awaited his response.
After consulting the floor, Doctor McEvoy stared hard into Matthew’s eyes before answering. “We’ll see what we can do, okay?”
Matthew knew when he was being fobbed off, and his mind rallied in the waning opportunity. “Well, I just need a phone, that’s all. We can go to the office now, can’t we?” he added, forcing the corners of his mouth up into what he hoped resembled a smile. “I’m sure it would make me feel so much better.”
Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9) Page 5
