I issue the death certificate and finally, late as usual, I change and ready myself to go home. As I pick up my jacket to leave, I notice that the bins have not been cleared out and yesterday’s bloody scrubs are still looking at me from within the clear plastic bin liner. Seamus had been stabbed fifteen times before the guards managed to pull his frenzied assailant off him. One of the puncture wounds had ruptured his carotid artery, so the bleeding was profuse.
As we rushed him out of the gymnasium, helped by two of the prison officers, I kept pressure on his neck wound with one hand and held my other on his thigh, where he was also losing a lot of blood. I was blessed with a very fine medical orderly, Le Tran, who had joined my team around three years ago following a drug bust on a huge Vietnamese skunk farming operation in Woolwich. Le Tran was holding compressed pads to some of the wounds in Seamus’ chest and belly. As my prognosis of the situation was not rosy, I said to Seamus quietly as we rolled along the corridor:
“God go with you, Seamus O’Hara.”
“Never mind me, Doc,” he’d said, spitting blood as he spoke (whether this was due to the puncture hole in his cheek or the internal bleeding, I couldn’t tell). “Tell him to keep an eye on Frankie and Gunderson, will you? Oh, and Doc, could you apply a little more pressure to that hole near me thigh – I think I’m getting blood on me smutters!”
At this, Le Tran had burst out laughing and even one of the officers – Parker, I think his name is – had stifled a laugh.
“This is no laughing matter, Seamus O’Hara,” I’d said. “And I do not want to see either of you two encouraging him further,” I continued, looking sternly at Le Tran and Parker in turn. “This situation is very grave.”
“Ah c’mon, Doc,” said Seamus gently. “You need to loosen up. Life’s too short,” he’d choked and then taken a big swallow. “Or maybe too long, but either way, you need to let yourself go once in a while.”
“Perhaps, Seamus,” I replied. “But laughter will not improve my orderly’s ability to concentrate on tending your wounds and the convulsions may increase your rate of bleeding.”
“Ah that’s OK Doc, I’ve had it anyway, I’m just glad this old man could do something for his boys before the end. Here, try this one Doc – did you see the one in the paper about the man who had to have five toy horses surgically removed from his arsehole?” Seamus paused for a moment for comic effect and then said: “Doctors have described his condition as stable.”
All three of them had laughed at that one.
“That’s enough,” I’d cried, but Seamus hadn’t stopped until I’d got an oxygen mask over his face.
I smile as I look at those bloody scrubs and I say another prayer for Seamus O’Hara.
I arrive home and can tell immediately that Patty is angry with me for being late once again. I know we need to mend some fences, but it will happen; we have never lost faith in each other before. I look in on Joshua, who is quietly studying, and then go for a shower. I go through my systematic cleaning, washing away the dirt of the day, using a scrubbing brush for the actual and the remembering and releasing of any impure or uncharitable thoughts I have had during the day to cleanse the metaphorical. I have missed church two weekends in a row and am currently only too conscious of the challenges that my work lays before me.
Ten days ago I was invited to sit on a panel at an evening seminar over at the University of London Union. The subject matter under scrutiny was the role of cognitive behavioural therapy in the treatment of physical injuries. Among the other panel members was a Hungarian mathematician, who had some fascinating theories on our understanding of cognition. She presented a hypothesis that until now, all fields of science, from chemistry to cosmology, were essentially understood at their most fundamental level through mathematical theory, except one: cognition. However, over the last four years, her analytical work had shown that not only could all cognitive behaviour be determined through mathematical theory, but she also claimed that through her research she had generated a workable algebraic formula that could actually reflect the mechanics of cognition. Her talk generated a heated discussion and, during the interval, I approached her and asked how I might find out more about her so called ‘fifth discipline’. She said that she had some free time after the seminar and suggested that we go and discuss the matter further over a drink. We exchanged phone numbers in order to organise where to meet, as she said she had to pop back to her hotel room briefly after the seminar.
I called Patty as soon as the seminar was over and explained that I would be late and then waited for a call from Doctor Orsolya Wlodarcyzk, or Orsi as she preferred to be called. After fifteen minutes, I received a text message from Orsi suggesting we meet at the Jeremy Bentham pub on University Street. I arrived at the pub moments before Orsi and, after buying us both a drink, we took a table in the corner of the pub. Orsi then proceeded to relate a most disturbing account of how her journey to discover the truth about cognition and her concomitant ground-breaking research had turned her life upside down. The scientific community and the investment companies that fund so much of their research had quickly appreciated that if her theory became accepted knowledge, it would make many of the basic accepted a priori assumptions of our scientific understanding redundant and, without these foundations, huge towers of investment would collapse. Orsi said that her work had been undermined at every juncture and her life had even been threatened.
Naturally, I was horrified to hear her story and said surely the police could do something, but Orsi replied that these huge companies were far too clever to leave any evidence of their menacing tactics. She told me that she desperately needed protection and she felt that nobody could help her. She wouldn’t even feel safe going back to her hotel room tonight. Of course, I offered to escort her back to her hotel, but she said it was more than that; she was terrified that these people would get into her room in the night and she would only really feel safe if someone would stay with her tonight and suddenly I felt a little foolish. I told Orsi that I was sure that nothing of the sort would happen and I thought that she’d probably just felt a bit jetlagged from her flight and she’d surely feel right as rain in the morning. I told her it was late and I should probably be getting on.
It was at this point that something about Orsi’s demeanour changed and she began to talk about how she had seen three cars outside the pub as we’d walked in: one red, one blue and one grey Mazda. I said that I didn’t understand the significance of this and she said yes I did. Then Doctor Orsolya Wlodarcyzk said that I knew her ex-boyfriend drove a grey Mazda and then began to talk about how her ex-boyfriend was not going to rule her life and that she was entitled to go on with her research and she was entitled to find another and be in love again and so on. She picked up her coat and finished her drink, all the while muttering venomous remarks under her breath, and walked out of the pub.
I sat on the stool for a moment, shocked and appalled at what had just happened, then I realised that Orsi was clearly experiencing some deep emotional distress and that the right course of action would be to make sure that at least she got safely back to her hotel. I put on my coat and walked out of the pub. As I did so, I received a text message from Orsi. It read:
Fuck you you sick fucks you think you can fuck women then decide who they can or cannot fuck after you done fucking them fuck you
I could see Orsi up ahead walking towards Tottenham Court Road, but I felt it best to not chase after her to try and clear my name. Another message came through:
Go date someone else that illuminati assigns for you
I followed about a hundred yards behind her, just to make sure that nothing bad happened to her, as I couldn’t help feeling partly responsible for causing the situation. Another message:
I told you already that I will not get in contact with anyone who has anything to do with either illuminati or my exboyfriend
Orsi reached her hotel and as soon as I had seen her walk safely inside, I headed straight to the tu
be station. Exiting at London Bridge Station, I composed a message back to Orsi, being as pleasant and reassuring as I could:
Hello Orsi, I’m very sorry about the misunderstanding this evening. I wish you well with your research and I hope you feel better in the morning after a good sleep. Please believe I am nothing to do with your ex-boyfriend or the illuminati, best wishes Akwasi
No sooner had I sent it, than another message from her came through:
Fuck you you fucks go control each others sick lives and leave me the fuck alone. My sick ex will not control my life. He can keep me as a prison and use me as a slave if that’s his sick way of keeping himself fit but he will not fucking interfere with my love life. Fuck you
And then before I’d even finished reading the last, another message arrives:
Yes you are. You are just not aware
I reached home, climbed the stairs to the flat and told Patty exactly what had happened. I showed her the text messages also. Patty believed my version of the story, but she still seemed very unhappy and looked at the text messages for a long time. Later, when we’d lain in bed, I’d tried to cuddle her, but she had pushed me away. I told her that I knew that the text messages looked bad, but that she had to trust me that nothing untoward had happened, nor had I wished it to. She told me again that she believed me on that front, but she couldn’t believe I had been so easily taken in by this woman and got myself into this situation in the first place. She said she thought she had married an intelligent man and that she was very disappointed in me. Then she rolled over and went to sleep. I said a silent prayer for poor paranoid Doctor Wlodarcyzk and then tried to get to sleep myself.
It’s been ten nights now since Patty and I lay down together as man and wife. She is clearly thoroughly annoyed. I realise that this will not just pass by waiting. Patty’s faith in me as a capable man has been shaken and I must demonstrate to her, in some new, unexpected way, that I have evolved into a better man in order to rectify my error. Patty is giving me the opportunity to grow.
This is the way it has always been and men should not ignore these opportunities lightly.
I dry myself thoroughly, dress and go down to the lower floor of our duplex for dinner. Patty has made a rather nasty carbonara, as if further evidence of my continued disapproval was required. Joshua munches silently with a vacant stare, aware of neither his parent’s spat nor the bland taste of his dinner. Patty avoids my eye unless I ask her for something, to which she will respond with a perfunctory smile as she passes before returning to her avoidance. We eat in silence.
I finish my plate and, without bothering to wipe the leftover sauce with a piece of bread, I take off my glasses and as I polish the lenses, I say to no-one in particular:
“Did anyone read the article in the paper today regarding the gentleman who had surgery to remove five horses from his rectum?” Joshua is looking at me with his mouth open and a forkful of tagliatelle swaying above his plate. Patty is staring at me with a mixture of horror and confusion on her face.
“The doctor has described his condition as stable,” I conclude and put my glasses back on. After a moment of silence that feels longer than it actually is, Joshua bursts out laughing. He puts down his forkful of tagliatelle and slaps his thighs and says:
“That’s a good one Dad, oh that’s funny.”
I am looking at Patty, who is looking at me with a stern face, but then two deep dimples appear on either side of her face and she sees that I see them and finally she lowers her eyes and covers her mouth and shakes quietly in silent mirth.
Long live the king.
Thank you, Seamus.
Joshua and I wash the dishes, with me carefully scrubbing off the burnt remains on the bottom of the pans (that must have been where all the flavour went), and Joshua drying them nice and thoroughly under my peripheral scrutiny. Once we have finished, I stroll through to the TV area of our studio and, standing behind the couch on which Patty is coiled, I say as casually as I can:
“I thought I might go for a jog.”
“I thought you might too,” she says. This is our code for me seeking consent for sexual activity later. Patty likes me to go for a jog before lovemaking, so that I am more relaxed and less hurried with my duties as a husband. I have received a green light. I put on my tracksuit and trainers and, after a few warm-up exercises, I bounce out into the night.
I decide to do a short circuit as I splash along the puddled streets towards Tower Bridge: over the Thames along the north bank of the river to St Pauls and back over the Millennium Footbridge and home. I do not wish to be too sapped of energy and enthusiasm after almost two weeks without.
I cross over Tooley Street, past the open air theatre where they have such wonderful events, and then City Hall, before pumping up the steps onto Tower Bridge – I take the east side, as the west is frequently closed to pedestrians. I jog towards the first tower and there, where the pavement swings out around the base of the tower, I see a man climbing awkwardly up onto the safety wall. I pick up my step and, as I get nearer to him, I see that he has the movements of a man who is inebriated. I slow down, as I do not wish to surprise him, in case this will cause him to lose his footing.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Would you like me to help you down from there?”
He is a very fat man, with a pink bald head, and he is puffing from the exertion of climbing onto the wall.
“No, that’s OK,” he slurs. “I can get down myself.” He turns to look at me, swaying dangerously as he does so and almost losing his balance. “Whoops, almost got me…” he mutters something unintelligible and then fixes me with his bleary eyes and says. “My wife, she let out the little girl. She let out Annie. She knows…” He shows me a plastic carrier bag and says, “I got some flowers, but it’ll do no good. She knows everything…”
I look at the clear plastic bag with the flowers inside and the red petals look like the blood on my scrubs in the rubbish bag.
“I’m sure your wife would want to talk about this with you. I’d like to talk about this with you. Perhaps if you just climbed down and we had a chat and, if you still feel the same way, then you can climb right on back up there. How would that be?”
He puts the bag of flowers next to his chest and then buttons his coat around them.
“No,” he says matter of factly, and tips forward and out of sight. I run forward in time to see him hit the water below, a splash of red on the stone promontory that he hit on the way down.
I cannot follow him. I cannot swim.
I run for help.
Swimming Trunks
I don’t really get back to sleep once I’ve brought Barbara back to bed: I lie down next to her and listen to her gentle snoring.
She sleepwalks when she’s stressed. I can still remember the first time it happened. Scared the hell out of me. I’d woken up to find her standing at the end of the bed, staring at me in a manner that was none too friendly. That in itself was enough to give me a fright, but it was once I’d gotten over the initial shock and looked into her eyes and found nothing that I recognised there that I got the real deep shiver down my spine. I remember speaking to her, asking her if everything was OK, and she’d just started talking, except they weren’t real words; it was just babbling that came out of her mouth, like she was speaking in tongues or something. Eventually I had to force myself to get out of bed and put my arm round her and, with words of comfort, guide her back to bed. I’d told her to go back to sleep and in an instant she had.
Right about that time was when Barb’s dad was really sick and she’d been running round trying to manage her part-time job, looking after Josh, who was still only six, and trying to look after her dad as well. It hadn’t lasted long; as soon as I realised what was going on, I’d given my notice to St John’s Ambulance and, pretty soon, I was able to take over looking after Josh and Barb’s dad and take the pressure off Barb. I had plenty of savings to see us through and soon after the sleepwalking stopped.
There
had only been a couple of other occasions when Barb had suffered from somnambulism and they’d been tough times for me too. Mostly because I stopped sleeping at night, so that I could keep a watchful eye over her, grabbing power naps whenever I could during the day in order to be able to maintain the nocturnal vigils. I just couldn’t bear the thought of her wandering out of the house in such a vulnerable state. Thank God nothing had ever happened, and if I’ve got anything to do with it, nothing ever will. Touch wood.
I think about what might be troubling Barb until the sky gets light in the east and then I decide to get up to go for a cigarette. It is as I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed that my head spins, and I realise that the aching in all my joints and muscles, that I’ve been subconsciously aware of since yesterday, was the precursor to an invasion of bacteria, or a virus, or something in between. Well, that’s all I need. Maybe that’s what had made me feel light-headed after our dinner the other night – I’d felt a bit worried at the time, but then when I saw it was tickling Barb so much, me thinking I was drunk after only drinking mineral water all night, I’d relaxed a bit. I’m such a dope sometimes.
I force myself out of bed, go downstairs and, after I’ve put the kettle on, I step outside the kitchen door for a fag, making sure the door is pulled to behind me – Barb hates being woken up by the smell of my ciggies. It’s not raining, but it looks like another wet day is on its way. There’s still a good while yet before the actual sun comes up, but the birds are already singing their hearts out. Mind you, a lot of them have got used to the city lights and stay up all night. Amazing that all these animals have got so close to humans, that they might not be able to do without us any more: the city birds that flit through our streets at night; the foxes that thrive on what we throw away; the cats and dogs and even the fish in our homes (though I think the fish had less say in the matter than the rest). There is a word for it. Something to do with yoghurt… Probiotnics? No? Well, it’ll come to me. I stretch and it feels both better and worse than normal, due to the cold that’s coming on.
The Laundry Basket Page 24
