by M. J. Hyland
The tall nurse is standing beside the cot. It’s the same nurse, the one who looked after me last time, but there’s something changed about him, something not right or normal.
‘We meet again,’ he says.
His pupils are dilated and he’s got a terrible red rash across his neck.
He closes the door with his foot.
‘You’ve been unconscious for twelve hours. We thought you might go into a coma.’
I can tell by the way he’s talking and licking his lips that he’s got a dry mouth. I don’t know much about drugs, but it seems to me he’s got a skull full of speed.
‘I need a transfer,’ I say. ‘I want to go to F Wing.’
‘You’ll have to talk to the governor about that.’
‘When can I see him?'
‘I don’t know.’
‘I have to move. I want a transfer to F Wing.’
He looks at the door.
‘What’s the problem?'
He moves his chair in closer to the bed.
‘They beat the crap out of me and sold my body.’
‘Twice a week in Peterson’s cell?'
‘I need a transfer.’
‘Some men wet themselves,’ he says, ‘some shit themselves, but you fainted. That’s a first. Now they’ll get every drop of your dosh.’
‘I didn’t faint. They knocked me out. And I don’t have any dosh.’
‘Do you want me to help you?'
‘Yeah.’
He opens the door, checks the corridor and comes back.
I’m short of breath.
‘Can they get away with this?'
‘You don’t know much, do you?'
I say nothing.
‘I can help you. Do you want my help?'
‘Yeah.’
He promises he’ll arrange for a supply of cigarettes to pay off Platt and Osborne, but only enough for a couple of weeks. After that, I’ll be on my own.
‘All you have to do is let me watch while you do yourself.’
‘What?'
‘Just let me watch.’
‘I’m not doing that.’
‘Then I can’t help you.’
‘You’ll stop me getting transferred if I don’t?’
‘Probably.’
‘You want me to do it now?’
‘Yeah. Now.’
I pull the sheet down and do myself and he watches.
When I’ve finished, he reaches in under the bed and gives me two packs of cigarettes.
‘Hide these in your socks.’
‘Right.’
‘And take these pills. They’ll make you feel a whole lot better.’
He leaves.
I take the drugs he gave me and sleep again and, when I wake, Farrell comes to take me back to the cell. Looks like he’s got a wig on.
‘Get dressed,’ he says. ‘It’s time to go back.’
I get out of the bed and get dressed. I’m stiff and sore and I take my time doing it. He goes to the window and waits.
He turns round. ‘Ready?’
‘I need to see the governor.’
‘You’re on the list for review.’
‘When? It’s urgent.’
‘All in due course.’
‘It’s bad enough I’m in here, I shouldn’t even be in here. Don’t I have any rights?'
‘You’ll see him. You’re up for review.’
‘And I need some money for the phone.’
‘Have you not got any at all?'
‘No.’
‘You’d better get some sent in.’
He takes me to the cell.
Gardam’s back from the psych unit and he’s on his cot shuffling a pack of cards.
‘How about a game of poker, Miss Otis?’
‘I think I’ll read.’
‘Screw you, then.’
‘I’ve just come out of the infirmary. I’ve taken a beating. My skull feels like it’s about to crack open. Feels like a horse kicked me in the spine.’
I go to my cot, lie down and turn my back to him, take the packets out of my socks.
‘Where’d you get those?’
‘A loan from the nurse.’
‘I’ll bet he made you pay.’
‘Right.’
‘You got off pretty lightly though, Ox.’
He’s forgotten about Miss Otis.
‘I’ve got to get hold of some money.’
‘Ask your family.’
‘Yeah. I will.’
He shuffles the cards, looks at me.
‘Could I borrow some money for the phone?’
‘I’m empty,’ he says. ‘My sister owes me a bit, but she’s on a holiday or something.’
‘Right,’ I say.
He sits on the floor, deals the cards.
‘Want to play?’
I sit on the floor.
‘I once won a motorbike with a straight flush,’ he says. ‘It was one of the best nights of my life.’
We play and the only talk is talk of the game. We play with matches and it’s as boring as hell.
I want to quit.
‘Why doesn’t the king of hearts have a moustache?’ I say. ‘All the others do.’
‘Who cares? Just deal.’
‘I can’t be bothered.’
I move to stand and he throws the empty matchbox at me.
‘What the fuck kind of question is that anyway? How the fuck would I know why the king of hearts doesn’t have a moustache?’
‘Relax,’ I say. ‘I was only making conversation.’
‘Who gives a fuck? What’s your fucking problem?’ He goes to his cot and lifts the mattress.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. Just go ahead and deal another hand.’
He drops the mattress.
‘You fucking deal, then,’ he says.
My hands sweat on the cards.
He sits back down.
A half-hour before the morning siren, Farrell wakes me. My head hurts even more than it did yesterday. I should’ve stayed in the infirmary.
I sit bolt up.
‘Platt’s coming for you again,’ he says. ‘You better get what he’s asked for.’
‘I’ve got two packs of cigs.’
‘Okay. Give them to me.’
‘Why?'
‘I’ll hand them over.’
‘Right.’
‘But these won’t buy you much time.’
‘How long do I have?’
‘A week at most.’
After showers, I stop Stan on the landing and ask to borrow some phone money. He gives me fifty pence in exchange for some pool tips and then I catch up to Farrell and ask him if he’ll take me to the phones.
‘Are you going to get what they need?'
‘Yeah. And what about the governor and my transfer?
‘I wouldn’t get my hopes up about a transfer if I were you.’
He takes me straight to the phones after Recess.
He throws another man off the phone.
While I dial the number, he stands in close, tidies his black hair, puts it behind his waxy white ears.
My father answers.
‘Hello, Dad.’
‘Please be quick, son.’
‘I need some money. It’s a matter of life and death.’
‘For drugs?'
‘No, for protection.’
‘How much?'
‘About two hundred pounds. And I’ll pay you back.’
‘How?'
‘I’ve got plans for when I get out. When I get out, I’ll—’
He hangs up.
Gardam’s in the cell.
‘They won’t put me back in psych. They say I’m crying wolf.’
‘Right.’
‘I’ll show them.’
‘You do that,’ I say.
I lie prone on my cot all day, don’t bother with the library, don’t bother with anything. I don’t bother with the yard, and I don’t bother with association. My head’s sick aga
in, my gut too. I sleep in snatches, don’t eat the meals.
When the evening tea and cocoa comes, Gardam gets me a cup of tea.
‘Drink this at least,’ he says. ‘I’ve put four sugars in it.’
‘No thanks.’
‘I’ll fucking toss it then.’
‘Why don’t you drink it?'
‘'Cos I made it for you.’
I take the tea and it feels pretty good on my tongue. I turn away from him and shed a few more tears.
Two days later, I’m on the cot. The money order’s arrived by first class with this note.
Dear Patrick,
After this lot, I can’t send you any more money. Your mother and I are emigrating next month and we don’t have any more to spare. I hope this money helps you out of the new trouble you’re in.
I’ve also included a couple of mechanics magazines you left in your room.
Your father.
+ +
After tea, I stop Farrell outside the cell.
‘I’ve got a money order,’ I say. ‘I need it cashed.’
‘Give it here,’ he says. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
He’s going to take the whole lot to pay off Platt and Osborne and leave me with nothing.
‘Do I get to see any of it?'
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I just want some coins for the phone.’
He reaches into his trouser pocket.
‘Use this.’
He gives me two pounds and some coins.
‘I need a bit more. I’ve got to call my brief.’
He gets three more notes and some coins from his pocket. I’ve got just over five quid now. That’s it.
‘Fucking great,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘Mind your language.’
I miss Johnson.
It’s time for association and Lumsden’s putting more pencil marks on the wall next to the plant.
I sit away from him, up close in front of the TV and wait for him to finish. I don’t want to go over straight away and make it too conspicuous. I’ve got to stall a while.
After about twenty minutes I go over to his place by the back wall.
He says nothing.
The news comes on the TV and we both pretend to watch.
‘Thanks for the radio,’ I say.
‘You already thanked me.’
His mood’s no good.
We hardly speak. We say a few words, that’s all. A bit of small talk about the stabbing in F Wing. It wasn’t Johnson who got stabbed.
The siren sounds and we walk together.
In line-up, there’s a delay. One of the gates won’t open. Lumsden stands close and our shoulders touch. He has me in the stomach again.
He moves so that the back of his hand touches mine and I let him do it, and our hands stay like this, and we wait like this for the gates to open.
There’s nothing wrong with this, not in here. I’ll take it.
From him, I’ll take it. Not from anybody else, but from him I’ll take it.
‘Goodbye, Ox,’ he says. ‘See you later.’
I don’t like the way he says this, makes too much of it, makes it too obvious. It should happen if it’s going to happen, but without the chat.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
I watch him turn the corner for F Wing. His canvas shoes are brand new.
Gardam paces next to his cot and chain-smokes, lighting one cigarette from another. He flicks ash on the floor, doesn’t bother to use a tray.
He stops pacing and turns to me.
‘What’s your fucking problem?'
‘I don’t have a problem.’
‘Good.’
I lie down and put a pillow over my head. He sits on the end of my cot.
‘Did you hear about the bloke in H Wing who slit his wrists?'
‘No?'
‘Well, he did. He used a blunt razor. Must have took him hours to cut through.’
Gardam tries to light another cigarette but his lighter fluid’s run out.
‘Fuck.’
He bashes the lighter on his knee, on the edge of the cot, then on the floor.
‘Fuck.’
The very last thing I want is more smoke in the air, but if he doesn’t get a light he’ll be awake all night.
He might reach for the knife.
‘Don’t you have any matches?’ he says.
‘No.’
But I know Farrell has some.
I go to the door and slide open the observation panel and call out for him.
‘Are you fucking crazy?’ says Gardam.
I’ve been shouting for about ten minutes.
Farrell comes.
‘This better be good,’ he says.
‘Gardam needs some matches,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘Gardam can wait.’
‘He can’t,’ I say. ‘He hasn’t had a smoke since breakfast and he’s about to cut up.’
He opens the cell door, but makes me wait, then he reaches into his pocket and takes out a box of matches.
‘Give me twenty,’ he says.
‘On top of the two hundred?'
‘Yeah.’
‘No.’
He laughs, gives me the box, bolts the door.
But he comes straight back.
‘You’re seeing the head-shrinker again tomorrow.’
‘What time?'
‘After breakfast.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
Gardam takes the matches.
‘I owe you,’ he says.
‘Good. Find me a topnotch QC, get me an appeal, get Georgia in here for a contact visit and get my family to forgive me.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Quit smoking.’
The siren sounds and the lights go out. We’re banged up till morning.
33
Dr Forbes is wearing a green dress and she’s got a red band in her hair and red shoes. She looks like the funny and smart Irish girl who worked in the local pub, the one I chatted to for about a month, before I met Sarah.
‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Take a seat.’
I sit and she sits.
‘Hello, doctor.’
I like saying that.
‘Is there anything you’d like to talk about?’
‘Nothing special.’
She looks at me and waits.
‘My dad sent me some money and two mechanics magazines.’
I take the folded note out of my pocket and show her.
‘The kisses he’s put on look more like crucifixes.’
‘That was probably only a reflex,’ she says. ‘There’s a great deal that people do out of habit, unconsciously, without thinking.’
She reads this bit of the letter out loud: Your mother and I are emigrating next month and we don’t have any more to spare. ‘How did that make you feel?'
‘A bit shocked,’ I say, ‘but also a bit like that’s the end of that then. It might be better that they’re overseas, then we can both blame that for the fact that they don’t come and see me. I think my dad’s just acting on his gut.’
‘Do you want to know where they’re going?’
‘It’ll be Australia. My mum loves the idea of Australia.’
She waits for more but I don’t want to say anything more about them.
‘Do you think what you did was a reflex? A gut reaction like your father’s? The night you killed?'
She’s getting a bit carried away here with the psychology.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what I thought before I did it and don’t remember anything except that I wanted him to wake up.’
‘Do you feel sad about what happened?'
I look under the desk at her legs.
‘Yeah. I told you before.’
‘I’d like to hear more.’
‘Like what?'
‘Has the death changed you?’
‘Not really. What do you mean?'
‘Is
there anything different about the way you think or feel?'
‘I just think the same thoughts over and over. Like a fucking cow chewing his cud.’
‘I think that’s pretty normal,’ she says. ‘Can you tell me what the thoughts are?'
Her foot swings back and forth, the heel of her red shoe slipping from her ankle. Her stockings shine above her knee.
‘Patrick?’
I clear my throat.
‘I can give you one example of how I feel,’ I say.
‘Okay.’
‘Last night when I got into bed, I thought about Welkin. When I moved my legs across the part of the sheet I’d made warm with my body, I thought, the sheets will stay cold when you’re dead. He’ll stay cold. He’s cold and dead.’
‘How did you feel when you read all the reports in the paper about him?'
‘I didn’t read them.’
She frowns.
If Dr Forbes stood now and went to the door I’d follow her and we’d go down the hall and nobody would stop us because she’d tell them not to follow us and they’d listen to her and she’d take me outside, through the gates, out beyond the prison walls. We’d get in her car and drive to the sea and on the way we’d stop at a roadside café and in the car I’d put my hand on her leg just above where the hem of her skirt is.
‘Patrick?'
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Even if I didn’t kill him I’d probably have found another nail.’
She lifts her chin.
‘My grandfather gave me a good winter coat when I turned sixteen,’ I say. ‘And in less than three months or something I’d ripped it in three places on three nails. No, two nails and some barbed wire. If there’s a nail, I’ll find it.’
Dr Forbes puts the lid on her pen and puts the pen on her desk.
I want to tell her about Gardam, but I can’t rat on him and I can’t tell her about Farrell, Osborne and Platt either. But maybe I can tell her about Lumsden.
‘Is this coat important to you?'
‘No.’
‘When did you last wear it?'
‘I was wearing it when I arrived at the boarding house and I didn’t want to take it off and put it on the coat-rack.’
We’re silent again. I look at her hands.
‘Is there anything else you want to tell me?'
If I start on Lumsden I’m not sure I’ll like what comes out.
‘No.’