The Ward (15 page)

I open them again.

The television is blank and dark. The shadow Lisa is gone from the screen.

Drained with relief, I reach over and take another sip of water, my shaking fingers inches away from the covered tray the nurse has left behind.

Look
.
See what’s under there
.

But I don’t want to see. I really don’t.

What if it’s a tentacle?

Stupid. Absurd. Would be funny if it wasn’t so…

Possible?

Holding my breath, I whip the cloth away.

I breathe out with relief. Nothing but a soft white towel and a bar of pink soap.

Yes, but what’s under the towel?

I pull it aside. Holy Christ. There’s a pair of curved forceps and an outsized scalpel in the metal dish.

I don’t stop to think. I pull off the tape that holds the drip tube in place and yank the needle out of my arm. I swing my legs off the bed, grabbing the side of the nightstand to steady
myself. My legs are shaky, but I can’t let that stop me. I grab a sheet off the bed and wrap it around me like a toga – for once I don’t care anyone will think. All I know is that
I have to get out of here. I need to find a phone. Tell Dad where I am. Beg him to come fetch me. I shake my head to clear it, and when I take my first few steps I stumble slightly as the floor
slants sharply to the side, as if I’m on board a listing ship.

I fumble for the handle – certain that it will be locked, that I won’t be able to get out – but it opens smoothly.

I step out into a long, carpeted corridor, letting the door crump shut behind me. If I didn’t know I was in a hospital, I’d swear I was in a hotel hallway. The walls are papered in
pale-pink silk, and the doors are all made of heavy oak. The words ‘Welcome to the Modification Ward’ loop across the wall in elaborate gold letters. There’s no sign of any
hospital equipment or a nurses’ station, and there’s not a soul to be seen. The place has a hushed, luxurious atmosphere. The thick carpet isn’t helping my muzziness. It’s
wildly patterned with multi-coloured interlocking circles in deep red, infected yellow and pukey green, and the more I stare at it the more it seems to undulate sickeningly.

Don’t look at it
.

Which way should I go? My room is situated halfway along the corridor, and both directions appear to end at an elevator door. There’s no sign of any other exits, connecting corridors or a
stairwell.

The elevator door to my right opens, making the decision for me. I turn left and walk as fast as I can. I don’t seem to be going in a straight line and the carpet’s stomach-churning
design keeps trying to rise up and hit me in the face. I realise I’ve sunk to my knees, and using the wall as support I force myself up.

‘Client Cassavetes!’ a woman’s voice calls from behind me. It sounds like that mirror-eyed nurse but I don’t turn round.

I force myself into a shambling run, but the sudden burst of exertion makes my already watery legs give way. I stumble and slam into one of the doors as I pass. Whoever’s behind it is
laughing at something.

‘Client Cassavetes!’ Nurse Jova calls. ‘You are not authorised!’

The lift suddenly looms within touching distance.

I’m dimly aware that the siren I heard before is wailing in the background.

Praying for it not to take too long, I slam my fist onto the single lift button. The doors slide open immediately. I half crawl inside and press all of the buttons on the control panel.

Nurse Jova glides towards me. ‘Client Cassavetes!’ she calls. ‘Please return. If you go to the Terminal Ward you will—’

The doors slide shut.

Ha. I made it! I have the sudden urge to laugh, but I don’t have the energy. The lift starts moving, but I can’t tell if it’s going up or down. I don’t care. I swivel
round and lean my forehead against the door. It helps. My legs regain some of their strength, but my hands are shaking and cold sweat runs down my sides. The puncture wound in the crook of my elbow
is leaking blood, and I use the sheet to wipe off the rivulets trailing down my arm.

The lift pings and the door opens.

This corridor looks reassuringly more like a hospital. The floors are shiny polished pink linoleum, and the portholed doors that line the passage are painted a peppermint hospital green.
There’s an empty wheel chair a few yards from me, and an abandoned drip stand leans drunkenly against the wall next to it.

At first I think I’m back in another public section of New Hope, but this area is spotlessly clean and uncluttered. The words ‘Welcome to Preparation Ward!’ are printed in
comic-book writing along the wall in front of me. There’s a shiny poster of a clown’s winking face tacked up next to it. ‘A Good Donor is a Happy Donor’ is printed in a
speech bubble above his orange hair. At the far end of the corridor a hunched figure scuttles around the corner.

My temples are throbbing again and there’s a dark spot dancing into the far corner of my right eye. Using the wall for support, I shuffle along and just avoid tripping over the end of the
sheet that’s unravelling from around my body. God, I’m tired. But there has to be a phone around here somewhere. I have to keep going.

I push against the first door I reach. It doesn’t budge. I stand on my tiptoes and peer through the round window. I glimpse a body lying prone on a metal gurney. It’s covered with a
clean white sheet and partially hidden behind a folding screen. I lean my ear against the glass and I can just about make out the murmur of voices, followed by a pneumatic hissing sound and a quick
burst of a mechanical whine. I stagger back as unseen hands pull the gurney further behind the screen.

Am I on a surgical ward?

A third of the way down the corridor, a door bangs open and a plump pink-smocked nurses’ aide pulls a catering trolley out of one of the rooms.

A laugh echoes down the corridor, followed by ‘How’s about another cup of tea, doll? And a biscuit if you’ve got one!’

I know that voice. I’d know it anywhere! It’s Gertie! Thank God. Gertie will know where I can find a phone. She knows everything about this place. Everything seems to shift back into
perspective, and I pick up my pace.

The pink-smocked orderly hesitates and stares at me as I approach, her mouth dropping open, revealing stumpy teeth. She’s old – ancient in fact, her skin scarred and yellowed with
age.

‘Excuse me,’ I say to her, doing my best to smile. ‘I’m looking for a phone. Could you tell me where I could find—’

Her eyes widen and she shakes her head and hustles off. She actually looks frightened.

The door through which she emerged is still swinging slightly, and I push it open.

I can hear the faint sound of television voices and canned laughter like in a sitcom. It’s another private room, with a single bed and armchair. It’s not as plush as the luxury room
I was in, but it’s as smart as most of the private clinics I’ve stayed in. I move closer. Yes! The figure lying on the bed is Gertie.

She’s pointing the remote at the screen, her face scrunched up in concentration, and she doesn’t look up until I’m almost at the foot of her bed.

‘Hi, Gertie.’

She leans forward and shakes her head. ‘Who the hell are you?’

I’ve forgotten about the mask. ‘Oh! Sorry. It’s me. It’s Lisa.’

‘Lisa? Seriaas? What’s that thing on your face?’

‘Some sort of surgical mask. To protect my face, I guess. I don’t really know for sure.’

‘No offence, doll, but it makes you look like Hannibal Lectern.’

‘Lector.’

‘Thass what I said.’

The slur in her voice chills me. She’s also attached to one of those drips, the same brownish fluid eking its way into her veins.

‘When did they move you here, Gertie?’

‘Just now. Not bad here, is it, eh, doll? Been treated like a queen since I woke up.’

She plumps the pillows behind her and leans back with a sigh. She takes a sip of tea. The cup rattles in its saucer and I hurry to steady it for her.

‘Are you okay, Gertie?’

‘I think so, doll.’ She scrunches her eyes up as if she’s trying to remember something. ‘I think I had a relapse.’

‘In the other ward?’

‘Ja. Funny, me and your boyfriend were coming to look for you.’

My stomach leaps. ‘You were? Farrell’s here?’ And he was
looking
for me?

‘Ja. Next thing I know, they’ve moved me to a private room.’ She cackles. ‘Buggered if I’m paying for it though, doll. If they’ve made a mistake, it’s their problem.’

She yawns.

‘How the uvver half live, hey?’ She’s really slurring now. ‘Nurshes treating me like I was gold. But I don’t think much of this D-esh TV. Find me
The Bold and
the Beautiful
, hey, doll?’ The word comes out as boosifuuul.

‘Did they give you something, Gertie?’

‘Give me something?’

‘You sound… a bit groggy.’

‘Do I, doll? Come to think of it, I do feel a bit tired.’

I’ve deliberately been avoiding looking at the TV screen, but there’s no horrible image on here. It’s definitely some old eighties sitcom. A couple of women with fake tans and
skin-tight Lycra dresses are perched on stools at a garish breakfast nook, talking to a man with a chest wig and a medallion.

‘I don’t wanna watch this kak, doll.’ Gertie waves her hand vaguely at the television.

‘Gertie, do you know where I can find a phone?’

She yawns. ‘Wass that, doll?’

‘A phone. Do you know where I can find one? Is there one on this floor?’

‘Your boyfriend hass the phone, doll. I gave it to him. He crooked me though. Blarry stole it and my hunned bucks.’

‘There you are, Client Cassavetes!’ A nurse bustles into the room. I recognise her instantly, but I can’t remember her name.

‘You’re Farrell’s nurse.’

She smiles at me and clucks her tongue. ‘That’s right. Now, now, what are you doing down here? You don’t belong here.’ She waggles her finger at me as if I’m a
naughty child. ‘You were sent to the Modification Ward.’

‘What’s wrong with my friend? She seems a bit out of it.’

Gertie chuckles. ‘I’m fine, doll.’ But she isn’t. She seems to be having problems focussing and her eyelids are drooping.

‘Mrs February is going to have a lovely sleep now. Aren’t you, dear?’ the nurse says.

Gertie nods. ‘Ja, Nursie.’

This isn’t like the Gertie I remember.

‘Yes,’ the nurse continues. ‘A lovely, lovely long sleep.’

Gertie’s eyes flicker and close. Her head droops to the side and her breathing evens out.

The nurse pulls the covers up to Gertie’s chin.

‘Will she be okay?’ I say.

The nurse turns to face me. I take a step back. The smile is gone from her lips. Her eyes are cold and dead and all I can think is
those are the spider’s eyes
.
The real
spider’s eyes
. ‘Now,’ she says, her voice still silky smooth but somehow also dangerous. ‘Just what am I going to do with you?’

God, it feels good to be in my own bed again. I breathe in the freshsmelling air, taking a delicious lungful, and stretch until my skeleton cracks satisfyingly. I almost feel
up to working out again. I can’t wait to get back to the gym. I roll onto my side and something snags on my arm.

Wait a second. There’s a drip needle taped into my arm.

I open my eyes. They take a moment to clear, but then I can see. I’m not at home. I’m in a hospital room. A big, comfortable room with a proper bed. That fresh smell hits me again.
And the perfect temperature. Thank God someone sorted out the medical-aid fuck-up and transferred me to a private clinic.

But I’m better; I should have been discharged, not transferred. Why am I on a drip again?

I spot the eye drops on my bedside table, and I decant a dose into each eye and lie back.

Competing memories batter each other inside my head. I force myself to relax; let them through one at a time. And Katya’s always first on my mind. I look at my hands. The big gash on my
right hand is now dressed with Micropore tape. It feels much less angry. I see Katya’s bloody face. I can’t make myself believe that I hurt her. But I can’t piece together those
jagged images. I see Katya crying, angry, taking her bag and leaving.
Take a good, long look, you bastard
, she said.
There were signs of a struggle
, June said.

What have I done? If she doesn’t turn up, Glenn will kill me.
I will find you and make an example of you
.

The last thing I want to think about, the thing that knocks most urgently inside my skull, are those Polaroids. My body, portioned up like meat. My hand makes straight for my back pocket, but I
realise I’m not wearing my jeans. I’m in clean and comfortable flannel pyjamas; my body feels like it’s had a long, hot bath. I lift up the top and my skin is scrubbed and
spotless.

There. On the vanity. My clothes are folded up with military tightness. Jeans and T-shirt. I swing my legs out of the bed and pull the drip stand along with me. It rolls lightly over the tiled
floor, as if its castors have been oiled and cleaned. The pole itself looks brand new and is made of a light but strong alloy. ‘Mørke Ferli’ is discreetly etched in the metal,
some Scandinavian manufacturer, no doubt. This, right here, is why we pay for private healthcare. I should have kicked up more of a fuss; I could have been here for a week, instead of in fucking No
Hope, that filthy hellhole.

Someone’s washed my clothes – they no longer stink of puke. I unfold my jeans and check the pockets for the photos. Nothing. I lift up my T-shirt, and there they are, neatly packed
in a transparent ziplock bag. I fumble with the seal of the bag, my cut hand still too stiff and sore for the job, and drop it on the floor. As I squat to pick it up, my bones crackling and my
muscles bunching intensely as I go, I notice a manila folder under the vanity table, half wedged under the table’s leg. ‘Joshua Alphonse Farrell’ reads the label on the top left
corner. ‘Strictly Confidential.’ Brilliant! I pick up the file and take it and the photos back to the bed.