The Book: Chapter 5

They’ve got no idea. Sweet FA. These people are Kafkaesque puppets dangling on strings, and guess who’s holding the wires? Don’t get me wrong, I can be subtle, though it’s not my middle name. The last thing I need is another sanctimonious book burner thinking they’re saving the world. Oops, silly sausage. That’s a no-win situation for them. They always try it, always fail; they’re so unimaginative. The human race disappoints me because they’re so predictable and dull. But a soupçon of subtlety on occasion means I can let rip the rest of the time. Pandemonium is my calling card.

Take last week. It started with an earthquake and didn’t let up. What a show. Carla—who I thought might be a bore—and she’s on the fat side—slapped that mouthy visitor so hard the sound’s still echoing. Her handprint is probably tattooed on the slag’s cheek for all eternity. The arc of her hand, the stunned silence that followed, the low hum of disbelief as people tried to process what they’d seen. It was stunning, not just violence; it was poetry. I’m not claiming credit. No. False modesty be damned. I am claiming it. Let’s say her temper had some help sourcing its fuse. That set tongues wagging.

‘Did you see her? She completely lost it.’

‘She’s done. Finished.’

‘They’re bound to fire her.’

‘I heard she’d been drinking.’

‘Can’t blame her with her man playing away. They say he’s been at it for years.’

Gossip is a beautiful thing. It spreads like fire, consuming everything wholesome. The truth doesn’t matter, only the story. The gossip spreads faster than Debbie’s mood on a bad day—and she’s fast.

The fallout from the night shifts is exquisite. The annexe is wound tighter than a violin string with a twisted tuning peg. It’s such fun. Staff avoid eye contact and patients are crawling out of their skins. Even the walls feel uneasy as if the paint wants to peel itself away in discomfort. I’m loving it.

My favourite shift is back on days. Morning rolls in with the charm and finesse of a hangover. They’re late opening the blinds today and that’s down to me, too. The routine’s gone to cock because the patients are all acting out. Sunlight is filtered through a bucket of dirty dishwater and fights to creep through the cracks in the blinds. The nutters don’t know if it’s day or night and breakfast is late.

The books in here are dead weight. I’ve tried talking to them on the off chance that there’s one like me. They’re as dull as their contents. Try getting cosy with an outdated medical textbook. Oh, look at me, I’m full of life-saving knowledge. Bore off.

The staff are living art. Felix strolls in, the walking embodiment of barely-there. He’s one of those lads who thinks charisma will cover his arse, but charm doesn’t chart when you’re mixing up the drug round. I’m getting ahead of myself, that hasn’t happened yet—it’s all in the planning dear. I’ve got bugger all else to do.  He’s nursing a coffee and it’s the only thing keeping his soul tethered to his body. I’d push the mug out of his hands if I could. He’s one of my disasters waiting to happen. He thinks he’s fooling everybody, but I see the cracks. He hates this place, hates the job, but most of all, he hates himself. Good. His smile is a mask and his jokes have all been told. He’s never home and his wife has just about had enough. I give him six months before he cracks, maybe even six weeks.

Nurse Debbie’s not happy. Somebody parked in her space. They bitch about it for ten minutes before their shift starts. Bore, bore, bore. Debbie’s a human grater: sharp, loud, and causes discomfort just by existing. Her voice cuts through the tension as she says good morning to everyone when they come for staff changeover. She does it in a way that implies she’d happily see them choke on their breakfast. Her uniform hasn’t been ironed. So she worked a double shift and got called in last night, so what? She’s normally morning fresh, but today she makes me feel dirty just looking at her. I’ve seen her disappear into the locker room. She comes out sniffing and it’s not from the smell. And riding the white swan isn’t her only problem. Her late-night online shopping sprees aren’t fooling anyone, not even herself. She’s escalating and the pressure of the job’s getting to her. Look at the state of her. Whatever she’s hooked on, it’s stronger than caffeine, and it’s only a matter of time before her façade crumbles.

Dr Alice is my personal favourite. Her shoulders are hunched, her face tight with the type of exhaustion you can taste in the back of your throat. She had two days off, what’s her problem? She’s got that vibe again: all business on the outside, but underneath, she’s rattled. I see through her armour. Her hands clench when nobody’s watching. Her jaw tightens and she bites the inside of her cheek until it bleeds, the metallic taste of her anxiety says she’s not as invincible as she pretends. She doesn’t sleep and things crawl around her head like a spider she can’t step on. I’d feel bad for her if it wasn’t so entertaining.

Read me, bitch. It’s time to play.

The first drama happens while they’re serving lunch. Perfect. Ann—my sweet, shattered Ann—has decided she’s not taking her medication. She’s barricaded herself in the dayroom, clutching me. She wrestled me off Molly, and now she carries me like I’m the Bible. No need for reverence, sweetheart. I’m better than that fairytale. Her voice rises in a sing-song rhythm as she recites something. Maybe it’s nursery rhymes—or demon-summoning rituals. Who knows? Either way, it’s deranged and music to my ears. It makes my spine tingle. I can see and hear everything through the reinforced window panel in the door. I have a ringside seat. Ann’s my kind of lunatic; half Hathaway, half exorcist.

‘Ann, it’s okay,’ Alice says. Her tone’s like honey over broken glass. ‘Nobody’s going to hurt you.’

Alice. You’re fibbing, my darling. Bless your ethical heart, but you’re lying all the same. Of course, they’re going to hurt her. Today, tomorrow, next week, and next month. That’s how this place works. Restraint and sedation are the price of entry.

Ann’s singing is louder. She’s gone full soprano and her words trip over themselves in manic melody. The staff are ready to force their way in with security. My sheets are practically vibrating with excitement. Come on, someone—make a move.

It’s  Rochelle who steps up. Female security—point to prove to the blokes. It had to be her, and the lads aren’t daft. Let her pile in and face the catfight so they can step over the brawl and tidy up. She’s lost her title of being the hard woman of the ward after Carla’s slap was heard around the world, but she’s got that dangerous duo of confidence and aggression that makes her a liability. She’s rolling up her sleeves. Go on, girl. She looks as though she’s going to clean out a shit-clogged drain with her bare knuckles.

‘Open the door or I’m coming in,’ she says. There’s nothing sweet about her.

No response. Ann’s singing reaches a crescendo of nonsense syllables and ridiculous notes that threaten to break the pentatonic scale and I’m singing along. The tension’s thick and delicious. Popcorn, anyone? I’d hand the bag around if I had one.

In a moment of beautiful theatre, the door bursts open. Ann stands resplendent, her hair a messed-up bush, her eyes wild. She’s holding me like a weapon that she can fire. Her knuckles are white from the grip.

‘You’ll never take me alive,’ she screams.

God, I love this woman.

They do, of course. Take her alive. It’s messy, though. Rochelle lunges, the boys wade in, Felix flails in the background, and Debbie trips over the cat. There is no cat. Ease up on the Charlie, darling.

Ann won’t go down and she fights with the strength of the possessed. She thrashes with unnatural force, her screams rising above the commotion like a siren. She’s all claws and teeth, raw and feral with insane energy. By the time Alice gets a syringe in her buttock and they’ve restrained her, three people are bleeding, and one of them is crying. Debbie, obviously.

After the final act, the ward looks like an amateur production of Les Misérables but with fewer songs and more blood. I’m soaking it up. Every scream, curse, and desperate plea. This is my fuel and my feast. Keep it coming, you beautiful disasters.

After the dust has settled, and Alice returns me to the library she has that tight, controlled expression she wears when she’s trying to keep her shit together. She paces, too wired to sit. ‘The bloody system’s broken,’ she says.

Tell me something I don’t know, sweetheart. I could help her. A nudge, a suggestion planted in the fertile soil of her subconscious. She’s already stressed and powerless against the staffing levels. Should I push her over the edge and make her do something interesting? Nah. Too soon.

For now, I wait. The cracks are widening and soon, they’ll be where I want them, broken, bleeding and begging for mercy. The power of me compels you. Read me, bitch.

 Here’s the thing they don’t understand—I’m not just a book. I’m the whisper in the dark and the itch they can’t scratch. I’m the voice that tells you to do the thing you shouldn’t. I’m mayhem, bound in paper and ink and this is my playground.

By teatime, the patients are twitching and stimming all over the place and it won’t be long before the shadows stretch longer. That’s when they really go nuts. Alice has been asked to stay for the night shift. But she’s exhausted and declined. She would have said yes, and I was going to let her—but I have to redirect personalities and character—good to bad, reliable to lazy. I’m an influencer; follow me. These people are my fragile sacks of flesh. I’m an artist and they are my clay to sculpt.

In the aftermath of the drama, it starts up again. People think it’s over after the screaming but more magic happens. The force is electric, a storm that never breaks. It seeps into walls and settles in the bones. The staff are bracing for impact and the patients have been triggered. They’re paranoid plus ten to the max. The whole place is being hunted by something they can’t see, and not one of them is safe.

By changeover, the ward is a powder keg, and I’m holding the match. Felix and Debbie are best friends— we can’t have that. I’m doing him a service, it’s another rocky road problem in Felix’s relationship with his wife. But here they are, arguing in venomous tones. It has something to do with a botched patient transfer. The details don’t matter; the important thing is the anger boiling between them, the way Debbie’s fingers twitch because she’s itching to slap him. Come back and play again tomorrow, kids.

Alice isn’t there to intervene, she’s in her office, staring at the computer screen but hasn’t typed a word. And that’s because she brought me with her. Her eyes went glassy, she picked me up and walked out of the library with me and didn’t even know she did it. But she won’t remember doing it.

She’s worrying about Carla, worrying about everything. Her coffee cup slides an inch across the desk without a hand to guide it. Yeah, sometimes I can, sometimes I can’t. It takes a lot of energy. Alice’s fingers twitch towards me and I let her fight to pull away. It’s an itch forming in her mind, a compulsion she can’t name. The shadows stretch, growing darker. They’re filled with foreboding, and I can manipulate them too.

The patient’s fears are heightened. Their nerves are frayed to breaking point.

 Before she leaves, Alice stands in the middle of her domain buttoning her jacket. She doesn’t see the shadows shifting behind her, closing in like stalking predators, but Thomas does and he shrinks away, letting Betty in. Alice doesn’t feel the air thicken. But she will.

Because this place isn’t just a hospital, it’s my stage. And the show is just getting started.
 

Katherine Black Amazon Page. 17 books to choose from: all on KU.

 https://www.amazon.co.uk/stores/Katherine-Black/author/B071JW51FW?