Pecking Order (11 page)

'Yes, I remember,' replied Eric.

'I'm trying to get her a full-time place in a nursing home - but it's just so hard finding her a bed, even with her angina getting worse and worse. Her doctor had to increase her medication again only the other day. The health visitor calls in once or twice a week - often to put her on a nutrition drip. It's very difficult getting her to eat anything. And I see her whenever I can. But it's hard finding time, you know, with the kids to look after and working as well ...’

‘How is her mobility nowadays?' he asked, removing his reusable shopping bag from his pocket.

She stopped passing bar codes across the red beam. 'Oh, she's been in a wheelchair for some time now. She can just about get out of it and into her bed. And the toilet - they've put special bars in so she can still go on her own. But after having a fall a few months ago and spending the night on the living room floor, she prefers to sleep in the chair with a blanket. Not that the health visitor approves.'

Eric could picture it only too clearly. The loss of motivation. Personal hygiene slipping. Small accidents in the night and a faint smell permeating the flat.

Suddenly, the woman's shoulders sagged and the breath left her with a sad sigh. He kept his eyes on the woman as she glanced behind him to check no other customer was in earshot. Obviously needing to confide in someone, she said, 'To tell you the truth, it's really getting to me. Last week she announced that she'd had enough, said that ... you know ... that ...' she glanced around once more and whispered, ' ... that she wanted to die.' Her eyes filled with tears. 'I mean, if she were a pet dog no vet would agree to keep her going. I sometimes think that, if she was up to it, I'd fly her over to that place in Switzerland, the one where you can just drink that barbiturate stuff and go to sleep ... forever.'

With a jerky movement she wiped the tears from her eyes, 'I'm sorry. I should never have unburdened myself on you like that. It's just that I haven't got anyone to talk to.' She shrugged her shoulders and looked up at him in embarrassment.

‘Not at all,' said Eric. 'Are there no other family members who could help? Don't you have a brother?'

'Andrew? He immigrated to New Zealand a few years ago. Edith's never really been able to take it in. She still points to his photos and asks when he'll visit. She was so proud when he graduated. I haven't the heart to tell her he lives on the other side of the world.'

‘I can see why,' murmured Eric. 'Have you tried Saint Cuthbert's? They always seem very accommodating, especially if she is having trouble moving about.'

‘Haven't you heard? The council are closing it down. Can't afford to run it.'

Eric hadn't heard, but it hardly surprised him.

'Anyway, don't let me keep you,' she continued. 'I'm sure you're busy enough as it is.' She pressed a button on the till, 'Thirty pounds, eleven please.'

Eric handed her the cash and, as he placed the last item in his bag, said, 'Well, I hope she finds somewhere soon. And pass on my regards when you see her.'

'Thanks, I will. In fact I'm popping round in a couple of hours once I'm finished here,' she replied, waiting for the till to finish spitting out his receipt. She handed the bit of paper over and he said goodbye, heading for the basement car park.

But instead of going home, Eric drove to a more run-down part of the city. He parked on the main road outside a row of fast-food takeaway places, got out and locked the vehicle. Shoes silently connecting with the pavement, he then glided down a side street choked with parked cars. The front doors of the terraced houses opened directly on to the pavement, no room for a front garden or even railings. As he strode quietly along he concentrated on the sounds seeping through the houses' front windows. A football match was obviously on; he could follow the muffled commentary from one front room to the next. In the windows with thinner curtains the flickering glow shone through clearly.

The end of the road opened on to a T-junction, terraces stretching away on both sides. A section of houses had been bulldozed opposite and the gap filled with a small complex of little bungalows. Now, after years of neglect, the properties had grown shabby - paint peeled from wooden window frames, the mortar between bricks crumbled. The sign on the grass verge read, 'Pilkington Court'.

The professor strode straight across the grass, and followed the right hand path between the first few buildings. Quickly he homed in on the corner house, slowing down as he neared it. Seeing no one approaching, he veered off sharply down the narrow alley at its side. Despite the high wooden fencing separating the alley from the street, he kept his head low. At the corner he paused, glancing at the overgrown patch of back garden lit faintly by the yellowish light coming from the kitchen windows. Various sized pots were arranged around the patio. He remembered when each one was home to a thriving variety of herb: now some sort of creeping weed had throttled them all. Carefully he stepped into the garden. Once beyond the patch of light spilling across the grass, he turned around and looked through the rear windows. The kitchen was empty. He directed his gaze to the next room, and there he saw the old woman, slumped in her wheelchair, mouth slightly open, hands resting high on her chest, a necklace of thick wooden beads about her neck. She was sitting at a right angle to him, facing the opposite wall. He could see the television wasn't on and he strained to hear the sound of a radio or other music. Then one of her hands slipped a fraction and he realised she must be fast asleep. Silently he moved closer, noticing the bed in the corner of the room with the metal frame for her drip looming next to it.

Like some minimalist design of coat stand, it looked totally out of place next to the knitted cushion covers, embroidered bedspread and lace mats on the table. As did the aluminium bedpan sitting on her bedside table. Now, with face right by the window, he could hear that there wasn't even a radio on; she had been sitting there in silence. Just waiting to die.

Crouching down by the back door, he checked that the spare key was still under the third pot on the left. Then he moved soundlessly back down the alley and returned to his car.

As his headlights swept across his front lawn they lit up his neighbour's cat, crouched malevolently over a tiny black form, eyes momentarily flashing silver. The animal stared balefully at him for an instant longer, then darted back into its own garden. He climbed out of the car, removed his shopping from the back seat and went to examine whatever the cat had abandoned.

The shrew lay on its side, comically long snout poking between the blades of grass, a jet black eyeball standing almost clear from its head. The animal's sides rose and fell with an impossible speed - the movement more of a flicker than a breath. Bending down, he looked more closely at the creature. As a sociologist, his main concern was with humans and society. He didn't actively hate animals: but he didn't feel any affection for them either. The plight of the tiny creature before him only interested him because, if it died, it became an item of litter that he would have to clear up. He looked for any signs of injury. But this was the cruel irony; the cat hadn't been interested in actually eating its prey. Just torturing it to death.

Tentatively, he extended a forefinger and attempted to roll the rodent back on to its front, hoping it might scamper away. The gentle prod finally proved too much and its sides abruptly stopped moving, as if a switch had been turned off. He watched as the bright black eye slowly lost its lustre. Pursing his lips in annoyance, he picked it up by its stubby little tail, walked over to his dustbin and dropped it inside.

The microwave whirred as his pizza revolved slowly around inside. Over the years his house had gradually accumulated more and more machines of convenience. In his early career he would religiously visit the laundry, aware of the wastefulness of running a washing machine in a single person household, proud to live in a home with as few luxuries as that of his childhood. But gradually the effort just seemed too much. After the washing machine, he had indulged in a dishwasher, then a microwave.

Standing by the machine, he studied the television guide from
The Observer
. Spotting that
Blade Runner
was about to start, his eyebrows raised and he nodded a couple of times to himself.

From a social scientist's perspective, Eric loved the film for its vision of what an unbridled devotion to capitalism would lead to. After first seeing it, he had even considered offering a course that analysed the film. It was only the disdainful reaction he was sure this would provoke from the university's 'natural scientists' that prevented him from actually doing so.

But that didn't stop him, in idle moments, from planning the outline of lectures that took a grim delight in describing a world that had been slowly compressed into a claustrophobic dystopia. A writhing mass of dirty streets where all industry was privatised, where there was no such thing as society, where nature had been eradicated and animals existed solely in artificial forms. And where the only landmarks to rise above the urban skyline were the strongholds of big business such as the Tyrell Corporation's monstrous headquarters.

Eric pictured himself before rows and rows of rapt students, describing how, unless socialist principles prevailed, privately-schooled executives would soon be gazing down at the streets from the upper floors of these strongholds, market forces reducing the flow of people below them to mere units of consumption. Indeed, when viewed from such a distance, Eric asserted in his mind, ordinary man would appear as little more than a speck: of no more consequence than an ant. What, he asked his imaginary audience, was the role of government in this future society? Pared down to the bare minimum, the state served no purpose other than maintaining law and order - so the corporations could continue wielding their pernicious control over everyone's lives.

Smiling, he placed a glass of water on his dinner tray. Then something occurred to him and he walked quickly through to his study. Mixed in with the publications on the bottom shelf of his bookcase were a number of videotapes; mostly
Cutting Edge
documentaries or episodes of
Panorama
concerned with injustices within the British system of social care.

Next to a large yellow coloured paperback titled,
Mining Memories: An illustrated Record of Coal Mining in St Helens
was a video tape with a particularly old report on how the Conservative policy of Care in the Community was turning pensioners with mental problems out on to the streets. He carried it through to his front room, inserted it into his video recorder and turned the television on. As
Blade Runner
started and the haunting strains of Vangelis' sound track began to fill the room, he pressed 'Record' and went to fetch his pizza.

Chapter 16

By now their surroundings and daily routine were familiar. All four birds had grown fully accustomed to the conveyor belt's sudden noise; now it only represented an opportunity to feed. The large forms of the people in white clothes that occasionally passed still caused stress, but they soon disappeared and hardly ever made any noise. However the birds were far from comfortable. Their natural urges to scratch at the ground and bathe in dust were reasserting themselves: but only the hard grid of bars was beneath their feet. The metal dug into the fleshy pads, a continual source of discomfort. The first bird to exhibit nesting behaviour was the largest. Instinctively it sought a dark and secluded corner. There wasn't one. Eventually the egg dropped onto the sloping mesh floor and rolled into the collecting tray at the front of the cage. Often during their nineteen-hour-days the birds wanted to sleep. The cages had no perches and so their roosting instinct was thwarted, too. Frustration levels were beginning to rise. The injured hen was now in considerable pain. The other birds frequently tried to flap their wings, but the confines of the cage didn't allow this. Often their attempts knocked the injured bird over and it was finding it increasingly hard to regain its feet. The width of the cage only allowed three birds to stand at the front with their heads through the bars to feed. To provide relief from the unpleasant feelings the low ceiling created, the three healthy birds preferred to remain there even when they weren't eating. The position had the advantage of allowing them to stretch and shake their necks, behaviour chickens in open surroundings indulge in all the time. Blocked in behind them, the injured bird had yet to eat.

Chapter 17

Zoe took off the polythene gloves and dropped them into a plastic bag, careful to avoid touching any of the henna covering them. 'There, leave that on for half an hour and you're done.'

Keeping her head bent over the edge of the bath, Clare fiddled with the elasticated edge of the plastic cap covering her head. 'Are you sure all my hair's tucked under?'

‘Certain. And you can open your eyes too, there's no dye on your face.'

Clare straightened up and removed the towel draped round her shoulders.

'Thanks mate. Right, I'll just wash the bath out before it stains.' She picked up the showerhead connected to the hot and cold taps by twin umbilical cords.

'You weren't bullshitting me in the supermarket? It really is that right on?' asked Zoe, now sitting on the sofa and using the end of a matchstick to prod stray strands of tobacco back into the end of an enormous roll-up.

'God, yeah. It's a bloody minefield doing that course,' replied Clare, spraying warm water on the dots of red flecking the sides of the bath. 'I hardly dared open my mouth when I started. One wrong step and people would turn on you like a pack of hyenas. But what got me - still gets me - is the sense of righteousness in their voices when they hauled you up. It's as if, by nailing you, they're demonstrating their own PC credentials to everyone else.'

 'You mean they don't really believe it themselves?'

‘Absolutely. I don't think half of them really believe what they say. It's just what's expected - and if you're a student, it's the sure way to a decent class of degree.'