"How dare you?" Matron was beside herself. "With your history—"
"No, Matron, no," said Thomas, sobbing now, struggling to speak through the tears, "I didn't touch anyone in the Annex. I told on the others and they couldn't prove anything and I had to leave because they made my life hell. Matron, I told on them, that's why I had to leave."
Matron wasn't listening. She was staring at Mrs. Clutterbuck,
"How could anyone… Unbelievable."
She pulled the sheet up and over Mrs. Clutterbuck's face. Bentham patted Matron's shoulder and Matron acknowledged the kindness with a long, slow nod.
"I'm going to phone the police." She said, "Nurse Bentham, bring Thomas to the office."
Bentham wrapped her big hand around Thomas's upper arm, digging her nails into the skin, as venomous as a playground bully, sneering at her when Matron wasn't looking. She dragged Thomas down the short flight of stairs to the small office. Matron picked up the phone and dialed.
* * *
Matron couldn't bear to stay in the same room as Thomas. She was downstairs, waiting by the door for the police. Thomas was looking out of the window trying to think. She heard Bentham hissing at her,
"You're the next Beverley Allit."
Thomas looked at her.
"You
are
fucking Beverley Allit."
"They'll hate you, the police, when they find out what you've done."
"I haven't done anything, Bentham. They'll find out it was you when they measure the bruises. My hands are too small to make bruises that big." She could see Bentham glancing at her hands and thinking about it. "You're a mental case, Bentham."
Bentham slid toward the door and took hold of the handle. She turned and grinned. "Be a shame if you got away now, wouldn't it?"
She opened the door, looked outside, and crept out of the room.
Thomas could run. If she got downstairs she could get out of the kitchen door. Over the back wall. She stood up suddenly but stopped at the office door. If she left they'd think she was guilty. Bentham would never get caught. She sat back down. That's what Bentham wanted, that's why she left her alone. She'd be standing in the kitchen, waiting to catch her and make herself the hero. Thomas looked out of the window. The fire escape. There were fire exits all over the house, Bentham couldn't cover them all. She was standing behind the door, sweating and tremorous, wondering which exit to take, when the door opened. Matron was there with two policemen. Her face was very red. She raised her hand and slapped Thomas across the face as hard as she could.
"What,"
screamed Matron,
"have you done with Helena Lawrence?"
* * *
Beyond the door Matron was ticking Bentham off for leaving Thomas alone and the other nurses were gathering, quizzing each other and expressing dismay. The sun shone in through the office window, yellowing one of the policemen's trousers. He fumbled in his pocket and leaned across the desk,
"Cigarette, miss?"
Thomas took one and the policeman lit it for her.
"We know you can't have taken her far," said the policeman, "you were only left alone for three or four minutes."
"I stayed in here," said Thomas, knowing they wouldn't believe her, knowing they would have checked with Staff Nurse Evans at the Annex and knowing Evans would relish the chance to drop her in it. "You want to talk to Bentham, not me."
The policeman sighed. "You know, in ten minutes we'll have a full team of officers here and we'll find her anyway. You might as well tell us."
"I don't know where she is. Ask Bentham."
"It'll look better for you if you do tell us."
"I don't know where she is, I swear."
He sat back in his chair and looked out of the window.
"What happened at the Annex, Sarah?"
"You mean you haven't already phoned them? Don't listen to Staff Nurse Evans, speak to someone in admin."
"I'd rather you told me."
Thomas slumped back in her chair. It sounded ridiculous.
"I reported senior members of staff for hitting the patients. The inquiry couldn't prove anything and I was hounded out of my job."
"You didn't hit them yourself?"
"No."
"Why didn't you tell Matron that when you came for the job here?"
She shook her head, "It's harder to get a job as a whistleblower than as an abuser."
The policemen didn't believe her.
"If you were a boss," she said, "would you give a job to someone who snitched on their last boss?"
"Yes," said the policeman, without pausing to think. "Yes, I would. Where is Helena? Is she in a cupboard somewhere?"
They didn't believe her. The inquiry didn't believe her and Matron didn't believe her and the police didn't believe her. Thomas couldn't think of anything to say,
"Can I have another fag, please?"
"Did you kill her, Sarah?"
"I know—"
The policeman cut her off with a raised hand. He cocked his head and listened to a small army of feet jogging noisily up the stairs.
"You've almost missed your chance, miss, d'you want to tell me now?"
The crowd on the stairs arrived outside the door and Thomas heard Matron let out a wordless exclamation. A silence fell over the nurses. The policemen in the office looked at each other. The one with the fags stood up and opened the door a crack, peering out into the hall. Thomas could see Matron's back. She was standing with her arms out at the side, stiff with surprise, staring at something in front of her. The door swung open revealing four tall uniformed policemen standing around Bentham. Two of them were holding her by the arms while another said she didn't have to say anything. Bentham wasn't listening. She was staring ahead, just like Matron, frozen.
"You're on holiday," said Bentham.
Alison Tombery slid into view and smiled as Helena Lawrence stepped into the doorway. She was still wearing her nightie but was standing tall now, wearing incongruous court shoes with a low heel.
"And what," said Helena, quite clearly and distinctly, to Bentham, "Did you do to my mother?"
Brendan DuBois
Old Soldiers
THIS VERSATILE
writer enjoys writing about the men and women of the government and what happens when the world passes them by, like in the following story, "Old Soldiers," which first appeared in the May issue of
Playboy
.
Old Soldiers
Brendan DuBois
W
hen performing a boring chore like splitting wood, you tend to dwell on trivia to pass the time, such as the two distinct sounds you encounter during the job. The first is a thump, when the maul you're using makes a slight indentation into the wood. The other is a sharp crack, when you've started a major split that means you're almost finished with that chunk of soon-to-be firewood. Thoughts like these were going through my mind as I was about an hour into my morning woodcutting routine one spring Saturday.
Then a dark blue Ford LTD with government plates bumped its way up my dirt driveway, and I wasn't bored anymore.
And when Special Agent Cameron of the FBI and a companion got out of the car, I momentarily wondered what kind of sound a maul would make while being buried in the base of someone's skull.
Cameron carried a slim leather briefcase and his white hair was combed carefully over the back of his head, as if he had just had his picture taken for his official government ID. He had on a charcoal gray suit, unlike his companion, about 20 years younger, who wore blue jeans, white polo shirt and a dark brown leather jacket.
"Owen," Cameron said, as I rested near the woodpile. "I'd like to present Mr.… Smith. Mr. Smith works for another government agency."
I stuck out my hand and as Smith came forward to shake it, I wiped it off with my handkerchief, and Smith paused, the slight grin on his face steady under my insult. His dark brown hair was cut short and his blue eyes were bright, brittle and sharp. Underneath his polo shirt there seemed to be hard muscles. He looked like a guy who would spend his vacation in Europe, retracing Wehrmacht invasion routes through Poland with a smile on his face.
"Really?" I said. "And would that government agency be the GAO? Is your work being audited, Agent Cameron?"
Cameron didn't look pleased. "No. And this meeting has nothing to do with my previous visits. Mr. Smith has a matter to discuss with you, in private. When the two of you are finished, I'll take him back to Portland. That's it."
When the government pays your bills and keeps you alive, year after year, after any competent actuary would have written you off as dead long since, then I guess listening is the polite thing to do. So I shrugged and said, "All right, why don't the both of you come in."
Smith spoke for the first time. "That sounds grand." He came forward, but Cameron shook his head. "No," he said. "I want no part of this."
So Smith followed me into the farmhouse as Cameron trudged back to the LTD.
* * *
In the kitchen, I poured myself a tall glass of lemonade, offering nothing to my uninvited guest, and we sat at the round oak table. Perhaps I was being childish, but Smith didn't seem to notice. He leaned back in his chair and rested his hands on his flat stomach.
"Agent Cameron gave me a thorough briefing on the way over here," he said. "You certainly have a fascinating past, Mr. Taylor."
"Ain't I lucky," I said.
"And it's that past that has brought me here," he said. "Your talents. We want to use them, just for a short time."
"Sorry, I'm retired."
His smile was wide and merry. "Sorry, in return. You've been unretired and turned over to us. And if you don't care to cooperate, we can make your life quite miserable very quickly. I know what you've got here. In return for certain past services, you live here in total freedom, save for a few minor restrictions. Like staying within the town limits. Which brings me to my next point. Ever hear of Marion?"
Something seemed to wiggle around in my throat. "Maximum security prison."
He waved a hand in the air. "No, not maximum. Maximum is a dime a dozen. I'm sure even this rural wonderland has a maximum prison. No, Marion is the ultimate federal penitentiary. An inmate lives alone in a concrete cube eight feet in each direction. Once a week, you get out for an hour for some sunshine and fresh air. That's it. No radio, no television, newspapers and books strictly controlled, and the food is government-supplied. So. We reach an understanding here, everything's fine. If not, tomorrow at this time, you'll be staring at concrete."
I tried to stay calm. "Special Agent Cameron—"
"Look," he interrupted. "Some time ago Cameron made a mistake. A big one. In a little Texas town called Waco. Ever wonder why he's way out here in this area? Waco is why. And Waco is why Cameron cooperates. Which includes lending one of his charges for a while. So, Owen. What's it going to be?"
I put my hands under the table because they were clenching into fists so hard that I could feel fingernails starting to break skin. "What do you want?"
He waggled a finger in my direction. "No, no, no. I want to hear the words from your mouth that you're on board. Then I will tell you what we have planned."
I nodded, and then said, "All right, I'm on board."
Smith's grin got wider. "Thanks. And I also won 20 bucks. Cameron bet me you'd say no. OK, here's the drill." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small slip of paper and tossed it over. "There's a man named Len Molowski, lives up in Cardiff, about an hour north of here. He's in his mid-60s, owns a small farm. That's his address."
I glanced at the paper. "And what's so special about Len Molowski?"
"What's special is that his real name is Leorud Malenkov. He's a Soviet military intelligence operative, placed here in deep cover almost four decades ago. You know those Jap soldiers who lived on in Guam and the Philippines, years after the war was over, who didn't give up? Same story, except they're here and they're Russian."
"So?"
I guess that wasn't the response Smith was looking for, as his smile faded. "Some old records we've kept over the years, we've managed to finally decode them. You'd be surprised what's for sale now over in Moscow. We found Len's name and a bunch of other names, all Soviet military intelligence, all placed into this country at about the same time, during the late Fifties."
"And what was he going to do while in Maine? Burn down a forest?"
"Who knows and who cares," Smith said. "That he's still here is what counts. And that's why I'm here with you."
"At the risk of repeating myself, I'll do just that," I said. "So what? Hasn't the news gotten to you folks yet? The Cold War's over. They lost. We won. We have a hell of a budget deficit to pay, but they have McDonald's in Red Square, their nuclear subs are rusting and sinking at dockside and their soldiers spend their time harvesting potatoes and trying to stay alive. What's the point of going after this guy?"