The Treatment and the Cure (14 page)

“Who’s there?” you ask in a tiny voice.

No answer. You don’t know whether to look or not. It could be anyone. A screw even. It could be half a dozen blokes crouched in there for a lark, ready to leap out. You’ll have to look.

You put your head round, ready to play innocent and ask for the soap or something. It’s a man named Hogben. He’s fighting his invisible enemy again. He has him in a headlock, pressed in a corner. Hogben’s eyes are bulging and staring with the effort and his muscles taut with strain. Hogben’s always cornering the invisible bloke like this.

“How ya goin’?” you say out of sheer relief that it’s only Hogben.

He suddenly releases the headlock and lets go a flurry of uppercuts at the invisible bloke’s belly. The invisible bloke seems to duck past and out of the shower room and Hogben goes after him. Hogben didn’t even see you. He only saw the invisible bloke.

Of course you understand that your feelings about Cheryl are becoming a bit strong and could be dangerous for you. You understand that very clearly when you aren’t near her, or thinking about her, or pulling yourself over her. The trouble is you are doing those things most of the time. At other moments you remember how Dennis Lane went stupid for his little retard bitch and what it cost him. Going stupid for a nurse could be fatal. Even the tiniest incident could destroy you. There are screws who’d be glad to pin something on you, something sexual and dirty like molesting a nurse, and by the time they finished blowing it up it’d sound as though you’d half-murdered her.

It is late afternoon and OT is almost deserted. You and Cheryl are alone in the room. It is very quiet. You are pretending to fiddle with a vinyl bag but you are really concentrating so hard on Cheryl that you can almost hear her breathing at the far end of the room.

“Will you help me with this, Len?” she says. She’s putting finishing touches on a linen basket. She wants you to hold the satin lining in place inside the lid while she pins it. The job is awkward: you have to stand very close and she has to link her arms around yours and pin the satin between your spread fingers. Her fingers touch yours, and each time she leans to press a pin her head comes so close beside yours that you could kiss her ear. There’s even a tiny pressure of her breast against your elbow. At least you think it’s her breast. You don’t dare take your eyes off the spot where the pin has to go. You’re trying to keep all your senses open to take in every bit of this closeness so you’ll remember what it was like. This is the most intimacy you’ve ever had with a girl. It may be the most you’ll ever have.

Suddenly you feel overwhelmed. How kind she is! How sweet to give you this intimacy! All the loneliness of your life wells up in you. You want to put your arms around her and bury your face in her brown hair and let her sweet kindness wash over you. You almost do it and the face of Dennis Lane flashes in your mind and then vanishes and you begin to do it for real this time because you know Cheryl is all kindness and sweet pity and wouldn’t report you or let you get in trouble. There’s a crash as the linen box overbalances on to the floor. Cheryl jumps away. With elaborate calmness you bend to pick up the box and a cane-knife that fell with it, then as you straighten you see Cheryl’s eyes flick to the knife and to your face and to the knife again. You lay the knife on the table. Carefully.

“It’s my knock-off time,” you say. You feel empty. “Alright,” she says softly, almost apologetically. You go out the door. “Len!” she calls.

“Yes?”

“Thanks for helping me.”

“Any time,” you say.

You walk back to the ward in a cool wind. You loved Cheryl once, but already it seems long ago.

“Hey, Acker!”

You are lying on the grass in the yard on Sunday when you hear the screw yell. He’s a thickset young screw, a rugby player, and calls all inmates Acker, which he says is short for Acker Shitsburg. That’s his joke. It isn’t much of a joke but it’s the only one he has.

“Hey, Acker!” he calls again. You and another bloke look up. “Not you, Acker!” he says, waving the other bloke off.
“You
, Acker!” You go up and the screw tells you there’s a visitor. He seems a bit edgy about it. You go into the visiting room and the screw follows. A tall and sort of languid man rises and comes forward. It’s the poet you used to exchange letters with. You’ve not met him before.

“Geoffrey Hawsley,” he says. He’s holding your hand in both of his and smiling at you from a height. He has on a fluffy blouse with puffed-out sleeves and a wide bandanna round his neck. He looks just like an artist, especially with his long hair all untidy.

“You a poof?” the screw asks him.

“My sexual taste is between myself and my paramours, of whichever gender,” says Geoffrey Hawsley. “And, though I have been known to embrace the macabre, I can offer
you
no prospect of ever sharing my couch of joy.”

The screw turns to you. “D’you know this creep?”

“Oh yes,” you explain. “Geoffrey’s a poet.”

“A poet, eh?” The screw spits the word out.

“I sense that we are brother artists,” says Geoffrey Hawsley, laying a slender finger on the screw’s sleeve. “Some day you must show me your cave paintings.”

“What?” says the screw, stepping away. He isn’t sure whether to punch Geoffrey Hawsley or not.

“Don’t apologise. We know how busy you must be. We shall endure your absence as the stoics of old.”

“Fuckin’ smartarse!” says the screw, moving to the door. “Just don’t stay too long. We don’t like queers hangin’ round the place.”

“Ah, crossness can be charming in some people. What a pity you aren’t one of them.”

The door slams.

“Thank goodness he’s gone,” says Geoffrey Hawsley. “It was such an effort being pleasant to him.”

He takes your hand in his again. “So you’re Len. Of course a meeting in the flesh—if you’ll pardon the phrase—is almost superfluous. I have known your soul through your letters and poems. As you, I hope, have known mine.”

“Yes,” you say.

Geoffrey Hawsley sits and draws you down beside him.

“How often I’ve sat at the piano in twilight, playing some sad gossamer piece of Chopin’s, your latest letter open before me, your newest poem on my lips.”

“That’s good,” you say.

“You are one of the rare spirits.”

“Oh, I dunno.”

“How I have longed to visit you here in your bleak prison like poor Oscar in Reading Gaol. You too, Len, are composing from the depths your own great
De Profundis
.“ Geoffrey Hawsley clasps your hand tighter. “But we shall free you somehow! Then I shall take you among my friends. They’re all talented, vivacious people. They’ll adore you!”

It does give you a tingle of excitement. You imagine smoky little cafes, artistic chaps with beards, sensitive girls who do pottery and believe in free love. Maybe you could make friends with painters who have nude models in their studios.

“You are reading Balzac of course?”

“No.”

“But my dear, you must!”

“Oh, I mainly read Owen and those.”

“A mere phase. You’ll grow out of it.”

“I don’t think so,” you say. Geoffrey Hawsley catches your tone.

“I’ve offended you.”

“Not much.”

“Oh, I grant dear Wilfred’s heart was in the right place, but he and his ilk remained essentially Public-School philistines whining over their spoilt rugger match. Surely you see that?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” You wish Geoffrey Hawsley would go.

“I could teach you so much. I could make you one of the rare spirits.”

“I thought I was already.”

Geoffrey Hawsley wags a finger at you. “You really ought not attempt sarcasm with one so much better at it than yourself, Len dear.” He squeezes your hand. “But I forgive you, and shall spare no effort to unchain your bonds.” He takes an odd little jar from his pocket. “For the moment, though, I can offer you only— paradise!”

“What is it?” you ask, examining the white powder.

“Heaven or hell, as you wish. I am acquainted with both.”

You are suddenly very scared. And angry.

“Cocaine,” whispers Geoffrey Hawsley, passing the open jar under your nose.

“Christ, put it away!”

“You’re afraid?”

You’re afraid alright. Not of the powdery stuff itself, but of its name. Whenever you’ve heard the name it’s been connected with somebody dying, or getting twenty years. If the screws caught you now …

The door opens and the Charge enters with the screw behind him. Geoffrey Hawsley has made the jar vanish and is smiling up at them.

“Ready to go?” asks the Charge.

“I can’t tear myself away,” Geoffrey Hawsley replies. “The decor is enchanting. Who’s your decorator?”

“Visiting time’s up.”

“I’d considered this less a visit than a pilgrimage.”

“You’d better go.”

“But my dear chap, why?”

“I think you know what’s in my mind.”

“Anthropology isn’t my subject.”

“I have a duty to protect Len.”

“Lucky Len!”

“Out!” snaps the Charge.

“Yeah, git!” the screw adds.

Yes, please go, you’re thinking. And go carefully so as not to stumble and drop the jar. Geoffrey Hawsley rises and takes your hand.

“I fear I’m detaining these gentlemen. No doubt they wish to be off stoning a bear for their supper. Goodbye, my dear.”

“Goodbye,” you say, withdrawing your hand. “And I’d rather you didn’t come again.” You are saying that because you mean it. You don’t want Geoffrey Hawsley or his jar anywhere near you. You are also saying it so the screws will know you’ve pissed him off.

“Et tu, Brute?” he says. “A pity. I might have made something of you. On second thoughts, probably not. Such unpromising material …”

Geoffrey Hawsley goes out and the Charge goes behind to unlock for him. You hear keys jangle and then Geoffrey Hawsley thanking the Charge for his graciousness or something like that, then he’s gone. It’s uncomfortable for a few days, but the screws don’t appear to blame you. They seem to think they’ve saved you from something. Moral ruin, you suppose.

You’ve got your own cell. You are supposed to call it a room. It’s a nice cell, one of those along the side of the verandah, and you are between Fred Henderson and old Throgmorton. Throgmorton stays in most of the time, except when he dresses up in the blanket and tall hat with the toilet paper and goes to argue with Dunn across the yard. You hear Throgmorton at night, groaning that he’s The Owner and The Maker and threatening to sack the staff. He’s old and sick now, but in his prime he often sacked the Medical Superintendent, and once he sacked the Minister of Health who came on an inspection. You usually know when Fred Henderson’s in his cell on the other side because Bimbo squats outside the door pointing to blokes in the yard and asking if they’ll root him. “Fuckin’ oath he will!” Fred yells back every so often to encourage Bimbo.

When you close the door the cell is fairly quiet and wonderfully private. There is a peephole and people can look in, but that’s privacy compared to what you had. The bed is against the window and the window has heavy bars. You prefer barred windows. Outside is a stretch of dry dirt and scraggly grass and then the wall of Ward 7. Between the top of your window and the top of Ward 7’s wall is a patch of sky. This dirt and grass and patch of sky belong to you. Not the things themselves but the angle of view. The blokes in other cells can see the same clump of weed or the same chimneypot on Ward 7’s roof but from a slightly different angle. Your own precise angle is yours.

It’s nice in the evening, sitting on the verandah outside your own door, watching the sky change. The setting sun lights the tiles of the roof opposite so that they glint like copper. A cool breeze comes up most evenings. The very best times are when hundreds of wild ducks fly over at sunset and you hear the whoosh of all the wings and the cries the ducks make.

They gave you this cell because you were next in line for one after Halliday was taken away with his bad head wound. It happened in the TV room one night. We were packed in there in the smoky haze and in the heat from the big old wood-burner they use in winter. Only a few blokes ever really watch TV. Most stay in the back of the room near the heater and the snooker table and the cards. You were in a chair near the TV, but you weren’t watching the programme. You were studying Lloyd. Lloyd loves TV and has his own chair right in front. Everyone knows the chair is Lloyd’s and they let him have it. A lot of places in the ward are like that. There’s a vague sense that certain blokes sit or walk or lie in certain spots and so other blokes tend to go along with it. It isn’t just politeness. The bottom left-hand corner of the yard, for instance, is where Hogben often traps his invisible bloke. If you were there when Hogben charges in with a flurry of punches he’d knock you black and blue without even noticing.

Lloyd enjoys ads. If a little cartoon man hops out of a washing machine to tell the amazed housewife about Wizzo detergent you’ll see Lloyd squirm and giggle and twist his raw hands with glee. He likes jingles too, and any programme with beautiful girls. That night there was a nice ad that showed bikini girls on a beach drinking Coke. They were wet from the surf and the sun was making the drops glitter in a cascade whenever the girls tossed their hair back. They were very beautiful girls and Lloyd was staring and winding his hands and letting his big tongue loll the way he does when he’s entranced.

“Whassat shit?” snorted an old dill from the back. The old dill normally sleeps curled in a chair halfway back in the room, except when he stirs to gob on the floor. Nobody takes any notice.

“Whassat fuckin’ shit?” snorts the old dill again.

“Shuddup, ya stupid old mongrel!” says someone.

“Turn that fuckin’ shit off!” the old dill croaks. He’s out of his chair and stumbling forward.

“Drop dead, ya mad bastard!”

“I’ll frigginwell break it!” the old dill yells.

“You couldn’t break wind!”

“Can’t I just?” mumbles the old dill. He staggers back to the wood box near the heater and picks up a lump of wood, then stumbles forward again, being kicked along the way, and waves the wood at the TV screen.

“I’ll smash it!” he yells.

“Go on then!” It’s Harris.

“Yeah, smash it!” urges someone else.

“Let’s see yer do it!” cries Harris.

The old dill makes a violent motion to hurl the wood but brings it down hard on the back of a chair. It wouldn’t have mattered except that Halliday’s head was there. The screws come and look at Halliday who is unconscious and bleeding from the ears. One screw phones Electric Ned while the other drags the old dill to the isolation cell. Halliday is taken away on a stretcher and the screw details someone to mop up the blood.

They let the old dill out next day. The screws threaten him that when Halliday returns, if he returns, they’ll look the other way for ten minutes. The old dill doesn’t know what they’re talking about. His mind’s a blank.

But you’ve got a nice cell.

A movie is shown in the hall each Monday night and patients go or are taken from all over the hospital. REFRACT men who have parole can go by themselves and others who’re interested are escorted by a screw. After three months you still haven’t been. You love films and feel sick with envy seeing the group form up at the door each Monday after tea. You haven’t asked to go. You’d assumed the Charge would tell you when he thought you were ready for the privilege. The same with parole. Other men, less well behaved than you, have it. It isn’t fair. Being allowed to walk to and from OT unsupervised is a kind of parole perhaps, and you still feel amazed sometimes to be walking along by yourself without fences or wire or screws around you. But parole to walk in a straight line between two buildings isn’t much, really. You worry when you find yourself thinking like this. Give Tarbutt an inch and he wants a mile!

It is Monday evening and the film group is gathering at the door where a screw is noting the names on a pad.

You go to the Charge.

“Excuse me. I was wondering if, um, er, I could …”

The Charge looks up from his newspaper. Already you regret this.

“… go to the movie.”

“Alright,” he says and looks down again.

The screw adds your name to the list as if it’s nothing at all. The screw unlocks and steps outside, then calls each man out and ticks his name. The names will be ticked again when we come back. There are eight of us. We walk along with the screw. The moon is enormous and there is a lovely soft breeze. This is the first time in years you’ve been out under a night sky. Our feet crunch on gravel past other wards and past dark clumps of trees. You keep your eyes wide open and take deep breaths, wanting to absorb it all. We are passing a ward—Ward 10 the sign says— and a young nurse comes out and calls to our screw. We stop while he goes to talk to her. They talk in low tones for a long time, but you don’t care. You sit on a grassy bank all cool and bright under the big moon. The breeze is salty from the lake. Harris grumbles that we’ll miss the movie.

“Listen, you Ackers,” calls our screw. “I’ve got sumpthin’ ter do. You go on by yerselves. I’ll meet yous at the hall later.”

We walk on.

“Dirty bugger!” says Harris. “I’ll bet he’s got sumpthin’ ter do. I wouldn’t mind doin’ her meself.”

“Hey!” the screw calls.

We stop.

“Any Acker pisses orf I’ll have his guts fer garters!”

We go over a rise and there is the lake, a cool blaze of silver stretching away to a dark shore where dots of light wink. Car lights. A point juts from one side like a great black shadow on the ruffled silver.

The breeze is strong and salty.

“Whad’ya reckon about pissin’ orf?” Harris asks the rest of us.

“Dunno,” says another. “Whad’ya reckon?”