A Justifiable Madness

by AB Morgan

  Phoning through to Charming’s office, I secretly prayed that he would be far too busy to take a call. I explained to Lucy, his secretary, why I was contacting, and she seemed delighted that I had news. How such a nice person could work for such an awful man was beyond me, but she never said a bad word about him.

  ‘Hang on, Monica. I’ll see if he’s free.’ She then put me through.

  ‘Giles Sharman,’ he announced in his usual dismissive tone.

  ‘Hello Dr Sharman, it’s Nurse Morris from Pargiter Ward. I have a first name for you for our mystery man. Mr Trainman. His name is Mark.’

  ‘Is that it? Anything else of any use?’

  ‘Sorry …’ I stammered a bit. ‘I, I thought if you had the first name it may ring a few bells with you and you might recall his full name.’

  ‘How the hell would I do that? ESP or a Jedi mind trick perhaps? I have never met the fellow before. See if you can do a bit better than that, Nurse Morris, before you disturb me again.’

  ‘Yes, sssssorry,’ I stammered once more.

  He hung up abruptly.

  Emma and I looked at each other for a while in silence, before Emma filled the void with a relevant observation. ‘Jedi mind trick … Star Wars fan then. Amazing. I never would have imagined that.’

  ‘No, indeed …’

  ‘I fail to understand old Charming. He wrote a lie, a total fabrication to place a man on a Section 3. Why would a Section 2 not have been sufficient punishment?’

  Emma was digging around trying to pick stubborn particles of mud, grit and greenery from her left ear with her little finger. As she continued to do so, she regaled me with stories of her muddy exploits from the past two days and then announced that she had heard about an event called the World Bog Snorkelling Championships which she was going to enter next summer. I confess that I had no idea what she was babbling on about.

  It was around that time that dear Richard Huntley, solicitor extraordinaire, arrived on the ward. He had promised to try to make it that day, and it was a relief to see him. Emma volunteered to sort out various ward and patient requirements, giving me time to direct Richard to his initial consultation with Mr Trainman. I informed him that we now had a first name for his client. With a quizzical look in my direction, he confirmed that he was already aware of this. How he knew that piece of information or where he had obtained it was a mystery, as only myself, Emma, and Dr Sharman knew this. I had only disclosed the fact a matter of minutes previously. I didn’t have time to pursue this with Richard who was keener to meet his new client than he was to chat with me. To be fair, that was his job.

  Mark Trainman was pleased to meet Richard, judging by his expression, and I offered them the use of a small office nearby while I went to collect ward notes, a drug chart, and for good measure, took them both, hot drinks. Richard had arrived armed with lots of spare paper and pens, and I hoped that Mark Trainman would open up to Richard; otherwise it would be an awkward first meeting.

  I left them to it, and risked an exploration of Mr Trainman’s bed space in the dormitory during his absence. As it happened, Gina the cleaner was in the room tidying and neatening up the odd bed, even though she was not supposed to. Patients were encouraged to make their own beds, but more often than not we stepped in. I for one couldn’t cope with unmade beds in a hospital ward. Gina’s presence was usefully convenient for me. It meant that I could pretend to be doing the same. I looked as if I were helping her and while I did so I had a proper rummage to find the papers I had seen Mark Trainman feverishly hiding earlier.

  Found them.

  ‘Bugger! What the hell is this? You have to be kidding.’ What did it all mean? I was fairly certain that I was looking at shorthand. Now that is mad, I thought. It could be, I don’t know if it is mad or not, it’s gibberish to me. Bloody marvellous!

  I couldn’t take the risk of leaving the ward to find a photocopier, as I would undoubtedly be caught with the papers in my hands. So I placed them carefully back where I had found them, predictably under the mattress.

  I hoped Richard was having more luck.

  14

  Some Weeks Earlier

  Mark walked slowly but purposefully towards the back of a large imposing office block in central London, making his way along the narrow service road. He could smell and taste the pollution in the air. Nasty. He had taken the train from his parents’ home in Suffolk with reservations about whether to take on another assignment so soon. He was less battle weary, and had enjoyed the food and relaxation over the past four weeks, but wasn’t even sure he wanted to stay in the UK for much longer.

  ‘Hello, mate. Long time no see … excellent tan by the way. Been somewhere nice?’ A slim neatly dressed young man looked Mark up and down, mocking his choice of business attire. Mark couldn’t care less how he dressed, and as usual he wore a pair of well-worn Levi jeans, his beloved leather sandals, and a scruffy t-shirt. He was clean-shaven, and his long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail. He had his battered trusty old camera in a brown leather case slung over one shoulder by its long strap. Despite the modern attire, and having shaved, he still looked like everyone’s idea of Jesus; something he was well aware of. Mark secretly enjoyed the expressions of surprise on people’s faces or double-takes from passers by. It made him smile.

  ‘Hello, Charlie. How are you?’ Mark said as he crossed the road to catch up with his younger colleague. He knew that Charlie was being facetious in his comment about his tan, because Mark spent most of his life in the Middle East.

  ‘I take it we’re both headed in the same direction. What’s this about, do you know? It’s a bit cloak and dagger.’

  ‘Not a damn clue,’ shrugged Charlie. Mark liked Charlie immensely, he always had. Charlie was a lovable tear-away who had never escaped his reputation as a womaniser. For good reason. Mark wished that he had Charlie’s confidence when it came to the opposite sex.

  ‘How’s your love life these days?’ asked Charlie, picking up on Mark’s weak spot. ‘As barren as the deserts you spend your time in, I would guess. You always look like you’re in need of a good shag. Cut your hair. That’ll help.’

  ‘How will that help?’ replied Mark, inadvertently giving away the fact that Charlie was correct about his lack of a love life.

  ‘Jesus: did he have a wonderful love life? No. You look like Jesus, and so women will avoid you. Stands to reason. You’re not enough of a caveman. You’re too nice. Women like their affairs to be rough, treacherous, uncertain.’

  ‘Do they now?’ Mark thanked Charlie for his valuable advice, and decided to ignore it. Mark had had girlfriends in the past, but they soon became fed up with his disappearing acts when he went on assignment. One-night stands weren’t an acceptable alternative.

  ‘I thought you were still shacked up with the lovely Penny Arnott?’

  ‘No. She had a better offer. She was in Hong Kong a few weeks ago, in your neck of the woods, I believe. She’s free, if you’re interested.’ Mark tried to convince Charlie that this was a nonchalant comment, laden with masculine bravado, and with no emotion attached. In reality, it was painful for Mark to even say Penny’s name out loud. He had been viciously wounded when she had packed her bags.

  ‘Crackin’. I’ll look her up. She still working for Reuters?’

  Mark nodded in response. He ended the unbearable conversation.

  Mark and Charlie made their way through the rear doors via intercom to reception, and said hello to the security man inside, both wafting their passes in his direction. They then went upstairs, bypassing the noisy smoke-filled newsroom, and headed straight to a large and airy meeting room next door to the editor’s office. Although freelance, both Mark and Charlie did a lot of work for the Albion Group of newspapers, covering foreign assignments, usually at times of political unrest. That was most of the time, and could be anywhere in the world.

  Mark had made the Middle East his home for years, much to the detriment of any real social life, but he loved his job and wou
ldn’t have settled for anything less exciting. It was the thrill of the chase and the final exhilaration of a journalistic coup that kept him returning for more, like an addict. He had clocked up more time in war-zones than most of the armed forces that he came across, and although he always appeared the epitome of the unflappable war correspondent, the last few years had begun to take their toll. He had dreadful trouble sleeping. He was feeling tired, and at the same time jittery from the caffeine that day. Mark used strong coffee to keep him more alert. He owned a t-shirt that said ‘Be alert … your country needs lerts,’ which tickled his sense of humour, and he wished he had worn it that morning as it might have helped to fight his fuzzy-headed fatigue.

  ‘This is a sort of reunion then,’ remarked Charlie. ‘I’ve spotted at least three other journalists that I know well. See, there’s Jock Mackenzie, and there’s Linda. I don’t recognise that posh bloke in the flashy whistle standing near the projector, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I’ve seen him before. Blimey that is an expensive looking suit. What do you think? Lawyer? There’s a serious air about him.’

  They sauntered across the room, scouting around as they helped themselves to a cup of cardboard coffee from a machine. Mark turned his nose up at the watery offering in his cup. He sipped; it was better than nothing. Carrying their coffees, Charlie led the way as they went over to speak to Linda, a middle-aged battle-axe of a woman with a wicked sense of humour. She had been writing for years in various political columns, and had a scathing wit. Hilariously no one in the general population knew what she looked like nowadays. The papers always published a photograph at the top of her articles that she had professionally commissioned some time in the 1960s.

  Putting their cups of coffee down for them on a table, she gave both young men a motherly hug, which judging by Charlie’s face was more familiar than he would have liked. His whole head disappeared into her ample breasts, and he came up gasping for air. ‘Yes, lovely to see you too, Linda,’ he croaked, stepping back and out of her reach. She gazed lustfully up at Mark, who was much taller than his companion.

  ‘Come here, my Laurence of Arabia. Let’s have a look at those lovely blue eyes. A hug would be in order for you too,’ rasped Linda in her well-established smoker’s voice.

  Mark allowed himself to be crushed to Linda’s bosom, because it was easier than trying to avoid the inevitable tongue lashing if he didn’t. He knew that Linda was convinced he was gay, simply because unlike most other foreign correspondents, he did not smoke and only drank in moderation. Healthy living was an alien concept to most in the newsroom at The Daily Albion.

  Unlike the papers owned by Rupert Murdoch, The Albion Group had not gone to Wapping, although they had moved to more modern premises and embraced the newer printing technologies. As previously, they also continued to be well respected for the quality and accuracy of their copy. The old days of spending most of their working hours in the pubs around Fleet Street had long gone for most news reporters, apart from die-hards like Linda of course. Journalistically she would, at that time, have had her daggers out for the likes of the Prime Minister John Major, but he was so bland and boring that she had taken every opportunity to prickle about Bill Clinton, who was more deliciously vulnerable to a scandal.

  The writers of the outstanding satirical Spitting Image TV series, often picked up on the barbed and outrageous observations Linda made in her columns, and she was even occasionally mentioned by name on the programme. She made no secret of the fact that she was glad that her notoriety attracted no more than a name-mention, as to have a Spitting Image puppet made of her would reveal how much she had aged. A puppet in her image would also evidence her surrender to middle-age spread, and would inevitably exaggerate the uncomfortable level of menopausal sweatiness she experienced. The writers of that series took no prisoners.

  ‘What’s this all about then, boys?’ asked Linda, once she had calmed down.

  ‘No idea, sorry,’ replied Mark, ‘but I think we’re about to find out.’

  At that moment, the editor John Starkey walked through the door, accompanied by a number of people of varying shapes and sizes, and the room came to attention.

  ‘Please, ladies and gentlemen, take a seat, and we shall reveal your next job, if you choose to take up the opportunity of a lifetime.’

  This sounds promising, Mark said to himself, while earnestly hoping that he was not about to be sent to Bosnia by way of a change from the Middle East.

  The editor then introduced the guests he had seated next to him: a handful of medical researchers, a professor, and a lawyer who turned out to be the man who had been standing next to the overhead projector when Charlie and Mark had arrived. Starkey then asked for the eight journalists present to make use of the paper and pens in front of them to take shorthand notes if they wished, because as he pointed out to them, ‘there will be no printed copies of the following presentations.’

  The journalists looked around, and picked up the pens in front of them in anticipation, raising the occasional eyebrow to each other.

  ‘I’m sorry that this appears somewhat hush-hush, but as you will soon hear we need to keep this assignment plan under the media radar until such time as you have all completed your individual tasks. This will make more sense once Professor Hugo here, has given you the details of what we are endeavouring to achieve.’

  Mark didn’t know what to make of the announcement. There were no real clues forthcoming.

  15

  The Rosenhan Experiment Explained

  Professor Hugo was introduced again as a medical researcher, and he stood at the head of the table making use of the overhead projector to show a handful of acetate slides during his presentation. The researchers were from the University of London, as was neatly depicted on the overhead screen in a diagram for the audience to see. No help there, thought Mark, eager for them to get to the punch-line. What the hell is it that they actually want from us?

  Professor Hugo Greenaway, who became affectionately known as ‘Prof Hugo’, began a rather lengthy but enthusiastic explanation. Mark was struck by how the professor was the epitome of the mad scientist. He had wild wiry unkempt hair that preferred to remain vertical, underneath which there existed a cherubic rosy-cheeked face. Prof Hugo was straight out of the 1940s. He wore a short-sleeved shirt overlaid by an unfashionable knitted tank top, which he had paired with oversized corduroy trousers in a ghastly caramel colour. Added to this were round horn-rimmed glasses and brown brogues on his feet. His shoes were screaming out for the attention of polish. He was immediately likeable.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, thank you for coming today. You are about to enter the world of psychiatry together. I realise that this is not necessarily your field of expertise, but you have been asked to come along because you have certain skills and attributes that we believe are required for the assignment we would like you to undertake on behalf of the paper, and for the Research Institute. I therefore will try to set the scene to make this a lot clearer to you.’

  As he spoke there was an audible gasp from the people in the room who were meeting Prof Hugo for the first time. He had a most unusual voice, and even though he must have been familiar with lecturing to hundreds of postgraduate students, he stuttered his way through.

  Mark was stunned. He’d never heard anything quite like it. Prof Hugo had a helium voice and nervous style. The tone was so high and squeaky that everyone hung on each word, in astonishment. Around the table, the journalists had forgotten to take notes and were, it seemed, temporarily immobilised by the performance of the man in front of them.

  Journalists are notoriously competitive, and once over the initial shock, this introduction had them leaning forward on their marks, and at the ready. All apart from Mark who sat back in his chair, not too enthused.

  Prof Hugo went on. ‘There is currently a wave of antipsychiatry protests amongst those who have experienced mental health care. Mental patients, the insane, the mad, the bad, and the s
ad, call them what you will. Those that write about the experience in protest, often refer to themselves as “survivors of the mental health system”. We at the institute want to get a better idea what the underlying facts are, because our qualitative research so far, has led us to believe that there is validity in the first-hand accounts. What we are hearing seems to identify an abuse of power by consultant psychiatrists in controlling this vulnerable part of society.’

  Mark was disappointed. Is that it? Researching dodgy psychiatric institutions. They’ll never let us in. They never have. Mark felt unusually deflated by the news that the assignment was going to be so tame. He tried to tune back in to what Professor Hugo was saying but had lost interest. He distracted himself by doodling, and allowed the professor’s squeaky words to drift by.

  ‘We think this misuse of power, abuse if you will, has been occurring since the time of the large asylums in this country. When we say abuse, we really mean abuse, and we wish not only to research but to expose this abuse at the same time, if it exists.’

  The professor paused as if to gather his thoughts for a few moments, and then he tried to continue, but lost his grip on the acetate films that he was trying to place on the overhead projector. As a result, he fumbled and grabbed at the slides, which behaved as if they were slippery eels, slithering gently to the floor, defying his every attempt to catch them.

  ‘Oh dear. Oh dear. Now where was I?’

  He repeated these words on each occasion that this mishandling of slides happened during his presentation. The audience, including Mark, made mammoth efforts to control and stifle the uproarious laughter that threatened to erupt each time this comedy sketch took place. By the end of the presentation, Mark’s ribs were aching with the exertion of trying not to laugh, and he was sure his fellow journalists were in the same predicament. Most were holding onto themselves with arms held across their midriffs, lips were being bitten and tears were rolling unhindered down cheeks by way of release.