The Treatment and the Cure (3 page)

He gives you a long look through the thick lenses and goes away into the office.

“He seems all right,” you remark to Bill Greene. Your heart is still thumping. You wonder what he’s doing in the office. Maybe ordering immediate treatment for you.

“Yeah, as long as you stay on the right side of him,” Bill replies.

You’re going to try. Christ, you’re going to try!

It’s almost nine o’clock and you’ve got your work gear on and you’re waiting near the verandah gate with the other men. A screw comes down the verandah carrying a tray with a cloth over it. You can see things sticking out. A silver kidney tray and cotton wool and some short lengths of rubber hose about four inches long. There’s an antiseptic smell. The screw goes into a small room at the end of the verandah. Then Dave Lamming comes down the verandah looking deathly afraid. A screw is walking beside him, holding him by the elbow, and the doctor and Arthur are coming behind. As Dave goes past you turn your eyes away, as though there’s something terribly interesting on the far side of the lake. Dave and the doctor and Arthur go into the small room after the screw. There is silence for a couple of minutes and then you hear Dave yelling: “I don’t want it! Please! I’m all right! Oh please don’t! Oh please! Oh please!” There is a sound of struggling. You hear screws’ voices: “Don’t be such a bloody kid, Dave!” and “The doctor knows what’s best!” and “Hold his arms!” and other things. Then there’s a sudden buzzing sound and a choking and gargling, then silence. Your stomach is watery and you’re shaking.

“Poor little bastard,” says one of the men.

“He’ll need Aspros now,” says Bill Greene.

A screw comes to unlock the gate.

“Come on,” he says, “it’s not a friggin’ side-show!”

You go down into the garden with the others and start digging. You work steadily, not daring to take a breather much. You want to show what a good inmate, a model inmate, you are. Dedicated. Eager to please. Then you get afraid you might be giving a wrong impression. You might be overdoing it. Showing “Obsessional Tendencies”. Digging too much might be like cleaning windows too much. Two screws are sitting on a knoll a little way behind you. You imagine what they might be saying:

“Tarbutt’s going pretty hard.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“Seems agitated.”

“Better mention it to the doctor.”

So you slow down and take a lot of breathers. Then you get afraid again. You wonder what the screws are saying. Maybe:

“Tarbutt seems a bit lethargic.”

“He was going like steam a minute ago.”

“Yeah, he’s very erratic, isn’t he.”

“We’d better mention it.”

So you work a bit faster, but not too fast, or too slow. You’re concentrating so hard on timing every move to what you think is a proper balance between fast and slow that you feel giddy. You imagine what the screws might think if you fell over:

“Tarbutt fell over.”

“Yeah, for no apparent reason.”

“Peculiar.”

“We’ll have to report it.”

You try to steady yourself. You take deep breaths. You’re sure the screws are watching you and talking about you and you feel a wild urge to go up to them and assure them that you’re not mentally disturbed or anything like that. You imagine how it would go:

“Er, I was wondering if you’ve noticed anything odd about my behaviour?” you might say. “How d’you mean, Len?”

“I mean … well … whether you think I’m mentally disturbed.”

“Why should we think that?”

“Because of the way I was working.”

“What about the way you were working?”

“Well, fast and then slow.”

“Why were you working like that?”

“I was a bit, sort of worried about how it might look. I mean, I wasn’t worried, I was just thinking how it might look to anyone who was watching me.”

“Do you think someone’s watching you?”

“Well, no, I mean, not really. I mean, I’m not worried about it.”

“You seem worried.”

“No.”

By now you know that you’ve made things much worse. You’ve delivered yourself to that small room at the end of the verandah.

“Tell us about this person you think is watching you.”

“I don’t think anyone is watching me.”

“You said someone or something is watching you.”

“No.”

“Do you hear this person’s voice when he’s watching you?” “No.”

“He just watches you.” “Nobody watches me.”

“That’s not what you said a minute ago. Is it?” “No.”

“This creature or whatever it is, can you see him?”

“There isn’t any creature.”

“So he’s a person then? A human?”

“No.”

“A sort of spirit?”

“Look, he’s nothing!”

“A sort of nothingness that watches you?” “There’s nothing there at all!”

“Does this nothingness ever try to harm you? Does he tell you to do things?”

“Do what things?” “You tell us, we want to help you.” “Christ! You’re twisting everything around!” “Don’t get upset, Len.”

“I can’t help getting upset when you twist things.” “Is that what the nothingness tells you? That we’re twisting things? That we’re trying to harm you?”

“I don’t think you’re trying to harm me at all.” “You said we’re twisting things.” “I just mean that you’ve got it wrong.” “We’re trying to understand, Len. We really are. If you tell us about this nothingness, this spirit or whatever it is, we’ll be able to understand better.”

“Can’t we just forget the whole thing?”

“No, Len, we can’t. This belief of yours about the Nothingness Spirit is obviously making you very distressed and unhappy.”

“There isn’t any Nothingness Spirit! Please believe me!”

“But you just told us about it.”

“I didn’t!”

“Well, how would we know about it if you didn’t tell us.” “You just invented it.”

“No, it’s something in your own mind, Len.”

“My mind’s all right. Honestly.”

“Do you know what this place is, Len?”

“Of course I do.”

“What is it?”

“A psychiatric hospital.”

“That’s right. And why do people come to psychiatric hospitals?”

“Because of mental problems.”

“Right. And you’re here, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but my mind’s all right.”

“Are you saying you’re being held unjustly?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.”

“So, you admit that you need treatment?”

“I suppose so.”

“That’s fine. It shows you have what’s called ’insight’. You’ve done the right thing by telling us about the Nothingness Spirit. We’ll tell the doctor all about it and he’ll be able to help you. Any time the Nothingness Spirit starts to bother you, you let us know. Will you do that?”

“Yes,” you say, defeated, knowing you’ve destroyed yourself. Knowing that within an hour the Nothingness Spirit will become a reality in your file. A true presence in cold print on the page. A living force that will be summoned by other minds to explain every sleepless night, every change of mood, every odd remark, every laugh, every tear, and every facial expression you will wear for the rest of your life.

You have created your own demon.

You know it would go something like that. Even if the details are wrong, it would go something like that. So you can’t say anything to the two screws who are probably watching you. You struggle to calm yourself. You take deep breaths. You have a breather and stare away to the blue haze of the sky with your eyes half shut against the sun and try to think the sky down into yourself. The sky is so very calm and old and has seen more troubles than your own. You suddenly remember some words: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me.”

Lovely words. They give you a feeling you can face whatever might happen. You’re not religious. You’ve never been to church. You suppose the words are something about God, but it’s the words themselves, and the strong, gentle sound of them, and the picture they give you that suddenly makes you feel all right, or nearly all right. They must have been written thousands of years ago, yet it’s as though they’re meant for you, yourself, right now. You let out a deep breath and there’s a sort of good tightness in your chest and you don’t feel very afraid of the two screws talking, or about digging fast and slow, or even about the room at the end of the verandah.

It’s Thursday, the night you’re rostered to sit up watching television. At six o’clock, when the other men are going into their cells, you go into the television room with the four who are rostered with you and the screws lock the door behind you. There’s a billiard table in the middle of the room and the television set is up on a high stand near the window. The five of you move your chairs into position near the billiard table so you can rest your feet on the side of it if you want to. Or you can pull two chairs together to make a couch and lie full length. There’s Bill Greene and Ray Hoad and Zurka and another man named Williamson, whom they call The Wild Man as a joke because he’s so timid. The Wild Man has got a brass whistle and a cigarette lighter the screws gave him. It’s forbidden to take your own matches or lighter into the television room at night, so they let The Wild Man have an official lighter for the five men. Nobody uses it. They all bring their own lights anyway. The whistle is to call the screws from the office if anyone goes berserk or anything. The Wild Man is very embarrassed about having the whistle.

“Blow yer whistle, mate,” Bill Greene says to him.

The Wild Man grins, very sheepishly.

“Give it a blast. Go on,” says Ray Hoad.

“No, it’s all right,” says The Wild Man.

“You’d better test it,” says Ray Hoad. “The pea might’ve fell out.”

“I heard something drop,” says Bill Greene.

“Jesus, The Wild Man’s lost his pea!” cries Ray Hoad.

“He’ll be buggered without it,” says Bill Greene.

“Sure it’s not in yer pocket?” says Ray Hoad.

“Turn ’em out,” says Bill Greene. He starts helping to turn out The Wild Man’s pockets.

“That pea’s government property!” says Ray Hoad.

“The whistle won’t work without it,” says Bill Greene.

“What if somebody goes berserk?” says Ray Hoad.

“There’ll be murder done!” says Bill Greene. “Blood all over the room!” says Ray Hoad. “They’ll probably tear The Wild Man to bits!” “It’s his own fault. Won’t keep his bloody whistle in workin’ order.”

They both look solemnly at The Wild Man. “Yer in a tight corner, mate.” “Up shit creek!” “Without a paddle.”

Bill and Ray make a show of conferring together.

“D’you reckon we can do anything?”

“We’ll do what we can.”

“But we can’t promise anything.”

“No.”

“We might be able to save him from gettin’ killed.” “Just depends.”

“He might get hurt pretty bad.”

“Luck of the game.”

“He’s not a bad sort of a bloke.”

“Good fella.”

“Except for his temper.”

“I forgot about that.”

“Ya can’t hold him when he gets goin’.”

“He goes berserk.”

“He might go off any minute.”

“Look at his face.”

“It’s turnin’ savage.”

“Blow the whistle, mate.”

“Can’t. The fuckin’ pea’s lost!”

The Wild Man is still grinning. Sheepish. He’s used to this. There’s a musical show on, and a beautiful girl is singing “Help Me Make it Through the Night”. The camera is right up on her face and lips and you can see the little throbbing pulse in her throat when she sings the long notes, and when the camera draws back, you see the swell of breasts out of her dress and then her leg through a slit at the side. The men are all quiet, watching, not wanting the song to stop.

You’re not thinking about sex, exactly, but about something more, something harder to put into words, as though the girl isn’t just one girl, but all the girls and women in the world wrapped into herself. You keep your eyes on her until the song’s finished and then you realise you’re feeling miserable all of a sudden. A drama show comes on, with police cars and sirens and a lot of punching and chasing up fire escapes. It seems stupid. You stand looking out of the window at the dark night. There are some trees being blown by the wind. If you listen carefully when the television goes quiet for a moment you can hear the chain of the main gate clanking whenever a big gust comes.

At eight o’clock the two night screws come in with the tea-urn. One of them is called Eddie. He’s got a sharp face and a way of sneering when he speaks. His favourite word is “fuck”. but he pronounces it “faaark”. like the cry of a crow.

“Faaark, you blokes have it easy,” Eddie says to us. “Nobody brings me a cuppa, not even me faaarkin missus.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be bringin’ us one either if it wasn’t in the regulations,” says Ray Hoad. Ray isn’t afraid of screws.

“Faaarkin oath I wouldn’t!” says Eddie. “If I was in control I’d have all you faaarkin blokes put down.”

“Thousands ’ud agree with ya,” says Ray Hoad.

“That’s faaarkin right. Why should the taxpayers be keepin’ you cunts in food and clothes?”

“If it wasn’t for us, you’d be out of a job.”

“Don’t faaarkin kid yerself!”

Everyone is pretending that this is just a bit of friendly banter.

“Hitler had the right faaarkin idea. Crims, pervs, poofters, all into the faaarkin oven.”

“What about morons?” says Bill Greene, looking directly at Eddie.

“Faaarkin morons too!”

Eddie and the other screw go out and lock the door behind them.

“Faaark. Faaark. Faaark,” croaks Bill Greene, flapping his elbows like a giant crow. Then he farts loudly.

At nine-thirty we’re put to bed. After the screws have gone and everything is quiet, you lie listening to the wind. The moon is near the top of your window and throws a silver sheen against the foot of the bed. You sleep for a while. Then you are awake and someone is shouting from one of the cells. George Pratt is yelling that the “Sallies” are after him. He’s got an obsession about the Salvation Army, and often shouts in the night like this. Voices from other cells are telling him to shut up. Then you hear the screws in the corridor, and Eddie’s voice.

“Shut yer faaarkin noise or I’ll give yer a faaarkin needle in yer faaarkin bum!”