The Ward (36 page)

I stand in the hallway and watch them leave. I close the door and turn. I’m confronted by hundreds of little shards, a mosaic of my pallid face staring back at me.

‘Client Cassavetes!’ Nomsa is waiting right outside the lift, a clipboard slotted under her arm. ‘How
wonderful
to see you again.’

‘You too,’ I find myself saying. That unreal feeling I had while talking to June is back; I’m so numb, in fact, that I honestly don’t care what happens to me now.

It must be the shock, I suppose, but I remember hardly anything about the drive to New Hope. I dimly recall Rosen pulling up outside the casualty entrance, helping me out of the car like an
old-fashioned suitor and leading me past a blur of faces in the waiting area. He deposited me in the lift, tipped his hat to me and then the doors shut me in.

And here I am. Back in the Wards.

Nomsa places a hand on my back and gently propels me along the passageway, my feet moving robotically. I recognise the sickly red, yellow and green pattern on the carpet, the gold lettering of
the Modification Ward sign and the soft, hotel-style lighting. The last time I was here I was running through this corridor, fuelled by panic, desperate to get out.

But I’m not panicking now.

Nomsa stops outside one of the doors lining the corridor, opens it and steps back to allow me to enter first. ‘We thought you would prefer to be in here,’ she says. ‘So that
you feel perfectly at home.’

Either the rooms are identically furnished or I’m back in the same place I woke up in after the face-swap operation. It’s all familiar: the watercolour of the homely farmhouse on the
wall, the floral bedspread, the pale-pink carpeting. The television lurks in the corner, but even the sight of that doesn’t faze me.

But I don’t understand what I’m doing here. Why haven’t they just taken me straight to the Terminal Ward? For… recycling, or whatever. And how did Nomsa know I was
coming back here? I don’t remember Rosen calling anyone on the drive to the hospital.

I turn to face her. ‘When are you going to do it?’

‘Don’t let that concern you,’ she says soothingly. ‘Now, why don’t you settle into bed and rest? I’ll get a drone to bring you some refreshments.’ She
checks her clipboard. ‘We’ve updated the list of your dietary requirements and preferences.’

‘Please. I need to know. How long?’

‘It won’t be much longer now.’

‘Will it hurt?’

‘Of course not, Client Cassavetes. You won’t feel a thing.’ She laughs. ‘We’re not monsters!’ With a flash of her professional smile she leaves the room.

I numbly strip off Katya’s kimono. There’s a hospital gown draped on the edge of the bed and I slip it on. I drift over to the bed, pull back the covers and climb in.

So this is it.

Do people on death row feel like this? Numb, empty, almost accepting of their fate? I stare into the watercolour painting, at the pointless curtains and windowless wall. This room could be the
last thing I ever see. In a way, it’s a relief.

The first time I tried to ‘check out’ (as Sharon calls it), I was in my bedroom, staring at a poster of Agyness Deyn, popping the saved-up Diazepam into my mouth, trying to pretend
they were Jelly Tots. Part of me knew that I’d be found before the pills could do their work, but I swallowed them anyway. The second time, I locked myself in the bathroom with an
old-fashioned disposable razor, the kind they only sell in corner shops with bars on the windows, and sat on the edge of the bath staring down at my wrists. I didn’t get far. I stopped the
second the blade drew the first pearl of blood.

This time there won’t be any Diazepam or razor blades or fathers to rush me to Margate Private Hospital. Will they score black marks all over my body like in those Polaroids before they do
it? Or will they just get on with it? I hope they anaesthetise me in here before taking me to the Terminal Ward. I don’t want those bland functional corridors with their stainless steel doors
to be the last thing I see. I don’t want the stink of cleaning fluid and death to be the last thing I smell.

But better me than Farrell. He has a life to live. I don’t. I run my hand over the left side of my face, fingers automatically searching for flaws.

And this time, I can’t find one. Even my left eye feels perfect.

Maybe you’re cured. How ironic would that be?

I wonder what Farrell’s doing now, if he’s missing me. If he’s grateful, regretful, depressed, or if he’s simply overwhelmed with relief. But the numbness is still there
and when I try to call up his face all I get is a blurry image, a bland melding of Bradley Cooper’s and Robert Pattinson’s features.

It’s pointless to think about Dad and Sharon. They’re better off without me. No more hospital and psychiatrist bills, no more embarrassment, no more worrying and endless, wearying
‘It’s all in your head’ lectures.

For a while I stare into the flat black eye of the television. My distorted reflection doesn’t bother me now.

The door bangs open, and a dumpy orderly pushes a trolley into the room. She’s bent right over the trolley and I can’t see her face, but there’s something familiar about her
wiry halo of grey hair.

‘Hello, doll,’ she says.

Oh God. The voice is muffled but I recognise it immediately. ‘Gertie?’

She looks up at me.

What have they done to her? The skin on her face is as shiny and featureless as that of a mannequin, the lips are pink and pouting and the eyes are slotted into almond-shaped lids. It’s a
varnished doll’s face. If I hadn’t heard her voice I would never have recognised her. But it
is
her – I
know
it’s her – and something flickers into life
inside me.

‘Gertie! It’s me!’

‘Do I know you, doll?’

‘Of course! It’s Lisa, remember?’

She frowns, tilts her head to the side and places her chin in her hand like a parody of someone thinking hard about something. ‘Lisa? Sorry, doll. Don’t know any Lisas.’

‘But you must! We were both in the same ward in New Hope. Our beds were next to each other.’

‘New Hope? I don’t need any hope, doll. All hoped up here!’

‘Yes! I even met your daughter…’ I scrabble for her name. ‘Kyra.’

A brief spark flares in her eyes, but then she blinks and it dies. She shrugs. ‘I’ve probably just got one of those faces,’ she says.

It’s no good. She really doesn’t remember me.

Well you do have a new look, Lisa.

It’s more than that. They’ve done something to her.

Of course they’ve done something to her. That’s what they do here, isn’t it?

‘Gertie? What did they do to you?’

‘Do to me, doll?’

‘Your face…’

‘Oh, this!’ She fumbles under her chin, pinches the skin and pulls. The shiny covering lifts, revealing grey sagging skin beneath. It’s a mask! And not one of those hi-tech
surgical masks either, just a slightly more sophisticated kids’ mask like the kind you can buy in novelty stores. ‘They let me choose any face I wanted.’ She pats it back into
place, but one side of it doesn’t stick properly and curls up like old paper. ‘Induction gift.’

‘What are you doing here, Gertie?’

‘I’m working of course,’ she says proudly.

‘And…’ God, I don’t know what else to say. ‘Um… are you well? Are you… happy?’

‘Happy, doll? Of course I’m happy. Happy as a clam in a tummy.’

‘But what are you…? Are you a prisoner here? I mean, are they keeping you here against your will?’

She laughs a deep, chesty Gertie laugh. ‘Course not, doll. Why would I want to be anywhere else? You’re a funny one with all your questions.’

‘What about your family?’

‘My family’s here, of course. We’re all a big family. Working together to make the world go round.’

‘What do you mean?’

Gertie places the tray table over my legs and whips off the stainless steel lid to reveal a bowl of mushroom risotto. My favourite. The room fills with the scent of herbs, white wine and chicken
stock, and my stomach grumbles. But how can I possibly eat anything now?

‘Don’t let it go cold, doll,’ she says. ‘Scoff up every karking scrap.’

‘There’s no point.’

She sighs and rolls her eyes. ‘Why does there always have to be a point with you browns?’

‘They’re going to recycle me, Gertie.’

She looks at me blankly and scratches the back of her neck. Then she brightens again. ‘But it’s your favourite!’

‘I can’t…’

‘Please, doll,’ she says in a wheedling manner the old Gertie would never have used in a million years. ‘You don’t want to get me into scum, do you?’

She stares at me pleadingly and I pick up the fork and take a mouthful. It’s delicious and creamy – restaurant quality – and I find myself clearing the bowl.

Gertie nods approvingly. ‘That’s what I like to see. You’ll need your strength.’

‘What for? I’m only going to die, aren’t I?’

Gertie scratches her neck again and the blank look reappears, like a robot who’s suddenly lost power. She takes my empty bowl away, and now she has her back to me I can see the bloody,
viscous hole in the back of her neck. I wait for the nausea and shock to hit. It doesn’t. She starts wheeling the trolley towards the door.

‘Gertie, wait!’ She might not remember me, but I suddenly don’t want her to leave me alone.

She pauses. ‘Still hungry, doll?’

‘No! I… I just…’ I just
what
? ‘Thanks,’ I finish lamely.

She smiles a doll’s empty smile. ‘That’s all right. You have a nice nap. See you when you’re older.’

And she’s gone.

I lie back on the pillows again and stare at the ceiling. I shut my eyes, breathe deeply and try to call up an image of Farrell’s face.

Bang
. A door slams. I jerk awake, open my eyes and stare into blackness.

Oh God. Is this it?

Is it time?

I sit up, senses straining. I blink several times and my eyes gradually adjust to the darkness. I can make out the familiar shape of the television and the folded shadows of the curtains. Thank
God. I’m still in my room. Someone’s turned off the lights, that’s all.

But that’s not all. Something’s different. Something’s wrong. There’s a smell, a sour smell. A mixture of unwashed bodies, shit and vomit.

I keep absolutely still, listening to the burr of the air conditioning, the thump of my pulse. Then I catch something else: a shuffling sound, followed by wet, laboured breathing.

I’m wide awake now, clammy fear rolling in my belly. Someone’s in here. Someone’s in my room! An image of that hunched thing snipping away with a pair of rusty scissors pops
immediately into my mind.

‘Who’s there?’

Another snuffling breath.

A shadow shifts darkly in the corner of the room.

‘I said, who’s there?’

The dark shape uncoils and edges closer to the bed. My guts turn to water and suddenly I know that I don’t want to die, not like this. I need to get out of the bed, run out of the room,
but my limbs won’t work, terror pinning my body to the sheets as effectively as if it were nailed down. I open my mouth to scream for help but nothing comes out. I will my hand to reach for
the call button, and my fingers fumble to press it.

There’s a sudden blur of movement and a face looms out of the darkness towards me – a gaping toothless mouth, wild rolling eyes.

‘Run, run, run, why you no listen?’ a nasty grating voice screams in my ear and my cheeks are flecked with stinking spittle.

I try to roll away from the face, but it’s too close and the stench of stale sweat and filth makes me gag. It tugs at my gown, clammy hands grab me under my armpits and I feel myself
sliding sideways, my head hanging into empty space. Oh God, it’s trying to drag me off the bed.

I kick out, connecting with something soft. There’s a grunting sound and then a weight falls onto my chest, crushing the breath out of my lungs. I grope to find its eyes with my nails,
then the room is flooded with light and suddenly the weight is gone and I can breathe again. I draw in jagged sobs of air and catch sight of a jumbled mass of grey rags skittering towards the
corner of the room.

‘Not again!’ a woman’s exasperated voice says. It’s Nomsa. She strides in, hands on her hips. ‘I’m so sorry, Client Cassavetes.’

She’s followed by two burly orderlies who head straight for the thing in the corner. I pull my knees into my chest, eyes drawn to the twitching mass of grey dusty rags. Then I start to
make sense of what I’m seeing. It’s a man.
That
man. He’s curled himself into a ball, and he’s shaking and sobbing and mumbling ‘Run, run, run, run, run,’
over and over again.

The two men wrestle him up and start manhandling him towards the door. The man’s face is as grey as his clothes and his head is lumpy and misshapen. He looks back at me once with jaundiced
idiot eyes, and then he’s dragged from the room.

Nomsa sits down on the bed next to me and wipes my face with a cool flannel. The panic ebbs away, spent adrenaline leaving an iron taste in my mouth.

‘I apologise, Client Cassavetes. That should never have happened.’

‘What – who –
is
that?’

Nomsa smiles ruefully. ‘Just an interloping brown. We try to keep them upside but they
will
keep wandering down here. They’re like rats drawn to a rotten limb.’

I shudder. ‘I’ve seen him before. He was telling me to run.’

Nomsa taps the side of her head and rolls her eyes. ‘Brain malfunction. We’d recycle them but they jam the system.’

‘So he isn’t a patient – a client, I mean?’

‘No, no. He was once, of course. Very occasionally there’s a glitch in the system, and the modifications and spine shunts don’t take. Interlopers, we call them.’ She
smiles reassuringly at me. ‘But don’t worry. That hasn’t happened for weeks.’

She smoothes the sheets and plumps the pillow behind my head. ‘Now. Otherwise, how was your nap?’

‘When are they going to do it?’ I blurt. ‘I just want it to be over.’

Liar!

‘It won’t be long now.’