The  White  Room    

From  the  window,  Charlotte  waved  her  husband  Greg  off  to  work.  He  

waved  back.  The  security  bars  they’d  had  put  in  were  a  nuisance.  

Greg  didn’t  mind,  but  she  thought  they  blocked  some  vision.  The  

salesman  had  assured  her  they  complied  with  the  buildings  

insurance  regulations  and  were  intended  more  as  a  deterrent  than  

for  their  cosmetic  value.  Everyone  in  the  apartment  block  was  having  

them  fitted,  the  nice  man  had  said.  She  had  been  sure  he  was  flirting  

with  her.  Even  at  38  years  old  with  her  slim,  tallish  figure  and  (as  an  

old  boyfriend  had  once  complimented  her,)  Audrey  Hepburn  looks,  

she  knew  she  looked  attractive.  

They’d  just  had  the  lounge  redecorated.  She  had  wanted  

powder  blue  but  Greg  had  twisted  her  arm  and  convinced  her  white  

would  look  much  better.  So,  as  usual,  she  had  gone  along  with  him.    

Charlotte  checked  her  watch,    

‘Come  on,  you  two,  breakfast  is  ready!’  she  shouted.  ‘Hurry  up  

or  you’ll  be  late  for  school.’  

In  a  blink,  they  were  sitting  in  front  of  her.  She  dished  out  the  

toast  and  cereal.    

‘Mark,  sit  up  straight  and  take  your  elbows  off  the  table.’  She  

pushed  his  arms  and  Mark  gave  her  one  of  his  stares.  Charlotte  

ignored  it.  She  looked  over  to  her  daughter,  ‘Lucy,  stop  slurping  your  

milk,  and  have  you  done  your  homework?’  

Lucy  nodded  with  a  slice  of  toast  wedged  in  her  mouth.  

‘You’ve  got  your  eleven-­‐plus  exams  next  year  and  I  want  you  

both  doing  well  and  going  to  a  Grammar  School.  Not  one  of  those  

Secondary  Modern  Schools  full  of  council  house  kids  and  left-­‐wing  

teachers.’  

They  looked  at  her  glassy-­‐eyed,  not  quite  understanding.  

‘Mark,  I’ve  cleaned  your  football  boots  and  your  kit  is  washed  

and  ironed,  so  don’t  forget  to  take  it  with  you.’    

Mark  wasn’t  taking  a  blind  bit  of  notice  and  had  his  eyes  

focused  on  the  television.  

‘Hello,  can  anybody  hear  me,  it’s  your  mother  talking;  do  I  

exist?’  She  looked  at  them  both.  ‘Obviously  not.’    

Charlotte  heard  the  sound  of  the  school  bus  pulling  up  outside.  

She  yanked  them  up,    

‘Come  on,  you  two,  off  to  school  now.’  She  helped  them  into  

their  school  blazers  and  ushered  them  to  the  door.  The  big  yellow  

bus  was  patiently  chugging.  Charlotte  kissed  them  both  on  the  head,  

and  then  they  were  gone.  She  shouted  after  them,    

‘Walk,  don’t  run,’  then  closed  the  door.  

She  started  putting  the  plastic  cups  and  plates  into  the  sink.  

They  were  always  used  when  she’d  forgotten  to  switch  on  the  

dishwasher;  that  was  her  excuse  anyway.  

Charlotte  turned  to  the  sound  of  the  telephone.  It  was  her  

mother  as  usual,  on  the  dot  every  morning  at  8:40  a.m.      

‘Hello,  Mother,  I  knew  it  was  you.’  

‘Of  course,  it’s  me.  Who  else  would  it  be?  Unless  you  was  ringing  

that  boyfriend  of  yours?  Gonna  sleep  belly  to  belly  with  him,  was  you?  

Oh!  The  boys  -­‐  the  boys,  she’s  discovered  boys.  The  boys  come  next,  like  

dogs  sniffing  out  a  bitch  on  heat.  Like  sniffing  and  slobbering.  Trying  to  

find  out  where  that  smell  is.  That  smell…  Now  you  pray,  my  child,  bow  

your  head.  Ask  forgiveness  for  your  sins,  or  you’ll  get  the  closet  again.'    

Charlotte  dropped  to  her  knees  still  holding  the  receiver.  Vera,  

her  mother,  started  chanting  down  the  phone,  ‘O  Lord,  help  this  

sinning  girl  beside  me  see  the  sin  of  her  days  and  ways.  Show  her  that  if  

she  had  remained  sinless,  the  curse  of  blood  every  month  would  never  

have  come  on  her.’  

More  than  once,  as  well  as  phoning,  Vera  had  visited  Charlotte’s  

apartment.  Always  the  other  side  of  the  street  door;  waiting,  

listening,  ready  to  chastise.    

In  her  mind,  she  was  back  in  the  closet.  Charlotte  whimpered,  

‘Let  me  out,  Mama.  Oh  Mama,  I’ve  found  the  way.  Jesus  came  to  me,  

Mama,  while  I  was  in  here.’  

‘You  stay  in  there,  girl,  till  your  father  comes  home,  then  you’ll  get  

the  strap.’  

‘Please,  Mama,  I’ll  be  good,  open  the  door.’  

Charlotte  pressed  her  ear  against  the  receiver  and  whined,  

‘Please,  Mama,  let  me  out.’  

Expecting,  hoping,  but  nothing.  Vera  had  gone  leaving  just  the  

dull  monotonous  purr  tone  in  her  head.      

She  got  up  from  her  knees  and  replaced  the  receiver.  The  

telephone  wire  ended  abruptly  before  it  reached  the  wall  socket.  It  

wasn’t  connected.    

Charlotte  composed  herself  and  went  into  Lucy’s  room  to  tidy  

up.  She  picked  up  the  stuffed  Dalmatian  puppy.  As  she  looked  through  

the  security  bars  of  Lucy’s  bedroom  window,  she  hugged  the  cuddly  

toy  affectionately.    

*  

It  was  nearly  5:30  p.m.  Charlotte  had  made  tea  for  Mark  and  Lucy.  

‘Daddy  will  be  home  soon,  you  two.  Finish  your  homework  and  you  

can  stay  up  and  play  with  him  for  a  while.’    

They  ignored  her  and  stared  transfixed  at  the  television.  

Neighbours  was  on  -­‐  their  favourite.    

The  psychiatrist  pressed  the  buzzer  and  spoke  into  the  security  

box  to  the  guard.    

‘Mr  Greg  Roylance  to  see  patient,  Miss  Charlotte  Stevens.’  

At  that  moment,  a  yellow  bus  with  three  armed  guards  pulled  

up.  The  back  doors  opened  and  five  prisoners  linked  by  chains,  

wearing  orange  boiler  suites,  climbed  out.  The  prisoners  stood  

behind  the  psychiatrist,  flanked  at  rifle  point.    

Another  much  louder  buzzer  went  off,  an  amber  light  flashed  

and  the  electronic  steel  door  slid  open.  The  psychiatrist  waved  to  

George  the  security  officer,  in  acknowledgment,  then  an  inner  door  

with  steel  bars  disappeared  into  the  wall.    

He  knew  the  drill;  he  put  his  money,  keys  and  watch  into  the  

tray  then  walked  through  the  metal  detector.  George  got  out  of  his  

chair  and  did  a  brief  body  search,  always  apologising  as  he’d  done  for  

the  last  twelve  years.  After  a  brief  exchange  of  pleasantries,  he  left  

George  in  peace  with  his  evening  newspaper.  

The  tall  good-­‐looking,  early  forty-­‐something  psychiatrist,  with  

chiselled  features  and  dark  wavy  hair,  made  his  way  to  the  door  with  

the  notice  pinned  to  it:  ALL  VISITORS  TO  CHECK  IN.    

At  the  desk,  he  signed  the  logbook  with  his  name,  date  and  

time.  Colin,  the  guard  on  duty,  handed  him  his  visitor’s  pass  and  the  

maximum-­‐security  door  swipe.  Greg  clipped  the  pass  to  his  coat.    

Visitors  had  to  be  escorted  at  all  times,  so  Colin  picked  up  the  

desk  phone  and  dialled  the  extension.    

‘Mr  Jefferson,  Greg  Roylance  the  psychiatrist,  is  here  to  see  you.’    

Although  Mr  Jefferson,  a  short  portly  balding  late  fifties  man  

with  a  thin  trained  moustache,  was  governor,  he  still  liked  to  keep  

close  links  with  all  the  inmates,  as  he  called  them.  He  and  the  

psychiatrist  had  known  each  other  for  12  years,  since  1976  when  

Greg’s  patient,  Charlotte  Stevens,  had  been  admitted  as  a  26-­‐year-­‐old.    

‘How  is  she  this  evening?’  Greg  inquired.    

‘She’s  waiting  for  you,  Greg,  to  come  home  from  work  as  usual,’  

Mr  Jefferson  replied  with  a  grin.  

They  walked  up  a  flight  of  steps  to  Ward  A,  then  along  the  

corridor  to  the  fifth  room  with  the  large  picture  window  and  the  steel  

door.  Amongst  the  smells  of  disinfectant,  bleached  linen,  alcohol  and  

waxed  floors,  they  watched  her  for  a  while  through  the  one-­‐way  

window.    

‘She’s  far  more  responsive  since  we  moved  her  out  of  the  

padded  cell,’  Mr  Jefferson  highlighted,  ‘but  we  still  make  sure  there’s  

no  sharp  objects  anywhere.  Only  plastic  cups  and  saucers;  same  goes  

with  knives  and  forks.’  

The  psychiatrist  nodded  in  agreement,    

‘Best  to  be  safe  than  sorry.  What  about  restraints?’  

‘We  only  have  to  put  the  jacket  on  when  she’s  having  her  

medication  and,  as  you  know,  she  always  makes  a  fuss  when  she’s  

having  her  electric  shock  procedure.  The  treatment  room  reminds  

her  of  the  abuse  she  suffered  as  a  child  in  the  closet.’  

‘We  have  tried  various  things  before  but  we  must  keep  trying  to  

find  something  that  might  help,’  the  psychiatrist  said.  He  took  out  his  

notepad  and  scribbled.  ‘I’ll  work  on  her  when  she’s  having  therapy.’  

He  looked  up  from  his  pad  with  an  idea.  ‘I  think  we  should  try  

background  music.  It  might  help  to  soothe  her.’    

 ‘We  could  give  it  a  try,’  Mr  Jefferson  responded,  ‘It  certainly  

can’t  hurt.’    

Jefferson  picked  up  the  clipboard  hanging  on  the  door.    

‘This  morning  the  usual  phone-­‐call  scenario  with  her  mother  -­‐  

she  got  all  upset,  thought  she  was  back  in  the  closet.’  He  thumbed  

through  some  pages,  ‘Oh,  she  wanted  a  white  coat  on  the  small  side.  

Said  it  was  for  Lucy  to  take  to  school  for  her  cooking  lessons.  The  

orderly  gave  her  one  from  the  laundry  room,  He  asked  me  first.  I  

didn’t  think  there  was  any  harm.’  

‘At  least,  we’ve  reduced  her  schizophrenic  characters  down  to  

three,’  the  psychiatrist  said,  ‘including  being  my  wife.’  He  rolled  his  

eyes  while  Mr  Jefferson  chuckled.  ‘Let  me  in  and  I’ll  take  a  look  at  her.’    

‘OK,  Greg.  I’m  off  home  now  so  let  your-­‐self  out  with  the  swipe  

card  then  ring  for  the  orderly.  He’ll  escort  you  back  to  reception.  I’d  

like  to  stay  but  it’s  our  wedding  anniversary  and  the  wife  wants  me  to  

take  her  for  an  Italian.’  They  both  laughed.  

As  Jefferson  used  his  maximum-­‐security  door  swipe,  the  

bulletproof  glass  swished  aside.  The  psychiatrist  stepped  in  and  the  

glass  swished  closed  behind  him.  It  was  safe.  With  a  camera  in  every  

room  and  twenty-­‐four  hour  monitoring,  he  didn’t  have  to  worry  

much.  

‘Honey,  I’m  home.’  

Charlotte  appeared  from  the  little  kitchenette  wiping  her  hands  

on  the  striped  apron.  ‘Hi  Greg.  You’re  early.’  She  walked  over  and  gave  

him  a  peck  on  the  cheek.  ‘I’m  making  us  a  nice  fish  pie  for  dinner.  Give  

me  twenty-­‐minutes  and  could  you  lay  the  table  and  open  the  wine?  I  

bought  a  screw  top  at  the  supermarket  instead  of  those  awkward  

corks.  Also  please  tell  the  kids  to  wash  their  hands.’  

‘OK,  honey,’  Greg  replied.  He  had  played  this  charade  countless  

times.  It  got  her  in  the  right  mood  for  therapy,  which  was  to  follow.  

However,  this  role-­‐playing  had  often  made  him  wonder  whether  it  

was  he  or  his  patient  who  was  mad.  He  laid  the  table  with  the  plastic  

cutlery.  ‘Have  you  two  washed  your  hands?’  he  said  loudly,  so  she  

could  hear.    

Mark  and  Lucy  ignored  him  and  looked  at  the  television.  No  

one  could  blame  them  because  in  reality  they  couldn’t  answer  back.  

The  two  child  mannequins  had  come  from  the  fashion  department  of  

a  high  street  store,  school  clothes  included.    

They’d  been  Greg’s  idea.  He’d  attended  a  lecture  at  Edinburgh  

University  given  by  the  eminent  psychologist,  Dr  Frans  Hoffman.  

Studies  had  shown  that  sociopaths  and  psychopaths  behaved  well  

and  responded  to  role-­‐play  therapy  in  a  social  bonding  family  

environment,  something  that  was  usually  lacking  in  their  childhood  

and  important  character-­‐forming  years.    

To  be  sure,  this  was  safe  for  psychiatric  staff,  they  had  tested  

similar  mannequins.  Using  various  household  objects,  they  had  

smashed  them  up  to  see  whether  they  would  splinter  and  could  form  

a  possible  weapon  she  could  use  on  herself  or  others.  

Charlotte  glanced  at  the  kitchen  wall  clock.  It  was  6:25  p.m.  In  

five  minutes,  as  always,  the  bell  would  ring  announcing  the  start  of  

the  evening  shift.  This  heralded  a  big  exodus  on  all  floors  with  the  

new  shift  taking  over,  including  reception  and  the  surveillance  room.    

She  closed  the  women’s  magazine  with  the  fish  recipe  and  

slipped  it  back  into  the  rack  with  all  the  others.  The  Institution  

allowed  her  magazines.  It  was  one  of  the  perks  as  a  lifer.  Her  favourite  

was  WOMAN'S  MONTHLY.  Every  now  and  then,  there  was  a  free  

sample  inside.      

‘Is  everybody  sitting  ready?’  she  shouted  from  the  kitchen,  ‘I’m  

dishing  up.’  

‘Yes,  honey,’  Greg  replied.  

Charlotte  appeared  with  a  tray  and  pie  dish.  She  sat  it  down  on  

the  place  mat  in  the  middle  of  the  table.  ‘  

Mind  everyone,  it’s  very  hot,’  she  said.  With  her  oven  gloves,  

Charlotte  removed  the  lid.  Then,  one-­‐by-­‐one,  she  spooned  out  

portions  of  invisible  fish  pie  onto  the  plastic  plates.  

Greg  sniffed  his  plate,    

‘Umm,  honey,  it  smells  gorgeous.’  

‘Now  tuck  in,  everybody,’  she  said.  ‘Greg,  did  you  pour  my  

wine?’    

‘Sorry,  honey,  I  clean  forgot.’  Greg  was  about  to  get  up  when  she  

waved  him  to  sit  down.  

‘I’ll  get  it,  Greg.  Don’t  let  yours  get  cold.’  

‘Thanks,  honey.’  

Charlotte  got  up  and  hesitated,    

‘Now  where  did  I  put  that  cork  screw?’  Then  her  face  

brightened,  ‘I  know,  I  left  it  in  the  kitchen.’    

Behind  Greg,  with  a  soundless  first  time  throw,  she  found  the  

target.  She  had  practised  during  the  security  shift  changeovers.  

While  she  was  away,  Greg  pretended  to  eat  his  invisible  fish  pie  

and  said  loudly,    

‘This  tastes  really  good,  umm,  doesn’t  it  kids?’    

Suddenly  the  6:30  p.m.  shift  bell  went  off.  He  looked  at  his  

watch,  the  time  was  moving  on.  Get  this  nonsense  over  as  soon  as  

possible  then  start  her  therapy  schedule,  he  thought.    

Greg  looked  at  Mark  and  Lucy;  heads  positioned  with  their  

glass  eyes  staring  at  the  television.  His  attention  wandered  to  it.  Some  

adverts  were  on.  Then  a  puzzled  expression  came  over  Greg’s  face.  It  

was  unusual  for  Charlotte  to  forget,  even  though  this  was  just  role-­‐play.  

He  shouted  over  the  television,  

 ‘I  thought  you  said  the  wine  bottle  was  a  screw―’  

Shluck!  Greg  heard  the  sound  and  felt  the  instant  pain.  For  a  

fraction  of  a  second,  he  looked  down  and  saw  the  end  of  the  free  

sample  from  WOMAN’S  MONTHLY.  The  knitting  needle  gift,  the  one  

fixed  to  the  inside  of  the  back  page,  which  mailroom  security  had  

failed  to  find  and  remove.  It  was  now  sticking  through  the  back  of  

Greg’s  neck  and  out  his  Adams  apple.  

Greg  coughed.  A  large  bubble  of  blood  appeared  from  his  left  

nostril  while  looking  at  Charlotte  in  disbelief,  not  quite  able  to  

comprehend.    

She  was  grinning  at  him.    

‘Want  some  more  pie,  Greg?  There’s  plenty  left.’    

It  was  all  in  slow  motion.  He  looked  down  to  the  blood  spurting  

in  jets  onto  the  white  tablecloth,  then  to  Mark  and  Lucy  sitting  quietly  

watching  the  television.  Greg  coughed  a  lot  of  blood  and  made  a  

gurgling  noise.  He  tried  to  get  himself  up.    

Charlotte  kissed  him  affectionately  on  the  head.    

‘You  feeling  OK,  Greg?’  She  was  still  grinning  at  him.    

He  tried  to  say  something  to  her,  but  she  was  becoming  blurred  

and  distant.  

Greg  had  probably  forgotten  all  about  it.  In  the  state  he  was  in,  

no  one  could  blame  him  for  not  remembering  -­‐  knitting  needles  come  

in  pairs.  

The  second  one  slammed  home,  right  next  to  the  other  one.  A  

darts  player  would  have  been  proud  of  the  grouping.  It  woke  him  up  

for  a  second.  This  time  he  clawed  at  it  like  a  zombie  -­‐  jerking  and  

gurgling  with  eyes  rolling  around  like  marbles  in  a  pouch.  There  was  

one  final  spasm  before  he  slumped  forward  onto  the  table.  

‘I  guess,  Greg,  you’ve  had  a  hard  day?  I’ll  do  the  washing  up.’    

Greg’s  tongue  lay  in  a  puddle  of  blood  on  the  plastic  plate,  like  a  

pigs  head  on  display  in  a  butcher’s  window.  She  stroked  his  forehead  

thoughtfully  with  a  glazed  look  in  her  eyes.    

The  6:30  p.m.  television  news  jolted  her  back  to  reality;  what  

she  should  be  doing.  Charlotte  looked  up  at  the  security  camera,  the  

one  she’d  covered  with  her  first  time  throw  using  the  tea  towel.  Now  

there  wasn’t  a  lot  of  time.  Around  three  or  four  minutes  at  the  most  

while  the  surveillance  room  changed  shift.  

Charlotte  unclipped  Greg’s  visitor’s  pass  and  got  his  swipe  card.  

Then  she  rolled  him  onto  the  floor.  Pulling  him  by  the  legs,  she  

dragged  him  into  the  bedroom.  A  trail  of  blood  marked  his  route.  

With  great  effort,  she  got  him  up  onto  her  bed.  Charlotte  covered  him  

over  with  the  sheets  and  bunched  them  up  to  cover  his  face.  She  

looked  pleased  at  the  result.    

She  slipped  on  the  white  coat  she’d  been  given  from  the  

laundry  room  and  fixed  the  visitor’s  pass.  In  the  mirror,  she  adjusted  

the  hairpiece  from  Lucy’s  mannequin.  The  bedroom  camera:  quick!  

She  got  up  on  a  chair  and  removed  a  pair  of  panties  from  the  lens.  

Then  she  dashed  back  into  the  dining  area  and  with  a  broom,  flicked  

off  the  tea  towel  from  the  other  camera.    

With  Greg’s  brief  case,  she  looked  the  part  -­‐  a  visiting  doctor  

that  forgot  to  sign  in.  George  and  Colin  would  be  off  duty  now  and  

due  to  cost  cutting,  replaced  by  evening  contract  security.  

Charlotte  looked  at  her  two  children.    

‘Goodbye,  Mark,  goodbye,  Lucy.’    

She  waved  to  them,  but  they  were  too  busy  watching  the  

television.  Using  the  swipe  card  the  door  swished  open.  She  gave  one  

last  look.    

‘Goodbye,  white  room.’  

The  guard  had  just  settled  in  front  of  the  security  monitor  with  

his  coffee.  He  nodded  at  the  screen  and  mumbled  to  his  colleague,  

‘Looks  like  five  on  ward  A  is  having  an  early  night  again.’