Release. Part 3
A Novel In Parts by Michael Gray Griffith
Chapter Four
Vicky’s flat was bare. She’d lived here for seven years. Her father had helped her with the deposit. He’d helped all his kids.
The kitchen and living room were in one space, while the bathroom and bedroom comprised the other. The bedroom was so small it made the double bed look larger than it really was.
Under the bed, Vicky kept other clothes and stuff she didn’t need, in the same suitcases she’d used to move in.
She hadn’t stuck anything on the walls and she hadn’t painted. The original off-white still carried the scuffs and gouges left by previous renters.
Owen was in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. Never had his reflection matched the secret, mental image he had of himself. But the discrepancy no longer bothered him.
Naked, he had no tattoos, and his only scar was on his shoulder—where, in high school, he’d been pierced by an archer’s arrow. The boy who had purposely fired it had not only been suspended, but was now a policeman.
It had taken Owen two years to get full feeling back in his arm.
Grabbing his temazepam, he took two, then returned to his jacket.
Removing Hilda’s baby photo, he sat on the bed and studied her face.
Were she and her husband together now, happily tangled in the afterlife’s glowing mess? Or were they searching for each other, following the clues the first to go had left?
Perhaps Hilda was already planning to return to this life in order to be with him—except this time, she’d be his child, or a pet.
Who knew?
He looked up and, squinting, carefully scanned the room. No, there were no lights, no whispering, no laughing, gossiping voices. There was only the image of her dying face, and the memory of that moth. This image remained with him as the pills began to smooth the edges.
Sliding into bed, he watched the breeze creating ghosts in the netting and smelt Vicky on the pillow. Her aroma aroused him. Sniffing the pillow like a dog, he wanked into his underpants. He came quickly—he was good at wanking.
But while the cum helped the oncoming of sleep, it also brought back the shadow. He tried not to think of it, but that did no good. Well in control, it stained his face and deeper places too, moving ever deeper and only stopping once the pills, mercifully, had pulled him down.
Chapter Five
Vicky pulls into the driveway.
The only free space is the furthest from the entrance. She grumbles. Grabbing her handbag, she doesn’t notice one of the strap’s looped handles is caught around the handbrake lever. When the bag won’t come, she yanks it harder instead of checking why it’s stuck. The bag breaks, sending her purse, other crap, and loose tampons spinning into the air.
‘Oh my god!’ she goes, as three tampons arc and then bounce across Wally’s bonnet.
Wally, who’s just gotten out of his car, stops one with his shoe. Then, as Vicky squirms, he picks it up and, logically and completely perplexed, studies it.
‘Good morning, Vicky.’
‘Hi, Wal,’ she goes, and reaching across, she grabs the other two before even starting to look for her purse.
‘Here you go,’ Wally says, still perplexed, handing it back.
‘Are you late, love?’
‘A bit,’ she goes, and bag in hand, runs.
‘Will you be doing Dot’s eight-thirty feed?’
She punches in the security number, hears the click, then rips open the door.
Flo, in her nightie, makes a break for freedom.
Vicky blocks her path.
‘Let me go!’ Flo goes. ‘Let me go!’
‘Back inside, Flo. You know you’re not allowed.’
Jack is dressed and looking the gear. Teeth in, shaved, and hair brushed back, he’s wandering around with one hand patting the air as though he were gently patting the heads of children.
‘Flo! Please! Hello!’ Vicky goes. ‘Is there anyone there who can help me? Hello!’
The DON’s door is closed and the nurses’ station is empty. It’s breakfast—everyone’s feeding.
‘I said let me go!’ goes Flo, then growls at Vicky, trying to scare her off.
A buzzer buzzes. Another.
‘Hello, Flo,’ goes Wally. At his voice, Flo stops pushing long enough for Vicky and Wally to redirect her. Faced with a new direction, she takes off.
‘Thanks, Wal,’ goes Vicky. ‘Sorry to be rude, but I have to go.’
‘Off you go.’
In the nurses’ station, Vicky pushes her bag into the cupboard bloated with bags.
Zowdie is in the dayroom, feeding Naomi. Naomi has Parkinson’s, and her tremors smear porridge over her lips.
‘Where’s Cyril’s tray?’ Liz calls, bending to the tall trolley.
‘Liz, have you seen Clara?’ asks Vicky.
‘No,’ goes Liz, then looks at Vicky challengingly, like: I’m not coming in tomorrow, okay?
‘Clara’s in Ivy’s room,’ says Zowdie.
‘Thanks,’ goes Vicky. ‘Tell me later, Liz.’
‘No, I’m telling you now. And you better remember because I’m not getting in trouble!’
The corridor stinks of the war between the automatic air fresheners and the piss and shit.
Hiss, goes a dispenser as another valley of flowery mist is fired.
Anna charges out of a room, carrying a sheet covered in shit.
‘Open the skip! Open the skip!’
Vicky hits the skip’s foot pedal. Nothing.
‘Just pull it open,’ goes Anna.
Vicky does—and feels the squelch on her hand.
‘Why is this lid covered in faeces?’ Vicky goes, turning on the hot water and scrubbing like crazy.
‘Cyril,’ goes Anna. That’s all she needs to say.
A buzzer buzzes. Another. Water still cold.
‘Anna,’ goes Liz. ‘I need a lift with Richard.’
‘Richard’s a hoist,’ Vicky points out.
‘I know,’ snaps Liz. ‘But I still need help with the sling! Anna, didn’t you hear me?’
Flo strides past, determined to be there—even though her head’s forgotten where there is. Her nightie’s shoulder strap is broken and her surviving boob, exhausted, has fallen out.
The phone rings.
‘Flo,’ goes Vicky. ‘Flo, wait up. Anna, who’s got Flo?’
The phone rings. The buzzers buzz.
Jen comes out of a room, pushing Mary Bell on a shower chair, wrapped in a shower cape.
‘Jenny, who’s doing Flo?’
‘Zowdie,’ Jenny goes.
‘Oh,’ goes Vicky, seeing Zowdie still feeding Naomi.
She turns back. Flo is gone.
‘Is anyone answering those buzzers?’ Vicky goes.
No reply.
The phone stops. The buzzers don’t.
Ann Lee turns into the corridor, rubbing her hands like she’s just won a jackpot. She’s naked and dripping wet.
When she sees Vicky, she nods and smiles, her open face disarming.
‘Oh God,’ goes Vicky, grabbing Ann Lee’s arm.
‘Come on, Mrs Lee, let’s go get you dressed.’
Ann Lee’s room is the opposite way to Ivy’s.
Rani turns up, her Ethiopian face scowling.
‘There you are,’ she goes, and takes Ann Lee from Vicky.
‘Mum!’ yells Hazel from her bed, where she’s coated her bedside table with orange cordial. ‘Mum!!!’
Hazel will yell this all day—her mum died when Hazel was a teenager.
Vicky exhales, relieved, and finally reaches Ivy’s room.
‘Clara! I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. My alarm mustn’t have gone off.’
‘Having a root, more like,’ goes Clara.
Vicky blushes. Cheryl applauds with that air-shaking dirty laugh of hers.
Clara is feeding Ivy porridge. Ivy, skin and bone, chews each mouthful like it’s steak.
‘What’s happened?’ goes Vicky, noticing Cheryl emptying Hilda’s wardrobe into garbage bags.
‘Oh yeah,’ goes Clara. ‘You’re in luck. You’ve got one less.’
A buzzer buzzes. Another.
‘But what happened?’
‘A lack of sex,’ goes Cheryl. Clara spits a laugh.
‘No, no,’ says Clara, seeing Vicky doesn’t find this funny. ‘It was her heart.’
‘Her heart? Really? But her heart was fine.’
‘Vicky, she was ninety-two. Nothing on or in her was fine.’
‘Maybe it was a stroke,’ suggests Cheryl, stuffing folded nighties into a bag.
‘Yeah well, whatever,’ goes Clara. ‘What matters is the new lady’s already on her way in. And Vick, you’re one staff down.’
‘Who?’
‘Jesus! Isn’t anyone going to answer them?’ Clara snaps. ‘Colleen. Her daughter’s got chickenpox—chances are she won’t be in all week.’
‘Useless bitch,’ snorts Cheryl. ‘We’re better off without her.’
A buzzer buzzes.
‘Did you try the agencies?’
Clara nods. ‘Angels, Sterlings, even Origin. Nothing. If they find someone they’ll call back, but so far nothing. Oh—and Helen’s not coming in either.’
Helen, the Director of Nursing. The DON.
A buzzer buzzes. The phone rings. Clara grabs the walkabout and answers it.
‘She’s got a meeting to go to apparently,’ Clara tells Vicky, then into the phone:
‘Grandview Gardens, Clara speaking. Can I help you? . . . No, Joanne’s not in today. Can I take a message? . . . Sorry, I can’t give out her number. Try again tomorrow.’
Call over, Vicky asks:
‘Who was that?’
‘Some bloke. You know what Joanne’s like.’ Then:
‘Can we do handover now? I was supposed to be home an hour ago.’
‘Of course,’ goes Vicky.
‘Cheryl, you finishing Ivy?’ Clara says, holding up the porridge.
‘She is finished,’ goes Cheryl. ‘She never eats more than that.’
‘Just do it,’ Clara goes.
As Vicky and Clara leave the room, Cheryl plonks herself on Ivy’s bed and shoves a spoonful of porridge into her mouth. Ivy’s toast is untouched. Cheryl picks up a slice and scoffs it.
In the hall, Liz is collecting trays, Jenny sorting contents. Bowls, plates, and cups together. Leftovers in the slop bucket, cutlery in the cutlery bucket.
Past them, Jack grins as he pushes the shitty skip down the corridor.
Then from Room Twelve:
‘Get away from me, ya black bastard!’
‘Florence,’ snaps Zowdie. ‘You can’t speak to me like that.’
Clara smirks. Vicky grimaces.
‘Mum!’ yells Hazel.
‘Mum!!!’
The drug room’s door mutes the chaos.
Grandview Gardens is up for sale. To cut a profit these days, you need at least ninety high-care residents. Grandview has thirty.
Currently, the owners are building a new 160-bed, dementia-specific residence in Altona.
Vicky has worked here for twenty years. After completing her Bachelor in Nursing, she spent a year at the Alfred, then started here part-time to make some extra money.
Hilda, naturally, is the star of handover.
Rupert hasn’t had a bowel action in five days.
‘He’s a shit grenade,’ Clara says. ‘So don’t be near him when he explodes.’
Jack, as usual, has been up all night.
Ida fell out of bed. Again. Why her family won’t let her have cot sides is beyond Vicky. Nothing’s broken, but she’s got a skin tear on her leg she can’t even feel.
Mary Hewitt—fine.
Mary Bell—nothing.
Mary Friend’s daughter is taking her out this morning and wants her looking nice.
Dorothy has Dr. Segal coming to see her arm—make sure he updates her drug chart.
Betty’s doctor is also coming. They’re querying shingles on her leg.
Ivy—well, Ivy’s Ivy.
The phone rings.
Vicky moves to answer it.
Clara pulls her back.
‘Don’t you dare,’ goes Clara. ‘Let the machine get it.’
Vicky grimaces.
‘Did you manage to get hold of Hilda’s son? I know he wanted to be here.’
‘I did. But it was too late. She was already gone when we found her. He told me just to ring the undertaker. I felt bad, but what can you do?
Anyway, I got a locum in to sign the death certificate. That cute Indian guy—Mahmood. He is sooo cute. Can we check the drugs now? I really have to go.’
‘But what about the rest of handover?’
‘You worked yesterday—everyone else is no change.’
The drugs are quickly counted, verified, signed.
A few years ago they had a male RN who helped himself to one of the morphs, but since then—nothing.
The biggest scandal this year (after Colleen’s husband was arrested in a public toilet) was when Winifred’s new cardigan went missing the day after her daughter bought it for her. Since then, everything’s labelled. Even the labeller.
Grabbing her bag and pulling out her smokes, Clara asks:
‘So, how are you and Owen getting on? I’ve asked him, but he’s a vault.’
‘I thought you had to go.’
‘I do. But for this, I can make time... Let’s have a smoke.’
‘I don’t smoke. You know that.’
‘Vick, just come outside.’
The smokers’ section is out the back.
An old card table—somehow still standing despite breaking every law of physics—and a load of mismatched, torn chairs.
Above it, a stunted pagoda, soon to be swallowed again by the returning jasmine.
Cheryl’s out here. Big t-shirt to hide her big frame. Speaks loudly because, secretly and ironically, she feels that if she doesn’t, no one will notice her.
Liz is out here too. Half-finished fag in yellow-stained fingers. Late forties. No flesh left on her bones. Even her wrinkles look hard.
When Vicky steps out, Liz won’t look at her. She looks at Cheryl instead, then winks. Cheryl laughs.
‘Come over here, Vik,’ Clara goes, dragging Vicky to the garden.
‘What’s wrong?’ snaps Liz. ‘Too good for us, huh? Fuckin’ RNs,’ she mumbles.
Liz has worked here a long time too. Started as a trainee. Now a Div 2.
She never finished school, so this was somewhere to reach.
Tried to become an RN—got knocked back.
Then her husband took off, ran off with some woman he met while installing her air-con.
Liz left him too. And her kids.
Until Colleen’s husband stuffed up, Liz’s husband was the talk of the home.
Left with a mortgage and three kids, Liz swapped the idea of a degree for double shifts.
That made her top dog among the lower ranks. And as top dog, she’s had her share of run-ins with Vicky.
Altercations are how the pecking order’s sorted.
And no one fucks with Liz. Not even Joanne.
‘Forget her,’ Clara whispers to Vicky. ‘She probably blew her mortgage payment at the pokies.’
That gets a smirk from Vicky.
‘So,’ Clara goes, exhaling a drag, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask—what’s he like in bed?’
‘Clara!’
‘What?’
‘Personally—and I don’t mean to offend—but to me, he comes across as a bit of a cold fish. Nice. The old people love him, and he’s great with them. But cold, nonetheless. Am I right?’
‘No, no you’re not,’ Vicky says, then pauses. ‘You really think he’s a cold fish?’
‘Relax, Vik. Most men over forty can’t even get it up. He is over forty, right? He looks it.’
‘Clara!’
‘What? You’re not offended, are you? Being forty’s not bad. Look at you.’
Vicky laughs. Clara starts to but stops herself.
She might hate the circumstances of her life—but she likes herself. Immensely.
‘Vicky!’ Zowdie yells. ‘Vicky, where are you?!’
Vicky knows it’s bad—Zowdie never yells.
‘Great,’ goes Clara. ‘What now?’
‘She’s out here!’ yells Liz, then mutters, ‘Ya stupid monkey.’
Cheryl laughs.
Now outside, Zowdie looks around, finds the RNs:
‘Quickly, Vicky!’ he goes, even though she’s already up and approaching. ‘It’s Dot.’
Chapter 6 soon