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Casebook of Dr Edward Phillips, 29th December 1826
Captain James Althorpe was conveyed to Liverpool Lunatic Asylum directly from his ship by seven police constables this evening (they told me “e’s a slippery bugger that one, slid right between our fingers, e’did!”). Prior to the arrival of The Fortitude at Royal Albert Dock, word had been sent ahead by his crew:
“Captain in a state of frenzy, of a mind all consumed by sea witches and mer-people. In ecstasy he beats his chest, dipping himself sea-ward singing: My soul is wind, my heart is sea, I’ll go hollering howling free, Water-lung and whale-tongued I, Come on lads, let’s liquefy!
Send help on docking–we are obliged to you, Doctor Philips.”
I am yet to conduct a full mental state examination of the fellow, but I’d place my bets on another pitiful case of General Paresis of the Insane. Bedsheets and bosoms in foreign ports must really be quite something, for these countless seafarers to sacrifice their senses to venereal bacteria! I must conduct some field research to share with my colleagues. I do believe a good three-quarters of our current inpatients are syphilitic sailors.
30th December
As one may expect from the crew’s description, Captain Althorpe passed all hours of the night chanting and raving. Our other patients joined him in a dawn chorus of vulgar shanties. None responded as usual to our hypnotic array of bromide salts. I am quite sleep deprived as a result, and not quite sure if “ay lads” and “ahoy me lads” echoes between our thick brick walls, or my own skull. I shall have to make use of the bromide salts myself this evening, to ensure a good night’s rest and full cognitive function tomorrow.
1st January
Non-response to bromide persists, curiously affecting Dr Cranshawe and myself as well as the crew patients. Incessant shanties seem to counteract even our strongest sedatives.
Captain Althorpe continues to address figments in thin air, imploring his ‘mer-people’ to untether his water spirit from mortal flesh such that he can seep from his chamber via the gutter. His delusions of grandeur are quite unmatched.
As per our standard treatment, a trial of cold-water immersion was carried out today. Captain Althorpe laughed riotously throughout – an unsettling, gurgling sort of guffaw, even whilst fully submerged. I would not have thought such a thing possible. I have submitted an order for electric eels, as per protocol for treatment-resistant cases.
13th January
Oh horrors, the eels have arrived, and failed! Dr Cranshawe and myself looked on aghast as Captain Althorpe entered a sort of communion with them, whispering foreign, splashy-sounding words into their ears (or the place one imagines their ears might be). Dr Cranshawe was shocked (quite literally, I’m afraid) when he tried to wrench the eels from the Captain, as they slithered and squirmed into the Captain’s ears and other orifices. But what do we have left? I shall enquire with my colleagues regarding the most up-to-date methods. And pray. N.B. Must resist the shanties. Will have a cold bath myself.
Ay Lads, Ahoy me lads,
There goes the mer-Cap’n (Aho! Ahoy!)
Put his body under lock n’ key,
But you can’t keep his spirit from the sea!
13th February
I have read with interest the novel method arising in France of indulging the patient’s delusion through ‘role play’. To this end, I have enlisted three patients to paint a tablecloth as the sea, and undulate it back and forth to recreate the waves. Dr Cranshawe has procured a suitable outfit (if rather scratchy and ill-fitting) of the kind sported by seamen in the public houses local to the docks, as Captain Althorpe would be accustomed to.
As for myself; I have sewn a mer-tail from snippets of blue silk and oilcloth for scales. I shall present myself bare-chested, with a wig of bladderwrack, and paint my skin a lustrous blue as one might imagine Captain Althorpe’s mer-people. We endeavour thus for a therapeutic result in which the deck-hand (Doctor Cranshawe) would banish the mer-person (myself) to the depths (re-created by our three patient-turned-actors) and set Captain Althorpe’s mind firmly on land.
They flicker, tumble, and they shout,
The strays, the whores and the layabouts,
“Bring us home, Cap’n, bring us home!”
They melt into each other, into sea-foam.
Ay Lads, Ahoy me lads,
There goes the mer-Cap’n (Aho! Ahoy!)
Put his body under lock n’ key,
But you can’t keep his spirit from the sea!
14th February
And so we entered Captain Althorpe’s chamber. Myself as mer-person, Dr Cranshawe as deck-hand, three in-patients as the sea. We took rum with us, for authenticity’s sake, of course. We joined in with the shanties to truly immerse the Captain in the experience. There was more rum, and the patients did such a good job as the sea, swaying back and forth, back and forth, heave! Ho!
And Dr Cranshawe! Oh, let me tell you about dear Dr Cranshawe. Sweet, tall Robert Cranshawe. He adopted a thick Liverpudlian accent as deckhand… how becoming it was on him! How deeply I blushed beneath the layer of blue pigment!
“’Ere Doc Philips, you’ve gone puuurple!” he said, haha! Sweet, funny Robert.
It was quite something – the singing, the Captain’s raving, the rum, the swaying. The silken scales felt good against my skin. The Captain was rather compelling, quite beguiling. How he glistened, like a pearl, in the moonlight! Robert whispered splashy, Scousey things in my ear. More rum, more rum! We cried. Waves crashed around us and the walls dripped, the bed sodden.
Sunlight is streaming now through the window. I have a headache. Where are the keys to this place? And my hardy crew of patients? Darling Dr Cranshawe sleeps on, atop the soaking mattress. How precious he looks when he sleeps. Even when encrusted in barnacles. Yes, barnacle-encrusted, every inch of us! Ha! What will my colleagues say.
Escaped from the mad-house late last night,
As the day is turning bright,
There he goes through Sefton Park,
takes up the waifs left there after dark,
bears them up on the crest of his wave,
all o’them who would misbehave.
Ay Lads, Ahoy me lads,
There goes the mer-Cap’n (Aho! Ahoy!)
Put his body under lock n’ key,
But you can’t keep his spirit from the sea!
The mer-people wave reaches the shore,
Mingles with sea, a deafening roar,
A whisper on the wind if you listen closely,
“I told you, I told you I am the sea,
Come all you mer-children, you’re free with me.”
(c) Lianne Warr, 2024
Lianne Warr is an NHS psychiatrist. Decades after being, quite frankly, a weird child who wrote stories about magical Tesco bags, she started writing again during the pandemic. In 2022, she won a Cranked Anvil short story competition with ‘Year of the Tiger.' This is her second outing with Liars’ League.
Evening Standard Award nominee for A Man for All Seasons, Tony Bell has performed all over the world with award-winning all-male Shakespeare company Propeller, playing Bottom, Feste, Autolycus and Tranio. TV includes Coronation Street, Holby City, Midsomer Murders, EastEnders & The Bill. He is also a radio and voiceover artist.
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