by Mandy Hager
Veramina's frown transformed into a snarl. “They're animals. They really are.” She shook her head and sighed before flashing a quick smile. “Now, child, we can't have you wandering around naked. Let's get you into some clothes.” She held up the shabby floral shift. “It may not be the latest fashion, love, but it'll keep you decent enough for now. And pop these clean underpants on too.”
She busied herself folding up the strait-jacket, allowing Maryam a little privacy as she dressed. When she was done, Maryam perched on the bed to eat. The eggs tasted watery and stale, nothing like the fresh ones she'd collected at home, but she forced them down, hoping the food might settle her stomach and help to clear her head.
Veramina bustled from the room, telling her she'd return as soon as she'd spoken with the doctors down the hall. All Maryam could do was hope this would somehow play into her hands—anything that kept her free of the restraint and of whatever they'd injected into her thigh last night must be useful to her plan.
When Veramina returned, she presented Maryam with four small objects she called pills and instructed her to swallow them.
“What are they for?” Maryam asked.
“The two white ones,” Veramina said, “are paracetamol. They'll help ease the pain in your arm. The little blue ones will keep you calm—the same drug as I used last night. It obviously suits you, given how much better you are today.” She crossed her arms across her ample bosom and waited for Maryam to swallow them down.
“Do I chew them?” she asked, stalling, trying to decide what on earth to do.
“Heavens no! Just swallow them whole.”
Maryam tried the white ones first, having no gripe with wanting to relieve her pain. They were harder to swallow than she'd imagined; she gagged on the first and needed to drink nearly all the remaining water to wash the other one down. Now she was faced with the two little blue pills. She placed them both together on her tongue, surprised to find they tasted sweet. She raised the glass, surreptitiously spat the pills down the side of her plaster cast and swigged the rest of the water.
Oblivious, the woman patted her shoulder. “Good girl. Now we'll get you freshened up and then I'll get Henry to take you down to check that arm.”
She'd got away with it! She could feel the sticky pills inside the cast. All she had to do now was make sure they didn't fall out when she lowered her arm. She nursed the cast against her chest—which had the added boon of helping ease the pain.
Veramina draped her arm around Maryam's shoulder and guided her down a hallway to a small tiled room, not unlike the bathroom she'd had back on Star of the Sea. As Maryam made to enter Veramina held her back.
“I'll give you a little privacy, honey, if you promise me you'll not do anything silly. All right?”
Maryam couldn't believe her luck. She met Veramina's eye and smiled as sanely as she could. “Of course.”
“In you go then. I'll just be here outside the door.”
As soon as the door closed behind her, Maryam rushed to the hand basin, shook out the little pills and swilled them down the drain. Step Two accomplished, she rinsed her face in fresh water and ran her fingers through her hair to smooth its wiry mass. Above the basin, a small mirror reflected back an unfamiliar face. Lord in Heaven, she looked bad: her cheeks so sunken and her eyes dark-ringed and shot with blood.
Later, after Veramina had returned her to the room to wait, one of the white-suited men she'd seen the previous night arrived to escort her back out through the barred doors.
“See you later, honey,” Veramina called. Despite the woman's kindness, Maryam sincerely hoped she would not. To do so would mean she had failed in her quest.
The man barely spoke as he led her through the building and handed her over to a white-skinned nurse, who ushered Maryam into what appeared to be a small treatment room. It contained a single bed, a basin and a long cluttered bench, its walls lined with heavily stocked shelves. It reminded Maryam of the room on Star of the Sea where she'd been bled, and the memory of it did nothing to calm her unease. At once, the nurse began to cut away the cast, struggling to wrench the seamless plaster apart. Maryam tried to distract herself from crying out by studying the boxes and bottles that lined the shelves. There were dozens of them, all containing different coloured pills. She recognised the word “paracetamol” and ran her eyes along the labels, trying to decipher the tiny printed words. Xanax, Staphcillin, Librium, Augmentin, Valium, Ativan. Such strange names. Fentanyl, Thorazine, Amoxicillin, Tofranil, Tegretol, Imatinibiate, Midazolam—wait! She scrolled backwards. There it was! Imatinibiate. She was sure that was the name Aanjay had used. At last, a real piece of luck.
A terrible stench rose from her arm, and she looked down reluctantly as the nurse peeled the shredded cast away. The woman wrinkled her nose and tossed the cast into a bin, as if it were a rotting limb. Maryam's arm was badly swollen, and an open wound wept pus where the jutting bone had rubbed against the inside of the cast. No wonder the injury had refused to heal.
“Shit, you're lucky we found this, kid,” the nurse muttered. “Otherwise you'd probably have lost your arm.” She leaned forward and studied the wound, her lips puckering as she drew close to the source of the rot. “We'll have to operate to sort this out.”
“Operate? What do you mean?”
“We'll have to knock you out and scrape out the infection, then reset the bone and put you on a whopping great dose of antibiotics. You've no idea how lucky you are that you're already in the hospital—they never would've sent you here for this.”
“I'll have to stay?”
“I know, it's good luck, eh?” The nurse patted her on the knee. “Not all of us are as heartless as those inhumane pricks who run the camp. A few days of good food and the correct medication, and you'll be feeling right as rain.”
A few days? Maryam groaned. Even if she could steal the Imatinibiate, by the time she got it back to Lazarus he would surely be dead. Sweat broke out on her forehead and she felt tears pricking in her eyes. What a choice: if she stole the cure and made a break for it, she might save Lazarus's life but lose her arm. The Lord really was mocking her, playing cruel games. Was an arm worth someone's life?
The nurse was busying herself over by the basin. Now she came towards Maryam, another hypodermic needle at the ready.
“No!” Maryam cried. “Please don't give me that awful stuff again.”
The nurse eyed her sympathetically. “I don't know what else you've been given, but this is only some Amoxicillin to treat the infection. It'll help you heal. Come now, you can look away if you like…” She injected the drug into Maryam's arm. “There, that wasn't so bad, was it?”
Maryam held her breath, waiting for the terrible mind-bending effects to hit her. What a fool she'd been: she should have run while she still had the chance. Lazarus could be dying at this very moment and now she'd let him down—and Joseph too. She was a failure and a liar, both. But as the minutes ticked away and the nurse began to gently clean around the wound, she realised the woman had spoken the truth. Her mind remained clear.
The nurse wrapped a loose bandage over the wound and tied a sling around Maryam's neck to support the arm. “Wait here and I'll check if we can fix you up a bed in the ward.” She smiled for the first time. “Don't worry, kid, it'll be okay.”
As soon as she left the room Maryam leapt down from the bed. She had no idea how she was going to see her mission through to its end, but she knew she had to take advantage of any opportunity that came her way. It was now or never. She grabbed a whole box of the Imatinibiate and slipped it into her sling, quickly realigning the other boxes on the shelf to hide the gap. All the time she strained to hear the nurse's return, her pulse hammering and her breathing light and way too fast. Now came the really hard part.
She peered around the doorframe. A woman sat at a desk directly opposite, but luckily her back was to the door. Maryam took the plunge: she stepped out into the corridor with her head held high, as though she had every righ
t to stroll through the building alone. She passed behind the woman and, as calmly as possible, ambled out through another set of doors, relieved to find herself in the main corridor. There were people rushing in both directions and she joined the throng. Her legs were weak and wobbly and she felt as if she couldn't suck in enough air. All the time she was aware that at any minute the nurse would return to the room and find her gone. She could feel the seconds marking off inside her head, convinced her face must show her guilty secret like an open book.
By the time she spied the exit doors ahead she had to fight a powerful ingrained urge to run. But this was both foolish and impossible, as two uniformed guards flanked the doorway. She'd have to pass them to make her escape. To her left she spotted a small storeroom stacked high with chairs. Sidestepping into it, she gained a few more precious seconds to think. Did she have the nerve to stroll past the guards and on out the door as if she were quite entitled to do so? Would the colour of her skin tip the men off to her game? She had no idea. As she hovered, sick with indecision, a large family group, brown skinned just like her, wandered down the corridor beside her. It was another chance too good to miss. She slipped in behind them, trailing close enough to give any casual observer the impression she might well belong. The adults were laughing and chatting, teasing a teenage boy who limped along on crutches in their midst. They appeared not to notice she had joined their ranks.
Now they approached the exit and one of the guards stepped forward as if to bar their way. Maryam's heart faltered as he scanned the group and spoke to them in a language she did not recognise. She huddled down behind the others, for once pleased to be so small, and prayed that she would not be seen. Then she heard the big door swing open, and realised the guard was ushering them through. She bustled into the centre of the group, keeping her eyes averted as they were herded out.
Just as they were about to go down the steps, the guard cried out and the adults leading the group turned back to him. She could feel the acid taste of bile rising in her throat, and a panicked buzzing filled her head. She was standing next to a small girl; she grabbed her hand, and the child stared up at her with startled eyes. Maryam smiled, trying to reassure her, while the guard at the doors shouted something else. Her knees were now so weak she thought she'd fall, and she dropped down next to the child and stroked her on the head to soothe her, one knee on the ground to steady her legs. Above her, the father figure called back to the guard and laughed, playfully cuffing the blushing teenage boy around the ear.
At last it seemed she was free. But she waited until they were well clear of the doors before she made a move. At the driveway, she peeled away from the group and sprinted along the gravel road, holding tight to the sling to stop the drugs from falling out and to help stabilise her arm. Every footfall jolted the broken bone, and tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Ahead, the road split into two, one fork winding further down the hill, the other heading up. Which way, which way? She tried to recall the feeling of the truck journey, and made a snap decision that they'd journeyed down.
She threw herself towards the incline now, relieved to see the tip of the fences gradually coming into view, but they looked much further away than she'd imagined. Ahead, a truck drove down towards her, and she swerved off the road and hunkered behind some bushes until she heard it rattle past. Then up again she flew, her lungs burning and her arm screaming out its discomfort. It was intensely hot, and her mouth filled with stringy phlegm she had to spit to clear. And still the road stretched on and on.
Sweat was pouring into her eyes and her muscles were cramping by the time she finally rounded a corner and saw the camp's administration building against the skyline up ahead. But her relief was short-lived. How on earth would she get back inside the camp without bringing down the wrath of the guards? Her only hope was to hide until an opportunity arrived—a delivery by truck, perhaps, or a disruption while the gates were open so she could sneak back in. This strategy was ridiculously vague: she couldn't guarantee there'd even be an opportunity, never mind succeeding at such a reckless plan. Yet she had no other choice but take that risk.
As she neared the buildings she left the road and made for the rocky ground that led to the far side of the complex that flanked the outer gates. At every sound she checked over her shoulder; every movement in the edges of her vision caused her to flinch and freeze. The tension was exhausting and it seemed an age before she reached the rear of the weathered administration building. She pressed herself flat against its dusty timber boards, then edged around the building's side to confirm what was happening at the gates.
The usual complement of armed men, their guns cocked and glinting in the sun, stood guard, facing off with the protestors inside the fence. Maryam paused again, trying to compose herself. If she blew this now, all chance of saving Lazarus was gone. At least the guards’ focus was turned inwards towards the camp and not out towards the road. It seemed they had not factored in anyone being reckless or crazy enough to sneak in rather than out.
She summoned up a picture of Joseph in her mind, using his faith in her as a touchstone to contain her fear. He had believed in her, told her she was brave. She couldn't let him down.
The waiting seemed interminable in the heat, and her body ached from the uphill grind. It felt like a good hour or so passed before she snapped back to attention at the rumble of an approaching truck. She flung herself onto the ground, biting hard on her bottom lip and cursing her own stupidity as she knocked her arm. For several seconds she couldn't see past the red burst of pain behind her eyes. But still she had to keep moving.
She snaked along the baking, rocky ground until she could just make out the truck through the straggly clumps of flax and grasses. It was idling, waiting to enter through the gates. She could see metal vats between the flaps in its canvas siding, and picked it as the water truck delivering hot water for the daily showers. Perhaps this was her lucky day, after all.
With her stomach twisting in a ball of nerves, she made her break, launching herself up off the ground and sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her over the open ground. All she could hear was the thumping of her feet; her eyes were fixed on that small gap in the canvas and everything else became a blur. Help me, Joseph! she begged him. Then, miraculously, she had somehow reached the rear of the truck without anyone seeing her. She scrabbled up, hauling herself over the tailgate to fall, shattered and exhausted, onto the tray inside.
The truck shuddered as it began to accelerate forwards, and Maryam quickly wriggled around until she was better hidden by the canvas flaps. She grasped hold of a strut to prevent being jostled too close to the water tanks, which radiated boiling heat from their tarnished sides. She couldn't believe she'd managed to elude the guards! Had she the energy to do so, she'd have danced on the spot.
The vehicle travelled at walking pace, and Maryam fought the urge to check their exact whereabouts until she was certain they were safely through both sets of gates. At last she peered out through a rip in the canvas and saw the ugly metal sidings of the huts. She'd made it! Whoever or whatever had aided her this day, she owed them thanks.
When she felt the truck slowing as it readied for the corner near the ablution blocks, she seized her chance. She edged back over to the opening in the canvas and launched herself out over the tailgate. Her landing was harder than expected, her ankles jarring and her arm complaining as she hit the dusty ground. But the thrill she felt, the elation as she waved to a group of girls who watched her with their mouths agog, pitched her forward, and she broke into a limping jog, on the home stretch now and feeling as if she was about to win the race.
She slowed to catch her breath as she reached the walkway that led directly to her hut. Only now was she suddenly overcome with a scalp-prickling sense of dread. What if Lazarus had succumbed more quickly than Joseph and the whole ghastly episode at the hospital had been in vain? She tried to push such doubts away, to hold on to the triumph of having made it back here at all, but the fear sta
yed with her, plodding at her side as she approached the hut.
And it seemed her dread was justified. Ruth sat slumped against the doorway of the hut, her head in her hands, elbows braced against raised knees, blocking any sign of Lazarus from Maryam's field of view. There was such an air of sadness that Maryam baulked.
“Ruthie,” she whispered.
Ruth's face crumpled as she recognised Maryam's voice. She lurched to her feet, and threw herself at Maryam, sobbing as she obstructed entry to the hut and pulled Maryam away.
Ruth couldn't get one rational word out. Her hot tears dripped down Maryam's neck, and the truth hit Maryam like a thunderclap—she was too late. Her knees gave out from under her, and she buckled to the walkway.
It was as though the rest of the world hung in silent suspension around them; as if nothing outside this one painful drawn-out moment was real. To get so close… Now Maryam too started to cry, and she clung to Ruth, her whole body shaking as she tried to process this latest cruel stroke of fate.
At last she found the courage to speak. “When?” she asked.
Ruth sniffed loudly and wiped her nose against Maryam's shoulder. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, ringed with red. “How could you do that to me? I thought I'd never see you again.”
“I'm sorry,” Maryam murmured. “I never should have left you here to cope alone.” She swallowed, having to force herself to ask again: “When did he…go?”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“Lazarus,” she whispered, a burning pressure building in her chest as she said his name. “When did he die?”
Ruth drew back, her hand flying to her mouth. “You mean you…?” She shook her head vigorously. “No, no. He's weaker, but he's still alive.” She towed Maryam towards the doorway now and Maryam saw his prone silhouette on the mattress inside.
“You're certain?” Maryam pressed. Lazarus lay so still, it was impossible to tell if he was alive or dead.
Ruth nodded.
