Novel Extract

NORMAL

And it came to pass, late one evening, that as one young man walked homewards …

… an unlicensed taxicab - driven by a slightly older and hairier man without a license, insurance, local language skills or even any legal right to be in the country - mounted the kerb and clipped the young man's upper thigh with its remaining wing mirror …

… throwing him against a brick wall and onto the pavement, where he lay bleeding and motionless …

… as a group of trainee doctors on a well-deserved night out crossed the road to avoid any possible legal repercussions of rendering any medical help …

… yea, even unto refusing the young man any basic first aid …

… while the car in question slammed into lamp-posts and storefronts for another couple of hundred yards before coming to a final halt …

… and another equally-professional group on another equally-justifiable night out fought amongst their equally-respected selves to stuff the young man's each and every pocket with their own business cards offering their own particular brand of assistance …

… no win, no fee.

And whereas the driver was initially treated at great cost to the taxpayer and went on to receive a lifetime of expensive publicly-funded therapy in this country afterwards …

… the young man lay, nearly-forgotten, in a coma in the farthest corner of a small and scarcely-used ward in a hospital where the management prided itself on the availability of beds …

… because that same management had calculated it to be more economical to leave him this way, since his condition only required a single daily visit to hook up a new dripfeed and replace the bag at the end of his catheter …

… and in view of the young man's occupation of that bed being technically definable as 'permanent' and thus the bed he occupied could no longer be technically defined as 'available', statistical figures could now justifiably be juggled to prove to anyone …

… especially those in charge of funding the hospital in question …

… that while the queue for available beds remained constant, the number of available beds had been drastically reduced …

… and that an equally-drastic increase in funding was desperately needed as soon as possible.

And so the nameless young man was left in this manner for a number of years …

… and he would have remained in that condition for many more years, had it not been for the kindness of a worldly senior nurse, educating a rosy-cheeked youngster on the finer aspects of fellatio, with a certain amount of difficulty - using the nameless young man as a teaching aid. This was during their lunchbreak on St. Vaseline's Day, to use the celebration's more common name, given - with good reason - by the Accident and Emergency staff.

News of the young man's sudden recovery spread quickly throughout the nursing sorority and took on a life of its own, even before the last of the tell-tale evidence had been completely wiped away, as news of this magnitude often does.

Consider, for example, the life taken on by news within a working environment, whether it be rumours of anything from cutbacks to wholesale redundancies due to the company's budgetary disposition, or just who's been doing what and to whom on the photocopier in the stationery cupboard. Like the agile mountain goat, it hops lightly - but sure-footedly - from one desk to settle briefly on another, and then another, sometimes perching on the water-cooler to rest, and sometimes, thanks to improved communications within the company, even leaping all the way from one craggy outpost to another.

Or, perhaps, you might wish to ponder the life taken on by information absolutely necessary to put a stop to some injustice, whether social or otherwise. It may be unfair to assume that in all cases the speed of the animal in question is entirely dependent on the funds available to hasten its progress, but …

… in cases of a corporate nature, that information could well take on the characteristics of a grazing elephant, being not in that much of a hurry to reach its intended destination but still doing so - in its own good time - while leaving a swathe of destruction behind it …

… or in cases of a more personal nature, it could take on those of the autumn tortoise, on its way to somewhere terribly, terribly important, but finding it more and more difficult to resist the ever-growing urge to lie down and take a short, three-month nap to get the winter out of the way before resuming its travels …

… or, as in a lot of legal-aid cases, merely disappearing over the edge of the nearest convenient cliff, lemming-style.

But then again, there's always no win, no fee.

In this particular case, even before the last tissue had bounced off the side of the waste bin and onto the ward floor, news of the young man's recovery took on all the aspects and virtues of the magnificent wild salmon that struggles against the odds to swim back upstream to spawn, and which, unlike its farmed cousins, tends not to glow in the dark.

And what a glorious lifecycle they shared: to start with, they both spent a short while gaining sustenance and strength, before swimming hard and fast to gather momentum for the struggle uphill - either through fast-running water, or the many, many ranks of hospital administration.

They then both fought their way up - one against a nearly-impassable downpour of solid water, and the other, of disbelief within and outside the hospital itself. They both avoided unnecessary detours into non-essential tributaries, such as a rivulet going nowhere and the department within the hospital that dealt with applications for government funding. But they both briefly explored other avenues, like a reed-filled tributary in one case, and claims for punitive damages for shock, dismay, personal distress, lasting mental damage and the reimbursement of the cost of several kleenex in the other.

Both salmon and news struggled up ever-steeper inclines, pausing only to rest briefly in calmer water, found either at successively elevated heights on the hillside, or in top management offices at local, district, area and national level.

And then both made the often-dangerous leap to altogether gentler pools, either at the top of the watery slope or in governmental departments branching off on either side of plushly-carpeted corridors of power.

They both rested before continuing their journey in a more horizontal - and considerably more leisurely - manner to their ultimate destination, where some Higher Force demanded the completion of the action they had struggled so hard and so far to undertake. Because just as the purpose of life is to create more life, the purpose of information is to create more information.

By this time, the nurses responsible for bringing about this miraculous occurrence in the first place had long since left the employment of the Health Service, and were now running a small, but very specialised - and indeed, very successful - business. It was patronised by elderly gentlemen with a great deal of discretionary spending money, as well as somewhat younger - but much more desperate - men seeking to regain the power and pleasure of a youth long since gone. This was by way of the now internationally-famous Lazarus Treatment, supplied by the staff of the equally-renowned Clinton Clinic.

The bespoke cigars they sold as a sideline were popular among certain circles, too.

And once their work was done, the Higher Force sent both the salmon and the news of the young man's recovery back downstream again, but this time with the impetus of both gravity and the words "You are responsible - deal with it. Now".

They travelled all the way from government rockpools across to the top of the Health Service river, back down through levels national, area, district and local, and back, somehow, through the multitudinous layers of hospital administration staff and finally to a small room, directly upstairs from the scene of the miracle in question.

And at the end of their return journeys, both salmon and information were tossed - figuratively, literally and carelessly - onto the paper-strewn top of a desk supported by three matching legs and a pile of long-overdue casework, one as a direct order from administrators in much more comfortable surroundings upstairs, and the other mashed up with mayonnaise in a very expensive sandwich …

…that even in the dim light available to all those sharing that office, hardly appeared to be glowing at all.

***

And it came to pass that while the many shareholders in World of Burgers, the international fast-food chain that promised "Fun in a bun from around the world to you" were still recovering from the sudden and drastic fall in share value after the introduction - and almost immediate withdrawal - last year of the great and good Gummaburger …

… their fortunes suddenly took another nosedive when this month's heavily-publicised promotional national food theme - the Icelandic Thorrablot - failed to live up to even the most direly pessimistic of sales predictions …

… and while an administrative operative upstairs in a certain hospital didn't quite notice the correlation between an inability to log on to the home-shopping section of a nationwide frozen-food outlet and the breaking international news report on the web radio …

… much further downstairs, in a cramped and dingy office, a pleasant-looking young lady with long red hair, freckles and a very expensive but so far worthless degree in psychology couldn't really have given a toss about worsening relations between Iceland and Tunisia.

She was, however, about to find her life taking a sudden and dramatic change as she wiped breadcrumbs and mayonnaise off a brown envelope. It had a typed label with what the hospital administration thought was her name on it, together with the words PRIVATE and AND and CONFIDENTIAL.

This, she assumed, as she tugged at the flap, was going to be her marching orders, and about time, too. She'd worked at this hospital too long for her liking… and no doubt this would be the letter that ended it all. It was, she thought, going to entitle her to claim unemployment benefits and - with luck - receive ever-so-slightly less than the absolute minimum amount of money she needed to live on every two weeks.

Which, after deducting current travel costs and the very occasional lunchtime treat, would leave her exactly in the same financial position as she was now.

But then again, she wouldn't have to wake up early, fight her flatmates for the bathroom, fight other commuters for breathing space on public transport and then fight against the sheer boredom of going through whatever it was she was supposed to be going through during the day.

And which, even after three months of trying to figure out by herself what it was in the first place, and then receiving no reply to the countless emails she'd sent to the administration department that had originally hired her - and just about every other office she could find in the hospital address book - was still completely unclear to her.

But at least it wasn't risking life and limb for a few quid an hour - plus tips - as she'd been doing not so long ago, whizzing round town on a moped delivering pizzas.

So the contents of this envelope, labelled Elanie Partick, should have been her passport to freedom.

But it wasn't.

It was, in fact, something altogether different. She pulled out a letter headed with the words "Department of Social Rehabilitation" and a logo that had probably cost a great deal of taxpayers' money, but which could have represented anything from an international oil company to a local chippie.

And then she started reading.

It was addressed to Eilane Pratick , and ran something like this:

"Dear Mr Ptarick:

As you are by now no doubt aware, the Department is by now aware of the sudden recovery of a young man from a coma lasting a number of years in the hospital where you are presently wroking.

The Department wishes to run a rehabilitation program for this young man, with a view to piloting a shceme to test whether or not he and subsequent applicants meet certain essential social criteria to enable a return to society.

Taking into account your recent degree in psychology, it is therefore, after great deliberation, that, with the co-operation of hospital management, the Department has selected you to implement that program.

You will receive no extra payment from the hospital for the time spent putting this program into practice. The hospital mnaagement and administration have, however, agreed that allowances will be made should your normal duties not be fulfilled in the time allotted to them.

You will therefore be notified by the Department in advance of each of seven carefully-designed soical situations requiring a response, to guage this person's ability to integrate back into society. Should this person's integration ability be insufficient to enable him to return to his full place in society, the Department will have no other option but to place him in a Secure Trust Unit for the rest of his natural life.

You are to engineer those soical situations in whatever way you deem appropriate, observe this person's reactions to them, together with his subsequent response and report back to the appropriate member of Department staff (contact details below) as soon as possible.

According to your report, the Department will evaluate that response and apply a score to that response, based on a marking system devised by the Department. Should you disagree with the Department's evaluation and score, you are entitled to apply for a single re-test at the Department's dicsretion. However, please be advised that any coaching and/or advice you may wish to offer regarding that re-test is entirely up to yourself.

You are therefore to regard yourself as this young man's mentor, starting immediately, because the ultimate responsibility for his reintegration back into soicety, as is that of all other future applicants evaluated by the Department in this manner, is now entirely yours.

Yours sincerely,

Illegible."

Which left Elayne with three questions:

Why me?

What the hell is a Secure Trust Unit?

And

Jampton?!

***

And it came to pass that as sales of a certain Icelandic artist's latest recorded offering surpassed even the most unrealistically optimistic estimates, and CD manufacturing plants around the world struggled bravely to keep up with unprecedented demand …

… and an elderly government employee was struggling to keep an overfilled wire trolley from spilling many, many brown envelopes all over one particular Corridor of Power …

… where, behind an open door, a certain Junior Minister was meeting with the upper echelons of World of Burgers management and trying to figure out just what went wrong with the Thorrablot promotion …

… and in the process arguing loudly about the suggestion that perhaps including Hrutspungar (pressed sheeps' testicles, apparently rather like cod roe) this time round might have been going a bit too far for local tastes …

… which was causing a certain amount of wry amusement a few open doors further down that same Corridor, where the receptionist of the Department of Social Rehabilitation had been listening to the proceedings with interest …

… before turning her attention to a pleasant-looking young lady with red hair and freckles who'd been standing and waiting at the reception desk for quite some time now.

" And how ..." asked the suddenly-receptive receptionist, looking up from a web news report blaming a track on a now-infamous CD for the deterioration of what had already been fairly strained diplomatic relations between Tunisia and Iceland, "... Can we help you?"

"I'm Elayne Patrick, and I've come to talk to someone about this."

"This" was the letter she'd read through several times yesterday, with increasing disbelief, and which she was now thrusting across the desk.

The receptionist glanced back at the web news report just long enough for her to take in that if you played one particular track of that CD backwards, the resultant reversed Icelandic wail upset a lot of Tunisians, and then scanned the letter in question.

In the meantime, Elayne flicked through a two-day-old copy of the Financial Times, looking for the comic strips, and, finding none, texted one of the people in her office to say that she wouldn't be returning that afternoon.

The text message went through the usual channels until its final destination, where it caused a mobile phone to beep. It then stayed there, unread, while its recipient cursed the hospital computer system that wouldn't let her order her weekly frozen food once she'd logged on to one particular website with her user ID. Instead, all she could see on her screen was some foreign-looking writing, several pictures of the newest Icelandic superstar having some terrible things done to him …

… and bloodstains. Lots of bloodstains.

"Ah, yes," said the receptionist. "You'll want to see Mr. Falconer, but I'm sorry, he's not in."

"So, when will he be back?"

"Oooh, it's hard to say. Two, maybe three months. Stress-related illness, I'm afraid. It was all very sudden."

"Well, isn't there anyone else I can talk to?"

"Mmm, let's have a look … Mr. Ashburton … no. Mr. MacDonald … no. Mr. Pemberton … no. Mrs. Thring … Sorry, they're all out at lunch. Oh, and meetings. Lots of meetings. All afternoon. Perhaps if I could take your name and number, I can get someone to …"

But by that time Elayne had gone.

The receptionist turned back to her web news, and finished the story about that reversed Icelandic wail. Apparently, it bore more than just a passing resemblance to a sequence of escalating Arabic obscenities only known to - and only used by - Tunisians who weren't very happy with the person they were talking to. She logged onto a suddenly-bloodstained website and started a long and futile attempt to order her frozen groceries for the week.

Elayne stood outside in the rain, wondering what to do next.

Those three questions she'd originally asked herself while reading the letter that was now crumpled in a not-very-waterproof shoulderbag ran through her mind again, but this time with something close approaching an answer. Sort of.

Why me?

I've got a psychology degree. Therefore I'm the right person for the job. At least, that's what they think.

What the hell is a Secure Trust Unit?

Sounds like somewhere for society's rejects. Like my flatmates.

And

Jampton?

God knows.

***

The Lord may have indeed known, and perhaps was indeed even partially responsible for the name assigned to the man now sitting up in bed in a deserted basement ward.

His hair had not been cut for the duration of his stay in hospital, and neither had his beard. Both were extremely long, in dreadlock ringlets and badly in need of washing.

Jampton had been sitting up in bed and staring vacantly into space like this for the past two weeks. In the meantime everyone else in the hospital, from the contract cleaning staff …

… to the contract catering staff …

… through the many and varied ranks of administrative personnel (whether contract or permanent) …

… and all the way up to junior, middle and senior management …

… together with the small percentage of the hospital workforce who actually tended to the needs of patients …

… assumed somebody else was dealing with the problem.

The only people dealing with any part of that problem, however, were the flocks of volunteers queuing up to give Jampton his regular bedbath - but only if they were lucky enough to have had their name pulled out of a very full hat.

When it came to the deed itself, they would approach him with a certain amount of trepidation, wash him with a great deal of surprise and then walk away, totally awestruck. Jampton's hair may have still been filthy, but everywhere else, he was shiny, spotless and admired.

Admired, he might have been, but since no change in administrative - or even medical - policy had decreed that Jampton should be fed solids, he was sitting up in bed right now waiting for someone to come and hook up another bag of dripfeed and, with luck, remove the bag at the other end. Which was beginning to leak all over the floor beneath his bed, like most of the others had done before it.

And bored he certainly was. Without much in the way of mental stimulation, all he could do was try and remember anything he could about the time before he woke up in this bed. Like his name, for example. How old he was. Where he lived … and how he got here.

Unfortunately, because of the exact nature and location of the blow to his skull that caused him to be admitted to the hospital in the first place, none of those memories could filter through to his conscious mind, which otherwise worked perfectly.

If he wanted to sit up, he could sit up. If he wanted to pee, he could pee. Depending on how full the plastic bag was, and whether it had burst yet. If he wanted to speak, he could speak. But since all that anyone who gave him his regular four-times-a-day bedbath would say was "Oh, my GOD!" or words to that effect, Jampton hadn't had much of a chance to get involved in anything like a useful - or even enjoyable - conversation.

But all this was going to change, just as soon as Elayne poked her head round her office door, let everybody know that she was working on the Department's project for the day and walked away, wondering what all the snickering was about behind her. Oh, and then go out and do some serious low-income shopping - or at least staring through shop windows, and maybe trying on a pair of sale-price knee-length boots - before meeting an old friend for a cup of coffee which she hoped would turn into lunch. On him.

And so it was that once Elayne had gently moved a particularly awestruck agency nurse to one side in a narrow basement corridor, and walked through the ward door marked PLEASE KEEP THIS DOOR SHUT AT ALL TIMES that was gaping as wide as the nurse's mouth, her first sight of Jampton wasn't exactly the grand occasion that first sightings between two star-crossed people can sometimes be.

She stood in the doorway, uncertain what to do next, until - after far too long a silence, while they both regarded each other without expression - Elayne simply said "Hello", and left it at that.

After a pause, Jampton simply replied "I'm clean" and left it at that.

Another long silence.

"I know", said Elayne and cautiously made her way towards the bed.

"So you don't have to wash me", continued Jampton.

"I know", said Elayne again.

Jampton looked at her, puzzled.

"So why are you here?" he asked.

"I think", stammered Elayne, not too sure herself, "I'm supposed to help you."

Underneath a pair of overly-bushy eyebrows, Jampton's eyes widened momentarily. And after another, long, awkward silence, he scratched behind an ear, flicked something away into the distance and said "Good".

There was another long pause in the conversation, while Jampton settled down back under the blanket and lay there, looking up at the ceiling, while Elayne fetched a chair and brought it to the bedside.

She sat in it for a few moments and found it uncomfortable, so she stood back up again, twirled the chair round and settled back into it, arms folded along the top of the back, leaning towards the bed.

"How?" he asked.

"I don't know. Are you hungry?"

"How long have I been like this?"

"Years, I think. Why?"

"Well, that's how long I haven't eaten for. So what do you think?."

Elaine rummaged in her shoulderbag. That cup of coffee hadn't turned into lunch, so she'd treated herself to a store-bought sandwich on her way back on the underground, but hadn't had enough space around her to eat it, let alone enjoy it. A crumpled mass of soggy paper with a very expensive logo on it flopped onto the floor and she left it where it lay.

"Do you like salmon?" she asked, running her thumbnail under the label that held the triangular plastic container together.

"Doesn't matter if I don't. I'll eat anything right now."

Elayne struggled with the wrapping.

"Give it here", ordered Jampton, with the patience of someone about to see his first solid food in years fall onto a rather disgusting floor. Elayne held it out for him and watched, despairingly, as he ripped the half of the sandwiches that would actually come out of the container out of the container, and stuffed them into his mouth.

He lay there, chewing for much longer than Elayne usually chewed for, swallowed and gasped.

"Water. Get me water."

Elayne looked around for a glass of water, then a glass, then a sink and finally a tap. Since there weren't any in the ward, she reached back down into her shoulderbag and pulled out the bottle of flavoured water she'd bought to cheer herself up after spending so much money on her sandwich. As soon as she'd opened it, Jampton sat up in bed, snatched it from her hand and downed it in one.

Elayne made a mental note to insist on having her expenses repaid, and wondered what the hell she was going to eat for the rest of the day.

"More."

Jampton tore open the sandwich container, ripping it where it hadn't been moulded into a bend, and repeated the process with the other half of the sandwich.

"I said more" he spat while he chewed. "What's the problem? You deaf, or something?"

Elayne stood up.

"I'll have to go get some."

Elayne went to the door, and turned back.

"You wait here. I'll bring it right back, OK?"

"Well, get on with it then."

Elayne walked through the door, closed it gently behind her, made a mental decision …

… and went to buy those sale-price knee-length boots.

***