text: > describe your surroundings
  The wrought iron gates hang open.
  
  Beyond them, hazy in the darkness to the southeast, a round lawn, dotted with trees.
  
  Guarding the gate is biggest dog you have ever seen, a haunch of bloody meat and a vast water bowl at its feet.
  
  > Go southeast
  You move. The beast throws back all three heads and hurls a howl of blood-curdling ferocity at the sky. And the clouds shake. You think it would probably be for the best to stop moving.
  
  > play lyre
  You feel as if you have been running, and running hard, and your fingers tremble on the strings, fearful of the lyre and its music.
  But everything has changed. Softly, softly, comes the scent of green things growing, dark places, damp fur, warmth in your belly and all around, different songs. You lose time, the names of things. The stars becomes nothing but distant light. Your four clawed feet trample complex concepts to nothing but travelled earth, and happiness is the flow of the night. Then comes the creeping cold, not without, but within, and it snaps like winter at your heels. And you don't know what it means that yours is now the only song, and yours the only pounding paws, and yours the fur and yours the hunger and you alone who slumber in the dark places and dream of dreams once shared. The music fades to silence, and the dog slumps to the ground, ungainly now. Its eyes fall closed and it seems to sleep.
  
  > go southeast
  You muster up your courage and sidle past the subdued monster, holding your breath lest you rouse it.
  
  You could be visiting a stately home, or an Oxford college, or a country church, except you're not. You know there are more modern constructions hidden away behind it, one of which - the severely acute ward - lies like Sleeping Beauty's castle behind thorns of metal and stone.
  
  Circling an oval of moderately well-kept grass is a gravel path and, beyond it to the west, a sandstone building gleams palely golden against the shadowed sky. The gates loom to the northwest.
  
  > examine the sandstone building
  From its harmonious proportions and the flanking classical pillars, you suspect the main building must be Regency in design ... that or made out of lego blocks. There is something desperate in the rigidity of its symmetries, as if somebody believed that order could be imposed upon the universe by the application of lots of straight lines.
  
  > go west
  As you cross the lawn, your footsteps lost among the many you have already taken, you feel a horrible tightness round you heart as if someone had a hand round it and was squeezing. There is a burning at the back your throat, like a lump of tears and bile is stuck there.
  
  The path sidles away down the side of the main building, taking you away from facades. Here, there are no country house lawns, no sandstone and classical pillars. There are patches of scrubby grass, borders that may perhaps bloom one spring, and scattered buildings that are too perfectly, facelessly functional to have anything of beauty or ugliness to them. There are jaunty painted signs to Cotswold House and Wintle Ward.
  
  Vaughan Thomas waits to the west, the Hospital Approach is to the east.
  
  > examine the signs
  The signs are big, friendly and helpful.
  
  > go west
  As you walk down the path, a human cry breaks upon the silence and dies.
  
  Vaughan Thomas Ward is another grey building. It has a bow-window which looks like an ill-at-ease addition to its uniformity. There is also an awkward, spindly tree guarding a nearby bench.
  
  The door that leads west into Vaughan Thomas has been painted blue. There is a doorbell next to it in industrial grey. The path leading to and from Vaughan Thomas lies to the east.
  
  > examine the doorbell
  Strangely totemic, it has a button for you to press and a grill - such as you might find on the visor of the villain in a sci-fi movie - for you talk into.
  
  > talk to voice
  You mumble your name into the grill, and explain you have come to get Celine. A warped sigh gusts out of the grill with such force you are surprised it doesn't ruffle your hair. Then crackling dies away and the grill speaks to you no further. You assume that that means someone is coming to open the door but for all you know they could be activating the lever that drops you into the alligator pit.
  
  You are starting to wonder if perhaps they've forgotten you're there, or if answering the doorbell is a mere hobby, when there comes the sound of muted rattling and banging from behind the door as someone on the other side begins the ceremony required to open it. It is finally eased open, just enough for you to squeeze through, by a Nurse, glowering at the effort required to perform the most basic tenets of her job.
  
  > Go west
  As you edge past the Nurse, she put out a log-like arm to momentarily stop you entering. "You'll need to see the Doctor first," she says, gruffly. "You can't take a patient away without the doctor's permission." You nod your understanding, although your mind is full of Escape from Alcatraz visions, search lights flashing, sirens screaming and helicopters whirling overhead as you and Celine run, hand in hand, giggling into a different coloured future.
  
  There are soft felt pinboards on the wall, above a row of chairs. An over-stacked bookself shoved in the corner and a square table do nothing to break the monotony. The Warneford Hospital has a distinctive smell. It is the smell of a place that very consciously has no smell, underscored by a desperate edge of nicotine.
  
  This interminably greyish corridor meanders north, west and south. East would take you outside again, through the blue door.
  
  > look at the bookshelf
  There are overly-rifled paperbacks, yellowed by use, stuffed haphazardly onto the shelves. A quick glance at the spines reveals them to be without exception the kind of airport novels you probably wouldn't want to read even at an airport. Or in a loony bin.
  
  > go south
  The greyness unrolls before you like the tongue of a sick frog. This sign above your head (this is not an exit) reminds you that it's women only past this point, but who is going to see you at this time of night?
  
  Identical doors, all closed but for the one that stands slightly ajar to the west, line the corridor. Going north will return you to the Vaughan Thomas Corridor.
  
  > Go north
  An inmate - dapper, or as dapper as a man in a mental aslyum can be, sidles up to you. He wrings his hands in constant anxiety. "I wonder if you could possibly oblige me in a small favour," he says. "I'm terribly embarrassed but I threw my clock radio out of the window because the aliens were talking to me through it and now I cannot listen to classic fm. And I daren't tell the nurses because they will think I did a mad thing. I can pay you back, of course, and if you would take care to get one without an alien transponder, I think it would help. And you won't tell the nurses will you?" He looks bewildered as he tells his story, as if he caught himself trying to eat soup with the salad fork. You make your promises and he retreats, thanking you profusely.
  
  There are soft felt pinboards on the wall, above a row of chairs. An over-stacked bookself shoved in the corner and a square table do nothing to break the monotony. The Warneford Hospital has a distinctive smell. It is the smell of a place that very consciously has no smell, underscored by a desperate edge of nicotine.
  
  This interminably greyish corridor meanders north, west and south. East would take you outside again, through the blue door.
  
  > go west
  This is a primitive conservatory of sorts. It is by far the most attractive room in the Warneford, which reflects well on neither the Warneford nor the room. It has wicker chairs and, disconcertingly, there is white-sheeted hospital bed against one of the walls. The square, unbeautiful windows overlook the grounds and currently admit a spill of moonlight the colour of old milk.
  
  There is a woman curled up on one of the wicker chairs, looking away from you, out over the shadowed grounds.
  
  The Vaughan Thomas corridor lies to the east.
  
  > look at the woman
  She seems to be at the unforgiving end of the spectrum of middle-age, her face worn and withered by the cold glare of the moon. Shadows emphasise the gauntness of her cheeks and define in cruel charcoal the lines that radiate from her eyes. Her coarse, ash blonde hair falls straight to her waist and hangs like dead weight. Garlands of withered flowers give her the air of an aging hippie. Under your scrutiny, she turns her head in your direction and smiles and you feel a fleeting trace of warmth.
  
  > talk to the woman
  Hesitantly you offer a polite greeting and are relieved when the woman turns away from the window and smiles at you in return. If she is an inmate she is, at least, not antisocially mad. "Hello," she says, "I can see that you're a visitor." Her voice is as deep and rich as freshly turned earth. You think of honey-drunk bees and heavy, golden days. "So am I," she says. "At least, I think I am. It's sometimes so hard to tell."
  
  > talk to woman
  She turns away from you again towards the windows. "I wish I could make something flourish here," she says. "I can sometimes make things grow but it's not the same." She strokes a hand absently through the brittle strands of her hair. "I miss the colours of things. It all fades so quickly. What's your favourite colour," she asks, suddenly, with a glance in your direction. You tell her and she smiles again. "Of course it is," she says. "Mine is green." Same as Celine.
  
  > talk to the woman
  She is plucking at her skirt. As the fabric moves you realise it isn't grey, as you first thought, but a pale green, all but washed out. "I'm truly sorry about your friend," she says. And there must be a look on your face that makes her add: "That is why you're here, isn't it?" Her voice is gentle and her eyes are pale and sad in the moonlight. "You know you shouldn't have come. She can't leave with you." She is silent a moment. When she continues speaking the reassurance in her voice is as warm as sunlight against your skin.
  "Of course you'll miss her. It will never be easy but it will be easier than this. And one day you'll stop and be surprised at just how easy it is. Then I'm afraid you'll feel guilty but that, too, will pass. As it should."
  
  > talk to the woman
  The woman smiles reassuringly at you and her regard travels across your skin, leaving a glissando of fading warmth in its wake. Then she turns away and casts her gaze out of the window again, moonlight etching the lines on her face.
  
  > Go east
  Two nurses are standing by the pay phone, talking animatedly about nothing you can catch. It is strange to hear giggles and whispering, as if this was some kind of ordinary place. They fall silent as you approach and then disappear into an office.
  
  There are soft felt pinboards on the wall, above a row of chairs. An over-stacked bookself shoved in the corner and a square table do nothing to break the monotony. The Warneford Hospital has a distinctive smell. It is the smell of a place that very consciously has no smell, underscored by a desperate edge of nicotine.
  
  This interminably greyish corridor meanders north, west and south. East would take you outside again, through the blue door.
  
  > Go north
  This is the large, bow-windowed room you could see from outside. Dull light washes in from the corridor behind you and flickers from beneath the door to the television room. Square tables are neatly arranged and the far wall boasts a display of artwork. Upon the air hangs the cloying scent of old, institutional dinners.
  
  The Doctor's Office lies to the north, the Vaughan Thomas corridor to the south.
  
  > Go north
  This is a typical Doctor's office. It has a clinical air, but no more than you would expect. It is really very neat in here. The walls are hung with what look to be modern art prints, all in identical frames, imprisoned behind glass.
  
  The Doctor is sitting behind the desk, his elbows resting atop it and his chin upon the platform provided by his interlocked fingers.
  
  The door to the south leads back to the dining hall.
  
  > examine Doctor
  He seems surprisingly young for his role. His hair is coal black and his eyes only one shade lighter, stark against the white coat that hangs open over an austere pinstriped suit. He has a stern, unlovely face and returns your regard steadily.
  
  > talk to Doctor
  "Yes?" The Doctor's voice is not quite impatient, but the clipped quality of it suggests it very soon will be. "You know I cannot accede to your ..." He stops abruptly, as if searching for a word, and settles finally on "...request". I suggest you let me send you home, where you belong."
  
  > No
  At your refusal, the Doctor frowns.
  
  > examine the art
  You look at each of the paintings in turn. They are placed a precise intervals along the grey wall. Each print has the name of the piece and the artist printed along the bottom. First, there is a Rothko, Blue, Green, and Brown. Then IKB 73. And finally Composition in Red, Blue, and Yellow.
  
  > talk to Doctor
  Before you can speak again, the Doctor forestalls you. "I'm afraid you will not change my mind with tragic looks or eloquent words. I have seen and heard them all a hundred throusand million times before." You wonder, briefly, whether you are supposed to challenge him to a game of chess or, possibly riddles. "I cannot be tricked," he says, as if in answer. "Nor changed. It is not my nature."
  
  > talk to Doctor
  "Your insistence is as wearisome as it is predictable," comments the Doctor.
  
  > play lyre
  Time seems to unravel around you like the fraying threads of a tapestry as you lift the lyre into your arms. The Doctor is on his on his feet, his face pale with fury and his eyes ablaze, but it's too late to stop you. Music fills the air like cherry blossom, sweetly drifting, falling like fleeting kisses upon the senses and fading as swiftly as a summer evening. For a moment, the Doctor is tranfixed, his face naked in pain and sorrow, and then his cold hands are wrenching the lyre from your grasp. The notes shatter into rainbows of refracted light and then they're gone. There is a vicious crack, like a bone breaking, and the Doctor flings the pieces of the lyre to the floor. In seconds nothing remains of the lyre but a sprinkling of dust the colour of old blood. "Take her then," he cries, "take her and may damnation have you both. You'll find Celine in the gardens beyond the Sun Room. Take her with you, as you wish, but remember: don't turn around, or she's mine forever.
  
  > go to the south
  You  hear footsteps behind you, slapping like wet fish against the grey hospital floor. You freeze and half-turn but then they recede.
  
  There are soft felt pinboards on the wall, above a row of chairs. An over-stacked bookself shoved in the corner and a square table do nothing to break the monotony. The Warneford Hospital has a distinctive smell. It is the smell of a place that very consciously has no smell, underscored by a desperate edge of nicotine.
  
  This interminably greyish corridor meanders north, west and south. East would take you outside again, through the blue door.
  
  > go south
  The greyness unrolls before you like the tongue of a sick frog. This sign above your head (this is not an exit) reminds you that it's women only past this point, but who is going to see you at this time of night?
  
  Identical doors, all closed but for the one that stands slightly ajar to the west, line the corridor. Going north will return you to the Vaughan Thomas Corridor.
  
  > go west
  The memories of past visits rise up to gnaw at you like wolves. You see Celine, sitting on the bed, the colour washed out of her by her surroundings, her knees pulled up to her chin. Jess is there beside her, back to the wall, feet dangling off the end of the bed. You'd snuck in and you're kneeling on the floor, elbows folded on the coverlet. You're probably pretty damn uncomfortable. Spread out between you are brightly coloured cards. You're playing Once Upon A Time, a game for telling fairytales. "Are you sure I used to like this?" Celine is asking. "Yes," you say, "it's one of your favourites." "You used to win all the time," Jess adds. Celine laughs, uncertain. "That doesn't seem very likely," she says. "It'll come back," you say, half-reassuring, half-pleading. Except it, of course, doesn't. None of it does.
  
  A small, perfectly square, yellow-painted room, probably identical to all the others on this corridor. The carpet is a greyish-blue, only slightly stained. There is a pine-coloured wardrobe and bedside table, a single bed and a chair. There are signs of occupation - the black cardigan hanging on the back of the chair, books and a radio on the bedside table - but it's not the kind of room you can personalise. It is a transitory space. Above the bed, the wall is splashed with a grid of cards and postcards, twenty or thirty of them maybe, pinned up there as bright as butterfly wings.
  
  You can see the Women's Corridor through the door to the east.
  
  On the narrow strip of a windowsill is a houseplant, another daub of colour.
  
  > examine the houseplant
  This is Sylvia (after Sylvia Plath who also, we know, went mad), an Anthurium with dark red flowers, all Georgia o'Keefe. It was a gift you nearly weren't permitted to give because of the toxic leaves. "No committing suicide by eating Sylvia," you said, pretending to admonish. And how Celine had laughed. "I promise not to kill myself by eating an anthurium," she said with mock solemnitude, knowing at least ten better ways to do it.
  
  > talk to Sylvia
  You can only do that to something animate.
  
  > Go north
  A young-ish, not entirely unpretty woman, who steals from the other inmates and has no visitors, is staring blankly out of a window at the shadow-sloshed world outside. She turns, smiles hopefully and shyly at you and then flees. You try to feel more kindness towards her but she pilfered Celine's favourite perfume.
  
  There are soft felt pinboards on the wall, above a row of chairs. An over-stacked bookself shoved in the corner and a square table do nothing to break the monotony. The Warneford Hospital has a distinctive smell. It is the smell of a place that very consciously has no smell, underscored by a desperate edge of nicotine.
  
  This interminably greyish corridor meanders north, west and south. East would take you outside again, through the blue door.
  
  > Go west
  This is a primitive conservatory of sorts. It is by far the most attractive room in the Warneford, which reflects well on neither the Warneford nor the room. It has wicker chairs and, disconcertingly, there is white-sheeted hospital bed against one of the walls. The square, unbeautiful windows overlook the grounds and currently admit a spill of moonlight the colour of old milk.
  
  Now you notice a set of doors at the back of the room have been flung wide open, drawing you like a beckoning finger, west, towards the shadow-smothered gardens.
  
  The Vaughan Thomas corridor lies to the east.
  
  > Go west
  Somebody tried. Here there are the elements of a garden. Grass, although it is mainly mud. Banks of soil where perhaps flowers might grow. Squatting shrubs, hunched in upon themselves. And in silhouette the anorexic shapes of trees, stripped before the oncoming winter. Moonlight forms puddles here and there.
  
  The Sun room waits to the east.
  
  Celine is sitting on a stone bench.
  
  > talk to Celine
  Ok.