Mad Worlds by Bill Douglas

shoulder. He glanced up. Black bulging eyes glared at him. Niven.
    â€œMake sure Chisholm’s awake, Tommy.” Macnamara’s Irish brogue. “Doctor’ll be coming soon.”
    He didn’t want to see anybody. He shut his eyes and lay still.
    â€œGet the hell up!” A low voice, menacing. Niven threw the bedclothes off, jerked him up to a sitting position.
    â€œThe patient stinks, boss,” Niven shouted.
    â€œChange the drawer sheet and the mac. Eddie, you take the man walkies.”
    Maclean appeared beside Niven. “I’ll take you to the bog. No funny tricks!”
    Some chance. He closed his eyes and saw stars as a tug under each arm hauled him out of bed to standing.
    â€œI’ll manage, Tommy,” said Maclean.
    He began to totter down the ward, glad of Maclean’s support. He saw from the corner of his eye an old man with a shock of white hair, sitting up in bed and pointing at him – and it dawned. He looked down, to see that he was naked apart from the coarse pyjama jacket.
    â€œMy trousers,” he said. He felt the white-coat’s grip tighten.
    â€œYou haven’t got any yet. You’ve been too incontinent.”
    Nausea hit him after a few steps. This exercise was tough, but worse was the pungent smell of urine, even stronger than the paraldehyde. Maclean halted him by the end of one of the beds. A pail stood half-full of stinking dark yellow liquid.
    â€œGlaekit,” Maclean yelled. “Get this shit-pot emptied – and any others!” A young brown-coated man appeared, lifted the offending pail and walked off rapidly. “Damned orderly – it’s his job,” Maclean muttered.
    John was thankful to continue the walk. They went slowly until Maclean said “Here,” and guided him towards an opening between the beds. “The bog. I’ll stay with you.”
    Great cocktail. Piss and shit, plus disinfectant? A chain was pulled in one of the cubicles. He saw the brown-coated youth emerge with an empty pail and speed out onto the ward.
    â€œI’m right here, laddie.” Maclean was talking to him. The shame of being watched like this!
    Ablutions finished, he felt Maclean’s grip tighten again as they walked back into almost welcome paraldehyde territory. He inhaled. Mustn’t pass out!
    At last, his bed. He flopped onto it, welcoming the bedclothes being pulled over him. He started to doze.
    â€œSit the patient up, Mr Macnamara!” A man’s voice, like Panjit’s. Ah, from the padded cell?
    He was gripped under each arm and lofted to sit up. He sat, blinking at the white-coated man. A beard and a turban – like Panjit.
    â€œThis is Dr Singh, the psychiatrist,” said Macnamara, stepping back to let the doctor come nearer. Yes, the guy from the padded cell.
    â€œMr Chisholm, you have been very ill with pneumonia, and on a drip to give you nourishment,” said the doctor. “How are you?”
    â€œOkay.” Slipped out automatically. He was anything but.
    â€œWe have also been worried about your mental state.”
    So what? “Can I go home?”
    â€œNo, Mr Chisholm. You are a certified patient.”
    A loony! He shut his eyes.
    â€œMr Chisholm, are you listening to me?” Like he was a naughty child.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou will be detained a long time while we treat your mental condition. After you have fully recovered from the pneumonia, you will be moved back to our Admissions Ward. Good day.”
    Trapped. And they held all the cards. He saw the doctor and Macnamara move off down the ward, leaving Niven by the end of the bed. His minder?
    He slid down the bed and curled into a ball. Befuddled. A word he’d seen in books, but never felt applied to him. His mind felt vacant – like his thoughts had been pulled out, into the ether somewhere. Maybe he was crazy, living out a nightmare.
    The bedclothes were jerked back. “Wakey wakey.” Niven