Epiworld (2 page)

‘Can you catch it?’ I ask quietly. ‘I mean how did I get it?’

‘It may have just developed, or you had a bang on the head at some point in your life; and no, you can’t catch it.’

‘So why...?’

‘You know illness – any type of illness – is considered to be a threat to humankind, and the institutions are there to protect the clean. Epilepsy medication is no longer available to the public without hospital intervention. I’m sorry,’ he gets up from his chair, ‘the inspectors have made their decision.’ He nods to the nurse, and they leave the room.

I stare at the door, my brain reeling. So there’s no cure for this epilepsy thing! I can’t pass it on, but the inspectors say I have to be locked away! It’s a life sentence, or worse!

I have to get out of here!

I drag the needle from my good arm. Blood gushes everywhere, on the sheets, on the floor. I get up quickly from the bed, and immediately flop down again. I’m so weak; everything hurts! My broken arm throbs like mad. I sit up more slowly, trying to regain my balance, but the room won’t stop spinning. I stand up, and make my way carefully to the locker to see if my clothes are there. It’s empty. The sods have taken my clothes! I’m not going to get very far in this gown with my arse sticking out!

The door is probably locked, too; doors usually are here. I’m not sure I have the strength to climb out of the window, with only one good arm. I try the door, anyway. It opens! I peep into the corridor, empty except for a large trolley full of sheets. Nervously I creep out of my prison, without any idea of where I’m going, not caring about the trail of blood I leave behind.

I need to find something else to wear. I stagger along the corridor, before I come across a door labelled ‘Locker Room’. I have to hide behind the linen trolley when the door opens, and someone comes out. The footsteps stop for a moment, and then they carry on. I wait for them to fade away before I dare to venture out, and make for the locker room. I open the door slowly, listening for voices. When I’m sure the room is empty I go inside.

There are clothes hanging up on pegs, white lab coats, blue boiler suits, black trousers, and the white smocks the orderlies wear. I choose a blue boiler suit, the nearest I find to my size. If I’m able to pass for a hospital employee maybe I could sneak out of the building. It fits all right, except the sleeves are a bit long.

The door bangs open, and I’m surrounded by orderlies. I’m too weak to fend them off. My sleeve is forced up; something sharp pierces my arm. Then the room swirls into a mass of colours, and I know no more.

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W
hen I wake up the first thing I see is a window high above my head, from where a beam of light shines on the opposite wall; moonlight or daylight, I’m not sure which. It takes a while for my eyes to become accustomed to my surroundings. I’m able to make out various shapes, but what they are I can’t tell.

I sit up carefully in the creaking bed, shoving away rough blankets. Although every bone and every joint in my body hurts I try to manoeuvre my legs over the side, but a cold metal bar, some sort of rail, stops me. I manage to climb over it, and I gasp as my feet touch cold stone. Shivering, I run my good hand through my hair; I’m beginning to realise where I am.

‘Hey,’ whispers a voice urgently, ‘get back into bed!’

‘Who’s there?’

‘Shh! Just get back into bed! There’ll be trouble if the droids catch you up before the bell goes!’

‘Droids?’

‘Yeah. They’ll be in to wake us soon, but before then no one is allowed up.’

‘So if you want to pee,’ says another voice, ‘you’ll have to boil it, or wet the bed.’

I do want to pee now he’s said that!

‘Stop winding him up, Hudson!’ snaps the first voice. Hudson? Saul’s surname is ‘Hudson’. ‘Use the bottle on the locker if you need to pee, lad.’

I make a face at the dark, annoyed at being told what to do by someone I can’t see. ‘Who are you? Head bleedin’ boy or something?’

There’s a snort. ‘Nice one!’

‘Shut it, Hudson!’

‘There are lots of rules here, and Kappelhoff makes sure we stick to all of them,’ says Hudson. ‘He’s the ward creep, and sucks up to Them Upstairs!’

‘I said shut it, Hudson!’ says Kappelhoff. ‘I’m no creep; I just make sure none of us risk the penalties for rule breaking, that’s all.’

‘I’ll get up if I want to,’ I snap, and jump when I hear the loud clanging of a bell.

A woman’s voice announces, ‘Six o’clock, young gentlemen!’

A bright light comes on. I blink at two figures in black dresses and white caps.

‘Nuns?’

‘Droids, programmed as nuns,’ whispers the boy in the next bed. ‘No bedside manner here, mate!’

‘Time to wake up!’ The nun speaking has a severe, unsmiling face. ‘Come along! Sit up, please!’

‘You!’ shouts the other nun. She’s tall and strong, and grabs me roughly by my night shirt, forcing me back onto the foot of the bed. She lowers the metal bed rail, and bundles me back beneath the sheets. ‘You know the rules, boy! You stay in bed until we get you out!’

‘Gently, Sister Augusta; his arm is injured,’ says the other droid sternly. ‘He is a new inmate, and only came to Number Forty last night. He has not had time to learn the rules yet.’

I stare at the other ‘inmates’, nine other lads around my age. Eight of them are pale and colourless, dressed in the same starched grey pyjamas, sitting up, or lying in metal beds with grey blankets. Only two other beds besides mine have rails. Our white sheets and pillowcases are crisp and clean.

I’m sure the ninth face belongs to Saul’s brother, Emmett Hudson. His appearance and surname give him away. The Hudsons’ origin is a country called Nigeria, although they’re British-born – immigration to Britain has been illegal since twenty thirty-two. Emmett has a look of Saul. He grins at me with large white teeth, the way Saul grins. I feel a pang, homesick for my old mates. 

I take in my surroundings. Each bed has a small locker next to it with three plastic bottles on the top. We all have our own small table at the foot of our beds, and there are washbasins at the end of the room. The floor is lined with stone tiles, the walls made of solid concrete. I look up at the window. It’s too small to climb through, even if I could reach it. Everything in the room is neat and clean, with no dust anywhere. It’s almost sterile.

‘I told him to get back into bed, Mother Superior.’ I recognise the voice: that’s Kappelhoff. He’s a very thin lad, with large, bulging eyes. ‘He wouldn’t listen to me.’

Mother Superior ignores him, and turns to me. ‘Inmates are not allowed out of bed until the nuns and the orderlies assist them, my dear. It is for safety reasons. You have bed rails in case you convulse in your sleep, and fall out of bed. Please make sure you obey this rule. Do you understand?’

‘What if we need the bog?’

‘He means the toilet,’ Kappelhoff jumps in.

‘There are bottles within easy reach for overnight use,’ says Mother Superior, pointing to the bottles on top of my locker, ‘and for the bowels you ring the bell there to call an orderly to take you to the toilet.’

‘Hudson lied, Mother,’ begins Kappelhoff. ‘He said...’

‘Never mind, Mr Kappelhoff, I can quite well believe what Mr Hudson said.’ Mother Superior frowns at Hudson, who sneers back. ‘By the way, young gentlemen, this is Mr Travis. At least that was what the hospital said he was called. Correct, Mr Travis?’

I shrug.
Mr
Travis! Mother Superior claps her hands, and three men appear, dressed like the orderlies at the hospital. They’ll be droids, too.

‘Toilet round,’ says Mother Superior, ‘then medication, then showers, and into the hall for breakfast.’

I’m desperate now, so I reach for a bottle. The orderlies collect the used bottles, and wheel those of us who need it to the toilet for ‘the bowels’. I don’t need to go, but I want to get away from the other inmates to sort out my whirling head. The unsmiling, silent orderly sits me down on the toilet, then leaves. I’m amazed I’m allowed to have any privacy.

My head feels like it wants to burst. The walls and the lights blur in an alarmingly familiar way, and I’m unable to stop myself from sinking into the void. I soon find myself back in my bed, with Mother Superior bending over me.

‘Doctor is on his way,’ she says in an unexpectedly kind voice. ‘You sleep for a while. You can eat later.’

There’s nothing else to do, since my body feels like lead. I close my eyes, thinking about the Rockets. Do Jenna, Saul and the others have any idea what’s become of me? I doubt it. I dream of an escape, of the Rockets breaking in, finding me, busting me out, but how can they if they don’t even know where I am?

When I wake up Emmett Hudson is sitting on the edge of my bed, a tray resting on his lap.

‘Soup,’ he says. ‘Mother told me to feed you, because the Sisters and the orderlies are busy. Someone went loopy, so they’re busy calming him down.’ He dips the spoon into the soup. ‘It’s chicken. It won’t poison you; the food’s good here. Come on, try some.’

Slowly I sit up, and reach for the tray, but Hudson pulls it away. ‘Leave it. Leptos are spoon-fed after their seizures, in case they have another fit and choke, or spill the food. Anyway, your arm’s bust, so you can’t balance the tray. They’ll do me if you burn yourself! You heard Mother this morning. They’re safety mad in here. We don’t do much for ourselves, except the work they give the fitter ones, and even that isn’t much.’

I fall back against my pillows. Being spoon-fed by an inmate! This place isn’t scary, it’s weird!

‘So how come you’re here without an escort, and allowed to feed me soup?’ I ask. ‘What if you have a seizure?’

‘I’m not a lepto, mate,’ says Hudson. ‘I’m here for, er, another reason. I could get violent if I want to, but don’t worry, they’d zap my probe if I did. Besides, we’re being watched.’

‘Probe?’ My hand flies to my neck. There’s a small lump there. Hudson laughs.

‘Yeah, they injected you. They use the probes to stop us from doing things we’re not supposed to do, like try to escape. They can tell every movement from that probe. They won’t zap you when you fit, though; they know you can’t help that, but you’ll sure as hell feel the pain when they do!’

I study Hudson’s face closely as he calmly mixes the soup.

‘Why didn’t they zap me this morning when I got out of bed? If they knew I was breaking the rules...’

‘The nuns came in. Are you going to have this soup before it gets cold?’

I eat the soup hungrily; it tastes delicious. Hudson offers the spoon again, and I take another mouthful.

‘I know your brother,’ I tell him. ‘You’re Emmett, aren’t you?’

He shrugs. ‘Hudson will do.’

‘Saul’s my mate. He talks about you all the time.’ That’s a lie. I like Hudson, and I want him to think someone on the outside cares about him. ‘He told me where you were. He worries about you. Why are you in here?’

He takes a deep breath. ‘I killed my stepfather. He beat my mum to death, so I hit him with a hammer, and buried him. The guards knew what I’d done because of the probe. They found him, and then they came after me. I just let them take me so they wouldn’t shoot me. I managed to escape the death penalty by pleading insanity, and by agreeing to let the shrinks examine me.’

I know about Saul’s mum, but not the rest. So that’s why Saul never talks about his brother.

‘They had a field day. They decided I couldn’t function in normal society, said I was mentally deranged; and I liked to drink, too, see. You know what they think of under age drinkers, so they put me in here for that, too. I’ve been here for three years.’ He feeds me another spoonful. ‘Anyway, we know your name is Travis, and you’re a lepto. We heard them bringing you in last night. What we don’t know is how they caught you.’

I tell him about the fight, the seizures, and the hospital reporting me to the inspectors. I tighten my fists. ‘They won’t keep me here! You can bet on that!
Ouch
!’

That’s the first time my probe is ‘zapped’.

‘Forget it, mate,’ says Hudson, ‘you’re here for the duration. The only way you’ll get out is when you’re dead. Even then you’ll be buried in the grounds.’

A voice booms from somewhere, ‘That’s enough, Mr Hudson. Let Mr Travis sleep now.’

I stare wildly around the room. ‘Where did that come from?’

‘I told you, they’re watching us,’ says Hudson, standing up. ‘Well, sweet dreams!’

He picks up the tray and leaves.

W
ithin days I learn the routine of Number Forty

Institution, and what’s expected of me as an inmate. They wake us at six every morning. I take my Tegretol medicine, shower, put on my blue cotton trouser suit, and eat my breakfast with the other inmates in the big hall. The Sisters serve porridge, toast, and tea. There are about five hundred other boys, all between the ages of ten to eighteen, with various mental and incurable conditions I can’t put names to. There are no girls here; they have their own institution somewhere else. One strict rule is no talking at meal times, but occasionally Hudson whispers the odd piece of information.

‘See him on that table over there, with the greasy hair?’ Kappelhoff hisses at Hudson to shut up, but Hudson ignores him. ‘That’s Brennan. He’s got manic depression. Tried to top himself twice. The one next to him is Howard; he’s got a brain injury. He can’t do anything for himself.’

Except for the look of misery on his face Brennan looks like any other lad, but Howard’s small body is twisted uncomfortably in a chair. I catch his eye. He laughs, waving back.

‘Come along, Mr Howard,’ says Sister impatiently as she presses a spoonful of porridge to his lips. 

Up until dinnertime we’re divided into our various age groups, and given a form of education: reading, writing, drawing, and work with numbers. After a dinner of sandwiches we enjoy an hour’s fresh air in the exercise compound if it isn’t raining, then the healthier lads have to help with preparing the evening meal in the kitchens, cleaning the toilets, or tidying the wards. When my arm heals I have to muck in with the rest. Supper is at six, nearly always a stew, with vegetables and potatoes. We’re given more medication, an hour’s free time, and sent to bed at seven-thirty.