To form a loop
Though storm clouds are already gathering, the new day dawns with stunning salmon-pink skies and brilliant sunshine; a fresh new start to herald a fresh new start. A day that sees Daniel choosing to dress, to eat the stale Cheerios that have fallen from the inner bag into the box, to refit and re-stock the kitchen drawers and to step out smiling into the crisp, mid-morning air. The end-game has been defined, the operation planned with the precision of a military campaign. Camouflage: the grey jacket with hood pulled well forward around the face. Weaponry: the serrated blade, whisky-cork tipped, dropped into an inside pocket. Supplies: into the corner shop for fresh provisions (self-service checkout; anonymity retained). Funds: the shop’s ATM for a cash withdrawal. Transport: over to the bus stop, taking all precautions to remain invisible. It’s lucky it’s not colder, lucky because of that spur-of-the-moment decision to add his only winter coat to Alex’s things.
Daniel boards the bus and heaves his heavy load along to the far end, clattering the carrier bags against the seats, drawing dangerous levels of attention. At the back of the bus he presses up to the window, making sure to keep his head turned at all times from the other passengers. The sooner they forget about him the better. The chances of Morris riding this route may be a million to one, but he’ll have his web of debt collectors and henchman, and Daniel must trust nobody. From stop to stop, the bus leapfrogs along the streets. People get off and people get on; each is vetted, checked in and checked out. It was wise not to have taken the car – his full attention can be levelled at scouring the streets to ensure he’s not been routed. More than once his body floods with adrenaline as Sumo look-alikes catch his eye. But they’re false alarms, all of them.
And then an avenue of grand housing is sweeping aside the shoebox estates, and the trees of Prince Albert Gardens are standing tall on the corner. He sounds the bell, darting at the last moment through the bus’s hissing middle doors. He has not been followed. His adversary, the nursing home, now eyeballs him menacingly from across the road. Too many darkened windows, too many steep-pitched roofs at too many angles, it threatens, it provokes and it ridicules, knowing that for the first time in too many days he must engage with another human being, and knowing just how much the thought terrifies him.
He needs time to ready himself, but he can’t stay a standing target on the pavement. The park beckons, a refuge that’ll give him time to attune body and mind. His feet plot a route through the undergrowth to the bench where he and Gulnaz had sat and talked. He lays down the bags, closes his eyes and draws a series of long, controlled breaths. A pre-battle ritual. He’s a knight kneeling before the improvised cross of an inverted lance; he’s a Maori warrior performing the Haka; a GI Joe painting a woman’s curves across an aircraft’s fuselage.
‘You told her on the day you were here that I was a hero,’ the voice at his shoulder reminds him.
“No. That was later, on the phone.” Daniel puts a hand to his ear.
‘You championed my valour and bravery, the very qualities that will now captain you through this assignment. You must hold to your objectives: enter enemy waters, engage the opposing fleet and liberate the hostage. I’ll make a serviceman of you yet; turn you into the hero that I once was.’
Well isn’t that just what heroes do? Hadn’t he said the very same to Gulnaz? They uphold liberty and justice by fighting pitched battles with enemies on foreign shores. The thought draws Daniel back through the cover of trees and into the open, placing him directly before the garrison he must now storm. And remember (he’d said this to her too), the most heroic of them all get killed.
He breaches the gates, makes a clean sweep of the car park and is safely through the door.
With all that he’d given that crowd on New Year’s Eve – all that joy he’d brought to their tiny, miserable lives – would it not have been reasonable to expect a civilised welcome? He recognises the woman on the desk. They’d shared a dance that night, and a cracker, not to mention a midnight kiss. But today she reacts badly. She jumps at the sound of door slamming and gives him the coldest of looks. When he barks out his name and objective there’s a further frosting over. He’s told not to go through until she’s checked.
‘Your enemy has turned them all against you. If they don’t let you see him, what are you going to do?’
“They’ll let me see him. And Gulnaz is not my enemy.”
‘You’ve got the knife. You can force them to hand him over.’
A hot sweat erupts across Daniel’s forehead.
“That won’t be necessary.”
‘You haven’t got the balls, boy. I’ve always said so.’
She’s returning now. She wears an uneasy expression. Daniel tries to look composed.
“I’m afraid Mr George is at lunch just now. He’s asked whether you might come back in a couple of hours.”
The voice in his ear demands immediate offensive action, but the woman’s naked insincerity invites an easier tactic.
Daniel sneers at her. “Oh, has he now? Actually Alex can’t speak. Didn’t you know? Are you going to let me see my own brother, or do I have to make trouble?”
The woman’s posturing collapses as her eyes fall. Probably she has never had to deal with anything like this before. People dump their relatives in care homes in order not to visit them. She’s more likely used to shaming visitors into staying on, into committing to their next visit, into taking some form of interest in those they’ve just ditched, than she is to turning away enthusiastic, helpful young men like him.
“Well, I suppose five minutes won’t hurt. Please take a seat for a moment.”
The woman leaves her post for a second time. To secure his beachhead, Daniel is instructed to make a quick reconnaissance of the lobby. Before he can complete it she’s back at her desk looking nervous. “If you’d like to come this way,” she says.
The first thing he logs as he follows her through is how large the residents’ lounge has become, cleared now of its sandwich tables and festive trimmings. But why are all these grotesque armchairs scattered about the place? Can they not at least be grouped to encourage conversation, or lined up ready for entertainment? Their wings are greyed with Brylcreem and peroxide, their arms scuffed bald, the filling teased out by the clench of so many desperate knuckles. All around, rickety old tables are strewn with torn magazines. The TV has no sound; its picture flickers, distorted and grainy. So this is the life that Gulnaz has chosen for his brother. The room smells of farts and unwashed fabric. Not fit for Alex at all. Not fit for a pig. The disgust and fury are seizing up his throat.
Beyond the lounge, a bare corridor leads past frosted windows that mask god knows what unspeakable horrors in the kitchen. The noise levels rise alarmingly as they advance on the canteen, like a sound barrier, a blockade built to deny them access. Cutlery clashes in medieval battle, crockery clatters like hooves over rock. Above it all resounds the racket of human torment – shouted obscenities, screams and cries, the drumming of fists. Even outbursts of song and laughter seem demonically possessed. On Daniel’s last visit, the New Year’s party had thinly disguised this din as a celebration. But there is nothing to be celebrated today. Along the three filthy wooden tables – the very tables he’d last seen spread with bright tablecloths and fresh sandwiches – he now sees only row upon row of emaciated bodies stooped over plates of inedible gruel.
“What’s this?” he growls beneath his breath, “Oliver bloody Twist? This is a just a piss-take.” He’s loath even to make a search of the tortured faces. When he does, it’s almost a relief to find that Alex is not among them. And he only recognises Gulnaz when she rises. As she turns, she narrowly escapes a clout round the ear from the inmate she’s attending. And worse, as she walks towards the far door, the same madman throws something hard that catches her square between the shoulder blades. Incredibly, appallingly, she fails to react. Instead of having the thug dragged from the room and confined to quarters she simply continues on her way, taking the door an
d holding it open for someone on the other side. These people are savages, the lot of them. How can she tolerate working here? And how can he, Daniel, having witnessed this abuse, not enter the affray?
Emerging through the open door, he sees the ferrule end of a stick, then a right hand, and then, minus his chair and crutches, he sees his brother. Gulnaz follows behind. All three sets of eyes meet; Alex squares up to him in defiance, Gulnaz appears shocked and angry. She whispers something (did Alex say something in reply?), smoothes down her tunic and makes her approach.
“Daniel. We weren’t expecting you.” Her voice is formal and tight-lipped. It’s less her behaviour that upsets him, more the food all down her uniform and the plum coloured bruise with the hairline cut over one eye.
“Am I supposed to make an appointment to see my own brother?” he says. He wants it to sound light, but the shaking betrays him.
“No, but there are approved visiting hours.”
He can’t keep this up much longer. “What, like a fucking prison, you mean? Christ, Gulnaz. Why the hell did you bring him here?”
She stiffens. “We must insist that foul language is not used whilst on these premises.”
“Yeah right,” he laughs, waving at the crowd. “So I’d noticed. Okay,” he puts a hand on her shoulder and feels it flinch. “Then let’s go and talk somewhere else. You can swear at me all you like then.”
“Don’t touch me,” she hisses. “Don’t you ever lay a finger on me again. Do you understand?”
“Okay, okay, sorry.” An observer might think from his hands that she’d pulled a gun on him. “Don’t do this to me, Guli. Please. I just want to see him again. I need to know he’s okay. I wanted to see you too.”
“Alex is fine. But he doesn’t wish to see you, not after what happened.”
Her obstinacy is provoking his anger again. “I’m not standing for this,” he warns her. “How can you bear to work here? This place is a fucking disgrace.”
They’ve been steadily retreating from the room throughout, Gulnaz regulating her volume as they go. She’s ready now to shout him down. “You don’t know the first thing about this place! Just because you helped out here for a few hours doesn’t suddenly make you the expert. It’s not party night every night in here, you know. Welcome to the real world.”
The edge he’s had is slipping, as the voice at his shoulder is quick to point out. ‘The plan of campaign isn’t working, boy! You need to pull back and regroup.’ Daniel tries to block his ears without Gulnaz noticing. “Alright!”
Gulnaz stares at him in alarm. He clears his throat. “Alright, yes, I’m going. I’ll make your damn appointment. But then I’m coming back.” He steps away and waits for her to turn. Before she does, her face is softened for a moment by an impulse to speak.
“Daniel. The state of you. I…”
But that glimpse of a familiar face is all too brief. “No. Don’t come, you’d be wasting your time. As I told you, it was only to be for a few days. Alex will be leaving here tomorrow. I was planning to write and let you know.”
“Leaving!? Where?”
“Daniel, I have to go. I’ll promise I’ll send you the address.”
This bolt from the blue leaves him totally disarmed. As she turns to resume her duties, he can only think of following her. He must see Alex one last time. Maybe it will determine the appropriate next move. The two of them are in conference again now (Alex really is talking!), but what follows is totally unexpected. As Alex stands, pushes away his chair and steps back unaided, he eyeballs Daniel intensely. The look is hostile to start with, but it transforms, yields, and softens into that same expression he’d worn on the cliffs and at Scoff’s deathbed: his heart-melting look of pity.
Alex, who’d been raped, kidnapped and incarcerated in this bedlam, who’d once been abandoned on the cliffs to die, felt sorry for Daniel.