Read Online Bedlam Burning by Geoff Nicholson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Geoff Nicholson
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funny farm. A booby hatch. Donât look so surprised.â
I thought I had some justification for being surprised. I had no ideathat asylums employed writers-in-residence, and it sounded like a very tough job.
âWait till you meet Dr Kincaid,â Alicia said. âThen everything will become clearer.â
I doubted that, and I wasnât sure this was an area in which I actually craved clarity. I was still enjoying the confusion. The taxi arrived in due course outside an imposing, dignified Victorian building on the outskirts of Brighton. It looked substantial yet severe, rather small for a hospital, more like a converted vicarage or village schoolhouse, and only passingly like my idea of an asylum. The front elevation was complex, all gables and bays, dormer windows and intricately carved bargeboards. It was Gothic, but not horror-movie Gothic. In fact, it looked quite benign and it took a while for me to notice that the retaining wall was a good deal higher than most garden walls, and that the tall cast-iron gates had some heavy-duty electronic hardware keeping them locked. Alicia produced a high-tech little device that she waved in the direction of the gates and they opened automatically. I found this rather impressive and futuristic.
We walked into the grounds and headed for the main entrance of the clinic. I was aware that an asylum at night with locked gates and high walls was the stuff of dark fantasy and bad dreams, yet I felt unthreatened. And when I first stepped inside the vestibule, to the front desk, where a hatchet-faced night nurse looked at us blankly, I was hit by a severe whiteness, a combination of white-painted surfaces and pitiless fluorescent strip light. It was the sort of illumination that drives away shadows and phantoms. And when Alicia took me in to meet her boss, I saw that his office too was wilfully, clinically, bare and bright.
Dr Eric Kincaid was sitting behind a stark metal desk. He was a middle-aged black man. That surprised me, but only a little. It would have surprised me even more if the head of the clinic had been a woman. It would have surprised me almost as much if heâd spoken with a heavy regional accent. He didnât. His voice was thick and deep and grave. If there was a hint of Caribbean lightness to it, he kept it well under control. This was the voice of authority, of the Establishment.
There was a solidity about him, a scale. He carried a lot of weight but he carried it easily, and everything about him seemed padded and rounded. His wrists and neck were thick with fat and muscle. Thecollar and cuffs of his shirt gripped too tightly, and he pulled at them from time to time, to get some temporary relief from their constriction. His bald head was a polished, dimpled dome, his belly was a globe of flesh that pushed out his white doctorâs coat, and his fingers were short, spatulate, competent looking. He exuded calm, dignity, competence, maybe even wisdom: or was I just buying into some familiar myth about the power and charisma of doctors? Did he look like a genius? Well, what did geniuses look like? Like mad scientists, like crazy professors, like Einstein? By these standards he looked all too prosaic.
âMr Collins,â he said, âIâm very pleased to meet you at last. Aliciaâs told me all about you.â
Alicia caught my eye and nodded winningly, encouraging me to go with the flow, to accept what Kincaid was saying, implying that everything would be cleared up later. Had she really told him about Gregory Collins? How would she have had anything to tell?
âNice to meet you too,â I said.
âI wonât lie to you,â Kincaid said, âI havenât read your book from beginning to end, but Iâve skimmed it thoroughly and Iâm confident we can work together.â
I couldnât imagine where he got such confidence from, and I was sure it was misplaced.
âItâs apparent from your writing that
I thought I had some justification for being surprised. I had no ideathat asylums employed writers-in-residence, and it sounded like a very tough job.
âWait till you meet Dr Kincaid,â Alicia said. âThen everything will become clearer.â
I doubted that, and I wasnât sure this was an area in which I actually craved clarity. I was still enjoying the confusion. The taxi arrived in due course outside an imposing, dignified Victorian building on the outskirts of Brighton. It looked substantial yet severe, rather small for a hospital, more like a converted vicarage or village schoolhouse, and only passingly like my idea of an asylum. The front elevation was complex, all gables and bays, dormer windows and intricately carved bargeboards. It was Gothic, but not horror-movie Gothic. In fact, it looked quite benign and it took a while for me to notice that the retaining wall was a good deal higher than most garden walls, and that the tall cast-iron gates had some heavy-duty electronic hardware keeping them locked. Alicia produced a high-tech little device that she waved in the direction of the gates and they opened automatically. I found this rather impressive and futuristic.
We walked into the grounds and headed for the main entrance of the clinic. I was aware that an asylum at night with locked gates and high walls was the stuff of dark fantasy and bad dreams, yet I felt unthreatened. And when I first stepped inside the vestibule, to the front desk, where a hatchet-faced night nurse looked at us blankly, I was hit by a severe whiteness, a combination of white-painted surfaces and pitiless fluorescent strip light. It was the sort of illumination that drives away shadows and phantoms. And when Alicia took me in to meet her boss, I saw that his office too was wilfully, clinically, bare and bright.
Dr Eric Kincaid was sitting behind a stark metal desk. He was a middle-aged black man. That surprised me, but only a little. It would have surprised me even more if the head of the clinic had been a woman. It would have surprised me almost as much if heâd spoken with a heavy regional accent. He didnât. His voice was thick and deep and grave. If there was a hint of Caribbean lightness to it, he kept it well under control. This was the voice of authority, of the Establishment.
There was a solidity about him, a scale. He carried a lot of weight but he carried it easily, and everything about him seemed padded and rounded. His wrists and neck were thick with fat and muscle. Thecollar and cuffs of his shirt gripped too tightly, and he pulled at them from time to time, to get some temporary relief from their constriction. His bald head was a polished, dimpled dome, his belly was a globe of flesh that pushed out his white doctorâs coat, and his fingers were short, spatulate, competent looking. He exuded calm, dignity, competence, maybe even wisdom: or was I just buying into some familiar myth about the power and charisma of doctors? Did he look like a genius? Well, what did geniuses look like? Like mad scientists, like crazy professors, like Einstein? By these standards he looked all too prosaic.
âMr Collins,â he said, âIâm very pleased to meet you at last. Aliciaâs told me all about you.â
Alicia caught my eye and nodded winningly, encouraging me to go with the flow, to accept what Kincaid was saying, implying that everything would be cleared up later. Had she really told him about Gregory Collins? How would she have had anything to tell?
âNice to meet you too,â I said.
âI wonât lie to you,â Kincaid said, âI havenât read your book from beginning to end, but Iâve skimmed it thoroughly and Iâm confident we can work together.â
I couldnât imagine where he got such confidence from, and I was sure it was misplaced.
âItâs apparent from your writing that
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