With and Without, Within and Without

by Euan McAllen

  Miuccia stood up suddenly, dropping her book: the moist grass had invaded her privacy. She looked long and hard at her prayer book before bending over to pick it up. She examined its cover design one last time. She leafed through its pages one last time, stopping to admire some of the pictures, and then threw it away – as far away as possible – into the dark, murky water. It floated for an instant, but as the pages absorbed water, it slipped out of sight and sank without trace. That made her feel good, really good. She thought of the fish in the river: let them discover God; let them sing a prayer; let them pray for their lives as they were very likely to live a short life, a violent life. That thought also made her feel good, really good. She spat into the grass and wished she had something else belonging to that man which could also be thrown into the river – like his red robes, every single one of them. Leave him standing naked; to catch a cold, and die; in her hospital, with her help.

  Miuccia had let go of something, but she didn’t know what exactly: she assumed it was Adolphinus and hoped, as a bonus, it might also be her brother and mother. Did God hand out bonuses? Would God give her a bonus? A bonus for all her hard work and long hours spent patrolling the wards? A bonus for all those sick people who were not dead because of her? If anyone in life had earned a bonus it was her; she told herself as she hurried away from the riverbank. And the river carried on flowing, into the Maze, with its stories to tell.

  ***

  It was late at night, the dead of night, and no one declared as disturbed was disturbed. The Mental Ward was quiet. Its patients were asleep or pretending to be asleep. Mozak opened his eyes. He had been stumbling around in a bad dream, or just bad thoughts, perhaps an hallucination? He could not tell which, but whatever it was it was bad. He looked up at the man in the white robe standing over him as if waiting for him to die: doctor or crazy? He scanned the room for his enemies. There was the paranoid one, the one who had called him a spy. A spy! A spy for the fucking monastery! Fuck you! There was the broken monk, in a permanent argument with his god; denying him one minute, begging forgiveness the next. There were the brain-dead ones; harmless until they got in the way. There was the one who looked and acted like a zombie. There was the one who had completely forgotten how to say anything and spent most of his time hiding under his bed; only crawling out when a nice nurse coaxed him out. (He may have been hiding from the Senior Ward Sister.) And there was this one, a new addition possibly? No, this one looked and acted like a doctor – unless of course he just thinks he’s a doctor and is play-acting with a stolen white robe. Fuck it, now I’m going paranoid, thought Mozak, like every fucking king does, in the end.

  ‘Timothy. I am Doctor Varvareo. I have an important message for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘A letter for you to read, from another patient.’

  The man was whispering and looking like he did not want to be seen talking or engaging with the patient in any way.

  Timothy, my name is Timothy, thought Mozak. I must act like Timothy would act. Try to be nice, like him. Or can he get really angry like me? Do you Timothy? Has Timothy ever hit a woman? Have you Timothy? You should. It’s fun, shuts them up. Has he ever killed an enemy? Have you Timothy? I assume you have the balls. You should. It’s the only way to survive. Has he ever doubted God? You should, Timothy, you should. He’s a waste of space. There is no Heaven, only a place called bullshit where we all end up dead. A letter from a patient? The paranoid one? Proof that I am a spy? Fuck off.

  ‘Sorry, but no. Please tell whoever to fuck off.’

  There, I was trying to be polite, just like my dear, dear sweet brother Timothy.

  Doctor Varvareo whispered even more softly.

  ‘I implore you. You must read this. He insisted. I insist. He is a very special patient. He lives in the compound.’

  ‘Speak up, man, I can barely hear you.’

  Doctor Varvareo bent over to get closer and repeated himself. Mozak could feel the man’s breath hit the side of his neck and ear, and he smelt it. It smelt bad. It smelt like sick. Had this man been eating the hospital sick?

  ‘What’s this compound? Something to do with the monastery? Or is it where you keep soldiers?’

  ‘The compound is an appendage to the main hospital, a special place for special patients.’

  ‘Special? Why special?’

  ‘Let’s just say for those who are too dangerous to be let out, who might never be cured.’

  ‘What, never?’

  ‘Possibly, yes.’

  ‘So a prisoner then, not a patient.’

  Doctor Varvareo looked uncomfortable with the patient’s blunt, quite correct assessment.

  ‘You could say that. I could not.’

  ‘So a prisoner, like me.’

  ‘Like you?’

  ‘Do I look mad, sound mad? Or just angry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do I look ill?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that’s because I’ve been fucking stuck in this hospital! Guarded by goons. My food drugged. My rash has gone – for which I would like to thank your fucking nurses. Do the doctors here fuck the nurses? You should let me out!’

  Doctor Varvareo did not wish to answer. He felt tortured inside. He now felt for this strange Timothy as he felt for the patient in the Compound – the patient who had become a friend over time. He looked around before speaking again.

  ‘Let me see what I can do.’

  It was all he could say right now. All he could do was hold out the folded letter, wishing for Timothy to take it; wishing to be free of it.

  ‘Here, take this, please. Read it.’

  Mozak did not move a muscle. He looked away, at a wall, wishing to knock a hole in it and escape back outside, to the Outside; perhaps back to the Inside. Fuck the Maze.

  ‘You read it.’

  ‘What? Are you asking me to read it? It’s a private letter.’

  ‘How do you know? Have you read it?’

  ‘He told me so. It could be his last letter. That’s what he told me. He’s at a low point. That’s why you must read it. I’m afraid to say he is suicidal.’

  ‘Suicidal? A patient, suicidal in this place?’ Mozak wanted to laugh out loud at his own joke but was not in the mood.

  ‘It does happen from time to time.’

  ‘Why, what are you bastards doing to him?’

  ‘Nothing! I swear nothing! I would help him if I could. We doctors would never harm one of our patients. We are all monks, men of God. We have taken our vows.’

  ‘And your nurses?’

  ‘And our nurses, I swear. They are good girls, good women, and the best. And they are not my nurses. Nurses do not report to the Senior Doctor.’

  ‘That’s what you are?’

  ‘Yes, I am the Senior Doctor here, but our nurses report to the Senior Ward Sister.’

  ‘So why does this man want to kill himself? Boredom? Can’t do sex anymore?’

  Doctor Varvareo looked at the patient, failing to understand how he could find humour in the situation.

  ‘I do not know the full reason, but incarceration in the compound must be a factor.’

  ‘Must be a factor? Are you kidding me? Tell me the truth now.’

  Mozak suddenly felt he was back home, in his castle; on his throne, alert; interrogating any fool, servant, knight or minister until he broke him or found the enemy, or coward, or thief, or fool – finding the fool being the easiest. He ached to be back in his castle; his big, brutally honest castle.

  ‘His room is small, cramped, and dirty. Just bed, chair, pot. Nothing for him to do except count downtime. He gets let out twice a day to walk around the yard – sorry, some round here call it a garden, I call it a yard – but that’s it. And he gets to have a bath once a week. All he can do is sit by the
window and catch the sun on his face.’

  ‘Go on; I’m listening.’

  Doctor Varvareo could not help but be slightly piqued. Why am I allowing this patient – this young man who knows nothing of the world – order me around like this?

  ‘He has no one to talk to. A time for reflection but nothing else.’

  Like one of my prison cells, thought Mozak. Do I tell this man I am a prince? No, don’t be fucking mad. He’ll think you are fucking mad – and he’s a doctor. Mozak thought of his own Royal Doctor: useless and harmless.

  ‘And the food rarely changes, which does not help.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And the staff are not allowed to talk to him, not even when sending in food or water. Nothing.’

  ‘But you spoke to him, yes? You have this letter from him. You gave him a pen and paper, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  With every word spoken, Mozak felt like he was becoming stronger, back in charge; while this weasel of a man was becoming weaker. Mozak made himself a promise: when you feel strong enough kick their doors down and run for it.

  ‘So, I beg you, young man, please read his letter.’

  Doctor Varvareo kept edging it towards the patient, wishing to let it go; wishing to clear his conscience, if only temporarily. It was like trying to push food into a toddler’s mouth.

  ‘You read it.’

  ‘But I really shouldn’t. Private, as I said.’

  ‘I said, you read it.’

  Doctor Varvareo capitulated, not wishing for a fight, not in this place.

  ‘Very well then, if you insist.’

  ‘I insist.’

  A question entered the doctor’s head: was it possible to read words, and not listen to them, be affected by them? The answer struck back like lightning. Of course not. Don’t be stupid. So with a heavy heart, he began to read it, accidentally mimicking the emotional state of the man who had written it.

  ‘Tascho, Mozak, greetings.

  This is a confession. I must confess. Think my time is nearly up. Think I will die trapped in here, in this room, on the Outside. Left to die by my enemies on the Outside. Should have never left The Maze. It always gets you in the end. Hope you are both well. Sorry. One of you is in this hospital, so it cannot be both.

  I did a terrible thing. Started an affair with the queen. We were both unhappy. Thought it was true love at first. She transfixed me. I was stupid. Deep down, I knew it could not last. So pretended as long as possible. Should have known better. But I was young. Should have stayed on the farm, kept away from that castle. Just stood and watched as the king had one of you disposed of. But what to do? He was king and a cold-hearted bastard. Not now. Someone completely different. All because of that Maze. Strange.

  Wish I had never entered The Maze. Didn’t know how much it would mess me up, mess me around, complicate things, and leave me lost. But then that is what a maze does, I suppose.

  Did The Builders put it there just to complicate life for everyone? If they did, they succeeded. All those walls, endless walls, mile upon mile towards the horizon, towards the sunset. Some effort. Amazing. I give them that. Whoever these builders were, I commend them for their foresight, strength, planning, and resourcing. Remarkable achievement. They should be running the world, inside and out. Not us. We just fuck it up. Remarkable. And was it a one-off, something unique, never to happen again? I won’t find out. I’ll be dead soon.

  Those walls just sit there, to stop us going somewhere, slowly greening over, slowly being reclaimed by soil and plant life. Nature always wins in the end. It has time on its side. Those walls control us, steer us, confuse us, keep us separated, and leave us in the shadows. Is that what the Builders intended? I’ll never know. Perhaps you two will if you are lucky and live long enough.

  So to my point. The point of this, my last letter. I am your father. Not Bizi. Bizi is a cretin, an idiot, a pig. Be glad he is not your father. Are you? Sorry for the lies I had to tell, for the pain I put you through. Was it worth it? I don’t know, will never know.

  Sorry, Foccinni should have told you, warned you, stopped you. Wish the farm had been a success. Our father was a good farmer. Brothers should always look after each other. Hope you are in a better place. Is Esmeralda well? Hope she is. She deserves a good life. Give my regards to her aunt, Rosamund. A good woman.

  I hope at least one of you reads this letter. It is hopeless now. I will die in here, out here. I wish you both luck.

  Timothy, Tascho, escape the hospital before it kills you. Get back to The Village. It’s the best place to be. I know that now. Ask Varvareo for help. He is a good man. If you have a map, guard it, keep it hidden. Please, you must get this letter to Mozak. He deserves to know what you know. That kingdom will kill him. You are twins. You must look after each other. Promise me that.

  Live well. Eat well. Sleep well. Think well. Act for the good, the better. Listen to your women and stay alert. Protect, nurture, and educate your children. Be good souls. Try to bring out the good in other souls. A king can have a soul. Helmotti proved that. There is good lurking everywhere, in the most unexpected places, both inside the Maze and outside. Fargo has good in his soul somewhere; I am sure of that now.

  Must shut up now. Have said enough. Think I am losing my mind. Love you both. Please, love each other. Goodbye and good luck and sorry.

  Valadino Gustlic.’

  ***

  Words done, Doctor Varvareo stood in silence, not wishing to breathe; looking deflated and confused. He wanted to be elsewhere – anywhere – fast. But he felt it was his duty as a doctor to wait, and if required, try to attend to the fallout. For the moment, he only had one thing to say:

  ‘He said his name was Gregory, not this Valadino. He lied to me.’

  Mozak did not reply. He did not want to. He was shell-shocked, fighting for breath, struggling to absorb the new. He had been hit on the head by a hammer made of words, and he had one hell of a headache now. He needed a nurse to hold his hand; wipe the sweat from his forehead; make him feel better. But all there was, was just this dodgy doctor.

  ‘Leave me alone. I feel sick. Send me a nurse. A nice young girl. Not her.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘That senior fucking ward sister.’

  ‘I understand. Yes, I will. And I will help.’

  With that, Doctor Varvareo sneaked off, wondering what he had committed himself to, and how it might affect his position in the hospital. Some of the other patients pointed at him, as if in a dream.

  Under the bed cover and still under cover of darkness, Mozak clasped the letter tight to his chest as he tried to replay some of the words in his head, for it had affected him profoundly. His universe had shifted. His mind had shifted, and he needed to catch it up. He thought about asking the doctor to read it to him again. But could he bear to hear those words again? He did not know. And when would the doctor be back? Was this man, his friend? Trusting anyone in this place was a risk, a difficult thing to do. And the letter had been read to him, not Timothy, not Tascho. What to do? Keep it that way? Share? Right now, he had no idea. Sit on it. Shit on it. For life right now was shitting on him, big time. Why was the world, inside or outside, full of shit? He wished he had his soldiers – his army – to hand. Then he would show them all. Then others would suffer. He wanted to scream, but it was the dead of night.

  ***

  Breakfast consumed, Adolphinus stared at the jewellery box. It was a delightful object, and it was his now. He ran his fingers across its decorated lid. Superb craftmanship. Adolphinus wanted to know who had made it. He wanted more of this. He patted its sides like it was a newly-baked loaf of bread. He slid the key into the lock and tried to turn it, but it appeared to get stuck. No matter, the box was now unlocked.
He slowly opened it, like a child with a birthday present; wishing to try on the chain of office. It would look better on him than it ever had on Bushcatti. Bushcatti: on saying that name inside his head, he inadvertently invited bad thoughts to come crashing in; thoughts which he struggled to expel. It was a close call.

  Adolphinus peered inside the box. Something was not right: the chain was gone, along with the gold ruby rings. And other items? All there was in this box was crap, cheap trinkets. He had better stuff than this. He had been conned, no robbed! Had Bushcatti taken them with him? No, don’t be stupid. They had been stolen. By someone in my monastery! Paminio, surely! But he was the obvious suspect, so surely he would not be so stupid? He did not come across as a stupid man. Search his room? But he would not hide such things in his room? He is not stupid. Allow him the chance to confess first. Mostrum? In a stupid act of revenge? Captain Dolgar? No, he’s just been promoted. He works for me. He knows I would notice if he suddenly started spending large amounts of money. A senior monk? I must have upset some of them – and they can hide anything in this place. They are masters at it. Thank God for my diligent Observance Officers. Bastards, I’ll show them. Adolphinus sat down, exhausted. He had run out of angry thoughts. He decided to call a special meeting. I am fucking angry, thought Adolphinus as he slammed the lid shut.

  ‘I am fucking angry!’ he said out loud, not wishing to shout.

  This was his first test, his first opportunity to exercise his new, absolute power; flaunt it, intimidate. He had to demonstrate that things had changed, that he was no longer Mr Nice Chief.