From the outside, Chesbury Hospital in London looks like a castle that got lost and was plonked down in the wrong place. It is long and white, with battlements and arched windows from which princesses could call down, in the chapter before they are saved.
But it’s not entirely believable. Where the portcullis should be, there are giant glass doors. Walk through them, and you could be in a five-star hotel. The man at reception wears a suit and tie and asks if he can help, like he’s going to book you a table. A glass cupboard showcases the gifts sold by reception: bath oils, rejuvenating face cream, and Green & Black’s chocolate, just in case you arrive empty-handed to see a crazy relative and need an icebreaker.
The walls, lampshades, window fittings, and radiators are all a similar, unnameable color, somewhere between brown, yellow, and cream. A looping gold chandelier is suspended by a heavy chain; the fireplace has marble columns. The members of staff have busy, preoccupied faces—until they come close to you, when their mouths break into wide, fixed smiles.
Compared with the Harley Street clinic, there is a superior choice of herbal teas. When the police arrived after the escape, Mum cried a lot; then she shouted. Now she has assumed a sense of British resolve. She queries: “Wild Jasmine, Purple Rose, or Earl Grey?”
A nurse checks through my bag, which has been lugged upstairs. She takes the razor (fair enough), tweezers (sort of fair enough), a bottle of Baileys lying forgotten in the handbag (definitely fair enough), and headphones (definitely not fair enough). There would never be a hanging: far too much mess.
The observation room is next to the nurses’ station; they keep you there until you are no longer a risk to yourself.
It is January 10, 2013. Patient Lily Bailey is nineteen.