The Folded Man (18 page)

17.

It is stifling black; black as the hole he fell out of. The smell of sewers, the crushing space. Brian has fallen a little farther down the rabbit-hole.

His eyes adjust, taking in the dimensions. His eyes scurry and run from his head. He's meant to take breaths, to calm himself. Like if the bombs fell for real and you got trapped.

But through the dark, there's something. He can't calm down. Over there, in the corner. An outline you recognise with more attention; hard-wired in there, a shape written on the insides of your skullcase. Another human, the organic shape of round shoulders. Brian waves his hands about.

Hello? he says.

But the figure is still, too still. So Brian hesitates. Brian waits to see if there's any movement. The sounds of ventilation ducting and heavy fans. Shouting from inside, shouting from out. He goes closer. The figure is straining, restrained – the breath all comes through his nose.

And the pigs – PC Plod and his pigs elsewhere in their grey-stone palace. The pigs, they say, Let there be light, and there is, and all in these cells are blinded by halogen panels. And the police are dead chuffed because everyone screams. And Brian sees everything, through that screaming light, the flash of it, just that second.

The lights reveal padded walls with thick, roped seams. And the gag on this man – the packing-tape mask. The chin is shiny-wet. The floor's soiled between the tyres.

Back to black.

Brian feels out for the person, his heart in his hands. Their hands are bound, this person's. Another man in another chair. He stirs at Brian's touch. The figure says it, Mmff, like that, Mmff, again, and the eyes open and the straining starts hard. Straining against the handles and the strapping.

Calm down, for crying out loud, Brian says. Shush man, they'll hear you. I'll open it up –

The flash sears again in the special padded room.

Brian frees the boy's hands; pulls the tape off this wet mouth. There's a sock in there. The man's not a man, a boy. The unmistakable face of a person with Down's Syndrome. His wide eyes full with fear.

What did you do, son? What did they do you for?

Brian guesses at his age – guesses at seventeen. The kid is trembling, wiping his face where the tape went. Spitting, trying to pull fibres off his tongue. Our Christ, Brian says. Because the world has accelerated again.

Lights out.

The boy grips Brian's hand. The boy holds Brian's hand in his own, in both of his cold, clammy hands, and pulls Brian's arm around his neck. He pushes his face to Brian's collar, slobbering across his neck and shoulder. Dog breath and body odour. Brian, he pats the boy's back. Come on, big fella, don't be crying like this –

The boy
, in this cell of theirs, with the padded walls. Their
faces as lines scratched onto black wax, lit so softly
by a crack under the door. The boy says, stuttering
, Superman.

 

They come in to say their bit with bright torches in their faces. The Down's Syndrome boy is screaming, so they wheel him out of the cell and leave him to entertain the corridor.

They stand Brian out of his chair. They put a knee in the crux of his own. He crumples. They laugh a lot about that. They get him back up again. They pull him into his chair and towards a cold wall. They say, Out. Feet there. Put your filthy hands out on there. Stretch those fingers out. Spider them. Go on. Good, that's it. Now lean forward. He leans forward, gingerly, slow. And they time it, they count. He doesn't last long – they get to forty-five.

He falls to his knees – his knee, whatever you want to call it. His blood is the warmest thing in the room. They slap him to shock, never to bruise. Not that anybody will care. They slap him some more.

Up – come on. On the wall again. Go on, you fucking lug. Get them feet spread. But he can't, can he, on account of he doesn't have feet. So they kick him square in the backside.

Right up the jacksy, they say to him. You love things up your arse, don't you, you filthy little prick.

They work out fast that his back is sore. They put truncheons to it – position them like chisels. And they pretend their hands are hammers. They give their truncheons a tap, then a slap. They laugh when he screams. They laugh when they run their truncheons up and down the wound, through his clothes. When they poke his anus with their truncheons and ask if he likes it.

Re-education through hurting, they tell him. See this as a corrective labour camp.

 

Brian asks for painkillers and gets a look.

The banging and thumping carries on outside. The screaming streets of Manchester.

They're pulling
our city down.

Brian cannot sit or lie. Can't
get comfy on his side nor on his back. The
bruises are lumps, his skin turned to paper. And the
wound in his back is a running tap – the sticky
interstitial fluid is bonding him with his clothes.

Alone in the dark with a single blanket. He's man without his night lamp; his North Star hidden by bad, black clouds. Filthy cheeks against the cold floor.

He says something over and over. Another one of his mother's:

The
end of that man is peace.

 

The bloody hell is that smell? is how they start his morning. To him, Brian that is, the days have pushed up against each other without a seam. And they look on this pile of a person, our Brian, on his floor. Two kinds of bastard hovering over him.

Wake up, treasure, they say to him. You're in the hot seat.

Brian wakes like that. To the padded walls and their terrible stains. The quiet of a whole wing sedated, the ducting still crackling above. His back's on fire; really bad now. He's read about this kind of injury –

He catches the smell, too. Gags before his eyes go full-saucer.

No, he says, coughing up those famous morning lumps.

What even is that? says PC Plod.

Smell of captivity in't it, the other guy goes. The razor wit. Bung a man in a room like this, he wakes up reeking like tinned fucking tuna. Had a bad turn, have you?

You letting me off? Brian asks.

The pigs turn together and turn back, laugh together at some private gag.

Slight change of plan. We've things to talk about
– sure you'll understand.

Brian puts the back of his
hand to his back wound. It comes away wet and
sticky. The lump was a half-inch thicker; harder by
a factor of plenty. The fish smell is actually unbearable
. And dizziness takes its host.

 

Ten minutes play like a
bad montage. In and out, play, pause, play. The rooms
spliced by closing his eyes, the sweat pouring off him
, stinging his eyes. Through to an interview room, oval, two
-way mirrors, made in the image of an interview room
. Just like the films. Here on his arse for the
same old questions. Two men and a table. A table
and a recording tablet.

Who are you working for what
's your ideology we'll do a lie detector test
.

And the answers:

Nobody I don't have one I
've nothing to lie about.

You'd better fill us
in you'd better not lie you'd better tell
us everything.

I don't know what you want.

Okay
. Have a think on that one.

The coppers stand up
and leave the room.

 

Owing to three hours alone, Brian
could tell you about every last surface. The way the
table has warped, the dodgy plastering over dark stains, the
dents in the concrete fill floors. The heel marks on
varnished wood, the rusting joints on chairs. Hell, he could
have counted the tiles of the suspended ceiling, the time
he's been on his own here. Because, you see
, that's how they've played him today.

We're
not inhuman, they said with a wink. Only they've
holed him up good; left him with a chunk of
mossy bread and a dog bowl of off-white milk
.

 

The coppers come back.

As he sits, one of the
men goes, Lad sat there once, he was, and he
shat all over the place. Terrible mess.

He asks his
esteemed colleague, Remember that?

Oh aye, hard to forget.

And
that lad with the hair – remember?

Puddled our floor, him
. Didn't have to lift a finger. Think he confessed
to something he couldn't have done just to get
into Strangeways and out of here.

Brian is swaying, side
to side. Three hours alone, not a place to hide
.

And not to forget that slag on her knees –

Oh
no. Never forget that one, will we –

So hard to
–

But we've given you a bit of time now
, Brian. So would you like to tell us why you
were out on our streets, after the watershed?

You got
nothing better to do than this with people who can
't even walk?

Don't play that card, you fat
little cretin.

I just don't see –

And the box
– tell us about that box. 'Cause since our man on
reception had himself a nosey, he's gone home with
a green face and terribly loose bowels.

I told him
not to look in there, Brian says. I told you
all. Are you going to let me go or what
?

One of the men reaches down. One at a time
, he produces a twenty-deck of cigarettes, a full ashtray
, and an old pint pot, filled with water. He arranges
all three on the desk.

You're not scared of us, are you? 'Cause see, you're loyal to your King, but not the law of your country.

Done nowt wrong, have I, Brian says. What's to be scared of?

I think you're confused – we've processed enough like you. Tell us who you're affiliated with, and we might cut a deal. Difficult for us to monitor without the web, the mobiles, isn't it? 'Cause if you listen out there it's the skinheads doing half the damage.

One of the men stands up, stretches out. He paces wall to wall. He settles behind Brian.

The seated copper picks up the fags.

Smoke? You smoke, don't you?

I'm all right.

Go on, son. You look right peaky.

Brian hesitates. The copper nods, smiles. Brian takes a cigarette. It takes six tries to spark it up. He pulls the ashtray towards him. That smell of old cigs. The crushed butts and the black rim.

Look Brian, says the man behind him. We'd really love to know about your box.

Told you. You don't look in it. I'm just minding it for someone.

So why don't you look in it?

You just don't.

The seated man pours the ashtray into the pint pot. The man behind Brian knocks the cigarette from his hand; armlocks him.

The seated man stirs the ash through the water. The pint has turned a ninja black.

So, tell us about your legs then. Tell us about that instead –

Brian squirms, the tears hot in his eyes.

No –

Oh come on, treasure. No need for crocodile tears. We're just looking out for you.

I don't get what you're on about –

The seated man stands up. The man behind pulls ­Brian's head back and pincers his nose.

Sure you don't want to tell us?

Brian cries out –

The rancid water goes over his face. Brian's head is held still, his eyes closed, choking and coughing and retching. The smell is vile –

Drink up lad, the man pouring his pint says. We'll try again tomorrow.

 

And in that dark, dark cell, there was a dark, dying man.

And the smell, that reeking tuna-can smell, it gets worse all night, or maybe all day. Dead, rotten fish. Dead, suppurating skin. The skin of old, left to soak.

Sometimes, you can get used to a smell. You adjust to it and don't remember till someone else points it out. Not this one. The air's so thick he gags. This one wakes him up, eventually. And he is lying in a slick. It's an oil slick – in the bad light, it's that black.

He panics. Could be blood. He checks his wounds, checks his face, his anus, the holes in his goddamned breaking heart.

Nothing.

But the smell. The smell and the taste.

He tries to get back to sleep. If a pig will roll its own mess –

And in that dark, dark cell.

There was a monster.

 

The morning after the war before, it's like they can smell it too. That's why they burst in with masks on their faces, bad things on their minds. And the men from the council scream in Brian's face – about the rotten smell and the black, shiny mess around him.

Get hose out the store cupboard, one shouts to the other. For God's sakes.

If you can't get up to take a piss, you don't get your shower, he barks at Brian.

And sooner than he's come round, they're blasting him, clothes and all. Pushing Brian up against the back wall of his cell – black water rolling off him in waves; lapping the skirting and soaked up by the padding. Still in his clothes; from shallow sleep to awake and screaming. His wheelchair turned over.