Windows of Madness (Final Part)

Kate
2007

When I did wake up, I was still disorientated, and the room hung around me like a pointillist painting, with dots of colour forming half-familiar images on a dazzling white canvass, forcing my eyes firmly closed again.
“Dad”
The word brought the room vaguely into focus, and now I could make out three people looking down on me, in my white sheets in a white room with white light.
I was back.
Almost.

For a while I felt bewildered and numb, with my memory mercifully dim, selective and distant. I was drained rather than refreshed, and my mind seemed to stall whenever it met the past, and the problems preserved there. Drugs had obviously put out the fireworks, but when I tried to refocus my mind, uncover the causes of my collapse and get things back in perspective, I struggled. It was difficult enough for the therapist to help me revisit past events, but it was impossible for him to change the world which had created those events, and would create them again – if it got the chance. Therapy could only help me ‘adjust’ to things I thought were wrong. In a sense, it could only help me fail.
My ‘aberration’ had certainly superimposed a liberating fantasy on the world, but the reality itself stood unchanged, leaving me balanced between the anaesthesia of collapse, and the alienation of recovery. I sat in limbo, sensing society waiting outside the ward, and fearing its incursion. I hid within the hospital, far away from my hometown and the embarrassments contained there, waiting for the past to heal and the future to happen. The unit, of course, remained gloriously untouched by my pyrotechnic delusions; its armour-plated system destined to kill the patients with disabling kindness, long after my nightmare was over.
So, time passed in the nondescript day room while people with parallel scars on their arms dived for broken crockery, others returned from the E.C.T. suite with glazed looks and cups of tea, and new admissions combined their paranoid delusions and hypo-manic flights of ideas into a bedlam of noise and threat. Staff chased fleeing patients, and sometimes patients chased fleeing staff, while opportunist anorexics made for the nearest toilet to regurgitate pellets of food under cover of mayhem. Snooker balls went through windows, and a 1950’s drug trolley squeaked around the ward four times a day, dispensing manna from neuroleptic heaven. Hours of boredom were punctuated with flashes of bloody violence, and intra-muscular injections peppered supine buttocks with daily regularity. Then I began to receive my first visits.
“Good morning, Dr. J-----” said a voice at my elbow.
“Morning” I replied, wondering who the pin-striped stranger might be.
“I’m Dennis G------. I represent Legal, Accident and Slow Recovery Ltd., a firm specialising in employer’s liability.
“Really?”
“Yes. Forgive the intrusion, but I think you may be entitled to substantial compensation for the stress which led to your recent…hem…difficulties, and I would like to offer our firm’s services.”
“So, you’re an ambulance chaser?”
“That’s not a term we would use ourselves Mr. J-----. We see our job more as defending the rights of the little man against large, negligent organisations.”
“Very noble” I commented “but I’m afraid it goes against my principles to suck money out of a system which is already riddled with users and charlatans, so I’ll have to pass on it.”
“Surely your family…..”
“No, sorry, please don’t wheel out your manual on persuasion techniques. I’m certain.”
“Well, if you’re absolutely sure you’re certain, I’d better call back another day” he said “Perhaps when your wife, or doctor, is present?”
“Look, the fact that I don’t want to pursue the easy money of litigation doesn’t make me mad. Maybe I don’t want the stress, or need the greed. Maybe I just don’t want any part of a society which is turning into an anarchic shambles.“
“Of course. Very well” he said, in a manner and tone usually reserved for unreasonable children. ‘Bye for now Dr. J----.”
“Goodbye indeed.”
I watched his blue and white chalk striped suit disappear down the corridor, and wondered if ‘tosser’ ran all the way through his body, like ‘Brighton’ in Brighton rock. I also wondered where he’d got his information from, and why people seemed so determined to destroy their social organisations with individual avarice. It was like bees eating their own hive. A few days later, a ‘Legal, Accident and Slow Recovery Ltd.’ standard letter arrived:

Dear Dr. J----,
Further to the interest you have shown in pursuing a compensation claim against your employers, we would be very pleased to act for you in the matter, and look forward to receiving your advices in due course. We hope you don’t recover too quickly from your injuries, and assure you of our best attentions at all times.
Sincerely,
D. G -----.

During the next ten days I received a battery of extremely persistent letters, leaflets and telephone calls from Mr. G----- and his cronies, but on the eleventh day they suddenly dried up. I was soon to discover why.
A letter arrived from the Trust.

Dear Steven,
We have now completed our investigation of the circumstances leading up to your current period of sick leave.
All relevant Trust policies and procedures have been consistently applied on the unit and we feel confident that the working environment has been enhanced by ‘Investors in Workers’ initiatives and ‘Improving Peoples’ Lives’ protocols over the last 5 years. A detailed risk assessment undertaken by the Trust Audit Department has shown that activities on the unit average only 6.5 on the ‘Watch yourself’ scale, and we have therefore concluded that the working environment has only an incidental connection with your current problems. I should also mention that 87% of Trust employees who recently returned their questionnaires agreed that working conditions in the Trust were “fabulous”.
We note that you have decided not to pursue a compensation claim, and take this as an acknowledgement of our blameless position. We are of course quite happy to approve an extended period of sick leave, in the hope that you may one day return to your work fully fit. The Occupational Health Department have things well in hand, and your next appointment will be notified sometime in 2009 or 2010.
May I take the opportunity to enclose a complementary ashtray with the Trust’s new ‘4 Star Care’ crest, and a copy of the Human Resources publications ‘Becoming a Long Term Patient’ and ‘Self-Therapy’.
I should mention, however, that we have recently received information which suggests that you may have more to add to your statement about the unfortunate incident involving resident Cecilia S---- last month. We would like to interview you about the matter as soon as possible, but recognise that this may have to wait until you are more fully recovered. We will be in liaison with your consultant Dr. P-----.
Best Wishes
R. S-----
Unit Manager

My eyebrows had long since merged with my hairline, but I sat back in my smelly leatherette chair and laughed grimly at my own astonishment. The gritty cogs of the machine were obviously closing doors against me, and I knew that before long I would be surrounded in pearl, like any other irritant in the oyster’s mouth. The organisation was a vast homeostatic mechanism which neutralised every challenge and equalised every disturbance, perpetuating and reproducing its myths and stupidities like an unstoppable juggernaut.
But the last paragraph sent a chill up my back, as I tried to revisit my last evening on the unit, and make sense of the dislocated images, mist-filled gaps and painful intuitions which might somehow explain this forthcoming ‘interview’. What did it mean?

“Hello, there.”
I swivelled 90 degrees and observed the svelte figure of Carol weaving through the coffee tables towards me. She had clearly spent the morning in the bathroom as usual, with freshly tinted hair, sparkling teeth and the intermingling aromas of shampoo, anti-perspirant and patchouli oil intoxicating all in her wake. But as momentary eye contact was lost, my visceral admiration wavered, and I detected that her bonhomie was far too extravagant for the circumstances. She always performed for new audiences like Betty Grable at a big break audition, effortlessly switching her binary personality from 0 to 1 for maximum effect, but this time something was different. As she sat in front of me ignoring everything I said and beaming sideways at perfect strangers, I noticed an extra special esprit in her manner which I hadn’t seen for many years. After 15 minutes of unreal politeness, awkward vacillation and routine fencing, I looked at the right ear which was turned towards me, and enquired:
“Where are the kids today?”
“Sorry?” she said, pulling her attention away from the pink-shirted charge nurse at the end of the room.
“Where are the kids today” I repeated.
“Oh, one of my friends from work has taken them to see Star Wars XXIV at the Ritz.”
“I see. Is it Andrea?”
“Sorry?” she said, abandoning her non-verbal rapport with a tweedy young doctor in the doorway.
“Has Andrea taken them to the cinema?”
“Oh no. It’s one of the others – nobody you know.”
“It would have been nice to see the kids.”
(Silence).
“It would have been nice to see the kids!” I insisted.
“For goodness sake, there’s no need to shout!” she shouted. “I just thought it would be better if they enjoyed themselves for once. It’s no fun for them in here.”
“I didn’t choose to be in here.”
“Didn’t you?” she sneered. “ Quite a few of your work-mates seem to have been in and out of places like this, just so they could cop out. Why not you?”
“For God’s sake, I had a genuine breakdown! It was because I was having to cope with all that low grade corruption and filth and endless stupidity that I couldn’t take any more.”
“Well, in the end it doesn’t make any difference whether it’s genuine or not. You’re still here.”
“It doesn’t make any difference?”
“No not really. “
“But I was fighting for something that was right and fair. Something less wasteful and less rotten…..”
“If the world’s as mad as you say it is” she interrupted “the only sane thing to do is to adapt to it, otherwise you’ll be driven mad yourself.”
(Silence).
“You’ve always been anti-social Steven. That’s your big problem.”
“Well……. if society means a collection of performing narcissists, mindless bureaucrats, animalistic thugs and shameless freeloaders dancing together over the cliff – yes, I’m very much against it.”
(silence).
“Anyway” she said “I’ve got to meet Bil ….er…my friend at 4 0’clock to pick up the kids.”
“Bill who?” I enquired.
“Look, I can’t explain now” she said “I’ll write soon, but I’m going away for a few days break.”
“Whereabouts?”
“I’ll write soon.”
“Take care then” I said, no longer wanting to hear the truth. “And have a nice time.”
For a few moments she looked shaken and contrite, her eyes shining like mine, shared memories holding us in our seats, but then she was gone. And gone for good (or bad), I could no longer tell the difference. Only the perfume, and the image of her catwalk back remained.
“You’re going through a tough time Steven” somebody commented.
“It could be better” I agreed, not really in the mood for talking.
My interlocutor was Stan, a man of about my age who had been admitted to the ward three weeks ago with an acute relapse of psychosis. He was stable again now, and I had been impressed with his articulate understanding of mental illness, society and the ward. He seemed curiously at peace, even though his family rarely visited and his early promise at university had been annihilated by schizophrenia and lengthy periods of hospitalisation. His ‘romantic life’ had disappeared at roughly the same time as his success, and no doubt this had made him sensitive to my current plight.
“I’m afraid they don’t really understand places like this” he said. “It’s embarrassing and frightening to them.”
“I suppose you can’t blame them for wanting to be somewhere else” I said.
“Yeah. Love and morals only take people so far. Then it’s ‘what about the children’, and ‘I deserve a life too’. “
“You don’t think she’ll be back then?”
“Who can say? I’m only glad I don’t rely on things like that any more.”
“So what will you be doing when you leave?”
“I’ll go back to the village.”
“Where’s that?”
“C------- Village. It’s one of the religious communities up on the H------ hills.”
“Oh, one of the therapeutic communities?”
“I suppose you could call it that, but it’s really a way of life rather than therapy. About half the people who live there have never had a mental disorder, they just like the idea of working as part of a large family. It’s back to basics, of course, and ‘close to nature’ in a way which sounds cheesy, but really isn’t. You ought to come out and see for yourself.”
The tea trolley trundled around the day room, interrupting our conversation, and my mind began to tick. I was in the mood for radical changes, as people always are when a crisis breaks the mould of routine and complacency. Could C------ Village provide a solution for me? I knew that these places sometimes took whole families, and my imagination began to soar in a wildly evangelical direction. Could I persuade Carol…..?
The next day I woke up with the larks (two patients were making love in the bathroom, and another was absconding down the alarmed fire escape), and after an early breakfast I set to work writing the most important letter of my life.

Dear Carol,
I don’t want to revisit the problems we’ve had over the last few years, and I certainly don’t want to apportion blame. I remember the good times as well as the bad, and underneath it all, I still love you.
There may be a way out of these problems, and I want you to think carefully about what I’m going to say, for all our sakes. One of the people here has told me about a place not too far away, where families can live and work together in a farming type of community. He says it brings people closer together and restores their sense of value.
Please tell me that you would like to hear more about it. It could make all the difference to our lives. It could be what we really need.
Tell the children I’m thinking about them.
Love
Steve

Putting this in the post, I picked up my incoming mail, dodged the tweedy doctor who seemed to be stuck in the doorway, and returned to my room. I went through the usual invitations that mentally ill people receive from credit card companies, and at the bottom of the pile I found a letter from Carol which must have been have been posted the previous day.

Dear Steve,
Sorry I’ve got to break the news to you this way, but I didn’t have the heart to tell you yesterday. Things have been very difficult between us for years now, and your illness was the last straw. I can’t go on like this and I would like us to spend some time apart. We’ve talked about divorce before, and when you’re better I think we ought to go through with it. I won’t even ask why you were in that girl’s flat that night.
I’ve met a man (Bill) who really cares for me, and who has shown me the things I’ve been missing. He’s been very kind bringing around toys and sweets for the kids while you’ve been away, and they both seem to like him. He’s so honest and open, I just can’t throw the chance away.
You may think I’m being insensitive doing this while you’re in hospital, but Bill says a clean break will probably do you the world of good. He’s so thoughtful, he even asked me if it would be okay for him to send you a ‘get well’ card - you can see why I want him to move in with me. Please say you understand.
Love
Carol
P.S. Don’t worry about the garden. Bill has brought over his new cylinder mower which cuts the lawn in stripes.

I resisted the gut reaction to rip the letter into shreds or burn it in my crested ashtray, knowing that this would then prevent me from subjecting it to endless dissection and reinterpretation. I was aware from previous experience that short term anger would probably give way to longer term wishful thinking, and that until further information arrived I would paw over every piece of existing evidence with a detective’s eye. Did the letter really mean what it looked like at first sight? Was there any hope between the lines? Did the description of my competitor reveal any weaknesses? The self-flagellation could go on for weeks and months, right down to the bone.
I felt trashed.
Certainly, this wasn’t the best preparation for my weekly meeting with the multidisciplinary team, and when the time came to walk down to the meeting room, I felt more like hitching a horizontal ride in a hearse. But I must have looked better than I felt because the first thing the consultant said was:
“Well Steven, the medication seems to have suited you. The nurses say you haven’t reported any ‘unusual’ sights and sounds for over two weeks. No voices in your head, no radio broadcasts meant just for you, and no feelings that the world was against you. You must be feeling a lot better?”
“Well, I’ve given up the fight against vastly superior odds, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yes, that sounds pretty rational to me.”
“How long do you think it will be before I’m fit for work?”
“Er…well looking at your occupation, it could be quite a while yet, but I’m certainly pleased with your progress.”
“So, what happens now?”
“Well the next step is to reduce your medication towards a maintenance dose. Then the nursing staff will arrange some home leave for you, to see how you get on outside the ward. I’m sure your family are looking forward to having you back.”
“Absolutely” I stupidly said.
“Excellent.”
” Have you heard of C------- Village?” I hedged.
“Christ! You don’t want to go there do you?” he laughed. “It’s all mumbo jumbo and ‘let’s worship the divine leader’.”
“No different to here then.” I remarked.
“Very good, Steven” the consultant chuckled. “Now. Are you absolutely sure we’ve dealt with all the issues that were troubling you.”
“I think so” came my unconvincing reply.
The consultant had a backlog of ill and ‘ill’ people waiting to be admitted, so in the following days he chose to overlook my increasingly sardonic remarks and my growing interest in religious communities, keeping instead to the agreed discharge care plan. I had received nothing further from Carol, but a preliminary letter had arrived from her solicitor advising me that divorce proceedings were about to begin and that I might want to appoint a ‘legal advisor’ of my own. The day of my home leave was getting nearer, and I was finding it difficult to explain my wife’s ongoing ‘incommunicado’ status to the nurses. Sleep was difficult, and the headaches were returning.
The following day, I sat slumped in ‘my’ chair in the day room, thoughts neutralising one another, clouds gathering, nerves jangling and…..

“Hello, Steve.”
It was Kate, and my heart jumped into my loins.
“Hi, there” I murmured. “Fancy seeing you in a place like this.”
“Well, I told you I was starting the training. I’ve got my first placement on the elderly ward, downstairs.
“Oh…. Still, it was nice of you to look in.”
“Well, I saw your wife at the theatre and she…. she explained that things weren’t exactly…”
“Brilliant?”
“Er…yes.”
“Was she alone at the theatre, by the way?”
“Well…no.”
“So you probably wondered if she’d traded me in for a new model?”
“Well yes, but she explained how she was getting a bit depressed about it all. Apparently, she was trying to cheer herself up on a works outing, but only one other person turned up…… He was a cocky bloke with a very long nose. I didn’t like him much”
“Yeah, I get the picture.”
“I feel really sorry for you Steve. You look dreadful.”
“Well….. never mind about me. What have you been up to?”
“Oh, apart from really enjoying the training I’ve……er…..I’ve got myself engaged.”
(silence)
“Say something Steve.”
“Congratulations, Kate.”
“There’s something else Steve.”
“What, even more wonderful news?”
“Yes…..I …..I don’t really know how to say this. You may have heard about it already. But the night you had your breakdown….you were saying all sorts of horrible things in your sleep. It sounded like you were really angry and you wanted to kill somebody. Then you talked about Cecilia, and how you’d “fixed” her once and for all…..It was awful Steve…..I had to tell somebody.”
“Ah….I wondered what Richard meant in his letter.”
“So you know about it?”
“I can’t remember a thing about that day Kate, apart from seeing you. But Richard wrote to say I was going to be interviewed about Cecilia when I’m better. Now I know why”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re certainly an idealist, Kate. The book comes before everything else doesn’t it?. ”
(silence)
We prolonged the meeting for another ten or fifteen minutes, exchanging platitudes and slightly uncomfortable looks, before she bid me an unlikely farewell. I looked at her departing hour-glass figure like the man with X-ray eyes, imagining myself taking chances rather than leaving them, seeing my tongue flicking down her spine to the coccyx, feeling the nylon over her knees, drowning gladly in the flesh and blood.
“Hello, Lawrence” she said to the tweedy young doctor wedged in the doorway.
“Hi” he said, waving his hand (although it was still in his pocket), then strutting away, his impression left on the woodwork, his plans in the toilet.
Gazing through the grimy, cracked window which overlooked the car park, I saw Kate and Brad Pitt getting into a nice red and white Mini Cooper (with pepper pack, no doubt). At least she had the grace to look a bit sad.
But only a bit.

The next day, one of the nurses told me I had some more visitors, and I craned my neck with anticipation as the clattering footsteps echoed down the corridor. The hammer came down and my emotions hit the bell, but on seeing three familiar faces from the unit turn the corner, those same emotions crashed to ground with a sickening thud (and kept on going).
“Christ” I said involuntarily.
“Well, that’s a nice greeting” said one of the nursing assistants, cheerfully.
“What brings you here?” I asked knowingly.
“Oh, we felt like a long run out in the car, and this was a good excuse” he answered with disarming honesty.
“We had a dump on the way here” said Sidney.
“Pardon?” I said.
“We had a bump in the car, but no damage done.”
“Oh, good.”
”How are you, Steven?”
“Well, I’m due to go on home leave soon, but my wife’s decided to divorce me so it’s looking a bit awkward.”
“Bloody Hell Steve” he chuckled. “Never mind though, there’s always a bed for you at the unit.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“I thought he looked as shite as a sheet” said Sidney.
“Still, you’re a dark horse really Steve. I never thought you’d screw the system like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“A nice few months on the sick, most of it recuperating in the pub.”
“But this is real sickness.”
“Ha! Ha! That’ll be the day. God, you’re a droll bugger. How do you keep a straight face?”
“Change the subject will you?” I said, feeling a strange anxiety creeping up on me.
“Oh, well, things are pretty much the same at the unit, with plenty of new initiatives, zero movement, lots of sickness and….”
“Are you still doing the charity walks?” I said, noticing for the first time that all the staff were wearing Telly Tubby costumes, beautifully co-ordinated with Pearly King top hats and antique red noses, dating back to the early din period of charity mindlessness.
“Oh, no Steve. Charity walking is so yesterday. We’re into charity hawking now.”
“Hawking?”
“Yes. It’s dead simple. We all dress up and stand around spitting at each other’s boots for an hour while people queue up to watch. It’s an absolute riot of 21st century fun.”
“Ha ha ha ha” we chuckled.
“Well, as long as you’re having fun, that’s the main thing” I said. “And it’s all for charity, of course.”
“Oh… er…..yes…..naturally.”
“Have you heard about Cecilia, by the way?” interrupted the other assistant.
“No?”
“She died in hospital last week.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, she was in a coma you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“There’s one hell of a stink going on about it. But at least you’re well out of it.”
“Yes” said Sid “There’s a big noise coming down from hindquarters…er….headquarters, to sort it out……”
“I need a cigarette now” cut in a familiar voice.

It was indeed a familiar voice with a familiar question, but for some reason it sent a seismic shock wave running up my back. The tribulations of the last few months seemed to hurtle back into full view, and my numbness vanished. The future opened up nightmarishly around me and a sickly phlegm filled my throat. The air crackled and hissed, and an old enemy returned; refreshed.
“I need a cigarette now! Now! Now! Now” Hettie suddenly howled.
“We’d better be off Steve. See you soon. Sorry it’s all a rush.”
“Wanks very much” said Sidney, pointing at me.
“’Bye Sid.”
“We’re buying a new house you know – I can’t wait to put down a deposit.”
(silence).
“Home is where the fart is….”
(silence).
I wasn’t really aware of the squad departing, and after a while I wandered down to my room and sought the refuge of bed. My head hammered, but sleep seemed to arrive instantly, and I twisted away into a dreamscape of schoolyards, fruit machines, sickly sweet smells, and sadness. I saw my mother’s white face accusing me from the shadows, and the sagging shell of our old house with its cluttered rooms and grates with ashes. I ran through endless streets of rain and sorrow, panting and terrified, until at last a yellow light appeared above a varnished door, and I saw my children looking silently down. I shook the bolts, and circled the house, finding a narrow view inside - where familiar thighs gripped a half-known man, and convulsions merged with spider blackness.
Then all around a pink sea span with hypnotic swirls of crimson, and a bright red sunset appeared before me.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Epilogue
A year later
I woke up without the alarm, and looked through the bedroom window, seeing before me a panorama of green hills, glittering streams, yellow fields and market gardens. The church and community hall were also in sight, and I admired the way their striking, Scandinavian lines still somehow harmonised with the ancient English landscape. I wasn’t the first one up, and our ‘family’ now numbered ten people; six adults and four children. We shared the domestic chores between us, and today it was the turn of myself and two other residents to make the breakfast.
There were many houses like this in the village, and together we ran the farms, workshops and training centres which made up the community. We lived and worked together, took turns with the jobs and talked things through when problems arose. There were some arguments, but not many, because the cows and fields wouldn’t wait for debate, and our lives followed well-established routines rather than ‘progressive’ projects. We received no money, lived quite basically and followed the seasons rather than our ambitions. We lived only on what we made, grew and earned, and we agreed that the community as a whole was just as important as the individuals within it.
To us, a constructive act was worth a thousand words.
I had now revised my views of psychiatry, the unit’s patients, my marriage and me. We had been on collision course from day one, and it was probably pointless to attach blame, theorise causes or crave reforms. The collision was driven by unfathomable chaos, massive seamless shifts in personal, political and organisational affairs, and the rolling storm of existence which ultimately buried the individual alive. For those reasons, I could no longer blame society for being puerile and materialistic, managers for being bureaucratic, patients for being over-dependent, and colleagues for being irresponsible. They in turn could easily blame the conditions and constraints which surrounded them.
It had been a painful process, but my unconscious mind had finally stripped away the layers of repression that had numbed and diverted the pain of earlier years. One by one, the feints and parries of materialism, knowledge, and relationships had fallen away to expose the simple truths of an angry, isolated, struggling life. A life which I could now rebuild on stronger foundations.
So I boiled our eggs, toasted our bread, and gave thanks that the recycling thoughts were now less frequent, and less vivid. I had learned the hard way that life could only be enjoyed by swimming with the tide, and that my foolish attempts to grasp parts of life to myself were always destined to fail; each experience slipping through my fingers like water. Life was naturally dynamic, and at times I had resisted the changes, inviting pressure to grow around me. In a ship riding broadside against the rising swell, I had seen the anchor chain snap, and I’d plunged into the depths.
But helpful hands had pulled me out, and I’d moved away from competition, acquisition, exploitation and anger, towards a safer harbour of community, sharing, equality and acceptance. My new family had supported me, I had listened to my own heart and left my vanities behind. I had regained the human spirit, and become well again.
Carol had been profoundly shocked at my suicide attempt, and good old ‘Bill’ had been relegated to the past as soon as the size of his debts and the target of his ambitions had fully emerged. He had been “very keen” on providing my wife with a third child, but initially failed to mention the vasectomy he had received five years earlier – an oversight which cast many of my own failings into a more amenable light. She had certainly advanced as far down the road of infidelity as my tortured dreams had indicated, but my own chequered past clearly made this forgivable, and for a while the dropped jigsaw was back on the table. She disapproved of C------- Village, however, and her letters were becoming less frequent.
I jerked around to a piercing voice.
“Some health service managers have received pay rises of up to 30%, raising suspicions that money is being taken away from basic care to fund ‘fat cat’ salaries….The number of people saying they’re too stressed to work is rocketing…but many of them are just so bored they want a rest from work. Some Doctors dispense sick notes on demand…The compensation culture has made them very careful… but if malingerers were dismissed, there could be millions available to help the bankrupt N.H.S…… “

I leaned over, switched off the radio, and went out to work. It was late summer and hot, the harvest had started, and my lean brown body ached enjoyably as I greeted the others and we walked down the dusty path, towards the farm. A row of rooks watched us from the bough of an ancient oak tree, and wreathes of wild flowers covered the nearby hills, while behind us trudged the oldest resident in the village, with his incongruous blunt scythe.

Along the way, I opened the solitary letter which had arrived for me that morning, and read:

Dear Steven,
You will be glad to hear that our investigation into the death of Cecilia S---- last year is now complete. Evidence has now come to hand that a fellow resident assaulted Miss S---- immediately before the reported incident, and that this indirectly led to Miss. S---’s fall and subsequent death.
We are sorry for any distress the investigation has caused you at such a difficult time, but the evidence above mentioned has only just come to light following a similar incident on the unit last week. The person responsible has admitted involvement in Miss. S---’s assault too.
All the best for the future,
R. S----

So, a reprieve after all this time.

I carried on walking, adding a merry whistle to my skipping gait, surprising my companions who hadn’t heard me whistle before, and who no doubt wished they would never hear it again. We arrived at the East Field and began the day’s work, gradually feeling the sun climb and fall on our backs, seeing the gold sheaves multiply, and the land gradually return to earth. Then, late in the evening, we turned for home, the old black sheepdog ran ahead, and (being sensitive sorts) we lifted our heads to the shimmering horizon.

Along the bumpy track, heading for the main road, came a little blue car with vintage go-faster stripes and rusty wheel arches. The window wound down and a girl asked one of my friends if this was the right way out. She turned in my direction, and the harps played.

It was Kate.

It was corny.

But it was very nice.

She had come to see me, but couldn’t find anyone who knew the nurse called Steven J----. This was probably because at C-------- we only called each other by our preferred names or nicknames, and I was known usually as…..well…..something else. I was of course no longer a nurse.

The others left us, and we looked at each other with wide eyes.
“I’m sorry, Steve” she said, moving a little closer.
“No Brad Pitt today?”
“Definitely no Brad Pitt.”
The church clock struck six, and we walked towards our new home, in a dream.
Without shadows.

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The Chronicle, 15th January 2006
Hospital Suicide of Local Man

Dr. Steven J------, a local mental health worker, was found dead in the bathroom of C----- Hospital, an inquest heard today. He had been a patient there since suffering a mental breakdown six weeks ago. Dr. J------ was discovered bleeding heavily from cuts to his wrists by a concerned member of staff, and was transferred to The District Hospital where he failed to recover from his injuries.
Consultant Psychiatrist Dr. P------ told the Coroner that Dr. J----- appeared to be recovering from his illness and was expected to go on home leave the following weekend. He did not feel that a recent reduction in medication had any bearing on the matter.
In a letter to the Court, Mrs. C. J----- stated that her husband was a sensitive hardworking man who took his job very seriously. She could think of no reason why he wanted to end his life, although he had recently been caught in a fire at his workplace and was badly traumatised. The Coroner’s verdict was suicide.

James A------
Court Correspondent
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Sidney 2007

“Thunderturds are go!” whooped Sidney, as he switched on his old Betamax, and made himself perfectly at home amongst the jerking puppets.

In fact, he was at home, sat in the middle of his 1970’s dystopia, admiring the composite stone fireplace which had gradually grown around three quarters of the lounge and now boasted eighteen tasteful alcoves for subdued lighting, pot plants, paperback books, and three telephones. Blue ladies in plastic frames rested on oceans of diagonal pine cladding, while a whirligig crimson shag pile carpet completed the scene. He could even remember having two shags on it in 1979.

By 1999 he had the piles to match.

Scott and Virgil had always given him a strange warm feeling deep inside his belly, but today Sidney couldn’t seem to concentrate.

“I gave somebody the push at work a while back” he told his wife.

“Oooh…. I didn’t know you were in management now Sid.”

“I’m not love.”

(silence)

“It was the evening I went back to collect my copy of ‘Roget’s Thesaurus…….’ “

“Llewelyn?”

She only used his hated first name when something serious was about to happen.

“It was an accident really…….but there was a tussle at the top of the stairs……and……...”

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Thanks for following this story - it followed me for long enough!
Leo

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