The
door fell closed at her back, and ache1 blew out a loud breath of
relief, E.T. flung over and onto the bed as she crossed her room to the open
window.
Neither
achievement nor accomplishment, rather the plain acknowledging that with this
first meal taken in the hotel’s dining room (with the money all around, with
E.T. fat and brown and unhungry in the adjacent chair) she was adapting, coming
to accept her life as was.
She
stared out at the lit and unlit windows of the block opposite, welcomed the
sudden distraction of a group making their way around the courts below before
crossing the car park to their vehicle, the brief bubble of light extinguished
by the closing doors. Leaning out her window as far as possible, she watched
the car descend the main driveway until one of the trees obstructed her view of
its receding tail-lights.
ache1
(turning her head to E.T.): Get that: some people actually come here for a good
night out. Oh God...
and
then with some force
ache1:
GOD!
then
growled, sniffed hard and spat up into the night.
She shut
the window quickly, hopped fully around the room twice before punching channel
16 into the wall-mounted television set. Running her open fingers back through
her hair, she located a minute spot just above the hairline which she worried
with her nails until its tiny pain made her eyes water, and she found herself
staring into the lamplight to prompt out the sneeze.
Channel
16 was a dense snowscreen of black and white static lapping back across itself;
some nights she could not muster energy enough to even attempt its deciphering.
Her little porno menu assured her she was missing little.
Telephone.
ache1:
Uh-oh.
with
instant throwback schoolgirl anxieties of retribution, the stern voice
delivering
cog: We shall not tolerate such
behaviour in this establishment, and thus if you absolutely must shout
at your lungs’ capacity you will do so elsewhere
returning
through and into the ambience of discretion now essential to her existence.
She
collected the receiver to her ear.
cog:
Good evening madam we have a call for you.
ache1:
Thanks.
Brief
dead space, bated telephonics, and her breath blown back in a too-loud echo
from the mouthpiece.
ache1:
Hello?
and
again
ache1:
Hello?
and
this time
Doctor:
Hello, yes, finally.
ache1:
Hello? Who who’s that?
Doctor:
I’m a, I’m a doctor. I performed your your... your operation, and ehm, you left
before I could say goodbye.
She
could hear a clicking or ticking quite close in behind the voice, he was either
tapping his nails or a pencil or something upon a hard surface.
ache1:
Why are you calling me?
Doctor:
Well, I wanted to check that you’re okay. I like to
She
started to say something as his words ran on beneath her own.
ache1:
Look I don’t really think I should be talking to you. I’m sorry but I have to
Doctor:
What, you, has deleted
name forbidden you to
even speak, is that it? Is that the ehm, the, you’re ehm, is that it?
and
that was it, the shibboleth now out and spoken and vibrating around inside the
electronics between them.
Doctor:
I just thought I’d phone and see that you’re okay. Is that... I’m not, I
won’t... If you want to hang up I’m not forcing you
ache1:
I’m not dreaming.
Doctor
(mildly puzzled): What, this whole, no no, this
ache1:
No, I mean, I’m not dreaming. You know, when I’m, at night. I’m not having any
dreams. I haven’t had any dreams since just before the abortion.
She
felt the word over-emphasised, clicked her tongue in self-reproach.
Doctor:
Maybe you’re actually dreaming that you’re not dreaming..
She
did not collect on the reference to their previous conversation; at that time
this man had been just another part of the whole process, a rotating cog in the
ever-winding gears unlikely to crop up with concern only numbered days into
this resurgent life.
ache1:
How do you know I’m here?
Doctor:
So ehm... apart from that, is everything okay? You’re not eh...
experiencing any pain or discharge, bleeding, anything like that?
Pause.
ache1:
No. No.
Doctor:
Just the dreams, the absence of dreams.
ache1:
Yeah I... When I got here, the first couple of days I felt, I had bad cramp in
my guts and I was, it hahm
pulling
at her upper lip
ache1:
..I didn’t, I wasn’t sure if that was just the flight over, or if it was
connected, but I don’t fly too well, I don’t enjoy it.
Doctor:
Sorry what was that?
ache1:
I said I don’t fly, I’m not too good a flyer, I think that’s all that was, and
Doctor:
I would think if it’s gone now then you’re probably right yes. The
dreams I, I’m sure it’s just stress at, you’re in a... Are you settling into
things at
The
sudden high whooping of a car alarm detonated just below the window and ache1
felt the room collapse in tight around her.
ache1
(rapidly): Look ah, I have to go now. I, I don’t think this is such a
good idea, okay? I’m sorry, I have to go now.
A
few days later when still in immediate convalescence following the assault, she
received an airmail envelope addressed to her very ward in the hospital.
Inside, an old postcard of a dummy head bound into and choking upon some cruel
mouth-restraint, and on the reverse beneath the printed wording “An effective remedy once used at Lancaster.
Unfortunately this is now discontinued and would no doubt be beneficial if used
generally today.”, nothing.
