Patient Review
Raymond Daley
Copyright 29/9/13 by Raymond Daley
When I went to see him today, the nurse had already given him the cardboard box. All the edges had been fully taped over, nothing left exposed for him to possibly cut himself on. As yet, he'd exhibited no signs of self-harm but it was better to be safe than sorry.
Two days ago the box had held a flat-pack wardrobe. It now stood upright in the middle of the padded room with the patient walking circuits around it. One of the front flaps was fully open, and each time as he passed it, he would look inside, nod to himself and carry on walking again.
He still hadn't given us his name yet.
Once inside, I tried to connect with him again. “How are you today sir?”
He carried on walking around the box as though he was still alone in the room.
“I will need you to speak to me today sir, we did give you the box just like you asked. That was what you wrote down before. If we gave you the box, you'd speak to someone. My name's Doctor Smith, can you tell me what your name is please?” I asked him.
He completed his circuit of the cardboard box and stood just in front of the open flap, facing me. “Smith, eh? That's a bit of a coincidence, my name is Smith as well. Doctor John Smith, pleased to meet you.” He reached for the inside pocket of a jacket he was no longer wearing. “Ah, yes. That's right. The nurse took my jacket to be washed. It's got my identification inside it, left inside pocket.”
We'd taken the jacket, pockets filled with odds and sods and bits and bobs and lots of signs this man was at least obsessive-compulsive. The wallet we'd found in the left inside pocket was a fairly cheap black leather affair and contained no money or any no identification. Just a blank piece of paper inserted in one side and what was probably a business card a very long time ago but was so worn it was impossible to read anything other than a capital U on the left side and a capital T on the right.
One of the pockets held a medium sized maglite torch with standard LED & ultraviolet settings as well as a red laser pointer. The batteries were on the edge of running out when we tried it. He'd also been carrying one key for a Yale lock, clearly for his front door; where ever he lived.
Or had lived.
He'd been wearing what had once been a rather grand pocket watch on a chain too, it had been rather badly damaged; I assume during his fall.
From his general appearance we worked out he'd been living rough for quite some time after a head trauma. He constantly referred to a box, the reason why the cardboard box had been given to him. The hope there was to open a channel for any kind of further communication.
Previously he'd written one note; 'Bring me the box' and refused to speak at all. Beyond that note, he'd shown no signs of wishing to communicate.
“We found the wallet sir. Am I okay to call you John?” I hoped by not using the title he'd allotted himself to provoke further interaction.
“I prefer Doctor, if you don't mind?” he said.
Classic signs of mirroring, make sense of your environment by copying pieces of it until you understand it.
“Doctor it is then. You can call me Mark, a little confusing for us both to be calling each other Doctor, don't you think?” I said.
He smiled and nodded. The first time anyone had seen him smile since he was admitted.
The police had found him wandering around on the local heath, he was lost with dried blood on his temple, asking about a blue box but he couldn't quite remember exactly what it looked like other than it being blue or box shaped.
The ambulance crew who'd tended to his head had made an initial diagnosis, the hospital had referred him on to us.
Eventually.
We hadn't placed him in the padded room lightly, we weren't sure if he was dangerous. We just weren't sure if he was 100% safe either. Better to be safe than sorry, we said.
“I stole it, you know?” he said to me, pointing to the box behind him with his thumb over his shoulder. “No doubt they'll come looking for me again. They have before.”
“They, Doctor Smith?” I asked.
“My people. I'm not from here, you see.” he said.
He sounded as English as me, no placeable accent though. I'd have pegged him as a Brit for sure, perhaps an ex-pat back here for a holiday, revisiting old stomping grounds? It would explain his feeling of being lost, the displacement.
Perhaps he couldn't remember having left the country due to the head trauma? It certainly made good sense. “Do you know where you are from, Doctor Smith?” I asked.
He thought about that for a moment, I could see him struggling to find the memory. “Starts with a G? Can't remember much, sorry. Must have been that fall, took a bit of a bump to the old noggin.”
He didn't sound Northern, ruling out Gateshead or Scottish ruling out Glasgow. Certainly not Gloucester, no accent. Maybe Guildford?
“Does Guildford sound familiar Doctor Smith?” I asked.
He had that look of violent concentration on his face again. “Maybe? Sorry I can't be of more help. Mind is just a complete blank, you know?”
“Perhaps you can remember what was on the business card in your wallet, after all, you did remember having it on you and where it was. Both good signs of memory recovery.” I said.
He gave me that strained look again, he needed a push in the right direction.
“We could read a capital U, some space and a capital T. Couldn't make out anything else but there was probably a phone number underneath it once, what might have been a name too? Do you remember anything about that?” I asked him.
“No, sorry. Getting nothing. My ID was in there though, yes?” he seemed pretty sure about that.
I didn't want to burst his bubble, perhaps he'd been robbed whilst he was unconscious. The police had searched the area he was found in but it turned up nothing of any help. The constable had only reported an old abandoned police call box that the local station had no record of.
The phone inside wasn't working and the service door was locked.
“Yes Doctor Smith, we're keeping it safe for you. I only asked your name to check your memory a little.” I explained.
He turned away from me and faced the cardboard box again. It held a great degree of fascination for him, whatever he was seeing, it certainly wasn't a cardboard box.
“Quite a sight, isn't she?” he said, indicating the box with his thumb again.
“Yes, indeed.” I agreed. Easier to humour him at this juncture now we had a dialogue open.
“You saw inside?” he asked.
“I did.” I was unsure exactly what I was supposed to be seeing inside.
“Ask the question then, they all do in the end. Get it over with.” he seemed a little impatient with me for not asking something he'd expected to be asked. I pitched my best guess.
“Is is supposed to be that colour?” I asked.
He looked genuinely angry at that. “It's broken, stuck like that. Aren't you surprised about the inside?”
I shrugged and shook my head. “Should I be?”
“Everyone else always was. 'It's bigger on the inside!' Every time! Until you.” he shot me daggers, obviously very angry at my missing this important piece of information. Clearly something he remembered for a good reason.
“Oh, that! I thought they all looked like that inside. We don't see them open very often, you realise? Not like this, anyway.” I hoped my stab at an explanation would placate him.
“Yes, good point. The general public do so rarely see the insides of these things. I guess they could contain anything really, couldn't they?” He seemed to relax a little at having explained this away to himself. Whatever I'd said had rung true with a memory in him. Whatever it may have been.
“Are there peo
ple looking for you then, Doctor Smith? Is there someone we can contact for you, a family member perhaps?” I asked.
I lost him again to deep thought for several minutes.
“Doctor Smith? Anyone you can remember?” I said.
“No, no names. It's all a blank. Nothing's coming back yet. My people probably will come, I don't know when though.” he said.
***
We held him for three months, little came back to him. He was right on one thing though, his people did come. The man presented himself to the front desk, showing his fancy identification card then stating he was looking for a man called Doctor John Smith who he had traced to this facility.
The man certainly knew Smith, who wasn't really a Doctor. He laughed when we explained the nature of the facility.
“He escaped from a place not completely dissimilar to this where we live. Ironic that he should be placed into mental care again. I am his Doctor, it seems that once again he is mirroring with some signs of mania.” The man knew his stuff, I agreed with his diagnosis and decided to release the patient into his care.
Various forms were filled out, Smiths belongings were given to the man whose name was quite unpronounceable. Before he removed Smith I was curious to ask the patients real name.
“I'm afraid that due to the nature of his background, I can't reveal that information. He's a Lord, you see. Can't have a scandal. Though I do have a question of my own for you Doctor, did he ever mention a box?”
I nodded and then I pointed him over to Smiths room where the cardboard box still stood in the centre of the floor. The man smiled and laughed to himself. “Sadly not what I was looking for. Still, never mind. We'll find it one day. We found him.”
That was the last time I saw either one of them.
THE END.
Authors Notes:- The last in my series of Doctor Who fanfic pieces. Inspired by an image that said “I am a madman with a box” making me think perhaps he was an escaped mental patient. I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be about David Tennants Doctor. The business card was a worn UNIT card given to him by the Brig, the pocket watch was from Family Of Blood, the blank paper was supposed to be the psychic paper. The “torch” is his sonic screwdriver and I think I am right that the TARDIS uses a Yale lock key.
I can't rightly say who the man taking The Doctor back was. All I knew in my head is he was someone Gallifreyan, beyond that I can't say. You can draw your own conclusions.
Legal bits:- The Doctor, John Smith, Time Lord, psychic paper, the pocket watch, sonic screwdriver, police call box, UNIT and TARDIS are all copyright of the BBC. This story is fan fiction written under creative commons terms. I am merely a fan, seeking to write something to entertain other fans.