Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [18]
Laska bucked the trend, the one patient who, through sheer force of will, was making real progress. Today she was dressed from head to foot in black.
She’d even taken out a couple of eyebrow rings. It wouldn’t have got her a job at Marks & Spencer, but it did show she took these discussions relatively seri-30
ously – an outer reflection of something approaching inner calm. Her mascara was still defiantly wayward, however – she looked like a dozing panda, or a Cure fan from the eighties.
Thomson indicated the notes in front of him. ‘Obviously, I can’t say at this present time what we’ll conclude, but. . . it’s all good stuff, Laska. You’ve been here, what, three months now? You’ve been making quantifiable progress in recent weeks. Your social interaction has improved, your outlook’s more positive. . . You’re even taking your antidepressants without too much argument.’
‘I just want to get out of here,’ Laska said, her eyes unfocused and slow for a moment. ‘This place. . . It makes me feel trapped.’ And then she grinned, a false smile as if she knew she’d dropped one barrier too many.
‘Oh, come on. It’s hardly Bedlam,’ Thomson gestured at the sun-filled lounge in which they sat, the gardens beyond. Both hinted at rock stars recovering from addiction and soap stars on a bender rather than incarceration and punishment.
Laska sighed. ‘I suppose.’
‘And you know, at the end of the day,’ Thomson continued, ‘that it’s your choice. You could walk out of here this moment if you really wanted to.
You’re no longer sectioned, you’re not here against your will. I can only most strongly recommend that you stay here a little longer.’
Laska began to fidget, one hand running over her scalp as if in remembrance of the stresses of childhood. ‘But I’m not like them, Dr Thomson.’
‘Who?’
Laska indicated the entire room: the old men reading their newspapers and playing cards, the woman in her thirties, staring out over the garden, swaying from side to side. ‘There are people in here who are about a spit away from believing that they’re Napoleon.’
‘Come on, you’re exaggerating.’
‘Am I? You didn’t see Mrs Rogers the other night.’
‘I heard about that,’ said Thomson. Mrs Rogers – normally a mild eccentric who spoke her internal thoughts in whispers and railed against the ‘idiots’ on Countdown every afternoon – had tried to attack a fellow patient with a pair of scissors. She said that she could see the demons that lived inside him. It had happened at night: Thomson wasn’t on call, so was told about it the next day.
These things always happened at night.
‘An unfortunate incident for all concerned,’ added Thomson. ‘At least no one was hurt.’
Laska leaned forward, her eyes bright, refusing to let go of Thomson’s gaze once she had it. ‘My point is, can you ever imagine me doing something like that?’
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‘Well. . . ’
‘Of course you can’t. I’m not schizophrenic, I’m not delusional. . . ’
‘How would you characterise your condition, then?’
‘My “condition” is that I’m cooped up in here. It’s enough to send anyone round the twist!’
‘So there’s nothing wrong with you?’
Laska shook her head firmly, like a child denying wrongdoing.
‘Depression?’ asked Thomson.
‘Gone.’
‘The desire to self-harm?’
Laska rolled up her sleeves. Her arm was covered with scars, but all were old and pale. ‘When was the last time I cut myself?’
‘It’s been a while.’
‘It’s been months,’ said Laska.
‘Drugs?’ asked Thomson. ‘I mean, of course, illegal substances, not your medication.’
‘I haven’t taken anything mind-altering or mood-enhancing since I was admitted.’
Thomson nodded. He wasn’t naïve enough to think there was a causal link – Laska’s psychiatric problems dated back to puberty at least – but after her father’s death she ingested enough hallucinogenics and smoked enough dope to stun an elephant. Thomson certainly hadn’t warned her off the stuff out of some misguided sense of prudery. In his time as a medical student he had inhaled, though, frankly, he thought dope was overrated and alcohol was always his drug