Wednesday 6 October 2010

10.08 a.m.

Wolf stared out at the sun-dappled gardens that surrounded the grand old building. The few patches of light that had managed to fight their way through the dying foliage above danced across the neat lawn to the choreography of a gentle breeze.

Even the concentration required to enjoy the tranquil scene was taking its toll upon his fatigued mind. The medication that he was force-fed twice a day had left him in a perpetual half-waking state, not the warm uncoordination of an alcohol-provoked daze – more distant, apathetic, defeated.

He understood the need for it. The common areas were populated with people suffering the entire spectrum of mental health disorders: those who had attempted suicide sharing tables with those who had killed, those spiralling into depression through feelings of worthlessness talking to others with delusions of grandeur. It was a recipe for disaster diluted through medication, although, Wolf could not help but feel, born out of a need to control rather than actually cure.

He was losing track of the days and weeks, existing as he did in the surreal routined confines of the hospital, where he and his fellow detainees would roam the halls aimlessly in their pyjama-style scrubs, were told when to eat, when to wash, when to sleep.

Wolf could not be positive how much of his current condition was attributed to the drugs and how much to the insomnia-induced exhaustion. Even in this semi-catatonic state he feared nightfall, the hush before the storm as the bruise-eyed night-shift workers escorted the patients back to their rooms and the confinement that brought out the true psychosis contained within the walls of the handsome old hospital. Every night he would wonder why these people struggled on, petrified of being left alone with themselves, their pathetic crying in the dark.

‘Open up,’ instructed the impatient nurse standing over him.

Wolf opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue to prove that he had swallowed the handful of brightly coloured pills.

‘You understand why we had to transfer you onto the secure ward, don’t you?’ she asked him, as if speaking to a child.

Wolf did not answer.

‘If I can tell Dr Sym you’ve been better about taking your meds, I’m sure she’ll move you back.’

When Wolf turned his attention back to the window she huffed and went off to annoy someone else.

He was sitting in a quiet corner of the Rec Room, an almost perfect recreation of his sixth-form common room, complete with stackable bright orange school chairs. Table Tennis Man was growing increasingly irate, as he did every day at this time, somehow managing to lose his one-player match. The Two Pink Ladies, as Wolf knew them, due to the colour of their scrubs, were making simple models out of plasticine, and a group were occupying the tatty sofas surrounding the large television; he was vaguely aware of his name being mentioned, before a member of staff rushed over to replace the Mayor of London with SpongeBob SquarePants.

Wolf shook his head in disbelief as he regarded the nursery-school scene before him, after what had been a particularly disruptive and violent night in the residential wing. One of the Pink Ladies cheerfully kneaded blood into her plasticine flower. Wolf winced as she continued, oblivious to the pain in her destroyed fingernails, presumably sustained while clawing frantically at an immovable door.

He wondered whether he shared this trait with these people: the capacity for such extremes. He knew, deep down, that he would have killed Khalid in front of all those people, no matter what the consequences, any sense of self-preservation lost.

He would have ripped him apart.

Perhaps ‘normal’ people had more control over their emotions. Perhaps what he considered normal, in fact, wasn’t.

His thoughts were interrupted when a tall black man in his mid-twenties got up from in front of the television and approached his table beside the window. Bar the few occasions when it had been absolutely inescapable, Wolf had avoided all contact with anybody since his incarceration. This had even extended to Andrea, who had given up on her attempts to call the hospital and had wasted a journey down there, only for him to refuse to leave his room.

Wolf had seen the man around. He always wore bright red scrubs with bare feet. He had struck Wolf as being, in the main, reserved and thoughtful, which was why it came as such a surprise when he gestured to one of the plastic chairs and waited patiently for a reply.

Wolf nodded.

The man carefully lifted the chair back from the table and sat down. A faint smell of infection surrounded him as he held both hands out to Wolf, linked by the metal handcuffs that the staff equipped him with whenever he entered the communal areas.

‘Joel,’ the man said through a thick south London accent.

Wolf used his strapped-up wrist as an excuse not to take his hand. Despite the man’s calm demeanour, he appeared unable to sit still, and Wolf could hear a foot tapping nervously against the floor beneath the table.

‘I thought I knew you,’ grinned Joel, pointing at Wolf with both hands. ‘Moment you stepped through that door, I said: “I know him”.’

Wolf waited patiently.

‘When I saw what you did, I thought to myself: “This guy, he don’t just think that the Cremation Killer; he know.” Right? That be the freak who killed them girls. Right? And they just let him go.’

Wolf nodded.

Joel swore and shook his head.

‘You tried. You did the right thing going for him like you did.’

‘You know,’ started Wolf, speaking for the first time in weeks. His voice sounded different to how he remembered. ‘I appreciate the sentiment, but it would probably mean more had I not watched you whispering into a bowl of cereal all morning.’

Joel looked mildly insulted.

‘A man with a god would know the difference between whispering and praying,’ said Joel accusingly.

‘And a man with his sanity would know the difference between a bowl of Coco Pops and his deity,’ quipped Wolf with an unconscious smirk. He suddenly realised how much he missed trading insults with his colleagues.

‘OK, OK. Be that way,’ said Joel as he got back up. ‘I’ll see you around, Detective.’

Joel went to leave but paused and turned back to Wolf.

‘My grandpa used to say: “A man without enemies is a man without principals.”’

‘Wise words,’ nodded Wolf. He felt exhausted by their fleeting exchange. ‘But I’m guessing advice like that is also the reason you’re in here.’

‘Nah. I choose to be in here, don’t I?’

‘Is that right?’

‘As long as I’m in here, I’m alive.’

‘“A man without enemies …”’ Wolf recited thoughtfully.

‘Ain’t got no enemies left, Detective …’ said Joel, turning his back to Wolf and walking away, ‘… that’s the problem.’

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