Chapter Six

Michael spent most of the following morning lying on his bed. Breakfast came late: soggy cereal in tepid milk. Cooling tea with a skin on it, and the nurse ignored him when he asked to empty the bucket. He had resisted using it as long as he could but hard wired anxiety about constipation, one of his mother’s favorite topics, soon overcame embarrassment and then he had to share the cell with the reek of his body wastes. It fitted snugly with his mood, aggravated by loneliness and a need not to think. Michael was ready for any sort of company by one-thirty that day, except the company that arrived.

Ralow came in with a lunch tray, wriggled his nose at the smell, glanced down at the yellow bucket and said, “I hope this has given you the opportunity to reflect on your behavior.”

Michael wanted to tell him to go fuck himself but thought it wouldn’t have been a positive step.

He asked, “When do I get out of here?”

Ralow smiled, pretended to think about it then said, “Oh, soon enough, soon enough.”

“I did nothing wrong,” Michael said. “I don’t deserve this.”

It sounded snivelling and he regretted the words as Ralow smirked. “Nothing wrong? Goodness me. If I report the full extent of your actions to senior medical staff, you’ll get a six-month commitment. As it is, I have…er…toned down your little escapade so you are here on temporary observation.” He flicked Michael a thoughtful look and added gently, “You should be grateful.”

Michael wasn’t sure if he imagined the weight of that “grateful” but didn’t want to explore the area at all.

He said, “Ask Terry, he’ll tell you what Hortan was going to make him do.”

This time there was simple pleasure on Ralow’s face as he said, “Oh dear, you are behind with the news. Terry told our nursing staff meeting last evening that he and Paul were joking around and you took offence and hit poor Paul for nothing.”

Michael scrambled upright, almost shouting, “That’s not true! He was going to make Terry show him his…his penis! If he didn’t, he was going to rape him!”

Ralow flushed slightly and licked his lips then said, “Michael, please. I have already had to mention your…er…inappropriate physical contacts with Terry to Doctor Stiles.”

“What!” The words horrified Michael and he stumbled on, “What inappropriate contact? I haven’t done anything to him. It’s Hortan!”

Ralow shook his head in what might have been a sad and understanding way from anyone else then said, “Michael, we all feel that you are getting a little too…fond, of Terry. This fantasy about his genitalia and sodomy, well, it just tends to prove that we were right.” He looked Michael up and down then said sharply, “If you continue with this nonsense, I might have to recommend that six-month stay after all. Delusions can be very tricky, especially homosexual ones that could lead to…other things with a teenage boy. You must know the law. And of course, if we thought you were a predatory danger, you would spend that six months in here.” His face took on the caricature of friendly encouragement as he continued, “So do you wish to make a formal complaint against Paul and Terry, perhaps against me? Then this whole area could be brought out into the open.”

It was a flat challenge.

Michael’s shoulders slumped and he said, “I can’t believe Terry said that.”

“Believe it,” Ralow said. “While we’re on the subject, as and when you leave this unit, you are required to have minimal contact with him. Under no circumstances will you visit the sleeping, washing or toilet areas with Terry, or leave the building with him. If you give us concern in this, you will be transferred to a more appropriate ward or we may inform the authorities. If I decide that you are a sexual threat, even without a committal…” He didn’t finish his comment. The unspoken words hung between them. This time there was plain malice in Ralow’s expression and Michael looked away. Ralow placed the lunch tray on the chest of drawers then said, “Time to clean up now. Bring the bucket.”

Michael looked at the tray. “What about my lunch?”

Ralow shrugged, saying, “Later. You’ll have all afternoon to eat it.”

Michael knew it wasn’t safe to argue anymore and followed Ralow to the cell unit’s toilet areas. The lavatories were working perfectly. He didn’t look at the Staff Nurse while he cleaned the bucket under a sluice tap then stripped for his shower. He couldn’t avoid shuddering while he rinsed himself in the too-cold water, but wouldn’t ask for a higher temperature and, with no shower curtain, the problem of privacy didn’t arise. Still damp after use of the small thin towel he had been given and back in his soiled clothes from yesterday, Michael was locked up again. He didn’t even look at his cold lunch.

A little after four, a horse-faced female nurse with painfully lank hair opened his cell and walked away without acknowledging him. Michael looked at the gap and the grimy windows beyond it for a few seconds then heard voices in the corridor. He stood up and peeped outside.

Two men were talking near the third cell down. The big one lounged against a barred window, the other hovered near the open cell door, moving his weight from foot to foot as if considering flight. Michael walked in to the corridor and the lounging man looked at him, a slow confident movement of head and shoulders.

He said, “Ello, new blood.” Michael recognized the voice that had threatened Reynolds.

The smaller man looked too. He was obviously glad to have the lounger’s attention elsewhere.

He said, “I seen him, Nobby. He’s the one what clouted ‘orton wiv a cup.”

Nobby looked at Michael, thick eyebrows lifting then asked, “Like to fight, do yer, lad?”

Michael decided that, by the expression on Nobby’s face, this was a good time to outline his position.

He said, “Not even a little bit. I’m trying to stay quiet, keep myself to myself and get out of here.”

Nobby looked at him for a few seconds more then nodded. “Good idea, lad. You a poof too?”

Michael shook his head. “No, I’m not. My girlfriend comes in here all the time.” The need to please this hulking man had loosened his mouth, and he made an effort to shut up.

Nobby scratched his lumpy jaw then murmured, “Good. We don’t like poofs, do we, Reynolds?” The smaller man agreed that they didn’t.

Michael painted on a non-committal smile and tried to think of reasons not to be here then made a vague waving gesture in their direction getting ready to back into his cell. Nobby smiled, a repulsive contortion of pitted skin, and signalled him over with a huge index finger. Michael felt like crying but the unit door was locked and he had nowhere to hide. He hesitated then walked down the corridor, trying to make it a swagger, but not too much.

Up close, he decided that Nobby was not a good-looking man. Another saying came to him: “A face like a bag of bolts.” Nobby had the remnants of a tattoo on his neck close to the jaw bone, just about clinging on against, Michael judged, years of rough soap and clumsy shaving with blades used too often. It might have been an eagle once, or perhaps a flying horse. It was difficult to tell and Michael tried not to look.

When he stopped a yard and a half short, Nobby said, “I ‘ope you’re used to this,” making the universal hand sign for masturbation, ‘cos that’s all you’ll be getting for a while. They won’t let your bird in ‘ere.” He chortled, somewhere between irony and malice.

Alarmed, Michael asked, “Why not?”

Nobby slapped Reynolds on the upper arm, moving him a few inches and said, “We’re the dangerous loonies! Been bad boys! No visitors in the unit.” He looked at the locked door for a moment as thought moved slowly across his face then roared, “Bastards!”

Reynolds and Michael both flinched. The peephole in the main door rattled open and a muffled female voice said, “Quiet in there.”

Nobby straightened and swung his head like a bull looking for the picador. Michael felt his need to be somewhere else, grow.

Desperate to change the mood, he asked, “So how long have you been in here?” He made a gesture to show that his question meant the unit.

Nobby rolled his head slowly on the thick neck and said, “Eighteen fuckin’ days. Doin’ me in. Never been so long wiv out. I’ll be visitin’ Ole Donovan soon.”

Michael looked at Reynolds and the man offered the tiniest of negative head shakes. Nobby didn’t notice but his hand drifted near Michael to show this wasn’t the end of their conversation.

A papery voice asked, “Did somebody call?”

Michael looked round and then wished he hadn’t. A small, thin, elderly man, his long white hair tied back with a ribbon, leaned provocatively, hip cocked, against the door frame of the next cell. The ribbon was his only clothing.

Michael said, “Shit!”

The old man remained straight-faced, saying, “If that’s what you want, dear. I’m easy.”

Michael took a step backwards and knocked into the giant radiator, catching his ankle on the valve. He gasped and the old man’s face changed.

He asked in concern, “Did you hurt yourself, dear?”

Michael put up a hand to ward him off and Nobby laughed, saying, “Right an’ all, lad. Bend over to rub it and he’d be in your arse like a ferret down a rabbit hole.”

The old man frowned at him then said, “I’ve told you before, Malcolm, I take it, I don’t give it. Please try to keep up.” He was so obviously not afraid of Nobby that Michael’s shoulder muscles began to relax. Nobby growled something about “Malcolm” but made no understandable reply.

The old man shook his head dismissively and spoke to Michael. “My name’s Henry Donovan, dear—spinster of this parish. You are?” Michael told him. The old man went on, “Another addition to this band of brothers, what did you do to annoy Miss Ralow?” Michael gave him a softened version of his fight with Hortan, leaving out the part about genitalia and rape. The old man laughed then said, “Whose pretty bottom was Paulie after, dear, yours or your friend’s?” Michael flushed slightly and shrugged. The old man continued, “He’s a nasty one, that Hortan, gives us all a bad name.” The words were amused, but the eyes weren’t. “That dolt gets away with murder in here because of Miss Ralow.” He tapped the side of his nose then asked, “has that particular lady made herself known to you?”

Michael shook his head, saying, “Known to me? Ralow?”

“Her intentions, dear,” the old man said. “We all know she’s trying to get up the nerve to bugger somebody, and you’re the type she salivates over most. Not that she’s that fussy by all accounts as long as they’re young.”

Michael said, “Thanks a lot, that’s cheered me up no end.”

The old man laughed then said, “Sorry, dear. I’m used to speaking as I find I’m afraid. It cuts out so much faecal matter.” He looked down at himself and reacted as if he hadn’t known he was naked. “God! What am I thinking?” He glanced at Michael. “Always nap starkers. I just forget sometimes.” There was nothing suggestive about it and Michael smiled. The old man moved into his cell calling back, “Come and talk to me, dear.”

Glad of an excuse to get away from Nobby, Michael followed, ignoring the snort of derision from behind him.

This cell, identical in size and wall color to Michael’s, was different in nearly every other way. Three colored scarves hung from the wall pipes and a brightly patterned shirt of some thin material, attached by the shoulders to the window bars with small hair clips, diluted late afternoon light. The chest of drawers had a bright, orange and green, scarf-like piece of material draped across it, tasselled ends touching the second set of knobs. The thin bed covering was topped by a red Kimono, arms stretched out, complete with rearing dragon back-panel in black.

The old man asked, “Like it? Not much, but it’s home.”

Michael nodded, saying, “Very nice. How long have you been in here? Mister er…Mister…”

The old man said, “Call me Henry.” Pulling on a pair of tiny white briefs, he said, “Only six days, dear. Just an old queen hamming it up, don’t worry. My own fault as well.”

He hopped into dark-blue, corded jeans before adding, “I’m a silly old sod. Completely misread the signs and made a play for a young god named Ted. He’s in here fresh off a building site. You could almost smell the brick dust. I just couldn’t resist the tears and the homesick expression. That was a big mistake. After all these years too. Well, he hit me. I hit him back. Miss Ralow patted his hand and put me in this hell-hole, the darling girl.”

He found a pale blue tennis shirt in the top drawer of his chest and pulled it on then said, “There, better?”

He gave a twirl then grinned and sat on his bunk, looked at Michael while he fastened the shirt’s buttons then said, “It’s all right, you’re safe with me.”

Michael began to make denying noises and Henry raised both hands, palms out.

“You don’t need to say it, dear. I’m probably your first genuine queen, right?”

Michael nodded and Henry went on, “So you’re bound to be nervous. I bet mummy and daddy said the only thing we think of is buggering little boys like you, didn’t they?”

Michael nodded again. It wasn’t true but he needed to hear the old man talk.

Henry continued, “Well, I can’t speak for the rest, but that was never my interest. I won’t tell you what is, we don’t know each other that well. Looking and acting like I do there’s always problems.” His face was ancient for a moment and then he smiled again and the years dropped off. “As my sort are all mentally ill by royal decree, or whatever. Well, if somebody doesn’t like my face, I end up in a place like this for a few months getting treatment.” He laughed then said, “I won’t tell you how much ECT I’ve had.”

Noting Michel’s frown he added, “Electric shock, dear. They wire you up to the mains and shoot a few thousand volts through your head. Supposed to make better links in the old noggin I’m told. Completely useless for homosexuals, of course but it keeps the powers that be happy, and the electric company of course. Not to mention it plays havoc with one’s short term memory. That isn’t always a bad thing.”

A voice cut in from behind Michael. “Same old soapbox, Henry? Can’t you try something else to impress the boys?”

Henry’s smile dropped away as he looked up and said, “Nurse Jordan. How nice of you to pop in.”

Michael turned, trying not to look guilty. It was the horse-faced nurse.

She looked at him with suspicion and asked, “What are you doing in here, Michael?”

“Just talking,” he said.

She reached out and took his arm. “You’re in enough trouble without mixing with his sort.”

Henry stood up and asked, voice icy, “What sort is that, Nurse Jordan?”

She stared at him. Michael thought it looked, with that hair, as though she was peering through a badly curtained window at some unwanted visitor.

She said, “Behave yourself. You know what I mean, and you know what Mister Ralow will have to say about it if I tell him you’re being difficult.”

Henry seemed about to speak then changed his mind. He sat down heavily and stared at the floor. Michael let Nurse Jordan lead him out of the cell and back into his own, aware of another defeat. She stood in the doorway for a few seconds while he selected a place to sit on the bed.

When he looked at her again, she said, “We have to open the door: rules, but you don’t have to mix with them.” She pointed down the corridor. “There’s a red bell push by the toilets. You’ve probably seen it. If anyone tries anything, just ring. Three short ones. If you can’t reach it, scream. Somebody will hear.”

Michael said, “Thanks…I think.”

Nurse Jordan smiled. It made a difference. Then she said, “You’ll be all right. Reynolds is harmless even when he’s off his chump. Clark will only bother you if you make him feel threatened, and Donovan: well he’s just an old queer. Keep your fly zipped and you’ll be okay. The young man in number one is under heavy sedation so he won’t be bothering anyone.”

Michael asked, “How long do I have to stay in here?”

Nurse Jordan shrugged. “Not my area. Staff Ralow has the say on that.”

Michael wasn’t surprised and hated the power Ralow had over him.

He asked, “Can you get me a change of clothes and another blanket? A Pillow would be nice too.”

Nurse Jordan looked around, frowning then said, “They haven’t moved you in? Good grief!” She looked at her upside-down watch. “That, I can sort out. Back soon.”

She left.

* * * *

With clean clothes and enough bedding, Michael began to feel less like a prisoner on punishment. He kept the cell door closed and nobody bothered him although after an hour’s solitude, Michael began to think that any company would be better than his thoughts. Lying on the bunk, arms crossed on his chest, he tried to keep away from areas in his head that held fear but that covered so much of life, it wasn’t easy. The sore knuckles were a constant reminder of what he had done but didn’t push him into thoughts about his violence. He wasn’t consciously ignoring it, but some defensive part of his brain made a compromise with fragile self belief and left it out, allowing Michael to ricochet off more acceptable dreads, then into self-pity and comforting fantasy.

He thought about this hospital, and wondered if he truly belonged here. For a few seconds, visualizing himself strutting round the day room in a fur robe and wearing a crown. He put that aside with an effort and tried to concentrate on reality. The damaged minds and the strangeness here were frightening but these people didn’t take a place in his thoughts as freaks and outcasts. Well, not most of them. A shaft of anxiety then asked the wrong question. Not about empathy or lack of threat. Not if the emotion might be positive, like compassion, but if it was a sort of “coming home” or malice: Rousing the part of him that welcomed difference of the twisted kind. The hovering pleasure in people who were off-center and in pain. He lay and stared at the dirty ceiling and told himself that was obscene, loudly in his head, like a child praying who hoped God wouldn’t catch the underlying thoughts.

His cell door suddenly opened and Michael looked up, startled.

Gordon glanced round saying, “Got yourself a single, eh? Nice.”

Michael sat up and asked, “How did you get in? I’m not supposed to have visitors.”

Gordon smiled and leaned against the wall.

He said, “I told you, we professional visitors are important. Anyway, I explained that I’d promised to visit you today and I’ve come a long way.”

Michael smiled back, enjoying the pleasure of seeing this man and said, “I’m still surprised Ralow let you in, he doesn’t like me.”

“He’s off this evening and nobody else gives a damn, so, voila!” He shook the chest of drawers then lifted himself easily on top of it. Legs dangling, he went on, “So why the change of address?” Michael told him about the incident with Hortan. Gordon drummed his heels for a few seconds, frowning then asked, “Why did you go for him like that?”

Michael had been trying to ignore that question since it happened. He said, “Don’t know. Terry and I had just been stopped by a couple of lads who knew we were from here and made fun of us. Maybe I was wound up.”

“Bit extreme though,” Gordon said. “Do you do that a lot?”

Michael said, without thought, “Never.”

Gordon frowned, saying, “You’re here for attacking your work colleagues though?” Michael nodded, feeling sick. Gordon eased his weight and the chest of drawers groaned then he asked, “Do you think you might need to…think about the whole violence thing?”

It was too close to his current, ignored thoughts and Michael heard himself shout, “I’m not violent!”

Gordon raised a calming hand then said, “What would you call a person who told you what you just told me about that attack on Hortan? No warning, no attempt at discussion. No words at all, just whack.”

Michael hated the tightness in his throat that was little of it to do with the lingering virus. He mumbled, “I despise violence.”

“You don’t have to admire it to do it.” Michael couldn’t think of an answer and Gordon went on, “A retired cop. An old friend of mine from way back, told me once that when you can’t work out what’s going on with someone, switch off the sound and watch the actions. According to him the surest way to find out about people is to look at what they actually do, not what they tell you they’re doing.” He shrugged, adding, “It works just as well applied to ourselves. I’ve done it a few times when I couldn’t decide which way to go: stopped listening to what I was telling myself I wanted and looked at what I was doing about achieving it.”

Michael glared at him then said, “You’re telling me I’m violent.”

“It doesn’t matter at all what I think,” Gordon said, “It’s what you think that counts.”

Michael didn’t want to hear that either and said quietly, “I hate the idea of people hurting one another.”

“There’s all sorts of hurting, Michael,” Gordon said. “In my experience words or the lack of words, do more harm than fists.”

Michael asked, “What does that mean?” The question came out as a challenge

Gordon said gently, “You don’t have to defend yourself against me. I’m just talking about the world according to Gordon Bennett: late middle age and approaching the knackers yard at a rate of knots. Looking back, the worst wounds I ever got were from things people said to me, or didn’t say and the way people treated me. Like my dad thinking it was womanish to love anything. You know the type.” He saw Michael’s face change and added, “Struck a nerve, there? Sorry.”

Michael said, “A bit. My father believes in hard work and manliness. At least his version of what makes up a man.”

Suddenly he was plunging in to the conscription story. For a few seconds it felt incredibly dangerous but Michael fought past his anxiety and kept at it, listening to the words as they tumbled out like a passive observer.

When he stopped and slumped on his bunk searching for cigarettes, rather than look at Gordon’s face, there was silence. As he found his mouth with the tobacco tube Gordon said, “Some story.” He tossed over his matches, waited until Michael settled with his cigarette lit then went on. “I can imagine that put seven shades of shit up you.” Michael nodded hard and Gordon sighed then said, “I take it your dad and his brothers believe in the “chuck ‘em in the deep end” brand of therapy?”

“More or less,” Michael said.

“It worked for the Spartans. Mind you, they got through an awful lot of new born babies before the strain bred true.” He smiled at that then continued, “I wish I could say I was surprised about your father and uncles, but I can’t. I met a few drill corporals like that during the war.”

“You were in the army?”

Gordon nodded. “Wasn’t everybody?” he asked. “I saw a couple of nice boys crumble under that sort of bullying. The army’s built on structured cruelty: frighten the lads into a way of thinking so they’ll walk into enemy fire just because they’re told to.” He sniffed hard, adding, “Load of jingoistic bullshit.”

Michael asked, “So you don’t think I was pathetic reacting like that?”

“That wasn’t what I said.” Gordon smiled gently then continued, “No back patting, Michael. I’m not a good soother. I think most boys would have shrugged it off, forgotten it. You didn’t. Maybe that was bad luck or bad timing. Maybe it just filled the pot of anxiety you had to the danger line. You know, just one more piece of nastiness that took it to a weight where you couldn’t carry the thing any longer.”

Michael frowned at him and Gordon went on, “Sorry, that’s me thinking in pictures. I sometimes look at my problems as stones: some big, some small. All going into this bucket that I have to carry round with me.”

He lifted a pretend bucket, making a pained face then continued, “Individually they don’t have to weight much, but all together they can drag you right down. My grandfather gave me that one. He said that people tend to think of the bad stuff that happens to them as totally separate and don’t realize that lots of small things happening over a short period, even over several months, can be just as bad as one really huge thing.”

He shrugged then said, “Doesn’t make the problems go away but it’s certainly helps me not to start worrying when a small thing affects me way beyond what I think it should.”

Michael thought for a moment then asked, “Are you saying that…time with my dad and his brothers was like breaking the camel’s back? The stuff he kept nagging and sneering at me about since almost before I can remember, just got too much that day?”

Gordon offered a smaller shrug. “I’m not telling you what’s true or what you should believe. Certainly not who to blame. If you’ve lived your life since that day on the basis of not being able to trust your parents and at the same time, counting down until you’re “ripped from their bosom” so to speak, how do you equate the two?”

Michael stared at him and eventually managed to say, “So I’m crazy.”

“Don’t sulk.” Gordon grinned as they made eye contact again then said, “There’s enough people in here who do “crazy” for a living. You can’t compete.” He spread his hands. “You have to look at this as the man you are, not a very experienced five-year-old. If the army tried for you—you might find, once this ultimate terror is there, it’s tolerable. Could it be worse than the misery you’ve been going through all these years? If you couldn’t make it and throw a wobbly, one look at you being in here and they’d discharge you quick as quick.”

Michael said, “That’s not all of it. I do…things, Lots of things. Reading too much. I worry about…about me. What I really am as a person.”

Gordon waited for more then asked, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Michael shook his head. “Not really. Not yet at least.”

Gordon said, “Probably best not then. What I can say is that people who spend too much time in their heads, see stuff they don’t like.”

Michael tried not to wriggle and asked, “Such as what?”

Gordon leaned back against the wall and the chest of drawers tipped an inch. His eyes widened in alarm then he balanced himself again and said, “I’ll tell you a story. I broke my leg playing football when I was fifteen, got stuck in bed for six weeks. I wasn’t much of a reader then so I just moped, let my mind wander. It was great at first, daydreaming, fantasies, lots of sexual ones. The more bored I got the deeper I started looking.”

He shook his head at the memory, face showing small embarrassment. “I started picking over really old stuff: things I’d said and done. Thoughts too. When I got out of that room, I apologized to my cousin Phyllis, tears in my eyes, for squeezing her tits when we were twelve. She thought I was crazy.” He stared at the dark window then added, “Piece of luck really, that mouthful of insults I got from her. It was a real bad one. Our Phyllis would make a drill sergeant blush. Well it stopped me apologizing to anyone else.”

He shuddered slightly then looked at Michael as he added, “It’s never a good idea to upset the balance of life people are used to. Especially if your mind is set to look at all thoughts and incoming sights and sounds in a certain way: searching for proof of something like, say, you’re worthless or people hate you.” He pointed two fingers at Michael. “There’s always the plain fact that if you make too much of something, people tend to think there’s more to it than they know. They get suspicious because they can’t get their heads round anyone reacting that much to something they themselves view as unimportant. So they think you’re holding back the really bad stuff. Just hinting at it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Michael nodded, hoping he did but unable to speak. In their silence, they both heard the main door opening.

Michael glanced at his watch, saying, “It’s feeding time.”

Gordon slid down off the chest of drawers and it rocked dangerously.

He steadied the thing and said, “I’ll have to go then, sorry about that.” He stopped at the door, cheeks coloring. “I hope I haven’t said anything really stupid or nasty, Michael? I didn’t mean to hurt you but I tend to ramble on a bit when I’m in a chatty mood.”

Michael shook his head and managed to say, “Don’t think so. I feel at bit stunned, but that’s okay.”

Gordon looked unsure, peered into Michael’s face then asked, “All right if I come back again later this evening?”

Michael nodded, saying, “I’d like that.”

* * * *

Michael ate the almost-cold dinner as fast as he could shovel it into his mouth, thinking that was probably the best way to approach the meal anyway. As he stuffed down the last forkfuls, Gordon was suddenly in his mind like a parent, as he had always wanted his parents to be or the brother he would never have. It was a giddy, almost sickening whirl of emotion. Michael pushed the plate away and drank the last of his warm, orange colored water then looked at his hands. They were shaking.

Gordon’s words had frightened him but they had power to them and touched something inside that almost welcomed it. He thought about the broken leg story and needed to explore that: how thoughts worked. What it really meant to be clinging to ideas beyond reason and looking at them in special ways that could be completely wrong. Michael lay back and stared at the wall letting the memories of their conversation find a level inside that suited them.

Half an hour turned into forty-five minutes and then an hour. Michael got up and walked the corridor until Nobby suggested, strongly, that he stop. He leaned against the end wall near the alarm button looking at the unit door. Towards the turn of the hour he even thought about pressing the alarm but decided it wouldn’t be a good idea. Michael was considering it again when the door finally opened twenty minutes later. He straightened, not trying to hide his disappointment as Staff Nurse Paisley came in alone.

She saw him hovering and asked, “Are you all right, Michael?”

“I was expecting my visitor to come back,” he said, hating the sulky tremor in his voice.

She smiled and shook her head. “Sorry, dear. Staff Ralow left strict instructions that you weren’t to have visitors, none at all, and the others missed it the first time Mister Bennett came in.” She gave him a pitying look that probably complemented his own expression then added, “He sent his regrets and these.” She tossed him a packet of Dunhill. “He said he’ll be back tomorrow.”

Michael gripped the cigarette packet tight, saying, “If Mister Ralow says I’m not to have visitors…”

Staff Paisley winked. “I told Mister Bennett to come back after nine when I’m on.”

Michael nodded several times, not trusting himself to speak, and walked back to the cell. He lay down on his bunk, pressed the packet of cigarettes to his chest and experienced disappointment as a hard pain beneath it. He wanted it all now, not tomorrow. Years of waiting for someone to trust hadn’t given him patience just increased his need. Until two hours ago he hadn’t known how sharp that need was. Now he couldn’t stand the thought of it lasting another minute, let alone a full day. He got up and moved over to the window, grabbed the bars and laced his fingers in them, peering out into darkness then shook the lumpy metal, bringing down a small rain of dirt and rust.

He shouted, “You rotten bastards!” Not sure where that was aimed.

He was still looking angrily at the night when Henry’s voice sounded from the doorway. “Are you okay, Michael?”

Without turning, Michael said, “Maybe, who knows.”

Henry’s voice came closer. “Trouble with your friend?”

Michael whirled, needing to savage someone and said loudly, “Not the sort of trouble you mean!”

Henry blinked and pushed his hair back. It hung loose now and wearing a shapeless, dark-blue cardigan, he could have been either gender.

He said, “I’m not obsessed with sex.”

They looked at each other until Michael dropped his eyes and said, “Sorry, I’m just upset.”

“Your friend upset you?” Henry asked. “Or was it Paisley?”

Bunching his fists in frustration, Michael said, “God, neither of them. Staff Paisley is going to let him in tomorrow against Ralow’s orders. She’s doing me a favour.”

“It doesn’t feel much like one at the moment?”

Still not looking at the old man, Michael said, “Right. I just…I just need to talk to him.”

Henry said, “Friends are important in here: a lifeline to the real world.”

He smiled as Michael looked up and continued, “Anything I can help with?”

Michael said quickly, “No, thanks anyway. He and I were discussing…were going to discuss some stuff and then they chucked him out.”

“You could telephone. They have to let you use the phone if you ask.”

Michael shook his head miserably. “I don’t know his number. I don’t even know what town he lives in. Only that it’s thirty miles away.”

Henry frowned then said, carefully, “Oh, but I thought he was a close friend. He isn’t?”

Michael flushed, avoiding Henry’s eyes and said, “No. He’s a hospital visitor. Fact is, I’ve only know him a couple of days.”

Henry sat down on the bed with a small sigh then said, “Oh dear, and you’ve come to rely on him that much already? Are you sure that’s wise?”

Michael’s head snapped up. “Why not?”

Henry’s hair fluttered silkily as he said, “My dear boy, take it from someone who has known an awful lot of men–and a lot of awful men come to that–it takes time to trust.”

Michael said loudly, “He wasn’t talking about sex!”

Henry sighed louder and his voice picked up an edge as he said, “Nor was I, Michael. It isn’t my profession. Being the way I am, I have been an outsider all my life. It becomes very lonely. There have been times when I would have given everything I owned for someone who was interested in knowing me, not just fucking me.”

The last came out with such vehemence that Michael flinched then he said, more quietly, “It’s not like that with Gordon. He wants to know me, he…he likes me. I know he can help with…with this thing.”

Henry smiled again, but nothing reached his eyes. He said, “I hope you’re right, dear. I really do, but my experience is that if it looks like a duck, and it walks like a duck, it might well be a duck but it might just as easily be some fox with access to a hell of a good duck suit who’s decided to try out a new pond after clearing the old one.” He ran both hands through his hair before adding, “I’ve had a few of those suits hanging in my wardrobe, dear, I can tell you. Don’t let need blind you to reality.”

Michael struggled with his emotions and managed to keep his voice calm as he said, “I know you’re trying to be nice, Henry, but it’s okay. Gordon really can help. He doesn’t have to do this visiting. He’s not interested in me in any…sort of, you know…”

Henry asked, “He’s told you that has he?”

Michael hated having to defend Gordon and felt the need to strike out again.

He said loudly, “Yes! Christ, does that mean he really fancies me then, in your great experience?”

“I don’t know. I’ve made a lot of mistakes about people. Maybe I’m too wary, but when you can get six months in prison for smiling at the wrong person, it focuses one’s mind. I’m just suggesting that you don’t put all your proverbial eggs in the one basket.” Michael glared at the old man but he wouldn’t stop. “I can see you think you’ve found someone special, and I really hope it’s true. I don’t know what this problem of yours is and don’t really want to. Just remember where you are, dear and don’t say anything about your feelings that might get you in trouble.” He grinned, adding, “another old homily of mine: you don’t tell the Inquisition you’re having doubts about Christianity.” He tapped the side of his nose and winked.

Henry’s last words, alongside Gordon’s comment about Christianity and the Third Reich that had introduced them, struck hard.

Michael said, “Gordon doesn’t like the establishment here any more than we do. He wouldn’t turn me in.”

Henry asked, “Could he, for your own good even? A lot of pain gets doled out for that bloody reason. As they say: “God protect me from people who know what’s good for me”.”

Michael didn’t want to, but thought about it then said, “No. It’s nothing crazy.”

Henry waited for more and when it didn’t come, shrugged, saying, “All right, I’ll leave you to it.” He stood up and moved towards the door where he turned, one hand on the jamb and said, “I’ll be right down the hall if you need me.”

Michael watched the empty space where Henry had been, trying to fuel his anger. After a few seconds, he had to accept it wasn’t working. He found the almost hysterical need to talk to Gordon had eased. He lay down on the bunk again and linked fingers behind his head. He could wait now. Gordon would be in after nine on Friday. His mind jumped. Laura would be in too that evening.

Michael sat up fast. There was a good chance the hospital had told his parents about him being locked up. If they had, it was likely his mother had told Mrs. Denby and so Laura would know. He closed his eyes against the picture of Laura’s horrified expression and the thoughts that went with it. If Ralow was the news-giver he would have relayed it in the worst way possible. He could live with his parents thinking him crazy and dangerous but not Laura.

Anxiety brought him up off the bunk and he walked to the cell door, lighting a cigarette he didn’t need. His mind began hammering questions. What if she didn’t come? What if this turned the balance and she gave up on him? Even worse, what if Ralow had made some comment about his “inappropriate” interest in Terry? Michael saw Laura’s disgusted face, mouthing the word “queer”. All his old sexual fears came scampering back on an adrenaline surge. They slotted into their familiar places, tooting at him like some discordant marching band.

He walked out of the cell, suddenly claustrophobic, and pressed his head against the corridor wall. It wasn’t much help but at least, movement and sensory change took the edge off his need to scream. Standing there, eyes too close to focus on the fish-smelling bricks, it felt incredibly weird that he hadn’t thought seriously about Laura and his future life outside in the last two days. As if this hospital was some alternative reality where the rules didn’t apply unless you made them conform by an act of will. That fed too easily into the idea of being “home” in this place.

He straightened and took a long, hot drag on the cigarette. Gordon’s cigarette. That helped, thinking about Gordon, feeling his presence through the tobacco. With him in support: someone to share his fears about insanity with, and Laura loving and ignorant, he could make it all work. Had to make it work. As straw clutching went the thoughts served a purpose, and it didn’t occur to him that there was no room in that scenario for anyone’s needs but his own.