New offering! I think this one will be quite difficult, and I'm nervous about it... much like my principal character! I hope you'll be intrigued by it, and be patient with me!

Also, be aware that I think this story might contain long-ish entries from journals or case files, and the story will fall into place (I'm hoping) slowly, largely as a result of these writings. I hope you won't find this "device" overly tedious in light of Things We Weren't Meant To Know, which had similar storytelling. Rest assured that this story is totally different conceptually!

As always, enjoy and review!


ONE

Dr. Martha Jones was impressed – the place looked a lot less institutional than she was expecting. In her experience, facilities like this were covered from floor to ceiling in tones of blue. It seemed to give the patients the impression that they were looking at the ocean, or the sky or what-have-you. It seemed to be colour that most people perceived as calming.

But Martha had always felt that there was a good reason why when one is depressed, it is said that one is blue. Sky, ocean… blue is a colour rooted in the unattainable, things you can't have or reach or get rid of, or see the end of. She had never liked blue, and she appreciated the uniqueness of the Bernard Briscoe Clinic, with its Earthen greens, browns and burnt oranges. It felt like someone had actually thought about what the patients might like, rather than just slapping a bunch of sterile-looking paint on the walls, and ordering grey carpet from a hospital catalogue.

Still, she was apprehensive. As a psychiatrist, she posited that she was probably tuning into the colours because she herself was focusing on her own feelings of anxiety, and as usual, analysing her surroundings in a way that a layman wouldn't. She had heard such stories about this clinic, especially about Ward 40. It was for "hard" cases, and had had series of exceedingly difficult patients, delusional and bizarre, undiagnosable, and irrisistably fascinating. Many a doctor had come and gone from Ward 40, though very few had ever been able to explain what went on inside, and/or why they had left. Dr. Jones was coming into Ward 40 on a trial basis as a favour to a friend; she had absolutely no idea if she would want or be able to stay. She hoped, at least, that she could do some good here.

Currently, she sat in a smallish room, with a tan and brown tiled floor, in an oak chair with orange leather upholstery. She was wearing what she always wore on her first day at a new facility: a black business suit, a red blouse and pumps on her feet that made her feel taller and more powerful. The door to her right was shut, and she was waiting to be let in. Her legs were crossed at the knees, and one of her feet bounced up and down at the end of her leg like a windsock.

"Dr. Jones, come on in," a voice said through a speaker.

Martha stood up. The armoured door buzzed loudly, and she reached out and took the handle. Dr. Smith was expecting her, and should be standing right inside. She took a deep breath and opened the door nervously, and there on the other side of the double-enforced armoured door stood her host. Attractive, with dark hair, bright eyes, a lovely, likeable smile that immediately commanded trust.

"Hello, Dr. Jones," Dr. Smith said, taking Martha's hand for a hearty shake. "I'm Dr. Smith – I've really been looking forward to meeting you."

"Likewise, I'm sure."

"So glad you're here. I'll tell you, life isn't easy around these parts. There's a reason I'm an interim doctor – I can't handle the pace anymore!"

"Well, I'm really anxious to get stuck right into the work," Martha said. "So I really hope you'll be able to relax in a few days."

"Oh, I'll be leaving in a few days. Like I said – I'm interim!"

"Ah."

"So I'll show you the ropes, Dr. Jones, but first things first – let's get you an ID card."

Martha followed her host through a glass door, where a thin man with glasses sat behind a desk.

"Hi Gil," Dr. Smith said to the man. "This is Dr. Martha Jones, she's going to be the new Chief Psychiatrist in Ward 40."

"Another brave, brave lady," said Gil with a smile. He reached out and shook Martha's hand, asked her to stand against the wall while he took her photo. She waited a minute or two, and before she left the room, she had an ID card hanging from her lapel, indicating that she had full clearance and access to the entire facility.

"We'll get you a username and password for the in-house network a bit later," Dr. Smith told her. "But first, let me show you round."

They went through a secure door, and began walking down a hallway, brown and tan tile like in the lobby, with patients lining the corridors in various states of awareness.

"I suppose I should explain," Dr. Smith said. "I started at the Bernard Briscoe Clinic a long time ago, in the seventies, right in Ward 40 where you're going to be. I was Chief Psychiatrist for a time… put in a few years then… had to leave. Went about my life after that, and then, about a year ago, I was called in… let's say, in an advisory capacity, alongside the psychiatrist that you're replacing. After she left, I came in as an interim doctor until you could get here."

"Gotcha."

"I haven't had much contact with the patient – I'm not keen on him seeing me. It would cause… well, it's a long story. Anyway, I've been overseeing the orderlies and nurses, but I've really tried to keep away from the patient himself. I thought it would make the transition easier for you, and for him."

"Patient? There's only one?"

"There's always only one, in Ward 40," Dr. Smith answered. "I'm sure you know, it's for hard cases."

"Yes, but… I had never heard that there was only one."

"One at a time," the interim doctor said, nodding. "They are usually seriously entrenched in their delusion, and need to be isolated."

"Speaking of that," Martha chimed in. "Tell me about that – the delusions."

Dr. Smith stopped walking, eyes to the ceiling. "I suppose you've heard that the Ward 40 patients are difficult."

"Of course."

"Well, it's not just the patients, it's the Ward itself."

"How do you mean?" Martha asked, crossing her arms inquisitively, putting her weight on one hip.

"It's strange. You're going to think this is completely mad – well, we all think it's completely mad. But all of the patients who have inhabited Ward 40 have had the exact same delusion."

Martha's eyebrows went up. "Interesting!"

"Different men of different ages, from different parts of the country at different times in history. Whatever their delusion was when they arrive, it conforms to the pattern of all of the past patients once they settle in. They pick up the historical Ward 40 delusion."

"What's the delusion?"

"Well, I'll let you read the case files," Dr. Smith said evasively.

"Okay," Martha said, looking at her host sideways, sensing the hesitation.

"And that's not the strangest part."

"What's the strangest part?"

"The strangest part is that, as time goes on, each subsequent patient tends to remember all of the past patients and their experiences."

"What?"

"I know, it's weird," said Dr. Smith. "No-one has been able to work out why. It's like… well, a kind of telepathy. We've done test after test after test, and there is nothing quantifiable to suggest why this is happening."

"Wow! So, you said that the Ward itself is part of the problem. What's that about?"

Dr. Smith chuckled, and started walking again. "Some people say it's the Ward that causes it. Like it's cursed or something."

"Cursed? You're joking."

"I wish I were. In fact, this sort of superstitious panic led to the whole Ward being closed for a long time. Some said it was cursed, some said it was because of asbestos or drugs or something in the air… I say it was a bloody farce. Anyway, they closed it in 1989, and started investigating it."

"And you said there was nothing quantifiable?"

"Absolutely nothing. So they tried re-opening the Ward in 1996, but the patient, bless him, he died straight away. No-one knows how he died exactly… autopsy was inconclusive. So, people got skittish and the council shut it down again."

"Blimey!"

"In 2005… well, you know the rest. You've read about it."

"Sort of," Martha said, shrugging. "I guess I don't know as much as I should. All of this closing and re-opening is news to me! But, Dr. Smith, there's something about the psychiatrist I'm replacing…"

"Oh, she was lovely."

"But she's gone. What happened?"

The host doctor became very uncomfortable, staring at the floor, the walls, the patients, doing everything to avoid Martha's eye. "I'm, er, not entirely clear on the details of her departure. She was a very good psychiatrist, just what this Ward needed upon re-opening, in fact. She was excellent with the patients."

"Patients, plural?"

"Mm-hm. She worked with two of them."

"How's that?"

"The patients who stay in Ward 40 usually have a relatively short life-span," Dr. Smith said sadly. "They come here because their families can't handle them anymore, and we take them on. But the delusion has a corrosive effect on their brain chemistry and the drugs, while they modify the behaviour, don't help much in that regard. I'm afraid brain-damaged and mental health patients do not live very long this way. Usually just three to five years, and we lose them. Anyway, the previous doctor worked with one, and then when he died, she took on the next one – the current one."

"I see." Martha knew she'd be granted access to the full case files, and she reckoned she'd find out sooner or later why the previous psychiatrist had had to leave Ward 40.

"Here we are, Dr. Jones," the host said, indicating a dark blue door at the end of the hall. "Ward 40. Your patient is inside."

"Ah. A blue door," Martha said, noticing the colour straight away. She squinted. "Why does it say Police Public Call Box?"

"Oh, that's another thing you should know," Dr. Smith warned. "Officially, this is Ward 40. Although here inside, we call it the Tardis."

"Tardis? Why?"

"Again, I'll let you read the case files."

"But police box?"

"It's all in the files, Dr. Jones. I promise."

"All right, then. This is all very odd."

"I know, it's just a bit convoluted and I'm frankly rather weary of the whole thing. Sorry."

"Quite all right. Thank you," Martha said, beginning to make her way down the corridor.

"One more thing, Dr. Jones," the older, experienced doctor said. "Watch out for this patient. He's… different from the others."

"Different how?"

"He's got a quality. I can't explain it. Just be aware of yourself when you're around him, okay?"

"Okay," Martha said, frowning. She was getting nervous about the cryptic non-answers and all the mystery. "I'll just go in and introduce myself, and then I'll get to the files. What's his name?"

"Since the Tardis is experimental, we don't know their names. They are available upon request, but we feel it's better not to know, for research and treatment purposes. It's part of the Clinic's protocol. We only know the patients by number. This is the Tenth."

"So, what do I call him?"

"He'll tell you."

"Okay. Thank you, Dr. Smith."

"Oh, Martha," said the older woman. "Call me Sarah Jane, please."