Part 5
The Borehamwood Institute was a mass of concrete and steel built sometime in the late 1970's by an especially uninspired architect under contract to the US government. It was completed in a little over six months and since its opening had never had more than three empty rooms at any one time.
The Institute housed the main psychiatric department of the local hospital, and running the department was Dr. Elijah Beck. When Dennis Rafkin was admitted, just short of two hundred and fifty patients inhabited the sterile white wards and there were fifty full-time staff members, including nineteen doctors. Dennis filled the last available bed.
Dr. Beck was one of the most respected men in his profession, and had resigned a position with a top German institute - one of the most highly thought of establishments in the world - in order to take his present job at Borehamwood. He enticed along many of his old colleagues from over the years, many prominent figures in their own right. Many had published papers and books on the subject and given lectures, some had been teachers and lecturers, some brilliant clinical psychiatrists come from respected hospitals worldwide. It had taken only three years for the Institute itself to gain just as much respect as its staff. Psychiatry had never seen such a success.
Of course, the success wasn't due simply to the general day-to-day work of Dr. Beck and his colleagues. There was a logic to the position of the Institute - it was located several miles out of the nearest town, on a low hill surrounded by wide, flat fields and a high, electrified fence topped with razor wire. And the reason for this - not only did the building house the Borehamwood Psychiatric Hospital, but the Borehamwood Institute for the Criminally Insane.
Abnormal Psychology was the main focus of research for the majority of the staff. The relatively small seventy-bed wing at the rear of the hospital, hidden from view, was kept wholly separate from the hospital, the murderers, serial rapists and various other psychopaths, sociopaths and violent psychotics were never allowed to interact with the main body of the hospital's patients. In fact, the only two common factors of two sections were the building that housed them and the doctors that moved between the two. The nurses and general staff were two separate sets, one working in each section. It was as if the main hospital was the respectable front for their dirty pleasure, the wing where the money and careers were made.
The only doctor not to moonlight in the Abnormal Psych wing was Dr. Beck himself. His interests lay purely in the patients of the hospital, not that his administrative duties would have permitted him any time elsewhere even if he'd wished it. Back in college he'd made the decision to stay out of Abnormal Psychology - he'd left that to his roommate and good friend, Erik Heilmann.
In a career spanning forty years, Elijah Beck avoided Abnormal Psychology completely. That is, until three months into the treatment of Dennis Rafkin.
It was summer, and sometimes in summer Dr. Beck liked to conduct his sessions outside in the courtyard . The building was in the shape of a large square, with an open square courtyard in the centre - the front side of the square, facing the road, and the two sides, made up the hospital, and the back served as, for want of better words, the asylum. And that day, under the bright summer sun, Beck had decided to see Dennis outside. He regretted it.
They hadn't been making much progress. Dennis hadn't been able to explain his miraculous guess, and Beck had since treated it as just that. He had, however, wondered about Dennis' reaction when he'd touched him - it obviously wasn't normal but he couldn't find an explanation for it for the life of him. Dennis just didn't want anyone to touch him, obviously for fear of this physical pain he seemed to feel, but he wouldn't talk about it. Beck had been toying with the idea of touching him again, just casually patting him on the back or resting a hand on his shoulder, to test the reaction, but he realised that was rather unethical. He'd decided against it. But he did want to at least attempt to get Dennis to talk about why he was so scared of physical contact.
They sat on a bench at the side of the pond, which was covered over with wire mesh for fairly obvious reasons - an open pond in the middle of a psychiatric hospital wouldn't exactly have been the greatest of ideas. There were flowers and small shrubs all around, on all sides of the pond around the light grey stone paving stones that served as a path through the garden. Dennis seemed more relaxed then usual outside, after being cooped up in the hospital for over two months. Dr. Beck decided to broach the subject again, and hoped that the new surroundings may have an effect on his willingness to talk.
"Dennis, you remember the day in my office", he started, looking up from his notebook, tapping his pencil absently against the back of his wrist. "When you tripped and I tried to help you up."
"Yeah, Doc, I remember", Dennis said, nodding. "What about it?"
"Well, I was wondering - when I touched you, and you moved away, what was it that made you do that?"
Dennis shrugged and took a deep breath, uncrossing his legs and stroking the heels of his hands down over his thighs over and over, staring up over the top of the building into the cloudless blue sky. Beck didn't take that as a good sign.
"Dennis, what did you feel?"
"It hurt".
"It hurts when people touch you, is that what you're saying?"
"I told you that before. It hurts. I don't wanna be touched 'cause. 'cause I get these, these *pains* in my head. It hurts".
"Dennis, why does it hurt? What happens to you?"
Dennis shrugged again, staring down at his knees now. "I don't know. I. Sometimes I see things".
Beck frowned. "You see things? Like what? What do you see?" Dennis bit his lip. "Dennis, what do you see?"
"Just, flashes. I get these flashes. Like I see people's lives flash before my eyes, some kinda freaky-ass slide show in my head. And it feels like someone jammed a needle in my brain, every time. Okay?" Dennis glanced up at Beck. "I told you. So can we drop this now?"
"You're telling me you're psychic?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's what I'm telling you. I'm psychic. I touch someone and I get a whole lifetime's worth of shit I don't wanna know all poured into my head. Why do you think I'm so screwed up? I accidentally brushed up against my bank manager and found out he likes to touch up his eight-year- old niece. My kindergarten teacher tortured animals as a kid. That orderly who brought me up to your office the first day? He has the biggest collection of gay porn on the Eastern seaboard. And you. well, the worst thing you ever did was forget to feed your daughter's goldfish when she was away skiing in Vermont. Quit beating yourself up already - that was eight years ago".
Dr. Beck just stared at him. He'd never told anyone about that, not even his wife. He'd never mentioned how he'd been too wrapped up in a case to remember that he'd promised to feed Rachel's pet goldfish, how one morning he'd found it floating at the top of the tank, how he'd taken the afternoon off work to find one just like it in the local pet store. He'd buried the dead fish in the back yard and prayed to God that the neighbour's dog wouldn't dig it up. No one had ever noticed the difference.
"How did you know that?" he asked in a low voice, frowning, narrowing his eyes as he looked at him. "I didn't tell anyone about that".
Dennis smiled. "I told you, Doc - I'm psychic".
"But."
"Fuck!"
Dr. Beck watched as a kind of ripple went down Dennis' spine, wrenching his head back and knocking his to the ground. He fell from the bench and to his knees on the paving stones in front of the pond.
"Dennis?"
Dennis clutched at his head, seizing again. He lurched forward, his head hitting the stones with a sickening thud.
"Dennis, what is it?"
He was breathing hard. Dr. Beck knelt down beside him, and moved to put his hand on his shoulder - Dennis lurched under his touch and he yanked his hand away. Dennis was trembling. Then he started to shake. He hadn't knocked himself out, but there was an ugly red mark on his forehead and a thin trickle of blood running down his face. He turned to the doctor.
"We need to get away from here", he murmured.
"What is it? Do you see something?"
"Please, we need to get inside. Please. It's not safe". The fear in Dennis' eyes was indescribable; it made Dr. Beck's heart hammer wildly in his chest.
"Dennis, Dennis, there's nothing here. It's okay, really. There's nothing here", he said in as soothing a tone as he could muster, trying to reassure him. Obviously it wasn't working; Dennis just shook his head, hard.
"You're wrong. You're. you're *wrong*". He was rocking back and forth, on his knees now, the heel of one hand jammed up hard against his temple. "He didn't want to be touched. They wanted to save him but. but he wouldn't let them. Oh God, God, he. he burned to death. He burned to death before he let them touch him".
"Who, Dennis? Who?"
The sound Dennis was making, a high, strained whine, made Dr. Beck's heart beat even faster. People were staring. There were faces in all the windows and orderlies were rushing toward them; Beck raised a hand and stopped them from coming too close, from touching Dennis, from hauling him inside.
"Dennis, who is it? Who did you see?"
"Ryan Kuhn. His name's Ryan Kuhn. He died here ninety years ago. He fucking burned to death and he's pissed as all hell. Now get me the fuck inside!"
***
The Borehamwood Institute was a mass of concrete and steel built sometime in the late 1970's by an especially uninspired architect under contract to the US government. It was completed in a little over six months and since its opening had never had more than three empty rooms at any one time.
The Institute housed the main psychiatric department of the local hospital, and running the department was Dr. Elijah Beck. When Dennis Rafkin was admitted, just short of two hundred and fifty patients inhabited the sterile white wards and there were fifty full-time staff members, including nineteen doctors. Dennis filled the last available bed.
Dr. Beck was one of the most respected men in his profession, and had resigned a position with a top German institute - one of the most highly thought of establishments in the world - in order to take his present job at Borehamwood. He enticed along many of his old colleagues from over the years, many prominent figures in their own right. Many had published papers and books on the subject and given lectures, some had been teachers and lecturers, some brilliant clinical psychiatrists come from respected hospitals worldwide. It had taken only three years for the Institute itself to gain just as much respect as its staff. Psychiatry had never seen such a success.
Of course, the success wasn't due simply to the general day-to-day work of Dr. Beck and his colleagues. There was a logic to the position of the Institute - it was located several miles out of the nearest town, on a low hill surrounded by wide, flat fields and a high, electrified fence topped with razor wire. And the reason for this - not only did the building house the Borehamwood Psychiatric Hospital, but the Borehamwood Institute for the Criminally Insane.
Abnormal Psychology was the main focus of research for the majority of the staff. The relatively small seventy-bed wing at the rear of the hospital, hidden from view, was kept wholly separate from the hospital, the murderers, serial rapists and various other psychopaths, sociopaths and violent psychotics were never allowed to interact with the main body of the hospital's patients. In fact, the only two common factors of two sections were the building that housed them and the doctors that moved between the two. The nurses and general staff were two separate sets, one working in each section. It was as if the main hospital was the respectable front for their dirty pleasure, the wing where the money and careers were made.
The only doctor not to moonlight in the Abnormal Psych wing was Dr. Beck himself. His interests lay purely in the patients of the hospital, not that his administrative duties would have permitted him any time elsewhere even if he'd wished it. Back in college he'd made the decision to stay out of Abnormal Psychology - he'd left that to his roommate and good friend, Erik Heilmann.
In a career spanning forty years, Elijah Beck avoided Abnormal Psychology completely. That is, until three months into the treatment of Dennis Rafkin.
It was summer, and sometimes in summer Dr. Beck liked to conduct his sessions outside in the courtyard . The building was in the shape of a large square, with an open square courtyard in the centre - the front side of the square, facing the road, and the two sides, made up the hospital, and the back served as, for want of better words, the asylum. And that day, under the bright summer sun, Beck had decided to see Dennis outside. He regretted it.
They hadn't been making much progress. Dennis hadn't been able to explain his miraculous guess, and Beck had since treated it as just that. He had, however, wondered about Dennis' reaction when he'd touched him - it obviously wasn't normal but he couldn't find an explanation for it for the life of him. Dennis just didn't want anyone to touch him, obviously for fear of this physical pain he seemed to feel, but he wouldn't talk about it. Beck had been toying with the idea of touching him again, just casually patting him on the back or resting a hand on his shoulder, to test the reaction, but he realised that was rather unethical. He'd decided against it. But he did want to at least attempt to get Dennis to talk about why he was so scared of physical contact.
They sat on a bench at the side of the pond, which was covered over with wire mesh for fairly obvious reasons - an open pond in the middle of a psychiatric hospital wouldn't exactly have been the greatest of ideas. There were flowers and small shrubs all around, on all sides of the pond around the light grey stone paving stones that served as a path through the garden. Dennis seemed more relaxed then usual outside, after being cooped up in the hospital for over two months. Dr. Beck decided to broach the subject again, and hoped that the new surroundings may have an effect on his willingness to talk.
"Dennis, you remember the day in my office", he started, looking up from his notebook, tapping his pencil absently against the back of his wrist. "When you tripped and I tried to help you up."
"Yeah, Doc, I remember", Dennis said, nodding. "What about it?"
"Well, I was wondering - when I touched you, and you moved away, what was it that made you do that?"
Dennis shrugged and took a deep breath, uncrossing his legs and stroking the heels of his hands down over his thighs over and over, staring up over the top of the building into the cloudless blue sky. Beck didn't take that as a good sign.
"Dennis, what did you feel?"
"It hurt".
"It hurts when people touch you, is that what you're saying?"
"I told you that before. It hurts. I don't wanna be touched 'cause. 'cause I get these, these *pains* in my head. It hurts".
"Dennis, why does it hurt? What happens to you?"
Dennis shrugged again, staring down at his knees now. "I don't know. I. Sometimes I see things".
Beck frowned. "You see things? Like what? What do you see?" Dennis bit his lip. "Dennis, what do you see?"
"Just, flashes. I get these flashes. Like I see people's lives flash before my eyes, some kinda freaky-ass slide show in my head. And it feels like someone jammed a needle in my brain, every time. Okay?" Dennis glanced up at Beck. "I told you. So can we drop this now?"
"You're telling me you're psychic?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's what I'm telling you. I'm psychic. I touch someone and I get a whole lifetime's worth of shit I don't wanna know all poured into my head. Why do you think I'm so screwed up? I accidentally brushed up against my bank manager and found out he likes to touch up his eight-year- old niece. My kindergarten teacher tortured animals as a kid. That orderly who brought me up to your office the first day? He has the biggest collection of gay porn on the Eastern seaboard. And you. well, the worst thing you ever did was forget to feed your daughter's goldfish when she was away skiing in Vermont. Quit beating yourself up already - that was eight years ago".
Dr. Beck just stared at him. He'd never told anyone about that, not even his wife. He'd never mentioned how he'd been too wrapped up in a case to remember that he'd promised to feed Rachel's pet goldfish, how one morning he'd found it floating at the top of the tank, how he'd taken the afternoon off work to find one just like it in the local pet store. He'd buried the dead fish in the back yard and prayed to God that the neighbour's dog wouldn't dig it up. No one had ever noticed the difference.
"How did you know that?" he asked in a low voice, frowning, narrowing his eyes as he looked at him. "I didn't tell anyone about that".
Dennis smiled. "I told you, Doc - I'm psychic".
"But."
"Fuck!"
Dr. Beck watched as a kind of ripple went down Dennis' spine, wrenching his head back and knocking his to the ground. He fell from the bench and to his knees on the paving stones in front of the pond.
"Dennis?"
Dennis clutched at his head, seizing again. He lurched forward, his head hitting the stones with a sickening thud.
"Dennis, what is it?"
He was breathing hard. Dr. Beck knelt down beside him, and moved to put his hand on his shoulder - Dennis lurched under his touch and he yanked his hand away. Dennis was trembling. Then he started to shake. He hadn't knocked himself out, but there was an ugly red mark on his forehead and a thin trickle of blood running down his face. He turned to the doctor.
"We need to get away from here", he murmured.
"What is it? Do you see something?"
"Please, we need to get inside. Please. It's not safe". The fear in Dennis' eyes was indescribable; it made Dr. Beck's heart hammer wildly in his chest.
"Dennis, Dennis, there's nothing here. It's okay, really. There's nothing here", he said in as soothing a tone as he could muster, trying to reassure him. Obviously it wasn't working; Dennis just shook his head, hard.
"You're wrong. You're. you're *wrong*". He was rocking back and forth, on his knees now, the heel of one hand jammed up hard against his temple. "He didn't want to be touched. They wanted to save him but. but he wouldn't let them. Oh God, God, he. he burned to death. He burned to death before he let them touch him".
"Who, Dennis? Who?"
The sound Dennis was making, a high, strained whine, made Dr. Beck's heart beat even faster. People were staring. There were faces in all the windows and orderlies were rushing toward them; Beck raised a hand and stopped them from coming too close, from touching Dennis, from hauling him inside.
"Dennis, who is it? Who did you see?"
"Ryan Kuhn. His name's Ryan Kuhn. He died here ninety years ago. He fucking burned to death and he's pissed as all hell. Now get me the fuck inside!"
***