by Tanvir Bush
‘Ignore the freakin’ crow.’ Chris drops the ball at her feet so she almost falls over him. ‘Ball, Alex. Concentrate. Ball, ball, ball!’
Alex groans, reaches down and picks it up between her fingers. ‘Yuk! You know guide dogs are not even supposed to play with balls … Ach, what the hell.’ She throws.
The Riggings of the Wheelchair
Alex is sitting at her desk at the Cambright Sun when her colleague Jimmy gets the call from the local police desk. ‘Ah, this is a cracker!’ he shouts, leaping up for his camera and phone.
‘Whatcha got?’ Alex is curious. The last few days have been hellishly quiet in the office. Even Dino has run out of blog material.
‘Some local kids got blown up. Four of them are in Allenbrook Hospital with bits missing.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Cops say gang-related! But it’s mine, Killer. Fuck off out of it!’
Alex sits very still when Jimmy has gone. Her lips feel a little numb, as if blood has drained from her face. She licks them. If her brain were a computer it would say ‘system failure’ on the monitor. They wouldn’t, she thinks. But they would, she knows. The Once Only rule? Under her nose? Or maybe … Boudicca?
*
THE CAMBRIGHT SUN
Has Gang War exploded on our city streets? Are our children safe? by Jimmy Mathesson, Crime Reporter
Four teenagers from the Mandela Estate were rushed to hospital at 6:30 p.m. yesterday evening after falling victim to a cruel prank.
Danny Freidken (15), Taylor Bent (16), Melanie Giggs (14) and Brendon Kenny (13) are being treated for serious injuries and second-degree burns.
It is thought that the teenagers were taking rides in an abandoned wheelchair when a device rigged to the underside of the chair exploded. Danny Freidken, who was sitting in the chair at the time, is still in surgery. Melanie Giggs may lose her sight after shrapnel was embedded in her right eye.
According to George Dingle, first on scene, the teenagers had ‘borrowed’ a wheelchair from a neighbour and were pushing each other in it along the banks of the canal when the accident happened.
‘I just heard an almighty bang, and then screaming. The whole thing was a terrible mess, blood and bits of metal and rubber from the chair all over the path. I trod on something soft and when I looked down it was one of the kids’ fingers.’
The police have begun an investigation, and the owner of the wheelchair, a Mrs Dawn Coomb, has given a statement saying she was away at the time of the incident visiting her sister in Edinburgh. PC Frank Marley states that the crime could be gang-related as Danny Freidken was a known member of the notorious Smitters Gang.
*
That afternoon Alex rings up the Ladies’ Defective Agency reception. ‘I’m sick. Can’t make it in,’ she lies.
‘Hey,’ says Laverne. ‘Did you hear the news?’ She sounds excited, almost exuberant. And why not? Those kids got exactly what they deserved. A serious arse-kicking, and it sounds like one or two of them might be joining the crip fraternity too, when they get out of hospital. Well, good! Maybe they will learn from all this, become compassionate and empowered local citizens.
As if. When she thinks about it, Alex becomes more and more uncomfortable. They’re just ignorant, hopeless kids after all. She thinks about Helen and Jules singing the refrain ‘Alone we fall, together we appal!’ and shouting Boudicca! to the ceiling.
Boudicca. We ‘re back to Boudicca. She taps it into the computer again to see if she has missed any news on the group, any clues to who they are, what they might want … or be capable of doing.
Boudicca … queen … yadda yadda. Not that, but ah ha! Here they come, a scree fall of articles about graffitied walls and letters to the council. Boudicca! We are coming! The last graffiti splashed in red across the motorway bridge was done in the night, sometime last week.
Boudicca. Are they here? Are they blowing up children? Are they my friends? Alex rubs her tired eyes. The computer screen blurs and whites out. She blinks hard to clear her vision, feeling stupid, as if she has found out a lover has been cheating on her. And, as her stronger eye focuses, she sees something that causes her to pause, something on one of the photographs of graffiti. She clicks, blows it up, magnifies it more and more until the one corner is taking up her entire screen. The red ‘Boudicca!’ tag has been sprayed over a TOSA/Grassybanks extension notification billboard. Scrawled underneath in black paint are the words ‘Homeless, crippled, old, take Action! They kill us for their sport!’
What the hell did that mean? Was it an oblique reference to the Homeless Action! initiative, thinks Alex. There is the connection to Grassybanks and Dr Binding again. How can she unravel this knot?
She sits back in her chair and it creaks. Chris shoots up, ears perked. He can read her vibrations, and she is in need of a walk.
‘Walk?’ he suggests.
‘How about a walk then, Chrissy boy?’ Alex stretches and her shoulders crack. ‘Hellfire … I could really do with getting back to the gym.’ And at the thought of the gym, Alex remembers where she has seen Robin, the nurse from Grassybanks, before. Yoga class. She went a couple of times, and now she has a vision of his lanky form in loose tracksuit pants, his privates dangling horribly free from constraints as he lurches forward into ‘downward dog’.
Yoga class. Well, it could be worse.
And It Is
Alex isn’t happy. She is twisted into a grotesque position, arms grabbing buttocks and legs bent at right angles. Sweat drips from her chin. She can see Chris’s shape lying against the far wall on his dog towel. She just knows he is grinning at her.
‘And breathe into the stretch,’ says the sumptuous, lean and lovely Sandra, class teacher and winner of the most annoyingly beautiful and serene person competition.
Alex tries to breathe in, but the way she is twisted means that she ends up making a rather unpleasant rasping sound, almost a death rattle. Her left leg has gone numb and her neck just creaked. If she wasn’t on this investigation she would be in a pub and not in this class. She has never got on with yoga. However, her focus is set on the skinny balding man on her left with the too-short shorts and the fish-white hairy thighs. Robin. She hasn’t been able to get his attention yet. He does a lot of his yoga with his eyes shut and his mouth slightly open.
Sandra is correcting the woman in front of Alex, an unsmiling German with steel-grey hair and steel-grey glasses. She might be seventy years old but she is as supple as a whip.
Fuck, if I could bend like that I would be fucking smiling about it, thinks Alex as Sandra allows them to unwind from the one position and begins to encourage them into an even more complex one.
Alex, doing her best to follow, finds herself trying to look backwards over one shoulder while balancing on the opposite leg. She begins to topple over and desperately flails with her arms, managing to make contact with Robin’s outstretched arm and unbalancing him too. They both have to clutch at each other to keep upright.
‘Oopsie! So sorry,’ says Alex. ‘Thank goodness you caught me.’ She pauses to pull up the strap of her low-cut stretch camisole, jiggling her boob to get it back in place. Robin has definitely opened his eyes now. He moves closer and Alex gets a strong waft of garlic and unwashed tracksuit.
‘Hey, isn’t it … ummm … didn’t we meet before?’
‘Oh yes! Wow, what a coincidence. On the Grassybanks tour. I’m Alex,’ says Alex.
‘Sshhhhhhh,’ spits the German lady.
‘Sorry,’ says Robin. He rolls his eyes at Alex and she grins back. For the rest of the class, he keeps his eyes open and on her, or rather on her arse or her breasts, ‘helping’ her into one or two of the final positions and allowing his hands to stray just a little. Alex would normally have clobbered him, but in this instance she just grits her teeth and giggles stupidly. She will clobber him later.
‘Fancy catching a bite to eat after class?’ she asks.
Unfortunately, it turns out that Robin is a vegan and
strictly teetotal.
‘You are kidding?’ Alex bats her eyelashes, but the gorge is rising as she thinks about pumping him for information without a tot of alcohol inside her first. She may not make it. Luckily, she remembers the Living Stone Café, organic vegan food and organic vegan wine. Expensive, though … perhaps a bit too expensive.
‘Oh, that’s OK,’ says Robin. ‘I like that place. Great. I’ll see you there at seven.’
It is the end of the class and Alex, who is harnessing Chris, realises Robin has suddenly gone silent. She looks up.
‘What’s with the dog? A guide dog? Are you training him?’ Robin asks. He sounds rather put out and upset, as if she has just pulled a skunk from a hat.
‘No, he’s mine. I thought you realised. I’m visually impaired.’
‘You don’t look it. And you didn’t have one on the tour, did you? You seem to manage fine without him and you know … you look so normal.’ He thinks about it. ‘Hey! You can see me, can’t you?’ He waves his hand in her face. He thinks he is being funny.
What is it with blokes? It is always the first fucking question they ask, thinks Alex, ‘Can you see me?’ As if that is the only important thing they can think of in the face of someone’s blindness. Can you see ME?
‘Yes, of course I can,’ Alex coos. ‘I have extreme tunnel vision, but what I see is pretty clean. I can see your face,’ … and your paunch, and your bald spot, and your brown front tooth.
‘Oh that’s good. I’m a handsome devil, you know!’ He titters. Alex feels Chris wince. ‘But I’m afraid I am not very fond of dogs. Any chance you could leave him behind tonight?’
Oh, you are so not getting any, thinks Alex. ‘Sadly, I need Chris to get to the café, but I promise you will barely notice he is there.’ Alex practises her simpering to go with his tittering. What a pair.
That Living Stone Café Date
Robin arrives having changed, but not showered. He seems quite proud of the fact. ‘I am one of the greenest people I know,’ he says. ‘It is the most important thing. I conserve water carefully and shower quickly, but only once every two days, no matter what. Water is the earth’s lifeblood after all.’
He carries on in this vein for quite a while. He was a founder member of the local veggie box scheme, was one of the campaigners for the Cycle 2 Work scheme. He even put in a request that the Grassybanks’ cleaning products be environmentally friendly.
‘Grassybanks?’ At last a way in, thinks Alex. ‘Oh yes, of course. How’s that going? Nurse Dyer … she seems quite a character.’
Robin’s thin lips twist. ‘She may be a half-decent nurse, but she really is a seriously frigid bitch.’
Frigid. Alex hates that word when applied to women. She smiles encouragingly. ‘Must be difficult to work with someone like that?’
‘Grassybanks is difficult to work in, anyway,’ says Robin, spearing an olive. He hasn’t ordered any himself but seems quite happy to pinch hers. ‘There is so much red tape at the moment. You can’t do this, can’t go there. You know we have to sign a contract forbidding us from talking to the press! What’s that about?’
Alex leans in. ‘Really? That’s very strange. Why do you think you can’t talk to the press?’
Robin sticks his fingers into the olives and sucks on a green one. Oil dribbles from the corner of his mouth and glistens on his chin. ‘I think it’s to do with the ward extension. We are already oversubscribed, you know. “A cycle of hopeless terminals”, as Dyer calls them. It’s sad, really, although I understand the idea behind it all – you know, environmentally how important it is.’
Alex feels a cold sweat between her shoulder blades. ‘What is environmentally important?’
‘The aubergine cannelloni?’ A waitress has materialised behind Alex.
‘Mine!’ says Robin. He tucks straight in.
‘And this must be yours, dear.’ The woman plonks down a plate of stuff. On the menu it was called Broccoli Tarka Dhal, but to Alex, whose vision is fluctuating in the gloom of the room, it looks just like green sludge.
‘Oh, what a gorgeous dog!’ The waitress bends down and tickles Chris, who is tucked between Alex’s chair and the far wall.
‘You need to wash your hands, Miss,’ Robin calls after her. ‘The dog is not hygienic. Alex, I really don’t think it is right to bring an animal like that into a restaurant.’
Finding it hard not to poke him with her fork, Alex tries to get him back on subject.
‘So, the ward extension? You were saying. Something about the environment?’
‘You know, I am surprised I haven’t seen you around before? I mean … well … you are really pretty. And so tall!’ Robin doesn’t seem to notice when his mouth is full. Alex is repulsed but carries on, knowing she is on the edge of something, some vital clue.
‘Thanks, Robin. You were saying about the ward extension?’
‘Blimey, dog with a bone. Ha! That’s funny, isn’t it? I mean, you are a dog with a bone and you have a dog. Ah. I am just too good tonight! Why are you so interested, anyway?’ His close-set eyes suddenly narrow. ‘Now I remember, you asked a load of questions on the tour too.’
Alex improvises. ‘Err … I have … my old mum and … err … yeah, we are thinking that Grassybanks might be the right place for her.’
‘Oh. Oh well. Depends, really. Is she on her last legs? If you are thinking in the long term, I wouldn’t pop her into Grassy- banks, but if you are looking for a quick resolution to her pain and discomfort then you couldn’t go far wrong.’
‘Resolution? Robin, are you saying they will speed her death?’
Robin chokes on a piece of aubergine and spits it messily onto his side plate. ‘Of course not! What on earth … no, no! What do you take us for? No, I just mean that they are more a palliative care kind of setup, especially recently. Dr Binding is a leader in his field, after all.’
‘Dr Binding? We didn’t see him on the tour, did we?’
‘Oh no. Dr Binding leaves those to us. Well, me, mostly. He and I are pretty close. He knows he can trust me.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Yes. I think we kind of click. He is always saying that some people are naturally gifted when it comes to nursing, you know. By the way, that is your second glass of wine, Alex. You’re drinking it like water!’
‘Oh yes, sorry, the company is so good I lost track.’
Robin sniggers, not hearing the sarcasm. ‘I agree, although I really don’t like women drinking. I think it’s an ugly trait. Usually means they are neurotic or got daddy issues or something. I went out with a girl once who drank.’
I bet she did, thinks Alex.
‘She would have, like, two glasses every night. Made her weepy and whiny. In the end I just had to ditch her.’
Right … Alex buttons her lip.
‘Dr Binding would understand. He is a specialist in liver disease, you know. He has seen the impact of alcohol in the community. Like me, he knows the perils of addiction. If it was up to me I would just ban alcohol, but of course that is impossible. The government makes too much money from it all. I asked Dr Binding about it once, and he said that chronic alcoholics and drug users were untreatable. They should just be allowed to self-destruct quietly with support and comfort. He felt it would be best for everyone, especially for the sake of these people’s families.’
‘Dr Binding said all that?’
‘Yes, but he still carries on trying to improve the lives of these people. He says it is his duty as a physician. He was key in setting up the Homeless Action! programme, you know, him and a team of other eminent doctors. It’s all very exciting. They’re planning to put the programme in place at Grassybanks.’
‘Would you like to see the dessert menu?’ That waitress again.
‘Oh, yes,’ says Alex.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says Robin. ‘And I don’t mean to be rude, but sugar and fat is really not a good choice for an evening. Stimulants … like the wine. Also—’ here he even winks at
Alex ‘—none of us need the extra weight now, do we?’
Alex can’t help the flush of anger creeping up her cheeks.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I like a woman with a bit of – well, not “meat” per se, on her. But you know … body on her body!’ He reaches over and squeezes her hand. His is sweaty.
‘Shall we get the bill?’ Alex croaks.
It is a small fortune. Robin calculates. ‘You had the olives and the two naughty, naughty glasses of wine, and I had just the cannelloni and tap water. Gosh, yours is expensive!’
‘What about the tip?’ asks Alex, stupidly.
‘Oh thanks. That is good of you. I’ll see you by the exit. Need to take a piss.’
Alex’s purse is emptied. Totally. She harnesses a bored Chris and, banging her way between tables like a pinball, knocking a glass or two onto the floor, manages to wend her way to the exit, where Robin is attempting to chat up the waitress.
‘Yes, I was just apologising for the dog on your behalf,’ he stage whispers. ‘I told them about your … “problem”.’ He rolls his eyes back in his head and mimes feeling around sightlessly.
‘It’s not a problem,’ says Alex flatly. ‘I like how I see.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Robin seems a bit taken aback. ‘I don’t think you should make light of blindness, though, Alex. As a nurse, I see it first-hand. I realise your condition isn’t very serious, but I know other people who find it terribly distressing.’
‘Jesus, Robin.’ Alex is almost spluttering. ‘You … you … you really are a bit of a prick.’
‘What?’ Robin’s eyes widen. The waitress glides away. ‘Where did that come from? I hope you don’t talk to your children like that?’
‘My children?’ Alex is confused, but then the penny drops. ‘Oh I see … you think I am a schoolteacher, right?’
‘Well, aren’t you? You were on the school tour.’
‘Robin, I don’t have kids, I don’t have students. I am not a teacher. I work for the Cambright Sun. I am a journalist. I arranged this date so I could talk to you about Grassybanks.’