by Ed Gorman
* * *
The cold urine was seeping into Helena's legs, burning her. Without a word, Bentham slipped both her arms under Helena's and lifted her up, perching her on her stiff, unsteady legs. Locked together like marathon dancers, they staggered slightly while Bentham reached behind and tugged down Helena's sodden underpants. "Dirty, dirty," murmured Bentham. "Dirty, dirty bitch."
She lifted Helena's dress, baring her backside to the world. A hot flannel hit Helena's back and the nurse scrubbed hard, washing, drying and dusting her with talc. She pulled fresh incontinence pads onto the chair and sat Helena down, pulling her wet dress up at the back, sitting a crocheted blanket on her lap to hide her naked legs.
"Don't be a dirty bitch like your mother." Bentham's face was inches from Helena's. "D'you understand? I looked after your mother. She was a dirty bitch as well."
She reached down below the arm of the chair and pinched the skin on Helena's boney hip, twisting it between her fingers. Helena jumped, not understanding what she was feeling but knowing it was pain.
"Yes," said Bentham softly, "you understand that, don't you?"
Bentham walked over to a fat woman sitting directly across from Helena. "This is Mrs. Hove. And this is what happens to dirty old bitches," she slid her fingers deep into Mrs. Hove's thick white hair. It was as soft as duckling fluff. Bentham tightened her fingers into a fist and tugged, jerking Mrs. Hove's head back. Mrs. Hove squealed with surprise and swung her fat arm back, trying to hit her assailant but it was the wrong arm on the wrong side. Nurse Bentham watched her and sniggered.
The door opened. Matron came in followed by Alison Tombery. They saw Bentham standing by Mrs. Hove, holding her hair, and stopped dead. "What are you doing there, Nurse?"
"I was going to set Mrs. Hove's hair this afternoon, Matron." Nurse Bentham stroked Mrs. Hove's hair, "But it doesn't seem to need a wash."
"Good, well, perhaps we could leave it until tomorrow."
Helena was staring at the crocheted blanket, picking thoughtlessly with arthritic fingers.
* * *
Alison Tombery came to visit on the second day, fussing around her mother and trying to feed her lunch. Helena wouldn't take anything. Alison smiled at Bentham.
"Is she eating, Nurse?"
Bentham looked at Helena.
"She isn't eating much but she's drinking a lot, aren't you, ducks?"
"Are you all right, Mum?"
Helena smiled to the air, showing off her ragged yellow teeth. The summer light played softly through the trees outside the window and Helena lifted her hands, reaching out to the thing she was smiling at. The backs of her hands were peppered in little purple bruises, like splashes of ink on tissue paper.
"What happened here?" Alison asked Bentham.
Bentham held Helena's fingers and looked sad.
"She banged them on the cot sides last night. We tried putting padding on the bars but she pulled it off."
"Oh, dear. What have you done to yourself?"
Helena looked Alison full in the face and smiled, drawling a strangled "Yaaaaanng."
Alison sat back and looked despondent.
"She wasn't always like this. She was a journalist, you know. The first woman ever to edit the Leicester Mercury."
"We have many professional ladies in this room," said Bentham. "Mrs. Hove over here was a furrier. Mrs. Clutterbuck over there" —she pointed to a skeletal woman slumped in an armchair in the corner— "was a GP."
"Illness is a great leveler, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Bentham, "it certainly is."
Alison Tombery didn't come on the third day. Or the fourth. Or the fifth. She phoned on the sixth to say she was going on holiday and wouldn't be in for a week, could Matron phone this number in Portugal if her mother's condition changed.
* * *
Helena Lawrence had been in the Babies' Room for a week. Thomas was in a good mood. She had counted the days and had exactly one month and one week left before she could leave. She wanted to leave Roseybank, the staff hated her. Just over a month and the Annex would be behind her, Staff Nurse Evans couldn't touch her.
It was early morning. Thomas was making the beds up while Bentham washed and changed the babies. They were waiting for the breakfasts to come up from the kitchen. It was quiet in the room and the Babies gurned contentedly as warm water sloshed in the basins and fresh sheets flapped over beds. Quite suddenly a shriek erupted in the far corner. Thomas dropped the clean sheet and spun around.
Bentham was standing over little Mrs. Clutterbuck, holding her arm. Mrs. Clutterbuck's mouth gubbed silently but her blank-eyed stare was eloquent. She was in so much pain she couldn't breathe. Bentham turned slowly. "Go back to your work, Thomas."
Horrified, Thomas walked over to them, "What on earth are you doing to her?"
"Go back to your work."
Mrs. Clutterbuck's arm was wrong, it was hanging wrong, at an absurd angle.
"You've dislocated her shoulder, Bentham, how the hell did you do that?"
Bentham let go of the arm carelessly, it fell crazily, twisting forward. Mrs. Clutterbuck closed her eyes, tilted her head back and let out a high, shrill whinny. Bentham seemed very calm.
"Go back to your work. Mrs. Clutterbuck fell over."
"How could she fall over?" Thomas snorted indignantly. "She's sitting down."
Bentham watched Thomas's face and reached around, yanking Mrs. Clutterbuck out of the chair by her dislocated arm and dropping her on the floor. Mrs. Clutterbuck landed on her good shoulder and panted with pain. Quiet suddenly, she stopped panting and gurgled. Her good arm crept up to her chest, her little hand contracting like a dying flower. Expressionless, Bentham watched her.
"Okay, now she has fallen over," said Bentham slowly. "You'd better go and get Matron."
Thomas staggered backward out of the room, running when she got to the stairs. She came back with Matron.
"What has happened?" demanded Matron.
Thomas didn't know what to say. "She's on the floor," she said stupidly.
Matron saw Bentham at the far end of the room, crouching next to the slight little body by the bed. She bent down and took Mrs. Clutterbuck's pulse. Thomas stared at Bentham. Bentham had murdered Mrs. Clutterbuck and she was standing casually, watching Matron, her arms folded, one foot resting on the other. Matron stood up slowly.
"How did she manage to fall?" Her voice was hoarse. "She couldn't stand up."
Thomas waited for Bentham to own up but she didn't. She looked at Thomas, licking her lips, raising an eyebrow, waiting for her to speak.
"I was making the beds," said Thomas finally, "and Nurse Bentham was washing her—"
"No," interrupted Bentham, turning to Matron, "I was making the beds. She was washing her and then I heard a terrible noise. I came over and she was lying on the floor."
"That's a lie," shouted Thomas, "Matron, I was making—"
Matron raised her hand,
"First, let's get her into bed and pull the screens."
Matron pulled the screens around the bed as Thomas and Bentham lifted Mrs. Clutterbuck's body into the bed, her dislocated shoulder hanging wildly at the side.
"You bloody idiots," muttered Matron. "Do you two have any idea how serious this is? She's had a heart attack and her shoulder's dislocated. Her children and her grandchildren are doctors, they gave her a medical a month ago and there was nothing wrong with her." She rubbed her eyes hard and sighed. "Thomas, undress Mrs. Clutterbuck and lay her out. Bentham, you come with me."
Matron stormed out with Bentham at her heels, leaving Thomas alone with Mrs. Clutterbuck. She only had a month and a week left. If they pressed charges Thomas would lose more than her references. Mrs. Clutterbuck lay on the bed, tiny and helpless, her gumsy mouth hanging open like a baby bird waiting to be fed.
Gently, Thomas rolled the nightie over Mrs. Clutterbuck's bony legs and up to her waist. Sliding her left hand under the small of her back, she lifted her slightly, pulling t
he nightie up with the other hand. She stopped. Mrs. Clutterbuck's skinny legs were covered in bruises, bruises shaped like four-fingered slaps, bruises like knuckle dents and small cuts like compass scratches. Losing her breath, Thomas pulled the rest of the nightie off Mrs. Clutterbuck and stood back. Her sagging tummy was worse. A large, deliberate cross was cut into the blackened skin. Mrs. Clutterbuck's chest heaved and she burped a stinking black liquid, it splattered out over her lips. It smelt like liver. Thomas blinked and it came to her: Bentham had asked for her, knowing about the Annex, knowing that Thomas would be blamed. She let Thomas do the teas on her own so that she could have had time to do it. Bentham had been planning the whole thing.
Thomas darted across the room to Mrs. Hove. Mrs. Hove looked up at her, smiling beatifically. "Mrs. Hove," she whispered. "Mrs. Hove, let me see you."
Thomas took the travel blanket from Mrs. Hove's lap and lifted the dress. Above the knees, around her groin, rolls of flesh were covered in red and black welts.
"Oh, Mrs. Hove." Thomas took her plump face in her hands, "Poor, dear, Mrs. Hove."
Thomas went over to Helena, who was picking at an invisible thing on the table. "Can I see?…"
She lifted the dress. Helena's hips and thighs were red and yellow. Matron came through the door, looking stern, with Bentham in tow. They stopped and stared at Thomas.
"What are you doing?" demanded Matron.
"I was looking—"
"You're in a lot of trouble. Get back behind that screen. Small wonder you're crying."
Thomas hadn't realized that she was crying. Bentham trotted across the room and pulled back the screen, gasping melodramatically,
"Oh. My. God," she said, and slapped her hand over her mouth.
Matron looked at Mrs. Clutterbuck. She stepped forward, reached out and gently closed the dead woman's eyes. She turned to Thomas,
"You evil little shit."
"It wasn't me, it was her," gabbled Thomas. "She wouldn't even let me wash them, Matron, I swear to you, Matron, I swear on my life."
"How dare you?" Matron was beside herself. "With your history—"
"No, Matron, no," said Thomas, sobbing now, struggling to speak through the tears, "I didn't touch anyone in the Annex. I told on the others and they couldn't prove anything and I had to leave because they made my life hell. Matron, I told on them, that's why I had to leave."
Matron wasn't listening. She was staring at Mrs. Clutterbuck,
"How could anyone… Unbelievable."
She pulled the sheet up and over Mrs. Clutterbuck's face. Bentham patted Matron's shoulder and Matron acknowledged the kindness with a long, slow nod.
"I'm going to phone the police." She said, "Nurse Bentham, bring Thomas to the office."
Bentham wrapped her big hand around Thomas's upper arm, digging her nails into the skin, as venomous as a playground bully, sneering at her when Matron wasn't looking. She dragged Thomas down the short flight of stairs to the small office. Matron picked up the phone and dialed.
* * *
Matron couldn't bear to stay in the same room as Thomas. She was downstairs, waiting by the door for the police. Thomas was looking out of the window trying to think. She heard Bentham hissing at her,
"You're the next Beverley Allit."
Thomas looked at her.
"You are fucking Beverley Allit."
"They'll hate you, the police, when they find out what you've done."
"I haven't done anything, Bentham. They'll find out it was you when they measure the bruises. My hands are too small to make bruises that big." She could see Bentham glancing at her hands and thinking about it. "You're a mental case, Bentham."
Bentham slid toward the door and took hold of the handle. She turned and grinned. "Be a shame if you got away now, wouldn't it?"
She opened the door, looked outside, and crept out of the room.
Thomas could run. If she got downstairs she could get out of the kitchen door. Over the back wall. She stood up suddenly but stopped at the office door. If she left they'd think she was guilty. Bentham would never get caught. She sat back down. That's what Bentham wanted, that's why she left her alone. She'd be standing in the kitchen, waiting to catch her and make herself the hero. Thomas looked out of the window. The fire escape. There were fire exits all over the house, Bentham couldn't cover them all. She was standing behind the door, sweating and tremorous, wondering which exit to take, when the door opened. Matron was there with two policemen. Her face was very red. She raised her hand and slapped Thomas across the face as hard as she could. "What," screamed Matron, "have you done with Helena Lawrence?"
* * *
Beyond the door Matron was ticking Bentham off for leaving Thomas alone and the other nurses were gathering, quizzing each other and expressing dismay. The sun shone in through the office window, yellowing one of the policemen's trousers. He fumbled in his pocket and leaned across the desk,
"Cigarette, miss?"
Thomas took one and the policeman lit it for her.
"We know you can't have taken her far," said the policeman, "you were only left alone for three or four minutes."
"I stayed in here," said Thomas, knowing they wouldn't believe her, knowing they would have checked with Staff Nurse Evans at the Annex and knowing Evans would relish the chance to drop her in it. "You want to talk to Bentham, not me."
The policeman sighed. "You know, in ten minutes we'll have a full team of officers here and we'll find her anyway. You might as well tell us."
"I don't know where she is. Ask Bentham."
"It'll look better for you if you do tell us."
"I don't know where she is, I swear."
He sat back in his chair and looked out of the window.
"What happened at the Annex, Sarah?"
"You mean you haven't already phoned them? Don't listen to Staff Nurse Evans, speak to someone in admin."
"I'd rather you told me."
Thomas slumped back in her chair. It sounded ridiculous.
"I reported senior members of staff for hitting the patients. The inquiry couldn't prove anything and I was hounded out of my job."
"You didn't hit them yourself?"
"No."
"Why didn't you tell Matron that when you came for the job here?"
She shook her head, "It's harder to get a job as a whistleblower than as an abuser."
The policemen didn't believe her.
"If you were a boss," she said, "would you give a job to someone who snitched on their last boss?"
"Yes," said the policeman, without pausing to think. "Yes, I would. Where is Helena? Is she in a cupboard somewhere?"
They didn't believe her. The inquiry didn't believe her and Matron didn't believe her and the police didn't believe her. Thomas couldn't think of anything to say,
"Can I have another fag, please?"
"Did you kill her, Sarah?"
"I know—"
The policeman cut her off with a raised hand. He cocked his head and listened to a small army of feet jogging noisily up the stairs.
"You've almost missed your chance, miss, d'you want to tell me now?"
The crowd on the stairs arrived outside the door and Thomas heard Matron let out a wordless exclamation. A silence fell over the nurses. The policemen in the office looked at each other. The one with the fags stood up and opened the door a crack, peering out into the hall. Thomas could see Matron's back. She was standing with her arms out at the side, stiff with surprise, staring at something in front of her. The door swung open revealing four tall uniformed policemen standing around Bentham. Two of them were holding her by the arms while another said she didn't have to say anything. Bentham wasn't listening. She was staring ahead, just like Matron, frozen.
"You're on holiday," said Bentham.
Alison Tombery slid into view and smiled as Helena Lawrence stepped into the doorway. She was still wearing her nightie but was standing tall now, wearing incongruous court shoes with a low heel.
"And what," said Helena, quite clearly and distinctly, to Bentham, "Did you do to my mother?"
Brendan DuBois
Old Soldiers
THIS VERSATILE writer enjoys writing about the men and women of the government and what happens when the world passes them by, like in the following story, "Old Soldiers," which first appeared in the May issue of Playboy.