Can you keep a secret? I don't mean your best mate's having an affair or you're married but secretly gay kind. No, I mean locking away a deep, dark deviance from everyone close to you. I've done it. And now as I live my life of luxury afforded me by my secret, I realise that the key to successfully sustain any kind of deception is to have no one dear to you. You must not fall in love. Nor ever allow yourself to 'feel' anything that comes close to emotion for a single soul. Feelings constantly reveal secrets. My advice is: if you have a secret and want to keep it that way, harden up and don't let those emotional little terriers grab hold and rip everything open. That said, there is tremendous catharsis in revelation; so, secure in my anonymity I will open up. Why? Well, just to illustrate what we can get away with when we put our minds to it. Also, I'm proud of what I've achieved.
My name is David and I am a psychiatrist. I began my career as a junior psychiatrist in Northcote Hospital on the outskirts of London. It was one of three psychiatric hospitals built by London city Council in the 19th century to house London's 'lunatics.' I loved it. Being young, handsome, and surrounded by lonely nurses was like being the proverbial kid in a candy shop.
The main thrust of my job was to administer daily doses of anti-psychotic drugs and sedatives to those patients who were becoming unmanageable. At times it was pure bedlam, and after a few months I became accustomed to the horrors damaged minds hurl at the sane. Brute force was a treatment often meted out by the more loutish staff and I soon learned to turn a blind eye – convincing patient's family and friends of the convivial and caring nature of the staff. Soon I was hiding the truth of what life was really like inside a modern day asylum. The collusion formed a strong bond between staff – one big happy family bound by secrecy and lies.
I first met Susan when I was called to her ward (she was sister on male geriatric) to discuss old Mr Calder's schizophrenia with his concerned Son. We'd exchanged lustful glances in the canteen. She had a naughty carry-on-nurse persona, which I found alluring. She joined me in the office as I used my most empathetic tone to explain to Mr Calder's son that his father's condition was deteriorating. I offered to see him out, and at the door I placed my hand on his shoulder while assuring him that everything would be done to ensure his father's well being. As I walked back along the stark corridor to the ward, Susan opened the double door and bent over the back of a patient's chair. I slowed down and watched as she arched her back and stuck out her bottom, slowly hitching up her uniform. The sight of black suspenders against creamy thigh, shot an electrifying charge through my body. We fucked doggy style, watched by an audience of aging schizophrenics. She was happily married with two children, our secret sex life continued throughout my time at Northcote and beyond. Sex in secret was exciting.
Old Mr Calder may have been 72, but he had the strength of an ox. His behaviour became increasingly hard to manage, and he spent most of his days tied to a chair, shouting obscenities and spitting at the staff as they carried out their duties. One day while Susan was shaving him for a family visit, his leg restraints became free and he kicked her between the legs causing her to haemorrhage quite badly. She recovered quickly, returning to work within a week. However she'd become intolerant of Mr Calder and was increasingly violent towards him. It was becoming harder to explain away the sundry bruises and cuts that frequently appeared on him; so she asked me to help her with a favour.
The true cause of Mr Calder's death still remains a secret. We didn't see it as murder, more like putting him (and us) out of misery – like putting an old dog down.
At Northcote there was a great deal of rivalry between the Psychiatrists and Psychologists. We were Doctors as opposed to talky quacks with useless university degrees. We saw them as impotent; they couldn't prescribe meds, we were the real deal, we got paid more. However, my view was to change when I met Martin, a Psychologist with his finger on the money making pulse. I'd been getting a regular taste of the highlife while at Northcote. At weekends a group of us would dress up sharp and travel into London to hit the night-clubs. It was while we sipped crystal champagne one Saturday evening that Martin told me how much he was earning as a private Psychotherapist. I was coming up to my third year at Northcote and my lust for the better things in life told me it was time to move on. After all, Asylums don't make Millionaires, and I wanted to be one before I hit 30.
