The Ward (14 page)

I grab the card out of Gertie’s hand, slide it and the door clicks. I push it open, wondering where best to lose Gertie. I could probably outwalk her among the rows of chairs in
reception.

A blur of movement. A jab in my thigh.

What? I turn to look at Gertie, did she just—

‘Mr Farrell, Isaac needs his access card.’

Darkness, then lights rolling past. I lift my head and see Nomsa smiling down at me.

Jab.

The room dips sharply to the left. My gut clenches and I shut my eyes and wait for the wave of dizziness to pass. When I open them again, the room has stopped lurching, but my
head still feels woozy. I remember the aide bringing my breakfast, but I don’t recall actually eating any of the food. I burp, and the salty tang of smoked salmon floods into my mouth. So I
must
have eaten it.

I’m alone in here again, but why can’t I remember that freaky woman leaving the room? She can’t have been gone long though – there’s still a lingering trace of that
cloying body spray she was wearing. The scent of it makes me want to gag.

The drip bag next to my bed is almost empty. Is there some kind of painkiller in the brownish fluid? Something that’s making me feel dizzy and out of it? Maybe there was something in the
food?

Stupid. I’ve just had an operation. It’s understandable that I’m still feeling crap.

Water. I need water. I lift my arm to reach for the glass next to the bed, but it’s like I’m moving in slow motion. Careful not to drop it, I lift the glass to my lips and take a
sip. That’s better.

A glimmer of movement catches my eye. The nurses’ aide must have left the television on when she left. A fuzzy black-and-white image flickers on the screen – there’s no sound,
just a random collection of vaguely people-shaped shadows. Gradually, the picture sharpens and I start to make sense of what I’m looking at. It’s a man – middle-aged, overweight,
with a round jowly face. He’s lying flat on his back on what appears to be a metal table. The image wobbles slightly and at first I think I’ve been hit with another spate of dizziness
– but it’s not me, it’s the actual film. The picture’s wobbling around like in that old horror film Sharon loves, the one where the kids go missing in the forest. I
couldn’t watch all of it. It felt too
real
.

The picture pulls back from the close-up of the man’s face so fast that the image blurs for a few seconds. The screen flicks to black and then the camera moves slowly over the rest of the
man’s body. He’s wearing a short hospital gown and his legs are covered in thick whorls of dark hair. Oh God… his right arm ends at the elbow in a scabbed and seeping stump. What
on earth is this? Some sort of low-budget horror film?

The remote is lying next to the water glass and I snatch it up and start pressing buttons at random. None of them are labelled and I can’t find the off switch. I’m trying not to look
at the awful scene, but I can’t help it, my eyes keep being drawn back to it. Now there’s a close-up of the man’s face. He’s smiling. Why would he be smiling? A white shape
flits into view, the image wobbles again, and then I make out a skinny woman dressed in a baggy overall and thick plastic gloves. Her bulging eyes look way too large for her face, totally out of
proportion to her thin nose and almost non-existent lips. She grins wolfishly into the camera, dips down to the floor and re-emerges clutching a long, curved metal tray covered in a stained cloth.
Now she’s looking straight out of the screen at me. Then she bends down to the man and whispers into his ear. The scene changes and now we’re looking
down
at the unsettling scene
from the ceiling. With another hungry grin, the woman grabs the corner of the cloth cover ing the tray, and then, like a proud chef whipping the lid off a plate of gourmet food, removes it with a
flourish, revealing a long twisted
something
. I lean forward slightly. What is that? Is it… a tentacle?

No ways. This is sick! The special effects are really good, which makes it even worse. Although it isn’t attached to anything, the thing twitches and flicks in its tray and I can make out
every detail on its glistening surface – every lump and pulsing vein. I really don’t want to know what she’s going to do with it. Whoever thought this up is seriously warped.

I jab at the buttons on the remote again. Dammit. The batteries must be dead. I bang it on the top of the locker, hoping to jolt it into life; the vile horror film flicks off and the television
bursts into silent static. Thank God. I slap the back of the remote and the screen flickers again, and another image shivers into view, this time in colour. I have to really concen trate to figure
out what I’m looking at. Then I get it… Ugh! It’s a massive close-up of a huge furry spider. I can see every hair on its body and each one of its bulbous glistening eyes. Is this
some sort of nature show?

The screen wavers, showing a slightly grubby bathroom. I haven’t touched the remote. It must be jammed; it’s changing channels by itself. Hang on… The camera moves towards a
dark shadow in the corner of the shower, which gradually comes into focus. It’s the spider again. Its body appears to be rippling, its legs twitching. Then scores of baby spiders pour out of
its body, spilling around it.

What is this? I press the buttons again, slam the remote on the locker, but nothing happens. I think of climbing out of bed and turning the TV off at the wall but I don’t want to go near
it. I shudder as if thousands of spidery legs are skittering over my body. I squeeze my eyes shut and repeatedly jam the buttons with my thumb.

I count to twenty.

When I open them, the screen is blank, the television dead. All I can see is the ghost of my reflection. For once it doesn’t fill me with disgust. My mask is still comfortably in
place.

Did I fall asleep again? Was it just a nightmare?

I’m not sure what I’d rather believe. But I do know that I don’t want to be here anymore. It’s almost as if those images have dirtied me somehow.

I rub my hands over my arms. They’re covered in goosebumps.

I want to go home
.

I want to be back in my room with the curtains drawn, Dad grumbling in the kitchen, Sharon playing Katy Perry at full volume down the hall.

I need to find a nurse, tell her that I’m going to discharge myself. Then I’ll phone Dad, explain everything and admit what I’ve done and make sure he knows how sorry I am.

But what about my face?

I’ll go to a clinic in Durban. That’s it. I’m not well. I know that now. Dr Meka will know what to do. I need to get help, I just need to go home and—

Beeeeeeeeeeep
.
Beep
.
Beeeeeep
.

The machine next to the bed is signalling that the drip bag is empty. Will someone come or should I—?

The door flies open and a nurse strides into the room. She doesn’t look anything like Lumpy Legs and the other nurses in my old ward. She sparkles with efficiency and is dressed in an
old-fashioned starched uniform; she’s even wearing a pointed paper cap. She carries a large, curved metal tray covered with a white cloth. My stomach shifts greasily as I remember what was on
the tray in that horrible TV programme.

‘Hello,’ the nurse says with a wide smile. I can’t tell how old she is; her face is perfectly smooth and unlined, and she’s wearing opaque John Lennon glasses that make
her eyes look like flat silver spheres. ‘I’m Nurse Jova. My sincere apologies for not arriving here immediately.’

She strides over to the nightstand by my bed, her starched uniform crackling as she moves, and places the tray on it. She touches a button on the machine and it stops beeping.

She turns to face me, head cocked to one side, hands clasped in front of her, radiating professional concern. She tucks a stray strand of red hair under her cap. ‘How are you
feeling?’

‘I’m not sure. A bit groggy, and…’ Can I trust her? She’s a nurse, she’s
paid
to help me, isn’t she? Gertie’s voice pops into my head:
Yeah right, doll
.
Like they really give a monkey’s arse
. But I don’t have a choice right now. ‘Actually, I’m having a few problems.’

‘Problems?’ She sounds genuinely concerned. ‘We don’t like our Clients to have problems.’

‘Don’t you mean patients?’

‘Please continue.’

‘I’m having some strange dreams. Nightmares.’

She pats my leg and coos. ‘There, there. What sort of nightmares?’

‘This is going to sound weird…’

‘Go on.’

‘I think I’ve been seeing things. Horrible things. Imagining stuff.’

‘Oh dearie, dearie me. We can’t have that now, can we?’

She glides towards the nightstand, slips a hand under the cloth covering the tray and brings out another bag of that brownish fluid. She attaches it to the stand, and flicks the tube attached
to my arm to get rid of the air bubbles.

‘What’s in that drip? It’s making me feel a bit spaced out.’

‘Don’t you worry about that. That’s perfectly normal.’

‘Can you tell me… where exactly
am
I?’

She laughs lightly. ‘You’re in the Modification Ward, of course. One of our lucky ones. One of our
special
guests.’

‘Modification Ward? Is it like a cosmetic surgery section or something?’

She smiles at me again, the reflection of the overhead light dancing in the lenses of her glasses. ‘You are so very, very fortunate. Not everyone gets to come here. Very few browns.
You’re a very lucky Client. Oh yes.’

‘Look, I need to get hold of my family. My dad… he doesn’t even know I’m here. He’ll be worried.’

She cocks her head again. ‘Oh, you don’t want any excitement,’ she’s saying. ‘Your only job is to recover.’

‘Can’t you bring me a phone? Please?’

She smoothes the covers of the bed. ‘There, there. Baby steps. It will take some shifts for you to recover. You must be patient.’ She chuckles. ‘Oh yes! Patient patients are
our favourite. And client Clients are…’ She frowns. ‘No, that doesn’t…’

‘When is the doctor going to come?’

‘Oh, that won’t be necessary. You’re a Client.’

‘But shouldn’t he… she… check that everything’s fine?’

‘No need for that. I’m here to look after you.’

I touch the mask. ‘And how long before I can take this off?’

She clicks her tongue. ‘That depends on you and your face, of course.’

‘And my clothes – my stuff. Where is it?’

‘You don’t need your clothes, Client Cassavetes. The Administration will supply everything you need on schedule. Would you like some more desensitisers? We have lots. Many
kinds.’

‘Um. Do you mean painkillers? No. I’m not in any pain.’ Almost as I finish the sentence the dull ache in my temples ramps up to a sharp twinge. I shut my eyes and will it to
fade.

‘Are you feeling poorly, Client?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Goody good.’ She claps her hands together. ‘Now. How about a lovely bed bath, and then I’ll consult with your face.’ She digs in her pocket and pulls out a pair of
white surgical gloves.

The aide’s words slip back to me: ‘Feed your face, dear. Feed your face. After all,
it must be hungry
.’

Did I imagine that as well?

I’m either drugged to the gills or losing my mind.

I have to try again. ‘Nurse, I really need to let my dad know that—’

My words are cut off as an ear-splitting alarm blasts into the room, making me jump. It sounds like a whooping air-raid siren.

‘What the hell is that?’

The nurse sighs and mumbles something under her breath. It sounds like ‘karking interlopers’, but I must have misheard. She seems to pull herself together and her smile is back in
place when she looks at me. ‘I will be back shortly. I do apologise.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘It’s nothing to concern yourself with, Client Cassavetes.’

The siren whoops again, then dies. She yanks the gloves off her hands and, with another reassuring smile, glides out.

I lean back on my pillows. When she returns I’ll insist that she gets me a phone. I’m in a hospital, for God’s sake. Not a prison. I have to be more assertive. Sharon’s
always saying that I’m a pushover, she’s always going on at me for letting other people walk over me and—

Oh no.

I haven’t touched the remote, but the television has come on again. The picture shudders and focuses into a crisp black-and-white image of a girl lying on a bed. I know her, don’t I?
She looks familiar: long blonde hair, wide eyes…

The jolt of recognition makes the room tilt with such force I have to grab onto the covers to stop myself from falling sideways.

Oh God. That’s me.

That’s me!

I lift my right hand and wave it. The girl on screen does the same.

I lift my left hand above my head, and my mirror image copies the gesture.

I scan the walls and the ceiling for any sign of a camera. I can’t spot one. But it could be anywhere.

Why are they showing me this?

Is this another hallucination?

I shut my eyes. Open them again. The girl is no longer on the bed. It’s empty, the covers ruffled as if they’ve been shoved off in a hurry.

So it can’t be me. I’m still sitting here. I fight to control another lurch of dizziness.

I stay absolutely still and stare into the screen. It can’t be me, but it’s my room. There’s my water glass. And the remote. And the covered tray and the beeping machine
and… and… I scream out loud – I can’t help it – as her face (
my
face, my blank
masked
face) fills the screen in close-up.

Oh God oh shit oh crap.

What the
hell
is this?

She’s mouthing something. Opening her mouth and closing it. Pausing in between every word. She’s trying to say something.
She’s trying to tell me something
. I copy the
movement of her lips.

She’s saying…

RUN!

I must be dreaming. I must be. Just another nightmare. I close my eyes again – count to ten, it worked last time…