The Ward (17 page)

If I try to run now, she’ll inject me with something. At least now I’m not tied down. She could strap me down if she wanted. They could try ‘invasive techniques’. I
should convince her that I am cooperating.

‘Oh. Thanks. And then will I be discharged?’

She looks at me again, and, despite myself, despite the fear threatening to loosen my bladder again, I can’t help imagining kindness in her eyes.

‘Yes. How are your eyes, by the way? I see you’ve still got your drops.’

‘Yes. My eyes are fine now. Thank you.’ She couldn’t be part of some insane cannibalistic scheme, could she? She’s only ever been kind and warm to me. I’m not sure
whether to trust her, but she’s still my only ally. She may still help me.

‘That’s good.’ She tweaks the tap on the drip and the brown liquid starts flowing faster.

‘Nomsa.’

‘Yes, Mr Farrell?’

‘I read a file.’

‘A file?’

‘It was my hospital file. It said what treatment I was on. What I’m here for.’

‘Was this a paper file? In a folder?’

‘Yes.’

She laughs. ‘Nurse Essigee told me about that. She said you were raving in your sleep. I
am
sorry. This medication is rather… intensive. It has side effects, but it’s
very effective. Nurse Essigee says you were shouting at her while you slept. Something about meat, something about donations. Your medical aid’s been sorted out now, Mr Farrell. You
don’t need to worry about donations.’

‘Nomsa, I’m trying to tell you that I read this file. It recorded my current treatment, what I was here for. They knew things about… about my home life, things that happened
before… before I got sick. They knew
how
I got sick.’

‘We don’t keep paper records here, Mr Farrell. It’s the modern world. Look.’ She takes a handheld scanner with a large display screen out of her pocket. ‘This is
your file. Right here.’ In the brief glance, I read my name and personal details. Just age, weight, the usual; no ‘harvest mass’ or any of that other insane shit.

Could I really have imagined it?

Nomsa gives the bag a squeeze. Could I have imagined it?

Hold on a minute.

‘You found me and Gertie trying to leave the Green Section at New Hope. You drugged us.’

‘You were a danger to yourself.’

‘What happened to Gertie?’

‘She got discharged. I’ll leave you to rest now. Your body has a lot of work to do.’

Nomsa leaves the room and I slump down, prepared for oblivion, looking forward to dreaming of Katya.

I sit down on the end of the bed while Farrell’s nurse – Nomsa – fusses with the sheets. This room’s identical to the one in which I discovered Gertie.
They’re probably all the same on this floor, and I’ve been told to wait here before being taken back to my own ward.

‘There are very few vacancies on the Modification Ward, Client Cassavetes,’ she says, shaking her head as if I’m an ungrateful child. ‘Quite frankly, I’m
disappointed that you would ignore such a marvellous opportunity. It was I who recommended your transfer here, and I really hope you’ll realise just how fortunate you are. Especially
considering your… condition.’

Ice shoots through my veins. ‘What do you mean?’ How could she know about my body dysmorphia? I haven’t told anyone. The doctors at New Hope probably suspected, though. Has she
been talking to them?

She sighs. ‘Wait here. I’ll be back for you shortly. We can’t have Clients running willy-nilly around the Preparation Ward. It’s not… appropriate.’

She leaves the room.

The headache is still gnawing at my temples – no doubt the aftereffects of whatever drugs they gave me – but that’s the least of my problems.

There’s something seriously wrong here. It’s not my imagination, I know it’s not.

I glance around the room for something I could possibly use as a weapon, but there’s nothing in here except for the bed and a lamp that’s fixed permanently to the nightstand. I can
feel tears welling up in my eyes. I touch the smooth surface of the mask and my fingers come back wet. The tears are trickling through the mask, but I can’t feel them on my skin.

Stop being so pathetic
, Dr Meka’s no-nonsense voice says in my head.
They can’t keep you here against your will
.

But I’m not so sure about that.

Get up and leave
.

I don’t want to. My body feels heavy and sluggish, and all I want to do is sleep. Yes. Maybe if I have a nap I’ll wake up and everything will be…

Yeah, right
.
Now, go
.
You might not have another chance
.

I force myself to stand up. I creep towards the door, pull it open and poke my head out into the corridor.

It’s empty. All clear.

Wait!

The door opposite opens and a white-clad figure emerges. Nomsa again. I freeze, but she doesn’t look in my direction, she’s turning round to poke her head back into the room.

‘I’ll be back to check on you shortly, Mr Farrell,’ she says.

I ease my door shut as quietly as I can and lean my back on it. Farrell’s here! Gertie was right.

So I have a choice to make.

Should I just take my chances and make a run for the lift? Or should I first make sure that Farrell’s okay? Would I be able to live with myself if I just leave him here? I can’t
forget those photographs they took of him. Whatever they’re planning to do to me, they’ve also got something nasty in mind for him.

It’s now or never. Before I can change my mind, I haul open the door and fly across the corridor. Heart pounding, I slip inside Farrell’s room. He’s fast asleep, snoring
gently, a drip containing that murky brown fluid attached to his arm.

I creep up to his bed and touch his toe.

He wakes with a jolt. ‘Katya?’

Who’s Katya? His girlfriend?

‘No. It’s me. Lisa.’

He stares at me blearily. ‘Lisa?’ There’s no sign of recognition in his eyes. Then he blinks. ‘Oh, yeah. Lisa.’ He sounds disappointed. I’m glad that I have
the mask on; it hides the look of hurt that must be plastered all over my face. ‘Shit, Lisa, what the hell is that on your face?’

‘A surgical mask, I think.’

He screws his mouth up in distaste. ‘What are you doing here, Lisa?’

‘I’ve come to get you. We have to get out of here.’

‘Nomsa says I will be discharged soon.’ He’s slurring his words slightly. He closes his eyes again.

I tap his foot and he shudders and blinks. ‘You can’t trust her, Farrell.’

He shakes his head as if he’s trying to clear it. ‘Where are we? Is this the new wing?’

‘What?’

‘No Hope’s new wing. Nomsa said—’

‘I don’t know where we are. When I woke up from the op, I was in a posh hospital room. At first I thought I’d been moved to a private clinic. But now I’m not so sure.
I’ve been seeing some… odd things.’

The understatement of the year
.
Tentacles, anyone?

‘But where
is
here?’ Farrell asks.

‘I don’t know.’

‘So you’re saying we’re still in New Hope?’

‘I don’t know where we are, Farrell. Gertie’s here as well.’

He struggles to sit up in bed, reaches for his water glass. He looks like crap. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheekbones stand out starkly and a vein flutters in his temple.

‘Don’t drink that. I think they’re drugging us. And you’re going to have to pull out that drip.’

‘You don’t think you’re being a bit hysterical?’

I’m hit with an unfamiliar bolt of anger. ‘No I’m not! Remember the photographs? And the lines they drew on your body? How can you say I’m being hysterical?’

‘Okay, okay, calm down.’

I take a deep breath. ‘Look, I think I know what they’re doing here.’

‘What?’

A Good Donor is a Happy Donor
…

‘I think they’re harvesting… bits from people. Organs and things.’

‘You mean like some sort of organ-smuggling racket?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s insane. That sort of thing doesn’t happen to people like me, Lisa.’ He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. ‘I’m not some illegal
immigrant who won’t be missed. I’m a well-known photographer, for fuck’s sake.’

‘I don’t have all the answers, Farrell.’

‘But what you’re saying, it’s—’

I grab the chart from the end of his bed and thrust it into his hands. ‘Look!’

The words ‘Joshua Alphonse Farrell. Status: Donor’ are scrawled on it in black marker pen.

He doesn’t speak for several seconds. ‘Lisa, if there is some kind of racket going on, they’re hardly going to advertise it like this, are they? I mean, think about it.
“Donor” is probably just some kind of politically correct term for a patient or whatever.’

‘“
Donor
” is a politically correct word?’

He’s still looking at me as if I’m some sort of madwoman. If he doesn’t want my help he’s on his own. At least I tried. I start heading for the door. ‘If you
don’t want to come with me, I’m going by myself.’

‘Wait.’

I turn around. His eyes stray to my legs. I left the sheet in the room and the hospital gown barely covers the tops of my thighs.

‘You can’t go anywhere like that,’ he says.

‘I don’t have any choice. They took my clothes.’

He pushes the covers from his legs and swings them down onto the floor. His face contorts in pain. ‘Christ!’

‘What? Did they do something to you?’

‘Ouch! Cramp! Fuck!’

‘Do you need help?’

He waves his hand dismissively. ‘I’ll be fine.’ He grimaces again, but manages to stand.

He looks at my bare legs again. He points to a pile of clothes on the top of the side table. ‘Why don’t you take my jeans?’

I grab them gratefully. They’re those skinny jeans that only really thin people can wear, and I pray that they’ll fit. I snug them over my hips. They’re tight on my thighs, but
they’re better than nothing. They’re way too long and I roll up the bottoms.

Farrell unbuttons his pyjama top. His stomach is lean and muscled and I look away before he can spot me staring. He pulls on a fitted T-shirt with the words ‘I hate fucking hipsters’
and a drawing of a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles printed on it.

‘Let’s go,’ he says.

Then I remember. It’s not just us. ‘Wait! We have to get Gertie.’

‘What? What for?’

‘We can’t just leave her here, Farrell. You wait here. I won’t be long.’

He sighs. ‘Okay, but hurry up.’

I nudge open the door. All clear. God, I hope Gertie isn’t as out of it as she was earlier.

I tiptoe down the passageway towards her room, and slip inside. The bed is empty, the sheets piled on the floor. Dammit. Where have they taken her? The chart at the end of her bed reads:
‘Gertrude February. Status: Undetermined’. Nothing about where she’s been taken. Damn, we can’t waste too much time looking. If Farrell and I get out, at least we’ll
be able to tell the police. If we hang around here…

In my hurry to get back to Farrell, I almost bang straight into a pink-smocked male orderly who’s pushing a gurney slowly towards the lifts. His matted brown hair drapes over his face and
the back of his neck. The body on the gurney is slight, the sheet pulled so far over its head that there’s nothing but a fluff of black curls peeking over the top.

‘Sorry,’ I say automatically.

He raises his head.

I beg my body to freeze, but I can feel my mouth opening in a silent shriek, and for a second I’m sure that my bladder is going to let go.

Oh God. His eyes are sewn shut. Thick black thread loops through his eyelids, pulling them down right over his sockets. He turns towards my voice. The strength leaves my legs and I back up
against the door.

If he touches me I’ll scream.

But he turns away and continues down the corridor, wheeling the body towards the room next to Farrell’s. As he pushes through and into it, there’s a high-pitched mechanical
whine.

I stagger back towards Farrell’s room, starting as the door opens and he emerges.

‘Shit, Lisa, you’re shaking.’

‘There was this guy… He…’ I can’t finish the sentence. I gulp in a lungful of air, every inch of me yelling:
Run!
‘We have to go.’

‘Which way?’ he says. A snake of blood is inching along his forearm from where he must have pulled out the drip, but he doesn’t seem to notice it.

We’ve got two choices: the lift or a dash down towards the end of the corridor. The lift is far closer, and Farrell isn’t in great shape. His forehead is beaded with sweat.
‘Come on.’

Farrell stumbles. ‘You’re going to have to help me.’

He leans against me. He’s heavy, but I manage to support him. Together we hobble towards the lift. I push the button. The doors don’t open. I press my ear against them to listen for
any sign that it’s on its way, every muscle tense, waiting to hear the screech of an alarm, for someone to spot us, for the sound of running footsteps as nurses race towards us ready to
pierce us with needles, to poison us with more drugs, to—

The lift opens.

Oh thank you, Jesus. I help Farrell step inside.

‘Okay, now where?’ he says.

‘I don’t know.’ I jab the buttons at random. The door closes and my stomach lurches as it starts moving. We’re going down. Within seconds, the lift shudders to a
stop.

The doors open, and I help Farrell to walk out.

We’re in a long, straight corridor, tiled wall to ceiling in spotless white porcelain. The walls are bare except for another one of those clown posters. This time the clown sits in a toy
train, the words ‘Last Stop, Terminal Ward! Choo Choo!’ written in a cloud of steam above its head.

‘I don’t think this is the right way, Lisa,’ Farrell says.

The lift doors close behind us.

‘We have to try, Farrell. We can always go back if we can’t find an exit.’ I realise as I’m talking that I don’t believe a word.

‘Easy for you to say,’ he grumbles, but he starts moving all the same.

The corridor leads towards a distant pair of black rubber doors, like the kind we saw in the morgue. Apart from the lift, there are no other doors or exits or adjoining corridors. I’m not
completely sure how far underground we are, but the air is thick and warm, like in a mine. And as we get nearer to the doors, I totter and almost lose my balance, as if something behind the door is
magnetising me. As if it all leads to this. The building draws its breath.