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 wake every morning at five, smoke my first cigarette, wash, shave, drink a coffee, eat breakfast (two slices of toast with jam), make lunch (grated cheese and pickle sandwiches cut into triangles), gulp down a second cup of coffee and, put food out for the cat (I'll return to him later). It's always in that order, and I'm always out the door within half an hour. I cannot put into words how motivated one becomes when one is to be expected somewhere.
Waking so early is beastly only if you choose to ignore its rewards. I witness London waking up lazily at first, and then suddenly it's teeming with life. I hear the chorus of chaffinches, song thrushes, and blackbirds as a greengrocer whistles When The Saints Go Marching In at the same time every morning while he lays out his produce carefully. I see the milkman placing bottles on doorsteps with a swagger and yet also with great care. I smell bread baking in unpolluted, trafficless streets. How many gray years I've had, deaf to the street's charming symphony of morning rituals.
I arrive at the hospital's front gates by six forty, chat briefly with the ever-beaming guard, Gurung, and change into my overalls. My mop hits the floor by six fifty-five.
I work twelve hours a day, Monday to Friday, with an hour for lunch and two fifteen-minute tea breaks, which I usually spend in the shade of a mature oak in the grounds (when the weather allows). From there, The Nazarene seems more like a sprawling colonial mansion than a hospital. A copper-domed, Doric-columned entrance is flanked by two wings, one male and one female, whose three floors loom over the gardens and stretch out towards the perimeter wall in the distance. Although the work can be rather mundane at times, it is agreeable. The patients and staff are all friendly and calm, unlike in the horror stories I've heard about this place.
Occasionally, I've been lucky enough to take lunch with Dr. Perez. He arrived in London about twenty years ago to study and has never quite managed to leave. The Nazarene, he has told me at length, was revolutionary when it opened its doors a hundred years ago. Separate criminal and non-criminal wings, large windows to flood the rooms with light, and even a kitchen garden for patients to grow some of their own food set it apart from any psychiatric hospital at the time. It paved the way for actually treating patients for mental illnesses rather than warehousing them in the shadows. However, much to our mutual disgust, permission was only granted for construction should the aforementioned perimeter wall, which stands at three meters tall, be built. "No other hospitals," Dr. Perez says, "have such walls except those in prisons." It's a line he repeats once a week and punctuates the end by point with his pipe with such force it's as if he were holding the air around him responsible for this mistreatment. I have to say, I agree with him. It only reinforces the prejudice that the mentally unwell are dangerous. I'm sure you would agree(?)
Grand promises delivered with such priestly earnestness at the inauguration turned out to be platitudes. Reports of mistreatment have been rife for decades, with some inspectors remarking it is nothing more than a gilded cage. Beatings used to be commonplace, as was the humiliation of the patients. Its once-proud appearance has long since fallen into a state of decay. Peeling paint and cracked tiles at every turn. In fact, I don't think I've seen a single floor or wall tile which isn't damaged. Not one. The heating works in overdrive in the summer, it's too cold in the winter, and some parts of the hospital are even without electricity. Dr Perez has told me that it would cost a fortune to renovate, redecorate, and refurbish everything up to standard. This, combined with the high land value (it is central Lambeth, after all), means that relocation is likely. Selfishly, I wonder if I can work after the move. I can't say I'd be too sorry to see the back of London and start a new chapter.
The pay is five pounds a week, which I collect in an envelope after Friday's shift. It's a handsome wage for a cleaner, but, to be honest, even half would feel wonderful after having relied on charity for so long.
My first port of call is always to settle the entire debt of at least one person on my list, ensuring just enough is left over to buy food for me and Claude for the week. That's the name I've given the street cat I mentioned in my previous letter. I don't know whether I took him in for my benefit or for his, but I know we are both better off with each other. He's settled in well and has developed a taste for digestive biscuits and corned beef mixed together.
I've rediscovered the feeling of lounging in my armchair with a good book, food bubbling on the stove, and a cat purring on my lap. There is no satisfaction like the unspoken knowledge that one is independent and relied upon. I've enclosed a present as a token of my gratitude. I would never have rediscovered this feeling without your selfless help.
Best wishes,Frank
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
