The Best British Short Stories 2014

by Nicholas Royle

  ‘Cyril. Cyril love. Look at me.’ His head returns. His lip quivers, a sob takes him, and Matron Judy softens. ‘Come on, Cyril, there’s nobody there, in the mirror or anywhere else. Pass me his pyjamas, Stu.’ Her hand glides down the side of Cyril’s face. ‘It’s your imagination, sweetheart.’ She strokes his head. ‘You’re a silly boy, aren’t you? What are you?’

  Cyril says nothing. Matron Judy wipes away the tears on his cheek. ‘You’re a silly boy, that’s what you are.’ I hand her his pyjama trousers.

  ‘Up. Up. Stand. Put your hands on my shoulders. That’s it. Now I’m going to get you all nicely tucked up in bed. Then you’ll be all right, won’t you?’ She turns. ‘Okay, Stu. I’ll see to him.’

  Later she catches me in the domestic corridor. ‘I thought I told you to get rid of Cyril’s fucking mirror.’ It’s under her arm. ‘Here. Put it behind the wardrobe in Muriel’s room.’

  I take the mirror. Hold it up. Look at it. ‘Bloody hell, Jude, there’s a woman in here.’ Matron Judy kicks me in the arse.

  Tomorrow I am going to strangle Cyril. I shall strangle all of them, starting with Matron Judy, who I will do slowly – in the main lounge, before the cinema-sized television screen, in front of which a horseshoe of the D residents sits. Some glance up at it now and then, some never take their eyes off it, some of course hardly ever open their eyes – but no one watches the television. My nan died while watching TV: Good Morning with Anne and Nick.

  And when Matron Judy is a lifeless heap, lying like an offering before the screen, I will go round the circle of the sleeping. The circle of the faded, the jaded; the circle of the tired, the deranged. The useless. The dreaming. I will go round snapping necks. Briskly.

  Symbolism is important in acts of mass murder. It ensures the perpetrator – the murderer, if you must – will be remembered, he or she taken seriously, considered, written about, the subject of films, the inspiration for fiction. The mystery of symbolism is more climactic, more resonant, more important than the killings themselves. The camera closes in on the teddy bear beside the bloodied knife; the author takes the reader beyond the splayed bodies to the votive candle burning in the corner of the room.

  Cyril hardly ever sleeps in the daytime. Not like the others. Often the snoring is louder than the television. Matron Judy stands in the doorway, smiles. ‘Ah, just look at them, Stu. So peaceful. A shame to disturb them. We’ll skip teatime.’ She turns to Chris. ‘Make Cyril a cup of tea, though, will you, love?’

  ‘I was a sailor, you know. Once.’

  ‘I know you were, Cyril, and you’ll be going down with the bloody ship if you don’t take a nap. Only one sugar, Chris. His weight was up again last week.’

  ‘You are mad. Mad, mad, mad,’ Vladimir says. ‘Crazy.’ He is making Yorkshire pudding. Holding an enamel bowl aloft. The mixture, like Hokusai’s Great Wave, rolls from the bowl down into the oblong baking tin beneath. It is a joy to watch. The mixture finds its level and Vladimir shakes it smooth. ‘I think you should see some doctors. It is easy. Moseley has many good doctors. I think you should take Sertraline.’

  I have been describing my murderous plans to Vladimir for weeks now, but it is only recently, as his English has improved, that he understands what I am saying.

  ‘Judy will be the first,’ I say. ‘I’m going to wire her up to the toaster. She’ll come in here, first thing as usual, pop in a slice as usual, flick the switch – as usual – and then pop, she’ll light up! She’ll glow, her earrings will –’

  ‘What is glow?’ Vladimir is placing the mixing bowl in the sink, turning the tap.

  ‘Glow?’ I think about the word. ‘It’s, like, red hot. The tip of a cigarette glows. Anything really hot will glow.’

  ‘You will make Judy glow?’ There is a lascivious smile on his face that isn’t nice. There is a rumour that Vladimir fucks Judy sometimes when dinners are over, up in Edna’s room on the top floor. ‘I thought you were going to drown her. You said yesterday you would drown her in Joan’s bath –’

  ‘Win’s bath. I said I would drown her in Win’s bath. I’d need to use the hoist.’

  It is you. I’ve been watching you. All the time. Watching. And I’d know you anywhere. What you did to me. How could I forget you? It is you – it is, isn’t it? If I’d bitten your bloody tongue off, I’d know. Not much to say for yourself now, have you? Kissing – you call that kissing? I was drowning under you, I was.

  ‘How many times have I told you, Sonia? Don’t let Bill out of the summer room in the afternoons.’ Matron Judy is standing in front of Cyril, holding his hand. With his other hand Cyril tries to undo his belt.

  Sonia tuts. Or clicks. Some noise with her tongue while simultaneously widening her eyes to Matron Judy then casting them away; she always does this when anyone has a go at her. ‘I didn’t see him go nowhere.’ Sonia speaks to the floor.

  ‘Then you weren’t looking. He’s gone into the small sitting room and arrested Cyril again. Got him on the floor. Frightened him. Look, he’s pissed himself.’ Matron Judy lifts her and Cyril’s clasped hands, forming a bridge to expose the sodden front of Cyril’s trousers. ‘Look!’

  Sonia turns her head slowly, sullenly, tuts again.

  Cyril whimpers.

  ‘Don’t worry, love, it’s all right. Well, you can change him.’ Matron Judy gives Cyril’s hand to Sonia. ‘I don’t think he’s got any clean trousers at the moment. Put him in a pair of Fred’s tracksuit bottoms.’

  ‘He don’t like tracksuit bottoms,’ Sonia says, taking Cyril’s hand.

  ‘It’s only for today. You’d better pad him; I know, he doesn’t like that either. He drinks too much bloody tea. God knows why Bill always goes for Cyril.’

  ‘He must remind him of some villain he’s arrested in the past,’ I say.

  ‘He arrests every bloke in the place. But it’s only Cyril he gets nasty with.’

  Joan comes into the corridor laughing, carrying her knitting.

  ‘Joan!’ Matron Judy says. ‘What are you doing out of the sitting room, love? You’re supposed to be watching the film.’

  ‘Bill, he’s arrested Cyril. Sailor boy. Done for him proper. Tell the black girl she let him get away and he arrested Cyril. Good job, too. He should swing for what he’s done.’

  ‘Joan, love. That’s not very nice. Bill was a copper so many years, he gets mixed up. Old habits die hard. Cyril’s never done anything.’

  ‘That’s what you think. I’m a witness, I am. I know. He shouldn’t be here. Not in Birmingham. Not a sailor. I know –’ As Joan raises a finger to point at Matron Judy her knitting falls. The needles stick up like daggers in the carpet. The ball of beige wool rolls along the corridor, the knitting unravels. Joan, surprised, stares at it.

  ‘Stu, get that, will you, and take Joan back to the film, there’s a love.’

  ‘It’s over,’ Joan says. ‘It’s snooker now.’

  Bernie, the night deputy, clocks on at eight o’clock. I’ve just finished the cocoa run. She’s in the office going through the record sheets. She looks at me, asks, ‘What you doing here?’

  ‘Apollonia phoned in. Her kid’s sick. Judy blagged me into an extra shift.’

  Bernie taps the logbook. ‘How did Bill get out?’

  ‘Sonia was on her own.’

  There’s a shout. Then another. A cry really.

  ‘Cyril!’ We both head down the corridor to his room. He is outside the closed door in his pyjamas, holding the handle.

  ‘There’s a woman in there,’ he says. ‘Hiding. She’s in the wardrobe.’

  Bernie’s good with him. ‘Oh dear, Cyril.’ She puts her arm around him. ‘Her again. I know all about her. She’s a real pest she is, but I’ll sort her out.’ Bernie goes into Cyril’s room, shouts, ‘Out you. Out. I’ve had enough of you. Right, there you go, m’lady. And don’t come back.’

 
Cyril is pissing himself. Realising what’s happening, he grabs his balls. ‘Oh. Oh. Oh.’ He starts to cry.

  ‘It’s all right, my darlin’.’ Bernie takes his hand, kisses it. Kisses his forehead. ‘She scared you, that’s all. But I’ve got rid of her now. She won’t be back.’

  ‘She’s in the wardrobe.’

  ‘Not any more she’s not. I promise you, my love, she’s gone, and she won’t be back. Stu will clean you up. Put you back to bed. All safe and sound, pet.’ She kisses him again. ‘All safe and sound.’

  ‘When I shoot them all, I might let Cyril off. It’s the eyes. I could only shoot him if he closed his eyes. Or if I blindfolded him. Bill would blindfold him for me. He’d like that.’

  Bernie and I are standing in the open doorway of the conservatory having a cigarette. You can hear the hum of evening traffic from the Moseley Road. Nesma, the night housekeeper, has collected the day’s wet cushions from the lounge and put them against the radiators to dry. Next, she starts sorting out the ironing. St Anne’s clock strikes the hour: ten o’clock.

  ‘Amazing, aren’t they?’ says Bernie. ‘Greeny-blue.’

  ‘No, just blue. Clear blue. That’s what’s so rare about them. The clearest blue.’

  ‘Whatever, I bet they broke a few hearts. Anyway I thought you were going to use poison.’

  Nesma laughs.

  ‘I said that to Vladimir, and now he never takes his eyes off me in the kitchen. Thinks I’m going to put bromethalin in the cocoa. No, it’s definitely going to be a gun. Judy first, p-bang, then I’ve decided Sonia will be next – she won’t look me in the eyes; I might have to get Bill to blindfold her too – then the residents. Well, all the D residents anyway.’

  Behind us Nesma turns on the radio. Indian music plays very softly.

  ‘How’s Cyril now?’ Bernie asks.

  ‘All right, I think. Clean. Dry. Not entirely convinced you got rid of his visitor.’

  ‘He’s still upset about Bill having a go at him. I wish he’d stop picking on Cyril like that.’

  From her ironing at the back of the conservatory Nesma joins the conversation: ‘Bill will arrest anyone when he gets aggressive.’

  ‘Judy should talk to the doctor about his medication,’ Bernie says. ‘Something stronger. It’s happening too often. He’s arrested me a couple of times. Called me an IRA bitch once. Wanted to know where the bomb was.’

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘Told him I’d stick it up his arse if he didn’t behave himself.’

  ‘You didn’t, did you?’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘Judy would have.’

  ‘Then she’d have forgotten the first line of the handbook: Respect for the dignity of every individual resident is the basis of our care. I just took Bill’s hand, called him love and said it was a case of mistaken identity.’

  ‘You’re good with them. Bags of patience. Me, I just –’ The door opens. It’s Betty. In her nightdress. Holding a pair of shoes. ‘Hello, what are you doing down here? You should be upstairs.’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Yes, you should, young lady.’ I take her hand. ‘Come –’

  ‘But I’ve got an appointment with Maureen. I can’t go out with my hair like this. Maureen’s got me in for an appointment. I’m going somewhere. A dance, I think. At the West End Ballroom probably. In Paradise Street. I like it there.’

  I look at Bill sleeping. A shuddering sleep, the snores like small sneezes. On his door is a picture of him in uniform. A peaked cap, so I suppose he was a senior cop of some sort. Taken in central Birmingham. The Rotunda in the background. His leg jerks suddenly. I wonder what he’s dreaming about. Chasing some villain? He jerks again. There’s a framed photograph of him and his late wife beside the bed, suntanned and smiling on a cruise, the ocean blue behind them.

  Betty’s asleep now, too. I’ve put a couple of armchairs at the side of the bed in case she tries to get out again. It’s Matron Judy’s rule that women do the night checks in pairs – there’s always the chance you’ll find somebody dead – but she says it’s okay for men to do them on their own.

  ‘Cyril, what are you like, mate?’

  He’s out of bed on his hands and knees, looking underneath it. ‘There’s a woman under the bed.’

  ‘Come on now, Cyril. It’s the middle of the night – well gone ten, anyway – and I want to go home.’

  ‘She’s there. Under the bed.’

  ‘She’s harmless, Cyril. She’ll be as good as gold. You won’t even know she’s there, mate. That’s it. Good chap. In you get now.’

  ‘I’ve sailed, you know. Years ago. I’ve been all over.’

  ‘I know you have. I know you have, mate. Now come on.’

  ‘I’ve seen action.’

  His palm cups my chin – her chin – pushing back, pushing up. His fingers are splayed over my face. My nose through his fingers like the beak of a bird through a cage. Her face? My face? Am I watching? Or is it me? He is kissing me. Kissing me through his fingers. Kissing – you can’t call it kissing. His other hand is up my skirt, in my knickers, at me. Now both hands hold my head. He is pushing his face all over mine. Pushing me under. Mouth. Holding her under. Mouth. All over hers. All over mine. Close my eyes and I won’t see what’s happening to her. Close my eyes.

  Why didn’t I bite the bugger’s tongue off? Why didn’t I bite?

  I see you.

  I see you there. I’m watching. And I know it’s you.

  I’m in the office, filling in my timesheet.

  Matron Judy and Chris are trying to solve the problem of space. It is Tuesday. Maureen is hairdressing in downstairs bathroom 1 – all day – and the chiropodist is using downstairs bathroom 2 until at least three. The comp volunteers are in this afternoon doing Living History projects with some of C’s residents and they need somewhere to go to talk to them. Usually they use the C dining room, but Father James will be in there giving communion to the Catholics, while the Active Hands lady will be using the smaller D dining room for her exercise class.

  Maureen pops her head round the office door. ‘Stu, have you got a minute?’ She is taking Betty back to the big sitting room.

  ‘That looks nice, Betty,’ I say.

  ‘Do you think it’s all right?’ Betty touches her perm.

  ‘Beautiful. If I was forty years older . . .’

  Betty laughs.

  ‘You’ll have to watch him,’ Maureen tells her. She turns to me. ‘Cyril’s just gone into the visitors’ lounge and I’ve got to bring Bill through for a haircut. He’s already going on about not being first. Says he’s giving evidence in court this morning.’

  ‘Oh, blimey. Okay. Give me a minute.’ I head for the lounge.

  Cyril is on his knees beside the coffee table, peering into the dark sheen of its polished surface. I crouch down beside him.

  ‘She’s in there. See. She’s there.’

  I see his reflection staring back at us, his face framed by flowers in a vase on the table. What does he see? I wonder? She’s in there. The face of a beautiful woman, floating like John Everett Millais’ Ophelia, just below the surface of the wood? And I feel like crying. ‘Come on, Cyril. She’s all right. Don’t disturb her.’

  He turns to me; old blue eyes, old blue blue eyes, except these eyes aren’t old. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘I think so. Come on, mate. They’re laying the tables for lunch. Shall we go and watch them? Or shall we look at the aquarium?’

  ‘The fish.’

  But the three armchairs in front of the aquarium are all filled by sleeping residents. ‘It’s so peaceful watching those fish,’ Matron Judy always says. ‘Makes me want to drop off myself.’

  ‘I can hear music, Cyril. Can you? That’s Kathy Kirby, that is. Secret Love. Let’s go and see who’s listening to Kathy Ki
rby.’

  I know who you are, mate. I’ve got your number.

  What you did to me. Kissing in a cage. A bird with a broken beak. What’s kissing got to do with it? Banging my head against the floor – and kissing. Uniform means nowt to me. Soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man. Thief, you old bastard – thief. You know what you took from me.

  But I’ve got you now.

  I’ve got you now.

  We’re all crowded into the kitchen, Matron Judy leaning against the fridge.

  ‘God knows what the comp are going to think now. They’ll never let their kids anywhere near the place. Vladimir, cut that coconut sponge up into fingers. Chris, make up some squash, will you, love? And some tea for the police. A few biscuits as well. Stu, go and see what’s happening, will you?’

  ‘I can’t. She told me to stay here – the policewoman in charge. You know she did. Stay in the kitchen. She said it to all of us. They’ve put Sonia in the lounge.’

  ‘That’s so they can question her,’ Chris explains. ‘They’re going to talk to us all.’

  I jump up onto the draining board and kneel on the window ledge. Open a window.

  ‘Stu,’ Matron Judy squeals. ‘You can’t get out that way. You’ve got to stay here.’

  I’m leaning out of the window. Half in, half out. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got to have a fag, that’s all.’

  ‘You can’t do that. Not in the kitchen.’

  ‘Fuck off, Judy.’

  ‘Leave him, Jude,’ Chris says. ‘He’s upset. He’s had a nasty experience.’

  ‘We’re all upset, Chris. We’ve all had a nasty experience. I am still having one.’

  Vladimir reaches for my leg. I pull away, tumbling to the ground outside. ‘He’s escaping,’ Vladimir shouts. Matron Judy shrieks.

  Chris is at the window. ‘Are you okay, Stu?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll just have a fag then I’ll climb back in.’ Pressed against the kitchen wall, I light a cigarette. Inhale. The smoke burns, the smoke calms. A miracle. And in the smoke I see the shape of Cyril, under a white sheet. Lying as he does in bed sometimes, on his side, one leg drawn up so that a foot rests on the knee of his other leg. Under the sheet he looks like a seahorse, carved in plaster of Paris.