by Bill Douglas
How did this character think he was? Better try a different approach. “Where am I?”
“You are in Springwell Mental Hospital.” A man, same as before, with a foreign accent, was speaking through the hole where the light shone from.
“What am I doing in here? I’m not mad.”
“Well the people who brought you in say you are.” A pause, then the voice continued. “They also say you were violent and dangerous, so we gave you knockout medicine and put you in this padded room.”
“This what?”
“It is a padded cell. You are there for your own protection.”
“For my protection! I don’t need protecting. My imprisonment, you mean?”
“Well, that is also true. You were, as I said, violent, and you are also in here for the protection of other people.”
Rubbing his sore eyes, he rose to sitting on the edge of the mattress. This guy could hold the key to his release. “Who are you?”
“I am Dr Singh, psychiatric registrar.” Not Panjit – Indian sub-continent, though.
“Can you let me out of here, please?”
“No, not yet. We must be sure it will be safe to do so.”
“For heaven’s sake!” he yelled, “I can’t even see you.” He sprang up towards the light, which immediately vanished with a click. He hammered at the walls and then slumped onto the floor. He was helpless, beaten.
Click. The shaft of light. “The nurses will bring medicine to help you sleep,” said the doctor.
Click. Semi-darkness again, and silence. He fumbled for the mattress and lay on it.
Click. The shaft of light. Yes, a hatch. A voice barked, “Chisholm, wakey! Time for your medicine.” A very different voice – rough, gravelly. Sounded familiar, but where from? “Be a good boy,” the voice continued. “Any trouble and we’ll do for you.”
That was it. The pig of a sergeant major at Aldershot for his induction to National Service and that delightful square-bashing! He’d dreamed of a reunion with that jumped-up little sadist – in a dark alley.
He heard, “Go.” A door magically swung open and a large man stood in the doorway. From behind this heavy, the sergeant major voice growled, “Chisholm, you bloody stay where you are.”
He did this and braced himself as the heavy, and then another equally big, squeezed into the cell. He sat up on the edge of the mattress, watching the white-coated incomers.
Sarge the Voice now blocked the doorway. “There are three of us nurses, Chisholm, and we’re coming in to give you knockout medicine.”
Nurses! Not like any he’d known.
He raised himself to standing, facing his guests as Sarge the Voice also entered the cell. Getting crowded. They expected trouble. Why shouldn’t he oblige? Dammit, he’d nothing to lose.
“Sit down, Chisholm,” Sarge the Voice commanded. This man was twice the size of the Aldershot beast, though the rasping voice and offensive manner were uncannily similar. Sarge stood in the centre of the trio, blocking the open doorway.
John could feel the adrenalin. Take deep breaths, and wait for them to move.
The two heavies moved in concert to grab his arms. He slipped through between them, charging at Sarge the Voice, who stepped to one side. Freedom. But no. He hit a concrete abdomen and, caught in a headlock, was forced to the floor. Another heavy!
Cursing bodies crashed onto him. A steamroller might hurt less, and he couldn’t move his weighed-down trunk or limbs. His head was being raised, his nose pinched and his mouth forced open. Foul-tasting liquid trickled down his throat. He was gulping. Maybe they were poisoning him. Everything faded.
*
He was back in the cell, on the mattress. His mouth was dry and on fire, with a taste like sewage. He made to sit up. Just moving hurt. His head was packed with splintered wood. But images of the invaders were clear. He’d charged them, and been done over.
Slowly, painfully, he raised himself to sitting and blew out his lips. Breathing in, he caught a sewer pong. He blew and sniffed a few times. Whatever it was stank, though it hadn’t killed him. Maybe better if it had. He was a mouse in a trap.
Nauseous, he managed to crawl to the rubber potty and retched. His guts were being ripped. Only liquid came up, and that stank like a drain.
He lay on the floor, sweaty and shivery, with a thudding like roadworks inside his head. He’d had enough, feeling like dying but not like doing anything about that. Struggling to think, everything was jumbled. Images of Heather and Becky at breakfast, of Natalie floating, of the Head shouting, blurred as he drowsed into the land of nightmares.
7
Saturday 21st April 1956 – in Aversham.
Sam Newman motored at fair speed along puddly country lanes. This morning’s escorting to the loony bin hadn’t been a problem, as the patient came voluntarily. Not like that mad teacher yesterday. Sam used to like action – but maybe he was past it. As well the police were there. Smashing wife the man had. Must call on her some time; check she knew the score about visiting, try to comfort her. Not that he’d be expected to call. His obligatory visits were nearly all pre-admission.
He looked forward to Saturday afternoons. The boss had decreed that Mr Newman show up at the office five-and-a-half days weekly; but from Saturday noon, the building mercifully closed for the weekend. And though on standby 24/7, Sam was rarely troubled on Saturday afternoons. Thus free to indulge his passion for watching football, he had this season got to all Rovers’ home matches. Today was special. Last game in the league, and Rovers, one point behind United, would entertain the enemy. ‘Champions at last’, the Evening News crowed.
He pulled into the driveway just on noon. Something he blessed his employer for – this nice two-bedroom semi. Opening the front door, he met a torrent. “With that hussy again? You’ve no time for me.” His once-lovely wife Ella was going through a bad spell. She’d always been prone to jealous outbursts, and the disseminated sclerosis didn’t help. It was ten years since a neurologist gave the diagnosis, and said the illness must have been there for well over a decade. “We have no cure, and sadly it’s progressive – though you can expect periods of remission,” wasn’t great news.
“What’s her name?” she whispered.
“I’ve been working. And there is no other woman.” True. Right now.
“You’ll be leaving me alone again.” Yes, with a 3pm kick-off, he wouldn’t be back before six; and their beloved child Helen worked at Woollies till then.
He applied himself to his Saturday task – making the scrambled egg on toast. Ella struggled into her wheelchair and manoeuvred to her place at the table.
They ate in silence. When the phone rang, he was glad to escape to the hall. But he didn’t feel so good when he heard the voice.
The secretary to Springwell’s Medical Superintendent was a spry ex-schoolteacher who clearly knew she spoke for the boss.
“Mr Newman, we need your help urgently.”
She’d rung him only twice before, but each time the command (definitely not a request) started like this. He’d been obliged to drop other things and comply pronto. First week on the job, he’d gone with the MOH to meet the loony bin’s Medical Superintendent (a wizened, fiery-looking man who grilled him about his job and why he’d come to work in mental health). The boss, keen on decent relations with Springwell, had made it clear he should jump if the Med Super asked him to.
“Yes, Miss Bewlay,” he growled.
“One of our patients, whom you admitted, is on our Infirmary Ward, critically ill with pneumonia. John Chisholm, 90 Green Drive. We need you to contact his wife, Mrs Heather Chisholm, and bring her to Springwell.” She paused. “Now.”
“Isn’t she on the phone? And doesn’t she have a car?” Must see the match.
“No and no. You should know that, as you took her details when you admitted Mr Chisholm yesterday.”
That stung. But there was still something odd about this. “Don’t you take the ill folk into town?”
A
n impatient sigh? “Yes, but Mr Chisholm is too ill to be moved. Our physician advises that we summon the nearest relative immediately.”
Better get on with it. “Yes, Miss Bewlay. Shall I take her to the ward?”
“No. Report at the main entrance and seat Mrs Chisholm in our Main Hall. They will ring for the charge nurse, who will send someone down to escort her. I suggest you wait in the Main Hall until she needs escorting home.”
Blast. He’d miss the match. “Yes Miss.” He slammed down the receiver and, turning, almost stumbled into Ella. She’d moved in her wheelchair to sit behind him. He cursed aloud, and immediately regretted it. Ella suffered enough without that.
“That was her, wasn’t it?” Ella said, her brow knitted.
He took a deep breath. “No, that was Springwell. I’ve to take a patient’s relative –”
But Ella had rotated her wheelchair and was making for the settee. She struggled onto it and buried her head in a cushion.
“The man’s dying,” he said quietly. He cleared the dirty dishes and washed up. Another Saturday job.
Better go. He checked his pocket for fags. One thing – at least he could light up outside. Ella wouldn’t let him smoke anywhere inside. “Disgusting and filthy,” she’d said on their first day together. After a volcanic row that nearly blew them apart, he’d decided he loved Ella more than the fags. So he, a chronic smoker accustomed to lighting up wherever and whenever, agreed to comply – and managed to stick to this. Nights, he’d often creep out for a drag by the back door.
He saw Ella watching him. Her eyes closed as he approached. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, then picked up coat and briefcase and left.
As he journeyed through nigh-deserted streets, Miss Bewlay’s imperious tones rang in his ears. Talking to him like her slave! He could see her in a classroom, terrifying the poor kids into submission. Give some women power!
Funny thing to ask. Chisholm must be on the way out. Bet you – at Springwell they felt responsible. He’d maybe have been within his rights to refuse this escort job, but he didn’t want the hassle of being snapped at by that witch, then dragged through hot cinders by the boss. And if the patient died… No choice, Sam.
Stopped by traffic lights, he looked in the car mirror and smoothed his hair. Mrs C was a stunner, and being with a beautiful woman always gave him a buzz.
He had married the beauty. But even from their earliest days together, his urges to play the field were irresistible. He felt an urge now – powerfully.
He swung into Green Drive and screeched to a halt outside number 90.
8
Saturday 21st April 1956 – in Aversham, then to Springwell.
Heather awoke to a knocking. Her head throbbed. Where was she?
The door opened. She sat up. Of course – at Elsie’s.
“How are you, m’dear?” Elsie stood cradling Becky.
She yawned. “Alright.” Though she didn’t feel it, after a night spent mainly on tending to her restless child. Even more troublesome were the periods of quiet, when fears and imaginings plagued her over-active mind.
“You had a fair old night of it with the bairn, m’dear.”
“Yes. Sorry for the noise – must have kept you both awake.”
“Och, I’m never much of a sleeper. And Mattie can snore through thunder.”
“Did I sleep through Becky crying?”
“No, m’dear. After we got up at seven, Becky was making wee noises. I peeked round the door and you were asleep, so I took her downstairs. She had one of her jars and baby milk. I sang her to sleep and stayed with her. She’s a grand bairn.”
“Thanks, Elsie.”
As if on cue, Becky started crying. “Might be that she’s hungry, m’dear.”
“I don’t normally feed her again till midday.”
Elsie smiled. “It’s gone half-past twelve, m’dear.”
Goodness! She’d last looked at her watch at six a.m… “Gosh, Elsie.”
“I’m happy to feed the bairn now, m’dear, while you get dressed.”
“But what about the shop?”
“Mattie’ll manage. Now, shall I go and feed the bairn?”
“Please, Elsie.” Heather downed a couple of aspirins. Dressing, she switched into action mode. After something to eat, she’d ask about phoning her parents.
She’d just sat down at the table, when Mattie shouted through the doorway. “You’ve a visitor, lass.”
A face peered round the door. The mental man!
“Sam Newman. I thought you’d be here, Mrs Chisholm. Can I come in for a minute?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Elsie, rising from her seat.
Newman remained standing and told Heather his reason for calling.
“But – John – how ill?” was all she could manage.
Newman repeated what he’d been told. “When you come, you’ll find out more.” He looked away and added, “Must be serious for them to summon you.”
“I’ll have Becky, m’dear. You go and see your man,” urged Elsie.
That settled it. She donned her coat as she followed Newman outside. She wanted to run to the car, but he was exasperatingly slow – seemed to have a limp.
She perched on the front seat beside Newman. The tyres screeched as he rounded the corner. At least he drove fast. She sat back in her seat – and on the journey, through the outskirts of town and along winding roads with high hedgerows and glimpses of fields, could think only about John. She heard Newman speak occasionally, but the words were intrusive. She was replaying memories of happier times with John and feeling the pain of impending loss.
“Up there,” Newman was pointing towards the horizon, “the chimney.” She looked up to glimpse the top of a chimney belching smoke. “All the old asylums have them – I mean of course the mental hospitals.”
She glanced across, and imagined his face had reddened. “Sorry – they used to be called asylums,” he said.
Yes, or loony bins. She peered through the car’s front window, but saw only hedgerows and trees.
“This is it, coming up.” Newman swung the car left and chugged slowly down a tree-lined road.
She now had her first real view of Springwell, still a distance away. The place looked grey and austere. She hadn’t known what to expect, but this made her shiver.
“Grim-looking, eh?” Newman said.
“It looks like a prison. That high wall – and the building, what I can see of it.” On her Social Studies course, she’d visited a prison – a depressing experience, in a scary, drab place.
They stopped, facing iron gates within a high stone archway. Through the gates on the right was a tiny stone cottage. From this a burly uniformed man emerged, and lumbered towards them through a narrow side gate.
“The Lodge,” Newman said. “Their motto is ‘they shall not pass’.” He got something from his pocket. “My warrant card; he damn well always wants to see it.” He thrust the card out of his window towards the unsmiling man.
The gates were opened and Newman drove down a winding road towards the front of what looked like the main building, at the obligatory ten miles per hour. She noted the lawns with beautiful flowerbeds on both sides nearly all the way down. Nice, in contrast to that prison. Maybe the inside wouldn’t be as bad as she feared. They stopped alongside other cars in an area marked ‘staff’.
“Follow me,” said Newman, and started labouring up a flight of stone steps towards a large imposing door. “This is like Fort Knox and we have to be let in.”
At the door he rang a bell, and kept his finger pressed on it. There was a clanking of keys and creaking as the door was unlocked and slowly opened.
9
Saturday 21st April 1956 – in Springwell.
A big man in a white coat stood smiling. “Aye, it’s you disturbing the peace, Sam.” He beckoned them inside and slammed then locked the door.
Newman introduced him as “Jock Mackenzie, one of the good guys,” and explained the purpose
of their visit.
Heather smiled at the man. Must be older than Father, and looked avuncular. What would the bad guys be like, though?
“Och, I’m sorry your husband’s ill,” said the man in a broad Scottish accent. He turned to Newman. “So the boss said she’s to come. The lad must be special.”
Newman grunted. “Has to be for me to miss the big match.”
She didn’t see the significance of this remark – which seemed to go unheeded by Mackenzie – but didn’t feel that mattered. Of course John was special. Couldn’t they get a move on? John could be dying. She followed the men along a well-lit and high-ceilinged hallway – grand, posh-looking – for a few steps to another large solid-looking door. Mackenzie unlocked it, and locked it again after they’d passed through.
They were in a vast space – austere and bare. “Our Main Hall, Mrs Chisholm. Come with me to the office,” said Mackenzie, pointing to a small room in one corner. She followed as he lumbered across and found the key to unlock the door. He gestured toward a desk with an open ledger-type book on it. “I have to make a note in the Visitors’ Book, about the patient you’re visiting and your details.”
This was so slow! She gulped out “John Chisholm” and went to stand beside the desk, waiting while the man sat down and took a fountain pen from his pocket. She watched him write the date in one column, then pause at the next.
“What’s his name again, lass? I have to get it right.”
She repeated John’s name and spelt it for the man as he wrote laboriously in copperplate handwriting. Then, confirming her marital status, she gave her name and address, with spellings, and saw him write ‘Infirmary’ in another column.
Mackenzie pressed the sheet with blotting paper, pocketed the pen and stood up. Thank goodness that was over. Where was the urgency?
“You wait over there with Sam, lassie.” Mackenzie pointed to a row of chairs against a wall. “I’ll ring the ward, and they’ll send a nurse to take you there.”
