by Iain Banks
'Stop this! What the hell do you think you're doing? Stop it!'
A few turn and look, but they don't stop what they're doing.
One man is making for the door with all three of my umbrellas; 'Put those back!' I shout, blocking his way. I threaten him with my stick. He takes it from me, adds it to the collection of umbrellas and disappears outside.
'Ah, you must be Mr Orr.' A large, bald man wearing a black jacket on top of his overalls, holding a black hat in one hand and a clipboard in the other, appears from my bedroom.
'I certainly am; what the hell's going on here?'
'You're being moved, Mr Orr,' the fellow says, smiling.
'What? Why? To where?' I shout. My legs are shaking; there is a sick, heavy feeling in my stomach.
'Umm ...' The bald man looks through the papers on his clipboard. 'Ah, here we are: level U7, room 306.'
'What? Where's that?' I cannot believe this. U7? That surely means under the rail deck! But that's where workers, ordinary people live. What's happening? Why are they doing this to me? It must be a mistake.
'Don't rightly know, sir,' the man says cheerfully, 'but I'm sure you can find it if you look.'
'But why am I being moved?'
'Absolutely no idea, sir,' he chimes happily. 'You been here long?'
'Six months.'
More of my clothes are taken out of my dressing room. I turn to the bald fellow again. 'Look, those are my clothes. What are you doing with them?'
'Oh, returning them, sir,' he assures me, nodding, smiling.
'Returning them? To where?' I shout. This is all very undignified, but what else can I do?
'I don't know, sir. Wherever you got them from, I suppose. Not my department exactly where they go back to, sir.'
'But they're mine!'
He frowns, looks at his clipboard, ruffling paper. He shakes his head, smiling confidently. 'No, sir.'
'But they are, dammit!'
'Sorry, sir, they're not; they belong to the hospital authorities; says so here - look.' He shows me the clipboard; a sheet of paper details my purchases of clothes from shops on the hospital's credit lines. 'See?' He chortles. 'Had me worried for a second there, sir; that would've been illegal, that would, removing any of your stuff. You could have called the police, you could have, and quite right too, if we'd touched any of your own stuff. You shouldn't go -'
'But I was told I could buy what I liked! I have an allowance! I -'
'Now, sir,' the man says, watching another load of coats and hats go past, and ticking something off on his clipboard, 'I'm not a lawyer or anything like one, sir, but I've been doing this sort of thing for longer than I care to think about, and I think you'll find, sir, if you don't mind me saying, that all this stuff actually belongs to the hospital, and you only had the use of it. I think that's what you'll find.'
'But -'
'I don't know if that was explained to you sir, but I'm sure that's what you would find if you were to investigate the matter, sir.'
'I...' I feel dizzy. 'Look, can't you stop, just for a moment?' I ask. 'Let me phone my doctor. Dr Joyce - you've probably heard of him; he'll sort this out. There must have -'
'Been a mistake, sir?' The bald man laughs wheezily for a moment. 'Bless me, sir. Sorry to interrupt you like that, but I couldn't help it; that's what everybody says. Wish I had a shilling for every time I've heard that!' He shakes his head, wipes one cheek. 'Well, if you really think so, sir, you'd better get in touch with the relevant authorities.' He looks around, 'The phone's around here ... somewhere ...'
'It doesn't work.'
'Oh it does, sir; I used it not half an hour ago, to let the department know we're here.'
I find the telephone on the floor. It's dead; it clicks once when I try to dial. The bald man comes over.
'Cut off, sir?' He looks at his watch. 'Bit early, sir.' He makes another note on his board. 'Very keen those boys at the exchange, sir. Very, very keen.' He makes a little papping noise which his mouth and snakes his head again, obviously impressed.
'Will you please, please just wait a moment; let me get in touch with my doctor; he'll sort this out. His names is Dr Joyce.'
'No need, sir,' the man says happily. An ugly, sickening thought occurs to me. The bald man looks through the sheets of paper on his clipboard. He runs a finger down one of the papers near the back of the bundle, then stops. 'Here we are, sir. Look, here.'
It is the good doctor's signature. The bald man says, 'See, he already knows sir; it was him authorised it.'
'Yes.' I sir down and stare at the blank wall opposite.
'Happynow, sir?' The bald man does not seem to be attempting either levity or irony.
'Yes,' I hear myself say. I feel numb, dead, wrapped in cotton wool, all senses reduced, ground down, fuses blown.
''Fraid we're going to need those things you've got on, sir.' He is looking at my clothes.
'You cannot,' I say wearily, 'be serious.'
'Sorry, sir. We've got a nice and - I might add, sir - new set of overalls for you. You want to change now?'
'This is ridiculous.'
'I know, sir. Still, rules are rules, aren't they? I'm sure you'll like these overalls; they're brand new.'
'Overalls?'
They are bright green. They come complete with shoes, shorts, shirt and rather rough underwear.
I change in my dressing room, my mind as blank as the walls.
My body seems to move of its own accord, performing the motions it is expected to; automatically, mechanically, and then stopping, waiting for a fresh order. I fold my clothes neatly, and as I fold my jacket, see the handkerchief Abberlaine Arrol gave me. I take it from the breast pocket.
When I go back into the sitting room, the bald man is watching the television. It is showing a quiz programme. He turns it off when I enter, bearing my bundle of clothes. He puts his black hat on.
'This handkerchief,' I say, nodding at the handkerchief on top of the bundle. 'It has been monogrammed. May I keep it?'
The bald man motions one of the men to take the bundle of clothes. He takes the handkerchief and looks down a list on his clipboard. He taps at a point on the list with a sharp pencil.
'Yes, I've got the handkerchief down here, but... no mention of it having this letter on it.' He shakes the handkerchief, looking closely at the blue, embroidered O. I wonder if he will have the stitching unpicked and present me with the thread. 'All right, take it,' he says sourly. I take it. 'But you'll have to pay the value of it out of your new allowance.'
'Thank you.' It is curiously easy to be polite.
'Well, that's that,' he says, efficiently. He puts his pencil away. I am reminded of the good doctor. He points to the door; 'After you.'
I put the handkerchief in a pocket in the garish green overalls and precede the fellow from the apartment. All but one of the other men have gone; the last man holds a large piece of rolled-up paper and an empty picture frame. He waits until his superior has locked and chained the door, then whispers something in his ear. The foreman holds out the rolled paper, which I realise is Abberlain Arrol's drawing.
'Is this yours?'
I nod. 'Yes. A gift, from a fr -'
'Here.' He shoves it into my hands, then turns away. The two men walk away down the corridor. I head for the elevator, clutching my drawing. I have gone a few paces when there is a shout. The bald foreman is running towards me, beckoning. I walk to meet him.
He shakes the clipboard in my face. 'Not so fast, chum,' he says. 'There's the small matter of a broad-brimmed hat.'
'This is the office of Dr F.Joyce, and a very good afternoon to you indeed.'
'This is Mr Orr; I want to talk to Dr Joyce; it's very urgent.'
'Mr Orr! How nice to talk you! How are you, this fine day?'
'I... I'm feeling quite terrible at the moment, as a matter of fact; I've just been thrown out of my apartment. Now can I please talk to Dr Joy -'
'But that's terrible, absolutely terrible.'
'I agree. I'd like to talk to Dr Joyce about it.'
'Oh, you want the police, Mr Orr, not a doctor ... unless; well, I mean obviously they haven't thrown you out off the balcony, or you wouldn't be around to -'
'Look, I'm grateful for your concern, but I don't have much money for this phone, and -'
'What, they didn't rob you as well, did they? No!'
'No. Now look, can I please talk to Dr Joyce?'
'I'm afraid not, Mr Orr; the doctor's in conference at the moment ... ahm ... the ... let's see ... ah, the Buying Procedures (Contracts) Committee New Members Subcommittee Elections Committee, I think.'
'Well can't you -'
'No! No, silly me; I tell a lie; that was yesterday; it's the - I thought that sounded wrong - it's the New Buildings Planning and Integration Standing Sub-'
'For God's sake, man! I don't care what damn committee he's on! When can I talk to him?'
'Oh well, you should care you know, Mr Orr; they're for your good too, you know.'
'When can I speak to him?'
'Well, I don't know, Mr Orr. Can he call you back?'
'When? I can't hang around this call box all day.'
'Well, how about at home then?'
'I just told you! I've been thrown out!'
'Well, can't you get back in? I'm sure if you get the police -'
'The doors have been chained. And it was all done with official authorisation and signed by Dr Joyce; that is why I want to sp-'
'Oooooh; you've been relocated, Mr Orr; I see. I tho-'
'What was that noise?'
'Oh, that's the beeps, Mr Orr. You have to put more money in.'
'I haven't got any more money.'
'Oops. Oh well, nice talking to you, Mr Orr. Bye now. Have a nice d-'
'Hello? Hello?'
Level U7 is seven levels beneath the train deck; quite close enough for one to be able to distinguish the difference between a local train, a through-train express and a fast goods by their vibrations alone, even without the concomitant rumbling/screaming/thundering noise as confirmation. The level is broad, dark, cavernous and crowded. On the floor below there is a light engineering and sheet metal works; above, six more levels of accommodation. An odour of sweat and old smoke pervades the thickened atmosphere. Room 306 is all mine. It contains only a single narrow bed, a rickety plastic chair, a table and a thin chest of drawers, and it is still crowded. I smelt the communal toilet on my way here, at the end of the corridor. The room looks out into a lightwell hardly worthy of the name.
I close the door and walk to Dr Joyce's office like an automaton: blind, deaf, unthinking. When I get there, it is too late, the office is closed; doctor and even receptionist gone home. A floor security guard looks at me suspiciously and suggests I get back to my own level.
I sit on my small bed, stomach rumbling, head in hands, looking at the floor, listening to the shriek of metal being cut in the workshop below. My chest aches.
There is a knock at the door.
'Come in.'
A small, grubby man wearing a long, shiny coat of dark blue comes in, shuffling sideways through the door; his eyes flicker round the room, and hesitate briefly only on the rolled-up drawing lying on top of the chest of drawers. His gaze settles on me, though his eyes don't meet mine.
''Scuse me, pal. New here, aren't ye?' He stands by the open door, as though ready to run back out through it. He sticks his hands into the deep pockets of his long coat.
'Yes, I am,' I say, standing. 'My name is John Orr.' I offer my hand; his grabs mine briefly, then scuttles back to its lair. 'How do you do,' I just have time to say.
'Lynch,' he says, addressing my chest. 'Call me Lynchy.'
'What can I do for you, Lynchy?'
He shrugs. 'Nothin'; just bein' neighbourly. Wondered if there was anythin' ye wanted.'
'That's very kind of you. I would be grateful for a little advice regarding an allowance I was told I would receive.'
Mr Lynch actually looks at me, his not-recently-washed face seeming to glow, albeit dully. 'Aw yeah, I can help ye with all that stuff. No problem.'
I smile. In all the time I lived in the more elevated and refined levels of the bridge not one of my neighbours even wished me good-day, far less offered help of any kind.
Mr Lynch takes me to a canteen where he buys me a fishmeal sausage and a plate of mashed seaweed. They are both appalling, but I am hungry. We drink tea from mugs. He is a carriage sweeper, he explains, and occupies room 308. He seems quite unduly impressed when I show him my plastic bracelet and tell him I am a patient. He explains how to go about claiming my allowance, in the morning. I am grateful. He even offers me a small loan until then, but I am too beholden to the man already, and refuse, with thanks.
The canteen is noisy, steamy, crowded, windowless; everything clatters, and the smells do nothing for my digestive processes. 'Chucked ye out, just like that, eh?'
'Yes. My doctor authorised it. I refused to undergo the treatment he had in mind for me; I assume that's why I was relocated, anyway. I may be wrong.'
'What a bastard, eh,' Mr Lynch shakes his head and looks fierce. 'Them doctors.'
'It does seem rather vindictive and petty, but I suppose I have only myself to blame.'
'Total bastards,' Mr Lynch maintains, and drinks tea from his mug. He slurps his tea; this has the same effect on me as nails scratched down a blackboard; I grit my teeth. I look at the clock above the serving hatch. I'll try to contact Brooke; he will probably be at Dissy Pitton's soon.
Mr Lynch takes out tobacco and papers and rolls himself a cigarette. He sniffs powerfully, and makes a grunting, snorting, catarrhal noise at the back of his throat. A hacking series of coughs, like a large sack of rocks being shaken vigorously somewhere inside Mr Lynch's chest, completes his ante-cigarette preparations.
'Ye got to go somewhere, pal?' Mr Lynch says, seeing me glance at the clock. He lights up, producing a cloud of acrid smoke.
'Yes. I had best be off, actually. I'm going to see an old friend.' I get to my feet. 'Thank you very much, Mr Lynch; I'm sorry to rush off. Once I'm in funds again, I hope you'll allow me to return your generosity.'
'No problem, pal. If ye want a hand tomorrow, give us a knock; it's my day off.'
'Thank you. You are a kind man, Mr Lynch. Good day.'
'Aye. Bye-bye.'
I get to Dissy Pitton's later than I intended, footsore. I ought to have accepted Mr Lynch's offer of money for the train fare; I am amazed at how much less pleasant walking becomes when it is adopted due to necessity rather than idle choice. I am also aware of being seen as the uniform I wear; my face would seem to be invisible for all practical purposes. Nevertheless, I pace, head up, shoulders back, as though I still wear my best coat and suit, and I believe my stick is more obvious in its absence than it was when actually held and swung.
The doorman at Dissy Pitton's is not impressed, however.
'Don't you recognise me? I'm here most nights. I'm Mr Orr. Look.' I hold up my plastic identity bracelet for him to see. He ignores it; he is embarrassed, I think, at having to deal with me and still tip his cap and open the door for customers.
'Look, just clear off, right?'
'Don't you recognise me? Look at my face, man, not the damn overalls. At least take a message to Mr Brooke ... is he here yet? Brooke, the engineer; small dark fellow, slightly hunched ...' The doorman is taller and heavier than me, or I might try to force my way in.
'You clear off now or you're in trouble,' the fellow says, glancing down the broad corridor outside the bar as though looking for somebody.
'I was here the other night; I was the chap who gave that fellow Bouch back his hat; you must remember that. You held the hat in front of him and he threw up into it.'
The doorman smiles, touches his cap, lets a couple I do not recognise into the bar. 'Look pal, I've been off the last two weeks. Now just you fuck off or you're going to be sorry.'
'Oh ... I see. I'm sorry. But please;
if I write a note, would you -'
I get no further. The doorman takes another look round, discovers the corridor to be deserted, and punches me in the stomach with one heavy, gloved hand. It is stunningly painful; as I double up, he lands another blow on my chin, jarring my whole head. I stagger back, ringing with pain; he cracks me across the eye. It is the shock of it, I suppose.
I hit the planking of the floor in a daze. I am picked up by the rump and neck of my overalls and dragged and scraped across the deck, through a door into the cold open air. I am dumped on an open metal deck. Two more heavy blows strike my side; kicks, I think.
A door slams. The wind blows.
I lie for some time, the way I was dropped, unable to move. A throbbing, pulsing pain builds up sickly in my belly; without seeing where I am (I think there is blood in my eyes), I vomit up the fishcake sausage and seaweed.
I lie on my cramped bed. The man and woman in the room above are having an argument. I am racked with pain; I feel nauseous but hungry at the same time. My head, teeth and jaws, my right eye and temple, my belly, guts and side all ache; a symphony of pain. In all this, the nagging whisper that is my old injury's echo, the deep, circular chest pain I am so used to, is quite drowned out.
I am clean. I have washed my mouth out as best I could and placed my handkerchief over my cut eyebrow. I am not quite sure how I walked or staggered back here, but I did, my dazed pain like drunkenness.
I find no comfort in my bed, only a new place to appreciate the waves of pain which flood me, beating on the body's shore.
In the end, but in the middle of the night, I drift off to sleep. But it is an ocean of burning oil I am cast adrift upon, no sea's repose; I pass from waking agonies which the reasoning mind can at least attempt to place in context - looking forward to a time when the pain has ceased - to the semi-conscious trance of torment in which the smaller, earlier, deeper rings of the brain know only that the nerves scream, the body aches, and there is no one to turn crying to for comfort.
Three