Lingua Franca

by William Thacker

  The nurse looks alarmed that we appear to know each other. There’s been a mistake, a glitch in the system. The nurse unfolds the duvet so that Nigel might lie down. He remains standing. He wags a finger in their direction. ‘Have you heard of the NHS constitution? This is an abdication of your responsibilities!’

  They shush him when he speaks. He raises a finger and says, ‘I will not be silenced!’ They look at one another like it’s time to activate the emergency procedure. Some kind of chokehold, no doubt. Nigel looks at me like he’s a Shakespearean messenger; he has some important information and he needs to let it be known. ‘Miles, these people are criminals. They don’t know the first thing about running a hospital. They refuse to let me speak and they won’t let me make any calls.’ He rages about the lack of Wi-Fi, and the inherent bias in giving some patients coffee and cake.

  I keep my arms at my side.

  ‘Miles? Are you listening? I can’t get hold of anyone. Where’s Darren? And Kendal? I got lost in the storm until I got dragged out by these savages. Miles? Say something!’ He points at me and shouts to the room, ‘This man is under duress! Is there a lawyer in the house?’ The guard creeps towards him like he’s trying to catch a mouse. ‘This is a violation of every conceivable UN charter!’ I’ve never seen him wail so much. The guard closes in on the mouse and grabs hold of him. ‘Let go of me! What is this?’ The nurse beckons for another guard. They grapple until the guards begin to dominate. ‘Miles! Get them off me! We can take them! Miles!’ The nurse looks at me, making sure I realise there will be consequences if I help. I look at the ceiling and say nothing, like a good silent citizen. I keep my hands at my side and as neutral an expression as I can. Nigel looks at me, his face visible through a neck hold. ‘Wake up, Miles! This is industrial sabotage!’ They lead him down the corridor and I can hear him shouting. He’s shouting about how they’re not fit to call themselves a hospital; they should be subject to a government inquiry and brought down. He calls them totalitarian, an impressive syllable count for someone who’s being manhandled by two guards. I don’t want to think about what they’ll do to him. It would take a crate-load of drugs to anaesthetise Nigel. I can hear my name being shouted a couple more times. Then silence.

  The nurse looks at me and straightens the duvet. She wants to make sure I’m tucked up. She puts a hand on my forehead. I could swear that she’s never looked so proud. She writes a note to ask if she can get me anything. I ask for a coffee. I remind her that it was supposed to come at nine o’clock sharp.

  17. THE WIZARD OF BOSCH

  The days become not so much days, but sequences of light and dark, and uneventful nothingness. I don’t really feel like Miles Platting, founder of Lingua Franca. I feel like a body waiting to be exhumed. Or like Lenin, with my very own box. No one takes hold of my limp hand. No one seems to panic, when it seems for all the world like they should do. It’s like they’ve decided I’m dead already. Nothing they do excites me anymore. The more they feed me the more routine it is. I feel entitled to wake up to a selection of bakery products, as if croissants and scones are the way of the world. It becomes something of an arms race. They increase the rate of croissant supply, they refill my coffee every hour, they want me to do the crossword, as if crosswords are the best thing in the world; they implore the psychiatrist to give me a foot rub, but I don’t give it any more importance than getting a pat on the back. They should just plug some hot syrup into my arm.

  I lie back and I start to feel it would be nice to walk somewhere. I’d rather go for a walk than lie in bed and stare at the walls, with or without food. The bed opposite remains empty, a Nigel-shaped void. No doubt he’s being medically examined or cattle-prodded. The room smells fresher without so many bodies. I begin to lose my sense of time. I couldn’t say whether it’s Monday or Thursday. I only seem to notice the nurse when she waves a sheet of paper in my face.

  You’re looking much better!

  I don’t bother to write. I just nod. I ask the nurse if she could restrict my meals, maybe just to one bowl of fruit per day. She smiles as if I’m being polite, and that really, I must be joking. She’s never known me to reject the croissants, so she’ll believe it when she sees it. She collects some of the mugs and walks to the corridor, no doubt to check if my pizza’s ready. I lie with a straight back and close my eyes. There seems to be infinite time, a vast space in which to think. In Stella Artois, there’s never enough time; there’s always a pitch to prepare, or clients to meet. I lie for a bit longer. I don’t suppose there’s anything to keep me awake. I feel duty-bound to think about who’s at the office, what they’re doing and whether they’re making any sales. In my absence, and Nigel’s derangement, the company has no wheels. It’s a stationary train carriage, flat on the tracks; the passengers must wait for the emergency services, who don’t speak any language. I find myself looking at the ceiling and projecting onto it my own planetarium. My universe extends from the air vent on the left to the curtain rail on the right. I make up constellations that I give names like The Cobweb and The Moth, imaginary dots that should be worshipped. All hail The Moth. In my universe, nothing needs to get done, and no one needs to go anywhere. I could go to sleep, then wake up and name something else. I could come up with a new alphabet. We could replace the question mark with a §. How does that sound§ I start thinking about the cosmos, the universe expanding and what will happen when the sun dies. I wonder what Nigel’s evacuation process would be. There will be a scientific name ascribed to whatever’s happening. We’ll call it heat death, which sounds better than the end of everything. It’s hard to think there’s a world outside of these walls – a vast, nameless world, with supernovae and dark matter. Maybe in the future, a new Lingua Franca will colonise the moon and rename each hemisphere after washing machine brands. I want to fly to Bosch.

  It gets to the next morning and I’m still in bed. I’ve got a collection of mugs and a bowl of soggy cereal. Yesterday’s croissant has developed a hard, crusted shell. Somewhere in my coat pocket is the envelope containing the verdict on Miles Platting. If I want to read it, I’d have to rummage through my coat, before pulling out the unmarked envelope. I’d have to take a moment to read what Eden’s written, and even longer to try and understand it. It would wake me up, no doubt. First I’d feel ashamed; a teardrop would fall upon the page. Then I’d get emotional. I’d start blaming others for everything. I’d rant about how the hospital’s done everything wrong. I’d tell them they’re contravening X, Y and Z of the UN charter, just like Nigel. I’d pull all the plugs from the medical equipment. I’d throw my half-eaten croissant on the floor. I’d insist upon wearing a robe, rather than the thin patient gown. Nigel and I would find ourselves banished to the laundry room, or made to peel potatoes. I find the energy to lean across and feel inside my coat pocket. I remove the envelope, which is unaddressed, owing to the fact Nigel photocopied the original and gave it to the police. The original must have said, To Satan. I rip it open like it’s a bank statement or a phone bill. It’s a handwritten letter.

  For the attention of Miles Platting,

  I’m writing this from our laminate living room floor. I’m lying down, which isn’t good for my ribs.

  I want to say thank you for giving me the job. Without this experience, I would never have had the confidence to kill myself.

  When I got the job, I was so made-up, Miles. We even ordered a takeaway pizza. You like a bit of poverty in your candidates, don’t you? You liked it when I said we had a four-year-old daughter and I wanted to be a provider. What did you like about it? Total submissiveness, I guess. A well-fed belly means there’s not enough hunger!

  But I liked Lingua Franca. Really. I was invisible. I could pick up the phone and not give a fuck about what I was selling. I was Eden from Lingua Franca, but I might as well have been Terry from Bathroom Beauties, or Vince from Kent Drainage. You can’t be invisible in Greggs.

  You don’t know this, but we used to play a game where we’d see who could
get the most Michael Jackson songs into our calls. You never seemed to notice, even when I said our offer was a real Thriller. Black or White was a good one. Bad was good. Smooth Criminal was hard. Earth Song impossible.

  Do you remember when you made me get you a coffee from the top floor? I made a note of the door code in case I ever wanted to jump from the roof. You should probably relocate that coffee machine.

  The only thing I want to say is that I think you should quit Lingua Franca and do what you love. Weren’t you once a teacher or something? I find that sad. A real fucking shame.

  I’ve left a folder with all my leads in the drawer. Dudley’s a good bet. Call it BNP Paribas.

  Thanks again,

  Eden

  It’s not good that I’m staring at the page. It’s not good that a teardrop falls and the ink begins to run. I want to go back underground. I want to get back to my hiding place, where no one can see me cry. I stare at the words a little longer, then hold it closer to my chest. I look around and try to regain my cool. I don’t want to explain myself in writing. I pull myself under the covers. I close my eyes and think of nothing.

  Throughout the morning, they make notes from afar; they don’t want to wake me from my dream. They’d prefer to tolerate my self-induced coma from a distance. In the afternoon, they start crowding round me: the nurse takes my pulse and the doctor examines a monitor. I open my eyes and look up in their general direction. I don’t stare hard. I’m like the weary victim of a road traffic accident, looking up at two police officers who survey the wreckage. I want to open my mouth but I seem to have developed an in-built mechanism against doing such a thing. I’m not sure I’d even be able to speak properly. I don’t feel like an entrepreneur, a man in a suit. I’m present in the room but I wouldn’t say I feel alive. I’m part of the lived world, but somewhere else too. I’m a decomposing corpse, consumed by bacteria: asleep, dull… nowhere. I can only just feel the tap on my wrist which comes from the nurse. She’s holding up a note.

  Miles, well done. You’re ready to go.

  I don’t respond. I make no effort to nod, or smile, or write something back. I’m half asleep, half belonging to another space and time, another dimension. I’m aware they’re writing notes about me. I know I’ve become the focus of their efforts. The guard helps me to my feet. It would be difficult to stand without the guard. I know the routine, which helps. I stick out my arms so that they slide into the robe without fuss. I let them straighten my belt and pull the slippers onto my feet. I let them adjust my collar and I notice my name has been etched onto the breast pocket. I know the decorum and the blank face it necessitates. They know what they’re doing, too. They’re expert professionals when it comes to putting men in robes and handing out candles. I take the candle. And I smile. I feel like I’m part of something. It feels like the best day of my life.

  I’m involved in my own funeral procession, the slow walk from the hospital doors along the path. We follow the candlelit line. We walk under the yellow traffic barrier that looks like a crossbar on a football field, then through the car park and onto the main road. Behind us, the hospital looks like a 1970s university campus, set within countryside. We take care to cross the road, avoiding the oncoming traffic. I wonder if the drivers think we look strange, or maybe they’ve come to expect people like us. A pedestrian looks in our direction and nods, but he doesn’t consider us any more significant than he would a policeman on a horse. There’s a small Methodist church with a crowd gathered at the entrance. Someone is shaking a bucket in front of a sign that reads:

  Lingua Franca Crisis Appeal

  No one shouts anything, which means they shake the bucket hard. I don’t recognise any of them. These are just the townspeople, whose sympathies are with Lingua Franca for whatever’s happened to our company. Have we been wiped out completely? Am I the mad, sole survivor, bar the blithering Nigel? It makes me want to walk to the church and find out who’s alive. I want to put down my candle and stop the procession. But we keep going. We walk uphill into a stretch of road that feels more remote, lit by grey street lamps, with cattle gates, boring bungalows and hedges. The road narrows into a dark, wooded descent. A railway track dissects the woodland, and we’re separated from the track by a small metal fence. Is this where they’re going to kill me? Am I going to be tied down and hit by a train to Birdseye? I almost drop the candle. We pass underneath the jagged stonework of a ruined arch. There’s an English Heritage sign with a faded imprint: Furness Abbey. It needs a new sign, a new name. We walk along a stone path so we don’t have to tread on the soft, wet ground. We emerge into an open space, which would once have been a courtyard. Then we stop. I’m here, wherever I’m meant to be. Here we are, in the middle of a ruined abbey, made of sandstone and lit by candles. There are two centurion-style guards on either side of an arch. Someone’s leading a slow drum rhythm so that my arrival has some kind of musical accompaniment. Then we’re joined by several robed men and women, who emerge as if from the bushes. They position themselves in two distinct groups on either side of a lectern. I’m in the spotlight. The whole congregation is looking at me. At the lectern is a man wearing a white gown that differentiates him from the red robes. He has a rod by his side and a gold chain around his neck. He looks like a wizard. He bangs the rod against the lectern and beckons me forward. The drum continues its steady pound. The wizard presents me with a scroll on which it says:

  Miles Platting, you are ready to be discharged. Please sign this consent form and join us in observing a minute’s silence to signal the end of your initiation.

  They hand me a feathered quill. I look at the wizard, who doesn’t look like he’d be happy if I declined the invitation. What’s the alternative? I could go back to my hospital bed and lie for a bit longer. I wouldn’t get much sleep. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I never saw Kendal. And I don’t think they’d serve me coffee anymore. I walk to the lectern and the wizard rests the scroll flat. They show me where to print my name. I lean over to write my signature. Miles Platting, signatory. Advocate of the random scroll as presented by our robed friends in the ruined Furness Abbey. There’s a gong struck somewhere, which signals the start of the minute’s silence. The wizard closes his eyes. The rest of them link hands like they’re remembering a dead person. This is the silent state, remembering its glorious dead, who happen to be alive. Some of them look at me, just in case I’m not observing the silence. The trouble is that I look confused; I don’t look solemn enough. I start to relax and pretend I’m one of them. I’m there, standing amid the ruins, with my eyes shut. If I were to shout aloud, it would cause the most extraordinary offence. It would be the worst thing I could do. The worst way to offend silent people is to shout something aloud. I link hands with the wizard. I’m silent too. A trumpet sounds. I almost expect there to be a twelve gunshot salute. The war is over. I’m through to the next stage. I’m brought forward to shake hands with some of the dignitaries, who are essentially just men in robes. The wizard lifts his rod and points it forward. I’m given a nudge and we walk in a procession once more. We follow the line of candles through an enclosed woodland path. They lead me to the little hut on the edge, some kind of gatekeeper’s lodge. A little further is a brownstone pub called the Abbey Tavern, but some of its letters are missing so it’s spelt Ab ey Ta ern, like something in Welsh. The wizard knocks his rod on the wooden door. We stand around. I’m standing next to a wizard and a group of men in robes. It feels like something from a fable: three little pigs, or something with bears. We wait a little longer until the door opens. I know the face, but the context is wrong. I’ve never seen Darren in this context. I’ve never seen him wearing a red robe, and unwilling to speak. I want to say his name. I want to ask him what’s inside. He smiles to acknowledge my presence, my turn in the queue, but otherwise he’s got a blank expression. If he were going to shout something, now would be the time. He’d say, ‘Run away, Miles!’ But he doesn’t look afraid of anything. He doesn’t think I should run aw
ay. If he could open his mouth, he’d probably tell me that everything’s alright. He wants me to know that he’s been inside and everything’s okay. They don’t bite. They won’t boil me in a cauldron or throw me to the lions. Go inside, Miles. You might be surprised at what you find.

  Darren walks towards a taxi, which is opened by someone who looks like a druid. Whatever else, Darren’s still a boy who’ll do what he’s told. They probably brainwashed him in twenty seconds. I make a ‘call me’ gesture, and Darren responds by mimicking a keyboard typist. He looks pretty serious about this. The druid holds open the passenger door. Darren gets inside. Someone will be waiting to order a taxi in the name of Miles Platting.

  The wizard holds open the door to the pub. It’s my turn. There’s no music, no sound of anyone inside. It’s just an old stone building and I’m meant to enter. I’m ready to finish my story. I’m ready to get a telling-off, or a certificate of merit. I’m ready for something. I want to go home. Next to the entrance is a black chalkboard. I look at the words and I feel my hand against my heart. The old specials have been erased: you can just about make out Roast Beef and Hewlett Packard pudding. What’s more important are the new words, in thick white chalk.

  The Ministry of Silence.

  I look over my shoulder. The druids and wizards know what’s coming, even if I don’t. They seem to get it. They see my fear.

  I breathe out, like I’m standing on the edge of a diving board. And I step into the darkness.

  18. THE LEA-RIG

  The first thing you notice is the wall of sticky yellow squares, the thousands of words overlaid and repositioned, some in complete sentences, and others a little more monosyllabic. One of them says Bradford. Another says Did you call Rochdale? Someone will be doing a fantastic trade in Post-It notes. Adhesive is the new gold.