Synopsis
Charles Rodger life has come to an abrupt halt as his disturbing past and his inability to deal with it brings him to the point of suicide. His outward appearance as a successful company manager hides his inner turmoil which manifests itself in self-torture, both physical and mental.
In desperation, he turns to a place where he feels help and understanding will be provided - Entelechy, a mental asylum. But it s not long before the harsh reality presents itself. The very place where understanding and professional help should be readily available turns out to be a violent, repressive and undermining establishment, no different to the world he has left behind.
Ingratiating himself to Dr. Annise, who is badly affected by his years of service in the asylum, he sets out to avail of any treatment that will help him find relief from his crippling psychological condition.
Rodgers finds himself in a ward populated by eccentric characters who at first he finds pathetic, annoying and frightening. But as the months go by, he begins to see beyond their illnesses and comes to the disturbing conclusion that his own life is at risk, as he confronts the threat of enforced institutionalism and the unspoken rules within the asylum.
Excerpt from Chapter 1
I awoke early one morning to a lot of commotion near my bedroom window. Ordinarily I would just ignore a distraction like this, pull the covers over my head and get some prolonged rest before my monotonous daily routine begins. However, this morning is different, because there are angry voices and piercing screams outside. I get up, walk across the cold marble floor and peer out through the curtains.
Two men in hospital attire chase the naked body of Scaramouch around the rose garden. They ignore Fluff, who has managed to scale the gazebo that stands proudly in the centre of the lawn to the front of Entelechy. He too is undressed, probably assumes that it is a prerequisite for this outdoor frolicking. He screams every time one of the male nurses tries to grab Scaramouch.
It’s a dull and very wet day; the kind of day that makes staying in bed so alluring. But I’m enjoying the comfort of my room with the rain pelting down outside, and the farcical scene before me. Scaramouch slips and slides as he deftly meanders his long thin frame between his pursuers. He ignores their threats and seems to get great enjoyment from hearing Fluff’s screams as he teases the two nurses.
Fluff’s excitement can be gauged from the rate at which his lower jaw moves up and down. On more sedate days he looks more like a fish staring out of an aquarium.
One of nurses hobbles around on crutches. He struggles to coordinate his movements with those of Scaramouch. His thin frame is not cut out for this kind of demanding activity, given his handicap. The plastering on his left leg is covered in mud. The other nurse is morbidly obese. His face is purple from the annoyance of having to do more than his peer. The strenuous exercise he must endure to capture the athletic Scaramouch is too demanding. His comrade is barking orders at him, really adding salt to the wound, building up the explosive potential within him. A quick adjustment in position to grab a hold of Scaramouch lands him on the flat of his back. That s all he needs. If things couldn’t deteriorate any further, a damp muddy patch on the arse of his trousers pushes him to his limit. Up he staggers, expletives issuing forth from his bearded visage. Scaramouch’s sneery laughter has him in hot pursuit again. Every now and then he stops to wipe his glasses with his soiled fingers. He’s a mess and the thought of being a mess is infuriating to a severe degree.
He must have arrived at work to witness the goings on. His car is parked half way up the drive with the door wide open. But this is not a quick beeline into the shop for a newspaper while parked on a double yellow line and a bionic traffic warden’s binocular vision scanning the street; or the clamper brigade on patrol with their addiction to the colour yellow and their fetish for car tyres. Must have thought it was going to be easy. Not the kind of start to a working day one would want.
I could be sarcastic and shout out the window if he thinks it is wise to leave a car door open in such inclement weather. Could be his breaking point though, and I know what that is like. I must admit, the irony of it appeals to me.
Anyhow, my comrades will eventually be escorted back into this edifice. They will be tossed back into the regimented and routine existence of this place. Moving from one space to another aimlessly, and sometimes drugged to their eyeballs for convenience.
***
After recovering from the mayhem outside, it’s back to the same old monotonous existence. A refreshing shower followed by breakfast with the other inmates and then a whole day of doing nothing. Although I have my suspicions that Scaramouch and Fluff will not be joining us this morning!
Breakfast lasts an hour or so. It s very seldom all the patients in our section are present for the first meal of the day. Could have had a bad night and they are lying like zombies on their beds. I’ve been managing so far. Surviving from day to day. I always sit near the entrance to the breakfast room so as to leave quickly and get to the bathroom before Bartel, and brush my teeth. Even if I’m only halfway through my meal, I’ll leave if I notice Bartel about to do the same. He s very untidy and always angry. You can hear him coming down the corridor as he gasps to inhale air into an overweight body supported by two stumpy legs.
I remember the first morning I had breakfast with the inmates. Some of the patients in the Dymphna ward were present. We were in a very large room with four Georgian windows on one side. Tables and chairs were arranged in rows of six and spaced far enough apart to allow one to feel very comfortable alone, but also very uneasy at the closeness to some of the other inmates whose antics could cause a deep sense of vulnerability. The corpulent chef shuffled about the open kitchen indifferently, every now and then glancing at his audience in a tiresome manner.
On that particular morning, Fluff had wrapped the table cloth around his shoulders and was pretending to be a super hero. He stood on a chair shouting in his non-sensical way, snapping the air with his lower jaw with each utterance Batman. Save-the-world. Drink-drivers. Tearing-the-heart-out-of-families. But-Batman-is-here. Will-end-this-stupidity-of-neglect. As-society-doesn't t-care-anyway. Drastic-measures-needed. Criminals-too. Will-be-dealt-with. Laws-encourage-rather-than-punish. Powers-that-be-should-be-in-here. I-will-save-the-country. No-need-to-worry-about-rights-and-humans. Will-provide-justice-at-all-costs. No protection-for-the-wicked.
Scaramouch was sitting at the same table rubbing baked beans over his eyes and temples. He then jumped up and shouted that he would be Robin. Let us go now Batman and find the fools and jokers who destroy society. Quickly. There s work to be done. And off he ran with Batman in pursuit out of the breakfast room.
A welcome sense of calm descended just as old Lord Campervan entered and made his way to his usual spot at the far end of the room. Like clockwork he would walk quietly in his thin-soled slippers taking short steps to his habitual dining seat, his walking stick tapping the ground regularly until the destination was reached. Once seated, he placed a napkin over the collar of his pyjamas spreading it outwards to cover the lapels of his dressing gown, and then stroked his bushy moustache with both hands in a horizontal direction in preparation for his bowl of porridge.
A loud clatter on my table bolted me upright as the chef arrived with my fry-up, dropping the plate on the table and returning immediately to the kitchen. Not a word was spoken. I could see him working away in his very familiar surroundings. Moving efficiently between oven and fridge; unpacking and re-wrapping; cleaning and drying; serving and collecting. Not even seeing his surroundings; more like feeling them through years of habit.
His face is purple, not from the heat of the kitchen but from a very imposing birthmark. The skin around his left eye is the only part that has been spared and granted normality. But it s not enough. Working in a place like this is probably the best choice he could make. Outside these walls, it must be a real challenge for him. The nasty comments; the continuous staring; and his own self- cravings to fit in; to be seen without scars; to alleviate his pent-up anger in a manner that does not involve throwing kitchen utensils.
