POOPED

A chill eastern wind licked golden leaves across the path as Sam and Rachel crossed the lawn in the direction of the infirmary. A squat cob huddled amongst large balding willow trees, the building was single-storeyed, with small frosted windows along its sides and a flat felt roof, a countenance bearing the painful utilitarian plainness that, by some quirk of architectural homogenisation, had been the lot of health facilities for decades.

The two squeaking plastic portals that constituted the main entrance led into a whitewashed reception, a rectangular space with chairs along one wall and an unmanned desk opposite, behind which ran off a long, bright corridor.

‘Dr Fell?’ called Rachel, almost as if the doctor might be hiding, ready to jump out at any moment. ‘Dr Fell?’

They both hesitated a moment and listened for signs of life but no reply was forthcoming - the building was deserted, it seemed, save for the occasional shout or slam from the interior.

‘Right. Come on, then.’

Rachel led the way along the corridor to the right, Sam traipsing behind. His nose had stopped bleeding, although dark circles of bruised tissue were starting to form under his eyes, giving him a rather insomniac appearance. As they passed along the corridor he craned his neck so as to catch fleeting glimpses through the small windows that lined the passageway; snatched impressions, room upon room of strange electronic gadgetry and pristine bedding, some bustling with medical staff, some empty, some with a solitary resident laid flat out.

At the end of the corridor they turned left and then immediately right, through a shabby green door and into a dank storage area. In contrast with the rest of the infirmary, this large dimly-lit space was completely chaotic; for the main part the room was given over to the storage of medical supplies, hundreds of tan cardboard boxes arranged in huge unsteady piles six feet high. In front of these lay a slightly more open area, a circular space covered by a large zebra skin, complete with head and tail and hooves, the white of its stripes mottled light green and grey from years of underfoot abuse.

‘He’s in here somewhere, I can hear the bugger,’ said Rachel stepping forward onto the hide.

Indeed Sam, too, could hear a voice coming from the other side of the store, a high rasping tone that seemed to suggest in equal parts both distress and extreme elation. They edged further into the room, between the stacks, until there, upon rounding a corner, was Dr Fell.

A small man, compact, with a flyweight’s physique, he wore a long white coat over a grubby vest and cream linen shorts several sizes too small, a pair that clung in a most unflattering way to his tiny sparrow’s legs. He had dark sunken eyes which, together with the cragged skin of his face, gave him the look of a man much older than his forty-something years.

Sam stood and marvelled at the doctor. He appeared to be in the process of reprimanding a poorly rendered papier-mâché dog which sat on the floor in front of him, a forlorn face marked out in green felt tip around the snout. Ranting with incredible gusto, Dr Fell cut an impressive figure, appearing to Sam like some Old Testament prophet, possessed by the force of his argument, evangelical, furious, desperate.

‘Dr Fell? Hello?’

Hearing Rachel’s voice, the rage seemed to leave the doctor’s face, the tension in his limbs replaced by an altogether more relaxed demeanour.

‘Hello,’ he said in a soft, uncertain voice, squinting round at them as if he no longer trusted his own eyes.

‘Dr Fell, this is Sam. He’s new here and as you can see he’s taken a blow from one of the residents.’ Rachel explained in the most simple terms.

The doctor stood still, his head bent over to one side. ‘Yes, I see. Oh dear. Right. Fine...’ Dr Fell trailed off as he began to feel his way blindly around the edge of the room. ‘And you would like me to do what exactly?’

‘Well, I should think some first aid might be in order, wouldn’t you, Doctor?’ Rachel took extra care to enunciate, as if she were reprimanding a child.

Dr Fell came to a stop in front of them. Certainly he appeared unwell, his skin damp and pale, right arm bobbing erratically at his side.

‘He’ll snap out of it,’ said Rachel to Sam. ‘I should be getting back. Goodbye, Dr Fell. See you another time.’

‘Wait, I...’ Sam called after her but it was too late, the rub of her shoes receding as she marched back down the corridor towards the reception and away.

Silence.

Ahead of him the doctor stood quite still now, frozen; even his arm had ceased to tremble. It occurred to Sam that there was something sad about his appearance, perhaps because his face bore such confusing tropes: it was boyish, sweet almost, with its delicate features framed by the fine blond strands of his hair. And yet time and experience had taken this fine braid and woven it into something twisted and unsavoury, his countenance now defined by a sense of decay. In short, it was the face of a serial abuser, an addict, although a face that was of great interest and Sam found himself momentarily lost in the observation of its detail.

‘Right. Yes. If you’d like to follow me.’

Finally the doctor snapped back into action, as if the pause necessary for his brain to recalibrate itself had concluded. With a surprising show of speed Dr Fell crabbed over to the other side of the zebra, holding out an arm by way of an invitation.

‘If you’d like to sit. Here.’

‘Here?’ said Sam. Dr Fell seemed to be pointing at the zebra’s head.

‘Here.’ The doctor repeated.

Sam stepped forward and Dr Fell steered him into a position on the floor so that he was effectively astride the zebra’s neck; a strange position, but Sam lacked the heart to say anything, such was the concentration etched across the doctor’s face.

‘Good. Good,’ he said, scurrying back over towards a large oak cabinet in the far corner of the room.

Sitting alone for a second on the floor, Sam was reminded of the reason for him being in the infirmary as pain flooded back into his face and head. He traced the line of his aching nose, wondering all the time if it was in fact broken. But then from nowhere Dr Fell appeared at his side, snapping a large wooden peg across the bridge.

‘What the -’ screamed Sam.

‘Yes, just a second, please. Just a second.’

Back at the oak cabinet Dr Fell rifled through an array of plastic pots, clearly his beloved store of pharmaceuticals, a treasure trove, he learned later, of pills and potions that had garnered an almost mythical reputation over the course of his tenure as chief medical officer at Edge Hill. Unlike the rest of the room, the contents of this cupboard were kept in a neat, well-ordered state, with each jar labelled and alphabetised; Dr Fell had even gone to the lengths of designing two extra shelves that sat on large hinges so that they could be swung out independently. And such was the significance of this endeavour, that the day they were installed had become folklore; accounts varied, but most agreed on the central fact that Dr Fell had, in a fit of unbounded joy, devoured almost half of the contents of the pharmaceuticals cabinet, a dose that would have killed most ordinary mortals several times over. Then, having wreaked all kinds of havoc around the house, he disappeared for six days, and was finally found several hundred miles away, tangled in the net of a fishing trawler off the coast at Dover. When asked to explain his whereabouts, the sequence of events that took place in order for him to have ended up drifting six miles out to sea, the doctor replied simply that he had ‘Gone for a walk.’

At last Dr Fell appeared to have found what he was looking for as he swiped a bottle from the shelf and stuffed it into the pocket of his white coat. Sam raised his head to see the doctor step across the room towards him with real purpose.

‘For the pain,’ he said, holding out a palm which contained two small pills, purple rounds covered with a fine, fibrous detail that gave them the look of underwater oddities. Without knowing it, Sam must have looked less than impressed as Dr Fell then continued, ‘Trust me. I’m a doctor.’

It was safe to say that Sam certainly did not trust him. But then again, such was the pain that throbbed about his temples, that he had to do something.

‘You are a doctor, I suppose?’ said Sam, not meaning at all to have turned the remark in to a question. Almost out of embarrassment he reached forward and took both these exotic looking urchins, washing them down with a large slug of water from the canteen which the doctor offered up. Dr Fell then emptied twice that dose into his own mouth and washed all four pills down with an expert flick of the neck, closing his eyes tight as he did, relishing the experience. And with that he scampered onto all fours, a white-coated creature, to the far side of the storeroom where he sat, slumped against the grimy wall.

The pills must have been strong; Sam could feel their effects. A warm sensation began to travel along his back and shoulders, spreading then through his neck and head. It was an incredible feeling, one that ushered in an overwhelming sense of well-being, a calmness which seemed to radiate through every single detail of his body. The pain in his nose and head dissolved, leaving in its place a beautiful anaesthesia, a deep, liquid comfort.

Sam lay back on to the zebra skin and exhaled. He closed his eyes. And slept.

Morris. His massive features just inches away. This was what confronted Sam as he opened his eyes from the cavernous slumber into which Dr Fell had sent him.

Sam was startled, turning into an exaggerated roll and stumble to his feet.

‘Sorry, I...’ Sam looked around the room. Dr Fell was nowhere to be seen. ‘I must have dozed off.’

He placed his palm on the side of his head. The pills were spent, an almighty throb reinvading his skull.

‘Yeah. Well, that’s OK. You must have taken quite a knock. If you’re up to it, it’s nearly time for a physical activities class to begin.’

Sam scratched his head, still a little groggy.

‘Sure. Sure. Why not?’

As they left the infirmary thick spots of rain began to fall, the sky darkening, shaped by a congregation of livid black clouds.

Skirting around the edge of the front lawn they soon came to an old tennis court. Although the nets were gone, the faded white tramlines still ghosted here and there, stubborn relics clinging to the asphalt. Morris led Sam through a metal-framed door in the high green fencing and they took up a position along one of the sides, next to some of the other handlers - Spike and Rachel, and a handful he recognised from the lunch shift.

In front of them around thirty or so of the residents, male and female, rushed to and fro in what seemed at first to be a high paced, scattergun sport, the like of which Sam had not seen before. And the more he watched the less he understood the fabric of this activity; there seemed to be no rules and no structure; there was a ball, a little smaller than a melon and brightly coloured pink, which certain members of the group either guarded closely or, when it happened to break loose, pursued with an enduring passion. But the rest of the ‘players’ seemed not to care at all, content to run with real purpose in no particular direction.

After several minutes, a large male resident crashed into the fencing next to Sam, appearing to try and run straight through the wire. Sam thought immediately that the man might be trying to escape. However, Morris stepped across and spun him round so that he faced into the court again. The man promptly took off at considerable speed, weaving a random course away through the thrashing limbs of the other players.

‘Generally they’re pretty agile but every now and then... it’s like... ‘ Morris set about rolling a cigarette. ‘Well, ever seen a bird fly into a closed window?’

While the experience of serving lunch had been difficult, at least Sam could see the rationale behind it. The residents had to eat, after all. But this seemed so unnecessary, so inelegant and undignified a display, a sight that served only to highlight the strange predicament in which these elderly people found themselves.

‘Its really very sad, don’t you think?’ asked Sam.

‘The exercise is good for them - essential. They work themselves up into such a state...’ Morris paused to light his cigarette. ‘Look, most of what we do here is supervisory. They fall over; we pick them up. At least they manage to control their hormones better these days. Time was, they would hump anything that moved, and most things that didn’t.’

‘Is this legal?’ Sam asked, taking the cigarette from Morris.

‘Legal? Is what legal?’ asked Morris, faintly amused by Sam’s naivety in matters which had become to him, over the years, so plain.

Sam thought for a second. ‘This. The whole thing. Edge Hill, I mean.’

‘Power of attorney passes to the next of kin. So any decisions are theirs to make. And besides, what else would you have them do? Discontinue the treatment? Come on...’ Morris trailed off, not indifferent, but much too professionally minded to get into such a discussion with a new member of staff.

‘Ah. Here we go,’ said Morris, his expression shifting towards a smile.

Looking up, Sam was more than a little surprised to see Daniels disrobing at the side of the court until finally he stood in voluminous underpants, socks and garters. Then, with a great Apache yell, he threw himself into the ‘game’, chasing the pink ball, falling, chasing, laughing, falling, chasing, laughing, chasing.

Daniels was immensely fun to watch, his portly, rapscallion frame bursting with good humour and tremendous energy. He seemed to galvanise the residents, a focal point for the game’s mad dash and babble. But his was not a physique built for endurance and after a few minutes he ran out of steam, wheezing his way back to the fence, a short walk accompanied by heartfelt applause from the assembled members of staff. For his part, Daniels was in such a state that it was all he could do to raise an arm to his adoring fans shouting, ‘Pooped! Pooped!’ as often as his tightening chest would allow. ‘Thank you. Quite pooped!’

An hour or so later, after the physical activity session was over, the handlers, including Sam, took the residents indoors, where they were washed and dried in specially designed ‘pods’, smallish egg-like structures which Sam discovered operated not unlike human car washes. This turned out to be a surprisingly tranquil experience, though not without its trials, most of which came from dealing with Ted, who was of course in a foul mood.

Next the residents were dressed in white cotton sleeping suits, before being ushered into a large common room where they sat in reclinable faux-leather chairs, peering through the dark at monolithic television screens. As far as Sam could make out, they were watching a reality show entitled ‘While She’s At Work’, a hidden camera piece whose main preoccupation seemed to be recording husbands who dressed up in their wives’ clothes while alone in the house during the day. The residents sat in stony silence as a middle-aged man pranced across the screen in stiletto heels, silk negligée and an eye patch. Sam thought he heard someone weeping, but perhaps it was his imagination. Perhaps.

From here Sam was requisitioned by Spike to help with some landscaping duties; hard physical labour for an hour or two, but at least he seemed to have forgotten about the pain in his face. Then it was back to the hall where supper (more Meel) was being served. Again Sam struggled to grasp the finer points of technique when it came to dealing with the residents. He was out of his depth, without the confidence or inclination to find his feet. As such, dinner was hard work, but the shift passed without serious injury this time; a small victory of sorts.

By the time Sam staggered along the corridor and into his room it was nearly nine o’clock. He flicked on the light in the tiny en suite and leaned on his palms at the sink, exhausted. After a moment he lifted his head and looked at himself in the small, smudged mirror. The first day had taken its toll. Green flecks of Meel had found their way into his hair and onto most of the front of his uniform; more noticeable than this, though, was the rust coloured stain that ran down the right side of his shirt. Sam had all but forgotten about the incident at lunch, about the infirmary even; these events seemed unreal now, dream like.

Sam lifted a hand and traced the outline of the bruising around both eyes, the tissue ripening through various shades of blood, black and blue. And as he stood and marvelled at his own sorry appearance, Sam’s thoughts turned to his mother, to the house and the Enclave that he had left. His heart sank as he thought of her alone in the dark, the grey white light of the film loop flickering across her face.

What was he doing there? Why had he come? How could he have abandoned her?

Sam took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Inside he could feel the pull and snipe of guilt nibbling at his soul. To escape the life he saw was approaching, the inevitability of the Enclaves, that was one thing - but to escape from his mother, to leave her like that?

The air congealed, his chest tightening as a sharp pain shot through his ribs in an upward, spiralling motion. He put a hand out for support on the sink and closed his eyes, absorbing the hurt.

It was time for bed.