CHAPTER TEN

Red roses bloomed vigorously in their beds interspersing the wide green swards surrounding the Billington hospital. Figures, some alone some in small groups, paced the lawns with slow steps taking advantage of the exceptional summer weather. To one side a low-slung building, more glass than wall, indicated the “friend’s ward”, filled as was its way with the usual motley crew of homeless, battered wives and repentant alcoholic husbands. The morning therapy session was about to begin.

“What I want to know,” a lank, tall young man began, “is where he has gone. The only person here that spoke any sense; he said I needed a job and I rose up to greet him as Jesus Christ. Where is he now? They haven’t crucified him have they?”

“Don’t worry” reassured him a bi-focalled doctor “He’s gone, we may be worried but in any case he wasn’t sectioned we can’t stop him. He’ll come back and visit you. You can be sure. “

Behind him, seated with other nurses and doctors was Tippi, James’s ‘Radha’. She smiled sympathetically at Bill, the lanky, worrying young man. She was glad James had managed to get it together to go from the institution. He had done something which for some time now she had wanted to do. How long had she been working at this place? She tried to work out the years on her fingers. At least seven. Tippi remembered when she had left her north London outer suburb and her indifferent mother to go east and join friends staying at Billington town. With no money on her she had felt herself highly fortunate to have got a job at the hospital as a cleaner. For two years she had swept up after the patients. Then, encouraged by a particular nurse who had become her boy-friend, she had started her training as a psychiatric nurse, passed her practical and her exams and become qualified. For five years she had handled paranoia and schizophrenia and all the other labels which the professionals placed on the jetsam and flotsam of wrecked humanity and had slowly but surely become increasingly disillusioned. ‘What’s in a name?’ she asked. And surely they were only treating the symptoms, not the causes? In her disillusion Tippi had joined an eastern cult, a divine mission to save mankind from the material world and raise it to the highest spheres of the spiritual. The leader of the cult was a boy, a cherubic-looking boy, hailed as a new prophet and whose every pronouncement were seized upon as gospel, or rather Vedic, truth Even here, however, the Divine life mission had begun to disillusion her as much as the hospital. Gradually, the early days of the mission with the seemingly total selflessness, their direct camaraderie gave way to a harder, politically edged, power struggle with rival gurus claiming each one was the only, true voice to be heard. Interpretations and, re-interpretation filled the meetings. Gone were the simple truths, the supernal light which had almost given haloes to the participants of the early meetings.

Tippi wanted to get out, fast. But where was this Krishna, this James to be found? “Medication time,” reminded one of her colleagues and with almost indifferent resignation Tippi walked to the medicine trolley and started to look down the list of drugs she would have to dole out to the sheep-like queue of patients that was beginning to form before her, shuffling with their slippers towards her, almost as if she were about to administer the modern Eucharist to their needs. With hands outstretched they swallowed the bread of lagarctyl and drank the wine of methadone.

***

James felt a hand force something bitter into his mouth. His head started reeling and he felt himself falling, falling and collapsed in a bundle on the stone floor of the vaulted passageway. Before he passed out he could hear Helen’s voice evermore faintly moaning “James, James, where are you?”

He awoke to find himself in a small chamber with a skylight. He could not guess how many hours had passed. But it was day, however; a faint sunlight streamed through the skylight’s bars. Where on earth was he? James asked himself. And where was Helen? God, where was Helen? He felt totally despairing and dejected without her, not knowing where she was and whether she was still alive.

After what appeared to be an interminable period of time James heard the door to the chamber creaking open. A faceless, vizored guard came towards him, seized him with both arms and took him out into a long corridor.

***

Helen was knocked unconscious by a blow on the head. When she woke into realisation she found herself in a large draperied, windowless chamber scattered with large cushions on its carpeted floor. Sylph-like veiled figures began to appear before her eyes.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“‘You are privileged to be in the harem of the elite of Mersea,” a large matronly woman whispered to her. “Welcome to your new life.”

“What is my new life,” queried Helen anxiously. She was overwhelmed by the unused luxury of her surroundings.

“You are to serve the Elite, serve their every need.”

“I will not prostitute myself,” asserted Helen.

“Would you rather die a slow lingering death in the salt marshes, racked by disease and despair then?”

“I’ll survive.”

“You might even be trepanned if you show signs of dissidence.”. Helen looked aghast at the matron.

“Look dear,” continued Phalarea, the matron. “Anything is better than that. Here you will find rich food and rich clothes. Your body will be dressed in fine cloths and your person will be bejewelled in gold and silver. Some sex slaves will even succeed in being mistresses over their lords. Come on, be sensible.”

What was Helen to do? Her first thought was survival, survival for her dearly beloved James. She could not survive in the marshes and her mind could be taken away from her – she could even die – in the dreaded trepanning operation. Perhaps Phalarea was right: to serve bodily the evil retainers of the Mersea fiefdom was better. After all, they might use her body but they would not be able to access, take away her mind. Helen submitted; “All right. I can see your point. I will become a sex slave to this fiefdom.”

“Good for you dear,” smiled Phalarea. Now what I think you should do is have a good bath. After that you will be oiled; massaged and perfumed. Suitable costly apparel will be chosen by you. You may select your jewels – by the way your ears will need to be pierced – and then spend this afternoon in a good, deep sleep in expectation of your nightly services.”

Helen hoped that James would understand that she was only prostituting her body

– not her mind – and that life for him was better than death without any one.

Another sex slave approached Helen.

“Hi, Helen, “my name is Tania. Follow me to the bath. You are so beautiful I am sure you will be a great success here.”

Helen followed Tania like a resigned poodle. At least, she thought to herself, “I am still alive.”