‘This is the male wing. You’re not allowed here,’ said a passing man, who might have been a patient or a member of staff – she couldn’t tell.
She turned back, but in the meantime someone had emerged from behind a door and was blocking her path. It was a man, thin and muscular. His head was shaved, and home-drawn tattoos covered his neck and arms. Louisa went to go around him, but he grabbed her arm.
‘Where are you going?’ His breath stank, and the smell coming from what she took to be his room was even worse. She felt that morning’s coffee rise in her throat.
‘Let me go!’ she said.
He tightened his hold. ‘You must be new. I’d remember you otherwise.’ He sniffed her hair and gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Can’t beat a natural redhead. What a treat. It must be my lucky day.’
‘Let me go,’ she repeated, desperately trying to sound assertive, heart pounding faster and faster. He grabbed hold of her other hand. His eyes were cold, but alive with the thrill of his ambush.
‘Come on,’ he said, pushing the door open with his foot in a gesture that looked practised – and made her legs go weak with horror. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’
Her heart fluttered like something trapped under a jar. ‘Let go of me,’ she said, ‘or I’ll scream.’
‘Yes, scream!’ he said. ‘You’ll scream anyway, in a minute. You stink of lies.’ He locked an arm around her torso, then began to pull her backwards into his room.
‘Let go!’ she yelled. ‘Someone help me! Help!’ Filled with dread, she yelled and kicked at the closing door.
Then a head appeared the other side of the viewing panel and the door flew open again. It was Enema. She grabbed Louisa’s arm and hauled her out.
‘What are you doing here?’ she spat. ‘This is the men’s ward. It’s out of bounds. Come on, back to the common area.’ She stalked off ahead.
‘But… that man!’ Louisa panted as she followed, her heart still racing. ‘He was about to assault me!’
‘Nothing happened, though, did it?’
‘No, but… if you hadn’t come when you did… He should be reported!’
‘I can’t report something that didn’t happen. And anyway, you need to stick to the rules. They’re there for your own safety. We’re nurses, not bodyguards. Now, you should be in occupational therapy, so go to the day room.’ Enema pointed across the atrium. ‘That way,’ she said, then headed off towards the nurses’ station.
Louisa stood, appalled. How could a place like this be allowed to exist? And how was any person with a genuine mental illness ever meant to recover here?
Then she heard frenzied shouting and the sound of walkie-talkies squawking. Two policemen appeared, dragging a man in handcuffs. He spat blood onto the floor – and Louisa saw with shock that a tooth was mixed in with it. The man glared at her.
‘What the hell are you looking at, you stupid slut?’ he snarled, his eyes like ball bearings.
Slut. Louisa’s heart jolted against her ribs. That’s what they’d called her at school. When that half-naked photo of her had been posted online for everyone to see. Her whole body stiffened. No, she couldn’t think of that. Not here, not now. Oh God, she had to get out. This place was hellish. The stuff of nightmares.
Eventually, she found herself in a dismal room with a low ceiling and sealed PVC windows. It smelled of unwashed bodies and stale food. On old, chipped Formica tables craft materials were spread out – shells, sequins, glitter, feathers. Some of the patients were gluing them onto pieces of card, while others were using crayons to colour in pages photocopied from colouring books. There were also jigsaws – largely ignored – and Monopoly and Cluedo. A few people were playing cards. But most were just watching a game show on the dated television set that hung precariously from a loose bracket on the wall. Several patients, clearly enjoying their first medicinal hit of the day, had nodded off. One woman was slumped against the wall, her mouth open, a stream of drool making its way down her chin. There were a few sagging armchairs around the edges of the room, most occupied. There was no sign of Kerry. No member of staff was present.
So this was therapy. Louisa sat in an empty chair in the corner, alone with her fear.
An hour or so later she was ushered into an office where a man, clearly the consultant psychiatrist, was sitting behind a desk talking into a phone with an air of authority. At medical school they’d all been able to recognise a consultant from a mile off and had worshipped them like demi-gods. She’d never been able to imagine being that powerful, having the ability to change lives – a proper doctor, like her father.
‘No, it’s impossible,’ the psychiatrist was saying. ‘You can’t expect me to just drop everything.’
The office was airless. Another desk, covered in dirty brown rings from beverages consumed long ago, was being stored against the opposite wall. A broken swivel chair had been hoisted on top of it.
The doctor put down the phone. ‘Good morning. Sorry about that. Remind me of your name, please?’ He glanced up.
Louisa, sitting down, told him, and he sifted through the files on his desk.
‘I don’t appear to have your file,’ he said with a sigh. He consulted his computer, then picked up the phone again. ‘Can you please bring me the file for – ah, sorry, what did you say your name was…? Louisa Casson.’ He put down the phone. ‘So, how’s your mood? Any thoughts of harming yourself?’
‘No. I’ve never in my life had thoughts of harming myself. I was brought here in error.’
A nurse came in with her file and left again.
‘Oh, I see, you’re a new patient,’ the doctor said. ‘I could have sworn I’ve seen you here before. Didn’t I see you last week?’
Louisa felt a prick of alarm. ‘No, I was admitted yesterday.’
‘Ah, well, my apologies. I’m Dr Campbell. Now, perhaps you could tell me, in your own words, what happened to you?’
She related her story as factually as possible, and stated her case, doctor to doctor: that it was a waste of scarce NHS resources to keep her here while other people with real mental problems were desperate for help. He made notes as she spoke. Her stomach was beginning to churn with anxiety. She’d come into the meeting believing that common sense would automatically prevail. But something about the doctor’s offhand manner was making her panic.
‘Ah, I see that you’ve suffered from depression and anxiety in the past,’ the doctor said, reading her file, ‘relating to a traumatic event.’
‘A long time ago,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t have any bearing on any of this. This is just a simple mix-up. The doctor at Eastbourne Hospital was being overcautious. I can explain everything.’