Mad Worlds by Bill Douglas Page A

leaned over to whisper into his ear. “Sit up, you bastard, or I’ll tear off all your clothes.”
    John sat up, leaning his head against the bed railings.
    â€œBoss says you’ve to drink this. I hold the mug and you drink.”
    Well, what if it was poison? He gulped the liquid down. It tasted like water.

    *
    Over his remaining days in the infirmary, John endured being shaved each morning – by Niven, who said “Bloody hayfield” the first day. Pointing out he could do this himself now led to being grabbed by his pyjama jacket and told that “Patients never get razors.” The shave that followed was painful and bloody, but at least he felt cleaner.
    He also experienced the Niven bed bath. “You mad bastard,” Niven kept muttering as he sponged, too vigorously.
    â€œI can wash myself,” he protested, then endured agony as his crotch was squeezed. Like Sarge, Niven was for that dark alley someday.
    On trips to the bog, he had to be accompanied, they said. Utter humiliation. After that first trip, he could walk unsupported.
    The meals came – breakfast, lunch, tea – with monotonous regularity. There was nothing appetising about them – and the soup had to be dishwater – but he forced everything down. He must get his strength back.
    He began to welcome the nightly paraldehyde. Could it be addictive? And the penicillin injections were important to his getting well. Macnamara had explained about this life-saving medicine.
    That wasn’t all Macnamara explained. One afternoon the Charge Nurse came across and sat beside the bed.
    â€œHow’re you doing?”
    Sounded like the man cared. “I’m getting stronger. Why was I in that cell?”
    â€œYou were out cold when you came to Springwell. They took you to Reception to complete the certifying, then, as you’d cut up so rough, put you into seclusion on the Admissions Ward.”
    â€œSeclusion?”
    â€œThat’s officially what being put in a cell is. It’s padded so that you can’t hurt yourself if you’re violent, and you’re put in there to help you cool off. We call it the cooler.” Macnamara smiled. “Sure, you can see why?”
    John nodded. “‘Cooler’ is a euphemism. You should try it.”
    â€œSure I have done – and I’d heartily agree. Then after a few hours they came to take you to a bed on Admissions, and you cut up rough again.”
    â€œHell, you should’ve seen them square up. And one of them had a syringe.”
    â€œThat would be in case you resisted, for sure. They knocked you out and put you back in the cell. But this time the doc said you’d to be watched, and visited once an hour. He didn’t like you being there on your own too long.”
    It was coming back. Doc would be Dr Singh.
    â€œWhen they went in later, they saw you were breathing funny, gasping, and thought you were off with the angels. Lucky old Doc Burn was around – he’s a GP, lives out here as his wife’s a nurse on the female side. Doubles up on psychiatry, doing outpatient clinics. He diagnosed pneumonia, said it would be dangerous to move you into town as you could be dying.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you let me die?”
    â€œSure, we don’t want that. You were brought into Infirmary. We got you onto penicillin right away. After a bit longer for recovery, you’ll be for the Admissions Ward, where they’ll assess and begin treating you for the mental trouble.”
    â€œWhen can I get out from Springwell?”
    â€œI don’t know. You’re certified, and surely you’ll be in a long while.”
    â€œBut I’m sane. What do they say’s wrong with me?”
    â€œYou haven’t been diagnosed yet. They said your behaviour was disturbed.”
    Disturbed? “Well, I put up a fight.”
    Macnamara glanced at his watch and started to rise.
    A reminder. “Where’s