Peter sat up in bed, the stark light hurting his eyes. The other people bustling around the room confused him. Where was he? Who were these men shuffling around in their pyjamas and dressing gowns? He spotted a sign on the wall near the door. Ward LF7. A ward? He was in a hospital ward. A nurse appeared at the foot of his bed, as though summoned by the thought. She wore a nave uniform and an easy smile.

‘Good morning, Peter. How are you feeling today?’

Peter said nothing, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. He really couldn’t recall being admitted to hospital and the paisley pyjamas he was wearing were not his. Peter was about to ask the nurse a question but when he went to speak, the thought drifted away from him. A guy in his fifties dawdled by. He had thinning hair and the rope of his dressing gown trailed along the floor behind him. The nurse turned and followed him calling out, Kenny, let’s get you back in bed.

Peter stared at the people in the ward as though he was watching a documentary on television. He felt detached from the scene taking place around him.

Sometime later, a male nurse, a stocky man with glasses, passed by.

‘Excuse me?’ Peter called. ‘What am I doing here?’

The nurse smiled and leaned on the rail at the bottom of the bed.

‘You’re very poorly, Peter. You need to rest up and get yourself better.’

‘What is wrong with me? How long have I been here? And,’ Peter added. ‘when can I go home?’

‘We are just waiting for your test results. Once the results come back, we’ll have all the answers you need. Then we can start planning to get you home. How does that sound?’

Peter had to admit it did sound perfectly reasonable.

‘When will the results be back?’ he asked.

‘Any day now. You’ll just have to be patient, if you’ll pardon the pun.’ laughed the nurse.

Before Peter could say anything else, the nurse carried on across the ward. Peter watched as he scanned his pass and the door clicked open. A man in his forties, wearing bright pyjamas, was doing Tai Chi beside his bed. The slow moves flowed well. Peter watched in fascination. Maybe when he was back on his feet, Peter could learn the techniques from him.

Later that afternoon, Peter was manoeuvred into a sitting position in bed, with pillows propped behind him for support. A wooden tray was slid into place in front of him, and a plate of food lay down. Peter tried the dish. It was some kind of mushy casserole but it lacked any real flavour. Perhaps, he wondered, salt and seasoning was bad for someone in his condition. If he’d been having a meal like this at home, he would have laced it with salt, pepper and pickles, to give it a bit of a kick to it. As it was, he scooped up a spoonful of the bland food without any real gusto. When he’d finished eating and the tray slid away, a nurse came to his bedside. She had a kind expression and a syringe in her hand.

‘Could you pop your sleeve up for me, love?’

Her demeanour was so gentle and disarming that he found he did as he was told. As the needle pierced the pale skin on his arm, Peter spoke.

‘What is this you’re giving me?’

The nurse explained that it was medicine to help get him better. She added, and you’re done, before leaving him.

The other patients on the ward seemed to be men of varying ages, and some were more confused than others. Were they treating the patients for their mental well-being too? One man in a bed facing Peter was commentating on a football match only he could see.

The following morning, having breakfasted on cold toast and the worst cup of tea he’d ever tasted, Peter waved for one of the nurses. She was in her late forties and had a hint of an Irish accent when she spoke.

‘Morning Peter, how are you today?’

‘Any news on my test results?’

‘These things take time, I’m afraid. When dealing with patients your age, we need to be more thorough.’

‘What do you mean, my age? I’m thirty-seven.’

‘Sorry, Peter, you’re getting confused again. You are sixty nine years old.’

‘No. No. That can’t be correct.’

‘Please, try and relax. Stay calm. You’re in the best place. We are taking good care of you.’

‘I am not a sixty year old.’

‘It’s understandable to be confused. You’re very poorly, that’s why you’re here.’

‘I am not an old man.’

‘Go and have a look in the bathroom mirror, see for yourself.’

‘Alright, I will.’

With determination in his weak limbs, clinging to his walking stick, Peter marched across the ward to the bathroom. He pushed through the door, making straight for the sinks. In the fluorescent light, his features looked pale and gaunt, and old. He gasped, staring at the reflection. The face staring back at him was his face, but it was also the face of a much older man. His thick hair was now grey-white and receding. His face was a mask of wrinkles and crow’s feet. So, it was true. Somehow thirty years had gone by, lost in his memory.

He glared at the mirror, tears of frustration running down his face. Where had the years gone? Maybe he had married and had children, even grandchildren, in the missing years. The nurse hovered in the doorway.

‘I’m sorry.’ she said. ‘I know. It’s a lot to take in. Your mind is playing cruel tricks on you. Give it time and we’ll get you there.’

Peter was about the say he wanted to go home, but it struck him that, he didn’t quite know where home was, or what his home was like. Right then, home seemed more of a general concept, an idea, a feeling. Quite unsure of exactly what to do, he shrugged at his reflection, and followed the nurse back onto the ward.

He shuffled and got himself as comfortable as he could. Would his memory come back once he was feeling better? Would things start to make more sense after a while? He certainly hoped so. He was an old feller, like some of the others on the ward. He tried not to think about things. Everything would start making more sense soon.

That afternoon, Peter was trying to concentrate on a who-dunnit novel from the 1930s, a patient flopped onto the edge of his bed. He wore a striped dressing-gown, a wild grin, and thick hair. He reminded Peter of a mad professor. He was somewhere in his mid-forties.

‘Alright, mate? I’m Chris. I’ve been meaning to have a word with you.’ He paused, reading the name over his bed. ‘Nice to meet you, Pete.’

Peter simply smiled. Chris looked around, and once happy that they weren’t being overheard, he leaned in, his voice little more than a whisper.

‘All is not well, you know. Things are very wrong with this place, whatever it is.’

‘I don’t follow you.’ Peter said.

‘You must have noticed that things aren’t as they should be.’

Peter said nothing.

‘For example, why is the door locked?’ Chris asked.

‘To keep people out. We’re not well. A lot of hospital wards do that. They can’t have people drifting in and out.’

‘Are you sure that door isn’t locked to keep us in? And why are there no visitors?’

‘Visitors aren’t allowed to reduce the risk of infection. There’s a sign on the wall.’ said Peter/

‘Okay then, why aren’t we allowed mobile phones or tablet computers?’

‘They say it interferes with the equipment.’

‘Rubbish.’ Chris said. ‘They want to keep us completely cut off from the outside world.’

Peter said nothing. He wasn’t sure if he could even remember life off the ward. Chris gave him a wink and left him to think about what he had told him. Peter slumped back in the bed, arms folded across his face. Was he being held prisoner on the ward? Where had the last thirty years gone? Would he ever make it off the ward, and what lay out there for him? He sighed. He couldn’t even remember his last name.

They days rolled by, he was getting used to the routine. There would be injections and pills, bland food and plastic cups of water. He even got used to the other patients and their quirky little ways.

The guy still practised Tai Chi, another man recited what Peter assumed was Shakespeare, thrashing his arms dramatically. Chris would hover by Peter’s bed and explain his latest theory. One morning Chris perched on the end of Peter’s bed, waiting for the nurses, or the goons, as he called them, to pass by. Peter tended to humour him. He would nod, smiled and shake his head, in what he hoped was the right places. Chris would eventually drift away to share his intelligence with another patient.

‘This isn’t actually a hospital, you know? It’s more like a prison camp. They keep us here, pump us full of drugs, cooped up so we can do no damage.’

‘Oh right.’ Peter managed.

‘Before I came here, I was a writer. I wrote for an independent magazine. We were anti-Government, anti-Establishment, anti-Everything, actually.’ he laughed. ‘And then one day, I wake up here, so full of medicine that I don’t know what day it is. That’s their plan.’

At that moment a nurse went by, glancing in their direction. Chris jumped to his feet, as though he’d just being caught out. He whispered for Peter to for goodness sake, be careful, and scurried back to his own bed.

A man in a grey trustee’s uniform waved a tea pot in Peter’s direction. Tea? Coffee? The trustees were patients who were making sufficient recovery, that they were given little chores around the ward and the hospital wing. The trustee programme served several purposes. It gave the hospital staff assistance with minor tasks. The nurses could then busy themselves with the more important and complicated aspects of the job. It also gave the improving patients a sense of purpose, a role to fulfil. Peter was reminded of prefects and milk-monitors from his school days. The patents on the mend wore their grey trustee uniforms with pride.

Peter simply nodded. The trustee poured a mug of tea and placed in the table in front of him.

A few days later, Peter had just taken his tablets, when something occurred to him. He hadn’t seen Chris all morning. The patients couldn’t leave the ward, so it was a real mystery. The next time a nurse went by, he called out.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Yes, love.’ The nurse smiled.

‘Do you know where Chris is? I’ve not seen him today.’

The smile faded from her face.

‘The patient you are referring to has been moved to another ward for further treatment.’

Without waiting for a reply, she marched quickly to the door, scanned her pass and left. As the door clicked locked again, Peter wondered what Chris’s disappearance could mean. Had he been moved to a stricter ward because he was disruptive? He was always sharing his outlandish theories with the other patients. A shiver went through Peter. If Chris had been moved because of the disruption, then did that mean that he had been right about things? At what point did the line blur between hospital ward and prison wing? If they were being kept there against their will, then what was the difference?

Peter spent the rest of the day trying to figure things out. What was going on? Was he being paranoid? Were they being kept here because they had been critical of the state? That did seem outlandish, but what if Chris was correct?

A trustee appeared at the foot of his bed, asking if he would like tea or coffee. Peter just shook his head.

Several days later, Peter was in the bathroom. He stared at his aged reflection. Where had the years gone? The years were lost in the fog of his memory. As far as he could recall, he was in his late thirties, not his sixties. Mind you, he was so confused these days. He continued to stare at his grey-haired, wrinkled, reflection, as though it held the answers.

The bathroom door opened. Peter glanced around to see a male nurse. He was in his twenties and had this dark hair. Peter bid him good morning, before turning back to the mirror. Peter gasped. In the filter of the mirror reflection, the young nurse was an old man, his hair grey-white, his skin full of wrinkles.

Oblivious of Peter’s distress, the nurse went into one of the cubicles, shutting the door behind him. Peter’s heart pounded in his chest. As he splashed cold water on his face, he heard Chris’s voice in his head, the words repeating over and over. For goodness sake, be careful. Chris had been right. They were being doped up and kept here. They were being drugged and lied to.

Still reeling from his discovery, Peter staggered back across the ward. He made it back to his bed. A nurse paused, glancing at him in concern.

‘Are you feeling okay, Peter. You’re very pale.’

‘I’ll have to go sun-bathing this afternoon then, top up my tan.’ he laughed.

The nurse said he was to let her know if he started feeling unwell, before rushing off to tend to another patient.

How many days had it been since Chris had been moved? It could have been well over a week. In here the days didn’t really have a lot of meaning. Chris had been right all along. The mirrors that the nurses used to prove they were telling the truth, were in fact, part of the lie, part of the cruel stunt they were pulling on the patients. Peter managed to swallow a few mouthfuls of the Irish stew that evening.

As he lay in bed, on the dark ward, the other patients’ snoring and heavy-breathing, Peter knew one thing. He had to get off the ward. If he could just get through the door, he could try to blag and bluff his way out of the place once and for all. By the time the dawn started lighting the night sky, Peter had a plan. It might work, but had to give it a shot.

The next morning Peter occupied himself, reading in the plastic chair by the door to the ward. When a nurse asked how he was doing, he said, he was fine, just eager to finish the last few chapters of his paperback book.

Just after eleven, right on cue, the tea-trolley was brought round. The nurse heaved the heavy trolley, laden with urns and tea cups, through the door. Peter moved quickly. Before the door could click shut, imprisoning him on the ward, he gently slipped his thin paperback book against the doorframe.

As the nurse busied herself, with the help of a trustee, with sorting out the tea and coffee for the patients, Peter reached and grabbed a trustee’s jacket. In once quick movement, he shrugged into the grey jacket and slid through the door, kicking away the book. The door locked behind him.

Peter found himself in a long corridor. A patient in a trustee’s jacket moved up the corridor towards him, carrying a bottle of milk. Clearly the brew round on the ward needed more milk. In his grey jacket, Peter was protected. If he was challenged, he could insist he was running an errand for the ward. Maybe he would claim to be going for more books for the ward, and then quickly slip away.

The trustee with the milk neared. Peter gasped. It was Chris. Peter rushed to him.

‘Chris, you were right about everything. The mirrors prove it. Everyone is old in the reflection. You were right. We need to get out of here.’

Chris gave him a blank stare. Whatever they had done to him, Chris no longer recognised him. A nurse appeared behind them in the corridor.

‘Come on, we need to go.’ Peter insisted.

Chris dropped the milk, the plastic bottle rolling away, spilling its contents at their feet. He grabbed hold of Peter tightly.

‘Let’s get you back on the ward, my friend.’ Chris said.

There was a coldness, an edge that had not been there before. Suddenly, the corridor was filled with staff, and Peter, despite his protests and struggles, was pushed, shoved and man-handled, back onto the ward. With Chris telling him to relax, that they were here to help, Peter felt a needle prick his skin.

Peter sat up in bed, blinking in the stark light. He appeared to be in some kind of hospital ward.

‘What am I doing here?’ he asked a nurse.

‘You are not well.’

‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘We’re just waiting for your test results to come back.’

By Chris Platt