A Justifiable Madness Read online

  A Justifiable Madness

  A B Morgan

  Copyright © 2017 A B Morgan

  The right of A B Morgan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  For Andy, who always believes in me.

  Contents

  1. No Turning Back Now

  2. September 1994: The Challenge is on

  3. A New Arrival

  4. Who is Jesus?

  5. Mark has Doubts

  6. No Clearer

  7. First-night Nerves

  8. Holding Court

  9. The Court of Dr Sharman

  10. Making Sense

  11. Stuck on a Section

  12. Appealing

  13. A Little Clue

  14. Some Weeks Earlier

  15. The Rosenhan Experiment Explained

  16. The Sharp-dressed Lawyer Speaks

  17. Plans

  18. An Unexpected Turn of Events

  19. To Be or Not to Be the Real Mark, That is the Question

  20. When Mark Met Richard

  21. He Speaks!

  22. True Colours

  23. A Disappearance

  24. News from Around the Country

  25. An Unpleasant Smell

  26. Sectioned Again

  27. Backed into a Corner

  28. Descent into Hell

  29. Watching

  30. The Right Thing is Wrong

  31. Time to Go

  32. Mark Goes to Ground for a While

  33. A Man of the Utmost Importance

  34. Photographic Evidence

  35. More Coffee, Nurse!

  36. Who Did What?

  37. What the Papers Said

  38. Phil Lynott, Che Guevara, and Jesus Go to a Bar

  39. Pub Battleships

  A Note From Bloodhound Books

  Acknowledgments

  1

  No Turning Back Now

  Mark deftly removed the last remaining item of clothing between dignity and nudity: the sarong around his waist. He departed through the train doors almost directly from the toilet where he had left his oldest t-shirt and abandoned his train ticket.

  It had been a warm night for the first week in September, and there was not even the slightest hint of chill in the early morning air. In fact it was quite muggy, heralding a hot oppressive day ahead for those off to work in the city. Facing Mark, as he alighted from the train, was a sea of commuters. Most were jostling their way past other travellers, pushing through train doors, desperate to find an available seat. Those in his direct path gave Mark a very wide berth indeed. Bare and exposed for all to see, with arms outstretched, he looked up to the heavens. Strolling slowly and deliberately further onto the platform, he muttered a language of vague Arabic origin.

  Having caused more than a bit of a stir, he stopped abruptly and honed in on a bespectacled man in the crowd. Lowering his head, Mark stared him directly in the eye. Then, in a theatrical manner, he placed his hands gently upon the man’s shoulders and let loose a stream of incantations, as if striving to produce a public miracle healing.

  The shocked commuter remained motionless, his eyes beseeching his fellow travellers to intervene; none did, and no rescue was forthcoming from any quarter. People in the crowds were finding it difficult to avoid coming into contact with Mark because of the heaving mass of humankind squashed onto the platform, endeavouring to access their morning trains.

  Mark then raised his game in both volume and behaviour. He began to chant, and to spin like a Dervish with his arms again outstretched. Every now and then he would punctuate his rotations by halting without warning, to lovingly touch and bless whosoever he could target. He gazed down upon those he was praying for, mesmerising them with his hypnotic eyes and melodic prayers.

  Mark looked magnificent. His long dark wavy hair was flowing across his shoulders, and his lean muscular body was tanned and glistening with nervous sweat. He was so tall that, nudity notwithstanding; he was already easily distinguishable from the surrounding throng.

  2

  September 1994: The Challenge is on

  As people surged onto the trains, the platform became less populated. Mark therefore had more room to showcase his naked Messiah performance, which was having the desired effect on the morning travellers. Most were either shocked or irritated and Mark had become aware of one or two commuters who had laughed nervously as he passed them by. Their reaction was at the most unusual sight of a nude man who looked remarkably like Jesus, wandering purposefully along a busy train station platform. Mark was as naked as the day he was born, apart from a pair of well-worn leather sandals.

  It was merely a matter of luck that there were two British Transport police officers on the opposite platform, lying in wait for a serial fare dodger.

  ‘What’s all that fuss about?’ remarked one to the other. In response to the commotion, they made their way to Mark’s vicinity, and as they glimpsed through the crowds, they saw a man who appeared to be lying prostrate on the platform. They anticipated having to deal with a medical emergency, but as they approached the scene, they soon realised that the man was conscious, lying on his back, legs akimbo, with his genitals on public display. Mark had his hands together as if praying, and was spouting a lengthy but unintelligible string of suitably made-up words, as he gazed again at the heavens above.

  ‘Heavens above!’ remarked the first policeman with a huge grin on his face. The second, his sergeant, rapidly took control of the situation, and from the gathering circus of passengers and station staff, he chose a number of people to help shield the scene from those of a more delicate disposition.

  ‘Right; you, you, and you three. Stand together, facing outwards and form a shield please.’ There were young children and ladies present, most of whom had already turned their backs to the offending sight. Inevitably, there were also voyeurs who made certain that they had an uninterrupted view. One high-heeled bleached-blonde woman drew attention to herself as she shrieked loudly about how delighted she was at the quality of the assets on show.

  The sergeant, a lanky man, took a high visibility vest from one ponderous member of the station staff, and swirling the waistcoat like a toreador, swiftly covered Mark’s prized possessions. The other policeman, a rather chubby constable, tried unsuccessfully to talk to Mark who was determinedly praying and chanting.

  ‘Come along, sir. Let’s keep covered up, shall we, there’s a good chap. Now, what’s your name? Can you tell us where you’re from? Do you speak English? No, possibly not then …’

  The local police were contacted, but they had ‘no available officers to deal with the incident at this time.’ Therefore in an unusual step, the two British Transport police, who were not local to the area, were left to deal with a naked ranting Messiah on platform two. They decided to escort the praying flasher to the local hospital’s A&E department, and let the mental health services deal with him there. ‘He’s off his rocker,’ noted the endlessly cheerful chubby constable. ‘Doesn’t he look like Robert Powell in Jesus of Nazareth? Really uncanny that,’ he remarked.

  Mark was praying and chanting in the direction of both policemen as they
debated between themselves the best way they should get him up from the platform and onto his feet, without further indecent exposure occurring as a result.

  Mark wished they would get on with it. He was becoming uncomfortable in the places where grit from the dirty platform irritated and abraded his back. Optimistically he had assumed that he wouldn’t have to wait too long before they whisked him smartly to the hospital, but these two were dithering and debating to such a degree that it seemed an age before any action occurred.

  Lying there, listening to the Keystone Cops attempting to access an acceptable, practical idea between them, Mark had time to review his own work. Overall he was pleased with how well his performance had been received. He could only hope that it was enough to secure the desired outcome, and that he had not overacted. It was difficult to gauge.

  ‘Fetch us something to cover this man up a bit better, would you?’ asked Sergeant Thin. He was duly given a slightly worn but relatively clean blanket from a couple of members of the station platform staff, who were openly laughing at the mayhem.

  Handcuffs were employed as a precautionary measure inside the police vehicle, keeping Mark’s hands tied to prevent him from removing the blanket wrapped around his waist.

  It was only once they had arrived at Hollberry Hospital did the two policemen realise that this was not entirely effective. Each time Mark stood up, the blanket fell down of its own accord, and Mark made no attempt to hold it in place. He was concentrating hard, trying not to smirk or to laugh.

  ‘Right, I’ll lead. You follow, and hold the corners of the blanket in place,’ instructed Sergeant Thin. Constable Chubby appeared to find the whole scene highly amusing. He chortled loudly as the three men stumbled their way through the main doors to A&E at Hollberry Hospital. As a pair, the two policemen resembled the Chuckle Brothers from children’s television fame.

  The triage nurse greeted them with a smirk, and by the way she looked at him, Mark knew that she had been struck by his resemblance to Jesus. She didn’t move for several seconds, momentarily hypnotised as Mark fixed her with his saintly stare. He looked at her lovingly. She smiled back at him with nervous sympathy as she put the phone to her ear. ‘Switchboard? Could you bleep the on-call psychiatrist for A&E please? Prompt response required. Thanks.’

  Mark was continuing to produce an award-worthy religious performance for the benefit of a handful of people in the A&E waiting room. He did the same for Dr Siddiqui, the psychiatrist, when he finally made an appearance. Mark had deliberately discontinued his dramatic verbal ranting, and had lowered the overall tone. He didn’t want to overdo the effect, so kept the volume low.

  ‘Once the doctor takes him away for assessment, we can get straight back to what we were supposed to be doing.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge. Lovely day for it.’ Unfortunately for the two policemen, Dr Siddiqui had other ideas, and appearing somewhat nervous, he instructed the police to remain.

  ‘I strongly suggest that you should be using the police powers of the Mental Health Act, in case the patient decides to run.’

  ‘What did ’e say?’ whispered the constable, leaning towards the sergeant’s left ear. Despite working in the UK for years, Dr Siddiqui retained a strong Indian accent, and when nervous, spoke at the speed of a firing machine gun.

  ‘Thanks for the suggestion, Doctor, but the man came with us willingly. He won’t be going anywhere with those cuffs on.’ The sergeant was reassuringly emphatic.

  Dr Siddiqui conceded by nodding, or in his case by shaking his head in a peculiar figure of eight motion. This was even more bewildering for the inexperienced constable, who looked for assurances from his superior. ‘That means “yes”, Constable.’

  Dr Siddiqui nodded his way to a cubicle in which to carry out a psychiatric assessment, and with pen in hand, took details of the chain of events at the station as reported by the two policemen. It was the sergeant who answered most of the questions. Constable Chubby remained quiet with a puzzled expression fixed upon his rounded face. It seemed he was unable to understand the vast majority of Dr Siddiqui’s enquiries.

  Mark listened intently as they described his morning’s work and debated his future. Truth time. Had his performance been good enough?

  ‘You’re telling me that this man here … he’s touching the members of the public and people who were from the crowds on the train station platform? Is that right? Now then, when he, ummm, exposed his body parts, did he frighten members of the public on purpose with his behaviour?’ the doctor asked.

  Mark thought that Dr Siddiqui seemed embarrassed by his own questions and unnerved by the answers. The psychiatrist then turned his professional attention to Mark, who had become mute, pretending to pray silently.

  Mark decided, as a finale, to suddenly stand up in order to bless Dr Siddiqui. Startled, the doctor sat back in his chair so violently that the whole chair flexed unnaturally. He was visibly alarmed at being confronted, full in the face, by Mark’s genitals as again the blanket slipped inexorably to the floor.

  The result of this pantomime was that Dr Siddiqui, with eyes wide, hurriedly left the cubicle.

  He returned minutes later with reinforcements in the form of a beige, square-shaped, flustered lady who he introduced as an approved social worker. Dr Siddiqui, who had remained shaken by his pelvic encounter with Mark, abandoned the social worker to make her own attempt to ask Mark some questions. The beige lady, a Mrs Anna Brown, made a valiant effort to get an intelligible verbal response, but failed. Mark said nothing. He smiled beatifically.

  Mark eventually decided to allow himself a few more made-up Arabic type incantations, and tried to bless her too.

  ‘Do we know anything about this man?’ she asked in exasperation as she stepped back out of range.

  ‘Sorry, not a thing. He had no ID with him, and when we detained him he was only wearing those sandals. That’s it. Not a stitch on. We’re not even sure he speaks English. So far he has just jabbered away in some foreign language.’ The sergeant sounded weary of repeating himself.

  Mark, the constable, and the sergeant were then deserted for a good hour or so, and Mark was left wondering what on earth was happening.

  The sergeant looked at his watch. ‘Christ, what can they be buggering about at?’

  ‘Dunno, Sarge. Never been to one of these mental assessments before.’

  ‘Right, that’s it! I’ll wait here with the naked Messiah, and you go and see if you can track down that bloody doctor before I charge him with wasting police time.’ On such an uncomfortably muggy day, the thin sergeant took offence at being kept waiting for so long. ‘I’ve better bloody things to do,’ he muttered.

  Even Mark had to admit that the waiting had become tedious. He too was finding the lack of information wearing. The day was becoming warmer and more oppressive while the three of them remained abandoned in an airless room with nothing to drink. With no communication from hospital staff about what was to happen next, tension rose for Mark as the time dragged on. He began to have doubts: Have I done it? Christ, what if they’ve sussed me out already? Impersonating a nutter … is that an offence?

  When the chubby constable returned, he reported proudly that he had found Dr Siddiqui and Mrs Brown the social worker, completing paperwork.

  They arrived moments later, forms in hand.

  ‘Right, sorry to keep you waiting. In the circumstances, we have completed the necessary paperwork to detain the unknown gentleman from the train station, under an emergency Section of the Mental Health Act. Dr Siddiqui will call the acute psychiatric admission wards in the next building and liaise with the nursing staff. If you could kindly deliver this man to the ward, and un-cuff him there. Thanks.’

  This request from square, beige Mrs Brown left no choice open to the sergeant and his constable. It would have been counterproductive and wasted even more time to argue the point, so they didn’t bother.

  Mark was rather surprised at the ease of his admission. Relief flooded through him.
That useless doctor hadn’t made any real effort to communicate with him. All he had done was to take the vast majority of the details from the police, which was helpful to Mark in many respects. He felt he had given his best performance at the railway station, and had rather enjoyed the pandemonium he had caused. He was now in uncharted territory, even so, he stuck firmly to his original plan. He went into total mute mode. I’ve made it this far, thought Mark. So far, so good.

  3

  A New Arrival

  ‘Monica, you’re going to love this,’ Emma said as she winked at me impishly.

  ‘Go on then … pen at the ready. Let’s have the gory stuff first,’ I said.

  ‘Okay, I’ll try, but Dr Siddiqui’s accent is so thick, I may have the finer details wrong.’ She sighed. ‘It appears that British Transport police had to arrest a man at Hollberry Station, because he was behaving bizarrely on one of the platforms.’

  ‘Nothing unusual about that.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but as I understand it, he had no clothes with him and no ID, and is declining to speak. He entertained the morning commuters on their journeys to work though … apparently. The police who picked him up reported that the man in question, had been praying and preaching, and all with no clothes on. Nice morning for a bit of wanton nudity, if I do say so myself. So, in short, as we are the nearest acute psychiatric unit to the station, we have the pleasure of his company.’