Bertha snorted in amusement. ‘I leave you to it, then,’ she said genially, laying a broad hand on each of their shoulders, ‘Mind she don’t get bored, now,’ she instructed Serabi enigmatically and moved briskly off down the corridor, her soft soled nurses’ shoes making a whispering sound on the linoleum.
Serabi turned to Nadia with her eyebrows raised in silent query. Nadia mimed ignorance and hastened to change the subject. ‘What seems to be the problem?’
By way of answer Serabi clicked the flat screen monitor in front of her into life. The display showed a document that appeared to be some kind of official form, and Serabi’s slim fingers flickered over the keys briefly, then indicated a place on the screen. ‘You see that? Every time I try to enter the information they’re asking for, it comes out two lines above where it’s supposed to go.’ She turned to Nadia in silent appeal, ‘Do you really understand about this stuff?’
Nadia grinned, feeling at home for the first time in days. ‘It’s just poorly formatted,’ she said cheerfully, ‘If I could just . . .’
‘Please!’ Serabi yielded her chair and perched on the side of the desk as Nadia opened, selected, and rapidly ran through a set of alternatives until with a decisive tap on the touch pad she gestured for Serabi to take over. She did so, typing rapidly for a moment and then hugging Nadia one handed, exclaiming something which sounded like ‘buck ghut!’
Nadia laughed. ‘Is that good or bad?’
Serabi shook her head, grinning, ‘It’s Afrikaans, it was my father’s favourite expression. It means “very well done!” ’
Nadia said, ‘So you’re from South Africa originally?’ Then, because she couldn’t resist asking, ‘I was wondering about your name, you see . . .’
The other woman groaned, hands over her face, ‘That bloody Lion King! It was bad enough when it was a kid’s movie, but now they’ve made it into a musical . . . ever since I came to this country, it’s been “were you named after that lion, you know, Simba’s mother?” Even the immigration officer . . .’
Nadia hastily raised both hands in surrender. ‘Sorry! That was stupid of me; so it wasn’t made up for the movie, it’s a real name?’ she flushed darkly. ‘I can’t seem to get my foot out of my mouth. I mean. . . .’
Serabi laughed and patted Nadia’s hand, ‘Really, it’s fine. In Swahili it means “Mirage”. Supposedly when I was born with my father’s blond hair my mother thought she was seeing things, so . . .’ she shrugged ruefully. ‘How about you? Another visitor to the famous White Cliffs?’
There was an edge to the way the last two words were said that told Nadia she was not referring to the English landscape. ‘No, I was born in England. My family is from Syria originally, but we’ve been here for ages. Any other problems I can help with?’ she said, indicating the monitor with a nod.
Serabi pulled an institutional plastic chair around and sat down, rubbing her hands together with mock glee. ‘Only about a months’ worth of those blasted forms,’ she said, ‘Are you really sure you want this job?’
Nadia demurred hastily. ‘I’m only here for the summer,’ she said, deciding candour was the order of the day. ‘They call it Community Service.’ In between dealing with a stubborn collection of bureaucratic forms she told the story of her fall from grace. It was beginning to seem almost funny by now, although the memory of her family’s shame and outrage still stung. ‘So you see,’ she added at the end, ‘I’m not here to replace you.’
Serabi stared at her in disbelief. ‘Rescue me, you mean! I’d do anything to get out of this job and work in a real hospital.’ Then, seeing the confusion on Nadia’s face, she explained, ‘I have a degree in paediatric medicine from Jo’burg, but it’s really difficult to get certified in this country if you aren’t from the EU . . . hey! Tea time!’ she pointed to a large clock overhead. ‘What say we have a cuppa?’ Her musical voice made nonsense of the expression and they both laughed, suddenly friends. ‘I’ve got rooibos, if you’d like to try some?’
‘I’d love to,’ Nadia said, ‘but Salim promised to meet me during his break.’
Serabi’s expression became immediately guarded. ‘You mean Doctor Marabet? Is he a friend of yours?’
Nadia caught the tone in time to say, ‘Actually we have the same last name. He’s my brother.’ Watching as the other woman’s face changed through three distinct expressions, she smiled inwardly. Aloud she said, innocently, ‘Do you know where I could find him?’
Serabi’s look of relief deepened to a flush which she strove to conceal by selecting a clipboard and turning a few pages. ‘It says here,’ she said without looking up, ‘he’ll just be finishing his rounds on the Men’s wing.’ She sorted through a pile of printouts in her in-tray. ‘They are very security conscious around here, you’d better have a legitimate errand. Here!’ she proffered a form. ‘If anyone asks, just say I need a signature on this requisition. Now, you go out the main entrance and up the hill, just follow the signs.’
Minutes later, Nadia was out in the grounds, following a curving uphill path that led to a building that seemed older than the rest. The atmosphere was one of almost somnolent peace, the immaculate lawns criss-crossed by concrete paths along which could be seen an occasional white-coated female attendant wheeling her somnolent charge. She passed close to one such and was a little shocked to see that the face of the patient was disfigured by two badly bruised eyes. So, things were not always so peaceful around here. Thoughtfully, she continued on her way, arriving at the designated building, a red-brick edifice that resembled a school from the 1950s, shaded by a mature stand of tall trees. The wire grills here looked to be more recent additions, with the exception of a row of rectangular openings at basement level, where the mesh seemed to be mounted on the inside.
A shriek of stressed metal made her nearly jump out of her skin, as a face suddenly appeared in the window nearest her, a young boy with fingers hooked through the mesh, the muscles on his shoulders and neck standing out like cables. She had only a moment to register that he had widely spaced staring eyes of an unusual golden hue when from behind her came a chorus of female voices chanting, ‘Monkey, Monkey, come out today, Doctor Car-ter wants to play . . .’ Nadia turned to see two of the female attendants with their wheelchairs laughing and pointing, while from the window the noise of the shaken mesh rose to a crescendo and the slack faced occupants of the chairs began to stir and look agitated in turn. She just had time to register that both patients had the same bruising about the eyes, here fading to an unhealthy looking yellow, before a door slammed and a white coated figure came hurrying across the lawn toward them.
Salim skidded to a stop and pointed a finger. ‘You two!’ he snapped, as the women, suddenly sober, lowered their heads sheepishly. ‘What are you doing up here? Didn’t you hear the bell for tea time?’
‘Yes, Doctor. Sorry Doctor,’ the two women murmured simultaneously, and hastily wheeled their charges away in the direction of the main building.
He turned to Nadia, his evident irritation vanishing as he saw the expression on her face. He took her arm and led her around the corner into the shade of a giant sycamore. ‘How did you manage to find this place?’ he said gently, ‘I was just finishing rounds, I would have come and found you.’ He looked after the two women and grimaced. ‘Some of the staff around here . . . they aren’t real nurses, you know, not most of them. I suppose Carter thinks the uniforms make them look more professional.
Nadia was still trembling with reaction, the worst part of which was that she couldn’t understand the cause of it. She put a hand on Salim’s white sleeve, feeling the warm, reassuring solidity of his arm underneath. ‘Sali,’ she asked suddenly, the childhood nickname coming unbidden, ‘Who is that boy?’
Salim spoke, looking off into the distance. ‘An old woman in the West End was found dead last month. Usual thing, she hadn’t been seen about for weeks and her neighbours finally called the police. His case file says he was found living in the house when they forced th
e door. No language that anyone could understand, it says, and behaviour so violent they sent him here.’
Nadia looked back at the corner of the building she had just left. ‘Violent?’ she objected, ‘he looked to me like he just wanted to get out.’
Her brother smiled suddenly and ruffled her hair almost as he used to when they were children. ‘Hey, Nadi, this isn’t a mink farm, don’t go opening cages around here.’ he chided, referring to an incident when on a school trip to just such a place she had caused pandemonium by slipping away and setting all the animals at liberty. ‘Come here a moment, let me show you something.’
He indicated a window low to the ground, a twin of the one in front. ‘This used to be the squash court back when there was a private school here.’
Nadia, frowned. ‘Squash court?’ she repeated, uncomprehending, ‘But this window . . .’
‘Is five metres off the floor.’ Salim finished quietly, ‘It was the athletic building.’ Faintly on the wind came a short protesting squeal as the other iron grill was shaken. ‘I’d better try to persuade him to come down,’ he smiled, ‘Come on, you might be able to help. Everyone else is at the caff having tea.’ Nadia followed him to a metal side door which looked like a service entrance, her mind busy with speculation. It was very unlike Salim to discuss his cases. She knew he had been working summers when he was still at University, doing volunteer work among the homeless in the West End, and that his ambition was to qualify as a psychiatrist, but she couldn’t ever remember him mentioning specific individuals; she had the idea it was against medical ethics or something. The realisation set her off on a new tangent. What was she actually doing here?
Salim unlocked the door with the ubiquitous ring of keys, ushered Nadia in and turned right down a dimly lit tiled corridor, their footfalls loud in a building that seemed empty. They descended two flights of stairs and came to a double door set with large panels of reinforced glass, where Salim hesitated, his key in the lock. ‘I’ve been working with this boy whenever I have a free period,’ he murmured. Was that a note of excitement in his voice? Nadia looked from her brother to the enigmatic translucent panel of the door. Faintly she could hear the rattling of the iron grill from inside. ‘He’s been diagnosed as schizophrenic,’ Salim continued, ‘but it just doesn’t add up. Too well co-ordinated, for one thing; that also rules out most forms of autism.’
He’s never discussed this with anyone before, Nadia realised suddenly, struck that he spoke as though conferring with a colleague. ‘Salim! What is it? What’s wrong?’ she said, turning to him
‘It’s . . .’ Salim began, ‘No. I want you to see this for yourself, and tell me what you think.’ Abruptly he turned the key and pushed the heavy metal door ajar.
Nadia hesitantly peered inside, then, at a distant rattle, looked to the left and up to try to pinpoint the source, up a sheer plaster wall, to the figure silhouetted against the high grilled window. She gasped. ‘How on earth did he get up there? Salim, he’ll fall!’ She turned in alarm, to see her brother pull a small brightly coloured packet from a side pocket and calmly begin to open it. ‘What’s that?’ she squeaked in confusion, ‘this is no time for . . .’
‘A chocolate bar?’ Salim smiled, his teeth flashing in the half light. ‘Don’t worry. It’s the only way to get him down. Watch.’ He whistled one clear note, and as the shadowy figure looked over his shoulder, held the treat. With no hesitation, the young man faced the window, crouched nearer to it, then sprang away into space, turning in mid air to rebound from the adjoining wall, repeating the manoeuvre in the other direction further down, twice more until he landed on all fours, perfectly balanced, his nostrils wide and quivering. Nadia shrank back in alarm, but her brother motioned her to stay with his free hand. Then he handed the chocolate to Nadia, slowly, the extraordinary golden eyes following every move. They were nearly all iris, she realised, only a little sliver of white, like a crescent moon, showing on either side. The pupils were wide and dark, but as they encountered the light filtering through the glass door panel, they contracted suddenly, looking like . . .
‘Salim!’ she whispered in awe, ‘he has cat’s eyes!’
‘The ocular anomaly? Yes, I’ve noticed.’ Her brother murmured, watching the crouching figure intently as though waiting for something.
The young man stared at the chocolate bar, his face expressionless, then looked up suddenly at Nadia. ‘Hhalu,’ he said, his voice impossibly deep for so slight a frame. Nadia’s breath froze in her throat. Her fingers trembling, she advanced the sweet slowly forward. In a motion almost too fast to register, Monkey had captured the chocolate, whirled, and leapt into the corner where, she now saw, a mattress and a crumpled heap of blankets lay. She clutched at her brother’s sleeve. ‘That was Arabic! He said “sweet”!’ A dreadful suspicion struck her. ‘You’ve been teaching him, haven’t you! Like a parrot!’
Salim shook his head, his face serious. ‘No, nothing of the kind. He said that the first time I offered one to him.’ He shrugged. ‘He could be from a travelling circus or something,’ he said dismissively. ‘That would explain the acrobatic ability. Also, close inbreeding could produce mutations like the eyes, I don’t know, I’m no geneticist.’ He frowned impatiently as he always did when she missed the point he was trying to make, ‘No, don’t you see? If he has retained that much language—and I’ve noted a total of forty-seven different words, all contextually correct, all Arabic, though in a very odd dialect, probably from some hill family—he probably isn’t psychotic at all, perhaps only lost and confused!’
Nadia stared at Monkey’s hunched form as he devoured the chocolate bar. She had a sense of being in a dream where no matter what she said she was not understood. There was something not natural here, and it wasn’t only the cat’s eyes. No human being could have made a jump from the window in that way; why couldn’t her brother see it? ‘Salim, that old woman, what was she doing with him in her house?’
‘She probably found him on the streets. What are you on about? The real question is . . .’ Salim shook his head. ‘There’s something not right about this,’ he said, frowning. ‘What’s Carter doing? Why keep this lad penned up here, instead of in a regular facility? Just a mattress on the floor and access to a toilet; what is it, some sort of experiment he’s conducting? Why aren’t his notes in the file then?’
‘Why don’t you ask your Clinical Supervisor, then?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you still have one?’
Salim gave the breath of a laugh through his nose, ‘Sure, fat chance,’ he replied. ‘Care to guess who has managed to appoint himself my mentor, clinical supervisor, and all around slave driver? Nadi, I need this post. I need a certain number of hours of clinical experience. Plus, I’m supposed to be learning about Carter’s methods of treatment and all I get is, “In good time, my boy, in good time”.’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘Look, I’m sorry I dragged you down here. Best not to say anything to anyone, all right?’
Nadia pretended to look thoughtful. ‘Well, I suppose I can manage not to gossip to the nurses . . .’ she broke off, looking across the room to where Monkey crouched on his mattress, half hidden in the shadows. Was it her imagination, or was he staring directly at her? She realised that Salim was at the entrance, fitting his key into the lock.
They were silent on the way back to the outside door and the welcome sunlight, and Salim parted from her with only a muttered ‘See you tomorrow,’ evidently deep in thought.
Behind her as she passed the building she heard a bang from the basement window, and turned her head to see Monkey again at his post, not shaking the grill this time but only staring out at her, his mouth moving as though he was saying something. ‘I will come back,’ she said slowly in Arabic. ‘Soon,’ she amended, hoping it was the truth, then turned and started down the hill.
Serabi proved to be grateful for the continued assistance and Nadia spent the rest of the day happily reformatting a series of bureaucratic forms so that answers to what seemed endless
requests for cost updates and staffing levels could be entered in the boxes provided for them. During a break, Nadia asked Serabi if she knew anything about the boy they called Monkey.
The corners of Serabi’s generous mouth drew in, registering her distaste. ‘The staff they have here are really impossible. I suppose they are poorly paid and all, but that’s no excuse. They taunt that poor lad as though he were some kind of dangerous animal in a zoo. Last week I heard Bertha laying down the law to one of them about treating patients with respect, and the girl comes back and says something like, ‘But everyone know that one Obee.’
Nadia frowned, puzzled, ‘O.B.? What does that stand for?’
Serabi gave a humourless laugh. ‘She meant Obeah, it’s an Ibo word they use in the West Indies. Originally it meant spells, rituals, witchcraft, that kind of thing. Black magic, if you like.’
Nadia was deep in thought as the day drew to a close and she headed for the entrance, joining small groups of nurses ending their shift. Watkins was at the gate, looking tired, and no wonder, she thought. She gave him a smile and was rewarded by a flash of the gold tooth and a half salute.
She kept seeing Monkey’s face at the basement window, his serene expression a contrast to his frenzied jerking of the stout wire mesh. And then, staring up at her, his wide golden eyes with their catlike pupils fixed on the chocolate bar, and that voice, echoing from somewhere deep inside. There was only one place to go for answers, she thought suddenly. Somewhere on the Deep Web there would be information about beings with cat’s eyes who spoke Arabic! A bus headed for Central London was coming and decisively she raised an arm and flagged it down.
While going to University she had lived in a small flat near the campus which her family maintained full time, to save her the bother of finding new accommodation every term. As the bus lurched through the late afternoon traffic, she dug around in her bag for the keys, her excitement growing. She’d only discovered the Deep Web a year or so ago as she’d begun to be knowledgeable enough to correspond with people like her online friend Weasel, who scorned the common epithet ‘Hacker’ in favour of ‘Lumi’ which he said was short for ‘Illuminati’. Lumies, according to Weasel, were only interested in knowledge for its own sake as opposed to Hackers whom he claimed were just a bunch of thugs. Grinning to herself she extracted her phone and texted him. She had no idea when if ever he slept but he always seemed to be online.
The Girl with the Peacock Harp Page 21