The Treatment and the Cure (15 page)

“Yeah, whad’ya reckon?” adds a third.

These are dills and what they do is no concern of yours, but you’d enjoy the joke of being the only one left to be ticked back into the ward.

“Nah, I’m not pissin’ orf,” says somebody.

“Me neither,” adds another.

The consensus is for staying but Harris says he’s had an arseful and walks into the darkness. We go on and are nearly at the hall. It is lit up and there are patients going inside and some screws round the entrance. Harris catches up with us.

“Aren’t ya pissin’ orf?”

“Nah,” he says. “They reckon the movie ain’t too bad.”

A senior screw looks us over.

“Where yous from?”

“REFRACT,” you tell him.

“Where’s yer friggin’ escort then?”

“Just back there,” you say, pointing over your shoulder as though our screw is behind us.

The senior screw waves us inside. The hall is large and shabby, with rows of hard seats. There are more patients than you’ve seen in one place before. They are all kinds: little retards and old women, purple-faced epileptics, ones in wheelchairs parked in the aisles, ordinary dills in bunches, ones holding hands with their boyfriends and girlfriends. And there are six or seven who look almost normal. They sit slightly apart from the rest. They’re young. Probably drug addicts or something. Admission ward types. Among them is a girl about sixteen with long plaits and a string of beads around her neck. You notice her because she has a quick nervous way of fiddling with the beads. Also because she’s pretty. Hardly anyone in this hall is pretty.

The movie is a good one and you enjoy it, except that the screen is old and patched and the patches don’t quite match. The projector keeps breaking down too and during the breaks the lights come on and the patients get even noisier than when the film is running.

Afterwards we find our screw outside. A retard girl is on the ground outside the door and won’t get up. She is howling swearwords like a child who doesn’t know what they mean but just knows they’re nasty. She doesn’t care that her nose is snotty and her dress hiked around her waist. When a nurse lifts her she kicks and howls and then chokes on the snot and coughs and throws herself down again. The crowd from the hall is trampling her arms and legs but she stays on the ground, screaming swearwords.

“It’s hard ter credit, ain’t it?” says our screw.

“What is?” you ask.

“That’s what Dennis Lane did his knackers over.”

Con Pappas has arrived from MAX. You didn’t have much to do with him there. He was one of the hangdog ones in the background who never joined in jokes or sport. Besides, he was Greek and about forty-five. You wouldn’t have tipped Con Pappas to get this transfer, but then a lot of people wouldn’t have tipped you either. It’s a lottery. Now he’s here, though, you are glad to see him. Not having much in common doesn’t matter. He was in MAX with you.

Con Pappas walks down the yard after his pep-talk from the Charge. He feels the way you did—lost and strange and nervous of the fence.

“Good on ya, mate!” you say. You shake hands.

“Good you too!” he says in his Greek accent.

“How are all the boys?” you ask. You really want to know. Also you need to show—show yourself mainly— that you are still with them in spirit.

“Ah, they are fifty-fifty,” says Con Pappas with a hand gesture.

“How’s Bill Greene?”

“Okay.”

Okay is a sort of dead end. It means nothing’s changed. You wonder what you expected.

“How’s Ray Hoad?”

“He has trouble.”

“What trouble?”

“Screws put lotta shit on him.”

“How’s he taking it?”

“He offer fight screw alone in cell. They will not. He offer fight two screws. They will not. He offer three. They will not.”

No, you bet they won’t. They know what’s in Ray Hoad’s mind. Some screws spout about not hiding behind the uniform and that they’ll gladly box-on with any patient who fancies himself, but it’s always rigged. It would only be a fair fight while the screw was winning. If he looked like losing it’d immediately become an assault by a psychopath. The psychopath would get shock and the screws would demand extra danger money. Ray Hoad knows how rigged it would be but he wouldn’t care as long as he got a few good punches in. Still, it probably isn’t very smart of Ray Hoad to offer to fight screws, specially since Lubecki killed the Charge with that pitchfork.

You half-think to ask Con Pappas about Lubecki, but there isn’t much point. Lubecki’s finished. He’ll die in MAX.

“Much trouble when Alan Bowers necked himself?” you ask. You heard about Alan Bowers a few weeks ago. Blokes sometimes hang themselves in MAX. It averages maybe one a year. There are forty or so men there normally so you could say the necking odds are forty to one. The transfer’s a lottery and so is necking.

“No, not much trouble,” says Con Pappas.

You wouldn’t have expected much trouble. The necking is sort of rigged too. If you kill yourself it doesn’t reflect on the staff too badly. It’s just something you did to yourself. If you get on well, though, it’s due to the staff’s expert care. None of the credit is yours.

That subject is a dead end.

“How’s Dennis Lane?” you ask.

Con Pappas looks uncomfortable. He saw Dennis Lane arrive back in MAX, so he knows transfers can be reversed.

“Very bad,” says Con Pappas in a low voice. “Big medication. No can talk. No can walk. He is
kaput
!” Con Pappas stares at you. He wants to know what great danger is here.

“Why he sent back?”

“He was stupid.”

“What kinda stupid?”

“Stupid with girl.”

“Ah,” whispers Con Pappas.

Fred Henderson comes down the yard with Bimbo. Fred wants to hear about the boys too. He has a good old wheeze over Dennis Lane being
kaput.
Bimbo’s “Willee root me?” is irritating and when he starts showing Con Pappas the war dance you wander to your cell and sit thinking how all your questions about MAX led to dead ends.

Con Pappas is sent to OT and put in the vinyl bag section as your offsider. He cuts out the panels for you, and attaches the fittings. You concentrate on sewing. Mr Trowbridge wants as many bags as possible for the annual fete. Already you have five months’ worth stacked in a pile.

After breakfast on the Sunday of the fete you stand at the bottom fence and watch the first cars nosing into the grounds. Banners have been strung and on the trees are signs with arrows pointing to where different attractions are to be, like speedboat races on the lake, or the hoop-las and merry-go-rounds, or the cake and drink stalls in the main hall. You can’t see any of those, just the pointing arrows. The Charge says men without parole will be taken round after lunch to see the sights.

OT has a banner across the front: BASKETS + BAGS + WOODWORK FOR SALE. It’s a good businesslike banner. But they’ve put another sign by the door, inviting the Public to Inspect this Facility and learn about Rehabilitation and Remotivation and other things with long names. You don’t bother reading it properly. It’s just for the Public.

By ten o’clock the crowds are beginning all along the dirt road and in and out of OT and back towards the main hall and the lake. You can hear speedboats. You watch to see if anyone is buying your bags and you begin to see more and more people emerging from OT with them. You get the impression that the vinyl bag section is pulling its weight today.

When the crowds get thicker you leave the fence and stay on the verandah near your cell. You can see the people from here without them seeing you. You don’t mind them having the speedboats and hoop-las and cake stalls, but you don’t intend to help them have the other thing they’ve come for—the freak show.

The people are mostly families with kids, or young couples holding hands. They are enjoying themselves. They stare into the yards from the dirt road. The wheelchair cases in Ward 7 are parked in a row across the grass, most with their heads sunk on their chests and the strings of bright spit hanging. They are supposed to be sharing the fun. The old women on the other side are wandering their yard sad and lost, like always. They have fresh dresses on. Not nice dresses, just washed ones. You wish they’d all be taken inside. They don’t care about the freak show, or even know about it, but you wish they’d be taken inside.

Con Pappas is at the fence. This must be exciting for him. It’s a bit exciting for you too. You sometimes think about going free and being in the ordinary world again, but you never imagined the ordinary world suddenly appearing here like this. You would like to be at the fence with Con Pappas where you could see the people close up and hear the talk and laughter, but not if it means giving them the other thing. Harris is at the fence.

A couple with a small girl stop and stare into the yard. Harris calls hello and asks for a cigarette. They nudge each other and giggle. Harris is pressing his purple epileptic face against the wire. “Garn, gis a fag!” he’s saying. “Garn, gis a friggin’ smoke, will ya!” The couple walk on but the small girl lags behind and comes skipping to the fence where Con Pappas is. Maybe she wants to show her green balloon. Con Pappas bends to speak to her through the wire. Greeks like children. You see Harris moving across.

“Rebecca!” screams the mother. “Come away quick!”

The father runs and yanks the girl away by the arm. Even from here you see the look he gives Con Pappas, a look that says animals like this ought to be put down or at least horsewhipped. “Gis a fuckin’ smoke!” yells Harris. “Ya fuckin’ tight-arsed cunt! Won’t give a man a lousy fag!” Con Pappas comes up and sits near you. You’re sorry it happened like that for him. Harris doesn’t matter. All he knows is that he didn’t get a fag.

But you are glad the couple had a fright about their little girl. Maybe they won’t enjoy the rest of the freak show so much.

After lunch you stay in the cell and look at your patch of sky where some very high white clouds are floating. You watch the movement of them past the chimneypot on Ward 7. Already you are tired of speedboat noises and crowds from the ordinary world. If the screws take us around you’ll go, but you don’t care particularly.

Four people appear outside your window. Two spotty youths with their girlfriends. They are taking a short cut between the wards, and seeing what they can see.

“G’day,” says the taller of the spotty youths.

“Hello,” you say.

“You one of the loonies?”

“I’m a psychiatrist, actually.”

“Yeah?” He half-believes you. You aren’t screeching or tearing your hair.

“Listen, what’re the maddies like?” he asks.

“You’ve not been an inmate yourself?”

“Course I bloody haven’t!”

You are staring intently at his face.

“How long have you had that twitch?”

“What twitch?”

“Have you spoken to your own psychiatrist about it?”

“Haven’t got a bloody psychiatrist!”

“Stay where you are. I’ll come out. It’s important I have a talk with you.”

You go out of the cell and wait a moment. When you return to the window they have gone.

Harris’s voice is loudly asking the screws when we’ll be taken round. He’s pestering them, making it sound as though they owe it to us because the Charge promised. He’s forcing them to show they don’t owe us anything, ever. All afternoon Harris keeps on until he’s yelling that he’ll make an Official Complaint. There’s no such thing, but it’s a mistake to threaten the screws with it. You hear them ordering Harris to shut his fucking snout before they shut it for him. Then you hear thuds and groans outside your cell. The thuds and groans happen there because it’s shielded from the road. Noises like that always give you an awful churning in your stomach but this time it’s almost worth it to have Harris’s mouth shut.

Late in the afternoon Silas Throgmorton staggers out in his tall hat and blanket to argue with Dunn in the yard. Spectators gather on the dirt road, but Throgmorton is too sick and has to be helped inside before the quarrel warms up. The spectators drift away, unaware of what they’ve missed. They have also missed Lloyd. He’s scared of crowds and has happily stayed watching TV all day. And Hogben’s invisible bloke has kept him occupied in the shower room mostly. The Wanker has been locked in the dormitory. He’s a bit much even for the freak show.

Harris is on his feet in time to farewell the last of the crowds as they diminish through the litter and half-light of evening.

“Garn, gis a fag ya dirty friggin’ hoons!”

Men are going to walk on the moon this afternoon. The OT staff are urging everyone back to their wards to see the telecast. An old woman in the basket section doesn’t want to.

“You have to,” Cheryl tells her.

“Why?”

“People are going to walk on the moon.”

“People can’t do that.”

“They can.”

“They can’t,” insists the old woman. She’s been here for forty-four years.

“I’m telling you they can,” says Cheryl. As a nurse it’s her job to put this poor creature into contact with reality.

“How would they get there?”

“In a spaceship.”

“There’s no such things as spaceships.”

“Who told you that?”

“The doctor.”

“When did he tell you?”

“Years and years ago.”

“Well, there
are
spaceships.”

“Why did the doctor say there weren’t?”

“He didn’t know about them.”

“But I told him, and he said it wasn’t true.”

“That’s right.”

“You said he didn’t know about them.”

“He didn’t.”

“Was I right then?”

“No, because they didn’t exist.”

“Was the doctor right?”

“Yes.”

“You said he didn’t know about them.”

“He didn’t then, but he does now.”

“He’s dead.”

“Well he’d know about them if he was alive.”

“He was alive when he told me there weren’t any.”

“But he didn’t know about them then.”

“You said if he was alive he’d know.”

“Look,
nobody
knew about them then.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t. It wasn’t true then. It’s only true now.”

“Is the Wires true now?” The Wires are something like electric powerlines across the universe. The old woman gets messages from the Wires.

“No, the Wires aren’t true.”

“Will they be true one day?”

“No, they’re impossible.”

“Like spaceships?”

“Spaceships
are
possible! You can see one on television this after bloody noon!”

“Was the doctor wrong?”

“Do you want a kick in the arse?”

“No.”

“Then get back to your ward and watch bloody television!”

The old woman shuffles off, forty-four years of psychiatric treatment crumbling from her.

You and Cheryl and Janice go to Ward 7 to see the telecast.

“Gosh,” says Cheryl. “How do they send pictures all that distance?”

“Along the Wires, of course,” you say.

She punches you hard.

You’re beginning to like Cheryl again.

The parole thing has been bothering you. Nobody’s mentioned it. Con Pappas has got company parole already. You don’t grudge him, but it seems a bit unfair. All you’ve got is the right to walk to OT and back, and the Monday night films. You can’t even change a book at the library without a screw along and it’s often hard to find a screw who’ll take you. They call little escort jobs like that “extra work” and they say it’ll break down their conditions if they do it too much.

You are fairly rich now. Mr Trowbridge has raised your pay to three dollars a week because the vinyl bags went so well at the fete. If you had parole you could hang about at the canteen and drink milkshakes and stuff. You suppose you must be getting soft. What would David Allison think of you? Milkshakes!

You wait till a day when the Charge seems in a good mood. You approach him outside the office.

“I wanted to ask about parole,” you say.

“What about it?”

“Um, whether it’d be worthwhile applying for it.” You don’t just ask for it straight out. You aren’t asking for it, but just broaching the subject, so if the answer is no it won’t be a blunt refusal. It’s always better to avoid blunt refusals.

The Charge looks at you sourly. You must have mistaken his mood.

“I think the doctor has other plans for you.”

Your blood goes cold. Christ, what does “other plans” mean? In MAX the doctor’s plans for people were mainly electrical. You try to think what you’ve done wrong. That’s silly. There’s no need for you to know what you’ve done wrong. You’re just the patient.

“What does he have in mind?” you ask. Your voice is faint.

“He’ll tell you,” says the Charge as he turns his back and goes into the office.

For a week you hug yourself with worry. You haven’t spoken to Electric Ned for ages. You thought he was satisfied with you. It must be something the screws reported. Maybe you’ve been keeping too much to yourself. “Withdrawn”. they call it. You almost ask Mr Trowbridge if he’s heard anything, but that might make him think you’re worried. Being worried is a bad sign. Besides, the report, whatever it was, might have come from the OT staff. The fact that you seemed to be doing well at OT means nothing. Trouble like this can come when you feel most secure, usually does, in fact. You’ve let yourself feel stupidly secure lately—thinking about milkshakes.

If it’s shock treatment you won’t be able to stand it. Other men get through it. Con Pappas had it in MAX. Women have it.

You should be able to face it like they do but you know you can’t. You get wild ideas of pissing off. You spend more time with Con Pappas, to show them you aren’t as withdrawn as they thought, and because that makes the loneliness of the worry a little less. Also, being around someone who’s had shock is a sort of reassurance that you’ll be able to handle it yourself. Your stomach is a tight knot.

Then you do what you should have done at first. You read passages of
The Survivor,
like the part where David Allison has to go into action the first time. He is hugging a big old tree at the edge of a forest where the Prussian Guards are. In a moment he must take his rifle and join the line of his platoon and walk into the forest. He is hugging the tree and begging it to draw him inside itself and save him. He’s remembering the time he stole another boy scout’s compass and let someone else get the blame and now God is going to punish him and he’s crying against the bark of the tree as though it’s his mother’s apron. Then a great kindness and calmness seem to come from the tree and unwrap his arms and push him gently forward. He walks into the forest with the others and the Prussian Guards charge at them and there is blood and screaming and he holds his bayonet up the way he was taught and suddenly it’s over and he is a soldier who has fought the Prussian Guards and come out alive.

David Allison is with you. He’s always with you, it’s just that you forget sometimes. You feel ashamed. You aren’t facing the Prussian Guards, just a fucking half-arsed quack with a two-dollar machine. Scared of shock? That’ll be the day!

Electric Ned is coming along the verandah to your cell. You stay sitting on the bed, watching a grass stem bend in the breeze outside your window. Being in your cell like this is of course proof that you are withdrawn. Electric Ned is at the door.

“Mr Tarbutt.”

“Yes,” you say quietly.

Electric Ned enters. You don’t bother rising.

“How are things?” He’s staring through his thick lenses.

“About average.”

“Feeling fine within yourself?”

“More or less.”

“As you know, I’ve been following your progress in this ward and at OT. How do you think you’ve managed?”

“Reasonably,” you say.

“Well, I think we need to do a bit more for you.”

Yes, that’d be shock treatment. Shock is something they do “for you”.

“I’m afraid the Medical Superintendent can’t see his way to endorsing my proposal, so I’ve written to the Director-General seeking the go-ahead.”

This is odd. Very odd.

“I propose to transfer you to an open ward.”

A lot of screws don’t like it. There is talk of a stop-work meeting. Letting criminal patients out of MAX into REFRACT is bad enough, but at least in REFRACT a criminal patient has some wire around him and still looks like a prisoner. It isn’t personal, it’s the principle. If you go to an open ward the flood-gates will burst and in six months there won’t be a criminal patient left under lock and key.

The screws don’t say much to you, just the odd remark, like when the Charge comes to your cell about some matter and looks around as if he’s seeing the cell for the first time and says: “I’m sorry the accommodation is so humble, but I s’pose the doctor’s out booking a hotel suite for you.” Others refer to you as the Star Boarder.

You don’t say anything. The transfer probably won’t happen. It might be better if it doesn’t. Being on the wrong side of the screws isn’t worth it and if they want to make things hard for you it won’t matter whether it’s personal or for a principle. You can’t understand why Electric Ned is doing this. Maybe he’s gone crackers. That’d be a joke.

The transfer is approved after three weeks. Electric Ned is with you in the yard.

“Ward 24 has agreed to take you,” he says.

“That’s good,” you say. You’ve no idea.

“Ward 24 has just been renovated, so you’ll have pleasant surroundings at least.”

“Sounds fine,” you say, wondering about that “at least”.

“Well,” he says. “This marks the end of my responsibility for you. Ward 24 is under another doctor.”

“I see,” you reply. You hadn’t thought of this. Electric Ned is the devil you know.

“Good luck.” He offers his hand.

“Thanks for all you’ve done,” you say.

“Oh, it’s been a pleasure,” he says and walks away.

He’s your benefactor. You only wish he’d made that plain about five years ago. It would have saved you an awful lot of worry and anguish.

You sit for a while looking at the men and the fence and the dirt road and everything. Already they are beginning to seem different, the way things seem different when you know you’ll never be at this exact relation to them again. The relation is of time, not space. Even if you make a cock-up of the transfer and land back here in a week it won’t be the same.

After lunch you collect your gear and put it in the screw’s car for the two-minute drive.

“What’s 24 like?” you ask the screw.

“Not like anythin’ yet,” he says. “They’re just reopening it today.”

“What kind of patients will it have?”

“Low types.”

“Why d’you say that?”

“Well,
you’ll
be there, won’t ya!”