by Brett Savory
Few months later, I’m sure she thought of me as nothin’ but a big old hairy tea bag, and I knew she’d love t’ get me t’ take that bath she’d been naggin’ me about for weeks. Sure, right, why not, eh? Free fuckin’ tea fer the old biddy, sure as by the gods, yeh. A whole tub full, even! So I finally agree and in I go, SPLOOSH! And the water immediately starts turnin’ brown, just like I thought. “Fixin’ to make some tea, then, are we, Jimmy?!” I bellowed in ’er face. She looked all confused, like she’d no ken what I were on about.
When she made the tea outta me, I were seventy-six years old. When I bashed ’er head against the side o’ the tub and split her skull, I were seventy-seven years old.
“Whoah, what’s that now, Jimmy!” I hear you sayin’. “Bashed what? Now why’d ya go and do a thing like that t’your old fat cow of a wife?!”
Simple, ya see. The violence had come and there were no way o’ stoppin’ it, Jimmy. No way ’tall. It was—and still is—as immutable as old McDougal’s Dublin Coddle. When the violence comes, y’either give in to it, or ya take it out on yerself. And Jimmy, it’s no fun doin’ yerself like that. Believe me, I done it, and all it’s got me is locked up, time and again. I been in and out o’ these here playgrounds more years than I care to recount. It’s far better to do the violence on other people, then hide them away, act like you don’t know nothin’, whistle at the walls and such, y’know? Just ignore ’em and the pokin’ folks eventually go away, so long as you do the hidin’ right. Gotta get the hidin’ right or they’ll keep on at ya and you’ll never be rid of ’em.
As I was sayin’, the head bashin’ came a year after the tea-baggin’, and I tell ya it had to be done, Jimmy, it just had to be done. Fuckin’ old cow, any road, ya know? What were so special ’bout me tea that she couldn’t’ve got it from ’erself or someone else? Came to be the only fuckin’ thing we e’er talked about.
So that were me first violence. I knew even then, though, that ’er body had to be hid. Ah, such a shame, too, ’er not even gettin’ any o’ me tea for ’er troubles.
The orderly opened Mr. Dale’s door, slowly so as not to alarm him. He poked his head around the padded edge. Mr. Dale was standing, scribbling on the wall with his crayon again. The orderly’s shoulders dropped, release of tension.
“Writin’ your book again, are ya, Jimmy?” A smile, saccharine, but not condescending. He closed the door behind him.
“Hoho, fuckin’ A, Jimmy,” Mr. Dale said, and continued scribbling.
“Ah, good, then. Say, listen, I’m just in t’ change the sheets, okay?”
Mr. Dale nodded.
“Right so, then,” the orderly said and went about his work.
Minutes passed in silence, Mr. Dale scribbling, the orderly swishing about the sheets. Then Mr. Dale said, “Y’ever wonder where the folks went that I done that violence to, Jimmy?” He didn’t appear to be directing the question to the orderly, but the swishing stopped and an answer came nonetheless.
“I’d say they’d’ve gone t’Heaven, most likely, Jimmy.”
Mr. Dale nodded. The swishing and scribbling resumed.
“Where, now,” Mr. Dale said after a few more minutes, “d’ya s’pose that is, then, Jimmy?”
The orderly always got a kick out of conversations with Mr. Dale, because they always called each other “Jimmy,” and it got pretty comical sometimes.
“Now, Jimmy, I’d have to say that Heaven is right straight up there in the sky,” the orderly said, smiling wide, dropping a corner of the sheet he’d been folding, pointing straight up. Mr. Dale turned around and followed the orderly’s finger.
“Right fool thing t’ say, that is,” said Mr. Dale. “Fuckin’ ground’s where they go, ya bloody bollocks.”
The orderly’s smile widened even more. “Ah, right so, then . . . ” He folded the rest of his sheets, bid Mr. Dale
“good day,” and left him to his scribbling.
As luck would have it, they make tea outta me here, too. I can’t seem to get away from it. Everyone wants me tea. I am a most special kind, ’twould seem, eh? Dunk me in the water and see what comes out. I think I’m gettin’ weak, though, ’cause the color they get outta me here ain’t near what the old cow were able to produce back home. A good sight lighter in this water, I come.
But fuckin’ Jimmy and his bloody sheets! I ask him a straightforward question and what’s he answer me wi’? Heaven. Fuck that shite. Heaven ain’t where they gone. ’Tain’t where none of ’ems gone, to be sure. Ground, I said to ’im. They go in the ground. Can’t argue wi’ that, now, can ya? Go dig ’em up and see. ’Course ya’d have to find ’em first before doin’ any diggin’, and that, I reckon, would be the tough part. Remember what I said ’bout the importance of hidin’ ’em, yeh?
Mind you, they only know ’bout the old cow, not ’bout none of them others I did the violence on. I’d never get outta here if they knew ’bout them, too. Not that I really expect they’ll let me out before I’m dead and rotted, anyhow, but a man’s got to keep some secrets for ’imself, ya know, Jimmy. A man wi’ no secrets is like a whistle wi’out a ball or some such shite. Secrets keep a man focussed. And the only reason they e’en know about the old cow is ’cause I went and told ’em. Started gettin’ lonely for the old place, y’know? I missed old Jimmy and his flappin’ sheets. The nurse that gets the tea from me, she’s a good lookin’ one, alright, and I missed ’er touchin’ me old, dead skin, even if ’twere just to get at me tea.
We made a deal once, me and she. I told ’er when I get outta here I’d write ’er love letters every day and we could pretend we was married, but that there would be no more tea extraction. I made sure we was clear on that point—no new wife o’ mine’d be allowed t’ have at me tea again, I said. Right so, fuckin’ leeches, bleedin’ me dry. So I’m gonna write ’er love letters. She’s a sweet lass, to be sure.
Though I can’t say I missed the director o’ the place, Mr. Jimmy ArseBiscuits. Aye, sure, it’s no ’is real name, but it’s all the same t’me. Seems like the kinda man what’d lay a beatin’ on ’is wife regular-like, y’know? Bloody heathen. If there were ever anyone deservin’ o’ the violence, it’s that man. But he runs the place, so I’ve stood off, else he’d be gone.
Then who’d run the playground, eh?
The nurse opened the door quietly—the entire staff had been made aware of Mr. Dale’s aversion to sudden movements—and came in with her tray of food and medication.
“Mr. Dale?” she asked, her voice a tremulous whisper. Mr. Dale was slumped in a corner, the stump of a crayon gripped in his left hand, his right hand limp at his side. He was snoring.
“Mr. Dale?” the nurse whispered a little bit louder. Mr. Dale’s bushy gray eyebrows lifted a little at his name. He cracked one eye, then the other. Blinked. Drew in a deep breath. Winked at the nurse.
“Aye, missy,” he said, his voice barely a croak, “that’s me. Jimmy, so they say, but not t’ the likes o’ you, I’d guess, eh?”
“It’s time for your supper and medicine, Mr. Dale.” Her smile was plastic, practiced.
“Shall we still write love letters, then, missus?” Mr. Dale asked, closing one eye again. The question dripped with sarcasm. But it was all getting old. He was so very, very tired these days, his 80th birthday come and gone.
“Why, of course!” the nurse said, a little too emphatically.
Mr. Dale struggled to get up, let the crayon drop unnoticed from his numb left hand. He’d been writing for hours and all for nothing—they came in and scrubbed his walls every other day so that he would not become fixated on one word or sentence and let it devour his every thought. He became extremely unreasonable when he was fixated on something.
A sly little grin further wrinkled his already leathery face. “Y’know,” Mr. Dale said, “I could do the violence on ya, missus, if it so took me to do so.”
The nurse flushed. “Mr. Dale? The violence? Wha . . . Why—”
> “Don’t worry, though, I ne’er would. We’re going to write love letters, you and I. Ya can’t respond to ’em if you’re dead, now, can ya, Jimmy?”
“No, I suppose not, Mr. Dale.” Her eyes were wide with fear. She did not appear to be breathing.
“Tell ya what, though,” Mr. Dale said. “I’ll tell ya a story the next time you’re about drainin’ me tea, shall I?” His smile was all teeth.
The nurse couldn’t speak, just put the tray down on the bed and left as quickly as she could manage.
So there was the suds, drippin’ down me old, hairy back, just me and that nice nurse I was tellin’ ya ’bout. Fine, sweet lady, our nurse.
“Ya think I’m an old, hairy tea bag or what, then, Jimmy?” I asked ’er.
“No! No, certainly not, Mr. Dale.”
Ah, right so, ya craven bitch, I thought.
“Stealin’ all me tea, though, aren’t ya? Where’s it go once it runs down that hole there at th’end of the tub, now, missus? Eh? Where’s it go, and what d’ya use it for? I mean, what use are the last dregs of an old man’s tea, any road?”
So, yeh, shut up, then, don’t say nothin’, I thought. And she didn’t neither.
“Me wife used to steal me tea, too, yeh, but then you know how that ended, don’tcha.” I felt the scrubber in ’er wee, lovely hand stop against me back, then start again after a coupla seconds, but I could feel ’er fear, like it were comin’ right through the scrubber and all.
“Y’know, the more ya drain me o’ me tea, the less violence I seem t’ have in me, missus. Y’reckon that’s a good thing, then, yeh?”
Nursey cleared her throat, all ahem-cough-coughlike, and said that it were, indeed, quite a good thing t’ be lesser o’ the violence.
“Alright,” said I just then, “what say we get the rest o’ it out right here and now!” I slammed me hands down on the sides of the tub. Bubbles popped and water splashed. Wee-ha! The sound were real loud in that wee washin’ room, and it damn near shocked me out o’ me skin.
She coughed again, our nurse, and asked all oh-hahago- on-wi’-yer-mad-self-like, “What’s that you’re saying, Mr. Dale? No need for any violence now. We’re taking good care of ya, as ya know, and—”
SLAM!
And lo, like a melon ’er little head did split in two between me hands. If it didn’t happen right on the edge o’ me very own tub, I’d’ve not believed the sight meself. More blood than was in the old cow, that’s a right sure. Me tea got a sight darker just then, before I helped meself out and slid ’er body into the tea-stealin’ tub. She sloshed around a bit, twitchin’ and such, but that quit in a few minutes, and then she just floated around for awhile, bumpin’ ’er head gently off the sides o’ the tub now and again.
Ah, but now there’ll be no love letters, I thought at her.
But e’en so, I think she understood.
The Facility Director brushed past the orderly and into Mr. Dale’s room. The walls had been freshly scrubbed, as per the Director’s request—he didn’t want to have to look at any of the patient’s “insane babble.”
“Mr. Dale.” The Director was tall and well built, intimidating, his voice the rumble of a truck. “Are you aware of what you’ve done?” He straightened his tie, unable to keep the boredom out of his voice.
Mr. Dale was secured to the bed with straps. He could move nothing of his body more than half an inch. Due to his relative lack of teeth, a muzzle was not deemed necessary.
Thirty seconds passed with no response.
The Director sighed. “Can you hear me, Mr. Dale?”
I could hear th’old wanker, alright, Jesusfuck, but I weren’t about to let him know that, were I? The old codger sighed again, all oh-for-fuck’s-sake-let-us-gohome- now-and-shag-the-missus-then-slap-her-aroundsome-eh-old-boy.
Well, fuck him, I thought. Sure, I’d rightly miss this place, but I suspected there was others just like it, where maybe they’d let me keep the writin’ on me walls and all.
I’d a big plan fer escape that I’d thought up a while back, y’know, and were thinkin’ ’bout tryin’ it out just then. Then I thought, ah, to hell wi’ it, and decided to talk at the bastard.
“Come t’ drain me o’ more tea, have ya, Mr. Director?” I said, all shark-like, lettin’ ’im know I were through playin’ about wi’ bashin’ heads and the like. Then, before he could answer, “I’ve bashed more skulls than you’ve lived years, Mr. Director, did you know that, eh? Did ya?”
I tried liftin’ me head fer ’is reaction, but the strangler ’round me neck held me a’right firm. Didn’t matter. “The only reason I’ve no bashed that orderly’s in is ’cause he calls me by me real name—Jimmy.
“I could tell ya where I hid all the bodies, too, if I’d a mind, but that time has come and gone. It’d do no one any good now, any road.”
Silence.
Ah-ha, y’old fucker! I thought. Told ya somethin’ ya didn’t know, then, have I?
Mr. Director moved a step or two closer, and I could hear his raspy fuckin’ Darth Vader breathin’. His ruddy face came into me view and I smiled up at him, all fuckyou- ya-sad-bastard and such.
“Mr. Dale, you killed one of our nurses today. You split her head open. I assume by your admission of blah blah blah . . . ” Shut the fuck up, thought I. Where’s ’e get off wastin’ me time, tellin’ me shite I already know, eh? Up yours, Mr. Directorfuck, I’ve had more’n enough outta you for one day, thank ya very much.
So I shut him off and went t’ sleep. Just like that. Good night, Director ArseBiscuits, I thought, and winked at him before closing me eyes fer the night.
“. . . Mr. Dale?”
The orderly shook Mr. Dale by the shoulders, gently slapped his weathered cheeks, repeating his name again and again.
An eyelid cracked.
“Hoho, Jimmy,” Mr. Dale whispered. His breath in the orderly’s face was fetid, stinking of rot, decay, and yesterday’s bangers and mash.
“Ahoy, Jimmy,” the orderly smiled back, playing their game, “but you don’t look so good this mornin’, y’know?”
“Don’t I, then?” Mr. Dale asked, curious. “I wonder what’s got hold o’ me now. What d’ya suppose ’tis, Jimmy?”
Now both eyelids were cracked, but the eyes behind were mere slits as Mr. Dale spoke. He was more tired than he ever recalled being in his whole life. “D’ya s’pose I’m near t’the dyin’, then, boy? Ya think ole Jimmy’s on his way out, do ya?”
“Ah, no,” said the orderly, and leaned back a bit, the smile now a bit forced. “Can’t be that, Jimmy, no way. Not you. Not yet, anyhow.”
Mr. Dale chuckled. Sandpaper against brick. He suddenly coughed violently, straining the buckles and belts that held him.
“Shall I loosen these some, then, Mr. Dale?” asked the orderly, starting on the closest hand restraint.
“Nono, Jimmy, we’ll have none o’ that, now. You’ll get into trouble and it won’t help ’tall, anyhow. True, I’d me a plan for escapin’ a while back, but I’m too far gone in years t’ make a break fer it now.”
“Right so,” said the orderly, nodding gravely.
“What did Mr. Director think o’ me fallin’ asleep in the middle o’ ’is little speech, then, eh?” Mr. Dale asked, grinning.
The orderly laughed. “Ah, yeh! Ya shoulda seem ’im stompin’ about and cussin’ and such, Jimmy! ’Twere all I could do not to bust out right in front o’ ’im!”
Mr. Dale smiled wide. “Yeh, fuck that bastard! Bloody heathen . . . But say,” Mr. Dale said, his voice now more subdued, “ya wasn’t too close wi’ that nurse, now, was ya, Jimmy? Ya wasn’t shaggin’ ’er or aught, was ya?”
“Ah, no,” said the orderly, “barely knew ’er. Only ever saw ’er comin’ or goin’. She’d never stopped t’ talk t’ the likes o’ me.”
Mr. Dale wondered if it would have made any difference at all to his lack of remorse if the orderly had known the nurse well,
perhaps been her boyfriend. But he knew the answer to that.
“I want ya to know somethin’, Jimmy, okay?” Mr. Dale said. “Since you’re th’only one what e’er treated me wi’ the respect I’m deservin’ of, t’ fuck wi’ head-bashin’ and all.”
The orderly leaned in a bit closer. “Go on, then, Jimmy,” he said.
“None o’ this shite e’er did me no good,” Mr. Dale said. His eyes were locked hard with the orderly’s. “I were put in here so I’d do no more violence on anyone, and I can understand that, I s’pose. Sure as shite I’d no like to have what violence I put on other folks put onto me. But it doesn’t stop the violence from comin’, ya know? Nothin’ can, and that’s what I’m sayin’ to ya, Jimmy. Some things just are. D’ya ken what I’m tellin’ ya?”
The orderly nodded, brow furrowed in concentration.
“I were a good man fer as long as I were able, Jimmy. That’s all any man can ask outta life, I reckon. I wish I’d died before I started wi’ the head-bashin’, but wishin’ won’t take none o’ it back.
“I s’pose I made life hard fer a lot o’ folks, losin’ their loved ones to me violence and all . . . ” Mr. Dale looked away from the orderly for a moment, his bottom lip quivered for just a second. Then he looked back to the orderly, a little smile stretching the weathered leather. “Maybe when I get in the ground, I can apologize up close-like to those folks, what d’ya think, Jimmy?”
A tear ran down the orderly’s cheek, and he nodded. “Right so, yeh, Jimmy. Right fuckin’ so.”
Mr. Dale nodded, the smile slipping as he turned his head away again.
A minute passed in silence before the orderly could force the lump back down his throat to speak.
“Jimmy?”
“Yeh,” said Mr. Dale softly, still looking at the wall.
“Y’know yer writin’s and such, how the Director has ’em scrubbed off the wall every other day, yeh?”
Mr. Dale just sighed in response.
“Well, ya see,” continued the orderly, a bit hesitant now, “I been copyin’ it all down. Before scrubbin’ it.”