1
Elle pretended to be absorbed by the glossy holiday brochure open on her lap below the reception desk while just metres away a giant man paced in the lobby muttering to himself and kicking the chocolate-coloured sofas.
âI told them,â he said to the vending machine on the back wall, âyou have to watch closely.â
He returned to the sofa. Smack. Smack.
Terry was one of the regulars. It had been weeks since sheâd seen him around the hospital, and sheâd been worried about what might have happened to him. Now, with every sock of the leather upholstery, Elle flinched. She wanted to push her chair away from the desk and into the back office, where she could escape upstairs and get help. But she didnât want to draw his attention. So instead, she looked at her holiday brochure and tried to keep still. Palm trees. White sand. A crimson cocktail.
âDo they listen though? Do they?â
Smack. Smack. Smack.
Terry mostly appeared at reception to access the hospital Contemplation Room, a space set aside for patientsâ spiritual needs. Elle would push the little red button on the wall to let him through and he always thanked her. Quiet and shy, something of the local ale uncle about him, he could barely make eye contact, let alone trouble.
Elle wasnât privy to the details of his mental health history â her job was strictly non-clinical â but Terry had been doing well enough to walk around without a chaperone. A common story at Parkwood, though, was patients being discharged too early â especially since Core Solutions took over some of the NHS contracts two years ago. They struggled, and sometimes returned unannounced â often in a bad way. Sheâd had two incidents in the last six months, one of which had needed police involvement because there was no longer any on-site security.
Something clattered in the lobby. Terry was shaking the vending machine.
She couldnât ignore it now. He was going to hurt himself. Elle stood, leaned over the desk, and called through the open glass hatch. âTerry, are you okay? Do you need me to call anyone for you?â
He turned to look at her, recognition briefly in his eyes. Then he yelled, âThey look at you like goats. You want to watch out.â He kicked one sofa hard enough to lift it from the ground.
âOkay, Terry,â she said, âIâll get someone to help you. Just wait there, okay?â
She slid the glass window closed, locked it, and turned to the phone. After the second incident sheâd asked for more training and guidance from Core Solutions. Nothing had been forthcoming, so recently sheâd invented her own protocol: Ward, PCSO, police.
Guessing Terry wasnât likely to be under hospital care anymore, she called the neighbourhood PCSO. It went to voicemail.
Elle glanced up to check the lobby again and startled. Terry stood just centimetres from the glass. Despite the November cold, he wore only a food-stained Iron Man T-shirt tucked into a pair of shorts. He slammed his palms against the glass, which shook in its rails.
âCan I get through? I need to get upstairs.â
Elle took a step back. âOkay, let me get you help, Terry.â She tried sounding assertive yet compassionate. She didnât want to agitate him further.
He palmed the glass twice again. âI need to see him.â
Elle could see the illness at work on the surface, his tense posture and dancing eyes. Yet it was in those eyes she could see the other Terry, too, imprisoned and afraid, and almost apologetic.
Terry spat on the glass. He yelled. He struck again, harder. Then seemingly defeated, he walked away muttering.
Elle took a deep breath, reached for the phone and tried the number for the PCSO again.
The reception window shattered, and Elle covered her face as glass shards rained around her. A round coffee table struck the desk, briefly lodging in the hatch before the weight of its legs pulled it back out. The remaining frame of jagged glass didnât stop Terry from attempting to climb through, and Elle darted into the back office, footsteps crunching. She turned, ready to shut herself in.
Terry had one bleeding knee on the desk and was stretching for the red button on the wall. If he pressed the one for the conference facility door he would be free to walk around amongst the fifty or so guests on site. Elle thrust out her arm and got there first, pulling the plastic lever below the switch to disable it. His hand swatted the button a moment after. He didnât know what sheâd done, and retreated through the opening to try the double doors. Elle stepped back and slammed the door.
On the other side of the wall Terry began to kick out again.
âTerry, please calm down.â Her voice was so weak he probably couldnât hear it.
Elle looked down at the lock. The key wasnât there. It was in the reception drawer.
She grabbed the handle again; she could retrieve the key if she was quick. But the thumping ceased. His frustrated grumbling grew louder, followed by the sound of glass and other objects tumbling to the floor. He was entering the reception again.
Elle turned to flee. Once out in the corridor she could lock him inside, stop him getting upstairs. But at the back door she hesitated. What if he hurt himself in the office? She scanned the room. The stapler, the guillotine, a letter opener.
Terry kicked the door between reception and the office; he hadnât yet realised it was unlocked. The thin partition walls shook.
Was there time to clear the danger? She wouldnât be able to live with herself ifâ
The handle of the reception door squeaked and moved downwards. Before Elle could get out Terry stepped inside, shoulders heaving, a bull about to charge.
âTerry, you shouldnât be in here.â
âI need to see him.â
The people upstairs today were on a local authority training course, not clinicians experienced with seriously unwell patients. She had no idea what Terry would do, given his aggressive state, and she was the last line of defence.
He came towards her, and because the door swung inward she would have to step into him to open it. So instead she stepped away, moving deeper into the office. Only Terry wasnât interested in the door. He changed his direction and came for her instead.
Panicking, she grabbed one of the fire extinguishers on the wall, snapped out the safety plastic and pointed the nozzle at him.
Embarrassed and scared, she said, âTerry, please step back. I donât want to hurt you.â
He kept coming, shaking his head, muttering about how she didnât understand. His eyes were so very sad. She ordered herself to squeeze the handle, butâŚshe couldnât do it. He was unwell. He didnât deserve to be assaulted.
She threw the extinguisher at his feet to put it between them, turned, and yanked open the door to the stationery cupboard. She shut herself in, darkness blanketing her. She snapped a lock that sheâd only half-believed might be there and reached for the light switch, finding only cool brickwork. The stupid thing was on the outside wall, wasnât it? Now her only illumination poked beneath the crack at the base.
She sat with her back pressed to the door, trying to catch her breath. Trying to stop shaking.
âTerry, listen to meââ
Kick.
The force jostled her.
âTerryââ
Kick.
She tapped the pocket of her trousers. Her phone was still in her bag under the table.
âYou need to go outside before I call the police. Iâm frightened, Terry.â
The kicking stopped. Elle waited, listening intently, her eyes teary and her head involuntarily shaking from side to side.
âTerry,â she said.
After five minutes which felt more like an hour, she heard rustling at the doorâs base and scooted away. Her brochure, picked up that morning from an actual travel agentâs as she cycled to work, slid into the cupboard with her.
A moment later the light came on.
She breathed. She listened. Outside a door opened and closed. Silence.
She stared at the brochure. Huffed a bitter laugh.
On the cover a sun-kissed couple held hands on a white sand beach, gazing at one another like theyâd just been granted immortality in paradise. God, she really needed a holiday.
2
Elleâs manager insisted she g...
