Kate Gaffney’s room at the ‘Two-Steps-Forward Drug Rehabilitation Institution’ backed directly onto the concrete quad where patients would go to inhale a mixture of fresh air and cigarette smoke throughout the day. A steady coming and going of staff and patients from morning onwards cascaded a therapeutic ebb and flow of sound into Kate’s room throughout the day. It didn’t make for a peaceful dwelling, but she’d grown to take comfort from the definite presence of others outside her window, safe in the knowledge that these muffled, reassuring verbal exchanges required no input from her whatsoever, and could therefore never lead her into troubled relationships, of which she’d already experienced too many.
On the shelf above her television, four books in pristine condition were piled in descending size order from bottom to top. A red Gideon’s Bible sat on top of ‘L’etranger’ by Albert Camus, The Buddhist classic ‘The Three Fold Lotus Sutra’ and a cellophane wrapped copy of Slaughterhouse-Five. A deep and well rounded world knowledge worthy of any academic accolade, and a sensitive heart nourished by years of absorbing tales of moral and philosophy were mere by-products of her literature addiction; what she really read for was solitude and escape.
Reading is sometimes an ingenious device for avoiding thought
She’d been at the Institution for a while now. She didn’t count the months or years. There was little point. There was nothing for her on the outside any more, so she didn’t plan on going anywhere soon. Not that she could up and leave if she chose to anyway.
Some time ago now, Kate had responded to an advertisement at one of the local drop-in centres asking for volunteers to take part in a drug trial. The criteria was pretty simple: You had to be a heroin user and be willing to sign a document of informed consent, which basically constituted your agreement to the risks involved with an untried medicine. The goal of the experiment was to test the effects of a new drug on the addiction-riddled candidates. Whilst the advert made it clear that there was no promise of a cure, there were strong hints that this was the ultimate aim of the project.
She wasn’t sure why, but Kate had kept that poster to this day. She took it out of her bedside drawer and stared at it like it were a love letter from an old forgotten boyfriend, full of promises of eternal care and adoration that he’d ultimately never kept. Her eyes scanned the blurb and pulled out a sentence.
“At any point in the trial, volunteers can withdraw their consent of participation without explanation or consequence”.
That may have been true from the start, but it certainly wasn’t the case any more. Not since the project had grown arms, legs and a huge metaphorical dick, with which Kate had been royally screwed over. It was true that nobody could be blamed for the trials taking the catastrophic course that they eventually did, but to say the various developments were handled unethically by those in charge would be a polite way of putting it.
- Why are you always poring over that poster Katie?
The croaky voice of the man freshly emerged from sleep belonged to Adam Trundle. A wiry, bearded man around the same age as Kate, who had arrived at the Two-Step-Forward Institution a few days after her as part of the same trials. Kate still hadn’t decided whether his tendency to hang around her like a scruffy, anaemic shadow was a curse or a compliment. She crumpled up the poster into a ball to give the impression it meant nothing to her and instantly regretted doing so.
- I’m not poring over anything, dickhead! And now you’re finally out of your coma, is there any danger of you pissing off back to your own room, so I can get some sleep of my own without you constantly in my face?
- Alright Katie! Chill out. What’s wrong with you? You’ve been like a dog with a sore head all day.
- A bear….
- Huh?
- Like a bear with a sore head, you ejit!
- What difference does it make? A bear….A dog…. They’d both be as tetchy as you if they had a sore head.
- Can you just go please?
- Yeah, yeah, I’m going. I’ll save you a seat in the canteen at breakfast.
- Oh yes, golly, would you do that for me Adam?
He was used to Kate’s sarcasm and his slapstick laughter was enough to force a smile out of Kate. He was a good sport if nothing else.
- You a funny girl Katie…. I kill you last!
Adam made that joke in the voice of what presumably was meant to be a Middle Eastern terrorist far too often. One of the many things about him that annoyed Kate.
- See you tomorrow Katie, yeah.
Kate waited until the door slammed shut before muttering to herself: