A woman’s voice announces, ‘Six o’clock, young gentlemen!’
A bright light comes on. I blink at two figures in black dresses and white caps.
‘Nuns?’
‘Droids, programmed as nuns,’ whispers the boy in the next bed. ‘No bedside manner here, mate!’
‘Time to wake up!’ The nun speaking has a severe, unsmiling face. ‘Come along! Sit up, please!’
‘You!’ shouts the other nun. She’s tall and strong, and grabs me roughly by my night shirt, forcing me back onto the foot of the bed. She lowers the metal bed rail, and bundles me back beneath the sheets. ‘You know the rules, boy! You stay in bed until we get you out!’
‘Gently, Sister Augusta; his arm is injured,’ says the other droid sternly. ‘He is a new inmate, and only came to Number Forty last night. He has not had time to learn the rules yet.’
I stare at the other ‘inmates’, nine other lads around my age. Eight of them are pale and colourless, dressed in the same starched grey pyjamas, sitting up, or lying in metal beds with grey blankets. Only two other beds besides mine have rails. Our white sheets and pillowcases are crisp and clean.
I’m sure the ninth face belongs to Saul’s brother, Emmett Hudson. His appearance and surname give him away. The Hudsons’ origin is a country called Nigeria, although they’re British-born – immigration to Britain has been illegal since twenty thirty-two. Emmett has a look of Saul. He grins at me with large white teeth, the way Saul grins. I feel a pang, homesick for my old mates.
I take in my surroundings. Each bed has a small locker next to it with three plastic bottles on the top. We all have our own small table at the foot of our beds, and there are washbasins at the end of the room. The floor is lined with stone tiles, the walls made of solid concrete. I look up at the window. It’s too small to climb through, even if I could reach it. Everything in the room is neat and clean, with no dust anywhere. It’s almost sterile.
‘I told him to get back into bed, Mother Superior.’ I recognise the voice: that’s Kappelhoff. He’s a very thin lad, with large, bulging eyes. ‘He wouldn’t listen to me.’
Mother Superior ignores him, and turns to me. ‘Inmates are not allowed out of bed until the nuns and the orderlies assist them, my dear. It is for safety reasons. You have bed rails in case you convulse in your sleep, and fall out of bed. Please make sure you obey this rule. Do you understand?’
‘What if we need the bog?’
‘He means the toilet,’ Kappelhoff jumps in.
‘There are bottles within easy reach for overnight use,’ says Mother Superior, pointing to the bottles on top of my locker, ‘and for the bowels you ring the bell there to call an orderly to take you to the toilet.’
‘Hudson lied, Mother,’ begins Kappelhoff. ‘He said...’
‘Never mind, Mr Kappelhoff, I can quite well believe what Mr Hudson said.’ Mother Superior frowns at Hudson, who sneers back. ‘By the way, young gentlemen, this is Mr Travis. At least that was what the hospital said he was called. Correct, Mr Travis?’
I shrug. Mr Travis! Mother Superior claps her hands, and three men appear, dressed like the orderlies at the hospital. They’ll be droids, too.
‘Toilet round,’ says Mother Superior, ‘then medication, then showers, and into the hall for breakfast.’
I’m desperate now, so I reach for a bottle. The orderlies collect the used bottles, and wheel those of us who need it to the toilet for ‘the bowels’. I don’t need to go, but I want to get away from the other inmates to sort out my whirling head. The unsmiling, silent orderly sits me down on the toilet, then leaves. I’m amazed I’m allowed to have any privacy.
My head feels like it wants to burst. The walls and the lights blur in an alarmingly familiar way, and I’m unable to stop myself from sinking into the void. I soon find myself back in my bed, with Mother Superior bending over me.
‘Doctor is on his way,’ she says in an unexpectedly kind voice. ‘You sleep for a while. You can eat later.’
There’s nothing else to do, since my body feels like lead. I close my eyes, thinking about the Rockets. Do Jenna, Saul and the others have any idea what’s become of me? I doubt it. I dream of an escape, of the Rockets breaking in, finding me, busting me out, but how can they if they don’t even know where I am?
When I wake up Emmett Hudson is sitting on the edge of my bed, a tray resting on his lap.
‘Soup,’ he says. ‘Mother told me to feed you, because the Sisters and the orderlies are busy. Someone went loopy, so they’re busy calming him down.’ He dips the spoon into the soup. ‘It’s chicken. It won’t poison you; the food’s good here. Come on, try some.’
Slowly I sit up, and reach for the tray, but Hudson pulls it away. ‘Leave it. Leptos are spoon-fed after their seizures, in case they have another fit and choke, or spill the food. Anyway, your arm’s bust, so you can’t balance the tray. They’ll do me if you burn yourself! You heard Mother this morning. They’re safety mad in here. We don’t do much for ourselves, except the work they give the fitter ones, and even that isn’t much.’
I fall back against my pillows. Being spoon-fed by an inmate! This place isn’t scary, it’s weird!
‘So how come you’re here without an escort, and allowed to feed me soup?’ I ask. ‘What if you have a seizure?’
‘I’m not a lepto, mate,’ says Hudson. ‘I’m here for, er, another reason. I could get violent if I want to, but don’t worry, they’d zap my probe if I did. Besides, we’re being watched.’
‘Probe?’ My hand flies to my neck. There’s a small lump there. Hudson laughs.
‘Yeah, they injected you. They use the probes to stop us from doing things we’re not supposed to do, like try to escape. They can tell every movement from that probe. They won’t zap you when you fit, though; they know you can’t help that, but you’ll sure as hell feel the pain when they do!’
I study Hudson’s face closely as he calmly mixes the soup.
‘Why didn’t they zap me this morning when I got out of bed? If they knew I was breaking the rules...’
‘The nuns came in. Are you going to have this soup before it gets cold?’
I eat the soup hungrily; it tastes delicious. Hudson offers the spoon again, and I take another mouthful.
‘I know your brother,’ I tell him. ‘You’re Emmett, aren’t you?’
He shrugs. ‘Hudson will do.’
‘Saul’s my mate. He talks about you all the time.’ That’s a lie. I like Hudson, and I want him to think someone on the outside cares about him. ‘He told me where you were. He worries about you. Why are you in here?’
He takes a deep breath. ‘I killed my stepfather. He beat my mum to death, so I hit him with a hammer, and buried him. The guards knew what I’d done because of the probe. They found him, and then they came after me. I just let them take me so they wouldn’t shoot me. I managed to escape the death penalty by pleading insanity, and by agreeing to let the shrinks examine me.’
I know about Saul’s mum, but not the rest. So that’s why Saul never talks about his brother.
‘They had a field day. They decided I couldn’t function in normal society, said I was mentally deranged; and I liked to drink, too, see. You know what they think of under age drinkers, so they put me in here for that, too. I’ve been here for three years.’ He feeds me another spoonful. ‘Anyway, we know your name is Travis, and you’re a lepto. We heard them bringing you in last night. What we don’t know is how they caught you.’
I tell him about the fight, the seizures, and the hospital reporting me to the inspectors. I tighten my fists. ‘They won’t keep me here! You can bet on that! Ouch!’
That’s the first time my probe is ‘zapped’.
‘Forget it, mate,’ says Hudson, ‘you’re here for the duration. The only way you’ll get out is when you’re dead. Even then you’ll be buried in the grounds.’
A voice booms from somewhere, ‘That’s enough, Mr Hudson. Let Mr Travis sleep now.’
I stare wildly around the room. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘I told you, they’re watching us,’ says Hudson, standing up. ‘Well, sweet dreams!’
He picks up the tray and leaves.
2. Institution
Within days I learn the routine of Number Forty
Institution, and what’s expected of me as an inmate. They wake us at six every morning. I take my Tegretol medicine, shower, put on my blue cotton trouser suit, and eat my breakfast with the other inmates in the big hall. The Sisters serve porridge, toast, and tea. There are about five hundred other boys, all between the ages of ten to eighteen, with various mental and incurable conditions I can’t put names to. There are no girls here; they have their own institution somewhere else. One strict rule is no talking at meal times, but occasionally Hudson whispers the odd piece of information.
‘See him on that table over there, with the greasy hair?’ Kappelhoff hisses at Hudson to shut up, but Hudson ignores him. ‘That’s Brennan. He’s got manic depression. Tried to top himself twice. The one next to him is Howard; he’s got a brain injury. He can’t do anything for himself.’
Except for the look of misery on his face Brennan looks like any other lad, but Howard’s small body is twisted uncomfortably in a chair. I catch his eye. He laughs, waving back.
‘Come along, Mr Howard,’ says Sister impatiently as she presses a spoonful of porridge to his lips.
Up until dinnertime we’re divided into our various age groups, and given a form of education: reading, writing, drawing, and work with numbers. After a dinner of sandwiches we enjoy an hour’s fresh air in the exercise compound if it isn’t raining, then the healthier lads have to help with preparing the evening meal in the kitchens, cleaning the toilets, or tidying the wards. When my arm heals I have to muck in with the rest. Supper is at six, nearly always a stew, with vegetables and potatoes. We’re given more medication, an hour’s free time, and sent to bed at seven-thirty.
There are no clocks, but we always know the time because Mother Superior announces the hour. She has our day timetabled to the second.
On my second day I have an interview with the institution director, a Professor Michael Charles Chase. Sister Augusta escorts me to his office on the top floor of the building. She knocks, and a voice tells us to come in.
‘Welcome to Number Forty Institution, Mr Travis,’ says the professor, indicating a chair. Professor Chase is a balding man, wearing a dark suit, a white lab coat, and small, gold-rimmed glasses. I wonder if he’s a droid, too, but they don’t usually get the top jobs. Droids are generally designed to serve, like maids or, in the institution’s case, nuns and orderlies. The professor smiles, but his grey eyes are cold.
‘I am a neurosurgeon as well as a trained psychiatrist,’ he says. ‘Do you know what that means?’
‘You’re a head doctor,’ I reply shortly.
‘That’s right. I also oversee the management of this establishment. I am responsible for the mental health and welfare of all the boys. In your particular case you have epilepsy. Here I can maintain your safety, and the safety of the public in the outside world.’
He pauses, presumably for me to say something. When I don’t his fake smile fades. ‘You have been probed. Do you understand what that means?’
‘Yeah.’ And I’m still narked about it! ‘You’ve stuck one in my neck!’
‘We didn’t detect an ID probe when you arrived, so you have one now. Not only will it identify you as an individual, it is to make sure you follow the rules here, and don’t do anything – rash.’
‘Like what?’ I snarl. ‘Try to escape, you mean?’
‘Escape is impossible,’ he states, ‘but the probe will prevent you from attempting, yes. It is also to ensure you do not become violent. Abusive behaviour is not tolerated. If you disobey our rules you will receive a small electric current from the probe. However, while we are restrictive here, we are not unkind. We will see to it that you get daily medical treatment, and have regular sessions with our duty psychotherapist.’
‘If there’s no cure for what I’ve got,’ I interrupt, ‘then I don’t know why you’re bothering.’
‘This is a specialist hospital, Mr Travis, not a prison. You are not here to serve a sentence, you are here to live out your days comfortably. There are fifty trained androids on hand should you suffer a seizure. You had one yesterday morning. We took care of you, did we not?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then you will appreciate our efforts. You will of course be aware that all uncontrolled medical conditions are unacceptable in everyday society. There is no room for physical or mental deficiency in our world today. That is the reason why the institutions exist.’
‘To protect the clean,’ I finish in a bitter voice. ‘I know. I’ve seen the publicity.’
‘It is the law of the land.’ The professor presses a button on the corner of his desk, and a nun enters the room. ‘Take Mr Travis back to his ward, please. Good morning, Mr Travis.’
‘Loser,’ I mutter on my way out, and receive a shock from the probe for my trouble.
Hating Chase keeps me sane; so does my plan to escape. It’s the only thing occupying my mind, but I know it won’t be easy. I might even die trying.
We’re constantly watched, our every move observed, our every word monitored. The windows are too high to reach, and covered with metal bars, anyway. Then there are the probes. You only have to bare your teeth at someone, and they ‘zap’ you.
The days drag slowly. It isn’t the harsh and cruel life I’ve come to expect, it’s just dull. The boredom is sometimes unbearable. The dark, dismal surroundings don’t do much to help the depressed amongst us. There’s talk of suicide. The younger kids cry a lot. I get to know the other lads on my ward, but we don’t make friends; we only tolerate one another. I tolerate Hudson the most, and Kappelhoff the least.
Every week I have to visit the psychotherapist. I’m deliberately stroppy, he’s irritatingly cheerful.
‘So how are we today, Mr Travis?’ he asks.
It’s probably my sixth visit. I’ve lost count.
I slouch in the chair. ‘How d’you think? Bored witless, and wondering what the hell I’m doing here!’
I shudder. The probe doesn’t like that.
Alexander scribbles notes. ‘Not settled in very well, then?’
‘Like I said, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’m not a bloody mental case, not like some of them in here!’
‘You don’t have to be a mental case, as you put it. You have incurable epilepsy. You’ve had a total of, let me see, eight seizures in all since you’ve been here.’
‘Doesn’t make me a nutter, though; and it doesn’t mean I have to sit here listening to the crap coming out of your gob!’
Another shock.
‘Epilepsy can be a debilitating condition when seizures occur regularly,’ says Dr Alexander calmly. ‘It can get you down, make you depressed. You seem very depressed to me.’
‘Are you surprised?’ I shout, clasping my neck, and groaning irritably. ‘They’ve thrown me in this dump to rot! Even the bloody mice are depressed in here!’
‘Yes. Well, I will speak to Professor Chase about putting you on a course of mild sedation. This is our sixth session, and you show no signs of settling down. You are restless. I will suggest a course of treatment which won’t affect your epilepsy medication.’
When the ten minutes are over a nun takes me to the dining hall, and afterwards we all go out into the exercise compound, a piece of land with gravel and grass, surrounded by a high perimeter fence. It isn’t powered with nuclear energy; I suppose all they have to do is to activate our probes if we try to scale it. I’m not going to let that stop me! My mind’s made up. I’m out of here!
There are two orderlies on exercise duty. Me, Hudson, and some others have a ball to play with, kicking it, throwing it, catching it; other lads are just sitting around, talking. Kappelhoff is alone as usual. We stray quite close to the fe
nce facing the woods, and I’m about to throw the ball to Hudson, when my eyes wander towards the trees. I look around for the droids; they’re fussing over a couple of the lads at the other end of the compound, telling them to get up off the damp ground.
I see my chance.
Hudson calls for the ball. I throw it, but not at him. I aim it high enough so it easily clears the fence, watching as it rolls on the other side.
‘What the – Travis! You plank, that was our only ball! Ow!’ Hudson staggers sideways as his probe reacts.
‘Shush!’ I hiss. I stare at the ball, lying on the grass near the edge of the trees. ‘I’ll get it.’
Immediately the others surround me. Hudson grabs my arm. ‘Travis, you’ll never make it!’
‘Keep an eye on the droids – and Kappelhoff. I’m going over.’
‘But you’ll be seen!’ says another lad. ‘You won’t make it. You’ll – you’ll be shot!’
I laugh. ‘Who’s going to shoot me? I’ve never seen the droids brandishing guns!’
The lad is about to say something else, when Hudson holds him back. ‘Let Travis find out what’ll happen. If he won’t believe us, he’s going to have to learn the hard way.’
I start to climb the fence.
‘Gather together,’ Hudson says to the others. ‘Come on, shield him.’
I’ve climbed loads of fences in my time, so I don’t find this one difficult, and I don’t expect to get over without being seen. Kappelhoff’s voice is the first to call out.
‘Orderlies, Travis is on the fence!’
Hudson is on top of Kappelhoff like a flash, but the shock from his probe is strong enough to throw him to the ground. For some reason mine isn’t affected, so I carry on. The droids don’t come after me, either; they just stand together, shoulder-to-shoulder, watching, like they’re waiting for something to happen. The lads watch, too. No one comes running out shouting at me to stop! I don’t care why. I think, naïvely, I’m going to get away with it.
I jump to my freedom, landing heavily on my arse, but I’m not hurt. I throw the ball into the compound, and start to run.
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