The Dark Threads Read Online Free Page B

that? What had happened to them? Were they once just ordinary babies, children, teenagers? Who were they?
    After what must have been the longest indoor walk I’d ever taken, we arrived at the small shop where patients were queuing to buy items such as cigarettes, sweets and tissues. The man behind me in the shop queue stroked my hair, drooling, ‘You’ve got to stroke women, women like to be stroked. Just like this, gently and easily. They like it. You’ve got to stroke women, women like to be stroked …’
    â€˜Give over,’ I said, turning round.
    â€˜I’m sorry, young woman, no offence meant,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m going.’
    I watched him shuffling away.
    We returned to the ward where patients had formed a queue at the trolley to be given drugs. I hung back because Dr Sugden had said I was being admitted for ‘a rest and observation’. Nothing had been said about drugs.
    â€˜Come on, we haven’t got all day,’ Sister Oldroyd barked at me. ‘What’s your name?’
    â€˜Jean Davison.’
    She fished out an indexed card from a box on the trolley.
    â€˜Ah yes, you’re on Largactil, seventy-five milligrams three times a day.’
    She poured some golden-brown liquid from a large bottle into a small, plastic container. Obediently, I swallowed the medication.
    â€˜Where’s everybody going?’ I asked Debbie who, like the others, was putting on her coat.
    â€˜To the therapy block across the grounds,’ she replied.
    â€˜What’s therapy?’
    â€˜Don’t you know that?’ She sounded amazed at such ignorance. ‘It’s making things. You can learn how to make lampshades, baskets, ashtrays or soft toys.’
    The ward emptied of patients except for three old women and me. A nurse sent me to my dormitory where I had to strip to my waist in front of a Dr Prior who placed a stethoscope on my chest and gave me a blood test. Later, I was called to the Quiet Room where he was sitting, feet spread out, smoking a cigarette, and looking at some papers on his knee.
    â€˜Sit down,’ he said, motioning to the chair facing him. I sat stiffly, perched on the edge of my chair, shyness making me feel ill at ease.
    â€˜Relax, I don’t bite,’ he said, smiling, showing a neat row of gleaming white teeth. He looked to be in his late twenties and wore a grey tweed jacket, crisp white shirt and dark-grey trousers.
    â€˜I work under Dr Sugden and I’ll be seeing you from time to time. Can you tell me why you’re here?’
    â€˜Well, for quite some time I’ve been thinking life seems meaningless and empty.’ I stopped. What else was there to say? Besides, I wasn’t in the mood now for talking. I was feeling very sleepy.
    He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Go on,’ he said, nodding encouragingly.
    â€˜And I’m confused about religion.’
    â€˜Is it very important for you to believe in God?’ he asked, looking at the papers on his knee.
    â€˜I wish I had summat to believe in.’
    â€˜Do you think about religion a lot?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜All the time?’
    â€˜A lot. Not just about religion. About beliefs generally. I can’t sort out what to believe in. I’m confused with so many different ideas.’
    â€˜Can you be more specific?’
    â€˜I started thinking about lots of things and questioning all me beliefs until I ended up not knowing what to believe in, and it’s made me feel kinda lost. I feel as if I don’t know what I am.’
    He wrote something down, then looked at me. ‘When you say you don’t know what you are, what exactly do you mean?’
    I searched my mind in vain for the words that might get him to understand. ‘Oh, I can’t explain it any further than that,’ I said, feeling weary. ‘I don’t know how to put these feelings into words.’
    â€˜I see,’ he said, writing