by Euan McAllen
‘You need more linen or less patients?’ asked Fiodor.
The Chief Accountant did not get the joke: he was not a man of jokes; only numbers, measurements, delays, and deadlines.
‘If you need more linen, I can get you some,’ said Fiodor, looking for an opportunity. ‘Just give me time.’
The Chief Accountant raised a hand. ‘No, we have enough. Just turn it around quicker.’
‘More pick-ups and deliveries? That will cost. I will have to find a way to increase capacity. My workers are part-time. And that will be a real problem during the harvest.’
‘Costs can be negotiated,’ said the Chief Accountant. ‘Come back with a proposal quickly. I don’t want to be caught out again. I run this establishment, and I have a reputation for good, tight management which I intend to protect. If you can’t give me what I want, I’ll look elsewhere.’
No, you won’t, thought Fiodor.
The next item on the agenda was the reoccurring one: the one of baby adoptions. Did Fiodor have any new applicants for him?
‘Yes, just the one,’ said Fiodor. ‘The Stanrods.’
‘Details, please. Are they suitable?’
‘Both in their thirties. She has given up trying to get pregnant. She blames his seed. He blames her belly. They are both desperate to have a child. He needs a son to take over the business one day.’
‘He has a business. So he is trade?’
‘Yes.’
‘And they are married?’
‘Yes. He showed me the certificate.’
‘Those can be forged.’
‘True. Would you like to see it? It will slow things – and you do want to get rid of your babies.’
The Chief Accountant certainly did: babies were a cost, an overhead, and noisy; and the nurses went all stupid over them.
‘What trade is he?’
‘Carpenter.’
‘Very well. Make an appointment for them with my assistant.’
With that, the Chief Accountant put down his quill. (He had been keeping notes, as he did for all meetings, though they were rarely read.)
‘One more thing before you go, Fiodor.’
‘Certainly. Fire away.’
Please, let it be quick, thought Fiodor. He was dying for a piss.
‘Rats.’
‘Rats? You still have a problem with rats?’
‘He didn’t turn up last week, as you promised.’
‘Apologies. I’ll have strong words. I’ll get it sorted. He’ll be here tomorrow, I promise. No charge.’
‘He’d better.’
‘He will.’
‘If he doesn’t do his job, I’ll give the contract to someone else.’
If you can find someone else, thought Fiodor. I know all the rat-catchers in this town.
‘Until next time then?’ asked Fiodor.
‘Until next time – and don’t leave it so long. I want the laundry sorted. Get me a quote ASAP, and start time.’
‘It will be my priority.’
With that, Fiodor left, as usual unfazed by the accountant’s complaints and demands. He headed straight for the latrines. It wasn’t just a piss he needed now. Had he eaten something dodgy?
As he approached the latrines, the smell of shit began to build. It was the worst smell of shit: it was sick-shit. Bad bodies and bad diets always led to bad shit, in his opinion. He was beginning to have second thoughts: the latrines had not been cleaned out in a while. It was a job offer he had once refused: he did not need the money, and, more importantly, he had been unable to find someone to do the job on his terms – his cheap terms. He could not blame them. No better way to get sick: shovelling the shit of sick people, and then paying the hospital to make you better. So it was left to hospital orderlies, who did it under protest, and only when the smell pushed staff to the limit.
And then he saw him, Timothy, being helped along towards the latrines by an orderly: the one known by staff as ‘the crazy caretaker’, or ‘Miuccia’s slave’. He was an ex-monk and had lost his grip on reality long ago. The hospital was his only home now: it was his life, and he only took orders from the Senior Ward Sister. She had saved his life once (but only after having first wrecked it).
Fiodor called out to him, wanting him to stop and explain, but he was ignored. Instead, he saw Timothy break free of his escort and run on into the latrines in search of the least disgusting lavatory seat. Fiodor tried to follow him in but was stopped by the orderly, who insisted he could not pass.
‘You can’t go in there. Not yet, anyway.’
‘I need to have a shit. I’m desperate,’ lied Fiodor.
‘You can’t talk to him. More than my job’s worth.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says my boss. And anyway, this is for patients only. It’s not a public convenience.’
‘How long has he been here, here in the hospital? When was he admitted?’
‘Not sure I should tell you that. Confidential.’
‘Do you know?’
‘No.’
‘No matter.’ Fiodor could ask the B&B man: they were mates.
Fiodor did not hang around: the smell of shit was too much.
Mozak, meanwhile, was sitting uncomfortably, shattered, half-drugged; trying to have a speedy shit; unhappy at having to impersonate his brother. He wanted to be a prince again, the Prince Regent. A prince did not have to smell other people’s shit. He was sick, and he knew it. Life was shit when you were sick. Still, at least he was still alive, just. He hoped Timothy was suffering like him.
***
Later that day, Timothy did suffer. Without notice, he was made to take a journey by wagon; out into the countryside, along bad bumpy lanes; and on the way, he bashed his hand – his bad hand – as he was thrown from side to side like a bag of potatoes. The pain was insufferable: it shot up his arm, and he nearly passed out. The hand needed treatment, but Fiodor would not relent: it was vital that Timothy got out of town. Timothy was on his way to a pig farm.
Fiodor told him that the police had seen him in town, during crowd trouble with the chiefs, and now Ingel knew he was back, which meant Adolphinus knew. When Timothy asked how he knew, Fiodor said he just knew. Timothy had no choice but to trust the man. Fiodor seemed to know everything about everything.
Upon arrival, the smell which greeted Timothy assaulted his senses, and as the wagon passed through the main gate Timothy saw a pile of dead bodies: dead, maggot-infested piglets had been dumped in a pile and left to rot. The piglets had expired long before they had had the chance to experience life; but on the positive side, they would not end up as rashes of bacon, pork chops, or the contents of sausages. They would not be eaten and turned into human shit. Timothy did not know it but dead pigs were also left to rot in the pens; sometimes to be eaten by other pigs – pigs driven to cannibalism by boredom.
The farmyard was disgusting: pig shit everywhere it seemed. Timothy saw pigs wandering around in circles, as if in a trance as if they had given up on life. He saw pigs coated in mud and shit, and smeared with blood. He saw bruised limbs, chewed ears, and torn tails. Most pigs kept here lacked tails. Many lacked the balls. Most lacked the will to live. Pigs. So many pigs. So much bacon. So much pork. It was an army of pigs: an invasion force and their greatest weapon was the smell of their shit. It was an unstoppable force. Timothy, by contrast, was overwhelmed and nearly fainted.
Someone shouted at Fiodor, and Fiodor shouted back. The shouting was replaced by a hushed discussion, which Timothy failed to pick up. This place was a place of secrets as well as shit. Then a big brute of a man loomed into view, blocking Timothy’s view as if he did not want anybody to see the sad state of the farm. It was the Pig Farm Manager, and he looked scary.
‘We’re here!’ he shouted. ‘You can
get out now.’
Timothy hesitated. He did not want to get out. He wanted to turn around and head back into town – no, he wanted to head back into the Maze, and back to The Village; that safe place where he had a sense of purpose and destiny. In The Village, he was an adult, in charge of his own destiny. Out here, he was reduced to the status of a child, at the beck and call of complete strangers, without any say in how he conducted his life. He hoped his brother was suffering some awful cure.
‘Come on; boss says get out.’
Timothy, finally yielding to the inevitable, clambered out; nursing his bad hand while clenching his nostrils in a vain attempt to keep out the smell, and it wasn’t just the smell of pig shit: this man smelt like shit.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Come with me.’
‘I said, where are we going?’
‘A place around the back, a place for you to stay.’
The man led him across the yard towards the rear of the large building which dominated all; during which time they both had to work hard to avoid slipping in the shit. Fiodor watched their every step, looking like a man carrying a heavy load of guilt, or deep in contemplation; either way, a man wishing to be elsewhere.
The man pointed at a wooden door. ‘In there.’
Timothy stepped forward and poked his head inside. It was a pigsty.
‘You expect me to stay in there? You are joking. Fiodor!’
‘I’m not joking,’ said the man, and he pushed Timothy all the way in, locking the door behind him.
Timothy was now a prisoner, and the Pig Farm Manager expected to be paid a bonus for this. Fiodor said he would consider it, and left, having given further, precise instructions: leaving Timothy in the care of his Pig Farm Manager did play on his mind. The man could cope with other animals, but could he cope with another human being?
Like some of his stock, the Pig Farm Manager was an ugly brute; not one for the ladies; barely one for the men; and on some days, he smelt just as bad as his pigs – not that the smell bothered him these days. And he sweated like a pig, even though pigs did not sweat. The man was paid to manage the pig farm, even though he detested pigs. He fed them, watered them; and poked them with pitchforks. He kicked them in the head and face. He cleaned out their shit when finally forced to. He tolerated them but had grown to hate them. He only ever shouted at his pigs – except on slaughter days when there were other men around, in which case he would shout at them. Come slaughter time; he was in his element: he loved to inflict pain; he loved to kill; he loved to extinguish life. At such times he was barely human, just another savage animal. At such times, the pigs were the civilised animals.
This farm was a totally unnatural place; a place of intensive, low-quality living; and your life span was short if you were a pig. You ate the same old shit and shat the same old shit, while you waited to die an unnatural death. But as a pig you had the last laugh. Your shit got everywhere: into the surrounding soil and into the groundwater. The Pig Farm Manager had to trek far upstream to get water safe enough to drink.
Pig life was lived in a crowd: as a pig, you could never escape the crowd, the mud, and the shit. For the manager it was the opposite, and the same: he rarely mixed with a crowd, and he struggled to escape the mud and shit; but he was paid well, so he put up with it. (And no one else would employ him for he was too scary.) The pigs lived a life almost squeezed out of existence, for they were packed in tight, like sardines. Hogs and sows did make love. Gestating sows were kept isolated in crates so small – barely bigger than themselves – that they could not turn over without a struggle. Piglets did not get to know their mothers. During fallowing, mother and litter were kept apart, each in their own crate. Sows were reduced to nothing more than milk-delivery machines made out of flesh. In this place, all were reduced to the status of machined meat; fresh, still living; as yet without a ‘best by’ date. In this place, a pig’s life was a shit-life.
Space was a strange concept – a paradise – which the pigs only experienced for brief periods of time, and even then it had to be shared. Outer space was beyond the wire. Some had once escaped out into outer space and had crossbred with the wild boar who roamed the ancient wild woods beyond. That mistake was never allowed to happen again.
The Pig Farm Manager lived alone. The pigs lived in a crowd. He ate the same old food. They ate the same: old food. He rarely saw other humans. They could not escape each other. He took a shit once a day, at much the same time of day; each time in a hole in the ground. They would shit anytime they felt like it, and where they liked. Both the Pig Farm Manager and his pigs suffered from worms and sunburn.
The Pig Farm Manager kept chickens on the farm. They lived a good life, a long life in chicken terms. He gave them the freedom to roam, to explore, for a happy chicken laid more eggs. He loved his chickens. They kept him company. He had given each one a name. They were like family. And there was a goat, a single goat; named after his brother who had died at birth. The Pig Farm Manager was not sentimental, just short on names. The goat was his official pet, and he got treated well.
For all his complaining and in-built misery, the Pig Farm Manager liked it here: living alone; the only human on the farm; no one here to look down on him; getting drunk any time he liked. He had total control. He decided who lived and who died. He was the chief, especially on those days when others turned up for the mass slaughter, or Fiodor, like today.
‘Pig swill!’
It was his second favourite expression, first being: ‘Today is payday, Fiodor!’
***
Adolphinus, tired, and anxious, turned up at the hospital unannounced; unhappy at the thought of speaking to Miuccia, but seeing no alternative. And perhaps it was for the best: he could not ignore her forever; reconciliation would not be such a bad thing, and a hold over her (again) might increase his hold over her brother (which seemed to be failing these days). Dominate her, he told himself. Do not let her dominate you. You are the Chief Monk. She has no power over you. Except she did, and deep down, he knew it.
Upon entering, he tried to sneak past the Chief Accountant’s office unseen. But it was not to be: the man saw him and pounced. ‘Had he come to discuss financial matters?’ ‘No.’ ‘Would he like to discuss financial matters?’ ‘No,’ said Adolphinus a second time, and waved him away. Doctor Varvareo was pleased to see him: he was keen to discuss the state of the hospital, in private of course, for he had some growing concerns. ‘No,’ said Adolphinus, a third time, and also waved him away. The two men, now sour-looking, watched their chief descend upon the nearest nurse, and instruct her to go find the Senior Ward Sister. The two men gave up and went their separate ways – which was something they did often. Adolphinus sat in A&E and waited, nervous, like a patient; conscious that everybody was looking at him. The few nurses and doctors who tried to greet him and make conversation were quickly and harshly dealt with. ‘I’m fine,’ he said repeatedly. He did not look fine – which for a chief monk was slightly disturbing.
And then Miuccia appeared, moving at a speed which was high even for her; her feathers ruffled; her blood up. Adolphinus could not tell if she was pleased or angry to see him. Nor could she. He felt his innocence being stripped away. He said nothing at first: he could tell, he was under examination; and when he did speak, all he could say was her name and hope for the best.
‘Miuccia.’
‘Adolphinus.’
‘I’m not sick. I came to speak to you in private.’
‘You don’t look good.’
‘It’s not been the best of days.’
‘So I’ve heard. Well, you’ve come to the right place. So what can I do for you? After all this time, what can I do for you? Would you like to see some sick people? I can show you some of those.’
‘I said, I need to speak to you in private.’
‘Like old times.’
He could see she was curious: after so many years, he wanted to talk to her in private.
‘Follow me then.’
He followed, as instructed; trying to keep up; conscious of the looks both of them were receiving from the doctors and nurses, and even a few patients. Some saluted. Some jumped out of the way. Some moaned and pointed. They were both powerful people, and when powerful people got together, you knew something was up. She doesn’t have to walk so fast, Adolphinus told himself. She’s doing it on purpose. She has to dominate me. Why can’t she just accept it? I’m the Chief Monk now. We have moved on. We have to move on.
They entered an empty room, recently vacated because a patient had died. It smelt a bit odd, and Adolphinus protested.
‘It smells in here. Is this place safe?’
‘It’s just been cleaned and washed down with vinegar – nothing to worry about. You won’t catch anything in here, Adolphinus. Am I allowed to call you Adolphinus?’
‘Of course, you can. And you already have.’
No, stop that, he thought. No sarcasm. Think reconciliation.
‘So, here we are, just the two of us. And you want to talk to me again, in private. About what?’
‘I’m sorry this is not a social visit.’
‘You’re sorry?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. Look, show me his room.’
‘Fiolotti? This is why you disturbed me from my duties?’
‘No. That Timothy. Is he under lock and key?’
‘No, it’s not a secured room. But it’s kept under watch.’
‘Always, twenty-four hours?’
‘No, not exactly. He’s sick. He sleeps. He thinks he has the plague, which is why he’s in isolation.’
‘That’s not good enough. I want him watched, twenty-four hours. He must never leave his room.’
‘Very well.’
‘And does he?’
‘What? Have the plague? No. But he’s not good.’