To his eternal credit he does not attempt to talk me out of my decision or placate me. Simply nods and lapses into a tense, thinking silence. When the radio goes again, he says, ‘Arrange for us to be picked up now.’ He pauses and I hear him say. ‘Really?… Good.’

‘What was that about?’

‘My mother cornered Billie and insisted she be allowed to spend time with Sorab.’

‘Oh yeah? What did Billie say?’

‘Told my dear mother to fuck off.’ He smiles reluctantly.

We wait for the helicopter in the glare of the sun in our city clothes.

‘What will happen to the men?’

‘They will return to their homes.’

In twenty minutes our ride creates a veritable sandstorm as it lands. Abdul kisses my hand and the cameleers turn to stare me in the eye for the first time. I am no longer a woman, but a curiosity. A woman who would bare her hair, the shape of her body, and her legs. Their eyes are like the desert. Timeless and full of secrets. I commit them to memory, knowing we will never meet again.

Five

Victoria Jane Montgomery

When the lunch bell rings I make my way to the canteen. Despite the restraints of that first night, it is not like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest here.

In fact the first day was relatively simple Once they established to their satisfaction that temperature, pulse, blood pressure, EKG and blood values were all normal, and I did not harbor a desire to hurt myself or anyone else, they let me loose upon their premises and their ‘experts’.

The experts’ job is to get to ‘know’ me through lengthy interviews to excavate my full life history, my family background, and my criminal and psychiatric history. The assessments include personality tests, neuropsychological tests, tests for malingering (the technical term for faking a mental illness) and general cognitive tests from intelligence to memory.

You see, here, they believe in progressive and compassionate care.

The building I am imprisoned in is incredibly beautiful. It was erected in the nineteenth century by a baron for his mad wife. The interior is high ceilinged, and ornate, with long, rambling, sunlit wings. Apparently his wife had loved playing the piano so he had a grand piano installed in every room. After the servants found him stabbed to death—his face gruesomely contorted with horror—while she sat calmly playing the piano, the building was closed and abandoned for many years.

Now the ceilings are still full of intricate moldings to rival the Baccarat Gallery Museum in Paris, and the walls retain their original warm pinkish shade of off-white, but the pianos are gone, the windows have bars over them, and the sun-filled corridors are populated by over-medicated, dazed patients shuffling aimlessly up and down them.

And the large room where the Baroness played to her audience of one corpse has been designated the common room. It is dimly lit: the curtains remain drawn at all times. A huge television is mounted on one wall and patients wander in and slump in armchairs and rocking chairs to stare numbly at the flickering screen: cartoons playing on a loop.

I avoid it like the plague.

The dining area is full of natural light and rather pleasant, other than the unidentified brown smears and stains on the walls. There are no decorations except for a poster listing banned items—nail clippers, razors, tweezers, lighters, medication, belts, shoelaces, spiral-bound notebooks, jewelry and under-wired bras.

Of course, there are other things that are not on the poster that are banned too, like physical contact with other patients, food in the rooms. The only rule that concerns me is inpatients not being allowed to make calls, only to receive them. But I think I have the solution. She walked into my room this morning, keys jangling on her belt. The name tag pinned on her uniform, appropriately enough, said ‘Angel’.

I walk along the aisle and a large, dozy cow in a blue apron slaps a huge mound of macaroni cheese on my tray. I stare at the thick, lumpy concoction with a sort of culture shock. This is what passes for food. Another uniformed staff in a hairnet dishes out the vegetables: green beans, carrots and a graying sludge that she calls mashed potato. I thank her politely, and, moving along, pick a bun from a basket of bread rolls. These would come in handy in Palestine when those kids run out of rocks and stones to throw.

Dessert is a wedge of something brown and crusty that they daringly pass off as chocolate fudge cake. Only the truly mad can eat it. I pass by the drinks dispenser and fill my Styrofoam cup with chilled fizzy orange and pick up some cutlery, plastic obviously.

With my tray of exciting cuisine I make for a table that is empty, and sit down. On the next table a woman in a white gown is drooling into her food. She looks like a zombie. I turn away from the sight with a flash of anger, at what they have done to me. I don’t belong here. I shouldn’t be here.

My eyes collide with another’s—a woman at another table who stares at me murderously. My first reaction is to walk up to her and slap her hard in her face, but, of course, that would be contrary to what is expected of a model patient. I pick up my plastic knife and, never taking my eyes off her, slowly lick the plastic blade. She flinches and averts her eyes. That’s bullies for you. Always cowardly in the face of true power.

I fork the ‘food’ into my mouth. It is horrendous, but I have already learned that those who don’t eat are put on special watch. My plastic knife slices through the overcooked carrot. I spear it, slip it between my lips and swallow the watery mush.

A woman comes and perches timidly on the empty chair beside me. I turn and look at her. She has a wild, haunted look about her startlingly large, light eyes. I sigh inwardly.

‘Be very careful,’ she warns in a frightened whisper. ‘There are spirits in this place. They are restless in their misery and waiting to attach themselves to humans.’

‘Thanks for the warning,’ I say, and turn resolutely away.

She floats away, a ghost herself.

‘Everybody’s curious about you,’ someone says from the left of me. I look up. She is young, terribly common obviously, but not chronically mad. Probably just depressed or something. Her clothes are terrifically unfashionable, but her fingernails are beautifully done in baby blue. Hmm… They didn’t cut her fingernails, which means she must be a model patient. She plonks herself in the chair vacated by the ghost.

‘Are you really a lady? Most of the people who call themselves lord or lady around here are just barmy?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Cooool,’ she crows brightly. ‘I’ve never met a real lady before. It’s sooooo boring in here.’ She quickly makes herself more comfortable in the chair.

Inwardly, I am seething at the indignities I am being subjected to, but I smile politely and take a sip of the awful coffee. I never imagined coffee could taste so bad.

A man marches up to me. He is wearing a brown sweater and golfing trousers and his cheeks are so red it looks as though he is about to have a heart attack at any time.

‘Why are you here?’ he demands in a loud voice, his cheeks flushing even brighter red.

‘I’m minding my own business. You should do the same,’ I tell him.

Apparently that is the right answer. He nods as if impressed and walks away.

‘Way to go, girl,’ my unwelcome companion approves.

I turn towards her. She holds her hand out. Her nails, beautifully manicured, strike me as the most civilized thing in that place. ‘Welcome to the mad house. It’s a treat to find someone who has the guts not to be floating around on their mind-fuck pills all day. I’m Molly Moss, by the way.’

Six

Lana Barrington