Mondo Desperado

by Patrick McCabe

  *

  The backs of houses sped by as she thought of St Bartholomew’s; what would it be like, she wondered. No, she didn’t wonder. Didn’t, because she knew! Knew that within its walls there would be beautifully polished corridors and nurses with watches pinned to their starched uniforms and preoccupied young doctors running around with clipboards, vases of roses neatly placed on tables at various intervals throughout the wards – and of course, patients.

  But, most of all, a children’s ward. How she hoped she was assigned there on her ‘probby’ (as the girls called their six months’ probation). Which she knew because Imelda Stronge, who was now a fully qualified nurse in Huddersfield, had told her so. They had had a lovely few drinks in the Arms Hotel before Imelda returned. ‘Always remember to call it that now, Noreen,’ she had instructed her, ‘Won’t you? Probby, I mean!’

  ‘Yes,’ Noreen had dutifully replied, ‘probby.’

  *

  Armed with this knowledge, Noreen felt a confidence building quietly within her as the train sped along, a conviction that there would be few challenges in the coming days which she would be incapable of facing. A billboard, SUPPORT THE NHS, sped past and Noreen smiled. She thought of herself sitting there, on the edge of a small bed, reading from Tommy the Turtle or My Friend Alpaca with all the children ranged around her, gazing up adoringly. A tiny tremor of satisfaction ran through her.

  That was not to say, she realized, that there wouldn’t be hard work too – of course there would! And nobody knew it better than Noreen! But she was more than prepared for it, and would see to it that through a combination of the fiercest effort and the intercession of St Jude – who was the saint to whom she had the deepest devotion – she would come through her first-year exams with flying colours.

  As indeed she might have, if only – almost as soon as she arrived at St Bartholomew’s – things had not begun to go horribly wrong, a chain of events being set in motion which would ultimately not only result in Mrs Tiernan abandoning her perfectly contented life as a Barntrosna housewife for one of obsessed and dedicated private detection, but propel a perfectly ordinary, God-fearing, truly conscientious young nurse to the very brink of death and destruction.

  *

  It was 4.05 p.m. and Noreen, standing with her belted suitcase at her knee, was in such a state of excitement that she was not entirely aware of what was going on around her, to such an extent that when the sister superior (a potato-shaped woman in her forties) placed her hands on her shoulders and exclaimed: ‘Noreen! There you are! I’m going to take you over to the Nurses’ Home where you’ll be billeted for the entire duration of your stay with us!’ Noreen heard the involuntary ejaculation of ‘Omigod!’ leaping from her lips in a tiny squeal!

  How her head swirled as she followed the older woman along the corridor, a succession of blurred portraits of long-dead philanthropists and mutton-chopped physicians assailing her with bewildering rapidity – but excitingly so! The alabaster statue of a little boy, representing the victims of a Victorian cholera epidemic, seemed to salute her with his outstretched hand and cry out: ‘Welcome to St Bartholomew’s, Noreen!’

  As their heels clicked on the brilliantly polished black and white tiles, Noreen Tiernan sighed anew. She touched her forehead gently in an effort to stay the whooshing, planet-like rotations that were assailing her consciousness at that moment. Then, as the sister superior led her into the building through the door which bore the nameplate NURSES’ HOME, Noreen almost fainted – because of the realization that at last she was here – in St Bartholomew’s! In England!

  *

  It is possible, without a doubt, to consider, in retrospect, what might have transpired if A wing had been their destination on that particular occasion – and not the fatal B wing, the stairs of which she was now briskly ascending with her officious, astoundingly spotless companion. Because, of course, in the former, where the students spent the greater proportion of their free time locating imaginary epidermal imperfections (principally in the regions of the face and neck), obsessively bathing feet and driving themselves to distraction with seemingly interminable combinations of apparel – nowhere was there to be found a student who responded to the name ‘Sticky’ (Stephanie) Diggs. Who, although she could not have possibly known it at the time, of course, was destined to become what can only truthfully be called – Noreen Tiernan’s nemesis!

  *

  Idle speculation is, of course, of little value now, and all that need concern us here is the indisputable fact that it was firmly within the four walls of B wing that Noreen Tiernan now found herself, being – with something of a giddy flourish, indeed, uncharacteristic as it might seem – introduced with the words: ‘Stephanie – I want you to meet Noreen Tiernan. She’s to be your room mate for the next year!’

  Perhaps if the sister superior, or indeed Noreen, had been possessed of finely tuned, highly intuitive powers such as might be encountered in the pages of light fiction or the average daytime television crime series, they might instinctively have attributed some measure of significance to the fact that the pink pointed tip of Stephanie’s tongue (for all the world like the smallest fleshy arrowhead) was protruding ever so slightly from between her lips and was literally quivering as her eyes locked onto the figure of Noreen Tiernan with an intensity that was quite startling, especially when her gaze exhibited no sign of flinching, her eyes – like two tiny twin cameras – inspecting Noreen’s lengthy, flowing tresses, blooming pink cheeks, and, of course, the soft heaving slopes of her bosom as she extended her hand and flushed crimson, shyly uttering the words: ‘Hello, I’m Noreen.’

  *

  Of great significance at this meeting was the vast difference in presentation which announced itself instantly between Noreen and her room mate to be. For, whereas Noreen’s hair was soft and feminine, spilling onto her shoulders in waves of molten copper, Stephanie’s – what little she had of it! – resembled nothing so much as a clump of the coarsest mountain gorse. Noteworthy too was the difference between their noses – it seemed as if, while Noreen’s was small, perfectly and elegantly contoured, Stephanie’s was a weathered, bulbous affair not unlike a species of root vegetable. Their taste in clothes, too, seemed to indicate between them an abyss of unbridgeable proportions. Noreen’s delicately billowing cottons and forget-me-not patterned silks were nothing if not light-years away from Stephanie’s ‘County Home Trousers’, as her father might have referred to them, above the waistband of which it was possible – breathtaking in its ostentation, indeed! – to make out the stitched brand-name of a company whose supremacy in the marketplace was a consequence of unrivalled excellence in the manufacture of men’s underpants – Healthex!

  *

  As for the hospital, however, Noreen loved it more than she could have dared to dream! Especially since she had been assigned to the children’s ward, reading aloud with all her heart to the little sick mites as they returned from toileting each morning. How she looked forward to those mornings now! Barely be able to contain herself as she bade goodbye to ‘Stef’ (as she now instinctively called her!) and clacked across the polished corridors with her books tucked under her arm, unconsciously rehearsing the speech which she habitually made each morning before she bent her russet head to read. ‘Very well, children! Now that we’ve done all our poos, I want you all to sit up straight and listen to Tommy the Turtle! Arms folded, now!’

  All the kiddies loved Tommy. Especially when he went to the city to meet Tara Turtle. They loved that, all scrunching up their noses as they laughed into their hands. ‘O Tommy!’ Noreen used to say when he kissed Tara. ‘Tommy! You naughty turtle!’ It was the best fun ever in the hospital!

  *

  It was upon her return to A wing from one of these sessions on a Thursday morning in early September 1980 that Noreen looked up and saw Nurse Jennifer Hayes coming walking towards her with her arms swinging. Nurse Hayes was nice but she was a tad old fashioned and set in her ways. As all the girls said: �
�O, Hayesy’s all right but she’s been here for yonks!’ And truly it was hard not to laugh when you saw her in her old flat shoes and big chunky cardigan. As Noreen observed to Stephanie: ‘She reminds me of what I would have been like if I’d stayed in Barntrosna, Stef! A big country galoot!’

  Which is, in terms of this narrative, a truly telling remark. Especially considering the lack of restraint with which it was delivered. After all, it must be remembered that for most of her life Noreen Tiernan had been a dutiful, exemplary Barntrosna girl, fiercely – if quietly – loyal to both family, friends and fellow citizens of the town.

  And now, here she was, inexplicably insulting the place of her birth with the brazen implication that to remain there beyond a certain length of time was to risk a certain ‘unfash-ionability’. It was not the only odd remark made by Noreen Tiernan around this time; soon there were to be many others.

  *

  For it is useless to pretend that she was the same girl now who had arrived at the hospital only some few short weeks before. How much exactly was her own fault and to what degree she might present a case for mitigation shall always be a matter of conjecture. What was certain was that now the clock had been set ticking and there could be no going back. The girl who had once been ‘the old Noreen Tiernan’ would never have wantonly flung her pencil from her and caustically snapped: ‘Oh, I’m fed up writing this! What’s the use of writing to Pobs every night! It’s stupid!’

  Perhaps – in an extreme situation of almost unbearable tiredness and confusion occasioned by excessive demands on the wards – the words might have regrettably passed her lips.

  But such was not the case. As she sat at the table with her writing materials on its surface before her, those words had only one meaning and one alone – that an unbridgeable fissure had opened up in the relationship between her and Pobs McCue. Had Noreen, in that first instant whereupon those hasty, injudicious words had been uttered by her, placed at her elbow a small mirror, she would have been witness to a quiet, unspectacular development which was soon to prove of the utmost significance – for already a sly smile, as thin as wire, was making its way across the face of Stephanie ‘Sticky’ Diggs, who was sitting directly behind her in the rattan chair (purchased, not insignificantly, in the back streets of a Bangkok market!) with her bared legs thrown rakishly over its curved edges, inhaling the smoke from a slender cheroot. Sadly, however, no such mirror was in evidence that night, and thus events continued apace.

  *

  It was some days later that Noreen Tiernan found herself standing in the main corridor of St Bartholomew’s hospital, with the sister superior (who, she had learned, because of her excess weight the students had uncharitably named ‘Tank’) breezily enquiring after her mother’s welfare and quizzing her repeatedly as to how she liked London. And who – quite out of nowhere – suddenly gripped her fiercely by the arm and forced her – how else can you describe it? – into a corner demanding to know how Miss Diggs was behaving herself.

  Noreen felt certain there must be black and blue marks appearing on her upper arm as the older nurse breathlessly continued: ‘You must tell me! Have you had any – trouble with her?’

  At this point, Noreen Tiernan found herself at a loss for words. O for heaven’s sake, what is the old fool on about? she asked herself. She was beginning to understand now why all the girls made a laugh of her. (‘I see Tank is wearing a lovely top today!’ she would often hear them scorn, indulging in pseudo-laudatory dialogues concerning her shoes and hairstyle when they were not drawing pictures of her in their lecture folders, colouring in great big beards on her rotund form in brown felt marker.) Which was why she sighed and thought to herself: I wish she would leave me alone and go about her business, the old heifer! But she did not give any indication of this as she replied: ‘No – no trouble. No trouble at all, Sister. She’s a lovely girl.’ She endeavoured to be as mannerly as she could, hoping to ‘shift the hairy old gasbag’ – as she was now in her own mind referring to her. Which at last transpired but not before her arm was squeezed one more time and she found herself wincing as – almost hopefully – the older nurse growled: ‘Don’t forget! I’m always here if you need me! And remember – there’s nothing I haven’t heard before! If she lays a finger on you . . .’

  At which point the sister superior broke off, a high-ranking rival appearing suddenly at the end of the lime-green corridor like a startled cabbage white on a stalk.

  *

  When Stephanie heard this story, she nearly, as she said herself, went and ‘wet her farking pants!’ ‘Why, the old dingbat!’ she chortled, puffing on a cheroot. ‘Can you believe that cheeky cah?’

  In truth, Noreen couldn’t believe it but what she could believe was what her room mate said some moments later, her eyes lighting up flirtatiously: ‘I’ll bet you’ll never guess where I’ve been!’ Noreen was a little bit nervous because of course she still had a long way to go before she was a real, uninhibited London ‘gel’ like Stef. But she approximated as best she could and, contriving herself to be chewing a stick of heavily minted gum, replied: ‘No! Where, Stef?’

  Stephanie’s eyes glittered with excitement. ‘Da-dan!’ she cried, and out of nowhere a star leapt off shining glass. Astonished, Noreen found herself staring straight at a gleaming bottle of full-strength undiluted Russian vodka!

  There are those indeed who would argue that what occurred on that fateful night was not in any sense a crime at all. This, however – as was subsequently proven to be the case – would not have been the view of Fr Luke Doody, Pobs McCue, Mrs Tiernan herself – or, most likely, any of the townspeople of Barntrosna. Which Noreen would have known instinctively, of course, but by the time she had consumed a substantial quantity of the aforementioned vodka, she really did not care an awful lot what their views might be – not only on that particular subject but, quite simply, on any at all! Which was why, when Stephanie quipped mischievously: ‘I bet you’re wearing your black one tonight, aren’t you, Noreen?’ that she chuckled and cheekily scooped up her sweater, revealing her white lacy brassière with the little rosebud nestled in between the cups, and with an unbridled howl of mirth fell backwards onto the bed with her white-stockinged legs giddily, furiously, scything the air. Quite how Stephanie managed to manoeuvre herself into the position she did, in retrospect seems quite remarkable. But it proved to be devastatingly effective, for before the Barntrosna girl could even begin to know what was happening, her room mate’s lips had welded themselves to hers and she found herself barely able to breathe. The young nurse blanched. It suddenly seemed absurd that such a thing could be occurring. She considered that it was a kind of game. A Nurses’ Home initiation ceremony, perhaps? But – how could it be? After all, she had been in the hospital for months! What then was it? Noreen Tiernan’s mind whirled. Then, out of nowhere, she felt the pincer jaws of guilt and fear tightening at the base of her spine. Perspiration beads squeezed their way to her brow as she writhed frantically in an effort to wrench herself free. ‘No!’ snapped Stephanie angrily. There could be no doubting the firmness of the admonition. ‘No!’ she repeated and glared at her prone, exhausted colleague. As the strength ebbed from her limbs, Noreen Tiernan summoned what resources were at her disposal and weakly cried: ‘Stef! Let me up! Let me up, please!’

  But it was clear from the expression on Stephanie Diggs’ face that she had no intention of doing any such thing! In that instant, Noreen Tiernan thought of Pobs, the tears flowing down the front of his jacket as he howled: ‘How could you, Noreen? How could you!’ She thought of her mother, her knees practically worn away to nothing as she stormed Heaven for guidance. She thought of Nabs Brennan, scratching his head and murmuring perplexedly: ‘A tragedy! That’s all you can call it! Thank God himself is in the grave!’ and she thought of Fr Doody as he thumped the pulpit and barked: ‘It is forbidden by the law of God! You hear me? Your rancid body will burn in the pit of hell, Tiernan, for what you’ve done!’

  What occurred d
irectly after that is not entirely clear. That Stephanie administered some kind of drug would seem to be beyond question. For, try as she might, somewhere behind the vague and swirling smoky haze that was her mind Noreen Tiernan could not bring herself to resist as once more she heard herself darkly instructed to ‘Kiss me, slave!’, the tongue of Stephanie Diggs probing wickedly, brooking no resistance. Eventually, triumphantly, crying: ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ as, to her delight, she perceived Noreen’s arm curling about her waist and her own body being drawn slowly downwards until, in a mélange of deliriously indulgent falsetto cries, they were as one.

  *

  When Noreen awoke the next morning, she felt as though she had been pounded incessantly over the head with a blunt if not series of blunt instruments. She stared in shame at the stuffed ashtray, her bagged stockings. She turned her head away and instantly wanted to be sick. She found herself consumed by a desire to rush to the chapel and beg forgiveness. She started as a familiar, but oddly deeper, voice snapped: ‘Get me my robe, nah!’ and her heart missed a beat as it dawned on her that Stephanie had not in fact departed but had been right beside her all along – standing in the shower! A tiny nerve trembled in Noreen’s cheek as she sat on the edge of the bed. Part of her wanted to cry out: ‘No! I won’t get you your robe! You’re filthy! Filthy and horrible and I despise you! Tank was right! Oh, God! Why didn’t I listen to her when she warned me about you!’

  It seems perplexing now that another part of Noreen Tiernan was jockeying for position – unless, of course, we attribute such a development to the last vestiges of the drug which were as yet coursing within her – and brazenly suggesting that she make a completely different reply, to wit: ‘Why yes, darling! But of course I will, Diggsy, sweetest!’