The Elected Member

by Bernice Rubens

  Norman touched the sweat on his forehead. He wondered whether every night he sweated through, without knowing it. What were they making such a bloody row about. Can’t a man get some sleep around here. Like a bunch of madmen they are. Something landed on his head. He sat bolt-upright in his bed, rubbing his bruised temple. ‘What the fuck he shouted. He opened his eyes and saw one of Billy’s lampshades lying on his bed. He picked it up to fling it back, but he saw that Billy’s bed was empty and the sheets and mattress were smouldering. All the patients were awake, some running around, chucking water onto the fire, or hiding under their beds or just getting in the way and cheering. All except Minister, who slept through it all, who had enough to sleep away with his own ravings.

  ‘Where’s Billy?’ Norman shouted. ‘Where’s a nurse? Where’s anybody?’ Then he saw him at the far end of the ward. His rigid presence had made a clearing, and those with near-by beds, were underneath them, cowering from his rigidity. The night-nurse, Andrews, new on the ward, and from the probational glint in his eye, probably new to the whole business, stood facing him, a few feet away, mouthing his name, for nothing could be heard above the din and clatter of the other patients to whom any break in the monotony of their lives was to be exploited to the full. Norman got out of bed, and walked down the ward. He stood himself next to Andrews, so that he could look Billy in the face. It was not easy to look at him. The rigidity that had fixed his whole body, seemed to have his eyes as its source; these and these alone, were the only part of him that was still. All the rest, his arms, hands, legs, and shoulders, throbbed with controlled staccato vibrations. His jaw ticked over like a well-oiled engine, with the same regularity, so that, had he been able to speak, he would,have spoken ticker-tape.

  ‘Billy,’ Andrews was saying. ‘Be a good boy, Billy, now.’ Norman could hear the fear in his voice, and there was indeed something terrifying about the machine-like figure that dominated the ward. Andrews made to go towards him, calling his name, exhorting him to be a good boy, whatever he meant by that.

  ‘Get another nurse,’ Norman said. ‘Shall I go and get one. You can’t do it on your own.’ He himself was not prepared to help. He was a devout coward, and had sufficient imagination to envisage the outcome of a close-in with Billy in his condition. ‘Shall I get help?’ he said.

  ‘I’ll handle it,’ Andrews said. He assumed that this kind of crisis was a normal part of his routine, and it would have been a reflection on his efficiency if he could not handle it alone. ‘Be a good boy, now, Billy,’ he said again. He stepped forward.

  Bloody fool, Norman thought, he won’t even take off his glasses. Andrews walked straight towards Billy. and stopped, facing him. Norman could not help but admire the man’s courage. Andrews was saying something, probably the same inanities that he had started off with. He was telling Billy to be a good boy, but what right had he, or anyone else to suppose that Billy was being a bad boy. And how could he think that Billy was in any state to understand words, since he had assumed the status of a machine. Then Andrews raised his hand. Norman knew instinctively that it was a fatal move, and he wished again that the man had had the sense to take off his glasses. He touched Billy ever so gently on the arm, but it was enough to throw out Billy’s whole generator. The rest of his body lost its centre, and stuttered out in spasmodic frenzy. The isolated arm raised itself, and landed poor Andrews between the eyes like a curse. Norman heard the thud and a trickle of broken glass. Andrews rocked a little. There was a sudden silence in the ward. The men kept their distance but moved closely towards each other. And as the audience gathered, Andrews fell. looked at him. They were watching Billy, who still sputtered away. He looked down at the cramped labours of his arms and legs, and turned his head, offended by his rotten engine. Norman looked down at Andrews.

  ‘Serves you right,’ he thought. ‘That’ll teach you to be a hero.’ There was blood on his face, and the bridge of his glasses seemed to have caved into his nose, while the frames projected like broken wings. He went into the nurses’ room outside the ward, and rang the first bell he could find. Then he saw McPherson, who shared night duty with Andrews, curled up on the couch, fast asleep. Norman shook him awake. ‘There’s trouble,’ he said. ‘Andrews is hurt.’ McPherson shook the sleep off him. He grabbed Norman’s pyjama sleeve. ‘You’re not pulling my leg, are you,’ he said.

  Norman dusted his hand off. ‘See for yourself,’ he said, and he strolled out of the room.

  McPherson followed him. Andrews still lay there, bleeding. Billy had meantime gathered more momentum. His rhythm had returned, and he was running happily like clockwork. The men stood around and watched with growing melancholy. McPherson took in the scene and went straight over to Andrews. He lifted him up and laid him on the nearest bed. ‘Back to bed, all of you,’ he shouted. The men felt safer with McPherson there, and even those who had been hiding under their beds, ventured out. McPherson was an old hand at the game. He was kind and firm and he didn’t want to punish anybody. He glanced at Billy and went quickly to the ward phone. He muffed his words into the receiver, then he replaced it, and did the round of the ward, skirting Billy and ignoring him. ‘Into bed, now,’ he said to the stragglers. Norman went back to his own bed, and like the other men, sat up and waited.

  ‘The show’s over.’ McPherson said. ‘It’s sleep time. Down you get, all of you.’ He was patiently taking the whole situation in his stride. The men lay down, their eyes open, fearful for Billy. and their own isolation. Most of them were thinking of home. McPherson stopped at Andrews’ bed. He took a folded towel from the nearest locker and soaked it in the ward sink. With it he tidied up Andrews’ face, tut-tutting at the man’s inexperience.

  He tried to dislodge the glasses, but he conceded that that was probably a surgeon’s job. And now, though cleaned up, Andrews looked much worse than before. There now seemed no reason for his glasses to be so ridiculously embedded in his face. McPherson smiled slightly and went to the door of the ward to wait. The men pretended to be sleeping, but they watched Billy as he stood there, revving away happily.

  The posse arrived very quickly, four of them, and one of the doctors. Some of the nurses must have been sent from other wards, because the men had not seen them before. Slowly they sat up in their beds. The doctor went over to Andrews. He made a sign to two of the nurses, who went out and returned with a stretcher. Andrews was carried out silently and the other nurses watched him go. Fallen in the execution of his duties seemed to be the unanimous comment as he was borne away. ‘Poor sod,’ one of them said, taking a look at Andrews’ battered face, ‘he won’t be back for a while.’

  Until now, Billy had been ignored. The other two nurses, with McPherson, started to make an ostensible round of the ward. At the top of the ward, they assembled. Billy’s throbbing back was towards them. Then McPherson selected a large key from his bunch and opened the door behind him. Norman had never seen this door opened. but Minister had told him gruesome stories of what lay behind it. It was knee-deep in cow-pads, according to Minister. It was where they finished you off, good and proper. McPherson unlocked the door, and opened it slightly. Then he joined the other two nurses. The men watched them, all now sitting up in their beds. McPherson nodded and the three of them tip-toed silently forward. There was no sound in the ward, except for Minister’s light and regular snore. The patients watched the silent assault. Then, as they neared Billy, with instinctive loyalty to one of their number, they shouted to a man, ‘Look out, Billy. Look out.’

  But Billy’s own engine had deafened him and he went on ticking regardless. The nurses were now directly behind him, but Billy was unaware of their proximity. Together they raised their arms over him, and folded him in a casual gesture between them. Together they lifted him, his rigid body slightly raised from the floor between them, his feet stiff, and his toes rigidly pointed. He looked straight ahead of him, though it was doubtful that he could see anything. If he was putting up a struggle, it was invisible. The men held him like t
hree vicious clamps, with a strength that was strangely at odds with the look of extreme gentleness on their faces. When they came to the door, McPherson eased his foot around it, and the four of them went sideways through. The door locked itself as it shut, and though the men strained their ears, they could hear no footsteps from the other side. When it was all over, the men avoided each others’ glances. While the show had lasted, they had experienced the elation of survivors, but now there was only a sour taste. Most of them envied Minister, who had given it a miss and whom it had left unscathed. They drew themselves down between the sheets, each of them sharing the aftermath of bitterness, and the nagging fear that one day it would be one of them. None of them dared imagine where Billy had gone. They had barely explored or understood the walls of their own prison.

  The incident left Norman deeply depressed. Not that he particularly liked Billy. The fact that his father thought that Billy was a nice boy, was enough to make him hostile. In fact, every time his father and Bella came on a visit, they spent most of the time with Billy, not so much out of interest in Billy’s condition, but as a ready-to-hand excuse to avoid himself. He turned over and gazed at the empty bed alongside him. The mattress had been taken away together with the sheets, and the blankets were folded neatly over the springs. The whole bed looked discharged from service, as it might have looked if Billy had just died, and Norman was frightened at the speed with which all traces of a man could be removed. He wondered what had happened in the very beginning, how it had all started while he was still asleep. Had Billy set fire to his bed, and who had taken him out of it? And at what point in the whole procedure, had Billy become untouchable. Where was he now, Norman dared to wonder. Was he still encased in his own starched inflexibility, his own self-made strait-jacket? He wished him sleep. That was all that was left for any of them.

  He turned over on his other side. He knew that getting back to sleep would be impossible. He heard the others tossing along the line of bedding. Someone on the far side was sobbing. Norman cursed him for not having the decency to stifle the helplessness that all of them were trying to contain in their sleepless beds. He turned again, keeping his eyes shut all the time, because he knew they were there, and he had just about enough to cope with. He’d see to those in the-morning. He’d kill them off himself if no-one else would do it. At the moment all that concerned him was getting to sleep. He heard footsteps up the centre of the ward. McPherson must be back, and he fancied that there was blood on his hands. He sat up in bed and called him over. McPherson came to tuck in his sheets. He looked pale. Although such outbreaks occurred with monotonous regularity, especially in Norman’s ward, it was, for McPherson, always the first time. ‘Go to sleep, Norman,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t. Can I have a sleeping-pill?’

  ‘I’ll get you one,’ McPherson whispered. As he left the bed, the other men sat up and made the same request. calling after him for oblivion. They sat staring until he returned. Then he doled them out, moving from bed to bed, bidding them sleep, forcing a little gruffness into his voice. He didn’t want any of them to think he was getting soft. ‘Is he all right, Billy?’ Norman asked, when McPherson reached his bed.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ McPherson said. ‘He’ll be back. He’s got a lampshade to finish, or his mother’ll have something to say about that.’ He winked at Norman. ‘Go to sleep,’ he said. ‘Everything looks better in the morning.’

  He left the bed, and Norman shut his eyes quickly. He knew they were there, and what’s more, they would be there in the morning, too. Everything is not better in the morning. They would be there and Billy would be gone. He would have been glad not to wake up at all. But in order not to wake, he had to to sleep. He buried his hand in the pillow, but withdrew it quickly, knowing they were there too. He felt a drowsiness coming over him, and he surrendered with a coward’s gratitude. Soon the ward was silent and Minister turned over in his sleep and groaned, as if he had had a bad dream.

  Chapter 13

  Apart from breaks for feeding, Minister was not woken the following day, and Norman panicked. He had come to the end of his supply, and the things were crawling over the wall and over his body. He waited until after breakfast. It was a fine day, and most of the patients, except those who slept and had slept ever since Norman had arrived, had gone out onto the lawns, to read or write letters, or play chess, or simply to beg the day to swallow them whole. The ward was quiet, and the nurse-in-charge was in the outside corridor. Norman went over to Minister’s bed. He looked at him and resented his healthy countenance. ‘Minister,’ he whispered. He gave him a slight shove. He had to test how much it would need to wake Minister up. Minister didn’t move. The rhythm of his slight snore did not change. Norman tapped him sharply on the rump, but that too. made little impression. For a moment, Norman thought of the consequences of beating him blue and awake, but he didn’t care. His panic had bred hatred. He threw his body with all its force onto the heap of Minister. ‘Wake up, you bastard,’ he hissed. ‘Wake up, or I’ll kill you.’

  Minister turned over and opened an offended eye. ‘What, what?’ he groaned. Norman heard the nurse behind him.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘I tripped. Sorry.’ He slunk away from the bed, and lay down on his own. He didn’t know what to do. He had been without pills before, and he remembered the excruciating pains of withdrawal. If he lay there long enough, or even if he were up and moving. they would overrun his helpless body and how could he explain these sudden pains to the nurses. And supposing nobody believed he was in pain. He opened his eyes. He had to. When they were closed, his head swam in nausea. But when they were open he could see them, and there was nowhere he could turn not to see them. Because they were everywhere.

  On his body too. He dared not scratch on one place, because they would settle somewhere else about him, and his whole body would be seething with their filth. ‘It’s these bloody sheets,’ he said aloud. He sat up on the bed and looked over at Minister. There was no point in trying again.

  The nurse was hovering in Minister’s area. He began to shiver. ‘Oh God,’ he screamed, ‘it’s coming, it’s coming,’ and he ran down to the end of the ward, as if running from the pain. He opened the cleaning cupboard and brought out a huge package of detergent. Then he went along one side of the wall, and haunted with his fears, he sprinkled the powder along the skirting. The nurse came over. ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ he said. Norman ignored him.

  The packet was almost empty and he looked back at his trail of blue powder. ‘That’ll kill the bastards,’ he said. The nurse grasped his shoulder. ‘What are you doing, Norman?’ he said.

  ‘Why can’t you fucking well keep this ward clean?’ He ran over to his bed and stripped it with a speed and strength that astonished him. He took his pillows and plunged them into the nearest sink and turned the water. ‘Drown, you bastards, drown,’ he said. He started to gather up other pillows, but the nurse got him from behind.

  It was all done very quickly. The second nurse came over and plunged the needle into his arm. Between them, they carried him to his bed. They gave him new pillows and tucked him in like a baby. Then they swept the powder from the floor and took away the sodden linen.

  By the time the men came back into the ward, they had removed all evidence of Norman’s turning, and Norman had joined Minister in a colourless and painless limbo.

  They kept him asleep for a fortnight, till they got the poison out of him. Awakened for meals, he ate drowsily, with no notion of what he was consuming. Occasionally he saw the bewildered face of his father, and Bella kept touching him. He heard voices and preferred not to think they were addressed to him. Where did you get them from?

  Who gave, who gave, tell me, tell me, who gave? That must have been his father. But he slept it all away. Towards the end, they dosed him less heavily, and he was able to sit up in bed, and to register the fact that Minister was gone. They got him up, and walked him round the ward and out into the gardens. He was glad to ad
mit to feeling better, but he suffered too, a terrible sense of loss. Coupled with this was his remorse which painfully manifested itself when his father and Bella came to see him. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all he could say, ‘I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to you.’ He did not plead any more to be taken home. He felt much too inadequate and deservedly unwanted, to merit that kind of request. Rabbi Zweck, overjoyed by his son’s recovery, tried to ignore the doctor’s warning that it might not last. ‘We still have to find out why he wants pills,’ the doctor said. ‘Only when we’ve sorted that one out, can we be hopeful that he won’t go back on them.’ Rabbi Zweck was prepared to be patient, but what pained him more than anything else, was his son’s penitence. ‘No need to be sorry,’ he said to him. ‘Is not your fault. Now we forget everything. We start again. You get better, you come home.

  You go back to the Law, and we start again.’

  For Rabbi Zweck, it was suddenly as if nothing had interrupted his son’s brilliant career. The fiasco of his last appearance at the Bar, and his subsequent breakdowns were episodes of a nightmare that would never recur, and like a nightmare, deniable. ‘You remember, Norman, the Watson case?’ he said. ‘You remember, Bella?’ He wanted to gather her into her brother’s past triumph. He wanted to realise it into the present, as if even now, the newspapers were singing his praises, and the clients were flocking to his door.

  ‘Nobody thought he’d get off,’ Bella said. ‘What did he get? Three years, was it, for manslaughter? He’ll be out pretty soon.’

  ‘No,’ Rabbi Zweck said quickly. He was angry that Bella had so squarely placed her brother’s success in the distant past, as if it were over and done with, and could never occur again. ‘Not so long ago it was, Norman,’ he said. He was anxious to re-tell the tale, so that it would live again, and rekindle for Norman the elation of his success. ‘What was it now? I forget already,’ he said, looking at Bella urging her to re-cap the tale for them all to savour. ‘Was it a bread-knife he used?’ He giggled, embarrassed by his fragmented memory. All that was vivid in his mind, was the aftermath of the case, the adulation that his on had received, and his own unbounded pleasure.