Quicksand (16 page)

 

 

The question crossed his mind as he exchanged greetings with patients on
his way to collect an orange squash at the bar. The lordly patronising
of Holinshed, who would drop in later and "show the flag"; the fact that
the nurses were in mufti instead of starched aprons; the presence of a
handful of visitors from outside, either friends of the staff, relatives
of patients, or dogooders undertaking a charitable act -- none of this
added up to festivity!

 

 

-- Who do we think we're kidding?

 

 

Abruptly the thought evaporated. Through a gap in a group of women
patients around the far door of the room he had suddenly caught sight
of an all-too-familiar figure peering at the dancers.

 

 

-- God damn, has Lieberman been up to his tricks again? Urchin's supposed
to be shut in her cell!

 

 

 

 

 

 

*19*

 

 

The tune blaring from the recorder ended. Nurse Woodside, casting around
for a way of avoiding another dance with Riley, scanned the assembly and
at once spotted Urchin. A hard expression deformed her attractive face,
and she made to march in the girl's direction.

 

 

"Nurse!" Paul hissed. He caught up with her in a few long strides.

 

 

"What . . .? Oh, it's you, Doctor." Nurse Woodside shook back her
nape-long blonde hair; she was certainly very pretty tonight, in a
black dress with fine red stripes which minimised her Junoesque bulk.
"I thought that girl Urchin was supposed to be locked in!"

 

 

"She is. But we mustn't kick up a public fuss. Ask around, will you,
and see if anybody admits having let her out?"

 

 

He was uncomfortably aware of Riley's gaze fixed on him as he spoke.
When the nurse moved to comply, Riley called out, demanding another dance;
the sharpness of her refusal annoyed him, and he stamped ostentatiously
towards the bar.

 

 

-- I hope he's not building up to a scene later. Paul had considerable
sympathy for young Riley. He came from the sort of background calculated
to act as a forcing-bed for homosexuality, being the only child of an
overprotective slut of a mother who regarded her son's girl-friends as
a threat to her hold over him. The strain, against which he had fought
with tenacity Paul rather admired, had ultimately driven him to beat
his mother up and wreck her flat, whereupon he had been committed to
Chent -- quite correctly, because by then he was really deranged. But
he was improving now his mother was out of his way, and Paul had high
hopes for his early release.

 

 

Nonetheless, he did have a terrible temper.

 

 

A fresh influx of male patients followed, under the discreet supervision
of Oliphant in a blue suit and red tie. Several of them, to cover their
nervousness -- they were much shyer than teenagers when it came to asking
for a partner -- made a production of greeting Paul, and it was with
difficulty that he extricated himself to hear Nurse Woodside's report.

 

 

"Doctor, she must have got out by herself. No one admits to unlocking her
door, and I don't see how one of the other patients could have done it."

 

 

"Better go and inspect the cell, then," sighed Paul.

 

 

 

 

The empty female dormitory had a peculiarly awful air tonight, like a ship
which the passengers had abandoned in a panic: on the beds a confusion
of clothing, on the lockers makeup kits, vanity mirrors, hair-brushes,
all as if their owners had dematerialised in the act of using them.

 

 

Like the doors of all the other cells, Urchin's was fitted with a
somewhat old-fashioned lock, but it was sunk in the wood, not screwed
to the surface, and the keyhole on the inner side was blanked off with a
solid metal plate. The paint was so chipped by the battering of desperate
patients it was impossible to tell if it had been tampered with. Paul
shrugged.

 

 

"Well, however she got out we can hardly drag her back. After her
performance in Blickham this morning I wouldn't care to try it,
anyway. We'll just have to keep a careful eye on her until the dance
breaks up. She's heavily tranquillised, so she's unlikely to cause
trouble."

 

 

That was true; nonetheless he returned to the dance with a tremor of
apprehension. Urchin was in the same place as before. By now, however,
Riley had spotted her too, and -- sensibly enough, since she was more
attractive than any of the women around her -- was vainly trying to get
her to dance with him. The bystanders were sniggering at his lack of
success, and this was making him irritated.

 

 

-- Poor devil. Apart from the nurses, who is there of his own age to
partner him? Most of the young girls here are congenitals, too stupid
to manage their own feet.

 

 

With a final scowl Riley gave up the attempt, caught sight of Nurse
Woodside and approached her again. She would rather have declined, but
a pleading glance from Paul persuaded her and she took Riley's hand,
sighing.

 

 

Some while later Paul concluded that Urchin was only interested in
watching and could safely be left to her own devices. He wandered around
the floor to the tape-recorder table, and there, after a dismal shuffle
in company with one of the older male patients, Natalie joined him.

 

 

"Thanks for sticking it out, Paul," she murmured. "Give it another
half-hour and I think it'll be okay. Twenty couples dancing seems to be
the break-even point; after that they unwind and actually enjoy it."

 

 

"Anyone else coming? Mirza, maybe?"

 

 

"Not after the Christmas dance, and I'm glad."

 

 

"How do you mean?"

 

 

"There was almost a free fight over who should have the next dance with
him. Weren't you there?"

 

 

"Er . . . no. Iris talked me into leaving early."

 

 

Natalie nodded. "Mirza's too damned handsome, that's the trouble. And
a wonderful dancer into the bargain. . . . But Holinshed's promised to
drop in. Should be here any minute."

 

 

A man came up and diffidently asked her for the next dance. Excusing
herself to Paul, she moved away.

 

 

For some time after that he just stood, lacking the willpower to do as
he knew he ought to and dance with two or three of the women. Holinshed
arrived and duly showed the flag, as he always called it, chatting with
elaborate condescension to the staff but too remote for the patients even
to address him. Paul was watching him from the far end of the room when
Sister Wells came up to him, gawky in a dress patterned with blue roses.

 

 

"There's a phone-call for you, Dr Fidler. It's your wife. Would you like
to take it in the ward office?"

 

 

-- Iris? What can she want on a Saturday night?

 

 

Puzzled, he walked into the office, shut the door to exclude the booming
music, and picked up the receiver.

 

 

"Iris?" he said neutrally.

 

 

"What on earth are you doing there?" the distant voice said. "I've been
calling and calling you at home! What's all that noise I can hear?"

 

 

"We've got a patients' dance on."

 

 

"Oh. Well, I want you to come and rescue me."

 

 

"What? Where are you?"

 

 

"Freezing to death on Blickham Station!"

 

 

"Well . . . ah . . . can't you get a taxi home?"

 

 

"Don't take me for one of your patients, will you?" Iris countered acidly.
"If I could get in when I got home there might be some point in using
a cab. But I left Bertie and Meg's in rather a hurry and I forgot my
door-key."

 

 

A sinking feeling developed in Paul's stomach.

 

 

-- I suppose I could; Natalie would cover for me, though I hate the idea
of asking. I could run into Blickham, drop her at home and come back,
all within the space of forty minutes. But . . . Damn it, I just don't
want to very much.

 

 

"Paul, are you there?" Iris demanded shrilly.

 

 

"Yes, of course. . . . Well, it's a bit awkward, you see. I'm on duty
tonight."

 

 

"All by yourself?" The words were charged with sarcasm. "Big deal! Anybody
would think you were one of the patients, the way they keep you in."

 

 

-- Oh my God. She can't possibly have found out about . . .? No, it's just
a cheap gibe. But am I going to do it, or not?

 

 

"If you'd let me know you were coming -- "

 

 

"I didn't know myself until four o'clock!"

 

 

-- There's a terrible blankness in my mind. I can think words but I
can't utter them. What I want to say is . . .

 

 

The door of the office slammed open and there was Sister Wells, gasping.

 

 

"Doctor,
quickly
!"

 

 

"What?" Paul covered the phone.

 

 

"It's Riley. There's going to be trouble."

 

 

"Right away!" He added, "Darling, there's an emergency. Hang on, I'll
be back in a moment."

 

 

"Never mind," Iris rasped. "I suppose I can break a window and climb in!"

 

 

"I'm sorry, but I
must
dash."

 

 

He dropped the receiver on the table, as if he expected to continue the
conversation, but the click of the connection being cut followed him
out of the office.

 

 

-- Now there'll be a row and she'll make out it's my fault but if she'd
let me know when she was coming home I could have arranged to swap duties
with someone and . . .

 

 

But all his private concerns evaporated the moment he entered the room
where the dance was being held. The scene was as fixed as a photograph.
Everyone had drawn back around the walls, cowering, except the two figures
in the centre of the floor: Nurse Woodside and Riley. The girl's face
was as white as chalk.

 

 

-- Small wonder.

 

 

For Riley had taken a bottle from the bar, smashed its end, and now held
the jagged neck poised like a knife.

 

 

Movement resumed. Natalie switched off the tape-recorder. Nurse Woodside
attempted to back away, but a threatening wave of the bottle froze her
again. Oliphant and another male nurse sidled past the jabbering patients,
trying to get out of Riley's field of vision and tackle him from behind.
But he was aware of this, and as they moved so did he, following the rim
of a circle with the miserable nurse at its centre. Seeming hypnotised,
she turned with him, always facing him.

 

 

"What happened?" Paul whispered to Sister Wells, gnawing her knuckles
beside him.

 

 

"I think he tried to kiss her and she wouldn't let him," Sister Wells
muttered. "So then he shouted something about making her, and went to
get that bottle, and that was when I fetched you."

 

 

Paul's eyes darted swiftly over the room. "Has Dr Holinshed gone?"

 

 

"A moment ago. I sent someone after him, but I think it was too late."

 

 

-- So it's up to me.

 

 

The thought was chilling; it seemed to congeal the progress of time.
At an immense distance he heard Riley's voice, wheedling: "Make your
mind up, Woodsy dear -- are you going to do it, or shall I make sure no
one ever wants to kiss you again?"

 

 

Paul took a deep breath, gestured to Oliphant to come forward with him,
and strode out to the middle of the floor with a sense of fatalistic
resignation. "Riley!" he snapped, and was infinitely relieved that his
words didn't come out thin and squeaky. "That's enough! Put that bottle
down -- and sweep up the mess you've made!" he added, inspiration coming
from the crunch of glass underfoot.

 

 

As though the interruption had broken a spell, Nurse Wooaside rolled
her eyes up in their sockets until the whites showed and slid fainting
to the floor.

 

 

"Scared of us, aren't you?" Riley taunted, and spun to confront Paul, the
bright sharp glass weaving in his hand. "Scared silly of us lunatics!
You make us bow and scrape and order us about, and all the time you're
pissing yourselves with fright in case we stop cringing. Come on then,
let's have you! Where's Lord Godalmightly Holinshed gone?"

 

 

-- Have to rush him. Nothing else for it. Do I have to be first? Come on,
somebody. Anybody? No, it must be me. . . .

 

 

Beyond Riley he saw Natalie inch cautiously forward. He felt a pang of
shame at standing still himself and his feet moved involuntarily. Taking
advantage of the distraction of Riley's attention, Oliphant made a
lumbering grab for the bottle. He was too slow. Riley dodged, jabbed --
and there was a red mark on Oliphant's knuckles, dripping.

 

 

Paul exclaimed and charged Riley. He missed the hold he was aiming for,
on the right arm, and knew at once it was a mistake to have come within
reach. Desperately he clawed at the younger man's clothes. His left hand
got a purchase on the sleeve of his jacket above the elbow, but Riley
had too much leverage; the grip lasted a heartbeat and was lost and the
round horrible end of the broken bottle like the rasping sucker of a leech
loomed vast as a tunnel before Paul's eyes. He had an instant to prepare
himself for pain, and thought with curious detachment of being blind.

 

 

-- So this is the moment when the other Paul Fidler and I become one: the
moment when the vision of the disastrous future moves from my imagination
into the real world. I've always known it had to come, some day, somehow.