Quicksand Page 9

Paul snapped his fingers. He had met Tumbelow the last time the latter came to Chent to grade the congenitals -- the imbeciles and morons who ought to have been in an institution of their own rather than an asylum, but who had had to be shuffled off here for lack of other facilities.

  "Thanks, I should have thought of that myself."

  "He might be able to advise you, I suppose. I do feel it's typical of Holy Joe to rely on a pediatrician with a hobby instead of a proper child psychologist, though. If we -- Never mind! My prejudices are showing. See you later."

  Left alone, Paul mechanically absorbed rather than ate his stewed apples, mind elsewhere.

  -- Not crazy, just terrified? No, it's too pat, when one of the commonest kinds of mental disorder consists mainly in groundless terror. And yet there's something so rational about Urchin. . . . Granted, paranoids are rational, with knobs on, but paranoia's psychotic and nobody seems to think she's worse than a hysteric. . . . If she really wants to learn English, we'll have to teach her. Without words, there's nothing to be done whatever.

  *13*

  Trouble with Urchin started the following day.

  Following his talk with Mirza, work kept Paul late in his office. With conscious rectitude he stopped at the Needle in Haystack only to buy a couple of quarts of beer, then went straight home to study over his evening meal.

  The nagging sensation that in some way he owed more to Urchin than to his other patients because she was suffering a real equivalent to his imaginary fears kept coming between him and his textbooks until in exasperation he made a firm resolve not to think of her again before, at the earliest, he had the lab reports and X-rays as a basis to work from.

  Sticking to that decision, he spent most of next morning reviewing his case-load and obtaining from the ward sisters and charge nurses comments on the chemotherapy he'd been prescribing for the patients. He would have got on well but for two major interruptions. The minor ones never stopped and he was adjusted to them.

  First there appeared a rather saddening new admission: an old woman referred from Blickham General where she had been being treated for a broken right hip. The long stay in hospital, as all too often happened, had wasted what little remained of her independence; day by day her personality had degraded until after postponing discharge to the latest possible moment Blickham General diagnosed irreversible senile dementia and contacted Chent.

  It was like the delivery of a package, not a human being: a sticklike frame swathed in blankets, toothless face blank with infantile preoccupations. She had fouled herself on the journey and stank of faeces.

  -- Selfish, but I feel glad that women live longer than men. I can expect to be decently dead before I reach that stage.

  Almost two-thirds of Chent's inmates were women, and the proportion among chronic geriatric cases was higher still. Small wonder, Paul had sometimes thought, that the ancients called hysteria after the womb if throughout history women had been twice as likely to go mad as men.

  The second interruption began by way of a phone call.

  "Dr Fidler?" He recognised Sister Wells's voice. "Trouble in the ward, I'm afraid, involving this girl Urchin."

  One second of stupefaction. Then: "I'm on my way!"

  -- Don't tell me she's broken someone else's arm!

  He found Nurse Kirk and Sister Wells in the female dormitory, the former standing aggressively over sly-faced Madge Phelps, who was clutching a hair-brush with a gaudy floral back, while Urchin sat on an empty, tidy bed occasionally touching an angry red mark on her cheek.

  "What happened?" Paul demanded.

  Sister Wells thrust a lock of stray hair back under her cap. "Madge says she caught . . . uh . . . Urchin trying to steal her hair-brush, whereupon she hit her with it. I've been trying to verify this, but it's not exactly easy."

  -- Among the other things lunatics make: their own version of truth.

  Paul frowned. "What are they doing here anyway?"

  Nurse Kirk spoke up. "Madge wouldn't go out this morning -- said she was suspicious of Urchin. So we left her in her nightwear to be seen to later. And there isn't much point in trying to get Urchin out of the ward, is there -- not understanding what people say to her?"

  "She's been keeping up this learning-English act," the sister amplified. "I'm afraid it's been annoying the other patients rather, being followed around and pestered for the names of perfectly ordinary objects."

  -- Act?

  But Paul let that pass without comment.

  "Madge took an interest in her over breakfast and my guess is that not finding anyone else left to talk to, Urchin started trying to get the names of Madge's belongings. But not even the nurses touch Madge's stuff without asking, or they're likely to lose a handful of hair. A smack with the brush I'd call getting off lightly!"

  "Dirty thief!" Madge said loudly. "Ought to be locked up in her cell all day and all night and we could look through the peephole and laugh at her."

  Urchin got down off the bed. Dejectedly she walked back to her cell and shut the door behind her.

  "She understood that all right, apparently," Sister Wells said in surprise.

  -- Did she? No, I think it was just a case of giving up against hopeless odds.

  Before Paul could speak again, however, there was a call from the far door.

  "Sister! Sister -- Hello, what's going on?"

  -- Matron in all her gory, as Mirza puts it.

  Having heard the story, Matron Thoroday rounded on Paul. "Sedation, don't you think, Doctor? Can't have this sort of thing wasting the valuable time of my nurses."

  "No," Paul said.

  Matron blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I said no. I don't propose to prescribe any medication for Urchin until I'm satisfied she's suffering from a disorder which requires it."

  The matron was marginally too well-mannered to snort, but she implied it. "Sister, how do you feel about it?"

  "Stick needles in her," Madge said. "Lots of needles. Lots and lots of needles!"

  "Be quiet," Matron ordered briskly, and Madge looked frightened. "Sister, you were saying. . .?"

  "Well, she isn't really being much trouble," Sister Wells murmured.

  "A moment ago you were saying she was pestering the nurses and patients. Make your mind up, Wells!"

  -- There's something I detest about blotting out patients who make a nuisance of themselves.

  The realisation came to Paul accompanied by a faint aura of surprise. Perhaps it was Mirza's remark of yesterday about the churchly associations of the cracked bell in the clock-tower, bringing back an admonition which once he had thought of frequently but not for many years: suffer fools gladly .

  -- Though there are fools and fools . . . No, nuisance is one thing, and we tolerate it in those who are nominally sane. Violence, hurting: that's of a different order, and when our skills are exhausted there's no alternative. We call the pharmacy and . . . But why should we resent being bothered by those who are trying to communicate with us, and to communicate terrible things, at that? Even if we leave them no other means of expression except their own filth!

  He said sharply, "Please don't argue, Matron. In my judgment Urchin needs neither sedation nor any other immediate attention."

  "I feel you may be overlooking something, Doctor . This Urchin -- and what a ridiculous name that is, by the way! -- this young woman definitely broke a man's arm. I don't want that to happen in the hospital, and I'm sure you agree with me." Matron Thoroday wasn't used to being talked back to; the words lacked her normal forthrightness.

  "On the contrary," Paul returned, "I think you're overlooking the fact that she was the one who got hit, and you're talking as if she did the hitting. Has Madge Phelps done this kind of thing before, Nurse?" he added, turning.

  "She goes for anybody who tries to touch her property," Nurse Kirk said.

  "Whose patient is she?"

  "Dr Roshman's."

  "Is he prescribing anything for her at the moment?"

 
"She's on Largactil, but he has just reduced the daily dosage."

  "Put her back on the farmer dosage for the rest of today, and if Dr Roshman inquires why, refer him to me, will you?"

  -- Unanswerable question: am I doing this to spite Matron, or is it the right thing in view of Roshman's vacillating habits? It's true he changes his mind more often in a week than Alsop does in a year, so I'll just have to pray that his first guess was the right one.

  Matron's cheeks were turning scarlet, but he tactfully kept his eyes averted, addressing Nurse Kirk.

  -- The way I'm going on, they're liable to start accusing me of favouritism among the patients. One further point. One.

  "Apart from trying to get them to teach her English, has Urchin been annoying the other patients?"

  "Well, yes," was the reply, to Paul's dismay. "She watches them."

  "What's so bad about that?"

  "I mean she stares at them and tries to copy what they're doing."

  "Because she doesn't know what to do herself?"

  "I suppose so. But I'm not surprised they find it a bit irritating." The nurse hesitated. "Then, of course, they didn't like the way she behaved in the washroom this morning."

  "How?"

  "She took off all her clothes and positively scrubbed her private parts. And it shocked the others. We have several patients who've been brought up to always use a separate face-towel, and seeing her wipe her whole body with her face-cloth upset them dreadfully."

  Paul made a mental note to follow up that hint. Obsession with the cleanliness of the sexual parts could indicate the nature of the underlying disorder.

  -- If there is one. I think my good resolution is going to hell. Too many enigmas for my peace of mind.

  "I'd have thought there was a fairly simple solution," he said aloud. "Let her have a shower, or a tub."

  "But we don't normally do that in the mornings before breakfast," Matron said with an air of restrained triumph. "I imagine the other patients would regard this as a special treat, wouldn't they, Sister?"

  "I'm afraid they might," Sister Wells admitted.

  "Sometimes people get my goat," Paul said, his patience running out. "A person who's exceptionally clean gets called dirty by those around her. This is ridiculous -- in the strict sense, it's crazy. Just make your minds up which will cause less trouble, having her wash all over in public or having her sent for a shower in private, and then let her get on with it. Now, if that's all, I have work to do, and so have you!"

  *14*

  "This is Holinshed," the phone muttered. "Come down to my office, will you?"

  -- Blast the man. As if I didn't have my hands full! My turn for duty again tonight, and the Operating Committee tomorrow, and I'm drowning in a sea of papers.

  But Paul remembered to put on his politest face as he tapped at Holinshed's door.

  "Ah, Fidler! Sit down. You know Inspector Hofford, I believe."

  Raincoat unbelted and dragging on the floor either side of his chair, the policeman nodded his greeting.

  "Sorry to bother you, Doctor," he said. "It's about this girl Urchin, of course. Mr Faberdown won't let the matter rest. I've been trying to work out some means of passing it off lightly, with the help of Dr Holinshed here. But . . ."

  "Are you going to prefer charges against the girl?"

  "I don't see much alternative," Hofford sighed.

  Holinshed broke in, his voice brittle. "Inspector Hofford is prepared to co-operate in every possible way, but apparently it's largely up to us. As I understand it, the tidiest course is to certify the girl unfit to plead."

  "Except," Hofford murmured, "that when we spoke before, Doctor, you gave me the impression you thought she might have been . . . ah . . . temporarily upset by attempted rape, rather than mentally deranged, in which case the whole affair takes on a different complexion."

  "Is Faberdown sticking to his story?" Paul asked.

  "Like a leech, sir," Hofford grunted. "And I gather you haven't yet found an interpreter to tell us the girl's side of it, so she's in no position to contradict him, is she?"

  Paul turned over the alternatives in his mind.

  -- Well, it would certainly be cruel to put her on show in a public court, which is what I suppose it would come to. But there's something so dreadfully final about the piece of paper which sets it down in black and white: so-and-so is clinically insane. It revolts me. Mirza is right. Even the worst of our patients remains a little bit sane.

  "Inspector, is this very urgent?" he inquired.

  "Of course we'd like to clear the whole business up as quickly as we can, but . . . well, no, not what you'd call urgent. Mr Faberdown is still in the hospital himself and certainly won't be out until after the weekend, and I take it the girl will remain here."

  Holinshed coughed gently. "You sound worried, Fidler. May I know the reason?"

  "Frankly, sir, I wouldn't be prepared to certify her unfit. I honestly don't think anyone could."

  "But I gather from Matron that she's been behaving in a hr'm! -- disorderly manner in the ward today."

  -- What was I thinking earlier about lunatics making their own version of truth? Why specify lunatics?

  "The way it was reported to me, sir, she was in fact attacked by another patient, and the nurse stated she made no attempt to retaliate. Matron insisted that I sedate her, but I refused."

  -- Oh-oh. I think I just went a step too far.

  A frigid light gleamed in Holinshed's eyes. "If I follow you correctly, you're implying that she's a miserable victim of circumstances and the salesman despite his denials is the one who should be arraigned in court. Now this," he continued, raising a hand to forestall Paul's indignant interruption, "strikes me as a highly speculative standpoint. Where are the traces of this attempted rape? I didn't find them in the admission report. And in any case, according to Inspector Hofford, this leads to enormous complications."

  "Well, yes," the latter agreed. "To take the worst aspect of the problem, she's presumably an alien, and once we try to establish what a foreigner is doing wandering around a Shropshire wood without clothes, let alone identification, we get mixed up with the immigration authorities, the Home Office, and lord knows who."

  "Have you checked with Missing Persons?"

  "That's one of the reasons I called here today. I'd like to arrange for a photograph of her."

  "Well, she's going to Blickham General tomorrow for a head X-ray. They have an arrangement with a local photographer; I can probably organise it through them."

  "I'd be much obliged," Hofford said, and made to rise. "I think that's as far as we can take matters today then, Dr Holinshed," he added.

  "Just a moment," Holinshed put in, eyes on Paul. "Does Dr Alsop share your view that the girl is actually normal, Fidler?"

  "That's not what I've been saying," Paul snapped. "But it was drummed into me during training that one should never mistake the result of different customs or some physical handicap for true mental disorder."

  "And what . .. ah . . . physical handicap applies to this girl?"

  "Matron told you about the rumpus involving her. But apparently she neglected to mention that she's trying to get the patients and nurses to teach her English."