by Bill Douglas
Monstrous injustice – an abuse of power to silence and suppress. Like the way officialdom dealt with Da after the accident; though this was probably worse.
Yes, he and his folks had experienced injustice. Hurt that was the downside of being human. It hadn’t felt good – but maybe the anger helped fuel the single-mindedness with which he pursued his studies and his career.
He recalled his awakening in early days at uni, to realms of gross injustice he hadn’t known. A psychology essay on homosexuality alerted him to how the law and policy discriminated in a way that must violate human rights. While his strongly heterosexual self couldn’t figure how guys would want sex with each other, it must be wrong that doing so could earn them a generous break in prison. And mark them as candidates for psychiatric shock treatment!
And talking for the first time with non-white guys gave him insights into the prejudice, sometimes open abuse, that they encountered. Like the sign ‘No blacks or coloureds’ outside the odd boarding-house, the ‘N-word’ whispered or spoken aloud, stuff through the letter-box, a message on the house wall… While John had read about and admired Gandhi’s non-violent stances against discrimination, he hadn’t been aware of racist practices in the UK.
His course essays had reflected sadness and anger at suffering caused by racism and homophobia. But what he faced here – a deliberate assault intended to reduce him to a vegetable – was as cruel as anything. And in the name of treatment!
Stirrings on the ward. He’d better get up.
He was on red alert for Micky. Vengeance would be a powerful motivator for the ex-Broadmoor man; and the last thing he’d recalled about that incident was hate staring from Micky’s eyes. A scary mad beast!
In a fair fight, he’d beat Micky. But was there such a thing in here? The likelihood was an onslaught that would surprise him. Micky might even recruit his ex-Broadmoor pals to help in the bashing.
There were a lot of patients on this ward, and an army of white-coats. He searched patients’ faces, without seeing Micky’s. Maybe still in a cell?
He did, though, find Paranoid Pat, standing, head bowed, in a corner of the dayroom. “Pat – it’s John,” he said.
Pat didn’t look up, and whispered corner-of-the-mouth, “I know.”
Strange. But on Refractory everything was. “Why’re you whispering?”
“Buggers’ll be watching us.”
Good point. Co-conspirators, surely facing mega torture. “They caught you.”
“Surrendered myself – though they still gave me the K.O. to get me here. No money or fags. And I’ve some business with Nosey.”
A white-coat was heading their direction. Pat slouched away.
*
In the night, John lay wondering. What did ‘some business with Nosey’ mean? A deal with the almighty Charge Nurse Parker? Impossible. Or an assault? No hope there. Pat was a wiry fellow, but even catching Sarge off guard he’d be squashed.
Yet Pat ‘didn’t lie’? Intriguing.
*
In the morning John asked a white-coat about Micky.
“Sent back to Broadmoor.”
So that threat had gone. But in this cauldron, he couldn’t ever relax.
After breakfast a tumultuous brawl drew in the white-coated army. He spied Pat and went over to whisper “What about your business with Nosey, Pat?”
“Nosey’s gonna see the god Monday, get my brain sliced.”
So that was it. The dreaded leucotomy. “I’m on the same hit list, Pat.” Pat glanced across the ward. The fight hadn’t finished. “I’ll kill Nosey.”
“You’ve no chance.”
For the first time, he saw a smile on Pat’s face. “Maybe I have.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve a wee blade. Got it outside, put it up my bum, then hid it in here.”
He didn’t ask where. This was just Pat’s madness!
*
But after the meal that evening, John heard a loud growl – ‘Nosey Parker’, from along the ward – then a wild-animal howl of fury. He turned to watch.
Sarge, red-faced and cursing, had lifted Pat by the lapels. High. Back went the head and the stiff upper torso for a harder-than-usual headbutt. Then the incredible happened. Pat’s hand swept across Sarge’s exposed neck, and the brute dropped to the floor, blood spurting from the wound.
42
Friday 16th November 1956 – in Aversham.
Hunched over his desk, losing the battle to catch up with paperwork, Newman kept yawning. Work had been consuming, and home more demanding of his presence, with both his wife and daughter pretty depressed and relationships in the household increasingly fragile. The days had flown without him asking about Chisholm and visiting. But now he had what he needed to justify calling on Heather.
The phone had wakened him around four a.m. He’d thought the GP was panicking. “A Mrs Black’s rung. Her husband Sid went mad. Got out of bed, stood raving, and then chucked a bible through the bedroom window.”
“So he shattered the glass?”
“No, he opened the window first.”
“Is he violent?”
“No, but his wife’s afraid he might kick off.”
Probably a domestic. “I’ll go later in the morning.”
“No. I need you to go now! I told her you’d be there.”
So he’d gone. As well he had. Entering via an unlocked door, after knocking went unanswered, he heard a scream. The wife? He found her – staring, wide-eyed – in the kitchen doorway.
“Sam Newman, Mental Health. Your doctor asked me to call.” He followed her stare. A night-capped man stood by the back door, breadknife in hand. “Sid Black?”
The man nodded. “The Devil’s in that bible. Tilly don’t believe me. She mustn’t go out the back.”
“Sid, that’s our family bible. I’m going out.” She took a step, and screamed.
Sid had raised the knife, waving it. “I can’t let you, Tilly.”
“Stay back here, Tilly,” Sam cut in. “Sid, how do you know the Devil’s there?”
“The master told me. You welfare mysteria won’t believe it. Go away.”
Deluded – sounded paranoid schizophrenic.
A good hour and a half later, Sid had dropped the knife and, muttering, slumped into a chair.
Newman had summoned the police and followed the van to Springwell. He’d arrived there just as men came in for the early shift. The business of certifying completed, he’d got from Jock Mackenzie the date of next visiting, and the okay to phone Refractory. He wanted news of Chisholm.
Charge Parker responded, “That murdering bastard. No visits – ever!” Then Parker’s tone softened with, “Give my regards to Mrs C.” And the line went dead.
How did Parker know Heather?
The important thing was that he had a valid, pressing reason to call on Heather. He’d go this evening, when the child would be in bed.
He yawned, and lit another fag. He could feel the adrenalin buzz. He’d see the woman he lusted after. The sensuous memory of that hug, where she clung to him, ranked with his all-time highs. She’d been about ready to give herself to him.
Career suicide, an affair could be. But in any case how much longer could he stand this job? Impossible sometimes! The action with patients was okay. The rubbish pay, being forever on call and short on sleep, weren’t exactly plus factors. And support? He was ‘Senior’ to a non-existent team.
Enough daydreaming. Must get on. This paperwork was doing for his head.
Ringing. The internal. He lifted the receiver, and held it away from his ear. Mary. “Boss wants to see you. Now.”
He limped up to the MOH’s office and knocked on the door.
The boss sat at his desk. “Sir, you want to –”
“Yes, sit down. We interview for Carter’s successor next week, on Thursday, six o’clock. If you’re free, be there. We’ve two candidates – Grayson from last time, and Jonathan Little, Springwell’s Assistant Chief Male Nurse. Little
comes with sound qualifications and excellent references. His is a late application, but it is very welcome. He’s obviously outstanding. I met him at Springwell. A nice young man, and highly intelligent.” The MOH stood up.
He hadn’t met Little, but the grapevine around Springwell told him the man was having a breakdown and being given a brilliant reference to try to get rid – to a DAO job somewhere, anywhere. He too rose. He’d say something. “Sir –”
“Newman, I have pressing matters to address.”
What was the point? Chances were he’d be landed with another useless DAO to wet-nurse. He exited the room.
*
Newman knocked softly on the door of number 90. It was seven-thirty – Becky could still be awake. A light went on in the hallway. “Who is it?” he heard.
“Sam,” he whispered through the letterbox.
The door opened. Heather. “Come in, Sam.”
He entered and stood there, briefcase in hand. Expecting a hug. Daft. He followed Heather to the living room and sat down at the table opposite her. Elvis’s ‘Love Me Tender’ was playing. “Nice music.”
“Yes, I play it a lot. Tea?” Those soft brown eyes were appealing, wooing him.
“Thanks.” She rose. That figure!
He looked at the records on the table and started sorting through them. ‘Heartbreak Hotel’, ‘Hound Dog’…
“I’ll try not to burn my finger this time.” She was shouting from the kitchen.
He got up and went to join her. “You’d better not.” He stood in the doorway, admiring her. “How is your finger?”
“It’s healed.”
“Let me see.” He advanced into the kitchen.
She held out a hand. “There.”
He examined her finger, then kissed her hand. She was gazing at him invitingly. Next, she was clinging to him. They stood hugging while the kettle boiled. He kissed her on the lips. Intoxicating, to have her body meshed with his. A familiar stiffening below and full arousal. Heaven.
But she was withdrawing. Her face was flushed. “The kettle.” She wriggled away and switched off the gas. “I’ll get the tea, Sam.”
Damn that kettle. “Right.” He went back to the table and sat down.
She came with the tea, sat down and poured it into the cups. Her aim was amazingly true. She must have regained her cool. She stood up. “Let’s have another Elvis.” She picked one up from the table.
Sam heard the strains of ‘Hound Dog’. “Elvis is King,” he mused aloud. And was ‘ain’t nothing but a hound dog’ a message for him, a man still aroused?
“Why did you call, Sam?”
“I’ve been to Springwell. Next visiting day’s on Saturday 24th, but the Charge Nurse on Refractory, Parker, said John’s still not allowed visitors, I’m afraid.”
She looked glum, upset. He was aching to hug her again. But she rose, went to the sideboard and got out a tissue. “They’re punishing John.”
“Could be. Parker said your husband hated you. ‘Murderous’ was the term he used.”
She was stroking her chin. “I see.”
“Oh, he said he knows you, and to convey his warmest regards.”
“He visited the house once ages ago, to tell me about John.”
She sounded evasive. Had Parker had a hug, or more? “Sorry about John.”
“Thanks Sam, you’ve been very kind.” She stroked her chin again. “Won’t your wife be wondering where you are?”
He forced a smile. “Wife? I’ve no such problem.”
“Really? Well, I’d like to hear more about you, Sam, if you have time. I notice you’re limping.”
An invitation. He’d talk about anything but family. “A war wound. An enemy plane strafed us at Dunkirk, and my leg got in the way of bullets.”
“Gosh, at Dunkirk – you were nearly killed.”
“Yes.” He’d been terrified. A cold sweat was breaking on his forehead.
He felt his hand being squeezed. Heather had stretched her arm across. “Are you okay?” She looked concerned.
“I’m fine. Thanks.” He squeezed her hand back, and she withdrew it. “It’s harder than I thought to talk about Dunkirk.” He managed a smile.
“Your work must be stressful, Sam. Are you ever threatened, or attacked?”
“Threatened? Yes. Attacked? Rarely, though I’d a close call last year. I suddenly found myself helpless in the air over a stairway banister three floors up, held aloft by this giant enraged at the mention of Springwell. Luckily the guy started to howl and weep, and grounded me on the safe side of the banister.” He pulled out a hankie and wiped his brow.
She looked impressed. “Gosh, Sam!”
He glanced at his watch. Nearly nine-thirty. Better go, otherwise he’d meet a barrage from Ella, and probably Helen, who moped around the house these evenings. “I hadn’t realised it was so late. I’m on call. I’ll tell you more another day.”
He rose, picked up the briefcase and went towards the door. He turned in the doorway. She was standing back. Keeping her distance? He’d ask. “A hug?”
She smiled, but didn’t move. “I think one’s enough for this evening, Sam.”
Teasing him? “You’re right, Heather. I’ll call when I get more news of your husband.” He went out onto the pavement.
She was at the door. “Thanks again, Sam.”
He got in the car and revved up. Ella’s suspicions were now spot on.
43
Monday 26th November 1956 – in Springwell.
The god was back. Escorted by two white-coats, John stood watching the shiny pate of the bird-like man bowed over a file and drumming fingers on the desk.
He knew the sentence. There was no Sarge around, only Deputy Jackson. But he’d been told earlier by a harassed-looking Jackson, “The boss has written in your file that you need a leucotomy, and what he says goes with the god.”
The god looked up, beaming while he adjusted his specs. “A pleasure to meet you again, Chisholm.”
“What a charmingly evil snake you are.”
This seemed to go unnoticed. “I see Mr Parker suggested a leucotomy, and I would concur with that.” The god was frowning now, looking down at the file. “Hmm. But meanwhile you will restart ECT, then I shall review.”
Phew – no leucotomy. He could survive ECT. But ‘meanwhile’? Ominous?
The god snapped the file shut and pushed it toward Jackson. “Madness,” he muttered. “Three doses a week from tomorrow for four weeks, then review – unless I get this ludicrous ruling overturned before then.”
“Sir.” Jackson took the file.
“Next patient,” the god commanded.
*
No great prospect, having ECT again. At least John knew the drill. The problem would be his memory. But after the last battering, he’d eventually been able to remember. Maybe his brain hadn’t suffered permanently.
He’d pondered a lot about Heather and Becky. It was hard to imagine how convinced he’d been that Heather was having an affair. She had been ice-cool towards him. But the post-natal depression could have been prolonged.
She did seem pally with the mental man. Maybe by now they’d teamed up.
He could hardly blame her – with a loony husband locked away, probably for life. And he was surely a nightmare to live with, before they took him to this dump.
Two white-coats approached. “We’re off to the circus, Chisholm.” And so began his next set of encounters with the Shocker.
44
Friday 23rd – Sunday 25th November 1956 – to and in Springwell.
The Edinburgh train puffed towards Birmingham New Street and drew to a halt outside. Its driver awaited the signal. Its stout-hearted engine hissed loudly.
Jamie Macdonald opened his eyes. It had been restful to drowse en route. He could feel a buzz. A change of train and a bus journey and he’d be there.
The offer of the job as Springwell’s medical superintendent had come two days after he got home. He’d read the letter
aloud, and Gill rushed to embrace him. He replied to accept, from 1st February 1957. This allowed time for him to wind up at Dingleton, and for recruiting his consultant successor.
Soon after, he’d received a welcome note from Liam Kenney. Kenney’s boss, off sick and past retirement age, was to leave at the end of October. Kenney would act up for three months, and wondered if Dr Macdonald and his wife would care to spend a weekend as guests to familiarise themselves with Springwell.
The only decisions were when, and whether Gill would come. In her fourth month of pregnancy with what would be their first child, and struggling to keep up her GP work, she’d decided to rest at home. He was glad. The pain of three miscarriages over their time together was still pretty acute. ‘When’ was easy – as soon as possible.
The train stopped. Springing out onto the platform, he trotted along. He wanted to see all he could of Springwell.
*
Macdonald reached Springwell late in the evening. His host’s cordial greeting helped him relax. He declined the ‘proverbial nightcap’, and opted for a mug of cocoa.
After the small talk, Macdonald said, “Wonder what the Royal Commission will come up with.”
“Dunno. Reform’s long overdue. You know Jamie, I’ve been ashamed of some things I’ve been party to.” Kenney gulped his drink. “We need more emphasis on trying to help patients, less on protecting the public.”
A surprise. He’d assumed Kenney would defend the system. “I agree. They should report soon. The grapevine tells me they’ll move in that direction.” He sipped his cocoa. “What brought you to psychiatry, Liam?”
“I was a biochemist when my wife died giving birth prematurely. Our baby lived a few hours. Life was hell. I threw myself into work, felt an urge to be a doctor and got interested in psychiatry. I came here as a consultant only three years ago.”
“Quite a new boy then?”
