by Manda Scott
I thought about Nina and about the farm. And sleep. Deep, dream-filled sleep.
‘Kellen, can you get me some 3/0 PDS? It’s in the suture rack beside the scrub sink.’
‘Sure.’
The world is an odd place at 2 A.M. The air becomes thicker. Flows like water. Long rippling waves of water. The solid boundaries of metalwork sway in time with a drumbeat. I hadn’t noticed the drumbeat. Soft and distant, like waves on a shore. But fast, like a horse, running flat to the ground for the finishing line.
The suture pack is blue. Bright, Mediterranean blue. Brighter than the sky over Skye. The numbers dance from pack to pack. Threes to fives to twos. A long, rippling, dancing line. If I close one eye and think hard, I can stop them long enough to find a three.
‘On the left. Second row up. Bring two.’
Two is harder than one. For two, they dance faster. The drum beats faster. It’s easier, if I’m honest, with both eyes shut. In the world of my fingers, the lines are straight.
‘Where do you want them?’ My voice is out of rhythm with the drumbeat. This is not good. I need to work on that.
‘On the trolley. Sterile.’
But the trolley is not sterile. The trolley is foul. Putrid. Purulent. Pestilent. Crawling with vivid, nameless things that drop out of the sky, the savage fall-out from the tension in the air around us. Anger made manifest. It could kill us all.
The blue of the suture pack floats outwards and is eaten alive by the chaos.
‘Thanks … Are you OK?’
‘Fine. Just tired.’ I can lie about this, because lying is easy. Lying has always been easy. I just prefer to tell myself otherwise.
I am not tired at all. I could run marathons and not be tired. I could climb mountains with Eric and beat him to the top.
Or I could sit on the stool where I was told to sit and watch the world flow in past in rippling, waving lines.
The ECG runs in rhythm with the drumbeat. This is good. If I hold my breath, the drum beats louder. If I hold my breath and stare at the ECG, I can keep them in absolute synchrony. Very beautiful. Except that the ECG is changing. Waving. Wavering. Writing lines across the page. Lines of past lies, easily told. In time to the drumbeat. This is not good.
I should look at the foal. The foal can’t lie. But the foal is angry. With me. I can see it in the way he is watching me, in his fiery, incandescent, hate-filled eyes. He is angry because I sent the three vials away with Sandy and there is nothing else that will do. His anger feeds the things that breed on the trolley. They could kill us all.
‘Kellen …? Matt, is she all right?’
‘She’ll be fine. She’s in caffeine depletion. Her blood levels are probably the lowest they’ve been since she qualified.’
I resent that remark.
‘Here. Drink this. It’ll keep you hydrated if nothing else.’
The bottle is green. An ugly, translucent, green. Like the fire in the foal’s eyes. The water inside it is green too.
‘Drink it, woman. Don’t wash out your eyes … Here. Like this.’
It’s cold, too. Icy cold. In the desert, ice is good. I could drink this for ever.
‘Are you sure she’s OK?’
‘No. But there’s nothing we can do about it now … Kellen. Lie down … here … along the wall. Shut your eyes. You’ll be fine.’
I can still see the foal. Even with my eyes shut, I can still see him. He floats above me. His eyes are green fire. He hates me. Wants me dead. Because I let his sister die. Because I wanted her to live. Because I let his mother die. Because I am going to let him die, too. Because I don’t care enough to save him. He can spin in the air, in time to the drumbeat and he can spit bottle-green poison straight at my eyes. And there is nothing at all I can do …
‘Matt? I’m coming out. I need some more PDS for the midline and then some nylon for the skin.’
‘Will he do?’
‘Probably better than she will. What’s up?’
‘Water overdose? How should I know? I expect she hasn’t slept since Sunday night and probably hasn’t eaten since before that. It had to hit sometime.’
‘That figures. Is your anaesthetic stable?’
‘Very.’
‘Do you want to scrub in for a minute and follow me up the midline? I’ll do the subcut, you do the skin.’
‘If you like.’
They hate each other, these two. You can feel it in the air. But they are so excruciatingly polite about it.
So excruciatingly polite.
She didn’t have him. He had her. There’s a difference.
Isn’t there just?
She doesn’t even listen to Steff any more.
But did she ever?
They hate each other, these two, with the same kind of passion that they both love Nina and for exactly that reason.
They could hate me too. Either of them. Both of them, possibly.
But you’d never know.
Kellen? If I said that the walls of the incubator were on fire, what would you say?
I would say you were mad.
Nina? If I said this colt was spitting bright green fire, what would you say?
I’d say it’s hypoglycaemia.
You’ll believe anything when you’re paranoid …
The man’s right, you know.
She could have drunk it. It works orally in kids. Saves all those nasty needle marks.
So very easy.
Bastards.
Breathe. Listen to the drumbeat. The heartbeat. Make it slow down. Don’t watch the green fire.
Just keep breathing.
Walls should be straight.
Floors are flat.
Foals don’t fly.
‘Kellen? Just stay where you are. We’ll sort you out in a bit. Don’t try to sit up. It won’t help.’
And how the hell would you know?
I can sit, if I try to. I could probably stand if I had to but I’m not about to try that now.
My heart is hammering as fast as the foal’s. It shouldn’t be that fast.
You’d get a fair tachycardia with that much ketamine on board.
Wouldn’t you just?
‘OK, we’ll stick on a stent and then you can wake him up. How’s the patient on the floor?’
‘I’m fine.’
I can speak. Over the drumming of my heartbeat, I can speak and sound normal.
The half-life of ketamine is twelve and half minutes. But I don’t know how much I’ve had or how much is still floating round. I could ask them. One of them will know. But just now, that would not be wise. Later maybe. If it still matters.
‘OK. We’re done. Let’s wake them both up. Foal first.’
‘I’m awake.’
‘All things are relative … Matt, can you get the foal out on your own? I’ll help Kellen.’
‘If she’s awake, she can push a trolley … Can you push a trolley?’
Floors are flat.
‘I don’t see why not.’
Walls should be straight.
‘Good. You take that end. We’ll put him on oxygen when we get him to the calf pen. He’s not very deep. He’ll be awake in ten minutes.’
‘Fine.’
Foals don’t fly.
‘You look grim.’
‘Caffeine deficiency. Like you said.’
The floor is flat. The walls are straight. The foal is asleep, breathing slowly, on his own. His eyes are dark, like his mother’s. Flickering already with the beginnings of waking.
‘Where’s Steff?’
‘Getting changed. She’ll be over in a minute.’
Outside, it was warm and dark and the air was fresh.
Under the heat lamps, in the calf pens, it was warmer and the air was damp and smelled of calf and goat, evenly mixed. The calf still slept. The goat raised its head but didn’t make the effort to stand. We lifted the foal from the trolley and sat him on his brisket, like a dog, with loose straw piled under his shoulder to prop him up.
There was an oxygen cylinder on the trolley. We slid the tube gently up his nose and taped it in place with zinc oxide wrapped around his muzzle.
My foal, the pipe-dreamer. At least he is still alive.
I have kept my promise. So far.
‘Are you all right if I go and get our jackets?’
‘I’m fine.’ This kind of lie, I can manage.
‘OK. I won’t be long. If he wakes, try not to let him stand up.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
I could so easily sleep. In the warm, ruminant air of the calf pens, I could sleep and not mind if I never woke up.
I am Alice and I have eaten once more in the company of the White Rabbit.
Or, alternatively, it is three o’clock in the morning, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep for as long as I care to remember and someone, somewhere, has doped me up to the eyeballs with ketamine. Which is dangerous. And a very good reason not to sleep. A very good reason, in fact, to be somewhere else. Now.
I can move. It is not a lie. I simply can’t do it very well.
Standing is easy. The walls make a good lever, the gate a useful prop. Walking is more difficult. Without the trolley to hold on to, directional control is not quite what it could be. Action does not necessarily follow intention. Intention is hard enough. It would be so much easier simply to sleep.
I step out of the foal’s pen and remember to shut the gate. I would have liked to go out through the door and into the corridor. Instead, I lean over a different gate and commune, briefly and very personally, with the goat. Both of us are surprised about that. He is more pissed off about it than I am.
If I half shut my eyes and run my fingers along the wall, I can walk in a line for the door. It’s all to do with balance. I don’t have any. But my fingers have lots. As long as I don’t think.
Beyond the doorway, the corridor is light. Too light. To hide, one must be in the dark.
I follow the line of the corridor, all the way along to the end. The ladies’ toilet is on my left. A dead end. But useful in a hurry, I should remember that.
In the corridor, there are noises. If I stop and listen, I can hear the goat. Far in the lower byres, the cow is still lowing. She must be calving. Or sick. Or both. Outside, the wind whispers through the trees. Tonight, if I listen, I will know what they say. She never mentioned that, the talk of the trees.
Probably just as well.
I am listening for people. There are none. Unless they walk more quietly than the trees.
The door screams as it opens. A loud, jagged noise thrown out into the dark. The trees fall to a whisper. The night is black with sodium-orange tints. The things that walk through the trees are tall and wisped and they smile with Nina’s eyes. Walnuts amidst the rhododendrons. I have to ask their permission to move on. It is not certain that they will give it. I have lied too often to too many people.
But I have never lied to the trees.
This is true.
I can pass.
There are no walls in the dark of the car park. There are also no people. Still. No Matt. No Steff. This is surprising. One or other of them should be back by now. I could try to run. While the coast is clear.
Running is not good. For emergencies only. Now, I am missing some skin on one knee and the palms of both hands. There is no pain. There has never been any pain. Not physically. All the pain is on the inside, trying to get out.
The walls to the clinic are straight, very rough but straight enough to move with. I run my finger along the brickwork, feeling the rough cast of the bricks. Mountains and valleys of baked clay. Man-made geology. I had no idea the surface of things could tell stories like this. My fingers are a new window on the world.
There is a doorway ahead. Beyond it, a corridor. Inside, it is totally dark. No windows. No lights. Perfect.
On my left, is the silent, swinging door to the small animal ward. It opens, hissing a greeting, like a snake. Snakes are small animals too. I fear snakes more than anything else in this world or any other. If there are snakes in here, I will turn round and give myself up.
I see no snakes. I hear things breathe. Things that are not snakes. A cat sings, quietly, a song of welcome. A dog bays. More dogs join him. A cacophony of baying dogs and singing cats. A betrayal in sound.
‘Kellen? Are you there?’
A perfect betrayal. Her voice. The tall one. The one who so carefully kept me away from Nina while she was dying.
No. I am not here. I am nowhere.
I shut the door, back out, feel in the dark for a wall to walk with. There is no wall. But there is a banister, smooth, warm, peaceful wood. Upstairs there is a haven of hiding places. And the Lodge. Where she lives. Bad idea.
‘Kellen?’
No. I am not here.
There is a wall if you know where to find it. Straight and smooth. Like the floor. On this floor, I can walk, fast and silent. MacDonald taught me how to walk in the woods. Part of my education. Heel and toe. Soundless. If you can walk soundless through a beech wood with fallen twigs and beech nuts underfoot at every step, you can walk soundless along a tiled corridor. I am not here. There are ghost-forms here, all around. But not me.
‘Kellen? Are you there? It’s me. I’m safe. I promise you.’
The other one. Him. The one who thinks he can give Nina the peace she needs.
Why is he whispering? Come to that, why have they not switched on the lights? Their loss. My gain. In the dark, I have the advantage. Because I can see and they cannot. I can see the bends in the corridor. I can see the doorways, turn the handles, feel them locked. I can see her, or him, one of them, standing in the dark at the far end of the corridor, looking the wrong way. I can hear the other one walk into the ward. Hear the hissing door and the cacophony of greeting. I should have stayed there. You can hide in a jungle of sound.
There is a door that opens. Here. On the right. Well used and well oiled. It opens as silently as the one to the ward although, at this moment, it could creak like the barn and you wouldn’t hear it over the baying of the dogs. There is no light in here. The darkness is perfect. My fingers are windows on the world. There are shelves. Right from the doorway, there are shelves. Long, long shelves reaching high up the walls, stacked with glass bottles and cardboard boxes. So many different sizes. So many different shapes. There is a geometry here, if I had the time to work it out.
There is no time. The dogs have stopped. There are footsteps in the corridor. Difficult to tell if they are coming or going and either way I must hide.
There are boxes on the floor. I hadn’t thought of that. My feet are windows on the world too, it’s just that they have the curtains drawn so I can’t see what’s there. Now I know, I can step round the boxes. Silently.
Further round, shelves jut out into the room. Like a library. Except it isn’t a library. But it is a good labyrinth. Lots of places to hide. All I have to do is to find one my size. I need to find it soon because the footsteps outside have stopped by the door and the door is not, after all, silent. When the dogs are not barking, it makes a faint, serpentine hiss.
‘Kellen? Are you there?’ A whisper. Without accent or gender. Frustrating. But it makes no difference. The footsteps are steady, even and long-striding. It could be either of them. I need to hide. Soon.
This is a big room. There is a corner ahead. A benchtop, covered in smooth, cool plastic. And a sink. The water drips, very, very slowly, very softly, on to the cold metal of the sink. Like a drumbeat, a long way off. Calling.
To my left is a smooth, metallic chest. To the right of that is a filing cabinet. Between them both is a space. My size of space. The drumbeat calls. Soft. Insistent. A song of safety and of peace and the need to sleep. I can fit in here and I can sleep. As soon as the footsteps leave, I can sleep. Just me and the drumbeat.
And the footsteps.
Stopping.
‘Kellen. It’s me.’ Matt. Crouching in front of me. Shining a light on my face. A small, bright, circle of amber li
ght. He flicks it away when he sees that it hurts. I can live in the dark. In the peace. He knows that. ‘It’s all right. I’ll look after you. Steff’s upstairs. She won’t find us here.’ He crouches beside me in the way he crouched by the injured German shepherd. The consummate professional. Bringing help.
The light swings, slowly, in time with the drumbeat. The soft, slow call to sleep. A slow, swinging circle of amber light, spiralling in towards a centre that is me.
‘Kellen? Can I hold your arm? Just for a bit? It won’t hurt. The light will move again if I can just hold your arm for a bit.’
‘Sure.’ Why not? His voice is warm in the way a cat’s coat is warm. Soft and silken and pleasant to feel. Very safe.
‘Not that one. The other one.’
Fine by me. Have them both. I don’t need them.
There is cold in my arm, just for a moment. In time with the drumbeat. And then warmth, a slow, spreading warmth.
The light is moving again. Shining upwards. Up to the sky. The sky is blue, like the sky over Skye. And in the corner is a fat, bloated sun. A clear sun. Absolutely clear, with strange, viscous swirls spiralling upwards through it. Clear, translucent raindrops fall from the sun. One at a time. Falling. Towards my arm. A long river of rain running into my arm. Rain. From the sun. This is good. I would never have thought of that.
‘Rain.’
‘What? Oh. Yes. I’m sorry she had to go. One of the innocent bystanders. Don’t worry, we’re on to the real thing now. It’ll be very peaceful. Better than the mare. All you have to do now is let go and watch the drops.’
And I do. I watch slow drops of colourless rain, falling in time with the drumbeat. I can hear them. Each of them. Falling softly. Calling my name.
‘Kellen.’
‘Kellen.’
‘Kellen.’
There is light. Too much light. Bright, white light. And the clear sun has set. Driven away by the light.