dining room. He would go halfway down the stairs and peer through the banisters at the closed door, listening. There would be bangs and thuds sometimes, exclamations from the women, now and then the sound of one of them weeping. The thuds frightened Frank and the weeping made him feel like crying himself, but he always stayed where he was.
One late spring evening he was at his usual post on the staircase. From the dining room he thought he heard, briefly, a man’s voice, then one of the women sobbing: a dreadful, desperate sound. It went on a long time. Frank’s eyes watered. Then, suddenly, the dining-room door opened and Mrs Baker came out. She closed the door, leaned against the wall and shut her eyes.
Frank crouched perfectly still. The hallway was dim; if he didn’t move she might not see him. Mrs Baker was, as ever, carrying her big paisley-patterned bag. As Frank watched she laid it down and opened it. To his astonishment she pulled out a half-bottle of whisky. She glanced quickly and furtively at the closed door, then raised the bottle and took a large swig. She sighed, then took another, glancing at the door again as she wiped her mouth. The weeping was still going on. She muttered something, and Frank caught the words ‘silly bitches’. Mrs Baker’s expression had changed; it was hard and contemptuous as she replaced the bottle in her bag, took out a packet of mints and popped one in her month. Then she looked up and saw Frank staring at her.
Her eyes narrowed. She glanced quickly at the dining-room door, then lumbered to the stairs, the long rope of pearls swinging against her big body. Frank was frightened now, but he couldn’t move. Mrs Baker mounted the stairs and leaned over him. The pearls brushed his face and he flinched. She grasped his arm, thick, strong fingers digging in. ‘You’re a nasty, nosy little boy,’ she said in a vicious whisper. ‘What we do is private, not for children to see. The spirits will be angry. Don’t you say a word about what you saw just now, or I’ll send bad spirits, really wicked, cruel ones, and they’ll make you suffer.’ She shook him, hard. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mrs Baker.’
The grip tightened further. ‘Are you sure? Don’t think I can’t summon up bad spirits, because I can.’
‘I understand.’
‘You’d better. Now get to bed. Nasty spying little boy.’
She watched him as he stumbled to his room. He lay on his bed in the dark, shaking. He was frightened, though not of bad spirits. He knew now that Lizzie was right; Mrs Baker was a heartless fraud. He knew too that what he had always feared was true, the world was a bad place, full of people who would harm him if they could.
Afterwards the seances went on. Mrs Baker was as nice as ever to Frank, although there was a new glint in her eyes when she looked at him. A few weeks later, he was summoned by his mother, who told him his father had sent a message from the Other Side that it was time he went away to school, to join his brother. She looked at him, not just with her usual anxiety but, he saw, real concern. ‘I’ve not been sure Strangmans College is right for you, you’re delicate, but your father told me through Mrs Baker that you’ll learn discipline, it’ll be the making of you. She says you must go, and the spirit world knows better than we do. Oh, Frank, don’t stand there wearing that silly grin, please.’
So a few weeks later, just after his eleventh birthday, Frank went away to school. Lizzie had tears in her eyes as she helped his mother pack his trunk. Frank thought, on the train to Edinburgh, maybe things will be better now. But he soon found out he was wrong; Mrs Baker had indeed called down on him a whole horde of terrible spirits.
The hospital was keen on exercise. The patients, if they were well enough, took an hour’s exercise every day in the airing courts. These were large courtyards in the centre of the hospital building complex, open to the air but with a covered walkway beside the walls. The patients would walk endlessly round and round for an hour, the attendants in charge calling on laggards to keep up. Some patients were allowed to walk alone in the grounds, up to the signs marked
He was in his usual armchair in the quiet room, facing the window. There was another patient in the room, a big, elderly man called Mr Martindale, who believed Communists and Jews were beaming messages into his head and who habitually sat with his hands over his ears, muttering to drown out the sound. He had been at the hospital for many years; he had been a foundry worker before that. Frank knew he didn’t like being disturbed, but was all right if you left him alone.
It was late morning, getting on for exercise time. Frank heard the door behind him open, a firm military tread approaching. Ben wasn’t on duty today, it was Sam, a middle-aged ex-soldier, trim in his neatly pressed uniform. He came round the chair. ‘Frank,’ he said in his Brummie accent. ‘Hiding in here again, eh? Come on, airing courts time. Look sharp.’ Frank rose reluctantly. Sam turned to Mr Martindale. ‘You too, come on.’
Mr Martindale looked piteously at Sam. ‘Please. I’m not well enough. The voices are loud. Leave me alone!’
‘We’ll give you some extra pills later,’ Sam said. ‘But you need your exercise! Chop! Chop!’
The patients began making their circuits of the courtyard. Frank had had a haircut a few days ago; it was the attendants’ jobs to do this and the one on duty hadn’t made a good job of it, cutting Frank’s untidy brown hair into a military crewcut, little more than a fuzz. He felt the cold, wet air on his scalp. Something about the mindless nature of what they were doing brought Strangmans to Frank’s mind and also reminded him once again of what he was now: a mental patient. He longed to get back to the quiet room.
He was next to Mr Martindale, who was still muttering to himself as he stumbled, hands over his ears. Sam called out impatiently, ‘Martindale! Hands down! You’ll fall if you’re not careful!’
The other attendant, a young man who was new, looked anxious but Sam, wanting to show his authority, shouted out again, ‘Martindale! Hands down!’
Frank saw something happen to Mr Martindale’s eyes; they had been cast down but now he looked up and stared at Sam and they were wild. He glanced round at Frank, a terrifying stare that made him step backwards. Then he looked back at the attendants, before plunging across the little piece of lawn in the centre of the airing court towards them with unexpected speed and force. ‘Yo’ fookin’ bugger!’ he shouted at Sam. ‘Can’t you fookin’ leave me alone!’ He threw himself, fists flying, not at Sam but at the young attendant. Frank saw blood spurt from the young man’s nose. His cap flew off and he crashed against the wall. Sam took out a whistle and sounded a long blast. Frank stood there petrified as Sam grappled with Mr Martindale, trying to pin his arms behind him. All the patients stood watching; some stared at the scene, one or two laughed, one young man started jumping up and down, weeping.
Half a dozen attendants appeared, running. Mr Martindale was pushed to the ground; Sam kicked him in the back. The other patients were shepherded quickly inside. On the ward, Frank managed to sidle off to the quiet room again. He sat in his chair. His hands were trembling and his bad hand hurt. He had seen patients cursing and shouting before, had seen people forcefully put to bed, but never open violence like that. He wasn’t safe here, anything could happen. He thought again of the shock treatment, what he might find himself saying. He whispered to himself, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll phone him. David, please help me.’
ON FRIDAY DAVID LEFT WORK at five and took the tube to Piccadilly. Carol had asked if he would like to go to another recital the following week and he had agreed; he had been instructed to keep the saucepan simmering, as Jackson had put it, so they still went to concerts about once a month.
He walked into Soho. It was a damp, raw evening, wet, slippery pavements reflecting the neon signs in the shops – Bovril, England’s Glory matches, Emu Australian Wines for Christmas. The narrow streets were crowded, city gents and sharp-suited pimps, theatrical-looking types and soldiers in heavy greatcoats on leave from India or Africa. Prostitutes in the doorways wore their hair in the fashionable German style, blonde pigtails looped behind their ears. A drunk in Blackshirt uniform staggered by.
David turned into the damp alley beside the coffee shop, stepping over squashed cigarette packets and a little heap of dog’s dirt. A group of teenage boys sat in the coffee shop, leering at women passers-by over their cups of frothy coffee. One had an oiled quiff that stuck out inches above his forehead. One Saturday night a few weeks ago some Black-shirts had come into Soho, grabbed all the Jive Boys they could find, and shaved their heads with cutthroat razors. But nothing could keep people out.
The green door was unlocked. A single bulb provided the staircase with a dim light. Damp paint was peeling from the walls. A large middle-aged man, a Homburg hat in his hand, came out of the prostitute’s flat. David, going
