Chapter Three Keeping Quiet

Chapter Three

‘Keeping Quiet’

 

Several hours later and by then fully conscious, Jack still declined to advertise the fact. Instead, he took full advantage of the de-briefing exercise demanded by the Chief which necessitated the scaling down of direct observations and allowed him to re-evaluate his own circumstances without any external interference.

 

As far as he could determine, none of the other rooms at the Centre was occupied. One or two, he thought might be used to store some of the laboratory equipment and larger domestic items such as the tables and chairs he had seen set out in rows a few nights before. He also recalled hearing something that sounded like an old piano being dragged or pushed or pulled across the polished parquet floor of the Main Hall. Not that it really mattered; he was still far too busy trying to shake off the residual effects of the previous day.  

 

It was vital that he check, and if necessary, to re-set his internal body clock as soon as he felt able, and which was an absolute must do before undertaking any of his other early morning rituals.

Later still, but bang on the hour as always, the arrival of an evening meal confirmed the synchronisation of real time had occurred.

 

For as long as he could remember and certainly prior to being incarcerated real time had always been set and maintained by his old friend Big Bob. Therefore, considering everything he had just been through and while still suffering from the residual effects of the heavy chemical cosh, he was surprised that no adjustments or fine tuning was necessary to get back on track. Inwardly he smiled and shook his head a few times to shrug away the makings of a daydream which he knew he could well do without. Likewise, he reminded himself not to volunteer or inadvertently give anything away that might disrupt the order to which he was accustomed and above all, he needed to survive.

 

Moments later, he was secretly observed splashing his face with cold water from the tap and giving his hands an additional scrub. Immediately afterwards, and despite beginning to feel more like his old self, something continued to bother him and he knew precisely what it was.  For one thing, he was absolutely convinced some kind of listening device was secreted in the vent above his bed, but was that any real reason for him to worry? After all, he was not in the habit of talking to himself and never entertained visitors.   

  “What if he talked in his sleep though?” He frowned.

  “And if so, was he likely to disclose anything that he might later regret”

 

That was the moment the first of several fleeting but nevertheless negative considerations immediately came crashing down on him like a huge unfamiliar wave of self doubt. A thin line of perspiration formed above his top lip, he licked it away and found that he liked the taste.   

    “Not a chance, he shrugged, he would never give anything away.”

 

No sooner had Jack reassured himself of that fact, he again resumed working through his evening routine, teeth, face, neck, ears, hands, under arms, private parts and hair. As he systematically scrubbed away, he noticed a slight bruise and swelling beneath his left eye. He also became aware that his right buttock was sore and despite the most rigorous brushing, his finger nails were each crying out for an extra good soak.

 

Immediately after attending to these necessary ablutions, Jack became aware of an increasingly familiar dull ache which always bothered him. Usually this would begin deep in the pit of his belly and grow to such intensity he would eventually be obliged to tentatively chew, and then swallow a few mouthfuls of whatever was on the plate in front of him. On that occasion, it was mashed potato, and green peas in gravy. Yuck!!

 

As a rule, his meals were taken in the Main Hall which could very easily be transformed into a meeting room, or whatever else was required at the drop of a hat. It was only after something very big or very bad occurred that he was required to take his meals in solitary confinement, like the day in question. In point of fact, it is perhaps worth noting he had not been at the Centre very long at all, before his custodians arrived at the conclusion he either had a very poor appetite, or was a ridiculously fussy eater.

 

Even when he lost over eight pounds in the first few weeks, it never occurred they might try and make his meals more palatable, maybe tone them down a bit, or disguise some of the chemicals they invariably laced it with. As it was, Jack seldom enjoyed any of the food put before him. Only if absolutely necessary were his meals accompanied by a single plastic fork or spoon which was religiously retrieved and checked off against a standing inventory, no sooner had he finished eating.  

 

In any event, his menu was limited and he had very little choice, it was often a question of neck it, or leave it. And since everything seemed to carry an unpleasant after-taste, that reminded him of the muck Del invariably forced down his throat during those awful visits to Black Lodge, he often chose the later. Worse still, every mouthful was overseen, albeit from a distance by at least one plain clothed observer which made him feel like a specimen under the lens of a microscope and often robbed him of any appetite he might have had in the first place. 

 

More often than not, supper tended to be his least favourite meal of the day, mainly because whatever it was they served, it invariably had an additional taint which burnt the tongue and the roof of his mouth. Afterwards though, when everything was tidied away and depending who was on duty, he might be allowed half an hour or so’s recreation before the lights went out at eight-thirty on the dot. 

 

Every now and then, before the strictly enforced black out, one of the guards might offer to kick a ball around for a while, or to teach him a card game or two. Whether or not genuine, friendly gestures, or merely initiated in the hope of breaking the tedium of a late evening shift, was of little consequence. Jack always declined the offer and never grew tired of the warm glow he felt on recognizing the look of disappointment, or rejection on each of their faces when he did so.   

 

It was no great secret that Jack held a particular dislike for one of them who always insisted on trying to entice a swear word out of him for a pull on a cigarette or a boiled sweet. Smokey would live just long enough to regret that Jack vowed, smiling to himself as he imagined some appropriate painful retribution and gave his fingernails a final vicious swipe, ensuring each was meticulously clean.

 

Forty-five minutes later, he was in bed with the sheets pulled up to his chin and his arms stretched outside by his sides. He was conscious of the fact somehow, he had recently lost a whole day to them and desperately needed to recuperate and figure out exactly what had happened.  

 

In spite of the circumstances under which he was held, and the absence of any obvious landmark or point of reference, from where he sat cross-legged, and on the face of it, intent on nothing more sinister than re-examining his right knee. Jack seldom felt in the least bit disorientated. On the contrary, he was confident if he stepped from his room and turned right, he would only be three locked doors, ninety seven paces plus a hop, skip and a jump from the Main Hall.   

 

On more than one occasion, when nothing more disruptive or destructive came to mind, he found himself pondering why the ‘big room’ at the far end of the corridor was always referred to in such a grand and pretentious manner.

 

Whilst obviously much bigger than any of the other rooms, it did not seem to warrant such an imposing title in his opinion. And by definition alone, the concept of there being a ‘Main Hall’ in his mind at least, automatically conjured up the notion of an additional and presumably smaller hall somewhere on site that he was unaware of. 

 

All the same, the Main Hall with its worn and heavily stained parquet flooring, high vaulted ceiling and barred windows somehow created an impression of much greater space and security than the actual physical dimensions allowed. Jack however, was quite certain any such notion, was nothing more than an illusion and to be sure, he often thought if necessary, it would be easier to break out and escape from there than anywhere else in the central building or its adjacent blocks.

 

As far as rooms go, it was also extremely versatile and might easily be re-arranged and fitted out in the blink of an eye to suit the needs of those who watched his every move. For instance, one moment it might be used for one thing, and the very next, something else entirely. Tomorrow though, immediately after breakfast, Jack imagined it would almost surely revert back to the testing lab again, where the last thing anyone expected of him, was to behave like any other normal schoolboy.         

 

Given the fact he was not permitted to wander around the Centre unaccompanied and his movements were always strictly monitored, there were obviously aspects and features of his new home to which he was not exactly privy. Despite the security set up and other physical encumbrances to which he was subject, Jack appeared able to accurately discern and later describe areas that were strictly off limits to him. He was seemingly able to pull this off by interpreting the variety of sounds and smells that inevitably drifted towards him throughout the day and night. An incredible gift if ever there was.    

 

Although he was not in the least bit bothered by the dark, Jack desperately missed the steady beat which had previously punctuated the otherwise absolute silence of Black Lodge and which he knew signified the constant marking of passed time. Back then, Jack had always likened Big Bob’s voice to that of a giant heartbeat. The constantly dripping tap, the defective toilet cistern and other unremarkable noises that persisted throughout the Centre at night were no compensation for the comfort Big Bob had always previously afforded him back at St’ Caspian’s.

Indeed, every night since his subjectively perceived abduction, Jack would lie awake until able to replicate those old familiar sounds within his own head before sleep was eventually allowed to overtake him.  Meanwhile, in one of the small rooms around the corner, opening directly on to the short leg of the L shaped corridor and which served as the main thoroughfare for the whole complex. One of the sound boys had begun to work through a stack of used spools in order to earn his keep. No more than an elbow away, a second blue dungareed technician commenced eavesdropping on Jack’s apparent slumber via the expensive ‘Wharfedale’ earphone and speaker combination that had been specifically rigged up for that purpose.   

 

Geoff Dodge laughed out loud, when he was first told

  “You could be stone deaf lad and still hear a cockroach fart with them Wharfedales strapped to yer ear holes.”

His friend and recently married colleague Neil Spence chuckled to himself but declined to comment, not wanting to admit their mutual supervisor Jake Osborne had anything that came close to a sense of humour. All the same though, Jake, Neil and Geoff made a damn good ‘sound team’, each complimenting the other with a shared sense of fun and a genuine enthusiasm for their chosen line of work.

 

 “Okay, I’m off to the lav. See if you two can hold the fort for five or six without me and don’t break nowt while I’m away, mind.”

Jake was still mumbling into his palm trying desperately hard to suck life into another roll-up from the smouldering butt still held between his heavily stained index and fore fingers before closing the door quietly behind him.

 

The two remaining lads began to settle down into what had for them become something of a familiar night time routine, although, they would be the first to admit often the hardest part was the staying awake bit, particularly in the small hours, when everyone else was getting some decent shuteye.

 

Geoff shook his head vigorously from side to side and tried to shrug off yet another wave of increasingly persistent tiredness that always threatened to overcome him around that time. Far too vigorously for the Wharfedales which flew off and smacked against the Formica work surface with a muted resonance thanks to the suede leather ear cuffs that were meant to protect them from such eventualities. The impact though, was enough to startle Geoff back into full wakefulness, and he duly responded by replacing the expensive headphones before Jake returned and tried to act as if nothing had happened.

 

Just to be on the safe side though, he re-wound and re-played the last couple of minutes of what he thought he might otherwise have missed, adding a few extra seconds on the tape counter for good measure. It would have been just typical of his bad luck he thought, to miss the hypothetical pin drop or some significant utterance from the Wonder Kid next door. Now that would have certainly deprived him and his palls any chance of a spring bonus, wouldn’t it.

 

Geoff was also very much aware if anything did slip past him, and word got out, it would mean the end of his career. Not only that, whatever it was the tape might have contained would’ve almost certainly been lost to human ears forever, since each spool was meant to be used over and over if nothing of significance was ever captured on them.

 

With the cans back in situ, it was only a matter of seconds before his ears became re-accustomed to the constant hiss of tape and reel and other background noises largely attributed to a combination of old building and unavoidable atmospherics. Nevertheless, his head soon began to ache with the tedium of it all and in no time, his concentration was all over the place.

 

For the next few moments Geoff’s right index finger hovered over the fast forward and erase buttons of the state of the art RCA, seemingly primed and ready to strike.

 

Indeed it looked very much like he was about to apply sufficient pressure to activate ‘stop erase’ when the timpanic membrane in his left ear began to register something unfamiliar and indistinct. It was precisely then that some reflex or another must have surely kicked in, because to all intents and purposes, Geoff snapped out of his daze and began to focus more purposefully on re-winding and playing back whatever it was that had caught his attention.

 

Not surprisingly he felt compelled to repeat the process several more times just to make sure his head was not playing tricks on him.

  “Hey, get the Gaffer down here sharpish” Geoff bleated.

  “Hark at this, you two.”

He played the tape again for the benefit of his mates and to seek some kind of reassurance that he had not completely lost his marbles.

 

The colour visibly drained from each of their faces and all three of the now very wide awake and adrenaline fuelled sound technicians agreed several copies would need to be made in case of loss, damage or accident.

  “You gonna wear the original bugger out anyway at the rate your going.” One of them wisecracked.  

 

  “Shush, is he calling for someone, or telling summat off? I can’t make it out, can you? Sounds like Kitty or Katie or sumfink if you ask me.”

  “We’re not askin” The other two chorused.

  “Nah, but we’re in this bugger together for sure.” Added Jake

  “Yeah, but we need to get our act sorted before the boss gets in. Has either of you two rung him yet?” He quizzed, stabbing a finger at the twitching nerve just above his right eye as if to trap and prevent it from irritating him further.

  “Not yet gaffer, we thought we might leave that one up to you” Geoff and Neil echoed.

 

 “Bugger, before we do anything else then, I suggest we check the rest of them tapes, in case we’ve missed summat f*****g fundamental. Oh’ and bare in mind one of us needs to keep an ear open for ‘sleepy head’ next door before we drag the Guv’ner out of his cosy pit for nowt but some vague mention to a ruddy p***y cat or summat.”

 

If the truth was really known, none of those lads wanted to be the one to make that particular call, but eventually, the operator was contacted and in the blink of an eye, the necessary connection was made. The Guv’ner subsequently wasted no time in setting off and arrived at the Centre a full hour and a half earlier than was customary for him, but as always, he presented freshly shaven and smelling of his usual cologne.

 

“Well, what have you got for me lads?” He demanded whilst still in the process of removing his top coat and draping it over a bent arm in front of his belly like some protective shield.

 

Despite their initial reservations, the three sound boys jumped at the chance of ingratiating themselves and wasted no time emphasising his own individual role in the ‘great tape discovery’, and promoting their collective achievement. After all said and done, they were a good team and proud of it too, don’t cha know?

 

Banks-Barking is said to have clapped his hands with sheer joy on hearing of the find, not unlike a young child on catching the first glimpse of the present beneath the Christmas tree. He swiftly regained his composure mind, and promptly sent for a cup of sweet tea and the cushion from his office. He then tried to make himself as comfortable as possible, while perched astride those dreadful haemorrhoids of his which had been the source of so much physical discomfort in the last few months and seemed to be getting worse.  

 

Despite visibly wincing as he lowered himself into the padded chair and re-positioning the headphones, he was determined to concentrate on the task at hand and nothing else. What he eventually heard and what registered more than anything, though lacking in content, certainly made the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end.

  “Getting warmer, Jack” he sighed and took a sip of tea. 

 

The cause of that fleeting moment of self gratification, in actual fact proved to be less than five full seconds of Jack Weaver’s voice captured on the still revolving spool. Not surprisingly perhaps Banks-Barking found it necessary to re-wind and listen to it so many times that those standing around him eventually lost count.

 

There was no doubt about it, it was Jack’s voice alright, but with no indication from the manner, tone, pitch or inflection to provide any obvious clue as to the context, origin or intended destination of that twice repeated seven word ditty, statement or utterance, whatever it might have been.

 

  “You hear that boys, you hear what he said?”

  “Del kill Kitty dead, Del dead too”

Banks-Barking repeated each word over and over under his breath, but just loud enough to be heard by those standing incredulously beside him.

  “He’s not exactly reciting Shakespeare is he?” Young Neil remarked sarcastically, almost but not quite daring to go the full hog and query the significance of what seemed to be bowling each of the others over. 

 

 “Incredible” Banks-Barking eventually announced.

  “Admittedly, not a lot to be going on, but at least we now have something, and remember gentlemen, from little acorns etc, etc. Yes indeed boys, well done.”

 

Jake, Neil and Geoff each flushed with individual pride as well as their renewed anticipation of finding an extra something or other in their wages packet on pay day.     

 

The Chief wasted no time convening an impromptu meeting of the team, consisting of clinicians the technicians and a handful of admin staff. However, since not one of them had even the slightest idea what was going on, at first they all milled around in an aimless, uncomfortable and uncoordinated fashion with hardly a murmur or eye contact between them.

Still, before too long, they began to assemble around their leader in small intuitively formed groups, each made up of those with whom they had a professional or personal allegiance. As the seconds ticked slowly and painfully by, Banks-Barking checked his pocket-watch at least a half dozen times and repeatedly cleared his throat before simultaneously puffing out his chest and his cheeks and commencing his opening address.

 

Despite feeling remarkably self conscious standing on a chair so as all could see and hear him, Banks-Barking projected each word and syllable so precisely and so eloquently that he came across as though speaking not to a crowd of subordinates, but rather to an old, much valued and familiar friend. Not surprisingly, he captured everyone’s attention as well as their immediate but superficial respect.   

 

 “Today my friends,” he said,

   “I believe we are poised together on the brink of something very special. Something bigger than all of us, and against which I would feel most insignificant without every single one of you beside me.”

 

Having made a somewhat spectacular and certainly attention grabbing start, Banks-Barking probably spent no more than five or six minutes perched on his makeshift pedestal yak yak yaking before his right knee gave out and someone had to help him down. After that, he was forced to resume yak yaking from a much less prominent position and folk soon began to show signs of loosing interest.

 

Although clearly aware his moment had well and truly passed, he nevertheless endeavoured to put a brave face on it. Still he was eventually forced to admit defeat and dismissed each small huddle in turn. Before doing so however, he made sure to assign every one of them a number of tasks and repeatedly emphasized the perceived need to pull out all stops to achieve their corresponding objectives.   

 

The admin and clerical staff group led by the ostensibly formidable Di Hegginbotham was subsequently charged with the seemingly onerous responsibility of trawling through all available medical records and undertaking preliminary interviews as they so deemed fit.

 

In spite of her reputation, Di actually hid a heart as big as a planet beneath her rough exterior and rustic tweeds and was secretly chuffed to bits with both her new role and the assignment she had been allocated. She would never let on though and swiftly retired to a side room to discuss tactics with her own team.

It thus became Di’s primary goal in life to ensure her boss achieved his stated objectives, and throughout this endeavour, she would be supported by three other women, each of whom, she had personally chosen to help in the matter. Indeed she was now on a mission and fully intended to interview everyone she possibly could. Yes everyone, regardless of how peripherally involved they might once have been with that fearful old mental hospital, or in what capacity they had served.

 

As far as she, and her girls were concerned, if anyone answered to, or used a name that might possibly be mistaken for Kitty, Katie or Cathy, or any other variant thereof. Or if they knew anyone who might fit the bill, then like it or lump it, they were to be automatically admitted to ‘The Kitty Cat Club’.

 

Banks-Barking had already made a special point of emphasising the proposed search desperately needed to include pet names such as those that might be attributed to a girlfriend or the ward cat for example. He also suggested to Di a good place to start might be the Department of Medical Records where the examination of all archived material dating back to around 1950 was considered an absolute must.

 

No sooner was it said than she had it done, Di H and her team enthusiastically commenced interviewing all and sundry, and in less than a week had compiled a list of over one hundred and twenty names that by any stretch of the imagination, seemed to fit the proverbial bill. 

 

The Medical Director, Sir Ron Martin had long since given his nod of approval and okayed the commencement of Banks-Barking’s more covert but simultaneous investigation alongside that of the local police.

 

At around that same time, the entire technical crew comprising of Jake, Geoff and Neil were instructed to acquire any new equipment they might need as soon as possible, and until it arrived, to utilise all available resources to enhance the sound quality of the initial find. It would be their mission to tweak and play around with it until there could be no mistaking precisely what that tape contained from one end to the other.

  “I’ll crack that bugger yet” Banks-Barking muttered under his breath.

 

Back at the Centre the Main Hall had already undergone yet another metamorphisis and was about ready to serve temporarily as ‘Banks-Barking’s Briefing Chamber.’ To this end, a row of hastily constructed hardboard and green felt screens roughly divided the room in half and on which an impressive assortment of supposedly case pertinent data was displayed to help chivvy things along. Banks-Barking however, seemed to have his own idea of how he might speed the whole process up and discretely ordered an extra supply of ether and sodium pentothal.

 

According to the grapevine, several months after that impressive team speech, the seemingly always very proper Geoffrey Banks-Barking began to both contemplate and fear the prospect of entering into a war of attrition with Jack. It was also said, as a consequence of the recurring nightmares he had begun to experience, he began to hit the bottle, big time. The fact was, he knew he needed a result and the sooner the better. The idea of sitting back and waiting for something to happen was like a slap in the face and served only to bruise the pioneering spirit on which his clinical claim to fame had always been founded.

 

He was not alone in that respect either, others also found the idea of playing the waiting game extremely daunting and some have since hinted that, that was when the first cracks began to appear in Banks-Barking’s general demeanour. It seemed that almost overnight, and without any subtlety whatsoever he became a man obsessed. For some reason perhaps known only to himself, he began to consult in secrecy with certain members of his own clinical team. In particular, with the lovely Em whom he had taken to calling ‘Number Three’ and Matt Walker, the one they all called Smokey.    

 

No doubt in the back of his mind he retained something of a conscience, but the tantalising lure of more clinical successes and any subsequent acclaim they might afford, was awfully compelling. He also knew there were risks of course, and constantly juggled with the moral, ethical and professional consequences of getting it wrong, not only for himself, but for his young adversary too.  

 

It has only recently been confirmed that Banks-Barking had always intended to subject Jack to a modified form of abreaction experience, in the hope of dislodging something of great significance. It seems he believed if only he could achieve that, he might also be able to tease the rest out of him in the form of some sublimely cathartic and liberating self disclosure before finally nailing him good and proper. Only when he had achieved that particular objective would he ever consider allowing the wolves to have him back and tear him apart. Or if they chose to, they could hang him there and then; it would all be the same to him. 

 

It was no secret the Chief was known to be fond of the abreaction technique, having applied it many times, mainly on adults with amnesia and those with hysterical conversion or fugue states. Occasionally, he also used it on certain types of prisoner too. Still no-one, as far as he knew ever dared apply the technique on a minor. It was considered far too risky. In fact, the idea was so perverse and unethical, even the thought of it made him perspire more than usual.  

 

“My God, if any of this should ever get out, I’m done for” he acknowledged, knocking back another shot of single malt before attempting to consider his next move.

  “Everything must appear well and truly above board”, he concluded.  

Thereafter as luck or rather determination would have it, the efforts of the ‘Banks-Barking Terriers’ with Di H at the helm managed to uncover several rather serious felonies and a number of additional transgressions that would keep the police and Hospital Managers distracted, for a few months or so. What’s more, in less time than it would normally take to skin a cat, Di’s original shortlist of around 120 possible candidates was whittled down to a much more manageable number.

 

To be sure, the final shortlist comprised of only eight individuals who were then known to be alive, plus a dozen or so deceased contenders and one, who was said to be a young girl, listed as missing since 1955.  

 

Kate O’Brien or Kitty as the young missing lass was more often known, was rumoured to be the product of a brief one off union, between the late industrial chemist WD Beecham and a very young domestic servant who went by the name of Lizzie O’Brien. At that time, Lizzie had been working at one of the big houses off London Road which looked down over several rows of hastily erected post blitz prefabs specifically designed to re-house the scores of folk made homeless by Hitler’s Luftwaffe. 

 

The local Chronicle had not long run a special feature on the legacy of devastation ‘they’ had left behind and estimated more than three million houses across Britain had been thus damaged. As a consequence, under the 1945 Temporary Housing Programme, a total of 156,623 prefab buildings many of them the asbestos clad Phoenix model developed by Laing, McAlpine and Henry Boot were erected across the country, particularly in the Midlands and Home Counties. Kitty lived in one of them for a while, together with her mother and a paying lodger who worked in the shoe industry.   

 

On more than just one occasion Kitty was said to have been a chip off the old block, inheriting her mother’s once good looks and her father’s brains, as well as some of his brass by all accounts. It certainly did not go un-noticed that unlike many others born under similar circumstances, Kitty was given a decent education, which some remarked was probably paid for out of the Beecham estate ‘conscience fund’.

Whether or not true, she would have undoubtedly been considered the perfect catch for any young gentleman with reasonable prospects. To be sure, the once lovely Lizzie O’Brien, who was still occasionally referred to as the 9^th hole on the local putting green, certainly had high hopes of her daughter walking down the aisle and settling down eventually. In fact, that might well have been the case, but for history having the misfortune of repeating itself and her getting pregnant like she did. 

 

The sex of the infant was not confirmed before it was taken from her, still blue and bloody in that dreadfully crude and tragic affair which almost certainly precipitated the first of Kitty’s several catatonic episodes. Not long afterwards and in spite of her previously unblemished character, Kitty was incarcerated under the notion of her being both psychotic and a moral defective.

 

Lizzie O’Brien was absolutely mortified by these events. She only ever had her daughter’s best interests in mind and never wanted anything like that to happen, not in a million years.

 

Despite her florid protestations, Kitty was removed biting, kicking and screaming from the prim white prefab she once shared with her mum and transferred across town in an ambulance where she was soon lost to the outside world behind those much feared high red brick walls and the hungry locked doors that waited patiently behind them.      

 

In no time at all, Kitty was brought to the attention of Elizabeth Weaver by a sharp eyed ward orderly who noticed the front of her blouse and pinafore was always sopping wet. The fact she appeared to be lactating yet minus a child was additionally confirmed by a nurse and reported to Matron Elizabeth Weaver.

 

 “My goodness, what an extraordinary and well timed encounter” Elizabeth beamed.

  “See to it she’s bathed and then take her to the Lodge, oh’ and this is for all your trouble.”

Elizabeth smiled wryly as she placed a folded ten shilling note into the open palm of her mute but more than grateful accomplice who at the time had absolutely no idea what was going on. Matron Weaver on the other hand knew precisely what was going on, having seized upon the idea of Kitty assuming the role of wet-nurse for the nigh approaching two day old Jack. Problem solved, or so she thought.

 

Forty-five minutes later Jack was put to Kitty’s breast, but refused to oblige and repeatedly turned his head away, whilst Kitty, locked in her catatonic stupor appeared oblivious to his presence and made no attempt whatsoever to support the infant, or coax his mouth towards her n****e.   

What now seems most astonishing is that, in spite of the advanced and clearly palpable waxy flexibility so characteristic of her mental affliction. Neither Matron Weaver nor either of her two familiars dared risk shaping a cradle from Kitty’s catatonic arms and placing Jack inside them, for fear of her waking from the torpor that held her fast and dropping him. Therefore, much to Matron Weaver’s personal consternation, such previously unforeseen quirkiness threatened the very foundations of her hastily contrived plan and clearly necessitated alternative arrangements being made to accommodate the needs of the starving and increasingly very noisy infant. 

 

Elizabeth knew without some swiftly introduced practical intervention, she might soon have a young child’s body on her hands and on her conscience too, which would of course have jeopardised everything, including her reputation, her moral credibility and her status.

 

No doubt it would’ve been much easier to have expressed the milk from Kitty’s breasts and arranged for it to be offered to Jack from a bottle and a teat. Such an involved approach to such a fundamental problem though, would most surely have required additional resources and given the game away, in no time at all. For that reason, the eldest of Matron Weaver’s two trustees was ordered to fashion a crude sling from strips of cotton sheet and to place Jack within its many folds. The whole contraption was then strapped to Kitty’s chest while ensuring there was sufficient room to avoid his suffocation.   

 

Not until almost five years later and on the tail end of what was then believed to be a totally unrelated police investigation did any such Jack pertinent details come to light. And even when they finally did so, it was more by accident than design that the contents of Elizabeth Weaver’s personal diaries were ever exposed.

 

Until the time of her unexpected arrest, the Gate House leading to St Caspian’s mental hospital known as Black Lodge had served as Matron Weaver’s personal domestic quarters and no-one had even the slightest inkling of what had gone on there. However, thanks to the extraordinarily detailed chronicle of events, penned by Elizabeth Weaver’s own meticulous hand, by the time of her eventual committal, very little was left to the imagination. At any rate, it became clear Jack spent the first week of his life trussed up like a chicken, suckling at Kitty’s breast and presumably waiting upon her eventual recovery. 

 

Those same records by the way went on to propose a whole series of shocking events occurred during the first weeks and months of Jacks miserable life. One particular entry, proved tear jerkingly poignant. In as much as it clearly described how, no sooner had Kitty turned the corner and appeared revitalized than she immediately aspired to co-operate like any other young mother might, to her newborn child’s demands.

 

Despite her eventual willingness to cooperate in a regime she had formally been forced to undertake, Kitty was still obliged to take all medication precisely as prescribed, three times each day and with a double dose at night, for safe measure. Should she ever resist, or attempt to secrete it under her tongue, or was ever suspected of slipping it into the slop bucket meant for the hospital farm pigs, like so many others, she would be severely punished. By the way, those porkers were renowned for their docile temperament and it was said they provided the sweetest bacon for miles.     

Kitty O’Brien and each of her hospital peers were expected to toe the line at all times and if ever tempted to deviate from that inflexible mark, the consequences could be very dire indeed. Whatever the case might be, Kitty found it impossible to shake off the chlorpromazine induced fugue that robbed her of any fitting emotion she might once have had. Not only that though, the evil stuff deprived her of the capacity to think independently of those who seemed hell bent on suppressing every single aspect of her pre-morbid self.

 

Not surprisingly Kitty soon acquired the characteristic ‘largactil shuffle’ often associated with early neuroleptic drugs. And what’s more, her pale skin would burn dreadfully in the sun if ever allowed out, even for just half an hour or so. Since then it has been argued over and over, that those inadvertent yet often irreversible and otherwise dehumanizing side-effects were largely responsible for much of the mounting negativity associated with mental health care provision of the time.

 

Even in those days, it was no great secret, except maybe from Kitty herself that having commenced breast feeding, some of her psychotropic medication at least would have passed directly into Jack’s own system via her contaminated milk. 

Fortunately for Matron Weaver, that very same process not only served to satisfy Jacks increasing appetite, but also kept him quiet and seemingly contented for conveniently long periods of time. All the same, it would take a heartless soul indeed to suggest even for one moment, that Jacks introduction to the world was anything less than wholly unsatisfactory.  

For the next four and a half years and without so much as a single day off, Kitty raised young Jack like her own flesh and blood. Indeed there were those, who were of the opinion Kitty most probably did not retain a single lucid recollection to suggest the infant was not truly of her own flesh and blood. 

 

Therefore it was quite remarkable during that very same time frame and despite all the odds being stacked against them, it seems Kitty not only successfully taught young Jack to read and write, but also solve complex mathematical equations and to appreciate many of the great works.  

 

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

In this third chapter we are introduced to Banks - Barking, the Chief. A man on a mission if ever there was one. Determined to reveal by whatever means he can foul or fair the secrets in Jack's mind. We learn of Jack's early start in life and already sense pending doom. Practices taking place in those institutions back in the early 1950's truly alarming by today's standards. We start to sense the urgency for results. Banks-Barking is not a patient sort and the pressure is about to be ramped up big time. New characters introduced of Kitty and Matron Weaver. This chapter so far is the one that has interested me most and wants me to read further.

aisle, rather than Isle?

Chris

[Neville]

it seems you are a glutton for punishment Chris but I thank you for it and am particularly grateful to you for pointing out that spelling error.. I dont know how many times I must have missed that... Neville

[Chris Shaw]

I certainly have had my fair share of undertaking unpleasant or difficult tasks. This wasn't one of them :)

[barleygirl]

I love the way you SHOW instead of tell, in every detail, every character, every situation. Great elaboration of the details to paint each scene that SHOWS us how & why people act the way they do in your story. You take your time teasing out each scene, along with background info, but eventually each tangent leads back to the central storyline with Jack. I was noticing that Jack seemed pretty passive about his incarceration (early in this chp) then I got to the end with breast milk drug contamination from nearly catatonic Kitty, etc . . . your story is full of such tie-backs & tie-ins that connect many observations & tangents presented along the way (((NUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Neville]

Cor thanks BG... your impression is so very much appreciated, I know long posts are not everyone's cuppa tea..... Loadsa NUGs on the way :)