Alphabet (31 page)

Some time later the same doctor visits again, wearing a fresh, impossibly white coat.

‘They say they want you out of here,' he announces, ‘but I'm insisting on seeing progress first – under the circumstances I'm just not confident of the care you'll get elsewhere.' One moment, someone can want to kill you; the next, there's another person who is bothered not just that you live, but exactly how well you are going to be looked after, who sends a sweet redhead nurse to give you an injection and persuade you to try a chalky kind of drink. He can't swallow.

‘You're lucky,' she says (funny how everyone can see it except him), while she shows him how to use the remote for the TV and radio, how to make the bed tilt up and down. ‘You're lucky, because these new rooms with the wallpaper and decent curtains – normally they are just for private admissions or overspill from maternity. You'll be feeling better quite soon,' she adds. ‘Rest.'

Some more time passes, and then a prison officer opens the door.

‘Look, mate,' he says, ‘it's boiling in here but I'm doing my back in out there in that corridor and now you've woken up, so I'd better come in and sit in this easy chair you've got. Name's Bill Evans.' He waits momentarily for a reply, then shifts the upholstered chair nearer to the bed, hangs his jacket on the back of it and hands Simon a rolled-up copy of the
Express
.

‘Not so bad in here, is it?' he says, eyeing the TV remote on the bedside cabinet. ‘You were damn lucky,' he says. ‘Just after they got you out, all hell broke loose. Full-scale riot. There's still men on the roof. Loads of injuries, one bloke, prisoner, in intensive care. Thrown off the landing, fell three floors. Officers drafted in from all over, like fucking Northern Ireland it is in there. Massive overtime. Lots of us drafted in.'

Later, they watch the news. A solemn-faced reporter reads out a list of demands, which include an end to 23-hour lockup and slopping out, and the removal of ‘animals' from the wings. Police and fire engines are gathered around the perimeter, he reports, but they can't get in because of the hail of roof tiles and other missiles from above. The female newscaster calls it a siege. The screen shows a view of the prison from the air, one of the accommodation wings half gutted by fire, smoke still rising . . . In terms of the physical structure, it's not exactly something to feel sorry about. But then the camera pulls in a little closer, trying to show the half a dozen masked men hurling tiles down from one of the roofs. Simon can't be sure, but the way one of them stands puts him in mind of Teverson – and, right or wrong, he can't be looking at it any more.

‘Yes, we're both well out of it,' Bill Evans comments as the screen dwindles to nothing. Simon writes PISS on the edge of the newspaper and the pair of them make their way slowly to the bathroom, Evans steering the drip.

A male and a female police officer visit. They take their hats off, sit next to the bed and enquire as to Simon's health. The assault, they say, was a serious matter, possibly beyond the scope of internal discipline procedures. Charges may be considered, though there are always problems gaining sufficient evidence, getting witnesses and so on, in cases like this . . . still, they might give it a go. Who were the assailants? Can he remember?
Remember?
But still, you have to weigh it up. What would T get? What would he do after he got it? Is it worth Simon's while, to be known for the rest of a life sentence as a grass, utterly beyond the pale? To be waiting for the comeuppance, even when – if ever – he gets released? He shrugs, writes, ‘I will think about it,' in the woman's notebook; they leave him a number to call.

‘Well,' Alan says, on the phone at the end of the week, ‘you don't seem to need us lot at all do you? There was me and the duty probation officer both bashing out a letter a week and you've managed to get out of there all on your own!'

‘Where are they going to send me next?' Simon asks. Every word hurts and they are barely audible. Another officer, Hedges, less well-meaning than Evans, stands a few feet away, attached by a long chain and taking full advantage of the lack of No Smoking signs.

‘You know I can't tell you that, but obviously, wherever it is, you'll be in the hospital to start with, so I think you've fallen on your feet.'

‘Don't make me laugh,' Simon whispers back.

‘My cell is about half this size,' he tells the nurse, Rosemary, as she writes her final figures onto the chart for him to take with him.

‘Sssh!' she says.

‘And the staff aren't so nice,' he adds. It sounds creepy in the whisper, but he might as well say it, it's true. He's managed to drink a small liquid meal – agonising, but without too many medical ill effects – so that means that he is on his way, travelling this time in an ambulance. Another stroke of luck? he thinks at first, but then it turns out that there aren't any windows.

The new place is clean and quiet: a whitewashed room, high windows with curved tops. There are three proper hospital beds in the ward, a TV showing some soap without the sound on. Simon gets the bed near the door. Someone wearing a dark purple tracksuit is sitting on top of the bed at the far end: a fleshy-faced bloke, obviously queer, with a lot of long, blond-streaked hair brushed back from his face. He looks up from reading a magazine and says, ‘Hi!'

Simon nods, waits while the doctor, a grim ex-army type, looks him over. Apparently his temperature is too high, which might mean an infection setting in: well, so what! Might make a change. He's getting impatient for the next dose of pain relief and breathes a sigh of relief when the doctor goes to get it.

‘He's not supposed to talk, Vic,' the orderly who followed them in says to the bloke in the tracksuit. ‘Hurt his throat.'

‘That's no good!' Vic says, in a flat, rather soft voice. ‘I've been going stir crazy this past two weeks, all on my lonesome in here all day long.'

‘Not long now, Vic,' says the orderly. He's a stunted, lopsided man, almost bald, but bright-eyed and clearly, Simon thinks, up to something or another with the queer. The pair of them had better leave him alone.

Once he's had the shot and the medication has shunted the pain somewhat to one side, Simon finds himself wondering about his property, all of it, the odd bunch of things that he has kept since he came inside: his mother's letter, the watch, the typewriter, the shoe box, the few books he's hung on to. Will it catch up with him? More importantly, what about the papers to do with his Access Course and the grant, the prospectuses and course outline, any mail to do with all that which might have arrived for him since he left . . . Did it get shifted out of his cell before the rioting broke out? Was it burned? If not, have they kept it safe and will they send it quickly on after him? He can see the answer to that one being no, no and no. So, if it has been lost, did Martin in Education keep a copy? He tries to remember whether what he himself had was the original or not, but then again, that's pointless, because Education might very well have been burned down as well.

‘What's the matter?' Vic says. He's standing there at the end of Simon's bed, carrying a pale blue bathrobe and a fistful of toiletries. Christ! Simon thinks, glaring at him, noticing how, without knowing it, his whole body has stiffened up like a board, and at the same time, how very clear Vic's blue-grey eyes are. Bizarre. He lets out a hiss of breath.

‘If you've got a problem, you press that buzzer and get them in to sort it out,' Vic tells him. ‘It's what they are here for, so long as it's legal and decent, that is. I've been here in this hospital longer than you'd think possible and I've got them pretty much trained. Especially Brian. Want me to do it for you?' Simon shakes his head. He raises his eyebrows then draws a square of paper with his forefinger and mimes writing on it.

‘That's just what I mean,' Vic tells Simon, reaching to press the buzzer by Simon's bed. ‘Pen and paper, please,' he tells the orderly. ‘It hurts him to talk, Brian, so he's got to write things down, hasn't he?'

‘One good thing: you can have a
bath
here,' he adds when Brian has gone. ‘A good soak.'

The air in the ward fills with steam from the bathroom. After twenty minutes or so a notebook and pencil arrive.

I need to see Welfare urgently
, Simon writes,
or to call my Home
Probation Officer
,
because I am registered to begin an Open University
course and I am concerned that the paperwork will have been mislaid at
my last institution
;
also I want to make sure that the course materials
which have been paid for get to me as soon as possible
.
Thank you,
Austen (AS2356768)
.

Vic returns, wet-haired and enveloped in the baby-blue bathrobe. Also, Simon notices, there's a strong smell in the room now, half edible, vaguely animal, not quite floral – Vic has obviously put something in his bath, or maybe it's a special shampoo he has for that hair-do of his? Pleasant enough, if you like that kind of thing. But.

‘Done? You'd better let me see,' Vic says, sitting on the edge of the empty bed that's between their two. That's as far as you come, right? Simon thinks at him, although the fact is that Vic is tending to amuse him rather than drive him mad. Perhaps it's a week's worth of drugs. He allows the other man to take the notepad and read.

‘Good,' he pronounces. ‘Well written. Very clear, polite. Stands a chance.' Carefully, Vic tears the page out, then gets up and presses the buzzer again.

‘Right,' Brian says, accepting the request, with the suggestion of a bow. ‘Anything else?'

‘He needs a result by the end of tomorrow,' Vic tells him. ‘It's really stressing him out, Brian.'

‘So,' Vic sits down again on the spare bed, his neatly crossed legs poking out of the ludicrous bathrobe, a smile on his face. ‘I still don't know what your name is.'

‘Simon –'

‘Don't talk,' Vic says. ‘Use the notebook! What is it you want to study, then?'

Not sure
, Simon writes.
Introductory Module first
.
Then Philosophy
? he continues, acutely aware of the possibility of making a spelling mistake, which he somehow thinks Vic will spot,
Literature
?
Social Sciences
?
History
?
Linguistics
?
You can mix them
up
.
I need to have something interesting to think about
. Vic nods emphatically as he reads the note.

‘Got a long stretch?' he asks. ‘Lifer?' Simon nods for the second time. There's not much you can say to that, and anyway, he's wiped. He writes
tired
, then puts the notepad down, begins to make the series of moves required for him to get out of bed and make a trip to the bathroom.

‘Can I help?' Vic asks, but Simon shakes his head.

‘Are you a morning person?' Vic asks him, around nine-thirty the next day, just as the medication is wearing off. He shakes his head; Vic returns to the magazine he is reading, then, around ten, puts his trainers on and goes out to find Brian.

‘Any news on that request of Simon's?' he hears him ask.

‘
It's the weekend!
' Brian says. ‘Just relax, will you?' Vic pads back in again, relays the information, plugs earphones into his Walkman. He keeps them on while he eats his lunch and it's late afternoon before he tries again: an offer to play cards. Simon nods, struggles upright and watches the other man deal.

‘So what happened to you?' Vic asks.
Ingested bleach
, Simon writes.

‘Suicide?' No, Simon indicates.

‘A good thing,' Vic says, selecting his cards. ‘There's something about suicides that makes me want to take them by the scruff of the neck and shake . . .' Victor frowns, sets down a jack of hearts, collects Simon's ten.

‘Good to have some company at last,' he says.

We can get on OK like this
, Simon writes, underlining the last two words. He means:
Keep your distance
. Vic smiles.

‘Fine. Anyway, I'm leaving soon,' he says. ‘Just tell me if you need anything.'

The last shot of the day is at five. Simon's done for by seven, shifts the pillows with his good arm, caterpillars down in the bed.

On the third day, Vic comes back in early from exercise. It's lucky that Simon has only had a strip wash and kept his pants on, but all the same he finds himself having to explain his tattoos to Victor:
A collection
, he writes.
Nouns
.
Adjectives
.
Some
of the words people have used to describe me
.

‘May I?' Vic asks, before he comes close enough to read them all. He does it in silence, then sits down on the middle bed again.
Cheer up!
Simon tells him with the notepad.
It's no
big deal
.

‘You're cold,' Vic comments eventually. ‘Brian!' he yells. ‘How do you suppose,' he says when the orderly comes in, ‘that a man with broken ribs and a cast on his arm is supposed to get dressed?' Brian shrugs.

‘I'm not a nurse,' he points out. ‘The care bear is off having a smoke, he won't be long.'

‘But Simon doesn't want me doing it and you haven't exactly got anything else vital to do, have you?' All three of them laugh. It's something else, Simon thinks, the way Vic can say something like that, straight, and not end up with his nose spread across his face.

That last night Simon is almost asleep when Vic returns, humming under his breath, from his bath. Simon hears him put the toiletries down on his shelf, then pack them carefully into the special bag he keeps them in. Then he combs his hair. There's the sound of the big holdall he has over there being zipped and unzipped. Finally, some messing around with his many bottles of pills. What's actually the matter with him? Simon wonders irritably. Could it be AIDS, HIV, whatever they call it? There's a poster about it in the toilet. It's got to be a possibility, but the fact is, Vic actually seems pretty healthy. And certainly not tired: Simon hears more zippering, the rustle of paper, deep breaths, a little laugh. It's like having a man-sized hamster in the room and he might as well admit it that he's lost it as far as sleep goes. He heaves himself up again. Vic has the bag on his bed and is clearly in the process of packing and repacking it.