The Facility, page 14
‘It has elapsed, Dr Silk. It had elapsed, in most cases, before the initial testing was undertaken. Not only that: these people – there are eighteen altogether – have shown no signs of infection since.’
Silk is shaking his head even before Graves has finished speaking. ‘It means nothing. The disease may lie dormant for months before manifesting itself.’ Graves is about to interrupt but Silk holds up a hand. ‘It tends not to, it is true, but this is new, Henry. We cannot take any chances, at any stage. And besides,’ he says and he smirks, ‘given the lifestyles the majority of the prisoners have chosen; given their . . . proximity, shall we say, to others who are carrying the disease, it is highly likely they have been tempted into behaviour since their arrival here that has once again put them at risk. In which case, the window period begins anew.’
Now Graves shakes his head. ‘They have been kept apart. They have not had the opportunity to put themselves at risk. What’s more,’ he says and he feels the leash on his temper growing taut, ‘they are human beings. They are not mindless, rutting animals, for heaven’s sake.’
Silk lifts his eyebrows. His lips slip sideways.
‘They should be re-tested,’ Graves says, more aggressively than he intended. He takes a breath. ‘They could be re-tested. That is all I am asking. Because there is a chance isn’t there, that . . . I don’t know. That they used protection, for instance. That they didn’t have contact in the first place. That they are only here because a mistake has been made.’
‘A mistake? What kind of mistake?’
‘They were rounded up. Weren’t they? Perhaps – in the confusion, in the understandable haste to ensure the virus was contained – perhaps some of these people were detained when they did not need to be. Perhaps the information that led to their incarceration was somehow . . . tainted.’
‘Tainted?’ Silk smiles. ‘It is a quaint theory, Henry, but it does not change things. These people are here because, no matter what the test results say, there is every chance they are carrying the virus. That, as far as I am concerned, is the end of it.’
‘Dr Silk,’ says Graves. ‘Please. We are dealing with people’s lives. All I am asking—’
‘There,’ says Silk, locking his arms across his chest. ‘You said it yourself. We are dealing with people’s lives. Not just the prisoners’ lives. Thousands, millions of people’s lives. Testing takes time. Analysing the results takes time, it takes resources. My mandate is clear, Henry. My purpose here is clear. Perhaps you should re-evaluate yours.’ And with that he turns and opens the door and allows it to slam in his wake.
Burrows is at his desk, in the room adjoining Graves’s office. Graves walks past. He ignores his assistant’s greeting, the note in his tone suggesting there is business to be dealt with, and he does not turn as Burrows gets to his feet. He strides into his office and he shuts the door with a bang. He leans on his desk. He exhales. He breathes in. He exhales. He takes another breath and he moves round the desk and he drops his weight into his chair.
It is hot. Is it hot or is it him? Yesterday was an aberration and today there is no sun – the sky, rather, is the colour of an unlit light bulb. But it is hot, humid, as though it were August rather than November. Unless it is just this damned office, with its windows that do not open and its blinds so tangled they do not draw. He removes his jacket, which is too damned thick anyway. He wipes at his forehead. He reaches for the mouse to his computer and he wiggles it and wiggles it again and he wiggles it and wiggles it and still the damned screen remains blank. He hits the spacebar on his keyboard, the return key, all the keys. He wiggles the mouse again, then slams it on the surface of the desk, once, twice, a third time. He shoves it away and it collides with his telephone. ‘Damn,’ he says. ‘Damn damn damn!’
There is a click and a squeak of rusting iron and the door to his office slides ajar. His assistant’s nervous features poke through. ‘Mr Graves?’ Burrows says. He dare not risk a Henry, Graves notes. ‘Is everything . . . It’s just, there are a few things . . .’
‘Come inside for pity’s sake, man. Don’t talk to me through the keyhole.’
Burrows opens the door more fully and slips into the office. He closes the door behind him but, like Silk, clings to the handle as he talks. ‘How . . . How did it go?’ He seems to notice Graves’s expression. ‘Never mind. Sorry. Um.’
‘What is it, John? What do you want?’
Burrows clears his throat. ‘There are some messages. Nothing urgent for the most part but there’s one from the Home Office.’
‘From Jenkins?’
‘Indirectly, yes.’
‘And? What’s the message?’
Burrows shuffles. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I emailed you. It’s all in my email. I think, basically . . . I mean, I don’t think you need to call the minister back but . . .’
‘Never mind. I’ll take a look. What else?’
‘There’s a prisoner outside. Two, actually. One named Priestley, the other named Roach. Although only Priestley says he wants to see you.’
Graves waves a hand. ‘Not now,’ he says. Then, ‘What does he want?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me. Just another request to see his family, I would imagine. It would be about the fifteenth today.’
‘Where are they? Are they in your office? I didn’t see—’
‘They’re in the corridor. They’re sitting on the floor. There’s a guard with them but, well, you said . . . That is, you gave instructions . . .’
‘Let them sit there,’ says Graves, wiggling his mouse again. He clicks the left button, then the right, then both together until he ends up slamming the mouse again on the desk. ‘For heaven’s sake, what’s wrong with this infernal contraption? Why can’t I see my screen?’
‘I don’t know.’ Burrows takes a step forwards. ‘Is the computer switched on?’
Graves looks under his desk. The light on the stack is, quite clearly, off.
Get a grip. For heaven’s sake, man, get a grip.
‘Never mind,’ Graves says. ‘I’ll deal with it. It’s probably a . . . a loose connection or something. Is that everything?’
‘Other than the usual matters,’ Burrows says. He points to Graves’s computer and starts forwards once more. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to take a—’
‘I can manage.’ The words come out with a snap. ‘Thank you,’ Graves adds.
Burrows gives a tentative nod. He walks backwards to the door and shuts it gently behind him.
It takes several moments for Graves’s computer to boot up. As he waits, he turns away from the screen, from his reflection. He checks through the papers in his in tray. He sighs and tosses them back. He scans his desk and realises what a mess it has become. He is no slob but the lack of space even to prop his elbows is an unwelcome reminder of how quickly he is falling behind on matters that require his attention. Over here, for example: a stack of invoices and accounts awaiting his signature. And here: staff rosters and schedules – blank still – for the upcoming weeks. There are unopened letters, both incoming and outgoing, though the truth of course is that the outgoing ones are going nowhere. Graves feels obliged to read them, though. It is an intrusion, he acknowledges, but the net benefit to the inmates’ welfare, if he knows what is on their minds, outweighs the infringement. As for the incoming letters, these are more bills probably, more problems, more sheets of paper to shuffle to other piles: here, here, here.
And here. Here are the files of the eighteen men and women who should not, in all likelihood, be under his charge at all. Graves reaches and as he does he remembers. Priestley. A; something beginning with A. Arnold? Arthur? Arthur. Arthur Priestley. The man in the corridor and one of the names on the folders in the pile. Graves slides off the top folder, the next one, the one after that and then he finds it. Priestley, Arthur James. He pulls the file free and sits back in his chair and hooks one leg over the other. He opens the folder and reads. Not that he needs to, he realises. He remembers the details: married but separated; one child – a young boy; not obviously gay but not necessarily straight; a doctor, wasn’t it, or . . . no, a dentist. Linked to the disease by a man named . . . Yes, of course. Wilson. Graves gives a snort at the coincidence. He turns to the final page and flicks backwards to the front, until his eyes settle again on Arthur’s name.
For a moment he just sits, tapping the file against his knee. There is only the tapping and the ticking of his computer, until a chime sounds from the built-in speaker and a picture of a distant beach appears on his screen. Graves reaches for his mouse and clicks to open his inbox. The folder is in his other hand still and he moves at the same time to place it somewhere on his desk, somewhere apart from the others so he will remember to look at it properly later. There is nowhere. There is no space whatsoever. He has an urge to yell to Burrows, to instruct his assistant to find him a bigger desk, an extra desk, a set of shelves for pity’s sake. He has an urge to yell but he resists. It would not help. The yelling might, for an instant, but surface area, he knows, is not the problem. It is all about control. That is what his ex-wife would tell him. She would tell him he is neat because he is a control freak and he gets irritated when things get messy because it is a sign he is losing his grip. In his mind, that is. A bit of mess is normal, Carol would say, to most people; it is a sign of life, of living, of not being beholden to work. And that is about as far as the conversation would get because then he would raise his voice or she would and one or other of them would throw up their hands and leave the room.
She has sent him an email. As though in anticipation of when his reading it would irritate him the most. And he does, of course, and it does irritate him, although he feels a little smug as well because who is the control freak now? She is worried about Rachel. About Rachel’s job and Rachel’s boyfriend, Nick, and where Rachel lives and why she so rarely calls. She thinks Graves should speak to her. She does not suggest what he should say. Change your job, change your boyfriend, get a new flat, call your mother. That, it seems, should be the gist of it because Lord knows Rachel takes such interfering well. About as well as her father does, in fact.
Graves closes the email and remembers about the message from the Home Office. He opens one of Burrows’s emails but it is the wrong one so he closes it and clicks on the next. It is a single paragraph. Burrows could have told him in a sentence what the message was but Graves understands now why he opted to be so vague. There is another coach coming. They did not say when and they did not say with how many but Graves has been instructed to expect another coach. Which means the policy, the facility, has not worked, not yet. Which means his job here is far from finished. Which means . . . Which means . . .
Which means that Silk was right. His wife too, though he is just as loath to admit it. Because it is true that Graves has been stepping beyond his mandate. It is true that he reacts badly when his sense of control is undermined – which is exactly what happened the moment Silk arrived at the facility. Although more than anything Graves has brought this on himself: the frustration, the unattended piles on his desk, the sheer unprofessionalism of it all. What is he doing, wasting a day addressing the prisoners in groups when they could have been informed all together of their affliction in a matter of minutes? Graves told Burrows it was a question of security but it was never that. The news, however many inmates were assembled, was always likely to be as effective as a blow to the solar plexus, a truncheon to the back of the knee. And look. Look at the time. It is gone eleven and what has he accomplished today? He has squandered the morning. More than the morning. He has squandered hours, studying these files and pondering these people’s lives and caring whether Arthur James Priestley is a doctor or a dentist. And the single cells. Keeping Priestley and the others apart. How is that an efficient policy? How is that an effective allocation of the facility’s limited resources? It is not and it will have to change. Because when the next coach arrives there simply will not be space.
He blames his age. In the past, at Wandsworth for example, or Liverpool, he never allowed personal frailties to infringe on his professional responsibilities. He had a thousand prisoners under his charge, more, and never was his desk in the state it is now. He is softening, that is the trouble. He knew he was and it is the reason he gave up permanent postings. But he is becoming more proprietorial, too, and that surprises him. Because after the break-up, after living on his own, he thought he had matured, not regressed; not succumbed to what is usually a younger man’s failing. He thought – he would often think – she does not know me. She does not know the man I am now. If she knew how my life, my way of living, has changed . . .
Well. So much for that.
Quite: so much for that. For God’s sake, man, pull yourself together. Silk has a job to do and he is doing it. Do yours. It is that simple. It is your last post, probably, and what a hash you are making of things. What a way to crawl into retirement.
He calls for Burrows. Not in anger but with purpose – a purpose, he feels, that has been sorely lacking. He has Priestley’s file still in his hand and when Burrows enters he passes it to him. ‘Take this,’ he says. ‘Take those.’ He gestures to the seventeen other folders. ‘Put them with the others, in the proper order – there is no need to keep them apart.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Burrows picks up the stack from the desk. It leaves a foolscap-sized hole of laminated beech and just the sight of it gives Graves heart.
‘Bring me some coffee, John, if you would. And lunch: I’ll take lunch at my desk. Just a sandwich will be ample.’
‘Of course,’ says Burrows. ‘I’ll see to it.’
‘One more thing.’ Graves gestures with his chin towards the door – towards his assistant’s room and the corridor beyond. ‘Take Priestley and his friend back to their cells. Take all the prisoners back to their cells. They’ve had enough time now, wouldn’t you say, to come to terms with why they are here?’
Burrows nods. ‘Yes, sir. If you say so, sir.’
‘Good,’ says Graves. ‘Good.’ He picks up his pen. ‘And see to it that I’m not disturbed. I’ve a stack of things to catch up on.’
He ignores the doorbell. It will be Craig, his jobless flatmate, too depressed to summon the energy to frisk his pockets to locate his key. If it is not Craig, it will be someone selling something – double glazing, dishcloths, a political candidate, God – and the only thing Tom needs is a clean pair of socks. Because he has none. None, at least, that match. Again he blames Craig because before Craig arrived socks were never an issue. These days they go missing. Tom will do a wash and hang out the damp clothes and there will be two pairs, three, of socks that are definitely his. But Craig steals them. Craig never does a wash, or not that Tom has ever seen, so when he runs out of socks he steals Tom’s. It is the only possible explanation. Tom has had it in his mind to say something, to tell Craig to buy his own frigging socks, but if he were to start on socks he does not know where he would stop. The state of the bathroom. The bicycle that blocks their hall. The unwashed Weetabix bowls. Rent.
The bell rings again and Tom curses. He crosses the room and trots down the stairs to the front door. He squeezes past Craig’s bicycle and unhooks the latch and is already turning away as the door swings open. ‘You’ve got a key, Craig,’ he says as he climbs back up. ‘It fits the lock and everything.’
‘Er . . . Hi. Tom?’
Tom turns. He stoops so he can see. ‘Julia. Hi. God. Sorry.’
‘Is this a bad time?’
‘No. God.’ Tom scurries to the bottom of the stairs and pulls the door wide. ‘Come in. Come up.’ He sees Julia glance at what he is wearing: a T-shirt with a hole at the neckline and a pair of frayed pyjama bottoms. ‘I’m up,’ he says. ‘I’m just . . . I was just sorting out a few things. But come in. It’s fine, really, come in.’
Julia steps across the threshold but tentatively, as though wary that the floorboards beyond might be about to give way. She catches her jacket on the handles of the bicycle and unhooks it and slides past. Tom babbles as he leads her upstairs. He asks her what she is doing here but does not wait for her to answer. He offers her coffee. He warns her they may be out of milk. He says it is only instant too but they have tea if she would prefer, would she prefer tea? It would have to be black though. Does she mind black tea? And Casper. He asks after Casper but again does not give her time to respond. He thought she was Craig, he tells her. He thought she was his flatmate. He’s been made redundant. He’s depressed and it affects his ability to remember his key. But what is she doing here?
‘I tried your cell phone but I got your voicemail. So I called the website and they said you weren’t coming in.’
‘I’ve taken holiday. Just a couple of weeks. Here. Sit.’ Tom clears a stack of newspapers from an armchair in their cluttered living room. He crosses to the window to open the curtains. ‘And my phone: I switched it off. If I don’t, they call me every two minutes.’
‘You’re that important?’ says Julia, sitting. Tom cannot tell if she is teasing.
‘We’re that lazy. Journalists are. It’s easier to pick up the phone and ask than to look for a file or a contact or a paperclip or whatever yourself.’ He lowers himself on to the arm of the sofa across from her. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No. I mean, nothing new. I was just, I don’t know. I wondered where you were, that’s all.’
‘I’m here. I’ve not gone anywhere.’ Although from where he is sitting, he can see the open bag on his bed, the stack of clothes beside it. Julia looks where he is looking.
‘But you were about to.’
‘Well,’ says Tom. ‘Kind of. But I was going to call you. From the road. When . . . When I had something to tell you.’
‘From the road? Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know. Not exactly. What I mean is—’
Julia shakes her head. ‘It’s fine, Tom. Really. It’s none of my business. You don’t have to sneak out the back door if there’s somewhere you need to be.’ Her tone is composed, reasonable, hurt.
