Chapter Five

Having his clothes back on Wednesday gave Michael confidence as did showering with the curtain closed and Ralow absent. He needed something else to boost his mood and Terry rattling away over breakfast just about provided it.

They had decided to go for a walk in the grounds to celebrate Michael’s newly clothed state. Terry was chattering about their plans, his last forkful of ketchup and scrambled egg raised when Hortan appeared. He propped himself against the wall a few feet away, pale and panda-eyed but the pupils clear and expression malevolent.

He looked at Michael, saying, “Seems I owe you another one, pretty boy, for my two-day nap.”

“What are you on about, Hortan?” Michael asked “If you’ve been zonked out, it was nothing to do with me.”

Hortan’s upper lip pulled back from his teeth. “Oh, right. I suppose you didn’t report me for threatening you.” His eyes flicked round in a paranoid jerk. “Not that I did threaten you of course.”

Michael tried to stay calm and said, voice as gentle as he dared, “I didn’t say anything to anyone. Ask Ralow.”

Hortan tapped his nose, saying, “I don’t have to ask him. He already told me.”

Michael wanted to get up and bang the man’s head on the wall but his muscles didn’t react.

Eventually he said, “I didn’t say anything to anyone. No nurses, definitely not Ralow.” He looked at Terry. “Did you?”

Terry jumped as if he’d been goosed and yelped, “Shit, no! Jesus, no!” He gave Michael an agonized stare for drawing him in.

Michael ignored it and looked at Hortan. “Nobody said anything.”

Hortan leaned off the wall and pointed a finger, first at himself and then at Michael. “You and me very soon, bender,” he said and walked away, the swagger losing something in pyjama legs that flapped above skinny ankles.

Michael watched him out of sight then said, “It doesn’t look as if whatever they did to him changed his outlook much.”

Terry nodded, pushed his plate away and said, “Let’s get out of here before he decides to come back.”

It sounded to Michael, like a good idea.

They walked down the drive and, without discussing it, carried on through the gates instead of turning left into a wooded area that bordered the high railings. Terry talked aimlessly and too loud and it was beginning to irritate Michael when a blue security van passed them.

Terry pointed. “That’s the sort of job I want: protecting money and you get to carry a gun!”

Michael said, “That’s bullshit.”

“No it’s not. My cousin told me,” Terry said. “All security men that go on those vans have to be armed. It’s a law.”

Michael said, “It’s not true. I do that sort of work in my job and believe me, there are no guns.”

“You do that?” Admiration widened Terry’s eyes and he went on, “What do you do? How much money do you guard? Tell me about it!” With rapt attention still a novelty, Michael let go of his irritation and began to talk about the wages round and the slapdash reality of how his company handled their cash. When he stopped, Terry said, “Wow! All that money! Don’t you ever get tempted? You know, to grab some?”

Michael nodded. “All the time but it’s counted down to the ha’-penny.”

Terry winced in disappointment then said, “Yeah, but you could be the brains of a robbery couldn’t you? Sort of set it up? On No Hiding Place the other week, Lockhart found out that the boss of a company master minded robbing his own place.’”

Michael said, “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. I’d need a good accomplice. Fancy the job?” He grinned at the horror on Terry’s face and continued, “Trouble is, the wages box has an alarm and a couple of two-foot rods on each side that pop up if the connection to the wrist strap is broken. You couldn’t get it out of the car like that and the men inside would lock it and jerk the strap at the first sign of an attack. The only way I could think of is to rob the wages office itself.” Terry nodded encouragement and Michael went on, “The man in charge down there is supposed to look through a little trap door first to see who’s outside. If there was a face he didn’t know then bang, the flap shuts and that door’s about two inches thick with enormous bolts.”

Terry waved his hand as if in a classroom and said, “I know! The robbers could make a mask of some face he’d recognize, like papier-mâché or something and paint it. Or get a big photo of one of you wages people and glue it to a balloon or a ball!!”

Michael smiled then said, “Why not go all the way and cut my head off?” Terry gaped at him as he continued, “I do the wages all the time. Ron, the man there sees what he thinks is me, bingo, the place is open.”

Terry murmured, “That’s just nasty.” He thought about it some more, brow creasing then said, “I remember another telly programme where the thieves blackmailed the wages driver. They threatened to hurt his wife.”

“I don’t have a wife.”

“Your mum and dad then.”

Michael considered that and decided the thieves would need to look elsewhere. The only person he could see himself risking a long term in prison for was Laura.

As if he had spoken it aloud, Terry said, “You wouldn’t do it for them? What about your girl friend? What if they kidnapped her or something?”

Michael nodded, saying, “Yes, probably for Laura.”

He was still wondering if Terry had read his mind when he noticed their path was blocked. He looked up and two young men stood there, one smiling as if he’d caught them in some embarrassing act.

He glanced at his companion then said, “Well, look at this, Norm. They’ve let the loonies out for an airing.”

Norm looked, scratching at his embryo moustache and said, “Maybe they escaped.” He leaned forward, face set as if speaking to small children. “Did you sneak out while the guards weren’t looking, little loonies?”

Terry muttered, “Leave us alone.”

Norm reared back as if afraid and yelped, “Ooo—look out, John! He’s getting nasty!”

John said to Michael, “I saw you with that nice piece of stuff at the loony bin the other day. What’s a juicy bint like that doing with a nutter?’

Michael’s vague memory of the young man’s face solidified to pictures of him unloading scaffolding poles in the hospital grounds.

He said, “Just go away.”

“Or you’ll do what?” John asked.

Michael looked at him and felt a surge of gratitude,somewhere for the boiling pain inside to go. He moved his right-hand fast and both young men flinched then he showed them the marks on his knuckles.

“I’m in there for damaging someone real bad when he insulted my girlfriend,” he said. “They don’t know if he’ll ever see again. So I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t get me upset.” He touched his temple. “It hurts my head when I lose control and next time they said I’d get seven years on the moor, maybe ten if whoever I smashed got crippled for life.” He opened his eyes as wide as they would go.

John looked at his friend, suddenly nervous.

Norm swallowed hard then said, “Huh, wasting our time here, John. Let’s have a drink.”

John didn’t need to be asked again. A hard expression tried to establish itself on his face, let down by a flicking tongue across thin lips. He took a pace backward, and another.

Terry watched them walk away then glanced at Michael.

He said carefully, “I didn’t know that about your head.”

Michael said, “It was a joke, Terry.” The boy didn’t look convinced. Michael continued, “Don’t worry about it,” and pointed at a shop across from the hospital gates. “Come on, I’ll buy you a custard tart.”

Following Terry, he looked at the disappointment inside him: the two young men giving up so easily and his anger still there with no blood sacrifice to dilute it, although his thoughts weren’t that intuitive. What he experienced was undirected frustration: an unreachable itch that badly needed scratching.

* * * *

Hortan was sprawled in the common room’s most comfortable easy chair, smoking when Terry and Michael walked in.

He asked, “Had a hard morning, girls?”

Terry said, “Shut up, Paul.”

The words, more plea than command, fed straight in to Hortan’s mood.

He said, “Come and sit on my knee and tell Uncle Paul all about it, Carrots.” He patted his leg. Terry blushed and just managed to stop a hand from sliding across to cover his groin. The halted, protective movement was so obvious that Hortan laughed in delight then he said “Once only offer, Carrots. Come on, you know you want to.”

Terry’s blush deepened and he looked at Michael in appeal. Michael just stood there harbouring no thoughts that he was willing to acknowledge. Terry looked back at Hortan.

He said, “Don’t, Paul. It’s not funny.”

He was begging now and Hortan looked at Michael waiting for him to come to the boy’s defence.

Eventually he asked, “Nothing to say, pretty bender?” He made an obscene, two handed gesture as he added, “Had what you want and fed up with him now?”

Michael said, “Go and play somewhere else, Hortan,” feeling the pointlessness of it all as he spoke and trying to ignore his flickering excitement.

Hortan stood up and moved towards them, all aggression and no hint of the previous day’s tranquilizing in his walk.

He said, “Now that wasn’t very nice, was it?”

Terry whispered, “Don’t, Paul. Please leave us alone.” He looked around wildly. There were no nurses in the room. His voice rose to a child’s squeak as he went on, “We’ve had a really nice walk, please don’t do anything.”

Hortan looked from Terry to Michael with relaxed confidence then focused on Terry and asked, “What’s it worth?”

Terry frowned, head shaking and said, “What…what do you mean?”

Hortan smiled, all teeth and gestured towards Terry’s groin, making the boy jerk his hips back.

He said, “Well now, maybe if you got your prick out and wagged it for me, I’d let you off.”

Terry managed a croaking, “Please don’t Paul.”

Hortan punched his right fist into the palm of his left-hand, saying, “Last chance, Carrots or it’ll be you and me in the bushes sometime soon and I’ll be looking at more than your little prick.” Terry whimpered and Michael could see he wouldn’t resist for much longer. His excitement flamed bright. Hortan went on, “What you got to lose, Carrots? You’ve seen mine, now I see yours. Fair’s fair, unless you really want a good bumming of course and this is your way of letting me know.”

Terry mumbled, “It isn’t.”

“Speak up.” Hortan winked. “I know some first timers like to be forced: pretend they don’t want it.”

Terry said louder, voice wobbling, “I don’t. Please Paul.”

Hortan shrugged then said, “Well that’s how I’ll see it if you don’t get the little fella out.”

Terry made a sound somewhere between a hiccup and a sob and put a hand slowly to his fly.

Michael’s rush took Hortan by surprise. He stumbled backwards, caught his heel in a splayed chair leg and they fell with Hortan underneath. It felt to Michael like dropping on a sack of bricks. He could feel the muscle power in the older man’s body and had no illusions about how long he could last. He brought his forehead down hard across Hortan’s nose. Hortan shrieked, spraying blood on Michael’s face and tried to bite him. Michael pulled back, got a hand between them and jammed his thumb under Hortan’s jaw, forcing his head back then a tattooed arm clamped round his throat from behind and heaved. There was a moment of agony and Michael was on his feet, a soft belly against his back and thick, beer breath on his cheek. Directly in front of him, Ralow placed a hand on Hortan’s shoulder then directed a triumphant smile at Michael.

He said, “We can’t have assaults on the wards, dear me, no.” He looked down at Hortan, slowly propping himself against a stained blue sofa and asked, voice gentle, “How are you feeling, Paul?” Hortan gave him a Neanderthal stare through his eyebrows and touched the bleeding nose. Ralow looked at Michael. “Jujitsu was it? Some little Chinky sneakiness?” He looked past Michael’s right ear at beer-breath behind him and continued, “I think our angry friend should spend the night along the hall, Don. Will you assist him down there please?”

Don released the throat lock, moved round and took Michael’s arm. He was huge across the shoulders and half a head taller than Michael. His slow fake smile showed a double gap in the upper row of yellowed teeth

He said, “Come on, don’t give me any trouble.”

The voice belonged to a much smaller frame, an almost comical miss-fit but Michael wasn’t going to argue, and the idea of “along the hall” had already focused his thoughts.

It was a staff euphemism for a small locked area at the far end of the corridor between the wards and recreation room that he had seen into briefly during his second day at the hospital when someone left the door open. He didn’t know who it held, but the other patients talked about it as though a raised voice might annoy the inmates. It was a certainty those inside weren’t there by choice.

Michael said, “Mister Ralow, Hortan started it.”

He pointed at Hortan, obviously too quickly for Don’s taste and the massive hand tightened on his biceps.

Ralow gave him a pantomime, surprised face then said, “Is that so? Not the way it looked to me.” He glanced at Hortan as he made the transfer from floor to sofa appear agonising and asked, “Paul?”

Hortan slowly eased his body into a comfortable position and groaned then said, “I was talking to Terry and he just jumped on me.”

Everyone looked at Terry. His response was a scarlet face and silence.

Ralow asked, “Terry, is that what happened?”

Terry’s face reminded Michael of his woodwork teacher’s description of terrified indecision: one didn’t know whether to shit or go blind.

Ralow repeated. “Terry?”

The boy’s face crumbled. He yelped, “Just leave me alone!” and ran for the nearest door.

Ralow watched him go then turned back to Michael, saying, “Well now, in lieu of evidence to the contrary, we have to believe our own eyes, don’t we Don?”

“We do indeed, Mister Ralow,” said Don in his piping voice.

Ralow nodded in the direction of the locked area. “Off you go then, Michael,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll be able to talk about it again tomorrow or maybe the next day. I’ll see what Doctor Stiles thinks.”

Michael was led away by the arm. It was held high so he walked off balance. To make it more humiliating, a dozen patients returning from their art lesson stopped and watched the little drama as Don pulled him across the room. Still raging inside, Michael had to stand by a curtain that hid the locked unit, biceps gripped by Don, as Ralow jangled his chain and selected a complicated silver key then Don pulled the curtain back as if what it exposed should impress those watching. Ralow inserted the key in a steel fronted lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.

The corridor was barely five feet wide and smelt of bowel gas. On the right wall, a row of massive radiators took up a quarter of the floor space to pelvis level and above them a series of ceiling-high, foot-square windows, spreading the whole unit length to the bathroom door at its far end, were covered with a lattice of rusting steel mesh. Seven doors painted yellow stood in a row to the left. One was open and Michael could see the huge thickness of it and the recessed spy hole in its center. He started to be afraid.

They marched in procession to the sixth door. Ralow found another key, opened it, and Don pushed Michael inside. The room was unplastered brick, painted a washed out green from ceiling to waist level, and a darker, clashing green from there to the floor. Wire mesh covered a high window. From the colors showing through the metal, Michael decided that it had been painted many times, often over rust. A narrow, iron-framed bed stood against the right wall. On it lay a heavily stained, striped button mattress less than two inches thick and a rolled-up cotton blanket-cum-sheet. A rickety chest of drawers, badly varnished, with three knobs missing, leaned against the left wall and beside it, close to the door, stood a yellow plastic bucket with a lid.

Ralow beamed around like an estate agent then pointed at the bucket, saying, “No toilet facilities at the moment, Michael. Bit of a drain problem. Ergo, the bucket for day and night use. I’m sure we’ll be able to find you some more bedding…eventually.” Don snorted at that and Ralow smiled an acknowledgement then continued, “You won’t need to bring your clothes in. Not unless we decide this should last a bit longer.” He and Don walked out and Ralow shut and locked the door. Through the peephole he called: “I hope you have put all your valuables somewhere safe, Michael, people can be so…nosy, when a patient comes in here and leaves their stuff unattended.”

Michael heard the two men walk away and wasn’t sure which one laughed.

* * * *

His dinner came half an hour late and half an hour cold. The gravy clotting and the meat fifty-percent fat. Don presented the food on a battered metal trolley, smiled but didn’t speak. Michael looked at it when he left and settled for the soggy, sweet pudding and chocolate custard. The tea was cold, mostly in the saucer, but at least it washed the taste out of his mouth when he finally abandoned the dessert. With nothing left to do after that he crossed the room to his window and looked out.

It was dark now and that improved the view. He could no longer see the back of the boiler house and the cluster of green refuse bins that stood in front of it. Not that they’d been fully visible before. The windows were filthy, mostly on his side, and Michael didn’t want to think what some of the stains were but at least the bleak darkness matched his humor.

He lit another cigarette telling himself he needed to ration the nine remaining. There was a “no smoking” sign high on the wall that somebody had made an effort to char round the edges. Don had said nothing when he came in and saw him with a lit cigarette and Michael didn’t care that much anymore about upsetting staff members.

As he tossed his cigarette packet on the bunk, a sudden shrieking laugh from somewhere close almost dropped him to his knees. It came again, this time backed by the sound of hollow plastic pounding on brick, played at the speed limit of arm muscles.

A deep, rough voice from further away shouted, “Quiet! You fucking lunatic! I’ll ‘urt you, Reynolds!”

The drumming sound backed by shrieks that were almost words, reached into Michael’s skull. There was something less than human about the noise that frightened him badly. He retreated to the hard bunk and set his back against it, squatting almost at floor level. The picture of somebody who could laugh like a pantomime villain and make it sound right, with muscles able to maintain that level of drumming, entered his mind and wouldn’t leave.

Suddenly there were voices in the corridor, but too distant for him to pick out words. One could have been Don and the other, the man who had threatened Reynolds. Michael resisted the urge to go to his peephole. A minute later a key turned in a lock close by. This time it was definitely Don’s voice.

“What did I tell you?”

Michael heard the sound of plastic hitting something that wasn’t brick, softer than brick, followed by a whinny of pain.

Don continued, “Now look what you made me do. Pick it up.”

Michael heard what sounded like scuffling feet then the scrape of metal on concrete followed by a gasp of pain.

Don said, voice almost friendly, “You’re so clumsy.”

Michael bit on an undamaged part of his knuckles. The high voice, heavy with sarcasm and confidence, terrified him more than he would have thought possible. A male voice said something in a staccato way that couldn’t find an acceptable volume level and Don laughed then said, “Who are you going to tell?”

Michael heard a slap. “Mention that too while you’re about it.” Don was enjoying himself. The other voice began to sing, words indistinguishable, the wobbling tune, nursery rhyme simple. Don shouted, “Shut up you fucking nutter!”

A door slammed hard and the lock turned immediately, more threatening to Michael that a closed fist. He drew both knees up to his chest and offered a small prayer to whatever might be listening that Don would go away but it didn’t happen. Don rattled his lock open, pulled on the thick door and came in.

Flushed and sweating slightly, he looked at Michael and said, “Time for your meds.”

“It’s not ten yet,” Michael said.

“It’s whatever time I say it is, sonny.” He carried a brown, corrugated box lid, upturned, holding small medication cups and a bottle of water. Keeping his eyes on Michael he lifted a cup from the improvised tray and held it out. Michael stood up and took it slowly, not wanting to give the man an excuse to hit him.

He looked at the contents and said, “This isn’t what I usually have.”

“Just take it.” Don grinned with no humor then added, “Unless you want it in a needle, or a suppository.”

Michael stuck the pills in his mouth and washed them down with a sip from the offered bottle. Don replaced the water on his tray and looked around the cell.

Eventually, he asked, “Getting cosy are you?” His face turned gleeful

Michael responded to it without thought, saying, “You can’t keep me in here.”

Don shook his head elaborately and placed the free hand behind a thick ear. “What was that?” Michael didn’t repeat it but Don was enjoying himself too much to let it go. “The “C” word: can’t? Sonny, we can do what we like with you.” He pointed a stubby finger. “You attacked your own friends at work. You attacked an innocent fellow patient here, twice. Mister Ralow could get you committed…” He snapped his fingers loudly, “like that. You think these doctors give a fuck? They do what we say.” He cast a quick look out of the door before continuing, more quietly, “If I was to tell ‘em you had a pop at me and I had to defend meself, who’s going to say different?” He stepped further into the room and put the tray down carefully on the chest of drawers then flexed his hands. “So, if you fancy your chances?” He rocked from the hips.

“I used to do a bit of the old fisticuffs when I was younger. Eat little fairies like you for breakfast.” He went into a boxer’s crouch, circling his arms then let them drop and said, “I’ll even give you first punch. What do you say? Knock me down and I won’t touch you.” Michael knew better than to say anything, just backed away and sat on the bed. Don looked at him. “No? That’s what I thought.” Then reached for the tray and recovered it in one fluid movement. Holding it in front of him, he said, “Now be a good boy and go to bed. I’m just back from leave and on double shift, so don’t make me work too hard tonight, or I might have to smack your little arse for you.” He winked, adding, “or maybe I’ll let Paul Hortan do the job, how about it?” He was still enjoying that one as he turned the lock and walked away.

Michael didn’t trust his legs to stand him up, so pulled the stale smelling cotton blanket over his body and lay down on the bunk. He would have liked a pillow but needed the sweater where it was, wrapped round his cold torso. In the moment he realized his bladder needed emptying, the medication swept him away.