by Bateman
‘Yes, he yelled at me to get off.’
‘So you had your hands on him?’
‘I was trying to get him off Monte. I pulled at him and pulled at him, but he was a big shithouse . . . and he was shouting at me to get off him.’ Patrick scrunched his eyes up and spat out the words. ‘“Fuck off, get the fuck off me, you fucking retard”.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘He was killing him! I stuck my fingers in his eyes and tried to wrench his head back, but he just kept squeezing and squeezing, and then I . . .’
His eyes opened again and properly fixed on mine for the first time. He was breathing hard, gasping and grasping for words. I put a hand on his arm.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘It’s all right. This goes no further, okay? Just tell me. Monte was helpless, he was dying. On a good day he wouldn’t have had the strength to shift Franno off him; you neither. You were trying to save his life. They were lying in shattered glass, the only way you could possibly have . . .’
Patrick let out a long sigh. And then slowly he opened his left hand and I saw a long cut across the palm, so fresh that it hadn’t even begun to knit. He closed his fingers over it, into a fist, yet as if he was holding something. And then he slowly dragged it sideways across his stomach in a slicing motion, nodding at the same time, and his eyes not leaving me for one moment.
30
Patrick pulled up his sleeves and showed me his bare arms. They were criss-crossed with old scars.
‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I’ve spent half my life cutting myself with every sharp object I can get my hands on, and the one time I do it properly, someone else gets the benefit.’
‘Ironic,’ I agreed.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it’s getting late. I always have a shower before dinner. It’s pizza tonight. Catch you later.’
He strolled out of my room. Before he showed me his scarred arms I’d asked him how Monte or Gabriel or Gideon had reacted to being saved, and Patrick shrugged and said, ‘He didn’t, he just lay there with Franno on top of him, and all his guts spilling out over him.’
‘You didn’t help him up?’
‘Nope. I could hear the others coming in from footie, thought it better to get off-side.’ He hesitated for a moment before laughing. ‘Off-side – that’s a pun.’
I agreed that it was. ‘You weren’t covered in blood then?’
‘Nope. See . . .’ And he acted it out before me. ‘I got him from behind and sliced him, and the guts fell out and down, and the blood sprayed down too. Maybe a wee dribble on my hands, but I washed that off quick enough.’
I said, ‘Patrick? The murder in your book – is it anything like what happened to Franno?’
‘It’s exactly . . . Yes, good point. I should change it.’
‘No – really, leave it as it is. It sounds edgy, realistic. People like that. Critics love it.’
I sat and pondered. He had become a little animated while relating his story, but he didn’t appear to be overwhelmed by guilt or remorse. He had killed Francis Delaney by ripping a shard of glass across his stomach, and then he had walked away in the same casual manner with which he had just left my room. There was, of course, the strong possibility that he had just made it all up. He was, after all, not only a writer of fiction, but a long-term resident in the secure wing at Purdysburn. Yet he hadn’t volunteered any of it, rather it had been my incisive and gently insistent line of questioning that had wrung it out of him. I had what The Clash had called a ‘bullshit detector’, but Patrick hadn’t set any of my alarm bells ringing. So either he was telling the truth or my powers had been diminished by the lack of powerful opiates in my system or devastated by my being hooked up to the national grid. If he was telling the truth, then Gabriel was an innocent man, a victim both of extreme violence and a potential miscarriage of justice. Proving it would be difficult, but getting hold of Patrick’s book would be a start: it might give me enough leverage to force DI Robinson or someone more senior or sensible to take a second look at the murder.
Somewhere in the background, I heard the piano. I had been hearing it off and on all day. I recognised but could not identify the music. It was very frustrating.
I have never had a great appetite. Mother mostly fed me on gruel and sticks. In my teenage years I had a bad experience with hot cheese, and had not attempted pizza since, but now the prospect of it had my juices flowing. When I arrived at the dining room, I found that I was thirteen minutes early. It was open, but unattended. There was a cutlery drawer with plastic knives and forks. To kill some time, I busted all the forks.
On my way out, an orderly was coming in. He said, ‘You must be hungry.’
I said, ‘Famished.’
I entered the rec room. Patrick was at his computer. When I approached, he shielded the screen so I couldn’t read his book. I noted a red memory stick in one of the ports. Stealing it would not be a problem. I said, ‘I enjoyed our conversation.’
‘Fuck off,’ he said.
Raymond and Morris were back at the pool table, this time playing harmoniously. Andy was before the TV. Now it was switched on to a news channel. He was staring at it with the same intensity, but his eyes did not appear to be focused on the pictures.
I wandered out of the rec and along the hall. JMJ’s door was open and she was behind her desk, talking to another nurse. I wandered on towards the security doors to take another look at the keypad, but stopped short of it and retraced my steps and looked through JMJ’s door again, and then knocked on it and the nurse turned and yes, sure enough, it was Nurse Brenda and her eyes widened in surprise and her cheeks flushed and for a moment she looked panicked and then I said that I thought I recognised that face even though it had been turned away from me, and I came in with my hand outstretched and JMJ too looked briefly panicked until I reassured her that Nurse Brenda and I were old friends from downstairs many, many years ago and sure she didn’t look a day older. I was doing great, I said, and had a shop and a girlfriend and a baby and I was only in here for a check-up and because I’d tried to commit suicide by eating a hydrangea bush – not the whole bush, I corrected, but some of the leaves that turned out to be more than averagely full of cyanide – but apart from that life was grand and we were having pizza for dinner.
Nurse Brenda recovered herself and beamed at me. ‘Oh, you were such a grand boy! It’s so lovely to see you!’
She got out of her chair and hugged me close and her voluminous bosoms squished against me. I do not like humans close to me at the best of times, not even during the sex, but I did not find this unpleasant and even experienced a carnal thought, which was understandable now that I was free of sex-suppressing drugs but incarcerated in a single-sex environment.
I saw JMJ over Nurse Brenda’s shoulder and she did not look impressed, but nevertheless she got up and said, ‘I’ve things to be doing, why don’t you two have a catch-up?’ and slipped past us. And as soon as she was gone, Nurse Brenda let me go and gasped out: ‘Where were you? I was so worried!’ as if she hadn’t conspired with Alison at all.
‘I—’
‘What are you even doing here? How did you get in? I had the paperwork all ready and then I couldn’t find you. The only number I had was for the shop and there was only ever the answer machine and I couldn’t leave a message in case someone else got it! And I went round twice. It was all closed up the first time, and then this old woman claimed never to have heard of you and chased me away, and I got so paranoid that our secret was out! Thank God you’re okay – but what are you doing here?’
‘I’m—’
‘They’re moving him tomorrow! You have to do something – you have to do something right now!’
‘I’m doing my—’
She caught me by my shoulders. She gave me the eyes. ‘If they take him away tomorrow, he will never see the light of day again. They will put him in with dangerous people who will tear him to shreds. You promised me. I’m depending on you. My boy is depending
on you. I can’t even go up and see him, I’ve no reason to and Sister Mary guards her territory like, like . . .’
‘A Spartan,’ I suggested.
Nurse Brenda nodded and mouthed Spartan. ‘You’ve gotten this far without my help. I need you to go the extra few yards.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s five thirty now. They’re due to move him tomorrow morning. They always do it early. You have to get to him tonight. I know you can do it. I’ve heard about how you solve the most complicated cases. Solve this one. Save him.’
JMJ passed by the open door, glancing in, but carrying on. She did not smile.
‘What’s up there?’ I asked. ‘Where exactly are they holding him?’
Nurse Brenda’s eyes flitted to the ceiling. ‘The rooms are built into the roof. The old attic was used for storage when I first started here, and then converted when we needed more secure accommodation. They always had plans to run the lifts up to that extra floor, but there was never the money – so there’s just the stairs up. An orderly sits at the top, checks you’re supposed to be there and then buzzes you in. He has the keys to all the rooms.’
‘There’s no security code?’
‘Not up there. The security code is for down here, and it’s mainly to keep you from escaping. But you don’t need to worry about that. Your concern isn’t getting out, it’s getting in to see him and finding out who he is. Can you do that?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.
‘Don’t do your best,’ said Nurse Brenda, taking me by the shoulders again and squeezing. ‘Just do it.’
‘Okay,’ I said.
I had serious concerns that I’d missed the pizza. But when I entered the rec room everyone was standing shouting at each other and the orderlies were dragging Patrick and Morris apart. Joe, Scott and Malachy were chanting, ‘Big fight, big fight!’ and Bertie had his hands over his ears and was crying, ‘I can’t stand the noise, I can’t stand it, I tell you!’
As I drew closer, JMJ appeared from the other side, clapping her hands together and shouting for quiet. As the voices faded, she stood between Patrick and Morris and waved her finger around the circle. ‘This will not do, this just will not do! All of you! Now what’s this all about?’
‘These two were tearing chunks out of each other,’ said one of the orderlies.
‘He stole my memory stick!’ cried Patrick.
‘He stole my memory stick!’ Morris responded.
‘You don’t have a memory stick, you fucking half-wit!’ Patrick yelled.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Enough!’ JMJ turned to Patrick. ‘Now you tell me – what happened?’
‘I went for a shower and forgot to take my memory stick out of the computer. I came back to get it and that wanker was sitting reading my book and I told him to get off and he told me to fuck off and grabbed the memory stick and tried to run away but I grabbed him and he won’t give it back. Make him give it back.’
JMJ swivelled to Morris. ‘Is this true?’
‘No! I’ve been writing a novel, it’s my memory stick!’
‘Morris – have you really been writing a novel?’
‘Yes! Ask anyone!’
‘That’s bullshit!’ Patrick spat. ‘What’s your novel about? Go on, what’s it about, Morris?!’
‘Yeah, yeah? I’ll tell you what it’s about – it’s about a man who’s in a car crash and wakes up thinking he’s God and tries to raise the money to build his own church and ends up murdering someone and—’
‘That’s my book! You just read it off the fucking computer!’
‘It’s mine! It’s mine! I wrote it! Ask anyone!’
‘Morris – are you telling the truth?’ JMJ asked.
‘Yes!’
‘And where’s the memory stick now?’
Morris opened his left hand to show her. JMJ nodded. ‘Patrick? Is that your memory stick?’
‘Yes! Of course it is!’
‘Morris – did you steal Patrick’s memory stick?’
‘No! It’s mine! Ask anyone!’
‘Give me the memory stick.’ JMJ put her hand out. When Morris hesitated, she clicked her fingers. ‘Now.’
Morris reluctantly stepped forward and pressed it into JMJ’s palm. As he did, Patrick stepped forward to collect it.
‘Stay where you are!’ JMJ snapped.
Patrick stopped. ‘But it’s my—’
‘Quiet. Now, Morris. I want the truth. Is this your memory stick!’
‘Yes. Ask anyone!’
‘Patrick – are you sure this is yours?’
‘Yes, of course it is! You know I’ve been working on my book.’
JMJ shook her head, not just at Patrick, but around the assembled patients. ‘This is my ward. I believe in harmony. I don’t believe in violence, and I cherish honesty. If we cannot agree, then the only solution is to take whatever is causing the disruption out of the equation. Therefore . . .’ She held up the memory stick. Then she bent it.
‘Jesus fuck no!’
Patrick lunged forward, but the orderly grabbed him and hauled him back. Morris just giggled. JMJ continued pulling at the stick, trying to make a clean break, but there were wires keeping the two parts together. She gave up when it was bent almost double, and dropped it on the floor.
‘Why would you even fucking do that?’ Patrick cried. ‘I’ve been writing . . .’
‘And you will write again, Patrick. You have plenty of time. But we all have to learn to get on together. Let this be a lesson to you all – caring is sharing. Now, I happen to know that the pizza has arrived, and it’s getting cold. Enough of this nonsense – let’s go and get our dinner, eh?’
‘Yeh!’ shouted Morris, and everyone else joined in.
She led them away, except for Patrick who slumped to his knees and burst into tears. I crouched beside him and put my arm around his shoulders and he cried against me. ‘I hate her,’ he whimpered as I used my free hand to scoop the broken memory stick up and into my pocket, ‘I fucking hate her.’
31
Revenge, I convinced him, was a dish best served cold. If I had not been there to discourage him, then he might have surged after JMJ and did for her as he had done for Franno, but I soothed him and promised him that his day would come, if he would help me, and I whispered what I needed from him and he nodded against me and slipped away, and I fingered the memory stick in my pocket and smiled to myself because I was very good. I sauntered towards the dining room fully expecting and mostly prepared for what was coming.
They were all around the table, with JMJ at its head and half a dozen pizzas sitting untouched in the middle with various side dishes between them, including coleslaw and potato salad. There was not the usual hubbub. My fellow patients, at least those who weren’t staring into space, eyed me with anticipation. As I entered the room, an orderly stepped up beside me.
I said, ‘You should have started without me.’
JMJ said, ‘We don’t do that. Where’s Patrick?’
‘He went to the toilet. He’ll be here in a minute.’
JMJ said, ‘Is there anything you want to tell us?’
‘About Patrick? He’s quite upset. You just destroyed his novel.’
‘My novel,’ said Morris. ‘Ask anyone.’
‘Be quiet, Morris,’ said JMJ. ‘I’m not talking about the novel.’ She nodded down at the table before her. I could see the broken forks spread out, and the cutlery drawer open behind. ‘Is there anything you wish to say about this . . .’ her hand hovered over them ‘. . . wanton vandalism.’
‘Nope,’ I said.
‘Did you break these forks?’ she asked.
‘Has someone said I broke those forks?’
‘That is not what I asked. My colleague,’ and she indicated the orderly, ‘only recently placed these forks in the cutlery drawer. He spoke to you as you left the room. He discovered the forks all broken when he returned.’
‘The evidence, I contend, is circumstantial. He may have done it himself.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘You don’t have to be mad to work here . . .’
‘Good one,’ said Bertie.
‘Did you break these forks?’
‘As it happens, yes I did.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘They were there to be broken.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They were left unsecured, and I had the opportunity to break them, so I did.’
‘But why would you do that other than for badness?’
‘You’ve hit the nail right on the head.’
JMJ’s hands moved to her hips; it was the naval equivalent of taking battle formation.
‘Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?’
‘It’s a distinct possibility,’ I said.
‘You do know that there can only be one winner here?’
‘It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’
‘What?’
‘A bird in the hand is—’
‘Enough! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I’ve had you down as a troublemaker from the moment you were carried in here, and now it’s right out in the open for everyone to see! Well, you listen to me, mister, we live by harmony here, not anarchy! These pizzas have been brought in from outside at not inconsiderable expense, as a special treat, but they’ll bloody well go in the bin if you continue with this outright . . . defiance – yes, that’s exactly what it is – defiance! Do you think I’m going to go without dinner tonight? No, but these poor souls, they certainly will if you do not see the error of your ways and apologise for your attitude and your behaviour. Immediately.’
Her stare was intense.
Michael slipped off his earphones. ‘Apologise, man, you’re not going to win.’
Joe said, ‘Do it, I’m starving.’
Malachy pointed a finger at me. ‘Say you’re sorry. We get pizza once a month if we’re lucky. Don’t fuck it up.’
Andy stared at the pizzas.
JMJ raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’
Yes, her eyes were good, but she was no Nurse Brenda – or Alison, for that matter – and I knew my plan was good, and for every moment I held my silence I knew that it was drawing closer to fruition.