by AB Morgan
Gordon Bygraves, once more out of his depth, asked me if I would kindly escort Mr Starkey around the ward, and ensure that the agreed parameters were kept to, regarding confidentiality and privacy.
‘Right, well, if I’m doing that, then you will have to stay in the office and cover the phone. Just take a message and I’ll deal with it later,’ I advised, reminding him to ensure that he kept an eye on the ward exit doors, and to make sure that no one left without him checking whether they had permission to do so.
‘I’ll give you a top tip,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t let anyone leave …’
John Starkey had not, for many years, been a reporter in the field, and he was relishing every moment. Gordon Bygraves had been under the false impression that he was a photographer, and had therefore fallen for the simplest of approaches. Gordon had found himself explaining lots of things to a person that he assumed didn’t understand, not knowing that the man in front of him was a reporter, or in this case the editor of a national newspaper. All John Starkey had to do was pretend he was a bit dim.
The photographer asked lots of questions about the unit including, ‘How many patients are there here usually?’ And when Gordon replied, he said, ‘Oh really? And where are all the patients today, Mr Bygraves, it seems a bit quiet?’ and, ‘what about the doctors where are they?’
Gordon didn’t hesitate to give the answers, and more besides, but John had no such luck with me. I’m too smart for that old trick.
‘Do you know Dr Sharman well?’ he asked me directly as we turned the corner into the main corridor.
‘I don’t think anyone does,’ came my short reply. I then manoeuvred him in the direction of the dayrooms, the new ward shop, and a lovely a view of the corridor with the artwork on display.
It was then that I spied a short poem in the corner of the creative writing poster.
There was a consultant called Sharman
Whose actions were somewhat alarmin’
He gave lots of pills
To those with no ills
And that’s why they nicknamed him Charmin’
It was signed Mr Trainman.
I couldn’t help gasping, alerting John Starkey who, in an instant, was taking the shot before I could stop him.
He made light of it. ‘Great. Funny … The whole poster is inspiring. I’ll get one or two close ups, and a couple of long shots down the corridor.’
I caught him as he managed to sneak a picture of the male dormitory, chancing that it was in focus. He unsuccessfully tried to reassure me that this was not the case, and that the most important photographs would be of the outside of the building, and the plaque on Dr Sharman’s office door.
I was certain about that. The plaque showed streams of letters after Dr Sharman’s name, adding to his legendary gravitas, and reputation as the man of utmost importance to the hospital.
As we made our way back towards the ward office, Gordon popped his head out to inform me that the security guard on reception downstairs had taken delivery of two boxes of chocolates for the staff and patients on Pargiter Ward, and could I please collect them. I persuaded Gordon to stay on the ward while I did so, and I escorted John Starkey to the main unit exit, ensuring he did not linger anywhere he was not supposed to. I had the distinct feeling that he had another agenda, and not one as simple as taking publicity shots for a newspaper article. I was not prepared to be implicated in whatever that might be. I was in quite enough trouble as it was.
Making a show of it, I waved goodbye to John Starkey who seemed resigned to the fact that his tour of the premises was over, and he fired off a couple more camera shots of the main entrance as he departed.
Doing as I was asked, I went to reception to collect a large tin of Quality Street chocolates with a label stuck to it indicating it was for consumption by the ward staff and patients. The second smaller box was wrapped in paper with an envelope addressed to Welsh Phil, Pargiter Ward.
Intrigued, I returned to the ward, and once I had relieved Gordon of his duties in the ward office, I delivered the smaller box to Phil, who was at the time getting ready to go out for lunch with friends and family.
‘Birthday, is it?’ I asked.
It wasn’t Phil’s birthday but he was thrilled to receive a present, whoever it was from. As I left, he opened the envelope to find out. Phil read it out loud for me to hear.
‘Phil, Thank you once again for your kindness and help. I am safe and well. Please look out for next Saturday’s copy of the Daily Albion. You will like it immensely. In the meantime please enjoy the chocolates. M.R.’
‘M.R. ?’ queried Phil. He knew it was from Mark, but why M.R.?
Phil and I ruminated over this riddle for some time. How could Mark know what was going to appear in a newspaper a week into the future? Unable to answer these questions, Phil resolved to ensure that he got hold of a copy of the Daily Albion first thing the next Saturday morning.
I survived the Sunday early shift with no major calamities despite the fact that I was suffering from the negative impact of sleepless nights. I was living with the nail-biting consequences of my breach of confidentiality, which carried with it the likelihood of immediate suspension and probable dismissal. On top of that, I had colluded in an absconding. No, I had facilitated a Section patient’s absconding. That was worse. I anticipated that I would soon be exposed as being unfit to practice, of professional misconduct, and breaking the law. Still, where was the proof?
Once I had finished for the day, I was left dealing not only with the anxiety of managing the pending ward round, but also attention from the press, both due to occur on the very next day. I barely slept a wink on Sunday night.
35
More Coffee, Nurse!
I was trembling with adrenalin overload as I walked onto the ward on that fateful Monday morning. I had convinced myself that it would be my last day as a registered nurse, and although I was fearful of the consequences of my actions over the previous week or so, I lay the blame firmly at the feet of Dr Giles Sharman. The thought of seeing him that morning filled me with a bitter hatred of which I had not previously been so painfully aware.
Charlotte was the other staff nurse on duty with me for the early shift, and she emerged from the locker room looking nervous. ‘You alright, Charlotte? You look worse than I feel.’ On enquiry, it became apparent that she had assumed that she was to be in charge of running the ward round that Monday morning, and I gladly let her continue to believe this. What a reprieve!
I felt a pang of guilt, which lasted for less than a second.
‘Don’t worry, Charlotte, I’ll help you as much as I can.’
Which I did, in all fairness. Between us, we prepared the notes, the drug charts, and I lay the coffee and tea trays that day. The selection of biscuits was of a particularly high standard, as one of the secretaries had donated a selection box at the weekend, to help the workers through the task of upgrading the décor in the ward on Saturday. It seemed that two or three helpers had the same idea, and as a result the ward was awash with biscuits and chocolate. What unhealthy fare for a hospital ward.
Dr Sharman and his entourage of trainees, followed at a distance by Dr Siddiqui, entered the ward at full volume.
All anyone could hear was ‘guffaw guffaw, phwa phwa phwa … and they all loved it of course …’
There was The Charming One at the head of the procession, expounding his own magnificence, carrying a pile of newspapers. He took these with him through to the large meeting room where the ward round was due to be held, and handed them to Charlotte, with instructions to distribute them to the relatives of the patients who were to be attending the ward round that day.
‘What about the patients?’ she asked innocently.
‘If you must,’ came the reply.
As Charlotte brought the newspapers out of the meeting room, I entered with the first tray of refreshments, and I depressed the plunger in the cafetière, shakily pouring Dr Sharman one of his many cups of coffee
that morning. He didn’t even acknowledge my existence, which was fortunate for him, because I might have been tempted to fast-track my imminent dismissal, by giving him the benefit of my sleep deprived foul temper that morning.
He was busy soaking up admiration from his fawning juniors, as he read out pertinent paragraphs from the article that had appeared, as expected, in the Daily Albion.
When I walked back into the ward office, I had a brief look through the article with the accompanying photographs. The photos were underwhelming in their simplicity, and only four appeared with the article. A splendid tableau of Dr Giles Sharman giving his speech to the delegates gathered at the national conference, a decent photo of the outside of the unit, where the plastic plants in plastic planters looked strangely realistic, and there was also a simple shot of the main ward corridor with a couple of out of focus patients at the end, colourful artwork on the walls. Finally there was the shot of the plaque on Dr Giles Sharman’s office door, with the attendant string of letters after his name.
The article outlined the contents of his keynote speech at the National Psychopharmacology Conference. Nothing out of the ordinary, but enough exaggerated accolades to make Dr Sharman’s head so big he might have struggled to keep it upright without a neck brace.
I then read the article in more detail, and nearly reached for the phone there and then. If only I had known who to complain to, or which law had been broken, I would have done. The article outlined that ‘Dr Giles Sharman advocates the use of more modern and less harmful antipsychotics in the management of severe mental illness, such as for schizophrenia.’
This was a work of fiction!
Dr Sharman had been reported as saying that his clinical practice ‘was an example for all,’ and that he was ‘mindful every day of the impact treatment decisions had on individuals and families.’ The end of the article insinuated that because of his outstanding reputation, the Hollberry Psychiatric Unit was to become a Centre of Excellence for Psychiatry.
Utter twaddle! Bollocks. What dreadful lies! How could he get away with saying these things, and yet doing the opposite?
I was stabbing the desk with my biro. As I was enjoying doing so, the ward doors swung wildly open when Sue the CPN, preceded by an irate-looking woman, marched onto the ward and headed smartly towards the ward office. Sue managed to speak first. She apologised for the direct approach, and introduced the lady with her as ‘Rodney Wells’ sister.’ Rodney’s sister then launched her attack.
‘My brother is in A&E, and I want to see that man. Now! I know he’s here, and I demand an explanation for the lies he told to the newspapers.’ She had a copy of the Daily Albion in her hand, rolled up, and being used as a tool of intimidation as she waved it in my face. I needed time to absorb the information being fired at me, so I answered softly, keeping a cool head.
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name. I’m Monica, one of the staff nurses, and I think you said that Rodney is in A&E.’
‘Nicola. I’m Nicola,’ she replied sitting down in the chair I had offered her. I shut the office door in order that we would not be disturbed, while Sue helped to fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle for me. Rodney had taken an overdose and been found by his sister first thing that morning. He had left a suicide note, which not only implicated, but also named Dr Sharman in Rodney’s decision to take his own life. It was Nicola’s view that Rodney had become hopeless, despairing that his life could ever improve. In short, she believed that the effects of the injection that he had been forced to take in order to secure his discharge the previous week, had contributed to his suicide attempt. He was now in intensive care.
I asked Nicola and Sue to wait in the area outside the kitchen, where there were a couple of new chairs strategically placed. I made an urgent call to the unit manager.
After minutes of heated negotiation, I persuaded Gordon Bygraves to see Nicola in his downstairs office and to take her through the formal complaint procedures. Sue accompanied Rodney’s sister, taking a letter she had written in response to Dr Sharman’s ‘unprofessional behaviour’ the previous week, when he unceremoniously sent her out of the ward round. She was still fuming about that.
I interrupted the ward round, between patients, to confidently inform Dr Sharman that Rodney Wells was in intensive care, and I gave him fair warning that Rodney’s irate sister was in the unit making a formal complaint. I relished this opportunity to take a shot at Charming.
His response was curt. ‘Thank you. Duly noted, Nurse Morris. Now could I have a fresh pot of coffee, and take my cup and wash it as well.’
What an arrogant unfeeling bastard. ‘Please?’ I reminded him, without thinking. He glared at me as I left the room. As sorely tempted as I was to smash his cup and sodding saucer against the nearest wall: I didn’t.
A few moments after I had retreated from the meeting room, there were raised voices. Firstly the new patient, Wayne, who had been admitted for alcohol detox, came stomping out, announcing that he was leaving us.
‘Yeah well, fuck you too, you dick!’ He slammed the door before racing away to collect his personal belongings. Then quite unexpectedly Dr Siddiqui came storming out. I had never seen him storm before, and was reasonably astounded at the sight. I checked with Charlotte, who appeared in the doorway of the large meeting room, that our newest arrival was permitted to leave earlier than planned. She nodded vehemently, and confirmed that he could leave unhindered by a discharge care plan or by any medication. She then sighed and returned to the court of Dr Sharman.
Dr Siddiqui marched towards me obviously in a furious mood, and he was a most peculiar colour. He had found me in the kitchen, swilling coffee grounds from the cafetière, and I offered him a glass of cold water, which I then fetched in a plastic cup, from the corridor water dispenser. As I did so, I said a cheery goodbye to our detox man who passed me by, leaving the ward without further ado.
Once he had regained his composure in the confines of the ward kitchen, Dr Siddiqui thanked me for the water, and confessed that he had finally snapped in the face of, ‘endless hypocrisy and insult.’ He was still shaking with rage, which made two of us.
It was Dr Siddiqui who then updated me with the events that had led to a double storm-out from ward round. Dr Sharman had taken one look at the notes for Wayne Parker, who was now marching out of the ward doors with his worldly possessions in a carrier bag, and discharged him. He had informed the gentleman that if he wanted to stop drinking then he should ‘get on with it’, and not take up valuable bed space in hospital.
Job done.
Neither concern about alcohol withdrawal symptoms, nor appreciation for the efforts to secure funding for a placement in North Wales, nothing. Dr Siddiqui had snapped, raged and departed from the ward round in the same manner as the man before him had done.
‘I couldn’t listen to any more. He makes me feel sick.’
Thanking him for his honesty, I took advantage of Dr Siddiqui’s appearance, to access sedation for Tania, the young lady who had self-harmed on Saturday night. She was incredibly agitated that morning, having struggled with the indignity of being watched as she went to the toilet, washed, and dressed. It has to be said, she was also difficult to negotiate with. Being a ward round day, we were so short staffed that the path of least resistance lay with Lorazepam or Diazepam.
Dr Siddiqui gladly joined me at the drugs trolley in the medication room to prescribe and dispense a tablet for Tania. As I was taking this to her, Dr Siddiqui announced that he had left his posh Parker pen in the clinic room, so I handed over the keys for him to retrieve this, while I continued on my way to find Tania. She didn’t protest at the offer of the sedative, making me cross that I had caved in so easily to this course of action, which was usually a last resort. Somewhat mean-spiritedly, I assumed that this had been her aim in the first place. Wonderful stuff, Lorazepam.
I shook myself out of this distraction, as I suddenly realised that I had not yet returned to the ward round with the fresh coff
ee and his lordship’s clean cup and saucer. I raced back to the kitchen where I found Dr Siddiqui sipping his water, and he handed me back the hefty bunch of ward keys. The nurses in charge of the ward usually wore a hole in their pockets from carrying the large selection of keys around on each shift. We rarely let them out of our sight unless to another nurse.
‘I hope you locked up properly.’
‘I think I did.’
‘Are you sure, absolutely sure?’
I shouldn’t have doubted Dr Siddiqui. Of course he was capable of locking the door behind him, but it was certainty I needed to have in my mind, and for this reason, I dashed back to check. Vance, our magical mellow healthcare assistant confirmed this for me. He was ever watchful, and had seen all the clinic room movements from his vantage point.
‘No worries, Monica. The man locked up again.’
I felt foolish when I returned to the kitchen. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to doubt you. Force of habit.’
I gave the coffee a brief swirl, pushed the plunger half an inch, and then took the pot, cup, and saucer in to Dr Sharman. I didn’t hang around this time. I poured a cup of coffee for The Charming One, and left without even looking at Charlotte to see how she was holding up in the face of the day’s adversities.
Dr Siddiqui had left the ward when I came out. He was nowhere to be seen. I wondered briefly whether he had gone to pack his bags, pre-empting the need for any more shouting.
There had been no eruption so far to the news of Mark El Amin’s disappearance, although I had been on tenterhooks for the whole morning. Lulled into a false sense of security, I thought that the day’s dramas had finished, but as the clock indicated that lunchtime would soon require organising, there were more shouts from the large meeting room, and Charlotte burst through the door.
Here it comes, I thought, bracing myself for the slow walk to face the inquisition.
