The Prison Doctor. Dr Amanda Brown
Jonathan.
‘Not yet. We have to wait for legal authority to enter. Won’t take long but right now …’ He shrugged. ‘Well, we’re stuck here.’
‘What about me?’ I asked. ‘Can I go in?’
‘Legally? Yes, you’re his doctor, and have reason to assume he may be hurt.’ He looked at me and the fear in his eyes, the concern for my safety, nearly changed my mind. ‘You shouldn’t, though. You should wait for us to get clearance and then we’ll all go in together.’
But that was no good, was it? Jonathan needed me. Jenny needed me. It was my job to help and I was obliged to carry out my duties.
I walked up the driveway.
The Scotts’ house was very beautiful, with a large weeping willow in the middle of the lawn, and flowerbeds filled with stunning roses and brightly coloured summer flowers. Rectangular flowerboxes hung along the wall by the front door, and flowerpots filled with pansies and lavender lined the driveway.
My heart pounded as I drew closer to the porch. I was nervous about what to expect on the other side of the door. There was a chance Jonathan could turn the knife on me.
It felt like one of the longest walks of my life. I turned back to see everyone’s eyes watching me. Jenny’s hand was clutched over her mouth and the police officers were poised, their hands hovering over their weapons, ready to jump in at any moment.
I took one last look back and then plunged in.
The front door was ajar. I pushed it open with my fingertips, stepping into the hallway. The house was eerily quiet, my shoes sounding far too loud on the wooden floor.
I called out. ‘Jonathan?’
Silence.
‘Jonathan, it’s Doctor Brown.’
There was still no reply but I kept moving, into the kitchen, bracing myself for what I was about to see.
But he wasn’t in the kitchen any more.
I called out, again. ‘Jonathan? It’s Doctor Brown. I’ve come to see if you’re okay.’
I heard a noise coming from the living room.
The nervousness I’d felt had left me now. I needed to find him as quickly as possible. I moved into the living room.
‘Oh, Jonathan!’ I gasped as I turned the corner.
He was standing in front of their leather sofa, his slim frame outlined by the sun streaming through the skylights. The knife, pressed hard against his throat, was glinting. He was swaying slightly, drunk, a sweat glistening on his forehead, his lips wet.
He stared at me, not saying a word.
I was shocked. I knew him well, as he had confided in me over the years about his problems, and I’d come to regard him more as a friend than a patient. My heart went out to him that he felt so desperate he wanted to kill himself.
His lips were white, his face drained of colour. His eyes were agitated, his whole body tense. But still he didn’t speak; he just kept the knife clamped to his throat.
I didn’t have any choice but to try to take it from him.
I started to gently walk towards him. My voice was soft as I said, ‘Please, please, Jonathan, give me the knife.’
He was frozen to the spot.
‘Let me have the knife, it’s going to be fine.’
Still no reply, as I softly, slowly moved forward. What was going through his mind? Was he about to cut his own throat? Was he about to turn the knife on me?
The sound of police radios and talking were coming from outside the window.
I couldn’t see any lacerations on his neck, but the tip of the knife was pressing hard against his skin. Any trigger could set him off.
‘Jonathan—’ I started, but didn’t finish my sentence. Suddenly, he lurched towards me, the knife in his right hand.
It all happened so quickly. I froze, suddenly certain that I’d made a terrible mistake, that I was going to die, there in that opulent living room. Blood spilling onto a carpet few could afford. I’d gone there to help but Jonathan was too far gone, too lost to see clearly. His arms stretching out towards me, the knife shining, looking sharp enough to cut a slit in the air itself.
Yes. I was about to die.
He flung his arms around my neck and flopped onto my shoulders, letting go of his grasp of the large carving knife. It made a small thunk as it dropped onto the living room floor behind me. Part of my brain heard it fall, recognised that the danger was past; the rest of me was occupied with the sobbing Jonathan. I stood there, holding him up, as he sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ I said, stroking his back as I would a child who desperately needed a hug and reassurance.
When his breathing had calmed a little I told him we needed to go outside, that Jenny was waiting for him.
His voice was thick with tears. ‘How can she ever forgive me?’
‘She loves you, we all care about you. Jenny would be distraught if anything happened to you,’ I said.
I led him out of the living room and towards the front door.
He was wobbling still, drunk and disorientated, and I propped him up as we walked into the sunshine together.
I was relieved to see the flashing lights of an ambulance.
‘I want you to go to the hospital for me,’ I said. ‘They’ll help. Can you do that for me?’
He nodded.
Jenny ran towards us, taking her sobbing husband into her arms. I was so thankful that he was safe. I looked at the two of them, unable to shake the thought that one – or both – of them could have died today if things had gone differently. Ultimately, while I may have helped to ground him, Jonathan had held on to enough strength – just enough – to stop himself from doing something that would have torn their lives apart.
I stood back as the paramedics helped him into the ambulance, to take him to the psychiatric ward of the local hospital. Jenny followed in her car. He was in need of expert help, more help than I could give him.
I watched as they disappeared from view and then got back into my car and drove slowly back to work. I had other patients to see.
November 2004
HMP Huntercombe
I remembered those nerve-racking steps towards Jonathan and Jenny’s house, as I walked towards the entrance of HMP Huntercombe. My heart was pounding just as much, my palms moist with anticipation as to what was around the corner.
And then suddenly, just as it had all those years ago, courage kicked in.
I straightened my back and walked on with confidence and purpose.
It was daunting but exciting. I was reinventing myself.
My thoughts were broken by the noise of a large white van rolling up to the prison gates. It had the distinctive tiny blacked-out windows running along the sides, the ones the paparazzi try to reach their cameras up to when high-profile prisoners leave court. I wondered who was inside it.
As the huge metal gates opened, I was able to get a brief glimpse of what lay on the other side. A concrete yard, some more fencing, half a dozen prison officers … and then it all vanished from view as the gates slammed shut.
The intimidating façade of the prison wall, with its barbed wire twisting over the top, was a stark reminder of what life held in store for those being dropped off.