by Robert Ford
‘Yes.’
‘A casino bar?’
‘Is there something wrong with you?’
Mr Daniels looked lost for a moment then, quite suddenly, he stood and held out a large hand, smiling again.
‘Welcome to Edge Hill, Mr Swift.’
THE BLACK BEAR
‘You alright in there?’ the voice called, his tone low and easy, yet naturally authoritative.
‘Ha!’ came the reply from Sam, followed by a strange bump and snap. ‘Yup. Ya!’
The lock on the bathroom door clicked open and Sam stepped into the room.
The man did not stand, seemed incapable of it. He loomed, loomed in the doorway of Sam’s room, his giant frame all but smothering the light from the halogen bulb in the corridor outside. Dressed in an all-white shirt, trouser and shoe ensemble, he leaned against the doorframe, his great back and shoulders testing the fine polyester material of his uniform to the very limits of its elasticity. His face was broad and kind and open, his fine dark skin wrinkled at the mouth and forehead, while above his right eye lurked a small area of lighter tissue, a scar that hinted at a past life, perhaps led on the streets of the inner city.
Tilting his head to one side, the man peered into the darkness.
He crossed his arms and seemed to allow himself a smile. Sam had been in residence for approximately fourteen hours and yet his room was, by anyone’s standards, something of a sty: the bed clothes hung off to one side as if heaped and thrown in some kind of illicit frenzy, the floor was lost beneath a thick spread of discarded clothes, while in the corner near the bathroom lay an antique chair, up ended with one of its fine tapered legs now protruding at a rather unorthodox angle.
Like the man, he was dressed in the Edge Hill uniform, although it had been immediately obvious that Sam did not exactly have the right size: such was the oddity of his frame, the prodigiousness of his limbs, that his ankles and wrists protruded from both cuff and hem, not to mention the fact that the main body of both the trousers and shirt were much too tight, all of which gave him the look of a man who had just experienced a sudden, brutal excrescence.
‘Is this some kind of joke?’ said Sam, looking down at his ill-fitting ensemble.
‘You could say that. We’ll sort it later on.’ The man stepped forward and held out a huge paddle hand.
‘Morris. I’m a senior warder here at Edge Hill, senior ‘handler’ as we say. Daniels asked me to show you the ropes.’
Sam stepped forward and shook his hand.
‘Sorry. Thanks, Morris. Nice to meet you.’
‘What happened here, then?’
‘Sorry?’
Morris motioned with his eyes at the room. Sam turned and looked and pondered.
‘I guess it is a little...’ he smiled back at Morris.
‘Well... I’m not your mother, am I?’
Morris shifted his weight, crossing his arms.
Sam thought about this for a second, a serious consideration.
‘No, I suppose not.’
Morris led the way out of the room and along the corridor to the end of the landing. It was nearly seven o’clock in the morning and the first signs of activity could be heard from downstairs; nonspecific sounds, the reverberated footprint of bustle. At the end of the upper gallery they passed through a door into what was essentially the substructure of the house, the network of tiny passages that connected the staff facilities to the residential areas, and down towards the staff kitchen.
Despite the rather industrial feel that defined the majority of the house, this place had retained something not exactly like, but approaching, charm; the kitchen was small and square, with large, bright, lace-covered windows to one side and monochrome tiling on the floors. There was a wooden table and chairs, white cabinets with mismatched brass handles, fine oak work surfaces and a squat chrome stove upon which several hefty pots had been set to bubble, casting an unusual smell about the room, a smell not unlike the marriage between egg and liquorice breathed from the mouth of an enormous panting dog.
The two men stooped as they passed through the low doorway and into the kitchen. In front of them, seated upon a small wooden stool with her back to the stove, was a woman in her sixties, fine weathered features set to a prodigious frown.
‘Mrs Skeets,’ muttered Morris from a safe distance. ‘Resident chef. Although she can’t cook. Not really. One of our more sensitive souls described eating one of her puddings as close to hellish, like kissing a walrus with a mouthful of sand. Quite something really.’
‘This... this...’ Mrs Skeets grappled for the most appropriate nomenclature. ‘This cooker will be the death of me, Morris,’ she said, her voice reed-like, taut and from nowhere in particular.
Morris paid little attention to her and moved around towards a compact coffee dispenser, a curved plastic contraption that owed something to the traditional form of a rotary telephone. He poured a cup and offered it to Sam who was in fact miles away, staring intently at Mrs Skeets. The cook was tall and slight, angular, perhaps, with a great thatch of tousled brown hair which hung about her tiny head in stubborn wads.
Take away the hair and the glasses, Sam thought to himself, tilting his head to one side, and this woman had the face of an ostrich.
‘Sam!’ snapped Morris.
‘Sorry. Thanks.’ He took the cup.
Mrs Skeets stood up and turned towards the stove, facing the enemy.
‘This is Sam. Sam, this is Mrs Skeets, our cook.’
‘Hi,’ said Sam, still stuck on the vision of the ostrich.
‘Hello, Sam. Welcome. Welcome. Wel...’ Mrs Skeets trailed off, staring towards the ever bubbling pots, a look that lay somewhere between hatred and disbelief.
‘Still,’ she said, rubbing her brow and turning towards Sam. ‘Worse things happen at sea. Don’t you think?’
The next stop was a bare, windowless office, a room that contained only a simple desk and chair; scraped, ordinary furniture that was almost exactly the same colour as the walls, a grim nicotine yellow.
It was here that Morris left Sam with a raft of paperwork - waivers mainly - a code of conduct and an inventory of his room. The more Sam waded through this pile, the more he read, the more it became clear to him that, upon signing, he would in fact be insured against very little, and exposed to much. Indeed, the elaborate specificity of the language was alarming. In the event that said member of staff is maimed, slashed, punctured, impaled, choked, immolated, smothered and or incapacitated as a direct result of actions perpetrated by or on behalf of any of the residents, a mandatory payment of £360 will be made available to assist with rehabilitation costs...
Sam’s large eyes widened, the panoply of grievous harm laid out in these pages serving only to inspire a sense of impending doom, the small print cause for agitated, palm-dampening perusal.
‘Immolated? You have a history of immolations?’ squealed Sam on Morris’s return.
‘Um. Yes. No. Not a history, exactly. I wouldn’t read too much into it, Sam. Lawyers. Health and safety. You know how it is.’
‘What? No, not really.’
‘Well, let’s just not worry too much about that now, shall we?’ said Morris, very much in the tone of someone who had seen and heard such complaints before.
From the office they walked further through the cramped staff corridors, emerging by way of a discreet door into the relative light and space of a small quad, the soft babble of an ornate water feature bouncing off the brickwork.
‘Thing is, Sam, there’s never any intent to harm, that’s what you got to remember. People talk about the residents like they’re kids. They’re not kids, Sam. It’s like... look they’re so old that they’re not able to function, to rationalise any more. They just don’t operate on a human level. You probably think that’s an awful thing to say, but it’s true. They’re harmless and actually quite sweet in their own way, but they get scared and skittish and they lash out. And it’s easy to forget, ‘cos they look like you and
me. But they’re so old. Being a handler is about being sympathetic, being careful whilst being in control.’ Morris paused for thought, racking his brain for a suitable analogy. ‘Like riding a horse. You ever ridden a horse, Sam?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm. Well, you seem like a nice bloke and that’s half the battle, I guess. A little empathy goes a long way round here.’ Morris had a certain tone to his voice, almost as if he were reminding himself of the fact.
Several yards further on Morris stopped and looked back along the path, and was rather surprised to see Sam sitting alone on one of the formal wooden benches.
‘Sam, are you OK? You don’t look so good.’
Sam waved back, his voice constricted. ‘Fine. Fine.’
Obviously Sam was anything but: his face had turned milk white, eyes goggling up towards the sky, a grey swirling mass that suddenly seemed so close. ‘Fine.’ He repeated, almost at a whisper.
Taking his head in his hands Sam tried to concentrate, to fix himself, but his body rebelled absolutely. Listing to one side, his right arm began to shake, a movement beyond his control. He felt trapped, entombed almost, his breathing now irregular, chest tight, an anxious stricture that signalled the start of an episode, a sensation he had not encountered since childhood.
Since the terrible reign of the Black Bear.
The first time Sam could remember seeing the Bear was on the occasion of his first (and only) trip to Scouts as a seven-year-old. His mother had taken him to the local meeting, held in a shabby bungalow towards the edge of his Enclave, and over the course of the short walk there a thick cloak of anxiety had draped Sam’s person, affecting him to such a degree that by the time they arrived he was in a sorry state; limp and expressionless.
They entered the room, a scruffy open-plan area, and while his mother spoke to the Scout Leader, Sam tottered aimlessly across the crowded space between blurred forms, a dull ringing in his ears to accompany the clamour and scrape of the other children. Sam lowered himself onto the stained wooden floor and shut his eyes, trying to steady himself in some way. He opened his eyes. Closed them. Opened his eyes. Closed them. Opened his eyes.
And there he was.
The Black Bear sat a couple of feet away from Sam on the floor, their feet not quite touching. He was almost the same size as Sam, with a thick coat of velveteen fur and a shapely, refined snout. Sam looked at the Bear, looked in to his dark, dark eyes. And the Bear, for his part, stared back, something prehistoric about his look. Sam’s chest contracted, fear tightening its grip around his heart, squeezing. His field of vision diminished, tunnelling, as he focussed on the Bear, a constant and troubling totem. Sam tugged at his shirt collar, suddenly very hot. His breathing became more shallow, his mouth dry. The sense of disorientation was intolerable, the room tangled and visually confused, a bird’s nest of young boys. Sam felt like he was disappearing into himself, contracting. He couldn’t breathe, or see or stand, heart bursting, eyes burning.
Then the Bear leaned forward and placed a paw on Sam’s knee.
‘Help.’ Sam managed to whisper, but it was too late. His abdomen heaved, shoulders hunching as he sent a determined stream of sick over his woggle and onto the floor.
Recoiling, he opened his eyes. The Bear had gone. Instead, all around him were the bewildered faces of the other scouts, brought into sharp relief now the storm had passed. They stood and stared at Sam in silence until somewhere near the back one of the younger children started to cry.
Across the room Sam’s mother began to hoot and howl and look about. She dropped to her hands and knees, scrabbling after her son as if a concerted physical effort, a ruckus in every sense, might atone for this particular embarrassment.
‘What! I! Well!’ she said, picking at the vomit with her bare hands. ‘Wow. Ooh. Ah.’
For want of a better idea, the room seemed to lurch suddenly into action, alive with suppressed, awkward activity. Sam sat motionless and withered and wished the floor would open, would swallow him up forever. But of course it didn’t, and it never would.
SELF-DEFENCE
The sky was cold, a slick of black and grey and white, a jealous smear that obscured the sun and stole its slender warmth; altogether, a very English sky.
‘And you’re sure you can continue?’ said Morris as they left the house at the rear and passed through a service area where the bins and the laundry and the other aesthetically compromised departments were deployed.
It had taken a while, but eventually Sam had recovered himself. He still felt a little sick, but more than anything he was embarrassed by the whole episode and it was hard for him to think of much else.
‘Fine, fine.’ Sam replied. ‘Absolutely.’
To the other side of this area lay what a sign announced as the staff gymnasium, what looked like an old squash court that had fallen into disrepair, an ivy-clad building with cracked panes and moss on the eaves.
‘Morning, gents,’ said Morris as they approached.
Ahead, two handlers stood leaning by the doorway to the gym. They both looked bored, their body language betraying complete disinterest.
‘This is Sam,’ said Morris with a slight cup of the hand by way of an indication to his left.
Of the two men, the first to come forward looked around thirty-five years old. He struck a curious, lopsided figure with a kind smile spread across hound-dog features, a face that was bizarrely self-referential - almost as if it had grown to resemble an idea of itself, a caricature.
‘Spike. Pleased to meet you,’ he said with real warmth, his accent south London via the northern beaches.
Sam moved forward and shook his hand.
A little way back stood a man introduced as Ted. He was in his late forties, broad and squat and bloated, his skin pale grey, though Sam imagined that in his youth it had been a rich chestnut brown. His hair was dark and close-cropped, his eyes soft and slight, neighbours to a proudly beaking nose. Perhaps he had been handsome once, but now great jowls clung to his jaw as if laying siege to a small mouth that was set somewhere between a snarl and a pout.
As Sam would over time discover, Ted could only be viewed through the prism of his past. He had grown up in a wealthy suburb of Calcutta, only to move to Birmingham in his teens - following his parents and their dream to open a niche convenience store specialising in rare jams, jellies and other preserves, a store that could find a market in Birmingham, if anywhere, they had presumed. Ted found life in the Midlands impossible and missed his beloved India. He was an only child and often spent his free time in the stockroom devouring chutney, dreaming of his escape from this dour existence, of a glamorous, exciting life away from Birmingham and his parents, and jam.
Then, so the story went, at the tender age of nineteen, his life changed forever.
Ted fell in love.
Dirk was tall and lithe with long ginger hair and a sunshine smile. Their eyes had met across a plastic spoon, sampling natural yoghurt at the local supermarket. Instantly, irredeemably, Ted was hooked.
In the days that followed they embarked upon an intense and secretive affair, a whirlwind romance of sorts. And such was the giddy splendour of their association, that just a week later they chose to elope, fleeing the drab Birmingham suburbs for the bright lights of New York City.
Life was suddenly so sweet, everything Ted had hoped for. But he had underestimated the naivety of his years, was not aware of the soaring, brittle trajectory love can take, and so it was a shock of monumental proportions when, on the fifteenth day of their adventure, Dirk upped and left him for another man. And not just any man. A lumberjack. From Idaho. Also called Dirk.
Ted returned to Birmingham heartbroken. Indeed, such was the wound left by this betrayal that over the intervening years it had never quite healed. Instead it had soured, maligning, and Ted with it.
‘What time are you calling this, Morris?’ Ted spat his words, ignoring Sam in the process.
Morris kissed his teeth as he looked through a thic
k bunch of keys.
‘And good morning to you too, Ted.’
‘Bloody waiting,’ he grumbled, kicking the doorframe with the point of his white-soled shoe.
The large open space of the gym was as unloved as the exterior, the wooden floor stained, the white paint peeling almost as a protest against the neglect.
Morris clapped his hands together hard, the sudden noise causing a small troupe of slumbering birds to flap and coo and disperse about the rafters.
‘Right, Gents. Self-defence 101.’
‘Come on, Moz,’ interrupted Spike.
‘OK, so you guys may have done this before, but Sam hasn’t. And you two are due a refresher.’
‘Joking this...’ Ted mumbled from the sidewall as he rolled a cigarette.
‘Yeah, right. Joke, eh?’ Spike uttered, as if taken aback that he could agree with Ted. On anything.
‘Nothing like a bit of enthusiasm,’ Morris continued, taking out his phone so that he might read aloud from an official-looking document displayed on its screen.
‘Good morning... da da da... ummm... you will have noted from the information contained in the waivers signed upon arrival at this facility that TWL Leisure accepts no responsibility for any physical harm that may occur during the process of administering your professional duties... da da da... Please also note that should the occasion arise, the use of self-defence procedures that fall outside of the mechanisms prescribed in this class may be subject to civil and/or criminal sanctions.’ Morris finished reading and replaced the phone to his pocket. Then he looked up, smiling at the others, a smile that was not, absolutely not, returned.
‘OK. Self-defence.’ he chimed with all the enthusiasm he could muster. ‘Ted, you’ve done this before. Why don’t you give us your take on the procedures here at Edge Hill?’
Ted now sat cross-legged in the corner of the gym, smoking, eyes fixed on the floor. In fact he looked close to tears.
‘OK. Spike - would you be able to give us a demonstration?’ Morris asked.
‘Yes. No.’ Spike span round and nodded at a section of decayed skirting board, his hands fidgeting behind his back.