Exposure

  Then the first person who had spoken returned: a woman with an arid, rasping voice. She lifted up Helene’s head and held a plastic child’s beaker to her mouth.

  “Drink this.”

  The beaker forced Helene to take small sips, but at least most of the water went into her mouth, not dribbling out to form small pools on her chest.

  Exhausted, Helene allowed her head to fall back on the pillow and the light began to spool away from her; further and further until darkness engulfed her.

  She couldn’t tell how many hours later it was when she awoke again. Maybe days. This time her memory had been reconnected and woken up with her; she began to recall details from before: the cell, the voice, the interrogation, the pain binding her chest.

  The room was silent. Helene lay quietly trying to put all the pieces into place, sorting events in her mind. She wondered what had happened to Charlie, to Hank. She hoped they’d escaped. She thought they might have. Didn’t the voice say they had? She hoped that they weren’t in a hospital ward with needles stuck in their arms.

  Thinking of Charlie was painful, too. She closed her eyes against the memory but it flickered like an old cine film in her brain: the way his eyes sparkled when he was amused; the graceful way he moved; how terrifying he’d been when she thought he’d murder Bill.

  She wondered what was going to happen next, but whatever it was couldn’t be worse than the room with the voice.

  Helene’s brain skittered away from such raw memories: it was too soon to think about that… but the fear of that room continued to gnaw at her. The voice in that room. The silence stretched intolerably and Helene’s wild mind filled the vacuum with fear.

  Beyond the hospital ward was silence: no voices, no footsteps, no nurses looking harassed, no doctors on their rounds.

  Finally, Helene tried to sit up but the effort was beyond her. She could see a fresh beaker of water just out of reach. It was only inches from her outstretched fingers but it may as well have been on the moon.

  She let her body relax but her mind was now wide awake. What if no-one came? What if she was left here to die? What if nobody noticed? What if she wasn’t missed? How long would Mr Jenkin mow her lawn, tend her roses, collect her post? Would any of her friends notice the absence of her usual, hasty Christmas missives? Then she thought of Frank: he damn well would notice because he’d want his damn money back. My God, she thought, Frank might be the one person who ends up saving me!

  The thought was absurd: fat Frank squeezing himself into chainmail and charging in on an old nag to demand her release.

  Helene began to laugh: a hollow, breathless cackle.

  Footsteps. A door opened and Helene heard someone enter.

  “Awake again?” said the rasping voice.

  The woman came nearer, lifted Helene’s head and helped her to water once more.

  “Where am I?” Helene struggled to get out the words.

  “Prison ward,” replied the woman.

  “Where?” repeated Helene, confused.

  “Chowchilla, honey… Valley State Prison.”

  “Never… never heard of it,” said Helene, feeling more and more confused. “A prison hospital?”

  The woman looked at Helene curiously. “Hey! Where are you from? That’s one daisy of an accent you got yourself.”

  “I’m English,” said Helene weakly. “From England.”

  “Wow!” said the woman excitedly. “Did ja ever meet the Queen? She’s one helluva dame.”

  “No,” said Helene, trying to smile, despite the pain encircling her ribs.

  She forced herself upright and the woman’s brawny arms lifted her like a child, plumping up her pillows comfortably behind her.

  Helene looked around her: there were a dozen empty beds and windows high above her, barred. She tried to move her arms but found that the left one was handcuffed to the bed and the right one attached to a drip. She had been immobilised.

  The woman in front of her looked as tough as cowhide, her hair a harsh shade of yellow; long creases down her cheeks told of an equally harsh life. Her eyes were grey like tiny pebbles, but she didn’t look cruel.

  “My mother was invited to a tea party at Buckingham Palace once,” murmured Helene, “for services to the community.”

  It was the longest sentence she’d spoken in…what… days?

  “Wow!” said the woman again. “You wait till I tell the other gals in here: we’re all big fans of Queen Kate. She’s awesome.”

  Helene tried to focus on what she needed to know. “I need to speak to someone in charge,” she said. “I’m being held against my will.”

  “Honey,” said the woman sympathetically, “we’re all being held against our will. No-one signs up for stir: well, maybe a few crazies, but I ain’t one o’ them.”

  Helene closed her eyes. The throb between her eyes made it hard to think clearly.

  “How’d you get here anyway?” said the woman thoughtfully. “I ain’t never heard of no British broad being in here.”

  “I… I don’t know,” said Helene. “I was being questioned. They had a machine and… and”

  Helene’s voice faltered.

  “That’s okay, honey,” said the woman, almost kindly. “I…”

  At that moment the man in the white coat came back.

  “That’s enough chit-chat, Chavez,” barked the man. “Get back to your rounds.”

  The woman left without another word. The man in a white coat took her place. A doctor.

  “What’s happened to me?” said Helene. “I remember some…”

  “Just lie back,” said the doctor briefly and without sentiment. “You’ve had a myocardial infarction: a heart attack. You’ve lost about 15% of your heart muscle function. Permanently. Not too much to worry about – most people don’t use it all anyway except maybe a few top athletes. You should make a good recovery: you’re not in bad shape for your age, considering.”

  He paused.

  “We couldn’t find any medical records for you: where were you before Chowchilla? There must have been some mix up – it happens. At the moment we’ve been treating you as a Jane Doe until your notes arrive…”

  Helene stared at him. “Am I in prison? That woman said it was a prison ward…”

  The doctor shifted uneasily. “Temporary memory loss isn’t unusual after an infarction. How long have you been on Beta Blockers?”

  Helene shook her head dully.

  “I’ve never been on Beta Blockers. It was that bloody machine that gave me a heart attack: they kept shocking me – electric shocks.”

  The doctor sat down next to her and spoke quietly, almost kindly, but maybe there was a warning in his voice, too.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about but you’d better be careful who you tell that story to,” he said softly. “Look, tell me your name and I’ll try to get the paperwork sorted out.”

  “My name is Helene La Borde,” she whispered. “I’m a journalist. I was in Carmel investigating a… fraud when I was taken and questioned. I think it was the NSA. They tortured me. They…”

  The doctor laid his hand on her shoulder to calm her growing agitation.

  “You know, there are some drugs that can give patients vivid nightmares: dreams that are so awful but seem completely real. It’s not unusual for patients to believe that care givers have tortured them. I don’t have your notes here but if you were treated with some blood pressure pills that could…”

  Helene tried to shake her head but the effort was exhausting.

  “I’ve never been on blood pressure pills. Never. My name is Helene La Borde,” she said again, more insistently. “I’m a journalist. Just Google my name and photo – you’ll find me…”

  The ward door clanged open.

  “We’ll take it from here, doctor,” said an authoritative voice. “I specifically ordered that I be informed the moment this patient regained consciousness.”

  “What’s going on?” said the doctor, standing
up. “Who are you people?”

  One of the men in suits flashed a badge. It was impossible to tell what it said or which agency it represented.

  “Who do you work for?” said the doctor, crossing his arms.

  “None of your damn business,” snarled a woman’s voice.

  Helene blanched: it was the voice.

  “All you need to know is that we’re taking this prisoner to another location. Get her ready for transfer.”

  “I can’t do that!” said the doctor, starting to raise his voice. “This is my patient, I am her physician and I’m telling you she’s not fit to be moved. She’s recovering from…”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what she’s recovering from,” hissed the voice. “Get her ready to be moved, or you’ll find your licence to practice has expired and you’ll be collecting welfare cheques.”

  The doctor’s voice quavered but he tried once more. “I need to know where she’s being taken – for my records.”

  The tall woman in a dark suit loomed over Helene. “She’s being taken to a nursing home,” said the woman – the woman from the cell – the voice.

  Helene gasped: from shock, from recognition, from fear.

  “Not Warm Creek,” she cried. “Don’t send me there!”

  The tall woman frowned in irritation. “Someone shut this bitch up.”

  The doctor looked horrified – and scared, too.

  “But Warm Creek is a home for dementia sufferers,” he said. “It’s not a secure facility and this patient shows no signs of dementia… This is most irregular…”

  “Don’t let them take me!” begged Helene, grabbing hold of his sleeve.

  Her voice was shrill, the panic etched on her face.

  The doctor stared down at her, the horrified expression frozen on his face, his eyes dark with concern.

  The woman stepped forward and slapped her hard; Helene fell back onto the pillow. The doctor called out, trying to fold himself over Helene to protect her. He was restrained by two of the suits and escorted from the ward, still shouting, appalled and powerless.

  “We can’t take her to Warm Creek now,” said one of the men.

  The tall woman shook her head impatiently.

  “Just get her there for now, then we’ll arrange to transfer her to our facility on the East Coast.”

  The man ducked away, throwing one final look towards the ugly scene as the tall woman seated herself comfortably on Helene’s bed.

  “Our last chance for a little chat,” she said, staring into Helene’s petrified eyes. “You know what we can do – what we will do unless you cooperate.”

  “I… I’ve told you everything I know,” whispered Helene. “For God’s sake! Don’t do this!”

  “Where were you going to meet your accomplices? What were they planning to do?”

  Helene shook her head dumbly.

  “You know,” said the woman conversationally as she stood up, smoothing down her suit jacket, “I don’t normally take much interest in vermin like you once I’ve passed you on to another facility, but in your case…” She pushed her face into Helene’s “…in your case, I think I’ll come visit just to watch you drool and shit your shorts.”

  A frightened looking nurse entered the ward, a syringe in her hand. The suit woman pushed past her and left.

  “I’m so sorry…” whispered the nurse.

  She injected something into the drip and seconds later Helene was out cold.

  Chapter 24

  Bright colours swirled around Helene’s head. She squeezed her eyes shut but the colours kept colliding behind the lids and a terrible roaring in her ears was deafening.

  She was an orange, a huge, juicy orange, and the hands were trying to squeeze the juice out of her. They kept squeezing and squeezing and the pressure was all over her. Squeezing and squeezing, now trying to squeeze the pips out of her. The noise in her head increased with the pressure: she tried to put her hands over her ears to block out the noise but she couldn’t move her hands. It was as if her hands had lead bars attached to them; she couldn’t lift them, couldn’t move any part of herself. There were spiders in her hair, trapped, scrabbling around. Spiders in her ears, in her nose, scuttling over her eyelids.

  She tried to cry out, but only a low moan escaped. A dribble of saliva glistened from one corner of her mouth. Tears stung her eyes. She almost knew what was happening to her.

  * * * *

  “Nurse Gillan?” called a voice.

  Patience groaned softly. She’d been looking forward to a quiet evening with her soaps. She didn’t like watching the news: the misery was far too humdrum and familiar, but on the soaps, sorrow was presented in day-glow colours – much easier to digest, especially given her present job.

  She didn’t mind working at the Warm Creek Nursing Home: she treated the residents with a benign practicality that bordered on thoughtfulness. She prided herself on her attention to detail. She was the one who noticed if a resident had a toothache, or dry eyes because of their drug regime, or if they weren’t eating, or eating too much.

  Most of the residents didn’t talk, and when they did communicate it rarely made sense, so someone like Patience was an asset for the true well-being of the people she helped. Not that it made any difference to her pay-check, but it was almost enough that her pride made her do her work well.

  Every fifth week Patience took her turn on the nightshift. Most of the carers and nurses didn’t like working the graveyard shift because their sleeping patterns got all messed up, but Patience didn’t mind: she didn’t sleep much anyway so it was all much of a muchness to her.

  Most nights would pass fairly peacefully: the residents were medicated early in the evening to help them sleep. After that, all most of them could manage were the shouts resulting from night terrors and some helpless twitching. Usually it was quiet.

  Which was why Patience was surprised and annoyed to be disturbed that Wednesday night.

  “Nurse Gillan?”

  It was Miz Preston who was calling her. She was the night manager: a thin, chilly but efficient nurse. None of the staff liked her much, but she was respected.

  So Patience responded just a fraction more quickly than she would have done if it had been Mr Buzzerd, the day manager, who called her.

  “Yas, Miz Preston?” said Patience.

  “We’ve got a new patient coming in tonight, Nurse Gillan.”

  A smile twitched at the corner of Patience’s mouth. All the staff were required to call the inmates of Warm Creek ‘residents’ instead of ‘patients’ but Miz Preston had always ignored the directive. She wasn’t one to pander to political correctness.

  “A new patient?” echoed Patience. “We don’t usually get them coming in so late.”

  “No, we don’t,” said Miz Preston. “And I’m not happy about it: they’re sending us a patient with no paperwork. They say it’ll come in the morning, but I’m not happy about it: not happy at all. Still, we must do what we can to prepare for her arrival. Could you make up room 113, please?”

  Patience nodded. “I’ll stop by the supplies cupboard and get the room fitted out until we know whether she’s coming with her own furniture and linen.”

  Miz Preston was pleased that it was Patience who was on duty: she followed instructions but was also able to think for herself – something Miz Preston valued in a care assistant, and Nurse Gillan was a first-class helper.

  Patience looked around 113. Until recently it had been the home of Biff Cooper: an old time rodeo rider who looked as if he belonged on the plains, even at 93. He’d been one of Patience’s favourite patients: a sweet old man with hands like saddle leather and thick, white hair that grew in wayward clumps. He used to get Patience confused with his daughter Maude. An unflattering comparison for both women, as Maude was pushing 70, thin as a rake and white; whilst Patience was 50, built for comfort and black. Maude declared that her father was a much nicer man now he had dementia: as a father he had been neglectful, distant and with
a volcanic temper. Dementia had softened his edges and made him loving and grateful. Any female who showed him kindness was called Maude. Patience never stopped being surprised at the different ways in which a damaged brain continued to work.

  When Biff died, Patience had been sorry. Several Warm Creek staff had attended his funeral. Maude was there with her scrawny, underfed husband, but the star of the show had been another old boy in full Western regalia with a loaded six-shooter that he proceeded to fire over Biff’s grave. It was a better send off than most folks got, that was for sure.

  Now the room had been stripped of his memories: photos of Biff’s glory days, rodeo posters and an old, yellowing picture of Maude as a child with the same wild, clumpy hair, forced into awkward braids, scowling out at the camera. His rocking chair had been donated to the day room, so now the room was emptied of character: only an unmade bed, empty dresser and old wardrobe remained. Patience didn’t know what had happened to the pictures. She hoped Maude had wanted to keep them.

  Patience wheeled a small, trolley table from the storeroom and found a roll of drawer liners that smelled faintly of roses. Carefully she lined the empty dresser drawers and left the wardrobe door ajar to let it air. Then she made up the bed with clean, white sheets; made sure the bed’s restraint straps were functioning and correctly positioned. She checked the en-suite bathroom was stocked with shampoo, conditioner, soap and, because the new arrival was a woman, a pot of face cream. Patience believed that keeping things as close to normal as possible helped new arrivals to settle in more easily, thus making the carers’ job easier, too.

  Then she went to report that she’d finished.

  Miz Preston was standing outside in front of the main door. Patience joined her and together they stood in silence, watching the stars and waiting for the new patient.

  The air was so still they heard the ambulance when it was some distance away. A wheelchair stood at one side of the reception area in case it was needed. Nobody had informed the Warm Creek staff whether or not the patient would be mobile, sedated or restrained. You had to be ready for either/or and Miz Preston prided herself on ensuring all events could be catered for promptly.