NOTE: Regular readers will have noticed that my normal Monday substack column is a day late. Apologies - I was out having fun. This won’t happen again. Actually, yes it will. The following Monday is also booked with non-writing fun-related activities so tardiness is virtually guaranteed. I will, however, accept no complaints as you are getting this for free so stop moaning.
ANOTHER NOTE: In an act of extreme laziness dressed up as a special treat today’s column is an excerpt from The Laughing Policeman. I’m doing this because quite a lot of my readers haven’t actually read the book and I want them to buy it. Available now on Amazon. Like everything else here, it’s all about me.
This excerpt was written in the nineties so, you know, not very pc.
The story so far. I’m training to be a policeman. It’s not going well.
Later that week I was sent to a mental institution.
As part of our studies on mental health we were required to do community service at public medical facilities around the Wellington area.
Some cadets spent a week at the accident and emergency wards; I got the loony bin.
This was familiar ground for me as Mum and Dad had been heavily involved with the Intellectually Handicapped Society for many years. My younger brother was disabled at birth when the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck and cut off oxygen to his brain. He was so seriously damaged that he had to be institutionalised for life. After this, Mum started working with intellectually handicapped people and has been helping them ever since. My brother died at the age of 17 and though we visited him at least twice a year he never showed any sign he recognised us.
My background should have prepared me for the experience but it didn’t. The people Mum and Dad dealt with usually suffered from Downs Syndrome or were of below-average intelligence. Few were dangerous. They were more like big kids - quite loving but incapable of looking after themselves. Most were quite happy, not really able to comprehend life being any different.
The people in the secure unit at the institution I visited were completely different. At first sight they looked normal enough but after spending some time with them I discovered they were definitely playing scrabble without any vowels.
I spent a few days with the male patients first and was taken into the secure unit. And very secure it was. I had to go through three solidly locked doors to get into the area where the patients were. By the second door I was having grave reservations about this particular assignment and was ready to do a runner. But, it was too late.
I found myself in a spacious room with a sunny glass frontage that looked over a small park.
It seemed quite restful.
This was the day room, where the patients would come and read books or play table tennis or watch television.
Several large orderlies in white coats walked around the room and kept an eye on things. I was told to sit in a chair and observe what was going on.
The patients were told I was a police cadet and was visiting the facility as part of my training. They looked quite impressed for a few minutes and then ignored me completely. I sat in a chair at the back of the room and watched a couple of guys playing table tennis. After 10 minutes a young, perfectly sane looking bloke came and sat next to me.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” I replied.
“I’m here on assignment too,” he said.
“Oh,” said I, relieved to find a kindred spirit. “What are you studying?”
“I’m not studying anything,” he whispered conspiratorially. “I’m a spy.”
Photo by Sander Sammy on Unsplash
“Oh shit,” I thought, then I said. “That’s nice.”
At this point I wished he would go away but no, he insisted on telling me all his spying plans. I mentioned I didn’t think it was very good spy procedure to tell me all his secret stuff but was informed he’d been lying anyway so it didn’t really matter.
He wasn’t a spy after all; he was an undercover Policeman.
I tried desperately to catch the eye of one of the orderlies but bizarrely, they all seemed to be looking the other way with strange smiles on their faces.
My new friend, the undercover policeman, was in the middle of a fascinating story about a drugs bust that went wrong when he suddenly stood up and pointed at me, screaming “You’ve blown my cover!”
Then, before I could say anything, he turned around and sprinted straight toward the plate-glass window.
Then, before I could say anything, he turned around and sprinted straight toward the plate-glass window.
It all happened in slow motion.
I was standing now, watching in horror and yelling to the orderlies, one of whom turned but didn’t react quickly enough.
The maniac (medical term) hit the glass with a sickening thud, then, to my amazement, bounced back into the room and fell on the floor.
A couple of orderlies picked him up and carted him off to his room.
As I stood there, mouth agape, another orderly came over and led me to the huge window. He tapped the glass, grinned, and told me it was reinforced safety glass, practically unbreakable.
Apparently my spy/policemen friend wasn’t the first inmate to try and smash through it.
‘They do that occasionally, said the orderly, as if describing someone sipping tea from the wrong side of the cup.
I didn’t know what to say so I said nothing and retreated to my chair, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible.
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