The White Room · salesman!had!assured!herthey!complied!with!thebuildings ......
Transcript of The White Room · salesman!had!assured!herthey!complied!with!thebuildings ......
The White Room
From the window, Charlotte waved her husband Greg off to work. He
waved back. The security bars they’d had put in were a nuisance.
Greg didn’t mind, but she thought they blocked some vision. The
salesman had assured her they complied with the buildings
insurance regulations and were intended more as a deterrent than
for their cosmetic value. Everyone in the apartment block was having
them fitted, the nice man had said. She had been sure he was flirting
with her. Even at 38 years old with her slim, tallish figure and (as an
old boyfriend had once complimented her,) Audrey Hepburn looks,
she knew she looked attractive.
They’d just had the lounge redecorated. She had wanted
powder blue but Greg had twisted her arm and convinced her white
would look much better. So, as usual, she had gone along with him.
Charlotte checked her watch,
‘Come on, you two, breakfast is ready!’ she shouted. ‘Hurry up
or you’ll be late for school.’
In a blink, they were sitting in front of her. She dished out the
toast and cereal.
‘Mark, sit up straight and take your elbows off the table.’ She
pushed his arms and Mark gave her one of his stares. Charlotte
ignored it. She looked over to her daughter, ‘Lucy, stop slurping your
milk, and have you done your homework?’
Lucy nodded with a slice of toast wedged in her mouth.
‘You’ve got your eleven-‐plus exams next year and I want you
both doing well and going to a Grammar School. Not one of those
Secondary Modern Schools full of council house kids and left-‐wing
teachers.’
They looked at her glassy-‐eyed, not quite understanding.
‘Mark, I’ve cleaned your football boots and your kit is washed
and ironed, so don’t forget to take it with you.’
Mark wasn’t taking a blind bit of notice and had his eyes
focused on the television.
‘Hello, can anybody hear me, it’s your mother talking; do I
exist?’ She looked at them both. ‘Obviously not.’
Charlotte heard the sound of the school bus pulling up outside.
She yanked them up,
‘Come on, you two, off to school now.’ She helped them into
their school blazers and ushered them to the door. The big yellow
bus was patiently chugging. Charlotte kissed them both on the head,
and then they were gone. She shouted after them,
‘Walk, don’t run,’ then closed the door.
She started putting the plastic cups and plates into the sink.
They were always used when she’d forgotten to switch on the
dishwasher; that was her excuse anyway.
Charlotte turned to the sound of the telephone. It was her
mother as usual, on the dot every morning at 8:40 a.m.
‘Hello, Mother, I knew it was you.’
‘Of course, it’s me. Who else would it be? Unless you was ringing
that boyfriend of yours? Gonna sleep belly to belly with him, was you?
Oh! The boys -‐ the boys, she’s discovered boys. The boys come next, like
dogs sniffing out a bitch on heat. Like sniffing and slobbering. Trying to
find out where that smell is. That smell… Now you pray, my child, bow
your head. Ask forgiveness for your sins, or you’ll get the closet again.'
Charlotte dropped to her knees still holding the receiver. Vera,
her mother, started chanting down the phone, ‘O Lord, help this
sinning girl beside me see the sin of her days and ways. Show her that if
she had remained sinless, the curse of blood every month would never
have come on her.’
More than once, as well as phoning, Vera had visited Charlotte’s
apartment. Always the other side of the street door; waiting,
listening, ready to chastise.
In her mind, she was back in the closet. Charlotte whimpered,
‘Let me out, Mama. Oh Mama, I’ve found the way. Jesus came to me,
Mama, while I was in here.’
‘You stay in there, girl, till your father comes home, then you’ll get
the strap.’
‘Please, Mama, I’ll be good, open the door.’
Charlotte pressed her ear against the receiver and whined,
‘Please, Mama, let me out.’
Expecting, hoping, but nothing. Vera had gone leaving just the
dull monotonous purr tone in her head.
She got up from her knees and replaced the receiver. The
telephone wire ended abruptly before it reached the wall socket. It
wasn’t connected.
Charlotte composed herself and went into Lucy’s room to tidy
up. She picked up the stuffed Dalmatian puppy. As she looked through
the security bars of Lucy’s bedroom window, she hugged the cuddly
toy affectionately.
*
It was nearly 5:30 p.m. Charlotte had made tea for Mark and Lucy.
‘Daddy will be home soon, you two. Finish your homework and you
can stay up and play with him for a while.’
They ignored her and stared transfixed at the television.
Neighbours was on -‐ their favourite.
The psychiatrist pressed the buzzer and spoke into the security
box to the guard.
‘Mr Greg Roylance to see patient, Miss Charlotte Stevens.’
At that moment, a yellow bus with three armed guards pulled
up. The back doors opened and five prisoners linked by chains,
wearing orange boiler suites, climbed out. The prisoners stood
behind the psychiatrist, flanked at rifle point.
Another much louder buzzer went off, an amber light flashed
and the electronic steel door slid open. The psychiatrist waved to
George the security officer, in acknowledgment, then an inner door
with steel bars disappeared into the wall.
He knew the drill; he put his money, keys and watch into the
tray then walked through the metal detector. George got out of his
chair and did a brief body search, always apologising as he’d done for
the last twelve years. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, he left
George in peace with his evening newspaper.
The tall good-‐looking, early forty-‐something psychiatrist, with
chiselled features and dark wavy hair, made his way to the door with
the notice pinned to it: ALL VISITORS TO CHECK IN.
At the desk, he signed the logbook with his name, date and
time. Colin, the guard on duty, handed him his visitor’s pass and the
maximum-‐security door swipe. Greg clipped the pass to his coat.
Visitors had to be escorted at all times, so Colin picked up the
desk phone and dialled the extension.
‘Mr Jefferson, Greg Roylance the psychiatrist, is here to see you.’
Although Mr Jefferson, a short portly balding late fifties man
with a thin trained moustache, was governor, he still liked to keep
close links with all the inmates, as he called them. He and the
psychiatrist had known each other for 12 years, since 1976 when
Greg’s patient, Charlotte Stevens, had been admitted as a 26-‐year-‐old.
‘How is she this evening?’ Greg inquired.
‘She’s waiting for you, Greg, to come home from work as usual,’
Mr Jefferson replied with a grin.
They walked up a flight of steps to Ward A, then along the
corridor to the fifth room with the large picture window and the steel
door. Amongst the smells of disinfectant, bleached linen, alcohol and
waxed floors, they watched her for a while through the one-‐way
window.
‘She’s far more responsive since we moved her out of the
padded cell,’ Mr Jefferson highlighted, ‘but we still make sure there’s
no sharp objects anywhere. Only plastic cups and saucers; same goes
with knives and forks.’
The psychiatrist nodded in agreement,
‘Best to be safe than sorry. What about restraints?’
‘We only have to put the jacket on when she’s having her
medication and, as you know, she always makes a fuss when she’s
having her electric shock procedure. The treatment room reminds
her of the abuse she suffered as a child in the closet.’
‘We have tried various things before but we must keep trying to
find something that might help,’ the psychiatrist said. He took out his
notepad and scribbled. ‘I’ll work on her when she’s having therapy.’
He looked up from his pad with an idea. ‘I think we should try
background music. It might help to soothe her.’
‘We could give it a try,’ Mr Jefferson responded, ‘It certainly
can’t hurt.’
Jefferson picked up the clipboard hanging on the door.
‘This morning the usual phone-‐call scenario with her mother -‐
she got all upset, thought she was back in the closet.’ He thumbed
through some pages, ‘Oh, she wanted a white coat on the small side.
Said it was for Lucy to take to school for her cooking lessons. The
orderly gave her one from the laundry room, He asked me first. I
didn’t think there was any harm.’
‘At least, we’ve reduced her schizophrenic characters down to
three,’ the psychiatrist said, ‘including being my wife.’ He rolled his
eyes while Mr Jefferson chuckled. ‘Let me in and I’ll take a look at her.’
‘OK, Greg. I’m off home now so let your-‐self out with the swipe
card then ring for the orderly. He’ll escort you back to reception. I’d
like to stay but it’s our wedding anniversary and the wife wants me to
take her for an Italian.’ They both laughed.
As Jefferson used his maximum-‐security door swipe, the
bulletproof glass swished aside. The psychiatrist stepped in and the
glass swished closed behind him. It was safe. With a camera in every
room and twenty-‐four hour monitoring, he didn’t have to worry
much.
‘Honey, I’m home.’
Charlotte appeared from the little kitchenette wiping her hands
on the striped apron. ‘Hi Greg. You’re early.’ She walked over and gave
him a peck on the cheek. ‘I’m making us a nice fish pie for dinner. Give
me twenty-‐minutes and could you lay the table and open the wine? I
bought a screw top at the supermarket instead of those awkward
corks. Also please tell the kids to wash their hands.’
‘OK, honey,’ Greg replied. He had played this charade countless
times. It got her in the right mood for therapy, which was to follow.
However, this role-‐playing had often made him wonder whether it
was he or his patient who was mad. He laid the table with the plastic
cutlery. ‘Have you two washed your hands?’ he said loudly, so she
could hear.
Mark and Lucy ignored him and looked at the television. No
one could blame them because in reality they couldn’t answer back.
The two child mannequins had come from the fashion department of
a high street store, school clothes included.
They’d been Greg’s idea. He’d attended a lecture at Edinburgh
University given by the eminent psychologist, Dr Frans Hoffman.
Studies had shown that sociopaths and psychopaths behaved well
and responded to role-‐play therapy in a social bonding family
environment, something that was usually lacking in their childhood
and important character-‐forming years.
To be sure, this was safe for psychiatric staff, they had tested
similar mannequins. Using various household objects, they had
smashed them up to see whether they would splinter and could form
a possible weapon she could use on herself or others.
Charlotte glanced at the kitchen wall clock. It was 6:25 p.m. In
five minutes, as always, the bell would ring announcing the start of
the evening shift. This heralded a big exodus on all floors with the
new shift taking over, including reception and the surveillance room.
She closed the women’s magazine with the fish recipe and
slipped it back into the rack with all the others. The Institution
allowed her magazines. It was one of the perks as a lifer. Her favourite
was WOMAN'S MONTHLY. Every now and then, there was a free
sample inside.
‘Is everybody sitting ready?’ she shouted from the kitchen, ‘I’m
dishing up.’
‘Yes, honey,’ Greg replied.
Charlotte appeared with a tray and pie dish. She sat it down on
the place mat in the middle of the table. ‘
Mind everyone, it’s very hot,’ she said. With her oven gloves,
Charlotte removed the lid. Then, one-‐by-‐one, she spooned out
portions of invisible fish pie onto the plastic plates.
Greg sniffed his plate,
‘Umm, honey, it smells gorgeous.’
‘Now tuck in, everybody,’ she said. ‘Greg, did you pour my
wine?’
‘Sorry, honey, I clean forgot.’ Greg was about to get up when she
waved him to sit down.
‘I’ll get it, Greg. Don’t let yours get cold.’
‘Thanks, honey.’
Charlotte got up and hesitated,
‘Now where did I put that cork screw?’ Then her face
brightened, ‘I know, I left it in the kitchen.’
Behind Greg, with a soundless first time throw, she found the
target. She had practised during the security shift changeovers.
While she was away, Greg pretended to eat his invisible fish pie
and said loudly,
‘This tastes really good, umm, doesn’t it kids?’
Suddenly the 6:30 p.m. shift bell went off. He looked at his
watch, the time was moving on. Get this nonsense over as soon as
possible then start her therapy schedule, he thought.
Greg looked at Mark and Lucy; heads positioned with their
glass eyes staring at the television. His attention wandered to it. Some
adverts were on. Then a puzzled expression came over Greg’s face. It
was unusual for Charlotte to forget, even though this was just role-‐play.
He shouted over the television,
‘I thought you said the wine bottle was a screw―’
Shluck! Greg heard the sound and felt the instant pain. For a
fraction of a second, he looked down and saw the end of the free
sample from WOMAN’S MONTHLY. The knitting needle gift, the one
fixed to the inside of the back page, which mailroom security had
failed to find and remove. It was now sticking through the back of
Greg’s neck and out his Adams apple.
Greg coughed. A large bubble of blood appeared from his left
nostril while looking at Charlotte in disbelief, not quite able to
comprehend.
She was grinning at him.
‘Want some more pie, Greg? There’s plenty left.’
It was all in slow motion. He looked down to the blood spurting
in jets onto the white tablecloth, then to Mark and Lucy sitting quietly
watching the television. Greg coughed a lot of blood and made a
gurgling noise. He tried to get himself up.
Charlotte kissed him affectionately on the head.
‘You feeling OK, Greg?’ She was still grinning at him.
He tried to say something to her, but she was becoming blurred
and distant.
Greg had probably forgotten all about it. In the state he was in,
no one could blame him for not remembering -‐ knitting needles come
in pairs.
The second one slammed home, right next to the other one. A
darts player would have been proud of the grouping. It woke him up
for a second. This time he clawed at it like a zombie -‐ jerking and
gurgling with eyes rolling around like marbles in a pouch. There was
one final spasm before he slumped forward onto the table.
‘I guess, Greg, you’ve had a hard day? I’ll do the washing up.’
Greg’s tongue lay in a puddle of blood on the plastic plate, like a
pigs head on display in a butcher’s window. She stroked his forehead
thoughtfully with a glazed look in her eyes.
The 6:30 p.m. television news jolted her back to reality; what
she should be doing. Charlotte looked up at the security camera, the
one she’d covered with her first time throw using the tea towel. Now
there wasn’t a lot of time. Around three or four minutes at the most
while the surveillance room changed shift.
Charlotte unclipped Greg’s visitor’s pass and got his swipe card.
Then she rolled him onto the floor. Pulling him by the legs, she
dragged him into the bedroom. A trail of blood marked his route.
With great effort, she got him up onto her bed. Charlotte covered him
over with the sheets and bunched them up to cover his face. She
looked pleased at the result.
She slipped on the white coat she’d been given from the
laundry room and fixed the visitor’s pass. In the mirror, she adjusted
the hairpiece from Lucy’s mannequin. The bedroom camera: quick!
She got up on a chair and removed a pair of panties from the lens.
Then she dashed back into the dining area and with a broom, flicked
off the tea towel from the other camera.
With Greg’s brief case, she looked the part -‐ a visiting doctor
that forgot to sign in. George and Colin would be off duty now and
due to cost cutting, replaced by evening contract security.
Charlotte looked at her two children.
‘Goodbye, Mark, goodbye, Lucy.’
She waved to them, but they were too busy watching the
television. Using the swipe card the door swished open. She gave one
last look.
‘Goodbye, white room.’
The guard had just settled in front of the security monitor with
his coffee. He nodded at the screen and mumbled to his colleague,
‘Looks like five on ward A is having an early night again.’