Huts68

It was Sunday, a day of rest. I found wee John Wilson on the floor of one of the patient’s toilets, in Ailsa ward, the ones furthest from Wullie the Pole’s office, near the blocked off Fire Escape doors. His trousers were still around his ankles, and the shite slithered out of the pan, and followed its own lazy trajectory, onto his white Y fronts, and the black corduroy trousers, he thought made him Johnny Cash. He lay next to the bath panel and the toilet pan, and smelled worse than a dead man. His black NHS specks were half on and half off his face, but as usual they were opaque with dirt, rather than clear, so that it was difficult to see if his bug-eyes were open. At first I thought he’d taken a epileptic fit, and would have put him in the recovery position, but the way he’d fallen already mimicked it, as if a giant hand had come down and positioned him just-so. I looked out of the corners of my eyes, just as the lights began to flicker on and off, on and off.

There was nobody about to see me edge backwards into the fluorescent light of the corridor. I didn’t run away, just walked, with a little gallop thrown in.

Wullie the Pole sat in the spotlight of his office smoking Capstan Full Strength and listening to some crappy opera on the radio, at full volume. He tended to do that more, since Michael his batman, had been moved to Morrison ward. I wasn’t sure if he was still drinking cherry brandy, but his office still smelled like my dad’s old 1950s hair tonic. The only thing I was sure of was that I was avoiding him more and, he was letting me, apart from the times he sent me out to the shops, or other little messages to other wards, that he used to send Michael on. I almost felt sorry for him.

Wullie the Pole squeezed out from the space between his desk and chair, as if the thought of moving had already took him further than he wanted to go.

‘Are you sure?’ he said.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied, with a catch in my voice, wondering if I should have done more to check if John was really dead.

I never really noticed wee John Wilson. He never got any medication and he ate little more than the average house sparrow, but above all he was quiet, and seemed contented, going from Ailsa ward to his job in the furniture factory. I don’t know what he did there, but was sure he hummed that wordless little Country and Western tune, nobody knew, which sounded like a radio receiver nudging static.

Wullie the Pole ambled down the main corridor, like a block of granite on rollers, his eyes picking out who was where, and what they were doing. He didn’t need a notebook, for any perceived misdemeanours, but was sure as any beagle to follow it up. The light on the toilet still flickered on and off. Wullie the Pole pulled the drop cord once, and then again, waiting, as if he was listening for light.

‘We’ll need to get the…’ he searched for the right word, ‘electricity-man, to fix this’.

He nudged John Wilson with his shiny brogue shoe, like a piece of road-kill.

‘He’s dead,’ Wullie the Pole turned and said.

‘Don’t you need to check his pulse, or something?’ I asked, looking at John lying there, willing him to move.

‘He’s dead,’ said Wullie the Pole, looking at me, as if he was sizing me up for a coffin as well. ‘Get Pea-Head and fling him in the bath. You’ll still be able to move his limbs. Just put his clothes in the bin. He’ll not need them now.’

‘And lock the toilet door from the outside so that the other half-wits don’t get too much of a surprise.’ I recognized that remark as the closest Wullie the Pole got to humour, but it was too late for that. A few of the patients were already standing at my back looking past me and Wullie the Pole.

‘I’ll need to go and phone that idiot Dr Fleming to get a death certificate.’ Wullie the Pole sighed, and the smell of 1950’s hair tonic stood between us.

‘What do you think he died of?' I asked.

‘Hang on,’ said Wullie the Pole, holding his hand up like a traffic-cop, sizing up the gawping patients for a traffic accident. ‘Beat it!’ he said to them, jerking his thumb up and out, as if he was hitchhiking and trying to stop a speeding car.

Calloused and slippered feet scrambled on the tiled floor, like dogs scrambling on marble, as the pyjama and house-coated patients slipped away, back into the dayroom and invisibility.

Wullie the Pole looked at John Wilson for, it seemed, the first time, picking him apart like a jigsaw puzzle. ‘Heart attack,’ he said, walking quickly away, back to his office.

I doubted whether Dr Fleming would bother driving down in his E-type Jag to confirm it was a heart attack. Wullie the Pole would just send me up to Dr Fleming’s office in the admin block, like a schoolboy with a note, to collect the death certificate. There were no suspicious circumstances and the details could be worked out later. Or, if Dr Fleming was ostensibly working from home, he would have phoned ahead and another psychiatrist would, as standard procedure, arrange it.

I took my time, walking up the long way, through the Blue- bell Woods, stopping to have a fag, and appreciate all that fresh air stuff, it was impossible to notice, when I wasn’t working. I didn’t have long to wait in the Admin block, but I didn’t care. It was work time anyway. I was glad Dr Fleming wasn’t in, because he might have asked me some questions that would have left me all red face and flustered.

Coming back down the hill was always quicker, but I didn’t really care, I would soon be finished work for the day. The A4 sized brown envelope I was carrying had ‘Confidential’ underlined, and ‘Charge Nurse:W.Borusc’ typed in bold face ink. That probably took longer to process than the envelope that the light piece of paper inside. All that attention to detail was worthless, with non-gummy glue that was as effective as saliva, in keeping the envelope flap sealed, in a way that just sat up and begged to be looked at.

‘John Wilson… cause of death… cardiac arrest… 3.10pm.’

Wullie the Pole would already have phoned the undertakers. They would come to the ward later, and go about their silent business. The following day it would be just like John Wilson had never been there. We’d get allocated another patient. I just hoped he was as easy to deal with as John Wilson.