The Facility, page 13
They walk together along the corridor. Roach affects nonchalance, as though such freedom of movement were nothing unusual, were in fact his absolute right, but Arthur remains wary. It is only today – since lunchtime, following the announcements in the morning – that security has been relaxed enough for them to be able to go where they please within the main compound, and with whom. Although relaxed is the wrong word. Security, rather, has been distanced. The guards are there still but they stand further back. The regulations, the procedures: nothing has altered, they have been told, except for the element of trust. It feels almost respectful – as though the prisoners were being afforded the space to mourn. It is not, though, what Arthur would have expected. On the contrary, he would have anticipated tighter restrictions, more isolation, limitations on opportunities for them to confer. Why address the prisoners in groups, after all, if there had been no expectation of trouble? It was more compassionate, certainly, than addressing them all together but inadvertently, Arthur is sure. Like the security, which seems kind-hearted but more likely is calculated: a concession that concedes nothing. The people here have been told they are going to die. Who among them is likely to have any hunger left for a fight?
Certainly the prisoners Arthur and Roach encounter seem stunned. As they make their way along the corridor, they see men and women lying on their bunks. One or two appear visibly unwell – just the flu, they all assumed; it is that time of year, after all – and too weak perhaps to do anything else. Others, though, seem simply to lack the will to stand. They lie with their hands behind their heads and their eyes gazing sightless to the ceiling. One man is on his side, his fists drawn to his throat and his knees to his stomach.
The recreational area, when they reach it, at first appears almost empty but the prisoners inside have gravitated to the dimmest corners. There is little movement. Some people have gathered in groups, their toes touching in the centre of the circles they form, their conversation low, intermittent, interrupted occasionally by bursts of hushed, nervous laughter. There are several couples – a man and a woman, two pairs of men – and they seem intimate. Most of the inmates, though, sit alone. Three share a table – a man at either end, a woman in the centre – and each is hunched over a sheet of paper. The men scrawl as though running out of time in an examination; the woman has her pen poised but seems frozen, as though the blank sheet of paper were an approaching set of headlights. Or perhaps the woman suspects what Arthur thinks he knows: that the paper and envelopes they have been offered will, regardless of what is written on them, never actually be sent.
‘Arthur,’ says Roach and Arthur feels his friend’s touch on his shoulder. ‘Let’s go outside. I’ll ask someone outside.’
They return the way they came, continuing past the stairs until they reach the door to the courtyard. They step outside and into the shadow of the covered walkway. The sun, though, is directly overhead and the square itself is a prism of crisp autumn sunshine. There is a group of ten or so men draped around the fountain and, in defiance of the lingering chill, several have removed their shirts. They could be pink-skinned tourists just off the coach in an Italian piazza. Or soldiers: fatigued and frightened but fuelling themselves while they can for the battle that lies ahead.
Roach has spotted a man smoking and he drifts from Arthur’s side. Arthur waits in the shade cast by the nearest column. It is the first time the sun has broken through since their arrival and any other day Arthur would probably be seated in the square himself. Today, though, he would rather linger in the shadows. The sunshine feels cruel rather than convivial. Like the expression on the face of the guard who stands behind him, it seems smug somehow; gleeful but also spiteful. Roach, though, has his cigarette and is waving Arthur to his side. Arthur squints and shuffles into the sunshine.
They sit apart from the group of men. Roach reclines, crossing his ankles in front of him and propping himself on his elbows. Arthur faces him, his knees to his chest and his shoulders to the sun. He scoops a handful of gravel and shuffles it in his fist as though it were dice. He tosses it, then brushes the dirt from his palm.
‘I got two,’ says Roach. ‘I know you don’t want it but I’m gonna offer you one anyway. It would be rude not to.’
Arthur shakes his head. ‘They turn your teeth yellow. Apart from anything else.’
‘That they do.’ Roach tucks the second cigarette behind his ear. He drags on the first, pauses, then sends a cloud towards the pale blue sky. He coughs and his cough sounds looser. He taps his chest with a fist. ‘Better than Benylin.’
They sit in silence while Roach smokes. When he is done, he grinds the cigarette on the ground and piles a cairn around the filter. He unbuttons his shirt and reclines again and angles his face skywards. He shuts his eyes. In the daylight, Arthur thinks, he looks older. He has told Arthur he is fifty-something – fifty-what? Arthur asked; fifty-and-some, Roach replied – but Arthur found it hard to believe. Looking at him now, though, he could be sixty, sixty-five. The sun casts him in a harsh light. Arthur notices the lines running like cracks from the corner of his eyes, the greyish tinge to the bags beneath them, the rash of what look like liver spots on his forehead. His chest, once powerful, Arthur can tell, sags. The hair – sparse, tight coils – is greyer here than at his temples.
‘There’s an optimist and a pessimist,’ says Roach. He still has his eyes closed but he is smiling slightly, anticipating perhaps his own punch line. ‘The pessimist says, the situation’s awful. It’s terrible, he says. It couldn’t possibly be any worse! The optimist says, oh yes it could.’
Roach laughs and Arthur smiles, as much at his friend’s delight as the joke itself. ‘That’s old,’ Arthur says. ‘I use that one on my patients.’
They fall silent again but the silence is interrupted by a splash. Roach opens his eyes and Arthur turns and they see a man standing in the fountain. He is naked but for his boxers and clearly freezing but he holds his arms aloft as though triumphant. The men around him grin, clap, cheer. Roach gives a hoot and beats a palm against a thigh. Arthur looks for guards. He sees one edge towards the fountain from beneath the walkway, then another move to his side and place a hand on his arm. Both men draw back.
‘Lunatic,’ says Roach, beaming. ‘Lunatic!’
The man does not hear. He is marching around the fountain, lifting his knees and stomping his feet and dousing those too slow to leap aside. Arthur watches, thinking about the paddling pool he bought for Casper on a visit to Julia’s place the previous summer. It took him an hour to blow it up because he forgot to buy a pump, then another thirty minutes to fill it – and when it was ready his son refused to go in.
His neck begins to ache from craning and he turns away from the impromptu entertainment. He watches Roach watching, until his friend’s attention drifts too. A cloud covers the sun momentarily and Roach looks up, then around the courtyard. His gaze settles in his lap.
‘What about these trials? What do you think?’
‘I think . . .’ says Arthur. ‘I think I don’t know what to think.’
‘You wouldn’t consider it? If you had this . . .’ Roach rolls a hand in the air. He does not finish the sentence.
‘I’d consider it. Certainly I would. But they’re asking you to trust them.’ Arthur meets Roach’s eye. ‘Do you?’
There is jeering from the centre of the square. A guard – the guard, Arthur thinks, who was straining to intervene earlier – is dragging the prisoner from the fountain. He has hold of the man at his elbow and tugs him so he stumbles against the concrete surround. The prisoner half crawls on to the gravel and the guard lifts a finger and says something to the prisoners close by. The jeering stops. The guard turns his back and, with his thumbs on his belt, saunters to his post in the shadows.
‘It’s different,’ says Roach. ‘Don’t you think? It’s not like they have anything to gain by lying. Not about this.’
‘Maybe,’ says Arthur. ‘But, well . . . I don’t know. For one thing, you don’t even know if you have it. This disease, whatever this disease is. You don’t even know if it’s real.’
Roach smiles but it is a tired smile. ‘It’s real, Arthur. Why the hell would we be here if it weren’t? And anyway,’ he says. ‘I’ve got something.’
‘What? What do you mean? If you mean the cough—’
Roach shakes his head. ‘Forget the cough. The cough’s smoking, like I said. But I’ve got, you know.’ He nods to his lap. To his groin. ‘Something.’ He grins suddenly. ‘Want me to show you?’
Arthur does not smile back. ‘I’ll look. If you want me to look, I’ll look.’
Roach laughs. ‘Now that is a true friend.’
‘What? I’m a dentist, remember?’
This time Roach laughs so hard that a guard turns in their direction. ‘Stop,’ Roach says. ‘Please.’ He is crying, Arthur realises. He is pressing the heel of his hands to his eyes as though trying to force the tears back inside but a bead of water rolls to his chin. Arthur draws back his shoulders. He waits. Roach catches sight of his expression and he holds up a hand. His laughter slows to a trickle. ‘I’m sorry.’ There is a visible swell of glee within him but he contains it. He wipes at his eyes again. ‘Man,’ he says and he chuckles. Arthur keeps his expression rigid. Roach, though, looks at him with genuine warmth and Arthur feels the tension in his jaw ease.
‘I’ll spare you. It’s very kind of you to offer, Arthur, but I’ll spare you. Look here though,’ Roach says and he shows Arthur the inside of his elbow. ‘And here, on my forehead.’ He points to the marks that Arthur assumed were liver spots. ‘It doesn’t hurt yet and they said it would hurt, I think, but it only came up a few days ago.’ Another laugh escapes him but it is a splutter. It is like the final rasp from an empty aerosol.
‘That’s just . . .’ Arthur leans to look at Roach’s cheeks. ‘It could be anything.’
‘That’s what I thought. Yesterday, that’s what I thought.’
‘What then? You’re going to put your name down?’
Roach shrugs. He opens his mouth to answer, then closes it. He shrugs again.
They sit for a while. In spite of the sunshine, Arthur begins to feel chilled. He shivers and shifts himself around so that he is at Roach’s side and the sun is on his face.
‘What about you?’ Roach says. ‘Have you made any progress?’
Arthur flicks at a stone beside his feet. ‘It depends what you count as progress. Last time I asked, I got this.’ He angles his head to show Roach the knuckle mark behind his ear. ‘He drew blood. The guard did. I think he was going for something less visible but he looked pretty pleased with himself nonetheless.’ He glances at his friend. ‘I don’t know. I think . . . I think maybe you were right.’ He sees Roach about to protest and cuts him short. ‘I know: you didn’t say anything. But you didn’t need to.’ He picks out another stone, tosses it away. ‘But after today. After what they’ve just told us. They’re not about to call me a taxi.’
‘What about Graves?’ says Roach. ‘You should talk to Graves.’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do. He won’t see me.’
‘So,’ says Roach, ‘go and see him. Now’s the time, right? They said we can go where we please.’
‘I don’t think they meant—’
‘Arthur. Seriously. Go and see him. Because everything they’ve told us today – it’s good news for you. You realise that, don’t you?’
Arthur feels disgust crease his face.
‘I’m not kidding, Arthur. Don’t get all noble on me.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘You have a family, Arthur. You can’t take no for—’
Arthur snaps before he can stop himself. ‘Do you think I’ve forgotten? My wife, my son: do you think my family has slipped my mind?’
Roach drops his head. Arthur glares, then drops his too.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Roach. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’
‘Forget it.’ Arthur sighs. ‘It’s not like I’m angry with you. And it’s not like I’m the only person in here with a family.’
Again they are silent but Roach, after a minute or two, breaks it with laughter. He sniffs, then he snorts, then there is the sound like sobbing and Arthur turns. His friend is grinning. ‘“I’ll look,”’ he says, parodying Arthur. His voice goes high. ‘“I’m a dentist!”’ He sniggers, snorts again, and Arthur cannot help but smile.
‘I would have looked,’ he says and Roach howls.
‘And I would have let you. Only, well, I didn’t want you getting a complex.’ Roach beams. ‘You being a white guy and all.’
Graves has half a mind to leave. His arms are crossed and he angles his wrist to see his watch face. He does not register the time but as he does not know what time he arrived it does not seem important. It is the gesture rather. It is his obvious impatience. It is the fact that Graves is the governor of this facility but Silk seems determined to treat him as just another of his assistants.
He steps forwards. ‘Dr Silk.’
This time Silk does not even look. From across the room, he shows Graves the sleeve of his white coat, his upraised index finger. ‘Just a moment, please.’
The doctor is fussing over a piece of machinery – a monitor of some kind. He gives a solid impression of a man enjoying himself. It is science. It is life and death. It is a serious business, you would suppose, but watching Silk you would not know it. He bustles and badgers and buzzes from bed to bed, as though he were preparing to throw a party. He seems as eager to begin as his guests, in fact: from what Graves understands, thirty-three inmates had signed up for the trials by the previous evening, within hours of having been told that anything was wrong with them. Now, barely twelve hours later, the lucky eight who have been selected fill the beds, ready to imbibe whatever cocktail of drugs their eager host passes round.
‘He looks like he knows what he’s doing,’ says a voice. ‘Don’t you think?’
Graves turns. The prisoner on the bed nearest is propped upright against the headboard. Like Graves, he is watching Silk.
‘Pardon me?’
‘The doctor,’ the prisoner says. ‘He looks like he knows what he’s doing.’
Graves follows the prisoner’s line of sight. Silk is frowning at a clipboard. He scribbles. He ticks. He scribbles again. He holds out the clipboard for one of his assistants to take from him, then moves on to his next task. ‘Yes,’ says Graves. ‘He looks like he knows what he’s doing.’
The prisoner seems not to catch the cynicism in Graves’s tone. ‘Do you think he’s found it, Mr Graves? The cure, I mean.’
He is a thin, oily man, who would look ill, Graves suspects, even if his face were not quite so blotched, his eyes not quite so bloodshot. He has the look of a man children might avoid in the street but there is also something of a child about his demeanour. He shoulders are hunched, his forehead creased. With his left hand he grips his right thumb, worrying at the skin as though it were a surrogate for a shred of blanket or a lost childhood toy.
‘What’s your name?’ says Graves. He leans to read from the chart at the foot of the bed at the same time as the prisoner answers.
‘Wilson,’ the prisoner says. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
He seems to say this last almost as a reflex – as a result of the same conditioning, perhaps, that taught him please or thank you or may I get down from the table?
‘Do you though?’ Wilson is watching Silk again. ‘Do you think he’s found the cure?’
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say. There is always that possibility, I suppose.’
‘Because if he has,’ Wilson says, as though Graves had not spoken, ‘then I don’t think I should be here. I don’t think I deserve to be.’ The thumb that he grips is now quite bloodless. He persists at wrenching it as though determined to work it loose.
Graves angles himself towards the man’s bed. ‘What makes you say that?’
Wilson does not answer. He shrugs. He swallows. He looks down at his nervous hands.
Graves leans again to read from the chart. ‘Your Christian name,’ he says. ‘Benedict. Do you know what it means?’
‘Only my mother ever called me Benedict. It’s religious, I think.’
‘That’s right. It’s Catholic. It means blessed, Mr Wilson. It means your parents were asking God to protect you.’
For a moment Wilson’s hands stop working. He opens his mouth to say something. The voice that follows, though, comes from across Graves’s shoulder.
‘Not upsetting my patients I hope, Henry?’
‘Dr Silk,’ says Graves. He turns to Wilson. ‘Excuse me,’ he says and Wilson responds with an emphatic nod. Graves steps away from the bed and Silk follows. ‘I’d like a word with you, if I may.’
‘Will it take long? I am rather busy, as you can see.’
‘It won’t take a minute. Shall we?’ Graves gestures to the double doors that lead into the corridor and takes another step. With a sigh, Silk follows.
‘I must say,’ says Graves once they are outside, ‘you are not wasting any time.’
‘Certainly not. There is very little time to waste.’ Silk checks his watch.
‘No. Of course. And I shan’t keep you long. But there is a matter, I feel, that is relatively urgent. I have discussed it with the minister of state and he advised me to bring it to your attention.’
Silk nods impatiently. He is yet to let go of the handle on the door behind him.
‘It concerns the testing.’ Graves tries to keep his tone even, unhurried. ‘Of some of the prisoners. Their test results, in fact. Their negative test results.’
The doctor rolls his eyes. He actually rolls his eyes. ‘There is a window period, Henry. I would have thought, by now, you would have understood that a person can be infected without—’
