Sceptic Read online

  ‘Bloody hell,’ adds Ernest.

  ‘You’re cleaning the shit he’s smeared on the walls,’ says Smithy.

  ‘Like hell I am,’ answers Ernest.

  There’s an exchange of fast words that I can’t quite make out. Hearing Smithy’s voice again is making me on edge.

  ‘Fine, but you gotta take him down to the day room,’ says Ernest.

  ‘Well, lucky for you, Ralph, that’s an option unlike some of the blokes here.’

  There’s a shuffling of feet and more swearing. Then silence. Which feels odd after how noisy it was last night.

  ‘Why are you so far away?’ Bertie speaks softly. His words wrap around me, pulling me closer to him. I resist. What sort of place is this? Fear shimmies through me like a bad case of pins and needles. I hadn’t realised I’d shifted back into a corner of the room. I push away not wanting to know what’s been smeared on these walls.

  ‘I’m not far away,’ I answer, scrambling for images to use to communicate to him. I use a short piece of rope with two people together, a boy and a girl. I can feel a little blushing heat rising within me. I push that thought away quickly and tell myself not to be stupid. I’m a ghost. Bertie’s flesh and blood. It wouldn’t work out. Besides, I still reckon I’m on my way to hell, I’ve just taken a slight detour, and when I work things out, then it will all turn out just fine. There’s no time for love in hell. Thank goodness.

  ‘Yes, we’re joined aren’t we?’ Bertie’s whisper refocuses my thoughts.

  ‘You can feel that?’ I pause.

  How the fuck am I meant to say that to him with images?

  I send a question mark. It isn’t always easy to communicate with Bertie this way.

  Bertie lays on his back looking up into the ceiling. ‘What’s your name?’

  How the hell do I portray my name to him?

  Dazz. He’ll think I’m a boy. Well, I know what images to use there, but there’s no way I’m going to do that.

  Then I have an idea.

  I blank my mind, make it dark and send the image to Bertie. Then quickly I craft a spark. Its centre is pure white, brilliant to look at, but small so it won’t hurt to see for a few seconds. Then I surround it with blue, the hue of the Bunsen burner I’ve used in school, with edges coming outwards like it’s pressing into the darkness, wanting to get out.

  Then I wait. Bertie closes his eyes. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.

  ‘That’s a beautiful name.’

  I smile. A warmth eases into my heart from the chain that connects us. It feels like warm honey.

  ‘What’s this building?’ I form the question in my mind, still trying to get used to this new way of communicating.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No…’ I pause. ‘Why would I know?’

  I’m sitting on the floor in the centre of the room, legs bent up to my chest and my arms wrapped around them. I feel like a need a hug. This is the first time I’ve ever felt something like this before.

  ‘I assume you knew.’ He turns his head towards me, but he still can’t see me. I’m just grateful he can hear me. This is huge progress and has given me hope. Too much hope and every now and then my mind blurs with the hopefulness I’m not used to. This is a very different way of interacting for me, but I’m willing to try considering my current form. Plus, if I can learn how to communicate with Bertie I’m sure I can learn how to go through walls and even change so that people can see me. I’d like to give Smithy a hell of a scare that will send him into next Sunday and beyond. I shiver at the thought of that man.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asks Bertie. ‘You’ve… stiffened or something. I don’t like it.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I push the thoughts of Smithy from my mind.

  ‘That’s better. You’re back to feeling like warm honey.’ Bertie smiles.

  I like it when he smiles. ‘So what is this building?’

  ‘It’s Parkside.’

  ‘That’s a suburb of Adelaide. I’m asking about the building.’ I’m finding it frustrating working out the images to portray what I need to in order to communicate with Bertie. The frustration vibrates through the air to Bertie tainting the images. I can feel it. My own awareness is sharpening and adapting to this form.

  ‘Steady on. This is country, not city. They don’t want the likes of us close to other people who know what we might end up doing.’ He moves uncomfortably. The straps have rubbed against the skin on his wrists, enough for them to bleed. He must be so uncomfortable, but then I suspect he’s a little like me. The release of blood might actually give him some comfort.

  ‘Country?’ It doesn’t make sense. I shake my head. I think there’s more I need to know. It doesn’t matter if I’m in the country or the city. I’m still in Adelaide, just a hundred and thirty or something years before my time. That’s bad enough. At least I don’t have to put up with people speaking a different language, though some of the words Bertie uses are odd. In my time Parkside is an inner suburb of Adelaide, South Australia.

  He takes a deep breath. ‘It’s the insane asylum.’

  ‘What?’ My gaseous form slows down with the coldness of fear. This isn’t where I want to be. Ever. There was talk with my parents about having me committed but they refused, but it’s worse than that. This isn’t just a Victorian asylum. Things were much worse with the way they treated the patients back then. I don’t know why I hadn’t put the obvious of what was going on around me together and worked that out myself. It seems very obvious now Bertie’s told me what this building is.

  Mental Hospital.

  Asylum.

  ‘It’s Z Ward.’ He hears my silent question. ‘For the criminally insane.’ He is lucid. No hints of insanity from him when he’s talking. This isn’t making sense at all to me, or at least my mind is refusing to comprehend my situation.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Look at the window.’ He went quiet. I turn and see the panel covering the window, a window that doesn’t open and has bars on the other side of the glass. I jump again, slow and softly, this time I get a glimpse. There are no buildings in sight. Only a deep wall down below.

  ‘See.’ He lifts his arms. The leather straps pull tight and bite into his skin. ‘You get it now.’

  I don’t answer.

  Z Ward?

  Z for zombie.

  Z for zoo.

  Z for…there’s no letter following, no hope, nothing for the future of people in this ward.

  Except death.

  And I’m already dead.

  So what does this mean? My form constricts.

  ‘You get it. I know. You feel like cold honey.’ He closes his eyes as a way that ends the conversation. That’s fine with me. I don’t want to talk anymore. I mean what else is there to say. I am the newest patient of Z Ward.

  I will be stuck here forever.

  ‘Why are you here?’ I ask him. Boldness has grown within me in the hours of being in the room. No one has come for a while. They’ve left Bertie tied to the bed. Well, they did take him out for a piss, but that was hours ago. They haven’t given him any food. He must be hungry.

  His face firms with my question. More shadows form on his skin casting wrinkles. Bertie goes to move, to turn to face the wall, but the straps jerk and stop him.

  ‘Sorry.’ I’ve upset him. I didn’t meant to. I’m just curious. I’m not used to being curious. The darkness twisted any inquisitive inclinations I might have had. So I’m not sure where these questions are coming from.

  I already know that this is Z Ward. The lowest of low people are here. Despite my research, I don’t know a lot about asylums. But just the name of this ward, and the fact that it is in a building with no other buildings nearby creates fear within me. And I can still remember the screaming last night from some of the patients.

  ‘I don’t belong here,’ he finally says.

  ‘Of course, you don’t,’ I answer, somehow finding the right images to tell him that. I chose a bird f
lying in the sky.

  ‘You’re really sweet you know.’ He almost smiles. Almost. But I’m disappointed he doesn’t.

  ‘You wouldn’t hurt anyone. You’re not a criminal. I know. I can feel your heart,’ I say.

  He’s silent for so long I’m not sure he understands me. I look up at the window. The sunlight is coming through, casting a shadow of glass panes on the wall right down to the bed. I wonder if Bertie is enjoying the autumn warmth from the light. I guess that’s why there’s a window. It gives me some comfort. Sunlight is meant to help people not feel so down or gloomy. Never helped me. But oddly I like seeing the patterns over the painted brick wall. Seeing the sunlight makes me feel less cold.

  ‘I wouldn’t hurt anyone,’ says Bertie. ‘Not even an animal.’

  ‘I know.’ I don’t add or continue the conversation. He doesn’t need to tell me he doesn’t belong here. Maybe that’s why we are together in this room. It’s the only comfort I’ve got as Bertie slips away into his own thoughts.

  I remember something Smithy had said. Blokes. That is men only.

  ‘Are there women here?’

  Bertie goes to speak then he closes his mouth.

  I know the answer. I don’t like the idea that I’m here with men who are locked up in cells each night. I guess there are more like Bertie who are strapped to their bed, and I’m sure unlike Bertie that they deserve that treatment.

  ‘There’s been one. Once. I think. Long before I was here.’

  Knowing that doesn’t give me any comfort. I’m not sure being here as a woman with so many men who were considered criminally insane is a good thing. But then I guess the reason she had be here would be the same as the men so maybe it doesn’t matter. My thoughts fold on each other, and I rub my temples.

  The sound of the key in the lock causes me to jump. The door swings open.

  ‘Lunchtime, Bertie,’ says Ernest joyfully, though he doesn’t mean it.

  ‘About time, you forgot breakfast, you idiots.’ I pause wondering if they would’ve had breakfast in Victorian time. Either way, they should be looking after Bertie better than they are.

  A new guy follows Ernest into the room. He looks nice. Slender, average height, blonde hair and sharp eyes. I wonder why he’s working here, if it’s just a job to pay the bills, or if he had a calling. I never knew what I wanted to do with my life. Didn’t much care for it. I knew I wouldn’t be around for long so why bother thinking about it.

  Not wanting to touch them I stand out of the way. Not that there’s much room here, two by three isn’t a lot of space, especially with a single bed in the room. But I manage it.

  They unbuckle Bertie.

  ‘Thanks,’ says Bertie. He struggles to sit up. The new guy helps him, putting his hands supportively under his shoulder, the other between his shoulders, and pushes Bertie forward.

  ‘Bet you’re glad to get them off,’ says the new guy.

  ‘I am. I hope they can stay off,’ says Bertie as the guy helps him to swing his legs over the edge of the bed.

  I see the look in the guy’s eyes. Sorrow. The sort of sorrow that comes when there are clouds in the sky when you hoped it would be a sunny day.

  ‘I’ll put in a good word for you,’ he says eventually, his words are formed with fake confidence. The sadness he has towards Bertie leaks out of him and is filling the room. I can feel it wrapping around me, seeping in between my gaseous form by a sort of osmosis. The sadness begins to weigh me down, pushing on my shoulders and I struggle to stop my knees from buckling.

  ‘Appreciate it.’ Bertie wobbles when he stands.

  ‘Come on let’s get you fed.’

  With a man either side, each holding his arms, as if stopping him from escaping, they take him out of the room, leaving me alone.

  I used to like being left alone, but then I had things to do. I have nothing to do here. No internet to search, pictures to scribble, or words to write, or knives to cut with.

  Though, I’m not entirely alone. The sadness has filled me, swirled around like ink in water. It’s seeping back out of me, lingering in the room, and then diffusing out through the open door.

  I don’t bother trying to go through the door. I mean there’s no point, right? I want to. I move and rest my shoulder in the doorway. I can see more of the corridor. But not enough because the door opens from the left, and blocks the length of the corridor. I can hear men moving around, walking down the corridor. I get a glimpse, most are moving freely, not marched around like Bertie is.

  It’s not fair, I think to myself. Bertie doesn’t deserve to be treated like that, and I wish there’s something I could do for him.

  If I could be a better ghost then maybe I could. I could perhaps scare the orderlies, play a joke on them, so they blame each other and get into a fight. That would be funny to watch, a side bonus. Then maybe they would forget to tie Bertie to the bed. Bertie could then escape, and I could go with him. If I could work out how to get out of this bloody room.

  My world, the room, is pressing down on me from all directions. I won’t be able to stay here without going crazy. But the idea of leaving here, and facing what the hell is out there in a time period I’m not familiar with, scares me more so I don’t want to try. That and the pain I feel when I push up against the boundaries of the room.

  I press my hand, palm outward, forward, looking for the boundary. I feel it. The invisible force field. It tingles as I gently push my hand to meet it. I try to feel into it. An electrical spark shoots out and zaps my hand. I jump back. Message received.

  I creep closer to the invisible wall and try to look further out of the room. The door to the room is blocking most of the view down the corridor. I stand on tippy toes, and I can see through the peephole from a distance. I get a pinhole view. And I can hear. It sounds like the men are going down a metal staircase. They sound sort of happy with the snatches of conversation that filters to me. It’s surreal hearing disembodied voices and not knowing who they belong to.

  ‘We can have a game of cards after,’ says one.

  ‘Yeah, right-o.’

  ‘They better have the food warm this time I hate eating cold soup.’

  That’s right it’s lunchtime. That’s one thing I haven’t missed. Eating. Not that I hated food I just couldn’t be bothered. It was something Mum tried with me. To get me to care, but I just didn’t. I didn’t care to have fun, to eat, to go to school, to meet people, to go out in the world, to work out what I wanted to do with my life. I didn’t care about any aspect of life. Mum tried very hard to find something for me to care about. Even by allowing me to wear my own style of clothes which made her cringe, and later I heard her crying in the bathroom. Hey, I was pretty mild I reckon, there was so much more I could’ve done, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t have the energy for it. I always felt so tired. That was the darkness. It zapped my energy, sucked me dry like the summer sun on our front lawn. I couldn’t seem to explain that to Mum so she could understand. Dad at least tried to listen, but he didn’t understand either. Ashla would pretend to listen, so I learnt to keep some things to myself. Which, of course, then started the arguments that I wasn’t sharing, I was being too closed, it wasn’t healthy for me to act like this. This all made me clamp my jaw tighter. They didn’t understand. I couldn’t find the words to make them comprehend only words that scared them. All I seemed to be able to do was to reflect back images to them that they didn’t want to see.

  Soon it’s quiet up here. Everyone is gone.

  I sigh. Knowing I should try and get out of this damn room, or perhaps I could experiment with something else. It isn’t really my style. Trying. Experimenting. But I’m bored of looking out and unable to walk through an open door, and I feel I need to do something. After all, it could help Bertie. That would be a nice surprise. If he came back, assuming he will, and I can help him. I know exactly what to try first, even though my stomach area is a swirling mess, bit like when you pull the plug from a bath and the water makes a torna
do shape down the drain.

  I move to the bed. Bertie wants the straps off. I brace myself for the images that could flood my mind as I reach out for the nearest strap. It’s old leather, dry and cracked. Brown. There are teeth marks which are undeniably clear and imprinted in the leather. The buckle is brass, marks show it has been well used, or perhaps not well cared for.

  I pause. This is going to be hard. It’s for Bertie. I find my inner strength, something I’ve never managed to do. I almost expect I’ll lose my grip on this power I’ve suddenly found, but then I forget. I remember the sadness the orderly felt for Bertie, and it’s like Bertie is that sad himself. I will try.

  My fingers touch the leather. Blurred images seep into my mind. Sort of like when you put a tea bag in hot water for the first time. Ruddy brown images are swirling around in me trying to take shape. I refocus, pushing past them. I build up a brick wall in my mind to keep them out.

  I see the leather and wrap my fingers around it reminding myself I don’t want to go through the leather. If I had a physical body, I’d be sweating litres of salty water. I don’t know what the equivalent is for a ghost, but I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening to me from how hard I’m concentrating. I can’t think about me. I have to help Bertie.

  By some fucking miracle, my fingers wrap around the strap and don’t disappear into the leather molecules. I can feel the roughness of the worn surface in my palm as I grip tighter.

  I pull.

  The leather moves with me.

  I did it.

  Excitement fills me like a dangerous drug. My head blurs. I lose my inner hold on my strength, and the wall that’s stopping the images from flooding my mind crumbles.

  My hand passes through the leather.

  My head fills with scenes, which are clearly formed and in focus. All terrifying. For a moment I’m connected with all who have had contact with these leather straps, and who have left their marks behind. At least that’s what it feels like. Their horror, their anger at being tied up on the bed for days and days, even months, screams through me and fills my being and overwhelms me.