by Robert Ford
Silence.
Ahead of him the doctor stood quite still now, frozen; even his arm had ceased to tremble. It occurred to Sam that there was something sad about his appearance, perhaps because his face bore such confusing tropes: it was boyish, sweet almost, with its delicate features framed by the fine blond strands of his hair. And yet time and experience had taken this fine braid and woven it into something twisted and unsavoury, his countenance now defined by a sense of decay. In short, it was the face of a serial abuser, an addict, although a face that was of great interest and Sam found himself momentarily lost in the observation of its detail.
‘Right. Yes. If you’d like to follow me.’
Finally the doctor snapped back into action, as if the pause necessary for his brain to recalibrate itself had concluded. With a surprising show of speed Dr Fell crabbed over to the other side of the zebra, holding out an arm by way of an invitation.
‘If you’d like to sit. Here.’
‘Here?’ said Sam. Dr Fell seemed to be pointing at the zebra’s head.
‘Here.’ The doctor repeated.
Sam stepped forward and Dr Fell steered him into a position on the floor so that he was effectively astride the zebra’s neck; a strange position, but Sam lacked the heart to say anything, such was the concentration etched across the doctor’s face.
‘Good. Good,’ he said, scurrying back over towards a large oak cabinet in the far corner of the room.
Sitting alone for a second on the floor, Sam was reminded of the reason for him being in the infirmary as pain flooded back into his face and head. He traced the line of his aching nose, wondering all the time if it was in fact broken. But then from nowhere Dr Fell appeared at his side, snapping a large wooden peg across the bridge.
‘What the -’ screamed Sam.
‘Yes, just a second, please. Just a second.’
Back at the oak cabinet Dr Fell rifled through an array of plastic pots, clearly his beloved store of pharmaceuticals, a treasure trove, he learned later, of pills and potions that had garnered an almost mythical reputation over the course of his tenure as chief medical officer at Edge Hill. Unlike the rest of the room, the contents of this cupboard were kept in a neat, well-ordered state, with each jar labelled and alphabetised; Dr Fell had even gone to the lengths of designing two extra shelves that sat on large hinges so that they could be swung out independently. And such was the significance of this endeavour, that the day they were installed had become folklore; accounts varied, but most agreed on the central fact that Dr Fell had, in a fit of unbounded joy, devoured almost half of the contents of the pharmaceuticals cabinet, a dose that would have killed most ordinary mortals several times over. Then, having wreaked all kinds of havoc around the house, he disappeared for six days, and was finally found several hundred miles away, tangled in the net of a fishing trawler off the coast at Dover. When asked to explain his whereabouts, the sequence of events that took place in order for him to have ended up drifting six miles out to sea, the doctor replied simply that he had ‘Gone for a walk.’
At last Dr Fell appeared to have found what he was looking for as he swiped a bottle from the shelf and stuffed it into the pocket of his white coat. Sam raised his head to see the doctor step across the room towards him with real purpose.
‘For the pain,’ he said, holding out a palm which contained two small pills, purple rounds covered with a fine, fibrous detail that gave them the look of underwater oddities. Without knowing it, Sam must have looked less than impressed as Dr Fell then continued, ‘Trust me. I’m a doctor.’
It was safe to say that Sam certainly did not trust him. But then again, such was the pain that throbbed about his temples, that he had to do something.
‘You are a doctor, I suppose?’ said Sam, not meaning at all to have turned the remark in to a question. Almost out of embarrassment he reached forward and took both these exotic looking urchins, washing them down with a large slug of water from the canteen which the doctor offered up. Dr Fell then emptied twice that dose into his own mouth and washed all four pills down with an expert flick of the neck, closing his eyes tight as he did, relishing the experience. And with that he scampered onto all fours, a white-coated creature, to the far side of the storeroom where he sat, slumped against the grimy wall.
The pills must have been strong; Sam could feel their effects. A warm sensation began to travel along his back and shoulders, spreading then through his neck and head. It was an incredible feeling, one that ushered in an overwhelming sense of well-being, a calmness which seemed to radiate through every single detail of his body. The pain in his nose and head dissolved, leaving in its place a beautiful anaesthesia, a deep, liquid comfort.
Sam lay back on to the zebra skin and exhaled. He closed his eyes. And slept.
Morris. His massive features just inches away. This was what confronted Sam as he opened his eyes from the cavernous slumber into which Dr Fell had sent him.
Sam was startled, turning into an exaggerated roll and stumble to his feet.
‘Sorry, I...’ Sam looked around the room. Dr Fell was nowhere to be seen. ‘I must have dozed off.’
He placed his palm on the side of his head. The pills were spent, an almighty throb reinvading his skull.
‘Yeah. Well, that’s OK. You must have taken quite a knock. If you’re up to it, it’s nearly time for a physical activities class to begin.’
Sam scratched his head, still a little groggy.
‘Sure. Sure. Why not?’
As they left the infirmary thick spots of rain began to fall, the sky darkening, shaped by a congregation of livid black clouds.
Skirting around the edge of the front lawn they soon came to an old tennis court. Although the nets were gone, the faded white tramlines still ghosted here and there, stubborn relics clinging to the asphalt. Morris led Sam through a metal-framed door in the high green fencing and they took up a position along one of the sides, next to some of the other handlers - Spike and Rachel, and a handful he recognised from the lunch shift.
In front of them around thirty or so of the residents, male and female, rushed to and fro in what seemed at first to be a high paced, scattergun sport, the like of which Sam had not seen before. And the more he watched the less he understood the fabric of this activity; there seemed to be no rules and no structure; there was a ball, a little smaller than a melon and brightly coloured pink, which certain members of the group either guarded closely or, when it happened to break loose, pursued with an enduring passion. But the rest of the ‘players’ seemed not to care at all, content to run with real purpose in no particular direction.
After several minutes, a large male resident crashed into the fencing next to Sam, appearing to try and run straight through the wire. Sam thought immediately that the man might be trying to escape. However, Morris stepped across and spun him round so that he faced into the court again. The man promptly took off at considerable speed, weaving a random course away through the thrashing limbs of the other players.
‘Generally they’re pretty agile but every now and then... it’s like... ‘ Morris set about rolling a cigarette. ‘Well, ever seen a bird fly into a closed window?’
While the experience of serving lunch had been difficult, at least Sam could see the rationale behind it. The residents had to eat, after all. But this seemed so unnecessary, so inelegant and undignified a display, a sight that served only to highlight the strange predicament in which these elderly people found themselves.
‘Its really very sad, don’t you think?’ asked Sam.
‘The exercise is good for them - essential. They work themselves up into such a state...’ Morris paused to light his cigarette. ‘Look, most of what we do here is supervisory. They fall over; we pick them up. At least they manage to control their hormones better these days. Time was, they would hump anything that moved, and most things that didn’t.’
‘Is this legal?’ Sam asked, taking the cigarette from Morris.
‘Legal? Is what legal?’ asked Morris
, faintly amused by Sam’s naivety in matters which had become to him, over the years, so plain.
Sam thought for a second. ‘This. The whole thing. Edge Hill, I mean.’
‘Power of attorney passes to the next of kin. So any decisions are theirs to make. And besides, what else would you have them do? Discontinue the treatment? Come on...’ Morris trailed off, not indifferent, but much too professionally minded to get into such a discussion with a new member of staff.
‘Ah. Here we go,’ said Morris, his expression shifting towards a smile.
Looking up, Sam was more than a little surprised to see Daniels disrobing at the side of the court until finally he stood in voluminous underpants, socks and garters. Then, with a great Apache yell, he threw himself into the ‘game’, chasing the pink ball, falling, chasing, laughing, falling, chasing, laughing, chasing.
Daniels was immensely fun to watch, his portly, rapscallion frame bursting with good humour and tremendous energy. He seemed to galvanise the residents, a focal point for the game’s mad dash and babble. But his was not a physique built for endurance and after a few minutes he ran out of steam, wheezing his way back to the fence, a short walk accompanied by heartfelt applause from the assembled members of staff. For his part, Daniels was in such a state that it was all he could do to raise an arm to his adoring fans shouting, ‘Pooped! Pooped!’ as often as his tightening chest would allow. ‘Thank you. Quite pooped!’
An hour or so later, after the physical activity session was over, the handlers, including Sam, took the residents indoors, where they were washed and dried in specially designed ‘pods’, smallish egg-like structures which Sam discovered operated not unlike human car washes. This turned out to be a surprisingly tranquil experience, though not without its trials, most of which came from dealing with Ted, who was of course in a foul mood.
Next the residents were dressed in white cotton sleeping suits, before being ushered into a large common room where they sat in reclinable faux-leather chairs, peering through the dark at monolithic television screens. As far as Sam could make out, they were watching a reality show entitled ‘While She’s At Work’, a hidden camera piece whose main preoccupation seemed to be recording husbands who dressed up in their wives’ clothes while alone in the house during the day. The residents sat in stony silence as a middle-aged man pranced across the screen in stiletto heels, silk negligée and an eye patch. Sam thought he heard someone weeping, but perhaps it was his imagination. Perhaps.
From here Sam was requisitioned by Spike to help with some landscaping duties; hard physical labour for an hour or two, but at least he seemed to have forgotten about the pain in his face. Then it was back to the hall where supper (more Meel) was being served. Again Sam struggled to grasp the finer points of technique when it came to dealing with the residents. He was out of his depth, without the confidence or inclination to find his feet. As such, dinner was hard work, but the shift passed without serious injury this time; a small victory of sorts.
By the time Sam staggered along the corridor and into his room it was nearly nine o’clock. He flicked on the light in the tiny en suite and leaned on his palms at the sink, exhausted. After a moment he lifted his head and looked at himself in the small, smudged mirror. The first day had taken its toll. Green flecks of Meel had found their way into his hair and onto most of the front of his uniform; more noticeable than this, though, was the rust coloured stain that ran down the right side of his shirt. Sam had all but forgotten about the incident at lunch, about the infirmary even; these events seemed unreal now, dream like.
Sam lifted a hand and traced the outline of the bruising around both eyes, the tissue ripening through various shades of blood, black and blue. And as he stood and marvelled at his own sorry appearance, Sam’s thoughts turned to his mother, to the house and the Enclave that he had left. His heart sank as he thought of her alone in the dark, the grey white light of the film loop flickering across her face.
What was he doing there? Why had he come? How could he have abandoned her?
Sam took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Inside he could feel the pull and snipe of guilt nibbling at his soul. To escape the life he saw was approaching, the inevitability of the Enclaves, that was one thing - but to escape from his mother, to leave her like that?
The air congealed, his chest tightening as a sharp pain shot through his ribs in an upward, spiralling motion. He put a hand out for support on the sink and closed his eyes, absorbing the hurt.
It was time for bed.
THE LIBRARY
The empty cloisters were filled with the alternating slap and squeak of Sam’s rubber shoes as he sprinted over the flagstone floor. He had woken late, opening his eyes to find himself sprawled on his back, limp white daylight spilling in through the open curtains. With his pale skin, bed hair and black eyes he looked carnivalesque, the Mexican day of the dead come to rural England.
By the time he arrived through the double doors into the main hall, the service was already well under way. Trying his best to look unflustered, Sam padded around the side of the room, shoulders hunched in an effort to make himself look small.
The kitchen hatches were, as usual, subject to a constant flurry of activity. Sam loitered close by, and while he stood there looking rather sheepish, Morris stole in beside him, displaying an incredible stealth that belied his huge bulk.
‘Rough night?’
‘Overslept,’ said Sam, surprised by his own honesty. ‘Sorry.’
Morris nodded, the faintest hint of a smile playing about his features.
‘Well, if you’re happy, I’d like to reassign you. A shift that might better utilise your skill set, if you know what I mean? Something that might be a little bit more up your alley?’
‘Um...’ Sam bit his bottom lip, squinting.
‘Its not a trick question,’ said Morris, the levity in his voice gone now.
‘No. I mean, yes. Yes, that sounds like a good idea, thanks, Morris,’ Sam said, as politely as he could.
‘Alright then.’ Morris led the way through a formal lounge and into the cloisters of the East Wing, an area of the house that Sam had not yet had cause to explore. Although architecturally it was a mirror image of the west, for some reason this side of the house was more ornate, had retained the carved Elizabethan doors and archways with their pierced strap-work panels.
‘Would you say you’re an optimist, Sam?’ said Morris as they walked.
Sam thought about this question for a moment. It was rather more difficult to answer than he would have imagined. ‘No. Not really. I don’t think so.’
‘So you’re a pessimist?’
‘No.’
‘Right,’ said Morris.
‘I guess you could say I’m somewhere in between. But at the same time, not really anywhere at all. Does that make any sense?’
‘No.’
‘Right. Well...’ Sam trailed off, groping for a more adequate explanation.
‘The reason I ask, this fella you’re gonna be working with is, well - he’s a bit, y’know, an acquired taste, I guess you could say. An optimist might find such a man challenging but fun, while a pessimist... a pessimist...’ Morris forced a grin.
‘Might run a mile?’ Sam offered.
‘Exactly.’
Sam shrugged; his best, most nonchalant shrug. He could feel the first familiar pangs of anxiety about his person, a prickly pear of sorts. But whatever awaited him, whomever it was that he would be working with, the new shift had got to be preferable to the fight and squabble of meal times or the sad farce of the physical activity classes.
Morris lifted the sturdy metal latch and led the way through the imposing oak doors into the house library. It was an enormous room, only a little smaller than the great hall but no less impressive, with the same towering windows, huge expanses of glass that set pale ribbons of light fluttering through the particulate atmosphere within. The walls, as one might expect, were lined with books, floor to impressive vaulted ceiling, hun
dreds upon thousands of antique, leather-bound editions that could be accessed with the use of a sliding ladder. These swamped, busy shelves were set in direct contrast with the open space below; the light stone floor had been completely cleared of furniture, the area now taken up with some thirty or so residents, each with a large canvas laid out in front of them. Some daubed paint clumsily, while others simply sat or lay. They seemed content, docile, dealing in soft moans and discreet clucks, a colony of seals upon a sunlit beach.
The peace was broken by a rasping, gravelled voice. ‘Morris, where on earth did you find this one? Seriously, look at the state of him.’
They both looked over to the corner of the room, to where a small man of about seventy years old was slouched in a pale green armchair, a large broadsheet newspaper held open in front of him with both hands.
‘Good morning, Hal. This here is Sam. He’s going to be working with you from now on.’
Sam stood; blinking, awkward.
‘So I trust you’ll make him feel welcome, right?’
Hal grimaced before turning his attention back to the paper.
Sam stood and watched Morris stride away, out through the doors, then turned and picked his way between the residents, taking a seat in the far left corner of the room, some twenty feet across from Hal.
‘The idiots who manufacture these things have got it wrong. The ink runs, you see,’ said Hal from behind the newspaper, apropos of nothing.
Sam was wondering how to respond when the paper snapped down to reveal Hal’s stern, intense features. His face was well proportioned, handsome once upon a time, but now drawn and heavily lined. His eyes were large and deep and dark, salt-and-pepper hair swept back into a disorderly flourish.
Hal held up a blackened palm. ‘The ink runs. The ink should not run,’ said Hal, making a real point of speaking slowly, spitting out his words.
‘I see.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. I mean... I’ve never seen a newspaper before. Not in print like that. But...’
Hal cocked his head to one side, thinking. ‘No, I don’t suppose you have. The shit-kickers that run this place order them in, have them made up. They think that the residents feel calmer with stuff like this around. Reminds them of life before Edge Hill. I mean, really - do you think any of this lot are likely to read a newspaper?’ Hal accompanied this question with a lazy waft, a gesture in the general direction of the others.