The King of Spain

by Robert Ford

  Sam cast his eye over the floor, wondering at the grunting, supine forms. ‘No, no - I don’t think so.’

  ‘No,’ said Hal. ‘Give me twenty-six soldiers of lead and I will conquer the world. Do you know who said that?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Well, do you know what it means at least?’

  ‘I...’

  ‘Are you retarded?’ Hal leaned right forward in his seat, enjoying the interrogation.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Simple. Do you have problems?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No? Well how in the name of all that is holy did you end up in a place like this?’

  Sam fixed him with a stare, furious now in his own quiet way. ‘Bad luck,’ he said, fixing Hal with sullen eyes, until finally Hal’s face cracked into a raffish smile and he rocked back into the armchair.

  ‘I think we all know a little about bad luck here,’ he muttered, turning his attention back to the paper.

  Sam’s heart was racing; he felt flushed, tight. Trying to calm down a little, he let his eye wander over the towering shelves to his right. Not only had he never seen a newspaper before, he had never even seen a book in print, let alone a library full of them: classics mostly, an incredible assortment, amazing.

  ‘Hear this. What’s your name? Richard?’ Hal shouted from beneath the paper.

  ‘Sam.’ He looked round, anticipating another onslaught.

  ‘Yes. Anyway. A story here,’ said Hal, who then began to read from the paper with great relish. ‘Adrian Schmitt, a retired engineer from Wisconsin, looks set to become the first person in the State to die of cancer in over three decades. Mr Schmitt, who celebrated his one hundred and forty-fifth birthday three weeks ago, has been retired for over eighty-five years and maintains that he “simply doesn’t know what to do with his time anymore.” Mr.Schmitt’s decision has caused consternation among his friends and family who cannot see the rationale behind his decision, given that a relatively inexpensive course of pills would cure him of such a common ailment. When asked to explain his decision, Mr Schmitt replied: “It’s pretty simple really: if you ask me, life is like staying in a motel. Don’t get me wrong, I like motels. And when you first check in they’re great. Bit noisy maybe, but they’re usually full of interesting folk and you don’t really have to answer to anyone. You got a mini bar and a TV. In a way it’s kinda liberating. But after a while you start to realise how small it really is. Suddenly the traffic starts to annoy you like it never did before, maybe something in the room gets broken, doesn’t work no more. Then you notice the cracks in the paint and the dirt of the windows. Stay long enough and in the end you can’t wait to get out.”’

  Hal peeked over the top of the newspaper, his face transformed by an impish delight.

  ‘This guy is priceless,’ Hal continued with relish. ‘When asked if he was worried about dying, Mr Schmitt replied simply that he was “looking forward to getting a break from himself.” Ha! What balls!’ Hal threw the paper on to the floor, an elaborate wave of the cape to finish the performance.

  Sam folded his arms and slunk a little lower in his chair. As much as he was intrigued by such a line of discussion, he refused to show even a glimpse of interest to this rude little man.

  ‘I said... what balls.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes,’ repeated Hal, parodying Sam’s voice. ‘And what do you make of it, Dickie?’

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Sam paused, considering his riposte.

  ‘I think he should just take the pills...’ Sam trailed off, losing confidence in his statement almost as soon as the words left his mouth.

  Hal leaned forward in his chair and stared at Sam for what seemed like an age, eyes aflame, a sneer now painted across his mercurial features. Sam turned away, feigning disinterest as he looked out over the room, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘Then I think perhaps you are retarded after all, Dickie,’ Hal concluded without relish. ‘Quite beyond help.’

  Sitting on his bed that night Sam felt tired, heavy limbed, physically and emotionally drained. The staff canteen would still have been open, but he preferred to eat alone, lunging into the small fridge for a tired looking sandwich, a cheese medley three days past its best-before, but that would have to do.

  Sitting onto the bed, Sam ate the sandwich under the insubstantial flicker of his bedside lamp, an aching Anglepoise whose joints had seen better days. He chewed slowly, absentmindedly, eating without tasting.

  Of course it was to his mother that Sam’s thoughts had returned. It was the dark, he knew, that catalysed these ruminations. Again, he could see her alone in the house. And in his mind’s eye there was no separation, no boundary, between her bedroom and the bleak night that fell upon the streets of the Estate, the emptiness and unease and muted threat. Sam’s mother. The Enclave. They were inseparable, symbiotic almost, as if those streets that he had so longed to leave were now enacting their revenge, infecting purely through existence.

  Sam finished the sandwich and rolled on to his back and closed his eyes, trying to summon a sense of conviction, to reawaken the belief that what he was doing was right, that he needed to act finally for himself.

  Eventually, his body slackened as his mind groped towards rest, falling headlong into a fitful sleep.

  Ahead were fields. They stretched out in all directions, basking in the late summer sun, the sky above a perfect, brilliant blue. As with all dreams there appeared to be no start, no beginning. Sam simply found himself walking across the grass towards a small thatched farmhouse.

  Up ahead, he could see a figure moving towards him. It was small and dark and as they got closer to each other Sam realised that it was the Black Bear, the Bear that haunted his childhood, different now in a way, older perhaps, with the first signs of white appearing around the edges of his snout.

  Without a word, the Bear took Sam by the hand and led him across the field towards a pen, a wire fence four feet high surrounding an area roughly six yards across. Sam moved over to the wire and peered down into the space. There below him were a sort of hybrid animal - miniature horses with the head and tail of a fox, five or six of them in total. They seemed agitated, exploring their cage, snapping, scrapping, barking a terrible yip.

  Sam felt a slight contact and looking down saw the Bear move in and hug his knee, holding it between his diminutive paws and chest. Sam squinted up at the sky, at the endless blue, the fox calls ringing in his ears.

  And the Bear squeezed.

  Immediately Sam’s heart felt like it was twisting in on itself, the pressure from his leg translating into an almost unbearable sensation, a physical and emotional stricture which built and built and with it the intensity of the light, mushrooming into a shocking brilliance. Sam closed his eyes and made to cry out, a silent scream lost in the fierce illumination.

  And then there was nothing.

  THE PATH OF LEAST RESISTANCE

  It was a beautiful morning, the pale autumn sun rising through a lilac sky, whilst below a delicate mist coiled through rusting trees and over shabby, languorous fields. Away in the far distance birds sang and squawked, heralding the new day.

  Sam had woken early, unsettled by the nature of his dream, and so had elected to head outside, to wander a little. Now standing by the fence to the edge of the front lawn, he wore a thick woollen greatcoat over his uniform, a moss-coloured item that had been issued to him on arrival and one that, remarkably, fitted well the peculiar dimensions of his frame. He looked tired and pale, but at least the bruising around his eyes was starting to go down.

  ‘Morning.’

  Sam started at the sound of Rachel’s voice, turning round to see her cross the grass towards him.

  ‘Hey, morning,’ Sam called, his words vaporising, wisps of fine white in the cold.

  For a time they both stood and smoked and looked out across the fields. They didn’t know each other, not at all, and yet there was a natur
al affinity between them that deprived the silence of any hint of awkwardness.

  Eventually it was Rachel who spoke.

  ‘You know, officially, we’re not supposed to come out here by ourselves.’ Rachel pointed out towards the pasture ahead. ‘Dangerous people out there. Apparently.’

  Sam snorted, remembering his drive to Edge Hill from the Estate, the policeman and the fight. ‘I had a bit of a run-in on my way here.’

  ‘Oh yeah? A rare sighting. There’s not many left down here these days. Those that are, tend to be a little strange. But harmless. Most of us, anyway.’

  ‘You from round here, then?’

  ‘Born and raised a couple of miles down the road. My parents were farmers. But then everything changed and it was all over for us. Dad tried to keep the place running, diversify, that kind of thing but...’ Rachel shrugged.

  ‘Where are they now?’

  Rachel took a long draw on her cigarette. ‘Not sure. Mum and Dad left for the city. I came here. They write occasionally but... They don’t belong there. They’re not happy. Work is hard to come by. They seem not to be living exactly. Existing more like.’

  For the first time since they had met, Sam detected a note of sadness in her voice; a chink in the armour.

  ‘You wouldn’t try and find them? I mean, go to the city yourself.’

  ‘Thought about it, of course, but I’m not sure I could stand it. The idea of me - living there. Seems hopeless somehow.’

  ‘That’s sad. A shame.’ Sam thought of his own troubles, of the city and the estate and the wider world, all things impossible.

  Rachel pulled on her cigarette, slender trails of smoke escaping from the side of her mouth. ‘Hey, Friday night, huh?’ she said, suddenly upbeat.

  ‘Yeah. Friday already. Only my third day but somehow it feels like I’ve been here a lifetime.’

  ‘Time flies.’ She checked her wristwatch. ‘Gotta go.’ Rachel spun away into an apologetic turn. ‘See you later. Friday nights are usually pretty fun here. You’ll see.’

  Sam waved, watching her walk back across the lawn towards the huge bulk of the main house, and began to ponder the day ahead.

  Music came wafting along the cloisters of the East Wing, a rich orchestral sound, growing louder as Sam moved along the passageway towards the large oak library doors.

  Entering the room with the minimum of fuss, he stood for a time on the periphery, observing. The morning sky had darkened and the room was cast in a diffuse, crepuscular light. The canvases and paint had gone, and instead the residents lay about the floor, sprawled out on the grey stone.

  Across the room, Hal was ensconced in his armchair. Slouched low, he seemed to be part of the way through a story of some sort, although his delivery was so lax, so damply gabbled, that the narrative was beyond comprehension. He looked relaxed, excessively so, a ragged figure, his baritone punctuated by impressive plumes of white smoke that he would breath up into the air, arching his back and neck as he did so.

  Crossing the floor, Sam took his seat at the opposite side of the hall. He had to admit there was something wonderful about the library that morning, the light and the music, even Hal’s incessant monotone: all these elements combined to create a rare feeling of peace, and for the first time since his arrival Sam started to feel at ease with his environment, happy even.

  The morning passed, Sam idling by the window, daydreaming. For a time he read, or smoked, anything so as to keep awake, to resist the somnolence that laced the room. But then at around twelve o’clock, just before the shifts were due to change, a strange noise came drifting by. At first it was rather hard to pinpoint, impossible to diagnose. Sam turned away from the window and looked across to Hal, who continued his monologue unperturbed, as focussed as ever. The noise came again, from somewhere towards the back right, this time more definitive: a thick hacking cough. Sam stood and made his way across the room, stepping between the bodies with great care, until he was able to pinpoint the source. A male resident dressed in a smart charcoal suit lay on his side, knees gathered up to his chest, upper body convulsing in great rhythmical pinches.

  Sam sprang to his aid, stooping low, rolling him over on to his back. Immediately, it was obvious that the resident was not in a good state; his eyes were sunken and unresponsive, while from his mouth leaked an ivory froth.

  ‘Hal!’ said Sam as he knelt over the resident, starting to panic. ‘Hal! Could you give me a hand here?’

  Hal took a long draw from his cigarette, watching the plume rise high in to the air as he exhaled.

  ‘Hal! Come on! Hal!’

  Across the room, Hal rolled his head to one side so that he was facing Sam, his eyes vacant and withdrawn. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something but then seemed to change his mind at the last minute, reuniting his lips with an exaggerated movement, a yawn in reverse.

  The resident’s breathing became more laboured, the colour of his skin changing from an olive tan to a livid pink. Sam acted instinctively, rolling the man back onto his side and striking him hard on the back, a process which made the poor man cough and splutter in loud, troubling bursts. However, soon the man’s complexion normalised and his breathing became steady, subject only to the occasional muscular twitch.

  Happy enough that the resident seemed to be out of danger for the moment, Sam sprang forward, just about managing to keep his balance, darting over to the internal intercom system by the entrance, where he placed a call for help. Presently Morris arrived, carrying under one arm a bright orange canvas-and-metal stretcher. Crossing the library floor, he then took up a kneeling position next to Sam.

  Morris looked down at the resident, rolling the man’s head from side to side by way of assessment.

  ‘He wasn’t breathing so well. And I just wasn’t sure what to do.’

  ‘OK, good. You did the right thing,’ said Morris. ‘You shouldn’t have had to deal with this. Sorry.’

  Sam shrugged, a little proud of himself, that he’d done what was necessary to deal with the situation.

  Morris stood up and stared over towards Hal, who seemed to be very close to not only slipping out of the chair but also falling asleep in the process. ‘Let’s get him onto the stretcher and over to the infirmary, shall we?’

  They both moved round to either end of the resident and lifted him gently onto the stretcher.

  ‘OK, on three then. One... two...’

  Once at the infirmary there was only so much Sam could do; the man was whisked away by a couple of disinterested medical handlers to be treated. And so by mid-afternoon he found himself heading back towards the library for the remainder of his shift. Here the canvases and paint had reappeared and with them a new shift of thirty or so residents. This group seemed calm, although more animated than the previous batch; some sat and painted while others babbled soft consonants. Hal, too, seemed more animated now, sitting up so that he might shuffle through the daily broadsheet. Sam paused for a moment, looking over in his direction; surely Hal would offer up some kind of acknowledgment? An enquiry, perhaps? However, much to Sam’s annoyance, his eyes stayed glued to the paper in front of him.

  The remainder of the afternoon shift was long and hot and uncomfortable; the sun had slid from behind the dense cloud cover and now poured in through the window, causing the centrally-heated room to swelter. As the temperature rose Sam sat and fidgeted, unbuttoning his white tunic, buttoning, crossing his arms. Meanwhile Hal remained concealed beneath his screen of news. Neither man spoke. Not one word. And rather than diminish Sam’s sense of injustice, the silent hours served only to tweak the nose of his resentment.

  At around five thirty a team of handlers arrived at the library, coaxing the residents out of the room in single file, away down the corridor towards the west wing and the dining facilities of the main hall.

  As usual the floor of the library now demanded some attention, splashed as it was with paint and litter and spit. Sam watched the last of the residents file out, then set
to with his mop and bucket, cleaning in small controlled arcs. Meanwhile, across the other side of the library, Hal took down the paper and started to fold it into crumpled squares. Content with its form, he tossed the paper onto the floor and stood, stretching into a yawn.

  What is this guy’s problem? Sam thought to himself, absentmindedly mopping the same gleaming section of floor over and over.

  Behind him, Hal made for the door, his right shoulder dipped, a trope which gave him a shuffling, hopalong gate, a busy kind of action. Sam watched him go, seething all the while. Not only had he been ignored but now, once again, he was left to do the work alone, to carry the shift by himself.

  For a moment Sam mumbled and mopped, and moped. But then something snapped. He threw the mop to the ground and hurried off in pursuit, charging into the cloisters to see Hal twenty yards ahead.

  ‘Hey!’ His voice echoed ahead, weaker than he would have wanted.

  Hal stopped dead in his tracks.

  ‘Hey... there’s more mopping to be done, you know.’ Sam kicked the skirting rail, annoyed that he had led with such a lame duck.

  Up at the end of the corridor Hal made a slow, deliberate turn. ‘Excuse me?’ he said, a tremendous menace underlying his gravelled delivery as he scuttled back along the corridor to within a couple of feet.

  Sam blinked several times in rapid succession, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘More mopping to do,’ he said.

  ‘And you want me to help you mop? Is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sam looked at the floor, embarrassed.

  Grunting, Hal stepped closer. ‘What’s the matter, sonny? Eh?’

  They were only inches apart now. Sam continued to stare at the floor, hugely angry, absolutely passive. Hal leaned in closer so that he could speak directly to his ear. He smelt of cigarettes and yarn and glue. ‘Hey!’ Hal barked.