Benson had been a member of the ward longer than anyone else. His visitor accompanied the wheelchair that transported him there. Although the nurse had observed him following she said nothing, merely indicated a large placard pinned to the wall. The placard gave the visiting times. Benson’s visitor stared at it for a long while, until the sound of the creaking wheelchair had died away. He missed the subsequent Sunday because of it. It was a feeling he had not cared for.
This afternoon Benson lay snoring fitfully but peacefully. His visitor stared at the slack mouth and the way the chin drooped. When the bell rang Benson’s eyes opened. The gaze settled on his visitor who hastily looked down at the floor. Benson’s head began to move back and forth against the piled pillows as though to alleviate an itch. His eyes remained on his visitor for a period, then they closed. His visitor’s sigh was quite audible. After a moment he stooped to lift his hat and shabby briefcase from where they had been lying. Across the way an older nurse arranged flowers in a vase. She did not notice his approach. He moved to the right side of her at the precise second she moved to the left. He hesitated and she turned swiftly and strode along and out of the ward. There were no other people about except patients and they all seemed to be sleeping. Then another visitor appeared in the doorway. Benson’s visitor returned slowly to where he had been sitting and he returned the briefcase and hat to where they had been lying, and he sat down carefully. Shortly afterwards he was aware of a muffled conversation coming from somewhere to his rear but he was not able to look round to see. A voice called: ‘It’s Benson’s visitor!’ and gave an abrupt laugh.
He stared at the floor for a long time. Gradually he wanted to see what was happening around him and he raised his head. But Benson stared at him. Benson glowered. ‘Who are you?’ he groaned.
His visitor smiled weakly.
‘I don’t know you.’
His visitor inclined his head and stared at the floor beneath the bed.
‘Is he visiting me? I don’t know him from Adam!’
Footsteps approached. He estimated at least two people.
‘I don’t know him. Who is he?’ cried Benson. ‘Who are you?’
‘Not so good today, is he?’ said his visitor. Two nurses were looking at him and he smiled faintly at them. His heart thumped. Then the nurses looked at the patient with concern and one of them said:
‘He’s your visitor.’
His visitor nodded his head but without daring to look at him.
But Benson cried, ‘I don’t know him from Adam. Why is he sitting at my bed?’
The older nurse smiled down on him. ‘Come now,’ she said, ‘you mustn’t embarrass your visitor.’
‘He’s your visitor!’ smiled the younger nurse.
‘Who is he?’ groaned Benson, attempting to raise himself up by the elbows as though for a fuller look at him. But the older nurse snapped:
‘Come along now lie down!’
The patient lay back down immediately and stared sideways away from both his visitor and the two nurses, the younger of whom glanced at her colleague and then said to Benson’s visitor, ‘Who are you?’ And she smiled as though to soften matters.
Benson’s visitor jumped. Somebody else had arrived suddenly. It was the Sister.
‘Benson’s visitor. .’ began the younger nurse.
‘Of course it’s Benson’s visitor,’ she said, ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Who is he?’ murmured Benson.
‘Oh you know fine well,’ replied the Sister.
‘Who are you. .’ Benson murmured.
His visitor smiled at the Sister. He wondered whether the other visitor and any of the patients were listening. He thought he should say something. He cleared his throat but was not able to speak. At last he managed: ‘Not so good. .’
The Sister was speaking in a low unhurried voice to the two nurses who responded as to a direct command, but none noticed Benson’s gasp, and his eyelids closed.
The older nurse said to his visitor, ‘You better go now, visiting’s over.’
He nodded and gripped his hat and briefcase, got off the chair and walked from the ward without glancing back. Out along the lengthy corridor the younger nurse appeared from behind a pillar. ‘Are you a relative?’ she asked.
‘You must have a record,’ he said.
‘Come along now you won’t be on it. You won’t be there.’ She shook her head at him.
A wave of nausea hit him and he wanted down onto the floor, down onto the floor until it passed. Somebody was holding him by the arm. It was the other nurse, and behind her stood the other patient with a worried frown on his forehead. His hat and briefcase were leaving him, the hat having fallen perhaps but the briefcase from out of his hand. And the younger nurse steadied him. ‘Come along now,’ she was saying.
The older nurse smiled. ‘That’s the ticket,’ she said.
Governor of the Situation
I hate this part of the city — the stench of poverty, violence, decay, death; the things you usually discern in suchlike places. I dont mind admitting I despise the poor with an intensity that surprises my superiors. But they concede to me on most matters. I am the acknowledged governor of the situation. I’m in my early thirties. Hardly an ounce of spare flesh hangs on me — I’m always on the go — nervous energy — because my appetite is truly gargantuan. For all that, I’ve heard it said on more than one occasion that my legs are like hollow pins.
The Band of Hope
Oanny was getting pushed by some cunt, right on the shoulder, pushing him. Cut it out, he grunted then opened his eyes. Fat Stanley was grinning down at him. Alec’s done the business, he was saying, Come on! Wake up!
The chemmy had finished right enough, the chairs been shifted back from the big horseshoe table and everybody stood about the place chatting. Across at the empty fireplace Alec was in company with a couple of people. Oanny closed his eyes again but opened them immediately. Fat Stanley had said he would be back in a minute and was making his way towards the serving hatch in the snacks area, walking in that funny way he had, as if wanting not to be seen but knowing he was going to get found out. He paused to say something to Alec and then to Victor — Victor with the fag dangling from the corner of his mouth, on the fringes of the company as usual and trying hard to look lackadaisical about everything, but anybody who knew him could tell his nerves were just as shot to fuck as ever.
The smell of soup.
Last orders had already been given in to Ellen and some of the guys were sitting with their bowls, dipping in slices of unbuttered bread, slurping quickly in case the saturated bits fell onto the table top. The place was full of tables. The horseshoe one where the chemmy was played but a great many weer ones too, and not all of them were circular. In the snacks area two huge bench-type tables stood side by side and about forty or more bodies could have sat roundabout in comfort. Not a single table was covered. They all looked ancient. Initials, slogans and dates and stuff had been knifed into them, grime was embedded in the carvings. If you dug in a fingernail it would bring out thick lengths of it. An in-joke circulated: if you were described as ‘definitely hungry’ it meant you had been spotted eating a chunk of bread after it had fallen onto the top of the table.
Oanny was raking about in the pockets of his coat and jacket. Glancing beneath the table he saw a can of lager. It was open. He lifted it and gave it a shake, then swallowed the dregs without checking to see if it had been used as a makeshift ashtray. He shuddered and smacked his lips, wiped the corners of his mouth with his hand, began searching through his pockets again. It attracted Victor’s attention and he signalled he was needing a smoke. Victor frowned and kidded on he did not understand but then he drew a few steps over to him and muttered, You’ve fucking got some.