There's
a motorbike up on the roof. You drove it there last night, through
the rats and dogs, up and up, past orderlies who never had time to
take a swing. If we can get to it, then we can get out of here. But
they'll never let us go that easily.
William
knows, but he's not telling; you give him a thumbs up and he smiles
at you from behind his oxygen mask. He tried to escape once, but
they brought him straight back. Now he just plays along, needles,
drips, the works. Maybe he thinks it'll make them let him out
sooner. Stupid - should know that no one here gets out alive. But
still, he's a good man, William.
Seven
deaths in the night again. Seven. They bring them in, but the beds
keep changing. You don't know how they clear the bodies so fast.
Something
about the fans... You make me look again through your glasses,
humour an old man you say, but I cannot see what you're seeing -
doesn't make me believe it any less though. When I first came in
there was a man in the bed across the way shadow-boxing, but only you
could see the witch that hovered over him, the rats crawling over the
ceiling, the murder in some of the nurses' eyes. You tell me that
there is a man behind me, and I can almost feel him staring up at me
from the empty bed, wondering why this visitor came too late.
The
lights are wrong too. It's how they control you. That and the
machines - every time they beep it means pain. Not so bad during the
day, but at night they get into your brain, send you to hell - war
zones, broken bodies of children, rotting flesh hanging off the
bones. You told William about it and he found a way to hack their
system through his phone. Slept the best sleep you've had since you
got here, but they made him suffer for it, of course.
But
we have to get you out of here. They've got you in chains, hobbled
in a bed; you can't feel your legs. You tell me that you just need a
knife, just a small one, even a 3 inch blade would do. Call me a
coward when I tell you they'd never let me bring it through the door.
You thought I had more guts than that. I'm no fucking use to you if
I can't even get you a knife.
There's
a Chinaman down by the snake pond. Name's Wing Yan or something.
You tell me he's watching over me. Good to know we have some backup
at least.
A
nurse comes by to change the sheets, and leaves one of your wrists
untied; a glimpse of escape perhaps, but you just roll over, curl up
on your side, sleep the sleep of one who has lain too long staring up
at the ceiling, trying to understand the message in the fans. When I
come back later the other one is untied too, and it seems the fog is
lifting; you look at me and smile. But then the panic comes for you
again, wide-eyed and cursing. You need the bathroom, but they won't
let you go, won't work, they've turned off the tap, and I'm no
fucking use to you. None at all.
Later
on in the afternoon sun I help you to stand, take a few shuffling
steps towards the balcony, sit down for a crafty cigarette.
Smuggling contraband. We watch the nurses carefully look away. Your
skin is sallow, loose on your bones; your legs a patchwork of needle
tracks, useless now except for finding a vein. You only take three
drags, but your smile says it all. I feel like a kid breaking all
the school rules. The birds sing in that sunlight, and it seems like
a jailbreak really is on the cards. But again those shadows widen
your eyes, the dogs in the corner, the bodies they haven't cleared
away, and you cannot stand it, cannot stand; we have to carry you
back to bed. You tell me to go, to get away from here while I still
can, and there is wisdom in that, and so I go.
The
next time I see you they have you tied up again, whispering bloody
murder, grinning toothlessly as you draw a finger across your throat.
You beg me again for a knife, anything; preferably a North Korean
bayonet. You stick them in, and twist, and then pull them out - and
nothing is plugging that hole.
It's
the lights, or the fans, or something. You tell me to leave - you
have too many things to concentrate on. When I come back, you press
your finger to your lips for silence, try to tell me what you have
learned by waving frail hands in the air; I do my best to trace the
patterns, but the things behind your eyes are moving too fast now,
and you give up in frustration and drift off to sleep. In the
morning you cannot speak at all, and your eyes barely open, but still
you squeeze my hand when I give it to you, and raise it gently to
your lips.
When
I come to say goodbye you don't even open your eyes. There are so
many tubes in you now, blood and piss and fluids all running their
circuits. They have made you part of the machine. Even breathing
seems hard now; your sunken chest shudders with the effort, your jaw
dropped back into your skull. Waves of pain ripple under your skin.
One
way or another, you'll soon be out of here.
I
squeeze your hand, but you are too far away now. It seems I cannot
call you back. The shadow of a smile creeps onto your lips, and I
guess you are dreaming about the motorbike on the roof.
