The Crucifixion and Resurrection of Malachi the Queer

by Damian Jay Clay

  She gives him another scoop. “I’m going to put you on a diet.”

  "And deprive me of your wonderful cooking? You wouldn't."

  Porter sits in with me for most of the rest of the day. After he confesses that he doesn’t play chess, he goes and gets a board from the common room so I can teach him. While we play our first game he asks me a little about the camp and I tell him what he wants to know. It doesn’t feel difficult at all.

  He leaves at 8pm and from there on in a duty nurse opens my door and looks in on me every fifteen minutes. At one point there’s an argument outside and a lot of screaming and crying. I try not to pay it any attention.

  At some point I get to sleep.

  The next morning I’m woken up at seven by another duty nurse. She helps me take the bandage off my wrist and says I won’t need another one now. I’m taken across to the shower room and at last I get some privacy, though she waits outside – right outside the curtain.

  The scars from the belting I took have faded a little but when I look at my face in the mirror while I brush my teeth I can still see the scars across my forehead and cheek. Where my side was stitched up still looks red and gnarly and I assume it’s the same for the wounds on my back. My eye is almost back to normal but the lack of vision hasn’t changed. I only notice it when I close my other eye though, so somewhere, somehow, my brain is compensating. I don't know why but any time I take a shower now my left eye closes by itself.

  Once I’ve dressed I go to breakfast.

  Porter comes in and gets a rack with six slices of toast, then sits next to me, taking over from the shift nurse. He spreads Marmite over his toast as thick a I spread jam and eats his first slice in two bites.

  He shudders. “Ooh, that’s what you need to wake you up first thing in the morning.”

  “How can you eat it like that?”

  “You start off with a little and it’s not enough. Soon you start using Marmite more and more. Before you know it you’re injecting first thing in the morning.” He butters up another slice.

  I laugh. It seems like the first time I’ve done that in ages.

  “How did you sleep?”

  “I was out like the Jehovah’s Witnesses had knocked at my door.”

  Porter laughs. “Now that is funny. Hey, I have a question for you...”

  “Go on.”

  The table wobbles as he rests his arm down. “If I was your fairy godmother and could grant you three wishes. What would they be? There’s one condition. I can only grant wishes that could, logically, happen by themselves. So no holidays to Mars or lunch with Aristotle.”

  “Well, that ruins my first one. Going back in time and not being …” I falter. I don’t want to say the word. I don’t want to think about it. “I wish I didn’t feel …” Again. I can’t. I feel my cheeks flush. What game is this guy playing with me?

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. Touch, oh my god, the warmth. I feel so alone. His touch makes me realise it even more. “It’s okay,” he says, “I’m here.”

  Now I’m bawling into my cornflakes. No one else in the canteen looks or even raises an eyebrow. I don’t even know what I’m crying about.

  “Is it that difficult to tell me what your wishes are?” He sounds disappointed.

  I nod and get myself under control.

  “I’ll ask you again tomorrow and every day after till you tell me.” He takes his hand off my shoulder and I want him to put it back on me. I gasp and lilt forward like my air supply has been cut off. I’m so out of control of my body. Before all of this I’d be able to hide what I feel but now the battlegrounds have extended into the corporeal and I'm losing the war.

  Why has all of this suddenly become so difficult? What happened to me to make me want to kill myself – I think of it now and it doesn’t make any sense. Back there, stuck in my room, it made all the sense in the world.

  After breakfast we line up outside the meds room to get our pills. Yesterday, Porter brought them to me in my room. Everyone around me moans about how long it takes and that the common room doesn’t open until everyone is served.

  I’m still not allowed to mix with the other patients so Porter takes me to the activities room. I stop at the door. I want him to touch me again or give me a hug or anything.

  The room is like the sports hall at my school, though smaller. There is a table tennis table set up there.

  “Do you play?” asks Porter.

  “Once or twice.”

  We spend an hour playing. I’m no good at it, and we only play three games. In between, Porter gives me tips and lets me practice hitting the ball back and serving. I forget where I am when we are playing.

  It strikes me that he’s aware of what he’s doing. That question he asked me earlier about wishes, this game of table tennis – none of it is random – all of it is planned. If I can work him out I might be able to see his game but I can’t.

  I put down the bat. “How long am I going to be here?”

  Porter practices his imaginary serve. “That depends on you and I’m not saying that in a you better behave way. I’m saying we’re here to help you and you’ll be here as long as you need our help.”

  “What will happen to me?”

  “Are you scared about something?” Porter puts his bat down and joins me around the other side of the table.

  “I don’t know what this place is. Do you give people electric shocks?” I’m sure I saw that on a film once.

  “No, not here we don’t and nowhere would for the problems you have and given your history.”

  “You know about the electrocution therapy at the camp then?”

  “Yes, of course. I know everything.” He raises a finger to his temple. “Though I’d never call what they did to you, therapy.”

  “What else do you know about me?”

  “I know about your memory loss when you were younger. I know you tried to take your own life. I know you have PTSD and depression and that you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”

  "Proper crazy, me." I wonder who else knows all this.

  “But that’s just stuff in your file. I’m actually psychic so I know everything.”

  “Psychic? Yeah right. There’s no such thing as being psychic.”

  “I’ll make a bet. If I can tell you what you were thinking you have to tell me one of your three wishes right now.” He looks confident.

  “And what if you get it wrong, what do I get?”

  “I’ll bring you in a bar of chocolate tomorrow, whatever sort you want. How about that?”

  “Galaxy.”

  “Deal. Are you ready for it?” He starts waving his hands around his head and makes comic woo woo chanting noises.

  I hate it. But I laugh.

  “Ooh great spirits of the NHS. Tell me what Malachi was thinking when we came into this room and he stopped at the door and looked so unhappy.”

  I turn red. I can feel it. How does he know?

  He drops his hands and pulls me into him and puts his arms around me. Those strong arms. I let my knees go and my face presses into his chest. All of a sudden my body is dripping with sweat and I am shaking and sobbing again.

  He says nothing. He holds onto me.

  My back is burning with a thousand hot electrified needles. The shaking is coming from nowhere. Out of control, so out of control. What am I even crying about? The shaking and the tears stop and Porter helps me down onto one of the chairs at the side of the gym. He walks over to the drinks machine and gets me a coke and a diet coke for himself.

  I nurse it in my hands for a while. My head bowed, his hand weighing heavy on my back, below my neck between the shoulder blades. I’m out of breath but recovering. He takes his hand away when I sit up straight and open my can. It tastes so good.

  “I have to ask,” says Porter. “and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want. Do your parents ever hug you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Ever?”

  I shake my head again. />
  “What physical contact do you have with them?”

  “My dad shook my hand when I got my first GCSE. He beats me.” I sit back in my chair and look up, my mouth open drawing in the air. “I’m funny about people touching me. It’s my fault.”

  "But you didn't mind me hugging you. In fact you wanted it beyond your control."

  "I needed a hug. It's different with you and Sam." I take another drink.

  "Why?"

  "Because I trust you."

  "You've only known me a day," says Porter. "I like to think I'm good at engendering trust but I'm sure I'm not that good."

  "So you think it's because I don't trust my parents?"

  "Do you?"

  I think about it. "No."

  "Who's Sam?" Porter runs his hand through his beard.

  "He's a writer, a scientist. He’s my best friend."

  "Will I have heard of him?"

  "Sam Hawnett?"

  "I know who he is," says Porter. "I'm quite a fan."

  "You'll get to meet him if I'm ever allowed visitors. Though I'm sure he'll be angry with me."

  Porter touches my shoulder. “You know if you ever need a hug you just have to ask?”

  I smile but I think it must seem fake. It’s really a lack of energy.

  “Now you have to tell me one of your wishes.”

  I tell him the most painless one. “I wish my parents would accept me.”

  “They don’t like that you’re gay?” He necks his can.

  “Apparently I’m not.”

  “No?”

  “Apparently I have same sex attraction disorder.”

  Porter laughs then stops when he realises I’m not joking. “Did your parents say that?”

  “Yes. And that it’s Satan trying to ruin my dad’s career.”

  He shakes his head. “What does your dad do?”

  “He’s a pastor in a Baptist church.”

  “How is that working out for him?”

  “He writes books which people buy and read. He’s going to like me even less when he finds out I’m an atheist.” I stand up. I want to play another game.

  Over the next few days I start to get into a routine. Porter is with me most of the time from 8am to 8pm and after that (or when he has to see someone else) I’m in my room being checked on every fifteen minutes. At breakfast on my fourth day there I ask him if he always works such long hours.

  He spreads too much butter and too much Marmite on a piece of toast. “It’s part of the job. I only do it for new patients and there are three other Nurse Practitioners so we take it in turns. Well, there’s supposed to be four of us. We’re two short at the moment. I get more pay and days off too, which I like.”

  “But then I won’t see you.”

  “That makes you sad? I’d have thought you’d have had enough of me by now.”

  But I haven’t. Porter is brilliant. I think he knows me more than I know myself. He hugs me when he knows I need it and it’s great. I feel safe around him. Safe, secure, trust – all these things are now so meaningful. Ever since I lost the baby teeth walls.

  I haven’t had an episode since I’ve been here and I think it’s down to him. Yes, I fancy him – fancy him like crazy – but he’s straight and has a wedding ring, so I’m not stupid enough to think anything is going to happen.

  “Anyway we’re understaffed at the moment so I’ll be here a lot. I’m going to save up all my days off for a real nice holiday.” He looks out of the window. "Paris. I want to go to Paris again."

  “Can I ask you something?” I feel like I can trust him.

  “Anything.” He’s casual. He looks at me waiting for the question but he’s relaxed.

  “If something horrific happened to you. Say you got into a fight with someone but afterwards part of you enjoyed what happened. Would you think you might be responsible?”

  “That’s a good question. When you say responsible, do you mean that somehow, somewhere you might have anticipated it and let it happen, or caused it to happen?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.” I go back to eating my cornflakes.

  “Would this situation be something I can remember not wanting to happen?”

  “I might be, yes.”

  “Then, no. I wouldn’t think I was responsible at all.” He picks up his toast and takes a bite.

  “Oh.”

  “You’re surprised?” He talks with his mouth full. Were it anyone else doing so it would infuriate me.

  “Yeah. I thought…”

  “Did you want to tell me something?”

  “No.”

  “That’s all right.” He necks a glass of orange juice.

  “What’s the difference between a nurse and a nurse practitioner?”

  “I did a lot more training and studying. It means I’m qualified to help a little bit more. Think of it like being a bit of an all rounder: nurse, therapist, councillor, psychiatrist, tea-maker.”

  “So I’m getting the special treatment?”

  “You’re getting the best, and don’t you forget it.” He slaps me on the back.

  We play table tennis again that day. Then, at eleven I have to go back to my room.

  “I have to go to a meeting,” says Porter.

  “Is it about me?”

  “Yes, it’s about you. We’re going to talk about whether you should move out of the acute ward.”

  “So I’ll be able to do what I want?” I’m not sure what it is I want to do.

  “To a point. You won’t have to put up with me all day and no more fifteen minute checks. We’ll move it to hourly. How about that!”

  “Will I still see you?”

  He smiles and musses my hair. “Of course. We’re still going to spend lots of time together but you’ll be able to hang out with everyone else and make some friends. All of this is all a little previous until we know what decision is made.”

  An hour later Porter comes back. He shuts the door behind him then sits on the chair next to my bed.

  “Well?”

  “It’s good news. You’re out of the acute ward. However, there are conditions.”

  “Like what?”

  He sits back on the chair. “You’ve been doing well, Malachi. You haven’t had an attack since you’ve been here and you’ve been calm and opening up and that’s good but you need to tell me what happened the other night when you cut your wrist. You have to tell me everything that you were thinking.”

  I feel under pressure now. If it were anyone else asking me this I’d tell them to fuck off. But Porter, I know he cares. I don’t want to disappoint him but I don’t want him to know what I did – what I am.

  Then I wonder why I even care about getting out of here – I only found out about it an hour ago. Then I get it – I only care because Porter seems to think it important. When did I let him start having this effect on me? “Well I don’t feel like killing myself now, so why does it matter?”

  He leans forward. “It’s good you don’t and I know you’re starting to feel safe here but what would happen if I drove you home now and left you there? How would you feel then?”

  I don’t say anything and look away.

  “This is making you angry, I get it. But I bet that if I put you back into that same situation the same thing would happen again. Tell me if I’m wrong?”

  He’s not wrong.

  “My job, our job is to get you so you can cope with your problems and we can’t start unless we know what’s troubling you. The board felt you couldn’t be trusted outside of the acute ward if you hadn’t told me, if you hadn’t made that progress. I need to know what triggered it so I can make the final decision on this.”

  He’s right. I am angry. I want to punch him, to punish him for making me feel this way. “You know everything that happened. I know you do! You have the reports and I’ve said… I’ve said…” I punch the wall. Porter jumps up and grabs me. He sits on the bed and holds me on his lap to stop me moving. I struggle but he’s far too stro
ng.

  “Get off me. Get the fuck off me.” I writhe and push and pull but I can’t get away. He only lets go of me when I’m out of breath and limp and sobbing, my head in his lap.

  He rests his hand on my shoulder. “Talk to me, Malachi. I know it’s tearing you up inside. Just tell me.”

  And it all comes out. Feeling alone. Feeling trapped. Feeling out of control. Knowing I can’t face going outside. The electrocutions. The flashbacks of Gareth forcing his cock into my mouth. I hide my head to tell him the worst. “I thought of him sucking me and I masturbated.” And I howl. How loudly I howl.

  He pulls me onto his chest and wraps his arms around me. I don’t know how long this goes on for. I’ve never cried for so long in my life. When he lets go of me I can’t look at him.

  “I’m glad you told me, Malachi. That can’t have been an easy thing to let go of.” He’s so close against me.

  “I didn’t want you to know that about me. I don’t want anyone to know that about me.”

  He gets up and sits back on the chair. “Because you thought I’d judge you for it?”

  I nod. I still can’t look at him.

  “What would I think of you?”

  “That I’m insane. That I’m a pervert. That I wanted Gareth to do that to me.”

  He touches my cheek and I turn to look at him. “None of this was your fault and you’re not insane. Do you know what I think you are?”

  “What?”

  “Very strong. To come through all of this and to be able to tell me about it. Now I’m going to tell you something. I’d say at least a quarter of all the rape victims I’ve ever spoken to had similar feelings. It wasn’t their fault. It’s not your fault either.”

  So this was it: my big Hollywood style catharsis scene when I magically got well again. But you know what? The movies bloody lie and being able to talk about it was a step and a small one at that.

  Chapter Twenty One

  I don’t have to move straight away. Porter lets me sleep for a couple of hours because he can see I need it. Then he takes me for another shower because I need to clean up, though he doesn’t wait outside for me this time.

  I collect my things and move to my new room that’s in the main part of the unit and closer to the facilities. There are two big bags in there packed with my clothes from home and some books. It’s much nicer than the other room. There are windows here and a view out onto the quad. There’s blue tac all over the walls where I guess the last person’s posters were pulled down.