Frank Green, a hospital cleaner, discovers dark and mysterious happenings at a local hospital. Now, he is nowhere to be found. Join Inspect Ruth Oakwood of London's Metropolitan Police as she examines his letters to find out what happened in this ho...
I'm glad that you enjoyed the gift! One day, I hope to properly repay your kindness should you ever visit your uncle in London. Do you have any such plans?
It's hard to answer your question directly. There are colleagues who I like, but none I would consider to be close to. I talk to the patients far more than I was expecting. Usually, it's while I'm cleaning nearby, and they ask me questions. I'm glad, to be honest, as without it, I could go for a few days without talking to anybody, such is the under-staffing of this ward. While taking a cigarette break, I sometimes speak with the gentleman in Cell 34, Smethwick. We're about the same age although, it has to be said, the hospital has aged him even worse than my poverty. He refuses to bathe or to hand his clothes over to be cleaned. This has led to a pungency from body odor and layered grime, which I've only ever seen during my brief spell of rough sleeping.
For the first couple of weeks, I tried to make small talk with him about the birdsong that drifts into the ward, and all he could muster were grunts. This, I assumed, was due to his condition. However, after a chance discovery that he, too, is a long-suffering West Ham fan, his behavior shifted dramatically. He allowed me to clean his room, which felt like a great privilege given his deep distrust of other members of staff. This provided plenty of time to discuss several topics. In a single morning, Smethwick's speech had transformed from monosyllabic mumbling to flowing, elegant conversation.
He has demonstrated himself to be a well-read and eloquent speaker on a range of subjects, from history and classics to philosophy and literature. However, one time, when I asked him why he turns down any meals prepared at the hospital in the gentlest way I could, the coherence of his speech broke down almost completely. Vibrant jade eyes gleamed from behind a greasy fringe as words tumbled from his mouth. He told me his name isn't actually Smethwick, that he used to work here until the staff turned on him, that he is being poisoned through his food, and that there are things in the walls listening to everything he says.
While tragic and debilitating, they are, I have been told on several occasions, fairly standard thoughts for somebody in his state of mind. Still, I was unsettled enough to check his overview notes when I left his cell. They confirmed he's been at the hospital for several years, always in the same cell, and suffers from paranoid delusions.
Since then, my mind has put to bed almost every lingering doubt about his claims and 'theories.' For example, there's no sign that the patients have been poisoned. While I don't doubt his sincerity, I can't see what makes Smethwick so important that the hospital would want to listen to everything he says.
However, he made one claim that has occupied my mind for days because there's no easy way to disprove it. He believes none of the patients in the ward are actually unwell. He clarified that this is not to say that mental health problems don't exist, far from it, but that something sinister is happening at the Nazarene. Given Smethwick's diagnosis, this feels silly, but I can see where he's coming from. Despite a range of different diagnoses on their summary charts, the patients all exhibit similar symptoms. In particular, their auditory and visual hallucinations are almost identical. They all report hearing the same nonsense language spoken in their dreams (a jumble of guttural sounds based on Smethwick's impression) and seeing a figure stalk the corridors at night. Even their dreams are similar, of a city on the ocean floor cloaked in shadow. This is consistent with what scraps I've been told by patients during my rounds, as many freely tell me about their experiences.
Smethwick described how each patient's auditory and visual 'experience' represents a single jigsaw piece in what he calls the 'Great Puzzle.' This is to say, two patients' experiences might appear like disjointed scraps at first. But, by connecting them in the right way, Smethwick says he can step back and see the picture formed when the puzzle is complete. The completed image, he claims, proves that all the patients are experiencing real sights and sounds and are not hallucinating at all. Instead, Smethwick claims, they are imprisoned here under the dominion of the same source: a malevolent power of unparalleled strength. It must be hideous for one's mind to be gripped by such ruinous thoughts.
While I was finishing my shift yesterday, my mind adrift, Smethwick found me and pressed a coin into my hand. He insisted over and over, until I agreed several times, that I must promise to always keep it on my person. It was a twopenny piece onto which he had engraved a curious symbol of a five-pointed star. The shape is as unfamiliar as it is unsettling, reminiscent of some sketches by Crowley that I've chanced across. I have included a rubbing of the coin in the envelope, lest you can shed any light on the shape's meaning.
As I walked out, I noticed that he had begun to carve a larger version on the inside of his cell door. The doors here wouldn't look out of place from a prison. They're thick, heavy, and made of steel. They all have a hatch, presumably to monitor those on suicide watch and to pass food through. All except Smethwick's, whose door is missing one. That's a little strange, isn't it?
I look forward to reading your reply,
Frank
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