Read Online The Other Side of You by Salley Vickers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Salley Vickers
Tags: Fiction
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hospital which had originally served as one of the big Victorian asylums.
St Stephen’s had retained in its running a remnant of the asylum policy wherein the madder the inmate, the higher up the large mock-Gothic pile they were placed; and, in the cases of the potentially violent, in locked wards, with confining cells, and with nurses trained to deal with any dangerous outbreaks. We even had restraining jackets, based on the old ‘strait’ kind, though as Gus once said, why a ‘restraining’ jacket was deemed to be less offensive than a ‘strait’ one, beat him. He and I agreed one evening, over a whisky or two, that if we were ever forcibly confined we would rather be straitened than restrained. (‘And while we’re at it,’ Gus had added, ‘what in God’s name is wrong with the old word “asylum”?’)
My purpose in visiting St Stephen’s was to conduct the long-term patients’ annual review, which had been scheduled for the following day. For the most part this meeting was a mere routine of briefly reviewing, and then renewing, existing measures—security levels, medication, treatment plans—but when the wolf man’s name came up I found myself asking, ‘Why, as a matter of interest, do we keep him on level five?’ Five was St Stephen’s top security ward.
I was the consultant and the person who’d known the wolf man longest and, as I had expected, no one had any answer to this question.
‘Have we any evidence of violence?’
Level five’s charge nurse, an Irishman with bad skin and reddish hair, said that, as far as he knew, we didn’t.
‘Has he been any trouble at all, Sean? Anything not on the record we should know about?’
‘Nothing, Dr McBride, so far as I’m aware. Though…’
‘What?’
‘He’s always saying he might do something. Or so I’m led to believe. Can’t say he lets on to any of us.’
‘But that’s his delusion, isn’t it? My point is, why are we pandering to it? We’ve never had the smallest peep out of him in all the time I’ve been here. I think we should try him out on level four, or even three, see how he goes. Anyone got any objections?’
I knew they wouldn’t have. And I caught the train to London with the self-satisfied feeling that I’d performed at least one valuable action that day.
The reason the meeting at St Stephen’s had had to be brought forward was because I was obliged to be in London the following day. I was to appear as an expert witness in a medical case, which gave me an opportunity to visit Gus.
Gus lived in prodigal squalor in a cramped, snuff-coloured flat on Marylebone High Street. I’d never had much clue about Gus’s private life. I gathered from some source, not Gus himself, that he had been married. Signs of various involvements were occasionally discernible though I never met Gus in the company of a woman with whom, so far as I could judge, he had any close tie. I saw him once coming down Shaftesbury Avenue with a tall, elegantly dressed, striking-looking older woman. There was a Russian air about her—she had a dancer’s bones and deportment—but if Gus noticed me he concealed the fact and something in his manner kept me from making my presence known. I thought afterwards that he had looked vulnerable with the woman on his arm.
But no woman I’ve ever known could have managed more than a night or two at Gus’s flat. To this day, I couldn’t say whether the nicotine-coloured walls were that shade to blend in with or as a result of his addiction. I removed a plate of what looked to have been egg and beans and brown sauce and settled into a peeling leather armchair that put me in mind of a rhinoceros with dermatitis.
Gus poured me a whisky, picked up a half-smoked cheroot from the ashtray, stubbed it out absent-mindedly, lit a fresh one and stretched out a leg on the sofa. Watching him, I was aware of a sensation which often visited me when I saw Gus, which was that with him I was safe from harm.
I don’t
St Stephen’s had retained in its running a remnant of the asylum policy wherein the madder the inmate, the higher up the large mock-Gothic pile they were placed; and, in the cases of the potentially violent, in locked wards, with confining cells, and with nurses trained to deal with any dangerous outbreaks. We even had restraining jackets, based on the old ‘strait’ kind, though as Gus once said, why a ‘restraining’ jacket was deemed to be less offensive than a ‘strait’ one, beat him. He and I agreed one evening, over a whisky or two, that if we were ever forcibly confined we would rather be straitened than restrained. (‘And while we’re at it,’ Gus had added, ‘what in God’s name is wrong with the old word “asylum”?’)
My purpose in visiting St Stephen’s was to conduct the long-term patients’ annual review, which had been scheduled for the following day. For the most part this meeting was a mere routine of briefly reviewing, and then renewing, existing measures—security levels, medication, treatment plans—but when the wolf man’s name came up I found myself asking, ‘Why, as a matter of interest, do we keep him on level five?’ Five was St Stephen’s top security ward.
I was the consultant and the person who’d known the wolf man longest and, as I had expected, no one had any answer to this question.
‘Have we any evidence of violence?’
Level five’s charge nurse, an Irishman with bad skin and reddish hair, said that, as far as he knew, we didn’t.
‘Has he been any trouble at all, Sean? Anything not on the record we should know about?’
‘Nothing, Dr McBride, so far as I’m aware. Though…’
‘What?’
‘He’s always saying he might do something. Or so I’m led to believe. Can’t say he lets on to any of us.’
‘But that’s his delusion, isn’t it? My point is, why are we pandering to it? We’ve never had the smallest peep out of him in all the time I’ve been here. I think we should try him out on level four, or even three, see how he goes. Anyone got any objections?’
I knew they wouldn’t have. And I caught the train to London with the self-satisfied feeling that I’d performed at least one valuable action that day.
The reason the meeting at St Stephen’s had had to be brought forward was because I was obliged to be in London the following day. I was to appear as an expert witness in a medical case, which gave me an opportunity to visit Gus.
Gus lived in prodigal squalor in a cramped, snuff-coloured flat on Marylebone High Street. I’d never had much clue about Gus’s private life. I gathered from some source, not Gus himself, that he had been married. Signs of various involvements were occasionally discernible though I never met Gus in the company of a woman with whom, so far as I could judge, he had any close tie. I saw him once coming down Shaftesbury Avenue with a tall, elegantly dressed, striking-looking older woman. There was a Russian air about her—she had a dancer’s bones and deportment—but if Gus noticed me he concealed the fact and something in his manner kept me from making my presence known. I thought afterwards that he had looked vulnerable with the woman on his arm.
But no woman I’ve ever known could have managed more than a night or two at Gus’s flat. To this day, I couldn’t say whether the nicotine-coloured walls were that shade to blend in with or as a result of his addiction. I removed a plate of what looked to have been egg and beans and brown sauce and settled into a peeling leather armchair that put me in mind of a rhinoceros with dermatitis.
Gus poured me a whisky, picked up a half-smoked cheroot from the ashtray, stubbed it out absent-mindedly, lit a fresh one and stretched out a leg on the sofa. Watching him, I was aware of a sensation which often visited me when I saw Gus, which was that with him I was safe from harm.
I don’t
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