‘Come ON, Melkon. We must GO.’
At the doctor’s side, the good-looking nurse Antranig had always hoped – in vain – would one day visit the ward alone, stood watching. He was starting to think that there might still be time when another explosion, much nearer, rocked the building again. It lent renewed impetus to his new-found desire to stay alive. But Melkon was standing directly in front of the psychiatrist as if he had taken root. His arms were hanging loose at his sides and he seemed to be staring at something Kahramanyan was trying to keep hidden, behind him.
‘MELKON,’ Antranig shouted again.
Alerted by the Armenian’s cry, Mikayel Kahramanyan turned from watching the other inmates disappear down the corridor in time to see the hopeless look on young Melkon’s face.
‘Hurry Melkon,’ Mikayel said, doing his best to not sound too alarmed. ‘There is no time to stand around. You must go. Now.’
Melkon looked about to burst into tears. ‘But where will I go Doctor? Who will look after me?’
Feelings of guilt and inadequacy swept through Mikayel. If only he had been more demanding in his dealings with the Ministry. ‘Head for Vardenis. The soldiers there will help you. But you must go quickly.’ He turned to where he had last seen Antranig, and a feeling of revulsion ran through him when he saw he was staring at Gadara in a way that sent shivers up and down his spine. For the first time the psychiatrist was glad of the gun in his hand.
During his time at the institute, Mikayel had always tried to find room for compassion for the desperate souls the state’s less-than-consistent justice system sent their way. After all, most were there due only to a want of proper care in their early years. Not so Antranig Koloyan. A man whose crimes were almost as shocking as those of The Monster himself, Koloyan was one of the few Mikayel had never turned his back on.
‘ANTRANIG.’
Mikayel’s cry jarred the mountain man out of whatever lurid fantasy was vying with his urge to escape. Reluctantly it seemed, he turned his gaze away from Gadara.
‘Get Melkon out of here,’ Mikayel commanded.
Giving Gadara one last, lustful look, Antranig took a hold of Melkon’s sleeve and pulled him along as he scurried away down the corridor.
‘Goodbye doctor,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘And you, Nurse Nalbantian. Maybe we’ll meet on the outside some time.’ As he rounded the corner out of sight and his cackle died away, Mikayel saw the shudder of revulsion that rippled through her.
‘Forget him, Gadara. You will never see him again.’
‘I hope not,’ she said, and shivered again.
Unable to think of anything that may allay the images he suspected were playing through Gadara’s mind – she knew Koloyan’s case-history as well as he did – Mikayel turned his attention back to their task.
As the last of the ward’s occupants ran, skipped or loped away down the corridor, he tried again. ‘You don’t have to-.’
‘Let us do it,’ she said. ‘Then we can leave this awful place.’ As they passed through the gate and into the now silent ward, Mikayel felt her fingers entwine themselves in his.
He had last visited G19 less than eight hours before, soon after the shelling started. He could barely believe how it had changed in that time. Though it had then been in its usual state of run-down semi-dilapidation, the beds and furniture were in their proper places. As always, the early-shift orderlies had done their inadequate best to ensure that in appearance if nothing else, G19 bore some resemblance to the Special Treatment Centre it was supposed to be. But as they passed down the ward, Mikayel saw that now, every bed was either upended or stacked on top of cabinets and cupboards to form a rudimentary shelter. The stench of shit, piss and vomit hung in the air.
As he witnessed the chaos, he wondered if the place would ever re-open now that its primary purpose – somewhere to house The Forgotten until something happened to make them go away – had been fulfilled.
As they approached the cell at the end of the ward, Mikayel realised he was disappointed to see it still standing secure. Had it been otherwise he might have been spared the grim task to come.
The institute’s most infamous inmate was sitting on his bunk, smiling broadly as he observed the doctor’s approach.
‘Hello, Doctor,’ Vahrig Danelian said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’ Then, seeing Gadara he stood up. ‘And Nurse Nalbantian?’ He gave Mikayel a disapproving look. ‘She shouldn’t be here Doctor. You should have made her leave with the others. What is that in your hand?’
Before leaving his office, Mikayel had decided he wasn’t going to let The Monster lure him into conversation. He dare not. If he started trying to justify what he had to do, to explain why he had no other choice, to apologise even, he would never do it. The Monster’s quick wits and sly tongue would work their magic and Mikayel’s already reluctant intentions would quickly unravel. He stopped a few feet from the bars, willing himself not to listen to the words coming from the smiling lips, nor to the voices in his head - the ones telling him he was a doctor and could not do such a thing. Another voice – reason - railed against them.
Do not think about it. Just do it. Hesitate and you are lost.
As the man in the cell stared at the object dangling from the psychiatrist’s hand, mouthing something Mikayel strained not to hear, the psychiatrist lifted his arm and pointed it at him. But to Mikayel’s consternation, The Monster’s only reaction was to smile more widely than ever. So unnerved was he, Mikayel’s barely-formed defences shattered, letting the words through.
‘So, Doctor. They have sent you to do what they did not have the will to do all those years ago. How foolish of them. Clearly, they do not know you as I.’
As other voices rang in his ears – are they real or is it my imagination? - Mikayel suddenly felt a piercing stab of pain and tasted blood in his mouth. His tongue traced the jagged remains of his broken premolar. It had split open from the pressure between his tightly-clamped jaws. Doing his best to ignore it, he felt for the trigger, feeling its coldness come snug against the first joint of his right index finger. He wondered how much force he would need to pull it back.
But at that moment, to Mikayel’s further dismay, rather than retreating to the back of the cell as he had hoped, his intended victim stepped forward, presenting an easier target for the revolver now pointed squarely at him.
That Mikayel Kahramanyan was not just nervous, but also terrified was plain to see. As Vahrig Danelian came forward he stepped back, even though he was a good eight or so feet from the bars and there was not the slightest danger the man could reach him. First Mikayel’s hand, then his whole arm, started to tremble, violently.
‘Come come, Doctor. You must get a grip on your nerves,’ the inmate sneered. ‘A man such as you, someone dedicated to doing good in the world must see the necessity of what must be done. You know in your heart it is only right.’
Mikayel’s tongue flicked across his upper lip, tasting salty sweat. One small movement. That is all that is needed.
‘Doctor?’
Gadara’s voice drifted in from his left and he did not need to look to know her expression was fraught. She needed reassurance he was alright. That he could go through with it.
‘Mikayel? Are you alright?’
His hand shook more, the tip of the gun barrel describing an erratic circle as he fought to keep it pointing straight. He knew what he had to do. But his finger wouldn’t move.
‘Do it Mikayel,’ Gadara said. ‘You must.’
‘Yes, Mikayel,’ the Monster echoed. ‘Nurse Nalbantian is right. You must do it. There is no more time. KILL ME.’ But even as the echo of his words died away he dipped his head, lowered his voice and regarded the doctor through half-closed eyes. ‘For if you do not, I will surely kill you both.’
Despite the man in the cell being completely at Mikayel’s mercy, such was his confidence that a wave of panic washed over the psychiatrist. For a moment he wondered if he was missing something. Was
the door not locked after all? Had he managed to somehow remove one of the bars? As Mikayel’s blood ran colder than ever and rivulets of sweat streamed down his face, he struggled to force himself to do what he had feared all along he would be unable to do the very first moment the Colonel suggested it.
If only the trucks had come when he asked for them, none of them would be in this situation.
Glancing to his left, he saw the terrified look on Gadara’s beautiful face. She thinks I cannot do it. That she will have to do it after all. He must not let that happen. He was in charge. It was his responsibility.
‘Mikayel,’ she said softly, taking a step towards him. ‘Give me the gun.’
He moved away from her.
‘Don’t listen to her Mikayel,’ the monster’s voice roared in his ears. ‘You are in charge. It is your responsibility.’
Is he reading my thoughts now? ‘No Gadara,’ Mikayel said, his gaze wavering between her and the man still thrusting his chest against the bars. As her hand reached towards the gun, he took another couple of steps away ‘I can do it. I MUST do it.’
‘YES Doctor,’ The Monster shouted, almost hysterical now. ‘YOU MUST.’
‘Mikayel,’ Gadara pleaded, her voice full of urgency. ‘You cannot do what is not in your nature. I told you. I can handle it.’
‘No.’ Mikayel moved back further. ‘I cannot allow it, I will-.’
Several things happened at once.
Gadara screamed, ‘WATCH OUT MIKAYEL.’
There was a blur of movement from Mikayel’s right and, too late, he realised. Intent on keeping the gun out of Gadara’s reach he had strayed too close to the cell. A sinewy arm snaked out, grabbed the collar of his jacket and hauled him backwards.
But even as Mikayel felt himself flying through the air and a victorious grin spread across the Monster’s maniacal features, Gadara launched herself forward, reaching for the gun that was spiralling, uselessly, in the air.
Though Mikayel would not know it until long after, the image of her in that split second, flying through the air towards him, her face twisted in horror, would remain with him for the rest of his life. For in that moment there was a thunderous roar, far worse than anything that had gone before, accompanied by a blinding flash of light. Mikayel felt a stunning blow to his whole body, like being hit by a bus, then he was falling, but slowly it seemed, into a bottomless black void.
He saw no more.
CHAPTER 5
Standing before the plain front door, Carver was uncomfortably conscious how shabby it looked compared to the others along the street.
One of those where narrow, low-walled gardens front the Victorian terraced houses, the past decades had seen Arthur Street’s fortunes see-saw between genteel propriety and run-down decrepitude. Carver could still remember from his police probationer days – not that long ago in the overall scheme of things – how it had then generated more than its fair share of police calls; house burglary, electricity meter theft, domestics. Not any more. Nowadays its residents were more likely to be young solicitors, marketing people and sales executives. The sort who, in the nineties, would have drawn secret delight at being labelled ‘sloanes’.
The street’s re-acquired position of social respectability was reflected in the care the new generation of owners took to ensure that the small part of their properties fronting the street – the houses were narrow but long - were scrupulously maintained, recently painted, and clean.
Sarah Carver’s house was the notable exception.
The dull, green paint on the featureless front door – supposedly temporary she’d said, while she waited for a ‘friend’ to get her a new one – was faded and, in places, peeling. The first-generation aluminium-framed double-glazed windows were pitted by weathering. The greying net curtains behind the glass added to the house’s downbeat look. As Carver waited – he was never sure if the doorbell worked – he began to experience the same feelings of regret and anger that often accompanied his visits.
Without any warning, the door opened and she was standing there in her terry-towelling dressing gown, cigarette in hand. The shoulder-length blond hair through which dark roots showed looked like it hadn’t been brushed and the make up around her bleary eyes was smudged. She didn’t say anything but flicked her head back – a greeting of sorts - before turning and padding back down the hallway in her slippers.
‘Not working this morning?’ he said to her back as he closed the door behind him.
‘No.’
The finality in her voice worried him. Not again….
He followed her into the room she and the kids called the parlour but which he always thought would make a very presentable dining room. The television was showing some CGI cartoon. Patsy and Jack perched on the sofa, still in their jammies. As their mother went through into the kitchen and threw the switch on the kettle, they saw him and their faces lit up. ‘Hi Uncle Jamie,’ they said together. The fact they weren’t dressed yet added to his concerns, but he returned their smiles.
‘Hi kids.’ He tried not to ask, but couldn’t keep the question in. ‘No school today?’ Jesus. Thirty seconds and you’re already playing bloody social worker.
It was Patsy, the talker, who answered, though as she spoke she looked through into the kitchen, wary of saying the wrong thing. ‘Mum says that ‘cos its half-term next week anyway, we don’t have to go in today.’
‘Is that right?’ Carver said, keeping the smile going. ‘Well aren’t you the lucky ones?’
As he turned to where his sister was waiting for the kettle to boil, she must have caught his look. Flicking ash off her cigarette into the sink, she said, ‘Don’t start. I’m not in the mood.’
He just caught Patsy’s otherwise hilarious, ‘Oops,’ face, before she returned to whatever it was the Disney Channel was showing at eight o’clock in the morning. Throwing his only niece and nephew a reassuring smile, he left them to it and stepped down into the kitchen, pushing the door shut as far as he thought wouldn’t make things too obvious. The night before she had sounded more down than usual, and the look in her face confirmed it. Whatever it was, he was glad he’d decided to call on his way to work, like he did sometimes when he thought something may be wrong. Or when she was going through one of her crises.
‘What’s happened?’
She stubbed her cigarette out in the sink – a habit he loathed – and took a deep breath. ‘They let me go.’ He waited, saying nothing. ‘They’re cutting down on staff. I was one of the last in so I’m first out.’ She shrugged again, as if relying on benefits when you’ve got a mortgage and two children to bring up was no big deal. But as he looked into her face, he saw that alongside the self-pity he was used to seeing, there was also defiance. Ready to come back at him if he said anything.
Though Carver’s attempts to try to understand his sister’s problems - those not of her making as well as the ones that were – were never meant as criticism, he knew she saw it otherwise. For that reason he chose not to question her story, even though as far as he knew Tesco was crying out for check-out staff everywhere. She had started with them before Christmas. Four months or so was about average. She hadn’t done too badly this time.
He watched as she went through the motions of looking for coffee-makings, opening cupboards and drawers, banging them shut, all the time avoiding his gaze. He could tell she was close. But he had to at least try. For the children’s sake.
‘You shouldn’t keep the kids off school. It’ll only bring problems.’ It brought the inevitable reaction.
Banging the tea spoon she had taken from the drawer down on the counter top, she leaned forward on both hands, head down over the sink, like she was about to throw up, or burst into tears. He checked back in the parlour. The children were still engrossed. He pushed the door shut a couple more inches, moving to stand behind her. He raised his hands, uncertainly, to the level of her shoulders. The Carver family had never been big on hugging, though Jess had started getting him into i
t when they worked together.
Eventually, he placed his hands on her upper arms. Their meagre boniness prompted the thought as to whether she was eating. But before he could say anything she turned. Her eyes were brimful with tears. To his surprise, she buried her head in his chest.
‘What am I going to do, Jamie?’ Her shoulders shook as the sob broke and after a moment’s hesitation, he pulled her into him.
‘Hey-hey. It’ll be alright. I’m here.’
But even as she began to let it all out and he tightened his grip on her, shoving the door with his foot to shut it further, he was already remembering, painfully, the beautiful, laughing girl he had grown up with.
Carver had two sisters, both older than him though Sarah, the younger, was the one he related to most as he was growing up. Constantly in awe of her in his youth – she had always seemed so grown-up - he was never so proud as when his pubescent friends used to come round to pretend to listen to music so they could drool over her, tongues hanging out as she came and went from their Salford semi - the family had moved out of Liverpool by then - teasing them all with her disdainful smiles and tosses of her long, dark hair. The day she went off to Uni, – the only Carver ever to do so - he thought there was nothing the bright, confident young student wasn’t capable of achieving. He was certain that one day, she would be somebody, famous even.
He only ever saw that Sarah once again. It was the night she arrived home for her first Christmas break, and then only for half an hour. She was in and out in a flash leaving him and their parents gasping in her wake as she dumped her things, gobbled a sandwich and disappeared out the front door, eager to catch up with the former High School friends she hadn’t seen for a whole term.
It was a cold, wet, Manchester night and the girl who returned to the family home several weeks later was not the one who had skipped out the front door after ribbing him about the, ‘bum-fluff,’ on his chin he had waited several weeks to show her. It took them all – particularly their mother - a long time to come to terms with the fact she was gone, probably forever.
Family Reunion Page 3