“Give it to me, give it to me!” screamed the Twitch.
“This is unproductive,” he quavered, at which point Lucy pulled up her overall to show us her oversized knickers and started to dance, causing Simon, who was at the low point of his bipolar mania, to weep, which set off Margaret rocking, which caused Ugly Bill to storm into the room, stick in hand and straitjacket already on the way, while Dr Abel, the tips of his ears burning like brake lights, scurried away.
Once a month we were permitted visitors, and no one came.
Simon said it was for the best, that he didn’t want to be seen like this, that he was ashamed.
Margaret screamed and tore at the walls until her nails were bloody, and had to be taken back to her room and sedated.
Lucy, the spittle rolling down her face, said it wasn’t us who should be ashamed but them. She didn’t say who they were, and nor did she need to, for she was simply right.
After two months I was ready to leave.
“I see now,” I explained calmly, sitting in front of Dr Abel’s desk, “that I suffered a mental breakdown. Obviously I need counselling, but I can only express my deep and personal gratitude to you for having helped me overcome this issue.”
“Dr August,” explained Dr Abel, lining up his pen with the top edge of his writing pad, “I think what you suffered was rather more than just a breakdown. You suffered a complete delusionary episode, indicative, I believe, of more complex psychological issues.”
I looked at Dr Abel as though for the first time and wondered just what his measure of success was. Not necessarily a cure, I decided, so long as the treatment was interesting. “What do you suggest?” I asked.
“I’d like to keep you here a while longer,” he replied. “There are some fascinating medications coming out which I believe would be exactly what you need…”
“Medications?”
“Some very promising developments have been made with the phenothiazines—”
“That’s an insect poison.”
“No–no, Dr August, no. I understand your concern as a physician but I assure you, when I say phenothiazines what I’m talking about are its derivatives…”
“I think I’d like a second opinion, Dr Abel.”
He hesitated, and I saw pride flare at the onset of possible conflict. “I am a fully qualified psychiatrist, Dr August.”
“Then as a fully qualified psychiatrist, you know how important it is to have a patient’s trust in any treatment process.”
“Yes,” he admitted grudgingly. “But I am the only qualified physician on this ward…”
“That’s not true. I’m qualified.”
“Dr August,” he said with a shimmering smile, “you’re ill. You are in no fit state to practise, least of all on yourself.”
“I want you to call my wife,” I replied firmly. “She has a legal say in what you do to me. I refuse to take phenothiazines, and if you are going to force me to take them, then you have to get permission from next of kin. She is my next of kin.”
“As I understand it, Dr August, she is partially responsible for suggesting your confinement and care.”
“She knows good medicine from bad,” I corrected. “Call her.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“Don’t consider it, Dr Abel,” I replied. “Just do it.”
To this day I don’t know if he called her.
Personally, I doubt it.
When they gave me the first dose of the drug, they tried to do it discreetly. They sent Clara Watkins, who looked so innocent and had such a malicious pleasure in her job, with a tray containing the usual pills–which I palmed–and a needle.
“Now now, Harry,” she chided when she saw my face. “This is good for you.”
“What is it?” I demanded, already suspecting.
“It’s medicine!” she sang out brightly. “You love to take your medicine, don’t you?”
Ugly Bill was at the back of the room, his eyes fixed on me. His presence confirmed my suspicions–he was already waiting to strike. I said, “I demand to see a legal consent form, signed by my next of kin.”
“You just do that,” she said, grabbing at my sleeve, which I pulled away.
“I demand a lawyer, fair representation.”
“This ain’t no prison, Harry!” she replied brightly, waggling her eyebrows at Ugly Bill. “There’s no lawyers here.”
“I have a right to a second opinion!”