Winter 1969

Emmy is singing as I try to get her supper into her. I’m singing too, but she’s singing for Jesus in a cutesy, trit-trotty kind of way. I hover the spoon in the air, and wait for her to take a breath. Pop it in/swallow it down/good girl. I wipe her mouth with my pinny. Shouldn’t really but it saves time. All those doors to lock and unlock just for a flannel.

‘Jesus loves her, Jesus loves her, Jesus loves the murdering bitch.’ Emmy chuckles to herself in that private way only people whose heads are somewhere else can do. She hunches up on the bed and grabs her knees; pulling them up to her chin, and hugging them like babies.

‘Pretty boys,’ she says; and bites into her knee cap.

‘Eric, in here now!’ I yell, hoping Eric is within ear shot and not having a can’t-be-arsed moment. Meanwhile, I start singing again; if Emmy picks it up, I’ll have a strap in there quick as. Eric will have the needle. When he’s not selling stuff he’s nicked from the patients’ lockers, or running bets on who’s going to kick off, Eric isn’t a bad nurse.

There’s a rumbling, echoing sound in the corridor, like a synchronised stampede. Steel capped boots, several pairs. Eric has brought the cavalry. Seconds later, Emmy is wrapped, strapped, and taking delivery of a bolus of antipsychotics in the backside. Her head is hanging over the edge of the bed like it doesn’t quite belong to her; and the scabby skin she’s torn off her knee is hanging from her front teeth like an old curtain; splotting drops of bloody saliva onto the lino. Emmy convulses and throws up the supper I just spent an hour getting into her. There’s more blood, and a few bits of stuff I know I didn’t give her. Emmy’s been gouging again. ‘Exorcising my sins,’ she calls it. Well, she has a few, that’s for sure. Looks like she didn’t hit an artery though, or Jesus might have got to show his love in person.

‘Drinks are on me, then,’ Tony says, pulling a smug-looking ‘told ya’ kind of grin. He’s a new recruit, and he fancies himself a bit. Watches too much Z-Cars, if you ask me.

‘Not with those odds.’ Eric looks at Tony like Tony can’t add up or something. Like he’s an idiot. ‘Be lucky to break even, with this one,’ he says; and he laughs, glancing at the pile of dirty washing that is Emmy. Then he sweeps his squad out of the door. Tony shuffles his feet, then hitches his pants up a notch; and raises his chin as well, trying to look like he’s been a dick on purpose. He heads out the door.

‘You coming?’ he calls back at me, all nonchalance and bluster, ‘Fag break?’

‘No, I’ll clear up here first; can’t leave her like this.’ I’m quite fond of Emmy really, she’s got guts. I mean, killing your kids isn’t gutsy, but if you think their abusing, bastard father is the Anti-Christ, and he’s going to eat them; well, maybe that’s just a little bit heroic. She should have stopped there, though; after she’d topped him. But she knows what Anti-Christ tastes like now. Small club, that.

Summer 1970

Today’s the eight year anniversary. Sounds like a celebration, but it isn’t; unless you count how it’s working out. I’m having a private smiley moment, and I’m enjoying congratulating myself when Eric comes along. He’s all blue serge trousers, and crisp white coat this morning, because it’s ECT day.

            ‘Come on,’ he says, rubbing his hands together like a grasshopper; his skin rasping, and the keys on his belt clanking with all that kinetic activity. ‘Let’s fry some demons.’ And he sets off down the corridor towards the clinic. Beats me why a blast of juice from the grid would make miserable people happy, but it seems to. They come in yelling, and they go out quiet. After a bit, they come in quiet too. I chase Eric down the echoey corridor, with its barred windows you can’t see out of for muck; and I get there just behind him to start setting up the instruments tray. Paddles, sponges, a tube of gel. Bit like an execution, really. I’m still thinking this, and mulling it a bit, when Dr Boyd arrives. He’s masked up and sweating over his eyebrows, because it’s his first and he’s terrified. Eric has him in hand; ‘I’ll charge,’ he says, ‘you paddle, she’ll shift,’ and he tosses a wink at me. ‘Then it’s “next please”; alright?’

‘How many?’

‘Ten,’

‘Ten?’

Bless. He thinks that’s a lot. It isn’t. We’re not doing the psychopaths today. The ones that got here from the courts. Funny how they suddenly become psychotic right before sentencing. Right when the lawyer’s run out of rope; and the judge still has a piece to dangle them from. A knotty finger pokes into my leg, and I look down. Annie is blearing up from her gurney; eyes sedated into muddy puddles, mouth like a cavern. Her teeth are in a jar between her feet. Boyd hits the button, never mind checking she’s out; and treats her brain to a free bolt of NHS lightning. There’s a bit of mild twitching, a dribble of orange pee; and Annie’s done. I whisk her out, wipe some drool from her hairy old chin; and park her in the corridor. Nine to go. An idea flitters into the back of my mind, and scratches about there …

‘Oi! Next customer please, if you’ve got a moment.’

Sarky bastard! I wrap my new little idea up safely; cocoon it, stow it in my mind’s larder for later; and crank up the conveyor belt for number two. I can wait.

Autumn 1970

We’re placing bets again today; and Eric is jangling change in his pockets, like a showman at a travelling fair. Our plastic ducks are the inmates in solitary. They don’t come around often because, frankly, they’re a bit tame. All that ECT and chlorpromazine, aimed at curing what they didn’t have in the first place, rots their brains, eventually. Anyway, Eric is scrawling names on the board with a stub of white chalk; and we’re drinking tea that looks like stew, while he parades his contestants.

            ‘McTaggart,’ he says. An arm goes up, and Eric writes a name next to McTaggart.

            ‘Straker,’ says someone else; yuk yukking buddy-bravado. Suddenly, my idea starts to twitch in my head; a wick little grub, flick flicking its new body this way and that. I don’t know what to do yet; or how, but – ‘Give me Boothroyd,’ I say. ‘Two bob to kick off by lights out.’

            ‘What, today? Next century, more like!’ Everybody laughs. Boothroyd never kicks off. He had one psychotic ‘episode-of-convenience’ in court, and got shipped here instead of Strangeways. Nothing since. He’s cured, he says, through ‘God’s Good Grace’. I’m twiddling my fingers to think better; and my breakfast is heaving up and down inside, like it’s in a lift.

‘He’ll blow,’ I say, like I know something. Maybe I do.

I’m in the canteen when it comes to me, and it sets me off laughing. It’s so funny, isn’t it? Or ironic. Or something. Sanye’s looking at me through the hatch, with one of those oriental looks that says nothing, but you know what they’re thinking. I pull my mouth together from where it’s sneaking across my face; and it makes me gurgle, trying to keep the laughing in. Better get going; something to check out, and some treasure to hunt down.

The drug charts are out for the lunch time rounds, and I sneak a look. Boyd has upped somebody’s largactil here, dropped in some diazepam there, and – here we are, MAOIs for Boothroyd. Poor bugger; all depressed about being a sadistic rapist and murderer. Diddums. Pissed off about still being incarcerated, more like. It’s a big dose. He should be careful what he eats. Very careful indeed …

            ‘What’s so funny?’ Eric’s hanging over my shoulder. Probably hoping to snaffle some mogadons for when he’s on nights. I’m holding onto a smirk, and trying to reel it in, in case he thinks I know what he’s up to. ‘Nothing, just checking we’re ready to trolley this to Her Majesty’s guests.’

            You know how, when you’re settled on something, your whole world seems crystal clear; like you were always meant to be where you are, doing what you’re doing? Well, half past two, after a quick root around the ward kitchen, I’m back in the canteen, looking for the patients’ meals. I’m going to give Boothroyd a present. A thank you gift. After all, I owe my career to him, in a way. Philip is there, mashing up pilchards, and smearing them onto flaccid leaves of white bread. ‘Hi, Lucy,’ he says, sucking the finger he just wiped the knife with, and picking up another handful of yellow-greased blotting paper.

‘Hi,’ I call back. I’m not Lucy but I give him a smile anyway, ‘I’m specialing Boothroyd,’ I tell him. ‘Where’s his tea?’ Philip flicks through the bits of torn envelope he uses to label patients’ trays, ‘Not done yet; he’s a Diet.’

‘Low tyramine, I know; I’ll do it.’ Perfect timing. I root around in my uniform pockets for the gifts; lovely treats Boothroyd doesn’t usually get. Patacake, Patacake, baker’s man, bake me a cake … Well, not quite, but this will be the best sandwich he’s had in a long while. I wipe the knife, and suck my finger like Philip did. Sucking sucker. Fucker’s a sucker. There’s a little tune dancing alongside the words in my head; and I’m still standing there with my finger in my mouth when I hear Philip hawking up, and it brings me back to my business.

‘Tray’s ready,’ I call out, ‘Bye.’ Philip is struggling with a mouthful of something the patients should be getting, so his ‘Bye, Looce,’ comes back like he has a sock over his tongue.

I’m not at all surprised when the alarms go off, but I make like I am, just for appearances. I have a bet, after all.

            ‘Jesusgod,’ Eric’s in a flap and there’s blood on his coat. ‘Boothroyd just beat the shit out of the orderly.’ He looks at me, ‘How did you know?’

I want to tell him, but really it’s our secret; mine and Alison’s. I’m pulling my mouth in, like the top of a duffle bag, to keep from grinning it at him. ‘What happened?’

‘Lucy gave him a cheddar and marmite sarnie for tea.’

I can barely keep from squealing; and it makes me let out a god-awful fart. ‘Sorry,’ I say, but I’m not. Not now. ‘Had a reaction then?’

‘Oh, I should say so!’ Eric’s top lip is glistening with sweat, and I can almost hear the beads of salty fluid popping out – plippety, ploppety … ‘Lucy says she didn’t do his tray, but Philip says she did. Oh Jesus.’ I pat Eric’s hand gently and squeeze the ends of his fingers, like I’m his mother.

‘Not your fault,’ I tell him; but he is part of the system, so he’s just a tiny bit culpable. ‘How is he?’

‘Stabilised. Got his blood pressure back down, ok. He’s still shouting the odds, though.’ Shame; adrenaline storm should have blown his gaskets good and proper. ‘Putting the restraints on was a real pleasure.’ Eric is grinning that grin. The one you have when it’s all gone wrong, but something about the going-wrong felt like it was right. Now I’m grinning that grin too. Could be it’s working out better than I’d thought.

‘Tell you what, you sit here and sort out the paperwork, and I’ll go and tidy Boothroyd up.’ Like a loose end, I’m thinking to myself. I’m not laughing now. I pat Eric’s hand again, then I head off towards the isolation wing; stopping by my locker to pick up the box I’ve kept there since I started at this place.

It’s a long walk to isolation. Paper chain corridors, streaking away from you, like you’re looking down the wrong end of a telescope. But now I’m here, outside the cell with its big drone maggot wriggling in it. I peep through the wired glass window; shift the box to tuck it under my left arm. Then I put my key in the lock, and turn it; listening to the click, clunk of the mechanism as it kicks the barrel over. Inside the room, there’s stuff all over the floor; like there’s been a small war in there. Boothroyd is on his bed.

‘You new here?’ he asks, like we’re in a bar and he’s making normal conversation. They do that, some of them. It’s like they can hold the nightmares at arm’s length for just long enough to say something ordinary; then it all floods back again, and they drown. Not this one though. This one is everyone else’s nightmare.

‘Not new enough,’ I say to him. Not new enough to you, anyway, I say to myself.

‘Get these straps off me, darlin’,’ he wheedles. ‘I’m all calmed down, and cosy as a ickle lickle kitty.’ He makes a snuggling motion with his body; and it looks lewd, him being pinned out like that. I look back up at his face. Underneath the smarm, there’s a tiny squirm of fear; like a parasite under his skin. Hard luck. Shouldn’ta done what he did.

‘I’ll sort you out,’ I tell him; and I give him the Nurses’ Smile. The one that hangs somewhere between sympathy, and a warning about an unpleasant procedure just about to happen. Appropriate really.

‘You knew my sister,’ I tell him, in case he’s forgotten. He’s looking puzzled, so I help him out, ‘The one you – you know – did those things to.’ No need to say it out loud.

‘Your sister?’ He tries for a snidey leer, but it’s out of control, and it twitches about all over his face. I pull up a chair next to his bed, and perch the box on my knee. Then I lean in a bit; not too far – don’t want to get spat at, ‘You should have hanged,’ I smile into him; my head on one side like a fond auntie, ‘But you got yourself here instead. Clever you!’ I hunch my shoulders up to my ears, and beam him my best beam. ‘So here we are, just the three of us.’

‘Three?’

‘Ashes,’ I tell him, flicking a glance at the box. Then I lift it up carefully, and put it on his locker. When I open it, a puff of fine dust rises into the air. I can see little motes picking out the shafts of light that are sneaking through the closed blinds. Little motes of Alison, freed up and dancing in the sun. I stand up and pour a couple of inches of her into a beaker; and I look down at him again. He’s lying there, all tortured by his wickedness; and by never being punished. I can hear his soul writhing with contrition; pleading to be put out of its misery. Well, that would only be decent. I tap the beaker to loosen the contents; and I pinch his nose, ‘Open wide.’

Suzanne Conboy-Hill