Cull

by Tanvir Bush

  Chris is now barking intermittently and scratching at the door. Alex plunges forward and pulls it open, kneeling so that the whirling frenzied furball that is her darling dog does not knock her over as he storms into the room, tail helicoptering and claws scrambling. Helen watches the bundle of bruised dog and battered woman, and dashes a little tear from her own eye.

  DISPOSAL

  Mrs Honey Cleans Early

  7 a.m.

  The wisps of the dead float with the dust motes up around the ceiling. Particles of ex-people, now part of the vibration of the whole room, moving through the cycle, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. They are a collective sigh, neither sad nor joyful but not empty either. They are the fingernail scrapings of dreams and desires, the sawdust of ambition and despair. Below them as they float up and around in lazy spirals, glittering briefly where they catch the sunlight beginning to stream into the windows, the cleaning crew make ready the reception. Today is a big day for the dead and the living. Today is the opening of Grassybanks new Ward C.

  The Grassybanks administrator, Nurse Dyer and The Good Doctor Binding are expecting a good handful of Very Important People and a noisy entourage of press, PR, security and invited ‘others’ at midday. There will be cameras a-clickin’ and tongues a-waggin’, and all will gleam crisp and white and hygienic as disinfectant.

  To ensure this whitewash, the cleaning crew has been doubled. Mrs Honey leads ten people in Grassybanks’ overalls and dragging trollies of Grassybanks’ colour-coded cleaning products cleverly crafted for complete cleaning. No fingerprints. No DNA. Not a stain shall remain. Mrs Honey hand-picked her team for this morning’s shift, as she did for last night. She has a lot for them to do, some of it rather unusual. Some of it involving the secretion of pots of theatrical white stage make-up.

  She puts a hand into the small of her back and stretches, feeling the muscles creaking and sore. She has done a double shift and every tendon tells her so. She glances at her watch. 7 a.m. The night-duty nurses are writing up handover notes and the night security officer is yawning his head off behind the reception desk.

  ‘Your last fifteen minutes!’ she calls to her team. ‘Fifteen minutes!’

  Haughty Couture

  8:45 a.m.

  Stella is excited, although she knows it is for the wrong reason. It is just that she gets to wear the most exquisite black Chanel shift dress – similar to the mourning dress, although without the ghastly jacket and veil, of Jackie Kennedy. Normally she would have to be careful about spending such a lot of money on designer clothes, but not even the most rapacious and predatory journalist would dare deny her black couture given her near-tragedy.

  Poor Gunter in a coma. She checks her expression in the mirror. Yes, brave and beautiful. She will do. She had told Gunter his infidelity would be the death of him, and look, a tumble from the second floor of the Bismarck Hotel, hopelessly drunk, of course, and still warm from the clutches of that wild red-haired woman who was always at his gigs, a ‘poetry student’. Yes, Gunter. There are many ways to teach poetry. Stella imagines his possible death and his books selling at last. She dabs her eye to stop her mascara marking her polished cheek. Maybe she does love him just a little.

  She is meeting her father at Grassybanks with the other VIPs. There will be the usual tour, and then she will be expected to say a few words before Henri, darling Henri who has been such a rock, pulls the little curtain back from the plaque. She intends to look both brave and a little frail. She wants the press to see how she carries on in the face of tragedy. That she is still a winner.

  Gina knocks to tell her the car has arrived. ‘Is Mother all right?’ Stella asks. Gloria had been devastated by Gunter’s accident and, in a blaze of hysterics, moved into her daughter’s house as support. Only she spends most of her time weeping in the bedroom.

  ‘She took some tea today, madam. I am sure she will feel better before this evening.’

  ‘Good.’ Stella looks at Gina and Gina regards Stella. Something has changed. There is no deference, no modesty in Gina’s gaze. Stella is unsettled. ‘What is it?’ she asks the maid.

  ‘Oh … nothing, madam. I am just … sorry for your husband’s … accident.’ Gina doesn’t quite wink but Stella feels the intention to wink pass through her like a thin blade. As she heads for the car she makes a mental note to fire the bitch.

  Incoming!

  ‘Incoming!’ The crow lands at the top of the ancient oak, large claws splayed. She is old and fat, and the branch dips ever so slightly as her crow neighbours caw her name in welcome in their flat rasping voices.

  The old crow has flown to the edge of the storm and back, and can report that it is currently travelling at a wind speed of forty-five knots. The winds are not quite strong enough yet to tear the storm apart, and the supercell is intact, so if her calculations are correct, and they always are, the storm will hit the tree in exactly five hours and fifty-one minutes. From the treetop the crow turns her shining eye to the west. From this height she can see a black knobbled line of cumulonimbus along the horizon. It is thickening slowly. ‘Five hours and fifty minutes,’ she caws then settles to rest and meditate while the others take off, like animated inky Rorschach blots, to pass the word.

  ‘Storm coming!’ they call. ‘Hitting low and hard. Take cover. Take shelter. Check nest and burrow. Batten down hatches and hutches. Dig in deep!’

  Some of the younger crows are surfing the pre-storm updraughts, already testing the bow waves of the thunderhead. It is dangerous; the wind can change quickly, snatching birds from their air space, but it is a rare young crow that won’t take the challenge of a storm front.

  ‘Five hours and forty-five minutes,’ comes the cawing.

  A human couple out walking in the bright blustery sunshine, their baby in a sling on her daddy’s chest, glance up at the noisy birds as they erupt out of the oaks and flap off in every direction. The baby laughs and points at the crows, and the woman says something in the baby’s ear and kisses her husband.

  ‘Noisy stupid things,’ says Daddy Mosh, looking up into the tree. ‘Probably scared by a squirrel.’

  Not a clue, thinks the old crow, shaking her beak and closing her eyes. Humans. Not a freakin’ clue.

  Tricky Technicians and

  Evaporating Staff

  9 a.m.

  Nurse Dyer is not a woman who takes well to having her routines disrupted. She can’t help but feel a little sulky, even though she knows it is only for one day and is the wish of The Good Doctor Binding, for whom she has the ultimate respect. Already this morning she has overseen the smooth changeover of night to day nurses and felt pleased to notice there had been a great deal of care taken with the cleaning. This soothes her somewhat. Shiny surfaces are to Nurse Dyer what hugs are for little children.

  It is now just after 9 a.m. and all is well in Grassybanks as far as the patients – privately, Nurse Dyer just can’t bring herself to call them ‘clients’ – are concerned. Breakfast has been served, medication issued, drips changed, and at the far, dim end of Ward B a couple more beds have become available, with another two looking like they will be ready for emptying by the end of the day. Excellent. She is expecting The Good Doctor at 10 a.m. and so is thinking about a cup of tea when the technicians arrive. They come in through the main doors in a small noisy crowd, each one carrying various bits of kit and yards of electric cable and masking tape.

  ‘Yo!’ says the leader, a man with pockmarked cheeks and wearing a baseball cap.

  Nurse Dyer doesn’t answer to ‘yo’, so he has to drop the bags he is holding and come right up to the reception desk.

  ‘Hey there! You Nurse Dyer?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her smile could freeze a polar bear. The man seems not to notice.

  ‘We’re the tech team from Shandy Productions. We are here for the opening ceremony.’ The man moves gum around in his mouth as he consults his smartphone. ‘Do you need the clearance papers? I have them here on my phone.’

  ‘No. I have
your clearances right here. I am just unsure why you would need so many people to set up a simple podium and film screen. This is hardly going to be international news.’

  ‘Oh, right. So you want that I tell Rodney and the others to leave, and you and maybe a couple of your spare nurses could help me rig it all up. I am presuming you know what a sixteen- channel Allen & Heath desk is? Where to place the Mackie 400-watt speakers for best coverage and least feedback?’

  His face is impassive and his tone calm, but Nurse Dyer knows when she is in a smackdown. Fuming, she takes her time signing the release sheet and makes each of the tech team sign in individually. ‘You are not to go anywhere but the reception area and family room. You can use the family-room bathrooms.’

  The man, who has signed his name as Nicholas Shandy, shakes his head. ‘I am afraid we will need access to check your fuse boxes.’

  Nurse Dyer scowls.

  ‘Rather we fit splitters than your entire electrical system blows up.’ The man glances behind him at the other techs. ‘Isn’t that right, girls and boys?’

  One of the men snorts with laughter.

  ‘Can just see that happening when the bigwigs arrive!’ muses Shandy.

  Again Nurse Dyer is forced to acquiesce. ‘Well, I will call one of our nurses to show you around, then. But only one of your technicians need go with him.’

  ‘Two,’ says Shandy and cracks his gum.

  ‘Two, then,’ she hisses, and looks at her clipboard. ‘I can let you have Robin for an hour.’

  9:30 a.m.

  ‘How many? You are fucking jesting me?’

  ‘No, Andre. Honestly. Apparently, they’re all off with winter vomiting virus.’

  ‘It’s fucking summer.’

  ‘Yes, well, “summer” vomiting virus, then. And you know the regulations given all the elderly people we have here.’

  Andre is furious. Today, of all days, he is going to have new security staff. He tongues the metal wire at the back of his mouth, the wire still holding his jaw together after the blind bitch cracked him with her stick, and stares at his secretary, Pat.

  ‘Well, we need to get on to TOSA security. Maybe we should cancel?’

  ‘I don’t think you need to worry,’ says Pat. ‘I had a call already and they are sending a team. Should be here in …’ She glances at her watch. ‘Well, in five minutes.’

  ‘Really? Guess Dyer must have called them.’ Andre is both relieved and confused. ‘They got clearance that quick?’

  ‘Yes, well, today of all days, I suspect TOSA must have panicked a bit, what with the opening and all. Have you had the sniffer dogs through yet?’

  Andre shakes his head. What with the security level for the Minister of Whatsit and the TOSA Frenchie, the H5 cops were to do a check of the whole building. With dogs. They don’t have to say when, they can just turn up, but Andre has a Believe in Better contact in the dog team and knows they’ll be coming at 10:30 a.m. Those bloody new blokes from TOSA security better be up to speed by then.

  His phone rings and he makes a face at Pat. The face is the one he always makes to indicate Nurse Dyer, a horrible twisting of his lips. Only now, with the broken jaw, it makes him wince. Pat nods sympathetically.

  ‘The TOSA security team are here,’ says Andre. ‘Let’s go see what shit we are in.’

  A Technical Hitch

  10:47 a.m.

  Robin is flustered – he seems to have lost both of the Shandy Productions technicians. It isn’t his fault, though; after all, the police suddenly descended with their filthy sniffer dogs and he was called away from hunting down fuse boxes to ensuring the clients in Ward A were kept calm and relaxed as the dogs were led up and down the corridors. He doesn’t think Dyer should have made him do the fuse box thing anyway. He’s a nurse, not her bloody lackey, plus he didn’t really know where the fuse boxes were. Anyway, during the sniffer dog round, one of the kids had got a bit upset and that had set off several of the other patients who began to panic, and when finally everyone had settled down again, Robin realised he had lost the technicians.

  He wonders if he should tell Dyer. She is stressed to hell anyway. The opening is set for midday and Dr Binding still hasn’t made an appearance.

  Robin walks with anxious speed towards the gymnasium but slows when he spies one of the cleaners finishing up in the access corridor with a mop: a black, wide-hipped older woman with glasses, called … no, he can’t remember her name.

  ‘Err, excuse me?’

  ‘Yes, my dear?’ She squeezes the mop into the bucket and stretches, turning slowly to face him.

  Her gentle, calm response in the midst of all the turmoil makes Robin feel better. ‘I was just wondering if you had seen two men walk past just now?’

  ‘Oh … oh, why yes, dear. Him, with a workman’s belt on and laptop, and his mate? Yes, they said they had finished up and were heading back to reception.’

  ‘That’s great, thanks.’ Robin takes a deep, relieved yoga breath, in one nostril and out the other. The cleaner is watching him, and so he feels he can’t just walk away. ‘Are you coming to the opening, Mrs … ?’ He isn’t sure if the cleaners have been invited like the other staff, but the woman nods happily.

  ‘Honey. Mrs Honey. Oh yes, dear. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  Robin doesn’t know how he feels about that, but he supposes the cleaners will be in the back and not mingling with the important people up front. Already he is a little bit heady thinking about the arrival of Stella Binding, having had a bit of a thing for her for years. Now he will finally be able to meet her. He gets a little shiver thinking that Stella is now alone, a poor tragic near-widow. I wonder if she’ll notice me, he thinks, my life force, my vibrant energy? He even showered after cycling into work today, which, for him, is almost unheard of.

  He dashes back up the gleaming corridor and turns into the noise of excited chatter and squeaking shoes in reception. Everyone looks very busy. The Shandy Productions team have rigged up a small stage next to the little curtained-off plaque on the far wall. On the stage is a mike stand and speakers, and behind them a large white screen and a couple of computers. It all looks very professional and high tech, not his kind of thing at all. Nurse Dyer waves to him from the centre of the room and signals ‘get over here’. She is clutching her clipboard a little too tightly and looks as if she would like to swipe it across the face of the man she is talking to.

  ‘Ah, Robin. This is Mr Shandy. He is in charge of the—’ she gestures at the stage ‘—“setup”. He will be here with two of his team to make sure everything works. The rest will be leaving shortly and will return at 2 p.m. to dismantle.’

  ‘Right,’ says Robin. Shandy chews gum and smiles, but not with his eyes. ‘Am I still on to lead the tour?’ Robin tries not to sound overexcited.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ snaps Dyer. ‘You will lead, and Nurses Pepper and Ashley will follow along to make sure there are no stragglers. Have you done a time check?’

  ‘Yes.’ Robin is proud. ‘The full tour takes twenty-five minutes, excluding questions.’

  ‘OK, good. Questions can all be asked back here after the unveiling. Right then, go and have a cup of tea, and make sure you are back here with Pepper and Ashley for eleven thirty. And get that stain off your uniform.’

  Robin drops his eyes and sees his biro has leaked into his pocket. Shit.

  ‘Still no Dr Binding?’ he asks by way of diversion.

  One of the technicians drops a pole, and it clangs loudly, making everyone jump. Nurse Dyer actually flinches. ‘No,’ she says. ‘But he wouldn’t miss this. I am sure he will be along any minute.’

  Dr Binding Gets Diverted

  11:15 a.m.

  The Good Doctor Binding isn’t sure what happened. He remembers telling his driver to go ahead and park at the far end of the car park; that way they wouldn’t get blocked in by the crowds at the end of the event. He had been sauntering across to the main Grassybanks entrance when his phone rang. He thinks he answe
red it but can’t remember.

  The next thing he does remember is a crushing pain in the back of his skull and a nauseating rush of tarry black.

  He is still in total blackness, only now he can feel his body again. He becomes aware he is lying flat on something firm but warm, and reaches out his hands to feel for sheets and blankets, but there is something around his wrists stopping him moving his hands more than a few inches from his body. He blinks, and coloured spots bounce around in front of his eyes and flare and die away, leaving him back in total darkness. His head aches, not badly but dully, like the thudding one gets after running too fast.

  Have I been hit by a car? he wonders. Maybe something fell on me from above? There had been no one at all around. He hadn’t walked under scaffolding. That much he did know. Not a soul. Just the phone ringing.

  A stroke?

  But then, and slowly, very slowly, his mind begins to focus. But then why would I have restraints around my wrists and be lying in the dark?

  Perhaps you lost your sight? Lost your mind? Strokes can do that. Is that his voice? He isn’t sure. Possibly he is dreaming or still unconscious. He gently moves his head from side to side. Although it aches, there doesn’t seem to be anything on it apart from hair. No bandage, no neck brace. He tries to slowly twist his body to one side. Yes, he can feel his arms are bare, and there is a thin sheet beneath him. He moves a leg but, like his arm, it gets only a few inches, and then is held by something around his ankle. This is quite ridiculous! He wets his lips with his tongue, swallows and opens his mouth.

  ‘Hello,’ he whispers. His voice is croaky but there. He tries again, a little louder. ‘Hello! Is there anyone here?’ His voice seems to bounce right back at him as if he is lying in a kind of container. The echo of it makes his head throb more painfully. Is he in an MRI machine? Could someone have put him in one and then forgotten him? Absurd!