by Tanvir Bush
‘Well, you should check her out, my dear. She is such a heroine, and she even works locally. Here.’ He flips a piece of bright paper under Alex’s nose, a flyer.
‘Ladies’ Defective Agency …’ Alex reads the big black print. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so. Kitty Fox … come on, you must remember? She was the glamour model of the eighties and now a wheelchair crip-turned-porn-entrepreneur.’
That gets Alex’s attention.
‘What?’
‘Yup. As I said. She, my dear, is a real hero!’
DISINFECTION
Mrs Honey Gets a
New Cleaning Job
Mrs Honey is trying not to look shocked. She and her four companions, Jojo, Piet, Kelvin and Letitia, arrived as part of the cleaning team for the ward extension at Grassybanks, but instead of being led to the appropriate room and left to get on with their jobs, they have been strip-searched, their cleaning gear confiscated and replaced with Grassybanks’ own. Now they are in an office being given a lecture in cleaning standards and secrecy. There are also several forms for them to sign.
‘You are kidding, right?’ asks Jojo. He has been cleaning for the Shine Bright Cleaning Company for over thirty years. His question isn’t directed at the arrogant young man by the whiteboard, but at his boss and friend, Kelvin, who is sitting next to him, looking anxious and embarrassed.
Jojo is asking about the form they are being asked to sign that states that they will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law if any of them mention their work at Grassybanks to another person. Ever.
‘Look,’ Kelvin shrugs miserably. “It’s just a form, Jojo. I mean, it isn’t like you are going to want to talk about the cleaning here … it is just that they have procedures. If we don’t sign, we don’t get the cleaning contract.’
‘Procedures … eish.’ Jojo whistles through his crooked teeth. ‘What about earlier? We gonna have to show our bollocks every time we come in here?’
‘The strip-search is mandatory for all staff.’ The man-boy over by the whiteboard in his oversized blazer and tie is rocking his chair back and forth, grinning and looking at Letitia in a way that makes Mrs Honey feel cold inside. Mrs Honey has a feeling about the young white man, a bad feeling. Here they are in their ugly blue overalls, mops in hand, ready to do what they do every day, and yet she feels more than a little frightened. Grassybanks is not the sunny place on the brochure. Why else would there be all the secrecy? She purses her lips and looks at the tray full of cleaning products at her feet. The bottles are colour-coded: red, blue, yellow, white. On each, someone has written the product name in black marker pen: bleach, toilet cleaner, wood polish, disinfectant. What was wrong with the stuff they had brought with them? Part of her hopes Jojo and the others will refuse to sign the forms, and they will all just leave and find other work elsewhere. The other part of her knows that she must be here at Grassybanks. It is the only way.
‘What you got that is so secret anyway?’ Jojo is belligerent, but Mrs Honey knows he too feels uneasy.
‘We got crappy, shitty, sick people is what we got, and a hell of a lot of cleaning to do,’ says the spotty white man. ‘We need to ensure their privacy, not ours. It’s all about client confidentiality.’
There is something in his manner, the way he talks about the people he should be looking after, that makes Mrs Honey want to scream. She clenches her fists, looks down, tries to relax her aching shoulders. She thinks of Joanna. For the first time she is now able to afford a carer, and so her daughter is at home, safe and quiet, as opposed to being tortured at Job Central. Mrs Honey must work, and she must work here. For you, sweetheart, she thinks.
The young man stands. ‘Look, if you don’t want the work, that’s fine. You know the situation. You walk out of the door and there will be a hundred other cleaning companies lined up to do the work.’
They all shift in their seats. It is true. Kelvin looks at Jojo and shrugs apologetically. Jojo, the old Jamaican, looks at Piet the Pole, who glances at Mrs Honey and over to Letitia, the youngest and shyest little thing in the room.
‘I have to work,’ Letitia whispers. ‘My dad’s sick again.’
And so they sign.
On the way out of the door, the spotty man waits for the men to leave before moving to block Letitia’s exit.
‘Excuse me,’ whispers little Letitia. She keeps her head down, stares at the floor.
‘You know you are fine,’ the man rasps, standing so close to Letitia that Mrs Honey, waiting behind, can see the hairs rise on the back of the girl’s neck. He swaggers, pushing her backwards into Mrs Honey. ‘You know, if there is anything you need, any questions at all, you come straight to me. Yeah? You copy? Just ask for Andre.’
Andre, is it? thinks Mrs Honey. A name to remember and avoid. She smooths down her blue pinafore and shoulders past, knocking Andre roughly out of Letitia’s way.
‘Come on, Lettie,’ she says. ‘You work with me on this shift.’
She can feel Andre’s eyes on her back as they leave. ‘What a nasty piece of work,’ she says to the other cleaners as they set off down the shining corridors.
‘No one let Letitia out of their sight,’ Jojo says, and the others nod.
Dr Binding Does a Ward Round
Ward A
The Good Doctor’s hands are dry and warm, healer’s hands. He can take a temperature through them, feel a pulse, reassure a person just by placing those long fingers on a cheek or forehead. The nursing staff, technicians and even the cleaning staff love him. He has the energetic geniality and thoughtfulness of a man who knows how important everyone, every cog in the wheel, is to the good running of the system. He cares about them all.
The cleaners:
‘Good morning, Jojo. You look like you had a good weekend? Did you get to your salsa lesson this time?’
‘Thank you, Doctor, yes, Doctor.’
The nurses:
‘Nurse Dyer, I trust you got some much needed rest? You’ve been working terribly hard these last few weeks. You must look after yourself.’
‘Yes, Doctor, thank you, Doctor.’
And the patients love him too. He doesn’t sugar-coat anything. His bedside manner is assured, competent and efficient but he really looks, really sees, really feels for each and every person he treats.
‘Good morning, Ginni. And how are you feeling this morning? Your colour is much better and your temperature is almost normal. A couple more days in bed and you’ll be up and at ’em again.’
‘Yes, Doctor, thank you, Doctor.’
‘I see you haven’t eaten your jelly. Now come, come. Jelly is the wobbly bedrock of British hospital cuisine. Surely you can’t resist?’
‘Oh, Doctor!’ Polite laughter all round.
With Grassybanks, The Good Doctor is only required to visit twice a week, although as Ward B and soon-to-be Ward C are his own personal projects, he is in most days. He always meets first with the nursing staff, clinical officers and any additional staff to discuss the patients and how they have spent the night or day. He answers questions and cracks a few jokes, and then he and his entourage will head off to the wards. In Ward A he meets patients, reassures them, reviews medication, listens to the clinicians and nurses and makes decisions on future rehabilitation.
‘Pauline here can go up to 160 milligrams of the sertraline and reduce her zopiclone to 7.5 and only three nights a week. Hey Pauline, can you look at me, my dear? There, that’s right, good girl. How about trying a swim today? I bought you the most colourful swimming cap, so you won’t need to get your hair wet. See, no excuses, eh?’
‘No, Doctor. Thank you, Doctor.’
‘Morning, Dominic. I had a word with the engineer, and he promises to look at your wheelchair today and get that wheel to stop squeaking. Then you can go and spy on the girls without getting caught again.’ There is more polite laughter. ‘How’s Dominic’s bowel movement? Oh, good. Great, Dominic. Good boy. If you keep that up for a couple of days we can rev
iew your carbohydrate intake. Nurse, could you make a note to get the nutritionist in for a chat?’
‘Yes, Doctor. Thanks, Doctor.’
In Ward B there is less chat.
Ward B
Here is The Good Doctor in Ward B. The lights are dim and the patients are all still in their beds, unresponsive lumps that breathe beneath thin blankets. The blankets are especially thin in Ward B.
Dr Binding has a pale blue stethoscope, a gift from a niece. He applies it to the concave chest of the unconscious wretch on the bed. The lub-dub of the heart is slow but steady.
Blast! thinks The Good Doctor. He had expected the man to be ‘end stage’ by now.
‘What do you think, Doctor?’ asks Nurse Dyer behind him.
‘I think, unfortunately for this fellow, we may have another week to go. He has a strong heart.’
Nurse Dyer sighs. He can tell she is thinking about beds.
‘Continue the Librium and the cold baths. We can’t move any faster but there may be another sedative that has better results. How did—’ he consults his notes ‘—patients 78 and 79 go?’
‘Both slipped away without a fuss exactly on cue, Doctor. We have them bagged for the Resomator. They will be the first to go through. The team are really quite excited.’
‘Good to hear. I want to be there when they are processed, Nurse. Please let the chemist know.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
‘Have we any new recruits?’
‘Yes, six, Doctor, all on the women’s side. Three indigent, three single-elderlies.’
‘Right, well, you know what to do. Set them up. I’ll keep two of them as control, and the others we will kick off with the revised Formula.’
‘Are you sure, Doctor? The Formula is known to have certain side effects …’
‘I am aware, Nurse Dyer. However, it had side effects at 120 milligrams. The revised version is set at only 80 but seems to have the same overall effect without the fitting. Maintain the Librium.’
Nurse Dyer nods approval without losing the frown that tips the corners of her mouth down deep wrinkles and into her jowls. Those frown lines make her look like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
God, she is a hag, thinks the doctor, moving to the sink to wash his hands. A damn good nurse, though. If he were on his way out, he would want Nurse Dyer administering the medication. Though perhaps not in Ward B, he smiles to himself.
He is in a hurry now. Monsieur Rennes and a couple of other team players are meeting to discuss the new wing. He wishes he could boast about the work he is already doing in Ward B. His experiment has been extremely effective, and the results fascinating. In years to come it will be apparent what a crusader he is, but in the current climate he knows he will just have to batten down the hatches and keep schtum.
‘Next patient, please, Nurse.’
Alex Follows the Flyer
Alex puts the flyer Dino gave her under the CCTV and blows it up to four times magnification.
On pale yellow paper in spidery lettering is a logo: a naked woman, head thrown back in ecstasy, sitting astride a phone handset. Underneath is written in big bold letters:
THE LADIES’ DEFECTIVE AGENCY
SPECIALISED VOICE WORK FOR WOMEN
EXCELLENT RATES, FLEXIBLE HOURS
CONTACT KITTY TO ARRANGE AN AUDITION
‘What the hell is this?’ Alex is more irritated than bemused. She wants to crack on with the investigation of Homeless Action! and creepy old Binding. ‘Why Work Works’ and bloody Kitty Get-your-tits-out Fox is just an annoying diversion. Sighing, she taps the number into her phone.
‘Well heeellooo,’ breathes a voice. ‘You have reached the offices of the Ladies’ Defective Agency. How may I help?’
‘Yeah. Right. Umm … may I speak to Kitty Fox?’
‘Hold the line, please.’ Click, more clicks, and then: ‘Hello, Kitty here.’ It is certainly not a voice that Alex is expecting. It is deep, mature and pleasant.
‘Ah, hi, Kitty. I know this is going to sound odd, but I was handed your flyer by a work colleague. Dino? You may know him?’
‘Is this Alexandra?’
Alex is astonished. ‘How did you know?’
‘The Cambright Sun number has come up on my digital readout. I happen to know that an Alexandra Lyon has interviewed a couple of other disabled entrepreneurs in the area, and I put two and two together. I am right, aren’t I? I heard your voice on the radio and thought you had the kind of talent we are looking for. I was hoping you might give us a call.’
‘That is kind of you, but I wasn’t actually looking for work. I mean, it would be great, but I am actually investigating—’
‘I need to ask you a couple of questions,’ Kitty interrupts her.
‘OK, but—’
‘Are you over eighteen?’
‘Yes, but as I—’
‘Are you currently or have you, or any family member, ever been employed by or volunteered for any of the following: the police force, local or national government, TOSA, H5, or a similar agency?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any current convictions?’
Not current, thinks Alex. ‘No.’
‘OK, good. Now, are you mobile? I know you are visually impaired.’
‘I travel by dog,’ says Alex.
‘An interesting way to get around, I imagine. Have a think on it, and if you want to come for the audition, make your way to Market Square and wait by the clock. You will be collected at 2 p.m. I really look forward to meeting you.’
‘Err … audition … ?’
There is an empty humming. The phone call has ended.
Alex gets to the stone clock early. The sunlight hurts her eyes and her head aches. Distorted blobs of oily colour dance across her vision. She perches on the stone steps under the clock and watches a bored seagull pluck chips out of the top of a rubbish bin. Chris tips his muzzle to the sun and his whiskers quiver with delight. Town smells are so fascinating. He could follow them for hours, if he weren’t working.
‘Alexandra?’
Alex turns. Chris stands up, stepping on Alex’s foot. He sniffs but doesn’t lean forward. He doesn’t recognise the human either.
‘I’m Jules.’ The person – Alex really cannot tell the gender – is tall and elegant. Alex can make out a large quiff of blonde hair, the glint of John Lennon glasses and a large leather jacket. ‘Sorry, can’t shake your hand.’
Alex is confused. Jules leans down. ‘I haven’t any arms. But please feel free to grab a sleeve.’ Jules has a light tenor voice, a little too musical for a man.
Disconcerted and a little embarrassed, Alex does. The leather is warm and rough and sturdy.
‘Don’t worry. You won’t pull my jacket off. You OK for me to lead?’
They make their way through the crowded market easily. Jules is quick, sure-footed and no one seems to notice that her sleeves hang loose and empty. Alex hangs on and lets her lead, Chris trotting, ears and tail up, beside them.
They are quickly free of the crowd and moving down along the river. Past the weir and now alongside the canal where it is less pretty and more industrial. Not many strollers. Even the swans stay uptown. Jules lopes along, humming tunelessly under her breath.
‘Is it far?’ asks Alex. She is unsure about making small talk. She is intrigued, but her head is still pounding.
‘Nope. Just a few minutes.’
They move away from the banks and into what looks like a long line of huge derelict warehouses. Torn plastic flaps from rusty scaffolding, and broken breeze blocks and bricks litter the floor. Chris baulks a little as they head further into the darkened far end.
‘Forward,’ says Alex, but Chris stands still, his tail drooping. He isn’t trained to take Alex into places like this.
‘Oh sorry,’ says Jules. ‘Sorry, dog. I should have said. It looks a mess, but that is really just to stop people snooping. We do our best not to advertise the premises for reasons that will become obvious. It�
��s not so bad inside and gets much better on the next floor.’
There is a massive lift with a clanking metal door that rolls upwards when Jules knocks a lever with her knee.
‘Jesus, you could get a tank in here,’ says Alex.
Jules blinks. ‘Hadn’t thought of a tank. Not a bad idea. Could you pull the door handle down? It’s on the right about halfway up.’
The lift grinds up and rocks to a stop. Alex, still holding on, pulls on the handle and the metal door rolls up to reveal an entirely different setting. The same huge warehouse space as below, but bright and white and humming with activity. Rows of small booths line a wide walkway, giving an almost end-of-the-pier feeling to the sunny room. Each booth is brightly painted in sweet pastels, and gorgeous lush plants flow from pots and hanging baskets, from windowsills and ceiling. Alex can make out walls hung with art – photographic, abstract or classical, she can’t be sure from this distance. As Alex’s eyes adjust, in so far as they can, to the change in light, Jules gently tugs her over to a reception desk manned by a young woman in headphones. All around there is the muted sound of phones and low chatter.
Telesales. Alex’s heart sinks. ‘I hate telesales.’
Jules nods at her kindly. ‘OK. You are to see Kitty. I think she will be about ten minutes. I hope you do hang around. It’s not all about the sex,’ she says with a wink and turns on her heel. ‘I’ll organise us some tea,’ she calls over her shoulder.
Alex is left staring blankly at the receptionist. ‘What did she mean, “It’s not all about the sex?”’
The receptionist glances up from tapping her keyboard. ‘Hi, I’m Laverne. I’ll just be a minute,’ she says to the air next to Alex. Her eyes, thinks Alex. There is something up with her eyes. The receptionist is blind. Oh, thinks Alex. Oh and oh.
Scanning, peering around the space. Yes. Everyone in her tunnel of sight is female and … and … and … they all have, well, something … other. There are women in wheelchairs, lots of women in wheelchairs, in fact, as well as on buggies, with crutches, with hearing aids, with scars and with worse. There are little women and twisted women, half women and whole women, there are old, middle-aged and young women.