by Bill Douglas
Ginger sounded more believable than George. Delusions of grandeur? He’d read about these when he’d looked up the book on schizophrenia. Ginger was surely crazy. His stories were so far-fetched.
“Before the war, I toured the capitals of Europe. I won and lost fortunes in the casinos. The women swarmed round, wanted money and a title.” As they plodded along, John would lose track of the tales, which were told in a loud stage whisper. He could almost hear Da’s periodic moan about those ‘high and mighty wastrels, the curse of this country’, and see Ma shaking her head, disagreeing. Ginger would prattle on, as if no audience was needed.
Sometimes Ginger probably did not have an audience. Though the tales were entertaining – reminiscent of 1001 Nights – John tended to switch off into his inner world. Images and fleeting thoughts came and evaporated, like they were stolen. As though part of him wasn’t there – oddly detached from himself and his surroundings. Dream-like, without dreams. Or more aptly, nightmarish.
One day he heard, “Carrot-top.” Niven. An outstanding figure with his flaming mop of hair, Ginger didn’t appear to notice. Certainly the whispered prattle didn’t cease.
“Carrot-top, get your fat arse over here,” bawled Niven.
Ginger ceased talking and swung to waddle towards Niven. John too stepped out of the column, and hung back, avoiding confrontation but ready to act if his friend was set upon.
“Do you know who I am, my man?” Ginger, majestic in facing the aggressor.
“You are a fucking piece of shite. Get your hair cut.” Niven shoved Ginger, making him stumble. “Get back in your line. You too, Chisholm.”
“Stupid man,” Ginger muttered, as they resumed plodding round, then prattled on like nothing had happened. Maybe mad, but a great companion.
On the ward, there was no such incident. In fact, Sarge and his gang seemed to treat Ginger with respect – even had the guy in well-fitting clothes.
*
It blew up suddenly. John had noticed the trusty Mackay, a giant known as ‘Kong’ (after the legendary gorilla King Kong). A man who commanded respect among fellow patients, yet was clearly subservient to Sarge and his gang. A man who’d at first seemed capable only of growling, and soon proved verbally fluent and amiable. A man who ambled, yet moved at speed on his cutlery task. Not a man to provoke.
After tea, the white-coats lined them up in a queue – apparently randomly, in a long single file that began a few feet short of the hatch in the office and stretched as far as their dining area. This was strange. He started, as a voice immediately behind him boomed out, “What’s this for?” Ginger – good question.
“Boss is doing medicines tonight,” Clark said. “Wants it like this.”
Sarge, standing by the office door, surveyed the line, then bawled, “Scum are ready. Open the hatch.”
The procedure started, with Sarge barking out names. Clearly the queue was not a queue. It was a line-up that a patient left on hearing his name – to get medicine at the hatch.
“I say,” observed Ginger loudly, “I’m fed up having to stand around like this!”
For a moment there was silence, then came a low-pitched command, unmistakably from Sarge. “Mackay, sort the bugger.”
John reacted to a yelp behind him, to see Ginger on the ground moaning, and Kong’s foot swinging lightning-fast into the body. There was another yelp, then silence. Kong’s leg swung back – foot poised in the air.
The white-coats were standing by! He charged Kong, knocking the big man back a pace, and started wrestling. That unarmed combat stuff from the army was handy – and his strength was back. He held the giant in a lock, then felt himself grabbed – by white-coats (he saw the sleeves). With both arms pinned, he had to let go. He was driven backwards, then turned. The floor loomed.
“The legs.” Sarge again.
A weight crashed onto his legs. He felt a sharp pain in the bum and then everything faded.
*
John came to in semi-darkness and silence. That smell. The cooler. His body wasn’t right. Not aching all over, but not right. Maybe they’d put something noxious into him. He’d heard of medical experiments with humans, and Sarge didn’t like him. He turned over on the mattress to lie face down. They’d spied on him before and they’d be doing it again.
A grating sound, and a shaft of light appeared. “Chisholm.” An unfamiliar voice, clear yet hesitant. “We’re coming in. Don’t try anything.” Some chance. He raised himself to face the incomers and lay propped by his elbows.
Two white-coats stood over him. “We’ve to give you parahaldehyde,” said the man. Broad Scots – hadn’t heard him before. “Enough to give you the K.O.”
He didn’t know either of these guys. Aliens?
“We’re the night shift.” They’d read his thoughts. Spooky!
He warmed to the smell that meant sleep. “Right, give me the dope.” He opened his mouth to receive the blessed liquid and gulped it all greedily. He was thirsty.
“You’ve to stay in the cooler a while yet.”
His next question answered. His thoughts were being read. He drowsed off.
24
Monday 28th May 1956 – in Springwell.
John struggled to open his eyes. His head was thudding. He was still in the cell. Somebody was shaking him. A white-coat.
“Wakey, Chisholm.” Mullen. “You’re going back on the ward. Now! I’m on duty in a minute.” Glad to oblige, John stumbled out of the cell towards his bed, escorted by Mullen.
“No breakfast today – just a mug of water. And no medicine after.”
Weird. “Why?”
“I’ll explain later,” the retreating nurse yelled.
Mullen wasn’t joking. After he’d been shaved, had his supervised wash, been to the bog and struggled into his wretched clothes, John was escorted to the dayroom to sit out breakfast. The mug held little water. He was being punished.
He sat, replaying last night’s incident. He hadn’t figured Kong for violent, but the guy must be a henchman of Sarge. And Ginger got a kicking – probably into unconsciousness.
Serious! And Ginger was his friend. He sprang from his chair, walked as quickly as his constraining anti-escape apparel would allow, scanned the after-breakfast medicines line-up and looked in the dormitory. No sign. Had they killed Ginger?
Joining the line for the airing court, he looked around again. No Ginger!
“Chisholm.” Neck twisting out from Sarge’s office, Mullen was shouting. “Stay in the dayroom.”
Well, at least Niven and co. wouldn’t get at him in the airing court. He sat down and watched his fellow patients leave the ward. A lone white-coat sentry remained, posted by the door of the dayroom.
Mullen came out of Sarge’s office and shouted, “Bring Chisholm here.”
He shuffled along with his white-coat minder. Sarge was going to bawl him out. Entering the office, he was confronted by Mullen, who sat in Sarge’s chair. He looked around. No Sarge, thank goodness.
“Chisholm, boss said you’ve to start ECT today. The god ordered it for your schizophrenia. That’s why you had no meal – they don’t want you sicking all over.”
“What do you mean, ECT?”
“It’s electro-convulsive therapy. Shock treatment. Most patients have had it. But –” Mullen hesitated, “you’ve to get the all-clear on your physical first, and Doc Singh’s coming to check you out.”
Dodgy. They were going to mess him about with electricity. “But I –”
“Doctor’ll be here any minute,” Mullen cut in. “I’ll start by taking your pulse. Hold out your arm and keep it still.”
John did so and felt Mullen hold his wrist, searching for the pulse. “Patient’s ready – over thirty, say ‘when’.” “When,” came from behind – the other white-coat. Mullen – wary eyes boring through him – kept holding his wrist. This was like some kind of slow dance. Not a partner he’d have chosen. “Thirty,” came from behind.
“Right,” said Mullen,
and let go of the arm. “Thirty-six. Good.”
“A romantic numbers game?” He didn’t expect an answer. This elaborate approach to pulse-taking must reflect their fear that he’d cut loose.
“You’ll be having ECT this morning.” Mullen swung round. “Ah, Dr Singh. The patient’s pulse is seventy-two, normal.”
The turbaned doctor had joined them. “Thank you, Mr Mullen. Good morning, Mr Chisholm. How are you feeling?”
This guy was at least civil. “Doctor, I don’t want any shocking treatment.”
“Ah, the consultant has ordered it to treat your mental condition. But you have been critically ill with the pneumonia. We must establish whether you are physically fit again.” Dr Singh gestured to a chair. “Please sit down and remove your upper clothing so that I can examine you.”
John sat down and stripped to his waist. He felt the cold stethoscope as the doctor tapped his chest in several places, then did likewise to his back.
“Hmm, I detect murmurs.” Turning to Mullen, the doctor said, “Treatment will be delayed for seven days, until next Monday. I will return then to examine the patient.”
Mullen looked disappointed. “The boss, Mr Parker, said the patient’d be fit. He cut up rough last night and they put him in seclusion till I came on this morning. With his pulse being normal, I thought…” Mullen paused, looked unsure.
He cut up rough?
“But there are murmurs. There would be a risk I cannot sanction. You will note this and inform Mr Parker, please. I must go.”
Well done, Doctor. They wouldn’t be putting electricity through him – yet.
When Dr Singh left, Mullen turned to the white-coat. “Take him to court.”
So John trudged round with an ache in his stomach where food should have been. He kept his eyes lowered when he heard Niven taunting. Survive!
After lunch, he asked Clark about Ginger. “He was hurt pretty bad, I heard. I think he’s in Infirmary.”
At least Ginger survived the kicking. Would he live, and come back? Funny. Their backgrounds were worlds apart, and he hardly knew the guy (who sounded mad). And the nobility reeked of unfair privilege. But his close affinity with this likeable and entertaining man was the nearest thing to a friendship in here.
25
Tuesday 29th May – Monday 4th June 1956 – in Springwell.
The next morning Mullen was in charge again. John realised he hadn’t seen or heard Sarge for two days. Whatever the reason, the brute’s absence was a blessing – as Heather would have put it. Heather, his once-darling wife he’d have sacrificed anything for.
The hopelessness was worst at nights, when there weren’t distractions. Thoughts of killing himself usually came then, but were stolen away. Sometimes he could think clearly, but much of the time his mind was blocked. Like an alien force invaded his head and swiped the thoughts and images.
There was little relief from the boredom and inner torment as one wretched day followed another. Occasional arguments and fights were quickly broken up, with men sent to the cooler. These were light diversions; and he didn’t get involved.
The week passed and there was still no Sarge, or Ginger. The ward was less sinister without Sarge. Men were talking more to each other.
George the author came and whispered in his ear one day, “They’ve taken my energy and I can’t write. Mum’s the word.”
He missed Ginger. Just the prattle was something.
Monday 4th June – in Springwell.
Mullen – still in charge – shouted “Chisholm, no breakfast,” and had him sit in the dayroom until the doctor arrived. Electricity day?
Yes. John was summoned to the office, where Dr Singh listened to his chest and pronounced him fit to start ECT. He was escorted from the office by Clark and a fellow white-coat.
“Remember – the bog first,” Mullen yelled after them.
“Sometimes patients wet themselves in the Shocker,” said Clark.
This Shocker must be bad. But they called it treatment. Escorted to the bog, he peed as ordered to. He wouldn’t be wetting himself!
He was taken along corridors into another room. Green-gowned men stood in a huddle. Aliens? There was a noise like buzzing or humming, and a funny smell.
“John Chisholm from Admissions, Doctor,” said Clark.
“Right. Onto the table with him, on his back – head there.” Doctor pointed.
This was the large table in front of him, that the green-gowns were standing round. “I can manage myself,” he protested, shaking off the hands grabbing him. As he clambered up (struggling only with his trousers), he saw it. A machine. Yes, the noise came from there. He lay down on his back.
“Shoes.” A different voice gave instructions now. His shoes were being removed. “Arms and legs.” Each arm was stretched out. A number of hands were jostling him, adjusting him. “In position,” a voice called.
He felt his wrists and ankles being clamped. And they were messing with his forehead – felt cold. A green-gown hovered above, peering into his face. “Open your mouth wide.” He did so and the green-gown stuck something rubbery between his teeth. “Ready for action, Sir,” said the green-gown.
Somebody was putting clamps on his head. Then – phht.
The helter-skelter ride was bumpy, shaking him as he whizzed round. Catapulted into the air, he hung onto a cloud. The angry fairground threatened to re-claim him, but the cloud whisked him away, then crumbled. Falling at speed, he saw dark mountainous waves.
He hadn’t drowned. His mouth was dry and his head throbbed, with a ringing in his ears. Trying to think hurt his head, which surely had the insides sucked out. Sleep beckoned.
“Wakey.” His shoulder was being patted. He made to raise his hand, but it wouldn’t move – like it was tied. No point in struggling. His back ached. He made to turn onto his side, but he couldn’t. He was in chains.
“Chisholm.” The voice sounded familiar and intrusive. He tried again to turn over. Where was he? He opened his right eye to a white ceiling. Someone was tapping his shoulder. “Are you awake?” He opened both eyes. An ugly face stared into him and through him. It looked familiar. He tried to sit up, but some force held him down. The bed was hurting his back.
“You’re attached to a trolley.” They’d read his thoughts. A trolley? “It’s for your safety, in case you fall off.” Off his trolley – that rang a bell. “You’re awake enough – I’ll free you.”
He grunted. Hands were messing with his body.
“I’ll help you down,” said the familiar-looking white-coat.
He was standing, with his head throbbing and vision blurred. His arm was being gripped by the white-coat.
“You can go to your bed for an hour,” the white-coat said. Okay, but where was he? He walked on jellied legs with his companion until a bed confronted him. “Take off your jacket and trousers and get into bed,” said the white-coat.
John did so, and sank his head into the pillow.
Monday 4th June – Monday 2nd July – in Springwell.
John had survived the electrical treatment. But two days later Mullen said another dose awaited. No use protesting that he’d had the electrics. Mullen laughed. “This is only the beginning.”
And indeed, every couple of days or so he was given a dose of the Shocker. He might get onto the shortlist for zombie of the year – moving from breakfast to the airing court, trudging round, to lunch, to the airing court again… The electrical punishment was unremitting. He was forgetting things, especially names.
“Twelve doses in the four weeks,” Mullen said at bedtime one day. “And now you’ve had number twelve. Tomorrow, my son, you see the consultant.”
The ‘my son’, which John initially resented as patronising (though the man was surely old enough to be his father), had come to be reasonably welcome. ‘My son’ signalled Mullen was in a good mood, and more disposed to talk.
“The consultant?” John queried.
“Yes, the consultant psychiatrist – th
e mind doctor we call ‘the god’.”
This was vaguely disturbing. “Why ‘the god’?”
“That should speak for itself.” And Mullen walked away.
*
Next day after breakfast, John was summoned to the office. He stood blinking, figuring out the scene in front of him. A white-coat on either side jerked him up to stand more erect as he eyed the small bird-like figure bowed over the desk. Familiar and sinister. The god?
“John Chisholm, Sir.” Mullen was seated, flanking the god.
“Hmm, he’s had twelve doses.” The god looked round at Mullen. “Has he been a good boy, Mr Mullen?”
“Yes Sir. No further incidents. And we didn’t start treatment until he’d fully recovered from pneumonia.”
The god nodded and turned to stare across the desk. More torture? “The patient looks more settled, less hostile.”
His thought, I could wring your neck, was simply dream-like. The grip tightened on his right elbow.
“Yes, Sir,” came from Mullen.
The god was studying the papers on the desk. With a sweep, he closed the folder and looked up. “Do you still hate your wife?”
His wife? He remained silent, struggling with jumbled thoughts.
“Continue the treatment and review in one month.” The god rose, waving his hand in dismissal.
He stumbled off with his escorts. Amid apathy and jumbled images burned a fire, deep within his being. Punishments would not extinguish this. Nay, they would fuel and strengthen it. Today, survival. Tomorrow, escape.
A Prologue to Part Two – in 1932
Tuesday 20th September 1932 – in middle Scotland
Aunt Jean – his beloved Auntie – was dead. Seventeen-year-old James Braid Macdonald could not then have known how pervasive her influence would be over his life’s path. But for his aunt’s sacrificial love and suffering, he would not enter psychiatry; nor would he, decades later, encounter Springwell Mental Hospital.
