by Robert Ford
‘Right. OK. A dance-orientated event that will be more in tune with the kind of -’
‘Fascist! Shitgunner!’
Kirkham continued to read from the papers in front of him, although the smile had had now gone.
‘. . . entertainments that the residents might choose themselves.’
Kirkham looked up at the flat faces of the staff. As usual, the communications from the parent company made little sense, but he continued to read aloud. ‘As such this evening we will be staging what used to be called a ‘rave’ with a DJ coming down all the way from the city. Apparently he will be attempting to mix two records...’
‘Shitgunner!’
‘Really!’ Kirkham exploded, fixing Hal with as authoritative a stare as he could muster. But Hal simply stared at the floor, swaying, arms folded across his front.
‘This DJ character will be mixing old-fashioned records together for the residents to dance to.’ Kirkham’s voice had risen, sounding something like a rusty squeeze-box. ‘Morris has all the details, so will speak to you all individually in terms of the division of labour this afternoon...’ Kirkham trailed off, half-expecting another interruption, but to his surprise nothing came.
‘OK. Thank you all. Hope you enjoy this evening.’
Kirkham folded his notes away then skipped down the stairs and out, slamming the main door behind him as he left.
Chatter broke out amongst the staff as they discussed the address and the plans for the evening. Sam, however, made a beeline for Hal, who seemed to have rediscovered his voice, stumbling around the hall on his own shouting ‘Shitgunner’ at random intervals and to no one in particular.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ said Sam, ushering Hal out of the atrium and into the cool air outside.
Hal said nothing but kept walking left along the path with awkward, lurching steps.
‘Hal? This has got to stop. I mean... you need to snap out of this. It’s a disgrace. Can you hear me?’
‘Look around, sonny.’ Hal mumbled with difficulty. ‘Open your eyes.’
‘To what? Open my eyes to what?’
Hal replied, definitely, but his mouth merely formed a series of consonants and vowels that made no sense.
‘I don’t understand. This isn’t you. You can’t just give up like this. You have a choice, Hal, and this is just... it’s cowardly. And that makes you no better than them, than Kirkham and all those others.’
Whatever it was that Sam had said, it seemed to have touched a nerve. Hal spun on his heel so that he was face-to-face with Sam, grabbing him hard at the shoulder. ‘Listen, Dickie,’ Hal started, appearing to have summoned a moment’s lucidity. ‘What right have you to speak to me like that? What right?’
‘What right?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘It’s a right... as your friend.’ Sam tried to collect himself. ‘To help you. To point out the fact that you are acting like a complete... a complete disgrace!’
‘What!’ roared Hal, eyes burning with anger. ‘How dare you? How dare -’
Hal backed off, pacing back and forth along the path.
‘Of all the treachery... This is sick. Disgusting. I hoped they wouldn’t. But they got to you. They got you in the end.’
‘Got to me? Who? Who got to me, Hal? You’re deranged.’
Hal stopped, lurching back again close to Sam’s face.
‘You don’t know what I know.’ Hal said it in a hushed voice and with an intensity in his eyes that spoke to Sam more of fear than of anger, a look that had at its core a certain wild fragility. A heart-breaking look.
Hal stepped back and away, his body now more passive. An emptiness had returned to his eyes, a layer of lank indifference behind which Sam feared Hal’s mind was fragmenting, piece by terrible piece. Without a word he stumbled off towards the infirmary. Sam watched him go, this strange shuffling bird. And he thought of the time they had spent there together, the Ape Flu and the stories of the King of Spain. It all seemed so long ago, and life at Edge Hill so different.
The small staff kitchen had been decorated for the Christmas period with odd trinkets hung from the cabinet doors and tired-looking tinsel tacked to the wall in random, thoughtless bunches. And then there was the tree, a small fake fir which sat in the corner of the room, enduring an embarrassment of baubles, through which snaked a slim string of golden lights.
It was coming up to eleven-thirty in the evening and by the sound of things downstairs, the New Year’s celebrations were well under way, the rhythmically consistent base of pounding electronica echoing through the house.
Sam sat in the gloom and smoked, tutting, restless. Across the kitchen table from him was Mrs Skeets, absorbed in a paperback, flipping the pages in between large slugs of wine. Rather than the regulation white of her cook’s uniform, she wore a smart, collared dress in cornflower blue with white beading along the shoulders. Her brown hair was pinned back, held in place with bright orange curlers, and her lips painted a vivid blood red that was an absolute contrast to the alabaster tones of her skin.
‘Good book?’ asked Sam; although they had both been sitting there for some time these were the first words either of them had spoken.
‘Yes,’ replied Mrs Skeets without looking up.
‘What’s it called?’
‘One Man and his Elephant,’ said Mrs Skeets, turning a page.
‘Ah. And what’s it about?’
Mrs Skeets lowered the book and eyed Sam through the thick glass of her spectacles. ‘A man...’
‘And his elephant?’ Sam guessed, filling in the blanks.
‘Yes.’ Mrs Skeets took a long drag of her cigarette. ‘And why aren’t you at the party?’
‘Well, it’s not a party for us, really, is it? It’s for the residents.’
Mrs Skeets put the book down flat on the table and leant forward from her chair. The light from above fell more directly now upon her face and hair.
‘Are you not working at the party?’
‘Well...’ Sam started.
‘Go to the party dear,’ said Mrs Skeets before he could go on.
‘Go to the party?’
‘Go to the party. Go down there now will you.’
‘Right.’
‘Right.’
‘OK. Party...’
The view from the top of the main staircase out over the atrium was like nothing Sam had ever seen before - the walls and ceiling were swathed in coloured fabric, shining blue, yellow, green and white under the powerful ultraviolet lights rigged at various stages along the sides of the hall. The residents had taken to the dance floor with great gusto and were now jumping, swaying, leaping, in response to the driving electronic rhythms played by a long-haired man in the small booth at the far side of the room.
Sam couldn’t help but smile as he came down the stairs and joined the other handlers on the periphery of the dance floor. Everyone seemed to be having a good time - even Ted, who he saw flutter past with Rachel, clapping his hands in time with the music.
‘Hey!’ called Sam.
Spike turned and smiled and headed over. He was sweating profusely, twitching, elevated.
‘It’s brilliant, mate!’ shouted Spike. ‘Best New Year’s ever!’
‘What’s going on?’
‘We’re not allowed to drink. Would violate the health and safety. But Fell got these prescription amphetamines for the residents. They’re amazing, mate, honest. You want some?’
Sam thought for a moment, rather tempted.
‘No. No, I’m good, thanks.’
Spike started to bounce up and down on the spot, looking like he might spontaneously combust.
‘Suit yourself, buddy. I’ve gotta run. Love this tune, eh?’ Spike wiped a thick layer of sweat from his brow.
‘Sure. Go, go.’ Sam patted Spike on the back as he waded off into the churning crowd.
Looking about the floor, it occurred to Sam that the residents had to their movements an amazing looseness of
form, a suppleness and a lack of inhibition. Their energy was endless, inspiring almost. But the closer Sam looked, the clearer it all became; the residents weren’t smiling, weren’t enjoying the dance. They were simply reacting to a stimulus, eyes rolling, faces twisted.
Sam found a less populated spot near the corner, out of the way.
‘Calm down. Get a grip,’ he thought to himself, feeling drained and unwell next to the excitement that surrounded him on the dance floor.
He lit another cigarette and leaned back, closing his eyes, listening to the music, beginning to think that it was actually pretty good.
‘Hello there.’
Sam jolted upright, opening his eyes to see Megan a couple of feet away.
‘Why so serious?’
‘Yeah, I was just asking myself the same thing. What the hell is wrong with me?’
‘Oh. Wow. Well, where do we start? I mean...’
Megan laughed and leaned in to plant a kiss on Sam’s cheek, tottering a little as she did. ‘Whoops.’
They were standing very close now, closer than they ever had.
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Yes. I may have invali... invalided my health and safety protocol.’
‘Oh well.’
‘Yes. Exactly. What’s a girl to do? It is New Year’s Eve after all, isn’t it, Sam?’ Megan leaned in a little closer.
‘Yes... yes it is...’ Sam gulped. His eye caught something over her shoulder, an altercation of sorts.
‘Sam.’ said Megan, their lips now just a couple of inches apart.
‘Yes?’ he replied, hoping beyond hope not to see Hal appear across the dance floor.
Megan leaned in so close that he could feel the heat of her breath on his lips, smell the sweet alcoholic tang of her mouth.
‘Sam...’
There he was - Hal - swaying, reeling, ranting amongst the crowd.
Without thinking too much about anything, Sam pushed his way past Megan towards the dance floor.
‘Hey, where you going?’ she called after him.
Sam stopped in his tracks, hurrying back over to her.
‘Sorry. Sorry. It’s Hal. He’s gonna get himself killed. He’s in no state to start brawling, no state at all, and I really think if I -’
Sam broke off mid-sentence, lunging forward to kiss her - a clumsy, magnificent kiss full of hope and wonder and the sudden rush of novelty.
Sam stepped back a little, still holding Megan at the waist.
‘Well, about time,’ she said, smiling.
‘The last woman I kissed went to live on a boat. For a year. She was sawn in half every night for a year,’ said Sam, his expression clouding.
Megan squinted, not quite able to follow.
‘She was a magician’s assistant. And she ran off to work on a cruise liner.’
‘OK...’
‘So basically, don’t go and live on a cruise liner. Alright?’
‘Sure.’ She blinked, still a little confused.
Sam leaned forward and kissed her goodbye, thinking how lovely she was, how infuriating Hal could be, and in what ingenious ways he would wreak his revenge on the Spaniard.
Over on the dance floor a small circle had been established, in the centre of which pranced Hal. The UV light was more virulent here and as Sam looked around at the bright white teeth, the pink flesh and translucent eyes, things seemed to be taking a nightmarish turn. With a look of complete contempt etched across his features, Hal was in the process of prodding a large, rotund, and extremely angry-looking young handler in the chest with a small sharp stick.
‘Porker! Porker! Porker!’ shouted Hal at the top of his voice. ‘Porker! Porker!’
‘Hal. Come on, mate. Time to stop.’ Sam shouted above the music, but of course he was ignored.
‘If this bloke doesn’t piss off with that stick, things are gonna get pretty nasty round here,’ the handler shouted back, a young man around twenty-eight, with short, gelled hair and a round red face.
‘Sure,’ said Sam to the handler without really paying him much attention at all. ‘I think we should go now.’
Hal was in a terrible state, a rambling, shambling mess. ‘Porker! Porker! Porker!’ he cried over and over again, as if he just wished the handler would get on with it and administer the beating.
‘Seriously!’ screamed the handler.
‘Yeah, alright,’ said Sam, surprised by the assertiveness of his own tone.
‘Yeah? You wanna go too?’
‘What? No!’ said Sam, really quite annoyed now.
Hal threw the stick to one side and made to sit down. Hands out in front of him on the floor, he was trying, without much success, to lower his backside, in the process looking like a man trying to locate an invisible chair.
‘Ha! Ha ha! Look at that bloke!’ said the handler, pointing at Hal.
Sam chose to ignore him; no good could come from any further dialogue with this man.
‘Hal. You’ll be trampled to death. Get up!’ Sam worried, for it was true, the residents were so completely subject to the dual influence of amphetamine and sound, that they in fact posed a substantial physical threat, certainly to anyone stupid enough to want to lie upon the floor for any length of time.
Moving across, Sam took Hal under the shoulders and pulled him upright. He was not a big man by any means, but Sam was taken aback by the ease with which he could move him, the pliability of his limbs, which now seemed so small. It was as if Hal had given up the fight, or rather, that he had run out of steam, physically and emotionally, his body attuned to the shrinking of his soul.
‘Right,’ said Sam with real determination. ‘Time for bed.’
The door snapped open and they shambled into the small, cell-like room, Sam dragging Hal along, now that his legs had ceased to propel. In fact Hal was slipping towards unconsciousness; save for the odd twitching grunt and swipe, he was all but asleep.
Despite having corralled Hal halfway across the house, getting him into bed proved to be by far the most difficult part of the process, almost as if his body had some kind of congenital aversion to comfort. Sam would lift up Hal’s legs, only for his arms and upper body to slip sideways, off the mattress and on to the floor, and vice versa, when Sam tried at the other end, the same thing happened. But eventually, spreading his long arms to their full span, and with a great snorting heave, the job was done.
‘You are without doubt the most awkward bugger I have ever come across,’ he said, looking down at the crumpled heap below him in the dark, a slim ribbon of light from the doorway grazing an eye and an ear.
Sam closed the door and turned on the Anglepoise lamp that sat on the writing table opposite the bed. The room was plain, and in its main elements identical to Sam’s: a rough wooden wardrobe, a metal-framed single bed and a small window with thick, blue felt curtains. Aside from these constituents, though, the room had a sparseness to it that felt odd, particularly given the amount of time he had been at Edge Hill. Indeed, there seemed to be not one single item that was personal to Hal - no photos, cards, trinkets, or knick-knacks of any kind, no rugs, no artwork or even any linen of his own.
Sam took a seat at the desk, spinning the chair around and beyond the near edge so that he had his back to the wall. Sitting there, it occurred to him that he had never been to Hal’s room before, and for some reason being there now felt like an intrusion. Sam had half-expected the place to be a shambles, a little like his own, but it was spotless. The once white bedclothes, which had taken on the grey hue that was the distinctive product of having been summarily washed within the institution’s industrial laundry system, were folded. The carpets were clean and clear. Even his uniforms hung ironed in the wardrobe.
‘What a strange fish you are,’ Sam said to himself as he looked across the room at his dormant friend. And almost by way of a response, Hal sounded a hearty grunt and shifted over on to his side, knees drawn up to his chest.
The music from the atrium downstairs faded out a
s the staff began to count down the last ten seconds of 2063. Sam sat and listened for a moment. He thought of Megan and wanted to go to her immediately, to rush along the corridor and down the stairs. She’d squeal to see him approaching across the dance floor and throw her arms around his neck and they’d kiss on the stroke of New Year, the room spinning around them, a rapturous moment, love’s young dream...
‘...seven... six... five...’
It was no good; Sam stayed rooted to the spot as the strains of Auld Lang Syne began to waft through the house.
New Year’s Eve had always been something of a cat’s arse to Sam; the celebrations always came around but were never welcome. To celebrate the passing of time in such a manner just seemed so backward. Would it not be more appropriate, he thought, to wail and weep, to gnash teeth and pull hair, bewailing the finite, transient nature of existence? To mourn the passing of a year, never to be seen again, as though to lose some part of yourself?
Or maybe he just needed to lighten up a little?
The truth was, Sam’s decision to stay amounted to more than just such a disregard for the occasion. It didn’t feel right to leave, would have felt fake to join the others downstairs. Why was it that he felt so protective of this rude, old, arrogant, oddity Hal?
Leafing through his own pockets, Sam managed to find a small packet of tobacco and some papers. No filters, of course, but what did it matter? He shifted across in the chair so that he could better lean and roll. And it was then that he noticed something: a small leatherbound journal at the far end of the table, a thick volume tied over with string and knotted neatly at the side.
Sam lit his cigarette, then stood and took a couple of paces towards the bed.
‘Hal? Hal, you awake?’ said Sam, crouching close to him.
Nothing.
‘Hal?’ he tried again but there was still no response.
And so with a shrug and a step, Sam grabbed the journal and returned to the desk. It was a heavy item, bound with a cracked, tan leather skin that hinted at many years of service. Sam shot another quick glance back in the direction of the bed; of course it was wrong to be trawling through such a book, but he was gripped by such an intense curiosity that it almost seemed impossible not to open it, a feat beyond restraint. And after all, Sam reasoned with himself, Hal would no doubt have launched into such a discovery without a second thought.