Chapters
Chapter One - October 18th
-- I --
James had never understood the obsession people had with the dark bags beneath their eyes until they appeared beneath his own. They’d shocked him when he first noticed them, as if they’d arrived overnight. Yet they were also ingrained, comfortable in their position. He didn’t remember his eyes appearing so sunken before. The dark hue of the skin below them resembling week-old bruises, as if he’d gone ten rounds in an alleyway brawl and lost every single one. He moved closer to the diner’s bathroom mirror, trying to make out his reflection among the water spots that pervaded the reflective surface. He touched the puffy skin with delicate fingertips, hoping to smudge the bruised colour away. Despite his efforts, the bags remained.
The exploratory glare of his own reflection revealed a face he scarcely recognised. With reluctant resignation, he accepted their presence, adding them to the ever-increasing list of signs that he was getting older. The list reeled through his mind, an unintentional and torturous affair that brought awareness to the tiredness that flared throughout his body. The now familiar ache matured at his weakest areas, an uncomfortable heat spreading through his joints and lower back like an oil spill through seawater. A small grunt of exertion folded itself around an exhale as the burden of his body weighed at his patience. He was too young to feel so old.
He splashed a handful of water on his face and reached for the nearby paper towel dispenser. His fingers explored the opening. It was empty. With a sigh, James used the bottom of his t-shirt to dry his dripping face, an upside down approximation of his features soaking the white material as he left the bathroom.
From the outside, the Triple Dot Diner resembled an overlong but soft-edged rectangular trailer. Adorned by the buzzing neon sign that declared its name, the shimmering silver behemoth sat apart from the surrounding buildings, both in distance and design. Its thirty-year-old aesthetic continued within. Its now retro feel was once again popular among the town’s younger population. The counter lay at one end, huddled before the kitchen as if seeking warmth from the grills. A row of stools sat beside it, screwed into the floor at unequal distances from one another, the annoyance of such poor installation long since diminished in the eyes of the regulars. At the opposite end were the booths, and it was here that James found his daughter in her usual space.
The girl was a miniature version of her mother in almost every aspect. All except for the tangled mess of brunette curls that cascaded around her head and shoulders. Its colour was the only part of himself that James saw in his daughter. At times, it made him sad, but of late he enjoyed seeing a mini replication of his wife every day. He stared at her for a moment as she excitedly talked at the owner of the diner, Diane. She’d mistakenly started a conversation with the girl and was now trapped in a serious lecture she undoubtedly had little interest in. Despite this, Diane stood with the practised patience of someone used to dealing with excitable children and offered input whenever the child paused long enough to take a breath. The early afternoon hour and the lack of other customers meant the girl could co-opt her time with ease, and it was only the sight of James that released her from the one-sided conversation.
“Did you pee?” his daughter squealed, her finger pointing at the damp shirt that hung out of his jeans. Diane followed the accusatory finger, her eyes drifting to James’s crotch as he sidled into the booth.
“Paper towels out again?” Diane asked. Although she knew the truth, James noticed the small smirk on her lips as his daughter let out a gleeful giggle. “Penny was telling me all about the adventures of … what was it? Something Squirrel?”
“Colin Squirrel. Dad and I finished it last night,” Penny declared with a gap-toothed smile.
“It’s her favourite, isn’t that right, Beetle?” James said, his affectionate nickname for his daughter slipping out.
“Second favourite,” Penny corrected. “The Grimm’s Fairytales is now my most favourite.”
Diane raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t they the gruesome ones with all the violence?”
“They are. Which is why I haven’t read them to her. Despite what she may say to the contrary,” James said. “As I’ve already told you, we can read it when you’re older.”
“But I am older since the last time I asked,” Penny whined.
“Yes … by three days.”
Penny poked her tongue out at her father and James responded in kind, pushing the diner’s overlarge menu towards his daughter. With tongue retracted, she took up the laminated sheet.
James turned back to Diane. “Just the usual for me, please. What about you kiddo?”
Penny set the menu down, went to speak, noticed something else, and lifted it back up, obscuring her face.
“Guessing you’re on shift tonight, then?” Diane said.
“I am indeed. Thought I would treat this one before dropping her off with Mrs Nightingale.”
A small howl escaped the little girl’s mouth. “Noooooo.”
“You know the deal, little bug. When I have to work nights, you go to Mrs Nightingale’s. I thought you liked her, anyway.”
“She’s okay I s’pose.” She turned her attention away from the menu and to Diane. “But she likes to torture me.”
“Torture you?” Diane gasped with a melodramatic flare.
“Yep. She only has one video in the whole entire house and she puts it on every time I go over. I have seen it like a million million times already. It is the one with all the puppets who talk to you from inside the telly.”
“She gives you cookies, though,” James said.
“Ah yeah. Cookies!” The little girl’s demeanour changed in an instant and her faux-frown vanished.
“Do you know what you want to eat?” James asked.
“Oh. Right. Yeah. I would liiiiiike …” She paused for a moment as she quickly glanced at the menu.“Waffles please.”
“Breakfast for dinner. An excellent choice, little madam,” Diane said. “And to drink?”
“Chocolate milkshake.”
“Please,” nagged James.
“Chocolate milkshake please. With all the toppings and cream,” corrected Penny.
“A perfect accompaniment indeed,” Diane said, having not noticed the apparent rude manners of the small child. “Should be with you in about ten. From the sounds of the kitchen, Earl put the patty on the moment you walked in. He may treat you to his most burnt burger yet.”
“Just how I like it,” James said.
Diane gave a small shake of her head as she walked away, muttering something about taste. James didn’t hear her as Penny began to monologue about Colin Squirrel again.
The food arrived as Penny concluded her sermon. Diane was quick to escape the little girl’s attempt to drag her into another conversation, feigning a reply to an otherwise unheard call from Earl in the kitchen.
Ignoring the cutlery, Penny picked up one of her waffles with her hands and took as big a bite as the restrictions of her mouth would allow. She closed her eyes as she chewed with unrestrained glee. As she did, James lifted the top half of his bun, removed the burger-sized disc of tomato that sat atop his adequately charcoaled meat, and placed it to one side before returning the bun and taking an equally large bite out of his own food. The pair caught sight of one another, Penny with syrup on her cheeks, and James with burger grease on his. Neither stopped to clean themselves as they took another bite.
They consumed the meal in concentrated silence, Penny pausing only once to detach a strand of hair that had adhered itself to a sticky patch of syrup on her cheek. Shoving in the last of his burger, James checked his watch. An expletive leaked around the half-masticated mouthful.
“Language,” Penny scalded as her face dropped. “Is it time for you to go to work?”
“I’m afraid so. Finish y—” James fell silent as Penny shoved the entirety of her remaining waffle into her mouth, her inflated cheeks resembling those of an ambitious hamster. “—Okay then.” James pulled a few notes from his pocket and placed them on the table. “Time for us to go.”
Mrs Nightingale heard the car arrive and waited at the front door for James and Penny. She held herself in a particular way as she waited, giving the impression of someone wizened and old before their time. She exuded a comfortable aura that reminded James of his childhood home. He felt at peace in her presence and often treated her as a maternal figure, despite there only being a fourteen year age gap between them. This, among many other reasons, was why James trusted her with his daughter.
Mrs Nightingale watched the pair approach. A warm smile illuminated her face, a stark contrast to the worried frown on James’s.
“I’m sorry we’re late. I lost—” James began.
“Lost track of time. I thought as much,” Mrs Nightingale finished. “Hello Beetle. How are you today?” James’s nickname for his daughter had naturally extended to her over the years. She was the only other person allowed to call her by it.
“I’ve eaten waffles!” Penny blurted, the sugar having fully taken effect on the drive over.
“How wonderful. I assume you are too full for some cookies, then?”
“Nuh uh.”
“Use your words please, kiddo.”
“Sorry. Mrs Nightingale, I would very much like some cookies. Thank you, please.” Penny’s words morphed together with the speed of her utterance, the aftermath of her waffle-based dinner allowing her to ascend to a more energetic plane of existence.
“Alright then. There’s a plate on the kitchen table. If you take it into the front room, we can watch your favourite video together.”
James didn’t have to look at his daughter to know her reaction. He smiled as he lowered himself to her height, taking Penny in his arms. As they parted, he placed a hand against her cheek, the syrup thankfully no longer present.
“I’ll be back before you wake up.” He said these words too often for his own liking.
“Promise?”
“Promise. Now go, eat as many cookies as you can.”
The girl all but sprinted across the threshold and to the kitchen, an excitable squeal sounding upon her arrival.
“You baked a fresh batch?” James asked as he stood, his knees clicking.
“Of course,” Mrs Nightingale said with a nod.
“That’s very kind.”
“It’s no bother. Baking keeps me young.”
“And chasing after Beetle ages us all.” The pair shared a small laugh as Penny carried the plate from the kitchen, moving with such delicate precision that not a single cookie dropped from the warm and gooey pile.
“I know you’re going to say that you are fine, but—” the woman began.
“I am fine. And I’m late,” James interrupted.
“I knew you were going to say that, too.”
“I’ll be back to pick her up first thing tomorrow morning to take her to school.”
“Straight from your shift? Are you sure? You know I don’t mind taking her.”
“I know. But I enjoy doing it. Seeing her in the morning will make tomorrow easier, too,” James admitted.
“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then. Be safe, okay?”
“Always try to be.”
The worry on Mrs Nightingale’s face was plain to see. Had James been standing closer, she might have given him a sympathetic squeeze of the arm or even a hug. He retreated to the car before she could.
The road snaked away from the town through the dense forest that surrounded Loveridge Falls. It was a pleasant commute, even beautiful if the weather was nice. The trees gave the route a mystical quality, as if plucked from the very book of fairy tales James had denied Penny from reading, an association made greater by the appearance of the road signs.
Dead end.
Do not pick up hitchhikers.
Authorised personnel and pre-approved visitors only.
No visitors outside pre-arranged times.
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
One of the more literate local children had erected the last sign several months earlier, and no one had taken the time to remove it. At first, it had amused James greatly. Now, he could not help but see it as an accurate warning.
The outer security perimeter emerged after a bend in the road, lurching from behind a purposely overgrown bush, as if to scare away anyone foolish enough to attempt access. A thick iron gate obstructed the road, its interlaced bars reminiscent of a prison cell. Stretching over fifteen feet high and topped with razor-sharp wire, the gate connected to an equally deadly fence that looped around the entire perimeter of the property.
James slowed his car to a stop beside the squat checkpoint hut, the disgruntled engine ticking audibly under the exertion. With effort, James cranked the window open enough to pass over his identification card, authentication documents, and work permit to the waiting guard.
He’d owned the same car for just over a decade, having purchased it shortly after learning to drive, and had worked on the site for as long as Beetle had been alive, having applied for the job in the weeks following the positive pregnancy test. Despite this, he was still subject to a comprehensive inspection every time he entered and exited the compound.
As he filled in the documents, the guard inspected the underside of the car, the inner footwells, and the trunk. Once complete, the guard ushered James through the gate and towards the building at the compound’s centre.
The structure was Gothic in both style and design, book-ended by peaked towers that gave it a horned appearance. The many barred and reinforced windows in its facade gave the illusion of eyes overlooking the tongue-like road that led to the structure’s mouth, an entryway guarded by thick oak doors.
James shivered, which was odd. Although his workplace elicited certain reactions from him, it had never made him shiver before. The internal temperature of the car was an unlikely culprit. It had been annoyingly warm ever since Penny had broken off a knob a year earlier. He tried not to dwell on the sensation as he pulled his sullen vehicle into a free parking space. His shift would be normal, a normal shift for a normal day within Loveridge Falls Asylum for the Criminally Insane.
-- II --
The main reception area was reminiscent of a forlorn general practitioner’s surgery. Complete with uncomfortable plastic chairs and children’s toys covered in lead paint.
There were only a handful of visitors today, James noted, casting his eyes across them. Like moths with a flame, their faces focused on the solitary television monitor bolted in the upper corner of the room. Primarily lit by the flickering light of the screen, they all appeared like corpses. The asylum had that effect on people not used to its ambiance. It drained them, aged them, made their skin pallid. A perfect audience for the infomercial that played on a continuous loop.
The video was short, a few minutes at most, and was the only form of entertainment in place for those who came to visit the depraved residents. With no out-of-date magazines to flick through, and no personal items allowed within the building, it was no wonder the visitors stared at the grainy dust-covered screen. Their only other option was to consider the surroundings they found themselves in, and doing that was definitely not advisable.
The guard at the reception desk greeted James with a grunt and tossed him a clipboard.
“Late again McCartney,” he grumbled.
James did not have the patience to deal with the guard’s poorly veiled aggression and so set about completing the sign-in sheet in silence.
Sitting at an impressive eight pages, the sheet and attached disclaimers were the final laborious hurdle that James needed to complete before he could start work. As he scratched his name with a pen that was soon to run out of ink, a whirr vibrated from the television set. The inbuilt video rewound to the start, and after a brief pause, played again.
A young man walked silently into the shot, a banner along the bottom declaring him to be Samuel Cutter, Founder and Warden. The image on screen, recorded many years prior, no longer matched the inflated and balding warden, who now spent his days scouring through old leather-bound journals. The grainy picture flickered and twitched, a permanent line bisecting it so each half was out of line with its kin. After a few seconds, a small fanfare reported from the speakers, quickly followed by footsteps, and the warden’s introductory speech. Out of sync and cleaved in two, the video desperately needed updating.
James mouthed silently along as he continued the paperwork, his whispered words matching each cadence and accented lilt in Samuel Cutter’s voice.
“Introductory video”
Signed off by Samuel Cutter
INT. WARDEN’S OFFICE – DAY
Open on Warden’s Office, desk in centre frame. Wooden plaque declaring Warden visible. Samuel enters the screen from RIGHT and smiles at the camera as the official anthem of the asylum plays.
(N.B. Remind Carol to commission this. See if we can get the same band who did Frosted Flakes).
Samuel leans against his desk, withdraws his pipe from his pocket, and lights it.
SAMUEL
Oh hello. I didn’t see you there.
I was just enjoying a puff on Brentwood
brand tobacco, the best tobacco north
of the savage lands.
Samuel takes a puff of his pipe.
(N.B. Make sure he doesn’t grimace this time).
SAMUEL cont.
Mmm hmm. Now that is good smokin’.
I would like to welcome you all to the
Loveridge Falls Behavioural Health and
Wellbeing Hospital of Excellence, specialising
in the care and rehabilitation of those of
unsound mind and insane tendencies.
Follow me as we take a tour of this
excellent facility.
Samuel stands, pockets the pipe, and exits LEFT.
INT. INMATE HOUSING – DAY
Samuel enters from RIGHT, and moves to stand before one of the cells within inmate housing, leaning against the bars. An inmate (N.B. An actor will be used in place of an inmate. DO NOT USE AN ACTUAL INMATE) can be seen lying on a cot in the background.
SAMUEL cont.
Although this facility has a long history
of caring for those most in need, like our
friend here, this building was not always
used in such a way. Much like our patients,
the history of this hospital, and the very
town it sits beside, has a checkered past.
The INMATE sits up from the cot.
INMATE
It sure does Mr Cutter, sir.
SAMUEL
Why, [N.B. Insert name of an actual inmate
here. But, again, DO NOT USE THE
ACTUAL INMATE]. Fancy seeing you here.
The pair share a laugh. The INMATE stands and comes to rest against the bars of the cell so their face is visible through the gap.
INMATE
I hear tell that this here hospital
was built by your very father
Mr Cutter, sir. And that its original
purpose had some, dare I
say it, nefarious intent.
SAMUEL
I am not ashamed to say that you are
right dear [Inmate Name]. Many believe
I should be, but to say that I am ashamed
of this building is to say that I am ashamed
of this town. I love this town, and its people,
too much to let the sins of the past ruin the
possibility of a beautiful future.
The INMATE wipes a tear from their eye and holds out a hand to Samuel, who shakes it with pleasure.
INMATE
That sure is wonderful to be
hearing from you Mr Cutter, sir.
After the handshake, Samuel exits LEFT, the INMATE watches him leave.
EXT. ASYLUM ENTRANCE – DAY
Samuel exits through the main doors and approaches the camera.
SAMUEL
I shall not shy away from the sins of my father.
It is because of this gruesome origin that I saw
fit to repurpose the family land into the
impeccable facility you see before you.
After a full refurbishment, the Loveridge Falls
Behavioural Health and Wellbeing Hospital of
Excellence opened its doors in the year of our
lord 1947, and my father was its very first
patient. I am pleased to say that, after more
than a decade of treatment, my father is doing
well and is sorry for the pain that he caused.
I truly believe that even from troubled
beginnings, something good can blossom and
grow. That is our ethos here at
the hospital. By creating a safe and controlled
environment, we can rehabilitate those of
unsound mind and insane tendencies to
become upstanding members of society
once again.
I am Warden Samuel Cutter. Welcome to
the Loveridge Falls Behavioural Health and
Wellbeing Hospital of Excellence.
[END]
The screen cut to black, the tape rewound, and the recorded Samuel Cutter once again entered his office from stage right as James completed the form. The guard snatched the clipboard and nodded to the staff entrance behind him. A loud mechanical buzz issued from the door and it popped ajar, the guard having pressed a hidden button beneath the desk. James passed the gargoyle without a word and moved through the doorway. It clunked shut behind him, cutting off the tinny sounds of Warden Cutter.
The changing room was empty except for one other orderly, Halliday.
“Late again,” he said. The saying had almost become a catchphrase whenever James entered a room. He imagined a studio audience laughing and whooping upon hearing it.
“I’m sorry. I lo—”
“Lost track of time. I know. I know,” Halliday finished. The imagined studio audience applauded as James moved to his locker and changed into his uniform.
“So, stuff you need to know. The new kid spent most of the day screaming – not unexpected given the cold turkey, but annoying all the same. Mrs La-dee-dah spent the day getting glam with her commissary haul, preaching that some long-lost love was coming to see her. No one showed. No one had even scheduled, but she didn’t listen. She’s off crying in the corner of her room, but I’m sure she’ll settle a bit when she realises you’re on shift.” He gave a small chuckle, a gruff hyuk hyuk sound, its implication plainly felt by James. “The Piss Brains have been quiet all day, which means they’re probably plotting something. So, watch out for that. Oh, and the warden chickened out and cancelled the writer that was s’pose to be coming again. Which means Sanders owes me ten bucks.”
“Sounds like a pretty normal shift,” James said.
“Ain’t no such thing,” Halliday called back as he left the changing room.
Almost fully dressed, James reached for the last of his equipment: his radio and stun baton. The stun baton was a recent acquisition and little more than a repurposed retractable cattle-prod. Warden Cutter had purchased them at the end of the tax year, the expense apparently needed to ensure similar returns the following year. James had questioned why the remaining money couldn’t go towards the annual staff bonuses, but the excuses given were so convoluted that he’d given up. He didn’t like the baton. None of the orderlies did. In fact, he was all but certain that no one wore them. Samuel never checked, and they’d managed well enough without them in the past. James attached his radio to his belt and left the baton behind.
According to the schedule, James was to start his shift in the control room, picking up where Halliday left off. He revelled in this small mercy. Exhaustion clung to him like grime, and sitting alone for a few hours would help him succumb to the misery of the job.
The chair creaked beneath his weight as he orientated himself before the monitors, scanning the screens with lackadaisical reluctance. Everything appeared to be running smoothly.
With a long shift ahead, James turned on the small radio beside the monitors. Halliday had purchased it from the electrical shop before it had closed down. Even the everything must go prices had done little to save the business. The radio was a cheap piece of shit, but it did the job.
An old blues riff floated from the device, the crackle of aged vinyl issuing from the tinny speakers as the song came to an end and the host started their next link.
“Koko Taylor. Willie Dixon. Insane Asylum. A musical pair like no other with a song that’s sure to get your manacles a’rattlin’. The chains of your confinement are no match for a blues riff such as this. Whilst its appearance on the airwaves may scream of indelicacy, given the context of your lives within this little nowhere town, you cannot dismiss the poignancy of its melancholia. And for those who disagree, feel free to send your letters of complaint my way. You can find me in the station overlooking the town. Impossible to miss. Always watching. However, I feel I must warn you, participating in such an activity would revoke your admittance to the best show in town. Think before you let your baser judgements flourish to the page.
“Now, for those still loyal to the broadcast and its enigmatic host, get comfortable. There is plenty more to come in these quickly darkening hours now that dusk has staked its claim ‘cross the land. The light has faltered, my fellow woodland whisperers, and soon the night shall be queen. As you huddle together in the imagined safety of this town, I’d like to offer a warm hello to you, the listener, no matter if you are just beginning your journey with us this evening, or if you are one of my avid frequency followers who keep their dial tuned to Loveridge Falls Public Radio. This is the Theodora Lynch Show and I am your chaperone through the noise of reality. Make sure to stay listening, for those who continue to demonstrate their devotion shall reap untold rewards when the end of days finally comes. You will become legion, and I will be your ruler. But before that happens, let’s hear from one of our long time sponsors.
“On Main Street stands a gateway to uncharted realities, a realm where the extraordinary is commonplace, and the mundane does not exist. It is a dimension filled with narratives – tales of love and anguish, of swashbucklers and frontiersmen, and little green men from the dark and endless recesses of space. Should you step through this portal to the beyond, you will find yourself within Loveridge Falls premier cineplex. Here, you can partake in the latest cinematic releases and procure sweet indulgences to fuel your odyssey through the countless dimensions that await you… in The Serling.
“My indentured thanks to all the staff at the local cineplex for their continued support of my show. The Serling may be the only cinema in town, but that does not stop it from being the best.
“Listeners, I received word from a rather cognisant crossroads colleague regarding the upcoming presidential elections. You may believe the future of this country hangs on your so-called democratic duty, but I am here to tell you that it does not. Do you truly believe that those in power would be affected by the apparent will of the Vox Populi? If so, you have not been paying attention. A deal has long since been made. The actor will take centre stage and the farmer can return to his peanuts. I find the whole process intriguing, ironic really, but in a way you are yet to truly understand. Why are you allowing these ‘elected’ officials to speak for you? Does the fact that they’re male and white give them the right to sell everything you hold dear for their own personal gain? Sure, other entities may also prosper. But for many of you, it would be as if the world itself ended. It does not take an omniscient narrator to see that democracy will ultimately fail you. We shall have to keep an eye on proceedings and, worst of all, hope that someone does what needs to be done.
“Taking a look at the poor excuse for a local newspaper, I see that, hidden amongst the gratuitous grammar gaffes, is some passable prose regarding the recent paper-based poetry competition that someone with an ounce of creativity has called the Sawmill Serenades. It must have been the job of a new intern as we at the Theodora Lynch Show know for a fact how little imagination one editor-in-chief actually has. Yes, I am talking about you again, Mark! The world at your feet and you choose an advancement in your career. Granted, you would never have gotten there on your own, but you could have at least shown a little more originality. Perhaps ask the intern that came up with Sawmill Serenades for advice, or better yet, get them to give me a visit. Who knows what opportunities may await th—”
The radio on James’s belt bleeped, and a voice stumbled from it. “McCartney. Do you have eyes in the sky? Over.”
James clicked off the ramblings of Theodore Lynch and scanned the monitors before him, catching sight of the guard on the other end of the line. Sanders. “Fancy a game of I Spy or something? Over,” he replied into the two-way.
“More like Hide-and-go-seek,” Sanders said, giving the camera a small wave. “The lady of leisure has pissed off on a wander and we don’t have a visual. I would go hunting, but we’re getting ready to move the new kid. Over.”
James clicked through the camera feeds, finding the person in question with ease. “The madam has sequestered herself in the interview room, of all places. Leave it to me. I’ll get her. You focus on the newbie. Over.”
“Fuck sake,” Sanders said with a sigh. “Well, when she’s somewhere she’s actually allowed to be, come to inmate housing. I think we’re going to need all the help we can get with this one. Out.”
-- III --
His moments in the control room hadn’t been long enough to refill his patience, especially to the amount required to deal with this particular inmate. But she was out of bounds, and that needed rectifying as soon as possible. It made sense for James to go. He was her favourite orderly, after all.
Two security doors later and James was standing in the inmates’ section of the floor. There was no protection left between him and them. Not that they would risk attacking an orderly. But just because it hadn’t happened yet, didn’t mean it never would. Part of his annual training was to prepare for such an outcome. Yet stepping onto the floor always caused a flutter of anxiety in his stomach.
Many of the building’s original features had been unaltered during the renovations, allowing the asylum to retain the Gothic aesthetic of the original design. James found the ornate alcoves and carved figureheads eerie given the new context of the compound, but understood the beauty they also held. Such craftsmanship does not come cheap; the compound must have cost a substantial fortune.
Having access to such reserves of money felt unreal to James. Outside of his usual bills and the odd meals at the diner with Beetle, his bank balance often teetered on the edge of zero. Over the years, he had borrowed more money from Mrs Nightingale than he liked to admit to himself. Whilst he always paid her back, needing to ask had diminished what little pride he had left. He dreaded to think what he’d have to do if his money ran out, the person he’d have to become just to keep Beetle alive.
He’d looked into getting a second job, but then he wouldn’t be able to spend time with his daughter. A possibility he’d never consider. Beetle meant everything to James, and he’d do anything to ensure she had the best life. He hoped she was happy. She appeared to be, not including the looks she gave when he left her for work. It broke his heart every time.
A low, wailing sob drifted down the hall, drawing James from his internal worries. A siren’s call that led naïve seafarers to a turbulent demise. As the clop of his boots drew closer, the sob became almost theatrical. It was too perfect for the emotion it tried to represent. Since having Beetle, James knew the true meaning of crying. The puffy eyes, the snot bubbles, and the screams. This mermaids’ song suggested none of these. Just a perfect sound taken straight from the boards of Broadway.
The interview room door stood ajar. Through the gap, James spotted the inhabitant sat at the table. Her head in her hands. She’d kept the lights off, the only illumination peering in from the hallway’s halogens. James pushed at the door but remained standing outside. He would not enter an enclosed space with this inmate whilst he was on his own.
“Evening miss. Is everything okay?” The woman looked up. The broad beam of the hallway light showered her with a radiant glow, like a spotlight on a stage.
The woman was firmly middle-aged, but masked any giveaway signs with the extensive but tasteful application of her commissary make-up. Her skin was as pale as faded porcelain with eyelashes coated with mascara that drew attention to the sky blue of her irises. Her voluptuous hair cascaded in subtle curls about her shoulders, its colour matching the blood red varnish on her nails and the ruby tint of her full lips. They parted in a sultry smile.
“Oh James. It’s you.” A Southern drawl affixed an amorous sigh to her words. Her sobs vanished in an instant as she wiped a finger beneath her eyes, as if to remove a tear from what James noticed was a completely dry face. Just another performance, much like the accent. “How many times must I say? You can call me Scarlett.”
He nodded to show he understood, but would never comply with her request for the simple reason that it was not her name. A stage name. One the staff could not use.
Throughout his career in the asylum, James had figured out what made each inmate tick, what he could say to make them receptive to his presence, and what he needed to avoid. With Scarlett, he knew to never call her by her real name. And so he only ever called her miss. As if he were some plantation farmhand approaching a Southern belle.
“I am awfully sorry. It is not becoming of a lady to show such emotion in the presence of an upstanding gentleman. Please forgive me.”
“That is perfectly alright. Although you know you’re not allowed in here. Is everything okay?” James did not enjoy taking part in the charade, but it would make the process quicker.
“Oh, you are too kind, sir. You do not want to hear my simple woes, for they are but small pieces of sadness that you should not burden yourself with. I had planned to suffer them quietly, so as not to disturb any of the fine men within this establishment, but it appears my emotion got the better of me. That is a downside of being a member of the fairer sex. I just could not help myself.”
“If you are sure, miss. I am going to have to ask you to leave the room, though. As you know, the interview room is out of bounds when not in use. I can walk you back to the communal areas, if that would please you?” James suppressed a shudder, stopping his cringe from appearing on his face.
“Can’t I stay here a little longer? Why don’t you join me? Come and take a seat. We can have un petit rendezvous whilst the others are busy.”
“You know I can’t do that.” James spoke carefully.
Scarlett stuck out her lip with a huff. “You sound just like my Quentin. You know, he was supposed to come call on me today,” she said, her eyes watching to see what his reaction would be.
Halliday’s schoolboy chuckle echoed in the caverns of his memory. James kept emotion from his face, even as his heart juddered a beat. The name Quentin brought unspeakable memories to him. However, he knew Scarlett couldn’t be referring to the same man. He stepped to the side and motioned to the hall with a sweeping gesture, hoping she’d get the hint and follow. She stayed in place.
“Is that so?” he said as noncommittally as he could, keeping his hand in place to emphasise his unspoken request.
“And after all the promises he whispers to me at night. You should spend time with me whilst you can, dear James. Quentin is coming to collect me soon.”
“How wonderful. Well, how about I take you back to your room so you can get some rest before his arrival?” Scarlet relented and allowed James to lead her away, reminiscing about a life once lived as they went.
James wanted nothing more than to return to the control room, but as he was already within inmate housing, he thought it best to at least check with Sanders to see if he still required help. He found Sanders along with two other orderlies, Valdes and Higgins. Valdes caught sight of him first and welcomed James with a sneer and an eye roll.
“Ah James. Wonderful timing.” Sanders pointedly ignored the huff from his colleague. He motioned towards the adjoining room. A handwritten notice stuck to the door announced it belonged to the newest inmate, Eugene Gonzorelli.
“Gonzorelli is not fairing particularly well with his chosen method of detox.” On cue, a ragged face appeared at the window. Spittle flecked against the glass as the inhabitant snarled a jaw-clenched scream. He slammed against the thankfully locked door, rattling its handle. Sanders continued, “The doc has asked us to bring him to medical but, as you can see, the fucker is mental.” Eugene mashed his face against the saliva smeared glass. A large nose took up much of the space as his breath fogged its surface. “Valdes thinks we should sedate him, but that would go against the whole no drugs thing. We could use the extra pair of hands if you’re free?”
The inmate stepped away from the door to catch his breath. Through the smears of snot and spit on the glass, James saw he was naked except for a grimy pair of briefs. Gonzorelli’s body contorted as if controlled by tangled marionette strings as sweat poured from his skin. Even on his side of the barricade, James could smell the ungodly stench coming from the room. It reminded him of his high school locker room. Body odour mixed with the chemical tang of a nearby toilet. Although the move would be difficult, medical was the best place for Eugene.
“What’s the plan?” James asked with a resigned sigh.
Sanders smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “We get Gonzo to the floor, take a limb each, and hold him long enough to get cuffs on him. If he keeps flailing, we hold him until he runs out of juice. Questions?”
“Gonzo?” James asked.
“On account of that massive honker and how he kinda looks like the Muppet,” Valdes clarified with a sneer. James didn’t like it when the other orderlies gave the inmates nicknames. He felt it dehumanised them, but even he had to admit that his colleague had a point. He sometimes watched re-runs of The Muppet Show with Beetle, and the resemblance was unfortunately uncanny.
“With a plan like that, what could go wrong, eh?” Sanders said. James was not one to believe in jinxes, but even he thought saying that was testing their luck. The others shared a low laugh, but James could feel tension spread through them. According to his records, Gonzorelli was a wild card even when he wasn’t detoxing. This one junkie may prove to be a handful for the four able-bodied guards. They needed to be careful. “So, to clarify. I’ll unlock the door. You two will bum-rush him to the ground. James, grab his left leg, I’ll take his right. Once secured, we’ll flip him like a soggy pancake so these two can cuff him. Nice and simple.”
Sanders nodded at his fellow orderlies, unlocked the door, and the plan failed instantly.
Eugene smashed his weight against the door. It smacked into Sanders, who collided with Valdes. Gonzo leapt like a banshee, a gnarled fist connecting with Higgins’s face. The blow caught the guard by surprise. He toppled to the floor, taking Sanders and Valdes with him. They collapsed like pins in a bowling alley, the sickening thud of someone’s head hitting the tiled floor announcing the successful strike. James avoided the collision, but not the oncoming attack from Eugene. The junkie slammed his shoulder into James’s stomach, forcing him down. James reacted quickly, grabbing the inmate's ankle as he tried to flee. With a tug, he dragged Gonzo to the floor. Eugene scowled at James with sunken and wild eyes, his thinning hair plastered to his forehead. The junkie bared the remains of his rotten teeth through spittle-flecked lips. He pulled his foot free and slammed it directly into James’s face. The kick was off-centre, splitting the skin of his eyebrow. James didn’t feel the pain, too disgusted by the smell of the dirty foot and the grimy sensation it left on his face. His hand flexed with the blow, and Gonzorelli was free.
James’s vision became obscured with blood as the inmate stole keys from Sanders’s belt. Wiping the blood from his face, James launched himself at the junkie. Eugene weighed little more than a whisper, so James’s tackle sent them both skidding across the floor. Another blow from Eugene hit James, this time in the throat, the shock preventing him from drawing breath. Gonzorelli faced his achievements, holding the keys aloft.
“This was fun,” he gloated. “But now it is time for me to take my—”
His body juddered, his limbs contorted, and liquid excrement gushed from his briefs and splattered to the floor. Eugene Gonzorelli collapsed in his own filth. Higgins stood behind him, his electric stun baton clutched in his hand. Blood matted his hair and stained his uniform. He was unsteady on his feet, swaying slightly under the effort.
“They never tell you about the shit when they sell you these things,” Higgins said with a pained laugh.
Of the three injuries that had resulted from Eugene’s escape attempt, James’s was the least important. The split in his eyebrow wasn’t deep. It was just one of those places that bled profusely to add drama to a situation. As it’d clotted enough to stop the waterfall of blood down his face, the in-house doctor shooed James away after the briefest of examinations. The orderly with the head wound and the unconscious, shit-soaked inmate understandably took precedence.
James retreated to the changing rooms, the mixture of his own blood and the various bodily fluids of Gonzorelli requiring a uniform change. Thankfully, the foul concoction had not permeated his clothing and so he didn’t need a shower. Although he contemplated having one. He washed the grime of the fight from his face with steaming water from the sink. Yet the acrid smell of the junkie’s filthy foot hung about in his nostrils. The memory of it pressed against him lingered alongside the smell, making him retch.
He’d forgotten to ask the doctor for something to cover the cut and so, after a quick search through his locker, he discovered a box of plasters belonging to Penny. He must have had them in his pocket during a shift and forgotten to take them home.
Two plasters remained in the packet, each sporting a different flower princess fairy from some television show aimed at young girls. He chose the less offensive of the two, the lilac princess rather than the bubblegum pink fairy, and carefully placed it over the wound to keep it from splitting. The slice was tender to the touch, and liable to break open again if the plaster failed at its duty.
He checked his likeness in the mirror above the sink. The reflection no longer matched the one he had seen in the diner. This one appeared even more disheveled and exhausted. The plaster over his eyebrow was lopsided, the princess image upside down. A purple discolouration had bloomed beneath his left eye. It wouldn’t be long before it turned black. A part of him wanted to laugh, but only a huff of breath escaped his mouth. His throat ached from where the inmate had kicked it.
Careful not to wet the plaster, he washed his face again. The smell of Gonzorelli’s foot remained. It would have to do. The cleaning crew was soon to arrive, and he needed to shepherd the inmates back to their rooms. So, with a fresh uniform, blossoming black eye, princess plaster, and the acidic scent of foot on his face, James went back to work.
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