A Lone Walk [Paperback]

'This is a terrifying story about a persecuted man wrongly imprisoned in a mental hospital. As the horrors of institutional life accumulate, Gul Y Davis's novella recalls Franz Kafka at his darkest.'

'Gul Y Davis' depiction of life inside the psychiatric system is made even more horrifying because of the sharp, clear way it is written. In a short book which packs an almighty punch, Davis follows one patient, beset by paranoid delusions, through a nightmarish mental health system. It's an unsparing, frightening book which conveys the hallucinatory horror of derangement heightened by the fear of being trapped in an uncaring system. Chilling.'

'If A Lone Walk by Gul Y Davis is not written from personal experience, it constitutes a tremendous leap of imagination. If it is, it is a brave and well-communicated account of long-term mental illness: the altered priorities and perceptions of the sufferer, the exasperation or lack of sympathy from carers (professional and otherwise), and the threats to dignity and individuality with which the mentally ill are confronted daily. All of these aspects are covered with a hectic, twitching intensity - the outpourings of a tormented mind translated from jumble into sense. This is a novella which demands to be read, and deserves to be recognised as a leading book of its kind.'

'Gul Davis is a real writer. The novella encloses the reader in a tight grip from the beginning, refusing to let him go till he's listened. It's strange, to have entered someone's head, and their skin, to this extent - quite eerie. His turn of phrase is striking and his control of effects remarkably assured.'

'Gul Davis's moving tale of an innocent betrayed, abused and tipped headlong into the corrupting world of psychiatric care is bleak, fierce and powerful.'

A nightmarish vision balanced by wit, tenderness, and a passionate sense of humanity

Recalling Franz Kafka at his darkest, this poignant novella about a damaged individual and his bid for freedom from an inhuman mental health system is the literary equivalent to "Breaking the Waves" with a taste of "One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest" thrown in for good measure. Taking the reader inside the head of a persecuted man wrongly imprisoned in a mental hospital, the horrors of institutional life as well as the struggle for identity that accompanies them are outlined with heartbreaking detail and insight. As tortured hero Wil breaks for freedom from the brutal psychiatric regime, he is confronted with unexpected choices. Who can he trust: an alluring voice from his childhood dreams? Or a big-hearted nurse who reassures him, "not all of these places are the same."

Their hands pin my arms behind my back, my face crushed against the ribbing of the bus’s floor. Heavy boots thud up the stairs. A knee on the back of my neck, sending shooting spasms through my shoulder blades. Handcuffs bite, lock round my wrists. The knee releases its weight. Muffled voices talk around me. They pull me onto my feet, someone grabs my hair, leads me by the head slowly down the stairs. The bus doors suck-slam open, coldness cuts through my pyjamas, stinging, as we go down. I force my eyes open. Paving stones.

It is warm again. I hear the hum of computers, the tap-tap of people typing. Can smell coffee. Keeping me bent double, the policeman pushes me through the room. Doors crash open, smacking the rubber stoppers on the walls. He eases the pressure on my arms, I keep my eyes screwed tightly shut. Someone slides a bolt, throws a heavy door open. The policeman shunts me forward, I stumble onto a cold floor. My arms tingle, feel blood pumping into my hands. I bring them up before my blurred eyes, watch my hands merge and part and merge again.

Policeman thinks he hurt me, but he is shit, is nothing! I turn, look at him staring at me from the doorway. I push the thumb of my bad hand back, rest it, so it touches, lays flat, soft, against the inside of my forearm. My cuts bleed. I smile at him. Nothing compared with nurse-locks, nothing! My vision clears, blurred edges hardening. I stare back at the policeman in the doorway of the cell. ‘Stop fucking around, kid, it’s not me you’re hurting.’ He slams the door shut. The lock turns. I lie down on the mattress in a corner of the cell, curl up tight, hug myself under the flickering dull light. Rest, I rest in the darkness of my closed eyes . . . I picture a planet covered in brightly lit police cells, every inch of the planet’s surface smothered in grey prefab buildings. I sneak up to the window closest to me, it is cold on the planet’s surface as I stand outside in between the buildings. I peer in through the brightly lit window. Inside I see a police sergeant marching up and down in front of a dentist with his hands down the open mouth of a man. It has won, will win, with its bright lights, the fluorescent tubes that beam and burn, will burn in these places long after I am shrivelled up dead and dry . . .

Wiping a stream of snot running from my nose, I flick my hand as the trail of slime sticks to it. I wipe my hand on my pyjamas. More tears run from my eyes, sobs stifle my breath as I cry. I am going to die. I clutch my chest. Sob. Mermaid, mermaid! . . . Mermaid! I stuff my cry into a bottle and fling it into the misty sea swimming through my skull.

Choking on my heaving tears, I wrap my arms about my head, twine my legs. The cell door swings open. I look up, a bright frame of light. ‘Someone to see you, Wil. Your mother.’ The policewoman smiles, beckons me to follow her out into the brightly lit corridor. A desk with a tape recorder, the room with a bright biting light. The door shuts behind me. The video camera up by the ceiling watches, its little focused eye.

Mother. She is crying to herself as she sits at the far side of the desk, her handbag clutched against her. I feel my skin peel under the harsh light. I walk up to the desk, sit down heavily on a hard plastic seat opposite Mother.

‘A week, Wil.’ She pauses, stifles a sob. ‘A week, Wil. It’s only a week since they let you out look at me.’ I bury my head in my arms, on the desk. ‘You,’ her tone soft, ‘frightened me so, to see your bed empty, and that vomit about the carpet. Why, Wil?’ Her hand touches my shoulder, lightly. I cringe, flinch away. ‘Not talking to me again?’

'Mrs Shusta.’ The interview-room door opens. A soft female voice. ‘The psychiatrist is here to see your son. Will you come with me?’ I lift my head from my arms, look round to see Mother walking stiffly to the door, she turns towards me. I bury my head back within my arms, my face presses against my wounded hand. It hurts. ‘Your name is William, William Shaw?’ The doctor leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. I nod.

Rubbing his nose, the doctor leans back, suit jacket creasing. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

I bury my head in my arms, crying.

‘You often wander about the streets this time of the morning?’ His voice is relaxed. ‘Got me out of bed as well, my friend. Do you feel up to talking, because to be honest I am much too tired to know whether I am coming or going, let alone do an assessment – it’s an indecent time of the morning, don’t you agree?’ He rubs his eyes, leans back in his chair. ‘I have had a brief chat with your mother, so I have some idea of what’s been happening. Given your history of mental illness, it is probably best if I admit you overnight, just to be on the safe side, do this assessment when I am not half asleep, eh?’ He yawns, puts the back of his hand over his mouth. ‘I work at the Barnet Unit, we have a free emergency bed, a rare event these days.’ He picks up his briefcase, lays it in front of him on the desk. He clicks open the locks.

I feel a stream of snot run from my nose, tears well and spill from my eyes. I can see the poison Mum has put into him, see it turning his blue eyes dark and frozen. I am going to be locked away, I am going back . . . ‘N, no!’ I hear myself scream. ‘What are you trying to say, Wil?’

Screwing my eyes together, I block out the interview room, the doctor, the hospital he is going to send me back to. I set iron bars and walls in his way. ‘N, no!’

My scream echoing through the deep water of the sea. The Little Mermaid stops tending to her beautiful seaweed garden, looks about her. I know she can sense something is wrong, I know she can hear me . . .

I am sobbing. The doctor takes my clenched fists in his hands. ‘Hush, hush.’ His voice is calm. I open my eyes. His bright blue eyes stare at me. ‘Hush.’ He wipes my face with a handkerchief. ‘Your hand looks sore, eh?’ He puts the handkerchief in my good hand, walks back behind the desk, sits down, takes a file from his briefcase, starts to write. He rolls the pen between his fingers. ‘Let’s see if the police are happy to take you to the General tonight – Maslow’s hierarchy of needs and all that, best get your physical bits seen to.’

He puts the file back inside the case, shuts the lid. Picking up the briefcase, he stands, walks to the door. ‘Doctor,’ my voice strained, ‘the mermaid is waiting for me. I need to get to the sea. I need her to save me . . .’ He holds open the door. ‘Can’t she wait until the morning, Wil?’