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Games are meant to be fun, right?

Computer games - are they still called that when they're played on a PlayStation or phone? - offer escape from the real world. They allow you to build vast structures. Visit alien worlds and shoot the hell out of the hellish, naturally, creatures residing there. You can be in the army, a special ops soldier thrown into enemy territory, or you can be a moustachioed plumber trying to find his beloved princess. And they're fun.

And fun is good, as I remember. Asylums don't allow the aforementioned games, and nor do they look particularly kindly on fun of any kind. Our main high point of the day is guessing how many sheets of toilet paper Mucus Mickey has used in the past twenty four hours. There's no prize, of course. It's difficult to give something when you leave your life, belongings and soul at the door. But it is fun.

I've yet to win, but I was never one for winning. I enjoyed the game. Enjoyed the play. Besides, if it was bowling (which I haven't played, obviously, since before my voluntary incarceration), the chances of me winning would be slim to zero anyway, and that's being positive.

Anywho-be-do. Games. Fun, right?

When I say Mucus Mickey's tissue consumption is our high point, I'm doing a disservice to Jeremy. He of the 'friend' zone rather than the 'orderly so you'd better keep your distance' zone has tried to keep us lowly residents entertained. Though he was berated by the more insensitive of his peers, by which I meant all of them, he stuck at it - 'it' being the so-called Party Nights.

Have you ever tried having a party in an asylum? Even the wake of a dearly beloved would be more exciting. There'd be higher spirits, and I don't just mean that of the recently departed. The atmosphere herein is decidedly muted. Hollow even, as if there's an absence of something. In some cases, there is. Reason. Recognition. Morals. Jeremy wanted to bring us all together with singalongs, bingo nights. and a plethora of other super fun activities. He wanted us to interact and not be the silent, shuffling, sit in a corner and stare at the wall people so many were. He wanted us to be friends.

Bless him. He would never have imagined... Well...

I wonder if, in bringing Ray into the fold, dear Dr. Connors knew what he was doing. Connors generally, I believe, knows every time someone so much as farts in here, so I'm sure he did. And he likes to cause discontent. Keep us rattled and we're more... Fun. It keeps his precious orderlies on their toes too and gives them things to do, such as fill us full of sedatives and cart us off to Room 101.

Ray. He landed on a Thursday. Thursdays are like Tuesdays in that they don't really have an identity. They want to fit into the days of the week but can't quite manage it. Mondays are moan days. Wednesdays are bump days, beginning the slippery slide to the weekend. Fridays are the weekend, or at least pretenders to the throne. Saturdays sit in that throne and reign supreme and Sundays finish the week off, allowing everyone to take a breath in preparation for it all to start again. A Tuesday is a mere stepping stone, but is content to be such. A Thursday, however, is just shoved in to make the numbers up, like Disney's Doc, the dwarf no-one can remember the name of.

This Thursday was much like any other. Any day, in the asylum, is like any other so, I suppose, they're all Thursdays, but if I were to look at a calendar or diary, they'd concur. If I were able to look at either, that would be something, but we're not. Not knowing what day of the week it was made the days longer and the nights longest.

We had new residents – not just patients, thank you very much – in here fairly regularly. If someone left, the word 'released' being too optimistic when people could vanish with no explanation, there was always someone else touched by madness of one form or another to take their place.

To make up the numbers.

When Ray was brought into the Recreation Room, he was asleep. Read sedated. Read drugged up to heaven above. Jasper, an orderly as vicious as the wasp his name was associated with, dumped him on a chair right between the lovely Edna Whiditch and the not so lovely Brian No Last Name Known.

Edna was a sweet woman, years younger than her name suggested. She thought she was much older, and her demeaner, including slumped shoulders, a shuffle and thinking everyone was her son, gave the impression she was. Her long, thick hair and smooth skin, along with a mouth full of perfect white teeth, belied that. Over the fairly short time she was a resident, her youthful appearance faded, but she was still far short of the age she believed herself to be.

Brian, who would have had a last name but, like me, I suppose, didn't want to acknowledge it, was nothing like Edna. He was miserable. His surname could have been Pessimist Of The Year, but I don't think there's enough squares on a passport application to fit that in. Brian wasn't particularly offensive or mean but, to him, every silver lining had a cloud.

"Another one bites the dust," he said when Jasper let Ray fall into the chair and left him sitting in the position he landed in. Head forward on his knees. One leg twisted enough to break the ankle if any real weight were put on it.

"Cheer the hell up, ya miserable twat," Jasper muttered as he walked away, his feet shuffling almost as badly as Edna's did.

Brian either didn't notice or didn't care. He'd gone back to staring at the bars on the windows and mentally complaining that the number of horizontal ones didn't match the number of vertical ones.

Edna turned to look at Ray and stroked his hair for a few minutes before sitting him up properly. She untwisted his leg, crossing it with his other at the ankles. His hands were resting on his lap, the wrists still red from the restraints he'd been in. Edna rested her head on his shoulder.

"Rest now, David," she said softly. "Mummy is here now."

The orderlies huddled to one side sniggered.

"He should shake things up a bit, eh?" Jasper muttered, trying to keep his voice low but not really caring if he was overheard.

"About time we had someone like him in here," Percy replied. "It was getting too quiet."

I heard, as did Bender Benny. We shared a questioning glance, both thinking the same thing. What did they know and should we be worried? Naturally, we said nothing. The orderlies were the untouchables. We, the residents, were the entirely touchable. Physically and, especially, mentally.

Oh well, we'd find out...

It was an hour or so before Ray stirred. In that time, Brian had left and been replaced by Caroline, more interested in her gradually dwindling fingernails than our new arrival. Caroline glanced once or twice in Ray's direction, but made no comment or reaction. Caroline moved on, there being so many interesting things to see and do in the recreation Room, of course, and I moved into the chair she and Brian had vacated. Edna stayed exactly where she was. She'd sung for a while, lullabies mainly, and then fallen asleep. She was roused by movement from her 'son'.

My sitting next to Ray was, I'll admit, out of curiosity. While he was asleep, I could examine him. Be nosey. A lot could be told about a person from their physique, demeanour (even asleep) and the existence or absence of wounds or scars. I wanted to get the measure of him before he awoke and tried to gain a foothold on the hierarchical ladder of the residents. Being the only sane one in here, I was automatically looked up to, but he could try to usurp that. It wasn't a role I'd aspired to, but was more one I'd gradually taken on the mantle of, like the waning sun casting a gradual shadow across the world.

He was stocky, in the naturally muscly way of a late teenager who didn't necessarily work out but kept himself fit. He had a mass of curly dark hair over a wide face and square jaw. I had the impression that jaw had been thrust into the faces of multiple adversaries. Even unconscious, he held himself tight. Prepared. Arrogant. There were no wounds across his face or the few exposed parts of his body, but I was sure there had been at various times.

He made me nervous. I didn't like nervous. I was never nervous, letting spilt milk cry over itself while I grabbed the mop and kitchen towel to clean it up. There was nothing specific for me to pinpoint why I felt like that, but that didn't mean it was misplaced. Once he woke up, I'd have to assert my authority and recommend he recognised it.

On cue, as if he was telepathically waiting for someone to want him to wake, Ray moved and lifted his, no doubt heavy, head.

"Oh, son!" cried Edna, clapping her hands. "You're awake! How are you feeling?"

"M... mum?"

Ray blinked, stretched and yawned. Then he lifted an arse cheek and farted. It was aimed at me.

The first warning shot across my bow, no doubt.

He looked around, his eyes changing from weary to wary. His body tensed as he eyed the orderlies, their attitude and scrubs showing they weren't with the rest of us. Or we weren't them.

"Ignore them," I told him quietly, measuring his tension as potential aggression. "It's more hassle than it's worth."

He looked at me, probably seeing my measure and raising it a 'who cares.'

"Who asked you?"

"No-one," I replied, smiling slightly, just enough to lighten the mood without making it seem condescending. "I just thought you'd like your first day here to be pain free."

"Whose pain? Mine or there's?"

My impression of him had been correct. Arrogance led him and reason was trampled along the way. The problem was, if anything started, it would escalate and residents not involved would become involved. It was the nature of this beast we called a mental home. Any change to the norm, particularly one of excitement, leapt from one to another like a fox in a chicken coop, making even the most docile flap their wings wildly. And, occasionally, they would have their metaphorical heads ripped off.

I wanted to avoid that.

"Both, I'd say."

"And who the hell are you to tell me? Why should I give a shit?"

"I'm nobody. Just a friend."

"I don't need friends. I just need out of here. I won't have time to make friends."

"I think you'll be surprised at that," I said.

I didn't know why I was being so insistent on trying to help him. Usually, I would try and, if I was met with resistance, I'd give up – at least temporarily. I always took it upon myself to be the welcome wagon. Once or twice, I'd had my wheels knocked off, but it was more often than not that I was met with relief and acceptance. With Ray, I felt he needed the push at that moment. He was volatile and that would give the orderlies the excuse to exercise their power. The pain would be his, but I figured his ego needed a stroke before the staff stroked him with their fists and needles.

"Who the hell are you? Why are you giving me this shit?"

"He's Sin, son," said Edna, before starting to giggle. "Sin - son! Sinsonsinsonsinson!"

"Look, lady," Ray said angrily, nudging his shoulder to dislodge her replaced head. "I'm not your son. I'm nothing to you and you ain't anything to me."

Edna sat up straight and brushed her legs, as if she eaten something crumbly and made a mess. It was, of course, to regain her composure.

"I don't know why you have to be so horrid to me, David. I didn't bring you up to be like that."

She stood, turned her back and went to sit with the Cornercopias, taking to stare at the floor along with them and let the world and the son who wasn't her son fade away.

"Crazy bitch."

"We're all crazy in here, didn't you know? And she's not a bitch, she just a little deluded."

"Well, she can keep her delusions to herself. Anyway, what sort of name is 'Sin' anyway?"

I ignored my grammar police instinct to point out his double use of 'anyway' and smiled again.

"Blame my parents. I do."

"Don't talk to me about parents, Sin," he said, putting emphasis on my name to make it some sort of insult.

I was long past biting at barbs based on my name. I was in the asylum because I had sinned. People had died because of me and the hospital was the safest place. For everyone. I took his comment to be a step towards common ground.

"You had bad ones too?"

"Dad in prison. A slap or fist instead of a hello or goodnight. What do you think?"

"What about your mum?"

"What about yours? Why should I tell you anything?"

"You don't have to tell me anything. I'm just being friendly, that's all. It can be lonely here."

"Like I said, I won't be here long enough, so don't bother."

I sighed. He was a struggle and I was only trying to help. The transition from the outside world to the asylum could be difficult, and if he was difficult, he would discover just how hard it could be.

"Fine. I won't bother. Enjoy your time here. I'm sure it'll be... well, you'll see."

I moved to stand and he put his hand on my arm.

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here. I should be on my way to, like, the good life or something."

I'd often wondered if the asylum was Charon's skiff, taking those who had adequate coinage across to Hades. Perhaps Connors was the Ferryman himself, though I imagined him pushing Ray over the side into the dark Styx waters. Hades was far from the 'good life,' however.

"We all should be," I said, sitting back down. "But we're here and we – you – need to accept that. It'll be less painful."

"I like pain," he said with a dark smirk. "But yeah, I get it. I'll chill. For now."

I can't say we became friends, because I don't think Ray knew what a real friend was, but he lost some of his decidedly bitter edge with me. It was an effect I had on most of the residents and one orderly. He spoke about his home town, and we shared our mutual dislike of where we were born. Even the names were bad. Carp for him and Grimsby for me. He laughed when he said the name of mine suited him.

"Grim, definitely," he said.

He told me Carp it was the arse end of the universe, where taking a shit was the most exciting thing that happened on any particular day. I wondered to myself if there was a nice restaurant there, but didn't voice the speculation. I thought my Douglas Adams reference would be lost on him.

Without him realising, Ray had calmed enough for the afternoon to pass uneventfully. He was introduced to the delightful dinnertime menu of slop with slop for dessert and had the same reaction as everyone else. It was barely edible but was consumed because there was nothing else. At least the water we were given to wash, or rather flush, it down was fresh. Not exactly cold, but fresh.

And then Jeremy came to introduce that week's Party Night. Bingo. This news was met with an almost universal cheer. Everyone enjoyed bingo, including me, actually. Outside of here, I was sure only one or two would ever play the game (me not included) and some may not even know what it was. In here, it was popular. It made them think, and thinking was something they had little chance to do. Or ability, if their drug count was high. Jeremy could be inventive with his number calling too. There'd be no sign of any little ducks, for example.

Ray's response wasn't cheerful at all. He muttered about the game being for old people and he would refuse to play. There was a rule, though, that everyone had to participate. Connors had insisted Jeremy made it a success if he wanted it to continue. For the doctor, he wanted his patients placid. He didn't need to entertain them when a swift needle or multi-buckled jacket would suffice.

Ray played, reluctantly, when Percy held up a syringe. And grinned. The intention was obvious and Ray had decided to put off his tasting of the contents for a while. That was what he'd said, anyway. For the first night, he stuck to that.

He didn't enjoy the game of bingo, but did laugh at 'It's Percy we hate, 68!' 'Connors in heaven, 47' brought a round of laughs, though none of us believed our beloved psychiatrist would ever end up upstairs. We were certain he'd be on the down escalator.

Jeremy could be quite irreverent when he wanted to be and when there were no other staff around. Nothing he said was ever repeated and, as far as anyone else was concerned, we were surrounded by those little ducks and keys to the door.

So, that Party Night was a success. There was no trouble and everyone went to bed with only the administering of required dosages. Room 101 was left vacant.

People can by sly. They can be underhand. In the asylum, that was restricted mainly to the orderlies. They took pleasure in finding ways to subvert our good moods and give them the excuse to drag us off each other from fights they'd instigated. As Ray's blatant moodiness and bubbling aggression was so constant, I didn't think he would be devious.

I was wrong.

On day two, I saw him whispering to Benny and Rohan. Rohan's English wasn't great, but we could usually understand what he was saying. Ray, it transpired, had told them each that the other was saying horrible things about them. Benny was a racist who was poisoning Rohan's food. Rohan, when he spoke in his first language of Romanian, which was often as he'd converse with his reflection believing it was his twin brother, was swearing at Benny. Calling him names. Planning his death.

Except Rohan had murdered his twin brother. The twin had been having affair with his sister-in-law, though the woman didn't know. She believed her husband was coming home from work during the day for sex. She thought it was part of the game when told it was their secret and not to speak of it. When Rohan discovered this, he grabbed the closest thing to him. He'd been cutting open a ciabatta roll with a large serrated bread knife. Luckily, for her and him, the cut to his wife's throat wasn't fatal. Unluckily, the one to his brother was.

Benny and Rohan's fight was intense. Rohan screamed when Benny pulled a large chunk of hair from his head, with much of the scalp still attached. Beeny cried out when two of his fingers were broken in one swift yank. It would have gone much further if the orderlies hadn't descended, wading in with their batons and drugs and glee.

As they were dragged away from each other and the crowd was dispersed, I saw Ray standing to the side. His arms were crossed and he was leaning against the wall. And he was smiling.