A little bit of this and a little bit of that: An update

A Little Bit of This And a Little Bit of that

Greg Martin

A collection of short stories

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Dedicated to the fabulous patients whom I had the privilege of treating at Umtata General Hospital in South Africa: Aphiwe, Siphokazi, Mavis, Samuel and many others.

A big thank you to my family and Anna for all the support, encouragement and help in putting this together.

Copyright © by Greg Martin 2006

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the copyright owner. For permission requests, contact Dr Martin via email

[email protected]

Illustrations copyright © by Colette Jobert

Published using:

Lulu Enterprises, Inc.

3131 RDU Center, Suite 210

Morrisville, NC 27560

Printed and bound in the United States of America

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About the book: This collection is divided into two parts: “A Little Bit of This…” which is a collection of short stories, “And a Little Bit of That” which is a collection of emails that Dr Martin sent from Umtata General Hospital while working there as a junior doctor. He has left the emails, more or less, as they were sent (warts and all). A copy of this book can be purchased at: www.amazon.com www.lulu.com/gregmartin Register for notification of new publications by Greg Martin at:

http://groups.google.com/group/Notification-of-new-books Contact the author at: [email protected] or visit his webpage at: www.gregmartin.doctors.org.uk

About the author: Greg Martin is a medical doctor, born in South Africa and now working at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, doing research into maternal health in developing countries. His career has taken him to an array of interesting places including Ghana, Serbia, Indonesia and Brazil. His clinical experience in both Psychiatry and Paediatrics bring colourful detail to his fiction writing, as does his keen interest in humanity and human nature. He is the Chief-Editor of Globalization and Health (www.globalizationandhealth.com), an online medical journal, a director of Global Development Strategies and the founder of both the Books For Africa charity and the Radio HIV Initiative in South Africa. He is also a member of tt30, the young think-tank of the Club of Rome. This collection of short stories and emails is the first of his non-academic publications.

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Table of Contents

A LITTLE BIT OF THIS… JUDGE NOT 1 A GAMBLING MAN 6 ESCAPE 11 A HELPING HAND 16 THE NEED 21 AN UNFORTUNATE RELATIONSHIP 25 ANOTHER UNFORTUNATE RELATIONSHIP 27 CALCULATED LOVE 29 YOU NEVER KNOW 39 CONFESSION 47 BAD TIMING 50 REALISATION 57 AND A LITTLE BIT OF THAT 69

WELCOME TO UMTATA 70 MEET APHIWE 71 APHIWE IN THE SUN 72 APHIWE AND THE PHONE 74 SIPHOKAZI WAS BRAVE 76 SIPHOKAZI IN TROUBLE 78 OLD-MAN THOMAS 81 GEORGIO AND AYANDA 84 MEET MAVIS 87 MORE MAVIS 90 SAMUEL SAMUEL 93

VI

VII

A Little Bit of This…

1

Judge Not

‘All rise. The state versus Mr Alex Black, the honourable Judge Eric Sheldon

presiding.’

The judge sits down behind the large wooden bench, rests his hand on the

gavel and takes a moment to look at the defendant, a fresh-faced man in his

early forties. ‘Mr Black, you are charged with murder in the first degree of Miss

Belinda Thomas. Do you understand these charges?’

‘He does your honour,’ the defence attorney replies.

‘And how does the defendant plead?’

‘Not guilty, your honour.’

* * *

Not all murders are carefully planned. Sometimes a person will act completely

out of character - lash out in a moment of anger. I remember killing Belinda

Thomas as if it happened yesterday.

‘I’m leaving early today,’ I told my personal assistant. ‘I’ve got a personal affair

to sort out.’

Driving to Café Bella on 4th Avenue, I listened to Billy Joel sing ‘Innocent Man’

and mentally rehearsed the conversation I was about to have. I arrived slightly

late. Café Bella was quiet as usual. The afternoon sun shone brightly through

the large windowpanes into the front half of the café, making it yellow and

lively. Belinda was waiting at our usual table in the back corner, drumming her

long, red fingernails against the plastic blue and white checked tablecloth.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ I said. ‘I got caught in traffic.’ I tried to sound cheerful.


2

‘Get to the point,’ she snapped, stubbing out her cigarette. ‘Why is it so urgent

for us to talk?’ She made quotation marks with her fingers around the word

‘talk’.

‘Belinda, look,’ I began, ‘we’ve known all along that this was never going to be

permanent.’

‘So you’re ending it then?’

‘I’m married, Belinda. I love my wife.’

‘Oh please! You’re more worried about what the public will think,’ she said

leaning forward and raising her eyebrows accusingly.

I sat back, shaking my head. I wasn’t completely surprised that she’d brought

that up – I wasn’t naïve enough to expect an easy break-up. For a few moments,

we both just sat there. It was as if each of us was gathering strength for the

inevitable argument.

‘I’m pregnant.’ She held my gaze as if to force the idea into my brain through

my retinas. ‘And yes,’ she continued, ‘it’s yours.’

A cold metallic taste filled my mouth from under my tongue.

‘Are you going to keep it?’

‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged.

‘We need to talk about this, Belinda.’

‘Okay,’ she agreed, ‘but not here - we need privacy.’

She left ahead of me and I caught up with her at Dunkels, a cheap hotel less

than a mile from Bella’s. When I arrived, Belinda was waiting in the lobby, her

long legs crossed elegantly as she applied lipstick. She seemed to fit in well: her

red lips, her red fingernails, the red carpet, which pealed away at the walls of the

lobby.

Judge not

3

‘One hour,’ I said to the unshaven, greasy looking man behind the reception

desk.

‘Fifty bucks,’ he said without looking up. He’d been doing this job for long

enough to know not to. I took the key and slapped down the money. Knowing

that Belinda would follow discreetly, I walked toward the elevator and pushed

the up button.

The hotel room was small and dark, the furniture was old and stained and the

air still smelt of the previous occupant’s cheap perfume. As soon as we were in

the room, Belinda draped her arms around my neck and pressed her hips

against mine.

‘How about we talk later?’ she whispered.

‘No!’ I pushed her away. ‘We’re going to talk now Belinda, and that’s all we’re

going to do.’

‘Fine!’

Like a sulking child, she sat down on the chair next to the bed and started

rummaging though her bag. She found a pack of Camel Lights. She lit up and

took a long slow drag, inhaled deeply and then blew the smoke out in little puffs

as I paced up and down the room.

‘I’m going to have this baby,’ she said, breaking the silence. ‘I’m going to have

it… and…’ she drew the words out, ‘I’m going to tell your wife about it.’

‘WHAT?’ I turned to face her. ‘You say one word about this to anyone and I

swear I’ll make sure you regret it!’

‘All right, darling,’ she said. ‘I won’t say a word – but it’s going to cost you

three grand a month to keep my mouth shut.’


4

So these were her true colours! She was going to play me. Three grand was

probably just a start. Before I knew it, it would be five, and then ten. She would

ruin me!

‘You WHORE!’ my voice was grainy and cold.

‘I hold all the cards here, my dear,’ she stood up, reached out and brushed her

finger against my cheek. ‘And there is nothing you can do to stop me.’

‘You goddamn WHORE!’ Some kind of switch went off in my head. Moved by

a reptilian instinct, I reached out and curled my right hand around her throat.

‘You goddamn WHORE!’ I slammed her head against the wall with all my

might. A strange, almost sexual, sense of power came over me.

Tugging at my wrists, she gasped for air, her eyes desperate and her rasping

voice begging me to stop. But I couldn’t. I rammed her head against the wall

again and this time the woody thud was accompanied by the cracking of her

skull. I let go of her neck and her head slid down the wall leaving a sticky smear

of bright red blood in its trail. She lay there quite still, quite peacefully, her head

slumped against the wall, her chin pushed up against her chest. The desperation

in her eyes was replaced by something soft and bland and indifferent.

Following the intensity of rage and hatred, I felt suddenly calm, surprisingly

calm. And I was pragmatic. I cleaned up the blood, went back to my car and

moved it to an alley behind the hotel. Then I dragged her body down the fire

escape and placed it carefully in the passenger seat.

It was a forty-five minute drive to Cochran Bridge, but I wanted to get well out

of town. In the middle of the bridge, I pulled up with the passenger side close

to the railing, and made sure the roads were deserted before I pulled her body

from the car and toppled it into the river below.

Watching the current carry her away, her head and shoulders bobbing in the

choppy water, I wondered if she would sink. She didn’t.

Judge not

5

‘Someone will find her,’ I thought to myself, ‘and then they’ll find me.’

I drove home – to my wife, my family, my career.

The police did find the body. They were quick to collect evidence and make an

arrest. The whole sordid tale made headlines: Prominent Business Man, Alex

Black, Arrested on Murder Charges.

* * *

Waiting for the trial has been hell, but now that it’s about to start, I can only

look forward to this being over. My stomach lurches as the bailiff calls the court

to order.

‘All rise. The state versus Mr Alex Black, the honourable Judge Eric Sheldon

presiding.’

I enter the room and take my seat behind the large wooden bench. Resting my

hand on the gavel, I take a moment to look at the defendant, a fresh-faced man

in his early forties. I hope my voice rings with impartiality as I say, ‘Mr Black,

you are charged with murder in the first degree of Miss Belinda Thomas. Do

you understand these charges?’

6

A Gambling Man

It was a Thursday night at about eleven thirty when a fat man with buckteeth

was brought into a peripheral jail in the North Dagon suburb of Rangoon. He

had the face of easy living – sagging jowls and a thick, wet, lower lip, which hung

slightly in the middle.

The police had caught him gambling at one of the more seedy taverns of

Dagon. Gambling, although illegal in Myanmar, did not usually result in an

arrest. In this case, however, the gambling man had got into a brawl with one of

his fellow gamblers and used the leg of a broken chair to beat on the head of his

opponent. It had been the combination of alcohol and the mention of the name

Aung San Suu Kyi, which had lead to the altercation. Politics and alcohol didn’t

mix well in Rangoon.

The jail was a simple building attached to the local police station. It had four

rooms, the reception, two holding cells and an interview room. The white

painted plaster was flaking off in places, mostly near the floor where the damp

had set in like gangrene. Kyin Shwe was the young police officer on duty.

Kyin was a soft-spoken man, a Buddhist, ethnically Chin and mindful of his

place in society. His timid disposition fitted well with his twiggy morphology

and boyish face. He prayed at the local pagoda of Dagon, Sutaung Pyay, every

Tuesday. He liked to smoke a cheroot after finishing a steaming blow of

Monhinga, the fishy noodle soup that his wife made. Kyin kept a photograph of

his wife and three children in his wallet and would occasionally sneak a peek

during a long shift and think how fortunate he was to have such a delightful

family.

A Gambling Man

7

‘I demand,’ began the gambling man, his speech a little slurred, ‘I demand an

apology and an immediate release from this rat hole.’ His eyes were only half-

open, his eyelids being kept up by the effort of his forehead.

‘You’ll have to answer a few questions, I’m afraid.’ Kyin explained, ‘and I’m

sorry, but you won’t be going home tonight.’

‘Young man, I will not put up with this…’ he tried to find a word, ‘… this

insolence, this impudence of yours. Let me out of this pig-sty at once.’ The man

was sitting behind a small table with his hands cuffed to the arms of the chair.

Kyin was sitting on the other side of the table with a small tape recorder.

‘Sir, you’ll have to answer a few questions. Everything you say will be recorded

onto tape. I need to ask you about your political affiliation.’ This had been a

standard procedure in Rangoon ever since the riots of ‘88. The military Junta

were quite careful to keep an eye out for any objections to their draconian style

of rule.

‘POLITICAL AFFILIATION?’ The man’s face was now plethoric with rage,

his lower lip quivered as he spoke. He leaned forward and said in almost a

whisper, ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Sir, it makes no difference to me. The state has charged me with the duty of

interviewing you. You will have to cooperate.’

‘I am General Ney. I will have your job for this brazenness of yours, this

disrespect, this…’ He swallowed hard, took a breath and continued. ‘Get me

out of these hand cuffs right now. And call for state transport. I’ll be going

home immediately.’

‘Sir, you do not have your papers on you. I have no way of confirming your

identity. You will have to bear with me until such time as…’

‘I will be going home right now. You will undo these handcuffs and call for

transport,’ said the man. ‘If you know what’s good for you that is.’


8

‘I’m afraid, sir, that I can not do that for you. I must first confirm your identity.

I’m sure that this can all be cleared up expediently.’ Kyin was beginning to feel a

little nervous.

‘That’s it. I’m going to have you executed first thing tomorrow,’ the man said in

a nonchalant tone. ‘You will be stood up against a wall and shot in the head. I’ll

make sure of it myself.’

Kyin felt a twinge of fear tighten up his jaw and trickle down his spine like cold

mercury. If this man was in fact a General, then it would be well within his

power to do such a thing. Kyin was sure, however, that the man was just taking

a chance. It would not have been the first time that a detainee had claimed to be

a high-ranking official, demanding an immediate release. This man was clearly

drunk. What could Kyin do? Let him go, just because he claimed to be General

Ney?

Just then, a phone call came through to the jailhouse. Kyin left the room to

take the call. A minute later, he returned. A fine bead of sweat had formed on

his forehead.

‘It seems, General, that there has been a terrible misunderstanding. The phone

call confirmed that you are in fact General Ney. I am to release you

immediately.’

‘What did I tell you?’ The General had a haughty smirk on his face. ‘Oh, and do

not think that I am going to suddenly forgive you. Oh no, indeed, I warned you

and you ignored me. I am going to set an example. I will have you executed at

first light tomorrow. I will see to it myself,’ he said smugly.

‘General, please try to understand. I was obliged to keep you here until I could

confirm your identity. I had no choice in the matter.’

‘Young man, I will not be spoken back to like that. Do you not know your

place in the world?’

A Gambling Man

9

Kyin stared at the man in disbelief. His breathing quickened. His jaw clenched.

A peristaltic surge of anger began to loom from his gut. His voice cracked

slightly as he spoke, ‘General, am I to believe that there is nothing I can say or

do which could change your mind?’

‘Young man, if you don’t shut your mouth and undo these cuffs, I will have

you and your family shot at first light tomorrow morning. You know that I will

do it. I would lose face if I were to change my mind on an issue such as this. I

did not become who I am today because of empty threats. You can believe

without a shadow of doubt, that, by this time tomorrow, your body will be

stacked in the mortuary, awaiting burial.’

Kyin’s hand was now fumbling though his pocket for the key to the handcuffs.

He could feel the smooth leather of his wallet and thought for a moment about

the picture of his family, his wife, his two sons, his daughter. He removed his

hand from his pocket.

‘Sir, may I remind you that this entire conversation is being recorded.’ There

was something different about the tone of his voice now, something harder,

perhaps darker.

The General laughed from his throat, ‘What earthly good is that going to do

you. Do you not understand that I am a General? What I say will be done.

Nobody questions me. I might even insist on pulling the trigger myself.’

‘Sir, I will use this recording in my defence.’

‘Your defence!’ roared the General. ‘What on earth gave you the idea that there

would be a trial? Didn’t you hear me? I said that I would have you shot at first

light. No trial, no defence, no presenting of evidence. What are you on about,

you fool?’

‘Oh, there will be a trial, General.’


10

‘You are being ridiculous. Get these cuffs off me right now and we’ll have you

put out of your misery tonight before I leave the prison.’

‘Sir, there will be a trial,’ Kyin continued, ‘because I will be tried for the murder

of General Ney,’ he said as he pulled his firearm from his holster and pointed it

at the head of the General.

‘What do you think you are doing? Have you gone mad?’ The general’s lower

lip began to quiver once again.

‘I will stand trial for your murder. I will use the tape as evidence to the fact that

I killed you in self-defence. You are threatening my life, as surely as if you were

holding a knife to my throat. I will be convicted of manslaughter, perhaps even

get off completely, but I will not be executed.’

There was a long silence. The general glanced down at the recorder. ‘You’re

bluffing!’ he insisted. ‘You won’t go through with it. You’re not the sort.’

‘General, you leave me no choice in the matter.’ Kyin looked down at the

recorder. He pressed the stop button and let his eyes slowly return to those of

the general.

‘Be reasonable, man.’ The general had gone pale and his voice had become

squawky. ‘I am a powerful man. I can make you rich. Let’s forget about this

whole thing. I give you my word that you won’t be executed tomorrow. You

have my word on it,’ he pleaded.

‘General, you may be a gambling man. I, on the other hand, am not.’

11

Escape

‘I’m telling you, there has been a man who has escaped Harrison’s Prison.’

Alistair Trent was talking with his usual know- it-all conceit.

‘Nobody has ever got out of Harrison’s, Trent.’ I said. ‘You really are wasting

my time now.’ I sounded annoyed, deliberately so.

Alistair had one of those calm dispositions known only to himself and perhaps

Methadone addicts. It was as if he knew something that you didn’t. His voice

was always even and unhurried as if he was not merely talking to you, but rather

implanting an idea into your mind. There seemed something almost eerie about

him, something calculating, something dark.

‘Look, Trent, not only hasn’t there been an escape, but there hasn’t even been

an attempted escape. Certainly not since they brought in the hounds from hell.

You’re being ridiculous.’

‘Am I?’ his voice now taunting, his head tilted to one side.

‘Well, unless he faked his own death and was taken out in a body bag,’ I mused.

‘But even then, being a prisoner of the state, there would have been an autopsy.

That’s a pretty difficult thing to survive.’

Escape from Harrison’s was unthinkable. It was a prison designed in the mid

seventies to keep a handful of political prisoners as an alternative to Robben

Island. UmKhonto we Sizwe fighters, rounded up in ANC training camps in

Mozambique, a few Cubans taken during raids into Angola and some Frelimo

comrades were the mainstay of Harrison’s guest list.


12

The chains, which held these men were not steel but rather neuro-chemical.

Fear kept them bound within the confines of the prison. Fear that is, of what

might happen to them during an escape attempt.

One possible escape route was deliberately put as a temptation before the

inmates. That would be to jump the fences and run for it. The fences were

decidedly low, not electrified and were without the usual sprung razor-wire coils

on top. They were accessible and not patrolled by guards. There were no

circulating spotlights, electronic alarm systems, no infrared beams or motion

detectors. Nothing physically stopped the prisoners from jumping over the

inner fence, dashing across a fifteen-meter stretch of grass and scaling the outer

fence on the other side. Nothing, except the presence of the Boerbull dogs

which patrolled that fifteen meters between the two fences.

These ferocious beasts were the end-point of years of meticulous breeding. A

commonly held misconception was that they were bred by white farmers as

guard dogs. The truth was that the police had bred them in the hope of using

them as a riot-control tool. However, when field tested for the first time in the

Soweto riots during the seventies, it became apparent that they had built

themselves an animal with no soul and more particularly, no loyalty.

As well as nine rioters, two dog-handlers and one soldier had been killed by the

dogs during the field test. The frenzy had been too much for them. They had

been designed to froth at the mouth, and once allowed to do so, their

primordial minds had found the opium of blood too sweet to stop. These dogs

could never be used in the field again. The dogs were decommissioned, but,

instead of being put down, as was recommended by the review panel, they were

transferred to Harrison’s to be used as experimental guard dogs.

They instilled a primal fear in the prisoners, which quelled any inkling of trying

to run for that second fence. Every prisoner had imagined himself making the

fifteen meter dash, had fantasized about reaching it intact and making the easy

Escape

13

climb to freedom. And each of them had been quickly chastised by their sense

of self-preservation.

Every day, between teatime and lunch, the inmates were required to be in the

yard, doing their daily outdoor exercises. It was during this time each day that a

rabbit would be let loose into the dog yard by one of the guards.

‘Ten cigarettes says he’ll make it to the west fence.’ One of the newer inmates

would still be clinging to a morsel of hope.

‘Twenty says he doesn’t even make it to the flagpole shadow.’ Cigarettes and

hope were in short supply.

Within seconds of the rabbit being let out, the pack of dogs was transformed

into a marauding thrash of rage. Like a broth coming to a boil, the pack would

rise from the ground in unison, their floppy limbs becoming instantly taut and

their collective bellowing growl sounding like a wounded beast from mythology.

An astringent rush of fear would stream through the veins of the inmates like

venom as they watched the frothing mass skirmish for the dead rabbit’s body

parts. Nobody would ever make an attempt at those fifteen meters. And yet, the

distance was short, the fences were low and the temptation was great.

‘Okay, Trent,’ I said. ‘Tell me how the guy escaped. I know you’ve been dying

for me to ask. So tell me.’ It killed me to give in to him like this.

‘You really want to know?’

‘What? You want me to beg? Just tell me and get it over with.’

Trent nodded his head slowly. ‘I’ll do better than that, doc. I’ll show you how

the guy escaped.’

‘What the hell are you getting at Trent?’


14

‘Relax, doc,’ he reached underneath his chair and pulled out a 45, cocked it and

pointed the barrel at my chest. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Where did he get the

gun? Well, you’ll understand all that in just a few minutes.’

Panic set in. My heart, my chest, my gut all churned and tightened as if an

electric current had been passed through my body. Was Alistair Trent going to

kill me right there and then?

‘Please, Alistair…,’ my mouth was dry and my jaw so clenched that I could

hardly get the words out.

‘Hey! I’m not going to shoot you, doc. Relax.’ He stood and started to pace up

and down the room as he continued to speak. ‘You know that today is the day

that the entire guard staff is rotated. They do this every year on the same day.’

He widened his eyes at me as if to check that I was following. I nodded. ‘Well,

as we speak, the outgoing staff is introducing the new staff to the prisoners. I,

of course, was excused because I needed to see you, the prison doctor, urgently.

We diabetics can have funny things happening to our sugar levels you know.’

He smiled as he spoke. His words were even and unhurried.

I could see where he was going with this. He was going to swap identities with

me, leaving me in here as Alistair Trent and he would leave as Dr Zabaroskie.

The new guards would not recognize either of us by face.

‘Doc, I’m going to ask you to take off your doctor gear and put on a prison

uniform,’ he said. ‘Then I’m going to need you to give yourself an intramuscular

shot of Benzodiazepine - enough to knock yourself out cold.’

I stared at him blankly, frozen like a deer caught in headlights.

‘DO IT!’ He pointed the gun at my head.

Slowly I got undressed and then changed into a prisoner’s uniform. I took a

10ml syringe, drew 5mls of Rivotril and jabbed myself in the arm. It would take

about 2 minutes to take effect.

Escape

15

While the drugs swirled though my veins, I watched Alistair Trent put on my

clothes and hang my stethoscope around his neck. He took his patient file,

made some notes, and then walked over to me.

‘There are a few things you need to know. The first thing is that I’m not Alistair

Trent. A year ago, when the guards changed, I was the prison doctor. The real

Alistair Trent did this to me. That’s how I knew that a guy had escaped

Harrison’s. He swapped me in. He left the gun in the locked portion of the

emergency trolley and put the key in my trouser pocket. I’m going to do the

same for you. A year from now, you will do this to the next doctor. You think

you won’t, but trust me, after you’ve been in here for a week, you’ll have

decided to do this too. At that point in time, you’ll hate me a lot less. A year

from now, when you’ve escaped this place, I’ll be waiting at The Blues Bar on

7th Avenue in Melville. That’s where I’m going right now to meet the real

Alistair Trent. On your way out, remember to tell the doctor that you’re doing

this to, to meet the three of us for a drink a year after that.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up to the sound of barking dogs and of

some prison guard addressing me as Prisoner Trent. I checked my pocket. The

key was there.

16

A Helping Hand

Detective Sterling arrived at number 32 Acacia Drive at eight fifteen that

morning. He wanted to catch the Hornsbees before the day began, before Mr

Hornsbee went to work. He walked up the slasto pathway to the welcome mat

where he stamped his feet vigorously.

<ding>

‘Hello?’ Mrs Hornsbee peered wide-eyed through a half open door, a powder-

blue dressing gown on and curlers in her hair.

‘Good morning Mrs Hornsbee. My name is Detective Sterling,’ he said. ‘I

wonder if I can have a word with you and your husband?’ He paused. ‘It’s about

your son, Nicholas.’

Mrs Hornsbee’s head cocked back, ‘Nicholas?’ Opening the door fully now and

taking a step back, ‘Is he in some kind of trouble? Has he been skipping school

again?’ her eyes dropped and she shook her head, ‘I’ve told him a million

times…’

‘I’m afraid, Mrs Hornsbee,’ Detective Sterling interrupted, ‘it’s more serious

than that. I think that we had better sit down.’ He paused. ‘Is your husband

home?’

* * *

Nicholas Hornsbee certainly lacked the looks or mannerisms of a criminal. He

was clean-cut, tall and lanky and had a large square mouth which he opened

widely when he smiled. His laughter sounded as if it just fell out of his throat in

a lump, something like a car horn.

Nicholas had always been a loner. Despite having joined football clubs, chess

teams and the local mountain-biking society, Nicholas never seemed to make

A Helping Hand

17

many friends. His mother was, however, a little surprised to learn that Nicholas

had volunteered to help the elderly in Newport learn how to use the internet as

part of the Welsh All Online project.

‘I don’t know why we have to learn to do all of this online stuff,’ complained

Mrs Snead, one of Nicholas’s elderly pupils. ‘Things used to work just fine when

we all went down the road to the local municipal office and picked up our

pension cheques in person,’ she sighed. ‘In fact, we had a jolly old social time,

you know.’

‘I know, Mrs Snead,’ said Nicholas, ‘but you do have that bad hip these days.

You’re hardly a spring chicken, you know.’

‘I’ll have you know, young man, when I was your age, I could…’

‘…swim the English Channel,’ Nicholas finished her sentence. ‘Yes, Mrs Snead,

I know. Anyway, getting back to the internet. Do you remember how to log on

and send and receive your emails?’

‘Sonny boy, who do you think is going to be emailing me? There is not a soul

on this planet who would know if I were alive or dead. The only way that

anyone would ever discover that I had died would be because of the smell of

my rotting body,’ Mrs Snead punctuated her comment with a sharp nod. ‘That’s

right. It would take exactly eight days for my body to rot and produces an awful

stench. I read about this in a detective novel, you see. Then the neighbours

would call the police or something.’ She sounded as if she had thought about

this somewhat.

Nicholas never stayed long. The truth be told, he couldn’t really stand the smell

of old people’s houses. Perhaps it was the dried rose petals in the saucer on the

mantelpiece or the sweet perfume, hairspray and disinfectant that bothered him.


18

And then there were the cats. Some of his pupils had more than one cat - Mrs

Marble had three. Nicholas hated cats.

‘Hello, Mrs Marble. And how are you today?’ Nicholas headed straight for the

study as he spoke; this would be a quick visit.

‘Oh, Nicholas, my dear, I’ve been so looking forward to your visit.’ It was clear

that she had dressed up and spent some time applying a generous portion of

make-up to her face. ‘I’ve baked a cake. I knew you were coming today and I

thought that you might like a cake.’

The study had the dank smell of sour milk and cat urine. ‘Have you managed to

log on to the internet on your own, Mrs Marble?’ Nicholas sounded impatient.

‘Are you able to log on to your internet bank account?’

‘Oh, yes, my dear. I do it exactly as you showed me. And I check my email too.

Of course, the only emails I get are the shopping adverts. I read them carefully

and pretend that they are letters from friends telling me about a bargain at the

local store.’

‘Well, today, I’m going to teach you how to buy something online, Mrs Marble.

We’re going to buy a chest freezer online and then cancel the order.’

‘Oh my!’ Her leathery face pulled back into a grin. ‘Now that does sound quite

exciting, doesn’t it?’

Nicholas had one of those faces that just made you want to trust him. And so it

was that Nicholas developed a small following of elderly people in Newport

who trusted him implicitly.

<ding>

A Helping Hand

19

‘Oh, hello, Nicholas,’ exclaimed Mrs Marble, ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ She

looked rather flushed. This time there was no makeup and no cake to greet him.

‘You know that large freezer that we bought online last week? Well, we didn’t

seem to do the cancellation part correctly, because they have delivered it. It

takes up most of my kitchen and I have no need for a big freezer like that, now

do I?’

‘Oh goodness me.’ Nicholas walked briskly towards the kitchen. ‘We’ll have to

sort it out, then.’

‘I told the man that he had to take it back, but he said that he was just the

delivery man, and that I’d have to sort it out with the online store.’

‘I’ll do that for you right away, Mrs Marble.’

‘I mean, what am I going to do with such a large freezer?’

‘As I said, Mrs Marble, we’ll sort it our immediately.’ Nicholas said as he

plugged the freezer in and switched it on.

* * *

Detective Sterling was now sitting in the lounge with Mr and Mrs Hornsbee,

‘You see there have been an unusual number of these chest freezers being sold

over the internet right here in Newport.’ He was speaking clearly and

deliberately as if he wasn’t sure that his audience would understand what it was

that he was about to say. ‘The interesting thing about these freezers, Mr and

Mrs Hornsbee, is that if there is a power failure and they switch off, they have

to be manually switched back on. Its not automatic, even if the power comes

back on.’

‘Yes but what does that have to do with Nicholas, detective?’ asked Mr

Hornsbee.


20

‘Well there was a power failure here in Newport recently, Mr Hornsbee. Eight

days ago to be precise.’

21

The Need

My name is Shane Coal and I am a criminal. In fact, I’m perhaps the worst

there’s ever been. I kill in cold blood, steal from the poor, extort and cajole,

conspire and connive. I can’t think of a single type, or sub-type of crime, of

which I am not entirely guilty. And yet, when I have given you a full account of

my life, when I have explained and expounded, I give you my word, that you

will side with me on this matter, on the question of my moral high-ground.

Never! I hear you think, I will never condone the cold-blooded murder of another! Don’t

be so sure; in a few minutes from now, you will find yourself nodding

understandingly. And yet I assure you, my victims are truly innocent and

undeserving, sometimes randomly chosen in fact. I’m not going to argue that

the crimes themselves are morally justified – they are indeed not. Neither will I

persuade you of my insanity – no, I am of sound mind; I act deliberately and

knowingly.

It all began in London. I don’t remember the date. It was summer; I remember

the heat, the humidity, the length of the days. Summers in London are short and

it was before the end of that summer, that I made the decision to spend the rest

of my days perpetrating as much crime as a man could, in the span of one

lifetime.

To understand this decision better, I am going to need to give you some

background information. Information about the human mind, about how it

works and sometimes, doesn’t work.


22

Ah, I hear you think, he is going to argue insanity! No I am not. But for the

purposes of understanding my position, we have to enter into a discussion on

the subject of mental pathology. Bear with me…

A young writer, William Spent, begins writing a novel in the particular summer

in question. He lives in Bloomsbury, London, not far from where Virginia

Woolf lived and wrote.

The narrative of his novel starts out as a simple one: an everyday man turns to

murder in a fit of rage; the wrong man is convicted of the crime; a hero

detective, brilliant and cunning, realises what has happened and takes up the

chase; the crime was not flawless - clues are plentiful; the detective quickens the

hunt and hones in on his quarry. The novel is near completion now, perhaps a

chapter away from its conclusion. William begins to get headaches and is unable

to write.

‘I can’t take the pain,’ he explains to his GP. The doctor prescribes a non-

steroidal anti-inflammatory, Ibuprofen.

‘Take two of tablets three times a day,’ he says. He gives a toothy grin and

raises his brow as if to ask if there is anything else. There isn’t. William returns

to his home, to his desk, to his novel.

The pain returns.

‘I need something a little stronger, I think,’ William says at his second

appointment about a week later.

‘I see,’ says the doctor, reviewing his notes and nodding his head. ‘I’m going to

prescribe an opiate,’ he says. He explains that William must use the capsules

with reserve as they can be addictive. William agrees to use them conservatively

and returns to his home, to his desk, to his novel.

The Need

23

William lives in the upstairs component of a simplex. He lives alone, without

human company that is – he does have a ginger cat. The cat is cold and

impersonal. The two of them get along just fine.

He has a small bedroom which is furnished with a single bed, a small bedside

table upon which sits a lamp and a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. He reads and

smokes in the evenings before turning in for the night. He struggles to fall

asleep. Of late, he is in the habit of taking an extra painkiller before he retires as

he finds that they help soften his insomnia.

His writing is now less directed. The end seems less close, the characters seem

fuzzy. The behaviour of the detective becomes less brilliant, perhaps dull,

perhaps obscure.

The pain worsens, the dosage of painkillers escalates proportionately, the

ending of the novel is now quite distant.

William becomes less fastidious in his personal hygiene; his sleep-wake cycles

become haphazard. He gets up when he can’t sleep, writes for as long as he can

before either going back to bed or dozing off at his desk. He eats when he feels

hungry. He drinks to quell the irritation caused by smoke in the back of his

throat. He washes to get the greasiness of food from his hands and from

around his mouth. In all this, William does not think of himself as unhappy. He

desperately wants to finish the book though; this is the task which is set before

him.

The human mind is an interesting phenomenon. I say phenomenon,

deliberately. I want to make the distinction between the mind and the brain. To

point out the obvious, the brain is an organ, seated within the cranium, whereas

the mind is one of the many physiological functions of the brain. The mind is

that ability of the brain to scans its own content, its thoughts, feelings, ideas and


24

memories – this is consciousness, self awareness and the essence of self-

determination.

Is it possible that the machinery of the brain, the micro-anatomical structures

and neuro-chemical processors which exist within the brain, are capable of

producing more than one mind? Two distinct people, let’s say, each with his or

her own thoughts, feelings and ideas?

I’m not sure if, in Williams’s brain, there exists some kind of pathology, a

tumour perhaps or some kind of drug-induced aberrant electrical activity, but,

whatever the reason, Williams’s brain has become able to produce two distinct

minds. His own, and mine.

I am the detective in his novel. I exist only while he writes. As he writes my

part, I come to life, able to make my own decisions, choose my own path. I only

exist, however, while William writes my part. Were William to ever actually

finish this novel, I would cease to exist. Oh, the idea of me would live on, sure,

but as things stand, I breathe, I run, I am cognizant. I have a future and it is, as

yet, undetermined. I love being alive. I love it, I love it, I love it.

I have turned to a life of crime in an effort to keep the story alive. My victims

do not feel pain - their blood is cheap and is blotted out by the turning of a

page. I get to live on. William must end this novel, but to do that he must solve

the crimes and to do that, he must contend with me!

25

An Unfortunate Relationship

‘I’m scared.’ His voice is fragile.

‘Me, too, my dear,’ his mother replies. She looks at her son, closing her eyes and

trying to wish it all away, wishing that things were different.

‘Will they let us go? Do you think that we have any chance of escape? What do

they want from us?’ He is clearly too young to even begin to understand the

complexity of their predicament. To fight would be futile, to reason is

impossible and to plead for mercy is about as useful as bellowing at the sky on a

rainy night. How does one explain this to the young? How does one even begin

to tell a three-year-old that his fate is a matter that has been determined by

forces completely outside of his control.

The world is an unfair place. It really is that simple. One needs to accept one’s

lot. One can only hope, that in those short moments between the beginning and

the end of it, that life will provide one with a few rays of happiness and the

opportunity to procreate – that is life in a nutshell. But the young will never

accept such a simplistic answer; the young want to hear about hope and

freedom, about possibilities where no possibilities exist. The young are cursed

with belief, with believing.

‘My dear, they won’t let us go. You must try to understand. We mean nothing

to them. We are not the first either. This has been the way of things for all time.

The strong dominate the weak.’ As she says it she can see the burning in his

eyes, the fight, the passion to defy.

‘But it’s not fair. It is simply not fair. Is this how things will always be then?

Will every generation be kept in cages, in fields behind fences, be fattened for

the eating? Will I be held down, executed and then sliced up?’


26

‘You will my son. There is no escape. We cattle are food to them. That’s all.’

27

Another Unfortunate Relationship

‘Mr President, I will be presenting the details of the agreement between the

USA and the alien species Zorgonel.’ The man speaking is grotesquely obese

and oily. His face, his hair and his mannerisms, all as oily as can be.

‘Yes,’ says the president. ‘I’m listening. Go ahead.’ He looks up from a shuffle

of papers on his desk and gives the man his full attention.

‘Well, Mr. President, the aliens, during the Framework Convention on

Interspecies Cooperation, agreed to make an exchange with us. We would allow

them to tap into our surplus food resources, in exchange for military and

technological know-how.’

‘I’m aware of the agreement, Mr Salmon.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He seems nervous. ‘Well, subsequent to that agreement, if you

will remember, Mr President, a subcommittee was established; members from

both species were invited to sit on this committee; I was appointed as chair. The

mandate of the committee was to establish what would be considered a fair

exchange – how much food resource, for how much technology.’ He scratches

his head. His hair sticks in the new position dictated to it by the scratching

fingers. Little bits of white scalp are showing through his reticular mop of black

hair.

‘It was the negotiations on mammals which became rather tricky, Mr President.

After days of squabble, we were able to push them down to only one percent of

any group of edible mammals, provided that they fitted within our moral code

of acceptable food sources. We didn’t, for example, want them to be eating

dolphins. Our guidelines were clear and specific: no intelligent animals were to


28

be taken. Any animal capable of either communicating in sentences or following

complex instructions were to be excluded.’

‘How long are we committed to this agreement?’ asks the President.

‘For the next five hundred earth years, Mr President.’

‘And you’ve agreed to one percent?’

‘Yes we have, Mr President. One percent every year that is.’

‘And there is no way we can get out of this deal? Have we already received the

technology for which the food is being exchanged?’

‘That is correct, Mr President.’

‘Then there is nothing more that we can do, it would seem,’ the President

stands up and slowly and turns toward the window. ‘How could we not have

foreseen this! What the hell were you thinking when you drew up those criteria?’

There is no answer.

Looking up at the sky through his office window, the president asks, ‘And how

many of newborn children were beamed up from our neonatal wards last night,

Mr Salmon?’

‘Half a million, across the globe, Mr President, about one percent.’

29

Calculated Love

Meredith Leonard stood in front of the mirror once again. She ran her fingers

through her straight brown hair, which sat upon her head like a mop, and

wondered if she shouldn’t get some highlights. She looked at her nose. It was a

fine nose. Not too big, not too small and the perfect shape too. Her nose and

her teeth were good. But that was where it ended. The rest of herself she found

repugnant. Her neck was too thick, her breasts too saggy and her fingers too

stubby. She glared at her reflection with a dull sense of self-loathing, which had

set in over the years like rust. She remembered feeling pretty when she was

young, before she met Henry. But that feeling was far away now. Now she was

the fat blob in the mirror. Poor Henry, she thought.

Meredith and Henry had met in 1963 at the Apple Tree Café in Birmingham.

Meredith was having an espresso and slice of chocolate cake when Henry asked

if he could share her table as there were no available seats anywhere else in the

coffee shop.

‘Of course you can,’ Meredith cleared away some of the papers which she had

sprawled across the table. Sorry about all the chaos. I have an exam tomorrow.

Doing some last-minute cramming.’

‘Now that doesn’t look like last-minute cramming to me, young lady,’ said

Henry teasingly. ‘Looks more like Times’ crossword puzzle from over here.’ He

wagged a finger at her. They both laughed.

‘Well, I was taking a break,’ she smiled, ‘and besides, I’m addicted to these

puzzles. It’s like a medical condition. I think I’d probably go into some dreadful

withdrawal if I didn’t do at least one every day. Puzzles, riddles, mathematical

problems, I adore them.’


30

‘And what are you studying at uni?’ Henry asked.

‘I’m a pure mathematics major. I love numbers. They are like the perfect

boyfriend, you see.’ She began to play with the hair just next to her left ear as

she spoke, ‘Nice and predictable. You can always count on them.’

‘And I suppose these numbers keep you warm at night?’

‘Perhaps not warm,’ she mused, ‘but then again, they’re never going to leave me

out in the cold, are they?’

‘Ooh, have we had a bad experience then? Some boy out there gone and

broken your heart? Just point him out and I’ll break his arms and his legs!’

‘No need. But thanks for the offer.’ She paused, ‘So what are you doing here in

Birmingham?’

‘A masters in sport sciences. Gonna be a physical education teacher.’ He

drummed his fingers against the table for a few seconds. ‘Listen, this may seem

a little forward, but I think that you’re quite a pretty number and, by my

calculation, we should go out for dinner sometime.’

‘Cheesy to say the least. But yes, let’s do that,’ she laughed.

And so the romance began. Restaurants, movies and the occasional weekend in

the countryside all culminated in a fairytale wedding in the Earlsfield Baptist

Church. The honeymoon was magical but that is where the magic ended.

The fights were mostly about money. Both Meredith and Henry were

headstrong individuals and a compromise was only ever reached after a heated

debate. With time, however, the character of the arguments changed; something

dark entered into the dialogue:

‘Of course we can afford it, Henry. We’re both earning good salaries and there

is nothing wrong with going slightly into the red every now and again. It’s not

going to kill us, is it?’

Calculated Love

31

‘Spend, spend, spend. You never think about the future. Let’s do this, let’s buy

that. Money doesn’t grow on trees, Meredith. Let’s go out for dinner. It’s no wonder

you’re gained so much weight – what with all that eating you do.’

Meredith stood in silence. He thinks I’m fat? She had tried so hard to keep her

weight under control. Was this the reason that they had not made love in over a

month? Is he repulsed by me?

‘Besides,’ Henry continued, ‘we haven’t even paid off the house yet. We’re not

spending the money and that’s final!’

More silence.

Perhaps intentionally, perhaps subconsciously, Henry began to bring

Meredith’s weight problem up whenever they were having a disagreement.

Invariably, her shoulders would drop and her eyes would lower and she would

reflect on the growing length of time that had elapsed since they had been

together as man and wife. Henry would always get his way. With time, the

arguments stopped completely.

Meredith took comfort in eating and hated herself for it. Henry became

increasingly distant. At night he would either go for a pint with Ernie and the

boys or waste away the evening hours by watching televised sport while

Meredith cooked and cleaned and ironed his shirts. His contribution to the

housework diminished from minimal to zero when it was discovered that he

had a heart condition, a cardiac arrhythmia: ‘Can’t expect a man with a bad

heart to be rushing about doing housework,’ he would say.

A glumness, like a fog, settled in Meredith’s heart. She would occasionally stand

naked in front of the mirror and examine her body and allow all of her bottled

self-hatred to bubble up till it overflowed from her eyes. Poor Henry, she would

think, is this what you’ve married?


32

Every now and again, however, without allowing herself to hope for success,

she would make a suggestion: ‘Let’s go on a cruise,’ suggested Meredith one

evening during dinner. ‘We always used to say that when the house was paid off,

that we would go on one of those ocean liners,’ her eyes danced at the though

of it. Just imagine, she thought, spending the days by the pool, overlooking the blue-green

Mediterranean. It would be magnificent.

‘Okay, we’ll do it,’ said Henry. ‘Make the arrangements. Nothing too expensive

you understand? We are going economy class or not at all.’

‘Oh, Henry! Really?’ She beamed. ‘Are we really going to go?’ She could hardly

believe it. ‘Now don’t go changing your mind. I really think that this sort of

thing could be just what our marriage needs.’ She startled as she realized what

she had said. The two of them had never admitted to marital problems, not

openly, not to each other. ‘Anyway, dear,’ she quickly continued, ‘the fresh air

will do you some good. You know what Doctor Keppel keeps saying about

your heart condition. It is probably mostly stress.’

‘Just make all the arrangements and let me know what the cost will be before you

commit us to the trip. Okay?’

‘Yes dear, of course.’ Her mind was already abuzz with anticipation. She

imagined them going for long walks on the upper deck at sunset, maybe even

holding hands. They would talk about the good old days in Birmingham and

laugh about the day that they had met. They would first and foremost become

friends again, she decided. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

The following day, Meredith started phoning travel agents, checking prices and

comparing specials.

‘Now, will that be five days aboard with all the meals included?’ she asked,

making sure that there were no hidden costs.

Calculated Love

33

‘Yes, that’s right. It’s a once-off offer,’ said the voice on the other end of the

phone. ‘The offer ends today. Tomorrow the price will return to the original

two thousand pounds.’

‘I will have to check with my husband first,’ she said, ‘but I’m quite sure that

he’ll agree to it. He has already said that we’ll be going. It’s just a matter of

finding the best price, and yours is by far the most reasonable.’

‘Okay then. I’ll expect to hear from you later today.’

Meredith replaced the receiver, her hand trembling with excitement. This is going

to be the most wonderful trip ever, she thought. And Henry will be so impressed with the

price, he will definitely say yes to this, definitely.

She spent the next thirty minutes trying to get Henry on the phone. He was

nowhere to be found. She tried the school, the local pub and his friend Ernie’s

house too. Nowhere. Time was running out. She would have to get back to the

travel agent within the next ten minutes now or the offer would expire.

It is time to make a decision, she thought. After all, it is my money too and he did say that

we could go. I will phone them and pay over the phone with my credit card. Henry will be

delighted that I did because I will have in fact saved us a fortune.

She did just that. She phoned the travel agent, booked the holiday and paid

with her credit card.

That night, Henry came home in a grouchy mood. ‘I’ve spent the entire day at

the tax office. We should be able to get some of our commuting cost deducted

from our taxable income. They won’t hear of it. The damn tax office.’ His face

was so scrunched up that his eyebrows nearly touched each other. ‘Oh, and I

was thinking about it Meredith, we cannot really afford to be going off on

luxurious ocean liners.’

‘But, honey,’ Meredith began, her heart now pounding with anxiety, ‘I’ve been

on the phone and…’


34

‘Meredith!’ he slammed his open hand against the kitchen counter, ‘I said no.

Do you think that money grows on trees? Do you think that we are going to

inherit a fortune or perhaps win the lotto? God, woman! I won’t hear another

word on the subject.’ And with that he stood up, walked over to the couch in

the lounge and slumped down in front of the television.

‘Well, I’m going. With or without you. And you might as well join me ‘cos I’ve

already paid for it and we can’t get a refund.’ she said, her voice cracking slightly

as she said it.

‘I thought I told you,’ his words were stretched out and slow and escalating

into a growl, ‘that you were to check with me before you committed us to the

tickets!’

‘I couldn’t get hold of you and the tickets…’

‘I don’t want to hear it. Just get out of my sight, you stupid woman.’ Henry

turned on the television. Meredith went into their bedroom, lay face down on

the bed and sobbed.

Later that night, Henry came though to the bedroom, ‘Look, if we can’t get a

refund, then we’ll just have to go. But don’t think that I’m done talking about

this. We’re going to have to tighten our belts in other ways now. Starting with

those expensive haircuts you get. From now on you’ll get your hair cut at Joe’s

down the road like I do. Understood?’ but he didn’t expect an answer and none

came. There was simply the quiet resignation that he had come to expect from

Meredith.

The day came when they were to leave. Meredith packed their bags and was

feeling quite optimistic that Henry would liven to the idea of the trip once they

were on their way. He would be caught up in the magic of it all. The fresh air

and open space would bring out the man she has fallen in love with so many

years ago.

Calculated Love

35

‘I’m not going,’ he said as he finished his breakfast. ‘There’s no point. I am

simply not in the mood. You go without me.’

‘Oh, Henry, now don’t be like that. You know the only reason I want to do this

is to spend some time with you. If you don’t go, then I won’t go either and you

don’t want the money to be just wasted, do you?’

The idea of Meredith being out of the house for a few days, leaving him on his

own, had appealed to Henry. But if that was not going to be the case, then she

was right, he wasn’t about to see the money wasted. Grudgingly he agreed to go.

On the first evening, Meredith burst into their cabin to find Henry watching

the movie channel on their cabin television. His face was as sullen as ever. In

fact it had a new hardness about it, a determination not to show any sign of

enjoyment.

‘Oh, darling, you have to come and see the sunset. It’s simply wonderful. The

sky has turned this deep red colour and…’

‘Don’t be telling me what I have to do, Meredith. Sunsets have never interested

me in the past. Why should they now?’

‘You know, dear, you can choose to stay right here in this cabin for the entire

cruise and wallow, or you can choose to enjoy this trip with me.’

‘Exactly! It’s my choice. You can’t make me choose one way or the next, now

can you? Now leave me be, woman.’ His words cut to the core. Her face

flushed as her eyes became suffused and tearful. She left the cabin and slammed

the door behind her.

She went to the upper deck at the rear end of the ship, away from the other

passengers. She wanted to be alone. She held onto the railing and looked over

the ocean. What is there left to live for? she thought. The clear blue ocean seemed


36

so tranquil, so inviting. Throwing herself overboard might be a final act of

kindness to Henry.

Suddenly, a moment of clarity. She had always loved a good riddle, a difficult

question. Henry had provided her with just that. ‘You can’t make me choose one way

or the next, now can you?’ he had said, or rather, he had asked.

She hurried back to the cabin, walked in and went right past Henry who was

still watching the Ahoy There Entertainment channel. She rummaged through her

bag, found a pen and paper and went straight to the bathroom and locked the

door behind her. Henry wondered what she was up to but did not bother to

ask. She seemed to be in there for hours. Dinnertime came and went, still no

Meredith. Eventually Henry decided to go to bed. Whatever Meredith was

doing in the bathroom with that paper and pen would become apparent the

next morning, he thought.

He was fast asleep when she emerged from the bathroom. She climbed into the

bed beside him with a smile on her face and quickly fell into a deep and peaceful

sleep herself.

The next morning, Henry woke to find Meredith up, dressed, and ready for

breakfast. She was pouring over a map of the ship, planning her day with glee.

He climbed out of bed and went through to the bathroom to empty his bladder.

‘What on earth have you done with my heart medication?’ he shouted from the

bathroom. ‘Why are the capsules laid out on this page of numbers like this?’

‘Don’t touch them, dear. Believe me, you don’t want to touch them.’

‘Meredith, what the hell are you up to? This is not funny. You know how

serious my arrhythmia problem is. If I miss one day of my Digoxin, I could die.

You know that. Why would you meddle with something so important?’

‘It is quite simple really, Henry,’ she began. ‘Before coming on the trip, I

contacted the ship’s doctor to ask whether or not we should bring extra

Calculated Love

37

Digoxin in case of an emergency. He said that we should because it is not the

kind of drug that is kept in the ship’s dispensary. Not many people have your

condition, you know. Anyhow, that means that your drugs are the only supply

on the ship, and, as you pointed out, if you don’t have you Digoxin everyday,

you’re likely to have arrhythmia and die.’

‘What are you on about, woman? You are really beginning to make me angry!’

‘I’ve emptied out some of the capsules and filled them with my make-up

powder; others I’ve left as they were. Each capsule has been placed on that page

of numbers. Those which are placed on large prime numbers are the ones which

have Digoxin, and those that are placed on non-prime numbers have make-up

powder inside them.’

‘Prime numbers?’

‘A number which is only divisible by itself and one, Henry – prime numbers,’

she glanced up from the map quite casually, ‘They are particularly difficult to

calculate because there is really no formula to it. Trial and error - you will have

to take each of those large numbers and carefully determine whether or not it’s

a prime. It is terribly time consuming, and you could well make a mistake.’

‘Meredith. What the hell have you done!’ his face now plethoric with rage.

‘Don’t you raise your voice to me, Mister Leonard. I am the only person who

can keep you alive for the next four days,’ she paused for a moment, letting the

gravity of the situation sink in.

Then slowly and softly she said: ‘For the next four day, you will go out of your

way to please me. You will choose to enjoy every moment spent with me. You

will smile and laugh and suggest that we go for long romantic walks. You will

wine and dine me and make me feel as if I’m the most important woman in the

world,’ she said cheerfully. ‘In exchange, at the end of each day, I will provide


38

you with a prime number. If I feel that you are unhappy in anyway, I’ll simply

euthanase your pitiful soul by giving you a non-prime. Is that understood?’

Henry stood in silence. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out.

‘There is a Champaign breakfast on deck two this morning. You’re welcome to

join me,’ she said as she folded up the map. ‘You don’t have to, of course. You

have a choice. There is a pen and paper in the bathroom. You might want to

start trying to determine which of those numbers are primes on your own.’ She

tilted her head to one side and waited for a response.

The surprise of what he had just heard caused Henry’s heart to beat a little

harder and faster than usual. He could feel it in his chest. He opened his mouth

again; this time he found his voice: ‘A Champaign breakfast sounds lovely dear.

Just what we need, I should think.’

39

You Never Know

Have you ever watched a cat as it catches sight of a mouse? This furry and

affectionate pet might be soaking up a patch of sunlight, perhaps rubbing the

back of his ear against the side of your foot and purring softly when, quite

suddenly a transformation takes place. Now, crouching and with the steely

focus of a predator, the cat moves with deliberate precision, each muscle toned

and poised – a primal instinct has taken possession of the cat. In that moment,

the cat is not your pet at all. It has become a hunter – nothing more and

nothing less. And so it was with a certain Detective Adrian Glass of the Brixton

Murder and Robbery Unit in Johannesburg.

Glass worked in homicide and was, on a day-to-day basis, a pleasant, polite and

modest man. Occasionally however, Glass would be on a case and for reasons,

which eluded the rest of us on the team, something inside him would snap. He

had seen the mouse and was now driven by unseen demons, irking and

prodding him forwards. The closer we came to an arrest, the more fervent the

chase would become. Skipping nights of sleep and hardly eating during the day,

he seemed to thrive on the mental image of his prey, scared and alone and on

the run.

There was something frightening about the glazed look, which came over his

pale blue eyes as he paced up and down his chaotic office, chain smoking

Marlborough lights and muttering to himself.

Late into the night, Glass would immerse himself in reports, obsessing over

details and cross-referencing statements. Finally, he would emerge, unshaven,

with saggy eyes and half-moons of armpit sweat staining his shirt. Glass now

moved with a determination in his step; his grainy voice had a hint of malice

etched into it. The pursuit had begun.


40

‘Adams, you’re with me. We’re going back to the Priest. He lied about having

never left the country,’ he said struggling to get his gangly arm into an

undersized tweed jacked, ‘Jones and Stoffel, I want the two of you to get over to

that lady accountant, Brenda Mason. She’s his next victim. Get her out of the

house and into protective custody until we’ve got the priest.’

Somewhere in the dark corners of his brain, Glass could see into the mind of

the perpetrator. He possessed an eerie sense of the killer, his motives, his

movements, almost as if this were a movie that Glass had seen before.

Wheeler poked his head though the entrance to the open-plan where Glass was

barking instructions, ‘Detective Glass, we have preliminary forensics for last

weeks victim. It seems…’ Glass raised a flat hand and finished Wheeler’s

sentence for him: ‘… that her blood contained a trace of morphine in it. Of

course it did. We have been chasing the wrong person for weeks now. Like I

said, the Priest was lying and that accountant lady is next. Now let’s move

people!’

I had been working for Glass for five years when he announced his retirement.

During that time, I saw him track down and catch four serial killers and

countless regular homicide perps. Often, he would go into dangerous situations

on his own and find himself in hand-to-hand combat with these deranged

murderers. It seemed that no matter how vicious the criminals, they were no

match for Glass.

I remember the Parkmore serial case as if it were yesterday. I remember

arriving at work at 07h45 as usual. Glass had been up all night. He smelled

unkempt and stale, something between tar and sour milk, and had a large coffee

stain on his crumpled blue shirt. Our efforts at finding the suspect, Mr Paul

Linden were proving futile and a general malaise was infiltrating the department.

Five women were dead, all in the Sandton and Parkmore areas, all drugged with

morphine and stabbed in the neck. Two knowing stabs, one in each jugular

You Never Know

41

vein. The carotid arteries were not so much as nicked. The killer wanted these

victims to have a slow venous bleed – orderly, calm and controlled. There was a

meticulous rigor applied to the act, a disciplined hand was at work. The victims

were left to bleed out like sacrificial lambs, offering neat pools of blood on

either sides of their necks as some kind of libation for the sins of the killer. To

this kind of case, Glass applied himself with a strange and almost personal

resolve.

All five victims were in their twenties, professionals of some sort, single and

well-travelled. Interestingly, there were no signs of struggle. They trusted the

man who killed them; he was familiar to them.

We spent countless hours combing though the personal effects and

interviewing the friends and families of the victims, frantically looking for a

common thread. Eventually we found it: Paul Linden. His name, in some shape

or form, cropped up in each of their histories. He lived alone, had a long-

standing psychiatric history and a substance abuse problem.

His doctor had diagnosed him with Bipolar Mood Disorder in the early nineties

and put him on Lithium. The psychiatric history fitted well with the profile of

the man we were looking for. It was, however, the substance abuse which made

Adrian Glass have second thoughts about Linden being the killer. Glass

maintained that we were looking for an orderly and obsessive man, someone

who was clean shaven and punctual. The dead bodies spoke of such a man. A

junkie would be haphazard and desperate.

Nevertheless, Linden was our only lead and so we set out to find him. He had

abandoned his apartment and had not been seen at the oil refinery in Edenvale

where he had worked for months. We were at a dead end.

The previous victim was a 25-year-old actuary. We found her in her Sandton

apartment three days after the incident. Her blood had settled to the dependant


42

areas of her body, leaving her face pale and wax like. Her eyes were still open. I

watched Glass staring into those eyes. He seemed to ask them what it was that

they had seen on the night she died. It was creepy - the living gazing into the

eyes of the dead, probing, asking, perhaps knowing.

Most of us were on the verge of giving up on the case. As our enthusiasm

waned, Glass’s efforts intensified. He ate less and stayed nights at the office. He

barked orders, slammed phones and spent more and more time pacing his

office, smoking and mumbling to himself in a catatonic manner.

I arrived at work that Tuesday, having not slept too well myself the night

before. As I mentioned, it was 07h45 and Glass was looking terrible.

‘Adams, you’re with me, we’re going back to the Priest. He lied about having

never left the country,’ he said struggling to get his gangly arm into an

undersized tweed jacket, ‘Jones and Stoffel, I want the two of you to get over to

that lady accountant, Brenda Mason. She’s his next victim. Get her out of the

house and into protective custody until we’ve got the priest.’

We rushed over to his ’82 model, light blue Corolla, ‘If he’s not at the chapel,

then we’re going straight to her house. He wants to kill her today, before lunch

if I understand this man correctly.’

‘But how do you know…’ Glass withered my sentence with a cold glare from

the corner of his eye. He hated it when people asked him that question: how he

knew the things he did. After a few months of investigation, he would somehow

have an epiphany, as if from the gods themselves, and would know the mind

and intentions of the killer.

In this case, the priest had not even been a suspect until then. We had

interviewed him simply as a matter of formality. In fact, I interviewed him

myself. He seemed innocuous. I left the report on Glass’ desk, not thinking that

he would ever read it.

You Never Know

43

We arrived at the parish at 08h27 only to find that the priest had left to do

some shopping for the parish kitchen.

‘To the girl’s apartment Adams, and step on it, my boy.’ Glass had an

excitement in his voice, which was almost amusing. He made you feel as if you

were in a movie - ‘… and step on it…’ - I loved that.

09h15: We arrived at the Brenda Mason’s apartment. ‘Hello, detective,’ she

looked surprised to see us at that time of the day. Her hair was still wet from the

shower. ‘Is there anything I can do for you? Any other question which you

wanted to ask about Paul Linden?’

‘Take her downstairs and wait for me there.’ Glass was talking to me. ‘I’m

going to wait here for the Priest. He’ll be here in a matter of minutes. I’m sure

of it.’

I looked at the girl, shrugged my shoulders and gestured with my hands that

she follow me.

‘Is there something the matter? Is there something that I should know

detective? ’ she began.

‘Downstairs! NOW!’ bellowed Glass. He walked past her turned his head with

a snap and glared back at me.

I knew not to question Glass at this point. I took her downstairs. In the car,

she asked, ‘So what’s gotten into him?’ She raised her eyebrows and gestured

toward her apartment with her forehead.

‘I really don’t know,’ I shrugged, ‘He thinks it’s the priest and not Linden.’

‘Father Max?’ she said incredulously. ‘Never. He’s just the sweetest man. Your

detective friend has missed the boat on this one. That’s for sure.’

‘He’s almost never wrong. The man has a gift, a knack of some kind.’ I said.


44

We heard a gunshot thundering down the corridors of the apartment building,

then another, then silence. Moments later the other squad cars arrived on the

scene - the one that were suppose to come straight from the station. They must

have stopped for a coffee alone the way. Boy, were they going to regret that

decision.

‘Gunfire!’ I yelled. ‘The second floor, apartment number 23.’

The two men in blue ran toward the staircase, unbuckling their holsters as they

did so.

More silence. About two minutes later, the two officers came out of the

building, followed by Adrian Glass. I jumped out of the car and ran toward

them. ‘It was the priest. He had a knife. I shot him twice in the chest,’ said

Glass.

Brenda opened the passenger door and vomited. ‘Get her to a hotel,’ said

Glass. ‘She can’t go back to her apartment for now.’

That night, for the first time in our working relationship, Adrian Glass

suggested that we go out for a drink. How could I say no? I was dying to hear

how it was that he knew that the Priest was our man.

We arrived at Rats in Melville a little after eight. Rats was, as always, dark, loud

and smoky. We sat at an unvarnished wooden table with candle wax slowly

forming a stalactite as it dripped off the edge. Glass was drinking whisky, two

shots at a time.

‘Sir, what’s the occasion? We celebrating?’

‘We’re not celebrating, Adams,’ he sounded annoyed. ‘I’m retiring. That was my

last case.’

‘But sir, you are the best detective on the force. How can...’

You Never Know

45

‘Enough with all the questions, Adams. I am going to answer the one question

you’ve been asking me since the day you joined my unit. Then I’m going to

retire. You will never tell a living soul what I’m about to tell you here tonight.’

He turned his head and looked me in the eye as he said it.

‘Of course,’ I nearly choked on my whisky. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘A smoke?’ he tapped on his box of Marlborough and coaxed a single cigarette

to present itself has he held the box toward me.

‘Thanks.’ I took the cigarette, lit up with the flame of the candle, and took a

slow, deep drag.

‘Now, you always want to know how it is that I know what the killer is going to

do next, what it is that he’s thinking, where it is that he’s hiding.’ My heart was

pounding with excitement as I listened.

‘It’s simple, really,’ he said. I leaned forward so as not to miss a word of what

he was about to say. ‘All you have to do,’ he paused and took a sip of his

whisky, ‘all you have to do,’ he repeated, ‘is know what it is to want to kill a

man.’ He held my gaze for a few moments, looking for some inkling of

understanding in my eyes.

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Okay, let me explain. When I was about 15 years old, I realized something

about myself. I was one of the unfortunate creatures who was born with a lust

to kill - the need to feel another man struggle against the grip of my hands,

squirming as I squeezed the very life from his body.’ His eyes looked past me

now, as if he were making a confession to something much higher. ‘I decided to

kill the family dog just to see what it felt like. Killed the mutt with my bare

hands and got a thrill out of it that was almost sexual in intensity,’ he paused. ‘I

was born this way, Adams. Not made to be like this by some unfortunate

childhood, but born like this - with this need. Along with this…,’ he stopped to


46

think of the word, ‘disposition,’ he said it slowly as if to check that it fitted, ‘I was

endowed with tremendous intelligence. I was able to foresee my own demise,

that I would kill and eventually be caught and imprisoned like an animal. I

struggled with the problem for months. How was I to live out my natural

inclination? How was I to hunt and kill and not land up behind bars?’

Another pause. I was ready to vomit as I listened to him speaking, ‘Joining the

force allowed me just that, Adams. Can you see it? The hunt, the kill and yet the

immunity. Take today for example. I was on the side of the good guys. It was

perfect. Knowing the mind of the killer was simple, my dear Adams. It came as

naturally to me as eating and drinking comes to you. I have, however, become

tired. I have outlived the passion. Today, as I killed the priest, it was just a job.

The thrill of it has left me, the way a young man’s libido settles with time. I have

essentially been cured of my affliction and am now ready to start my life from

where I left it at the age of 15.’

I stared at the man before me in disbelief, unable to speak, hardly able to

breathe.

‘If you really want to be the brilliant detective that you think I’ve been all these

years, you might want to start by killing one of your family pets. You never

know, Adams,’ there was an unsettling recognition in his eyes as looked at me in

that moment. ‘You never know.’

47

Confession

‘Another scotch my friend?’ Father Leo’s eyes were drooping with fatigue, age

and a few too many toots for one night.

‘Hell, why not. You only live once.’ Joey’s voice was coarse and flat – a lifetime

of chain smoking will do that.

‘To old friends!’ Father Leo raised his glass.

‘Ha! To those of us left!’ Joey Fabiano lifted his glass, winked at Leo Santini,

drained his glass of single malt and slammed it down on the table.

‘Joey, we’ve been friends all our lives.’ Father Leo’s voice was slightly lower and

perhaps a little tentative.

‘Damn right. How many years now? Sixty?’

‘Sixty years of friendship. My God. Are we that old?’ Leo looked down at his

frail hand clutching his whisky glass with a slight parkinsonian tremor, wrinkled

his forehead and nodded in concession.

‘We are that old, my friend.’

‘I have a confession.’

Joey laughed, ‘I’ve been to prison three times and now I’m going to hear the

confessions of a priest.’ He poured himself another, ‘There’s something you

don’t see everyday.’

Leo put his glass down on the table, ‘I’m serious, Joe. We might not be around

for too much longer, you know. There are things which need to be said.’

‘I’m listening.’ Joey’s face became solemn. He had a leathery face with furrows

and grooves, etched in by a life of guilt and pain. He knew all too well what it

was like to confess his sins. He was aware of how a secret could eat away at the


48

soul of a man. For years, he had been coming to Father Leo and unburdening

his mind in the confessional. The least he could do was take this moment

seriously.

‘Joey,’ began Father Leo, ‘I stopped believing in God about thirty years ago.’

‘Leo, Leo, Leo. We all stopped believing in God. Is that your confession?’

‘There’s more.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I was already a priest, in my thirties, with no alternate career and no desire to

continue living the lie.’

‘Look, you had no options. What could you do? Of course, you had to

continue working as a priest. You did a lot of good, my friend. The world is a

better place because of you. Don’t you forget it. Its not all about the nativity

scene, you know.’

‘That’s just it, Joey. I realised that I could still do good as a priest. I would just

have to change my objectives slightly.’

‘Exactly.’ Joey began to smile. He lit up a Pall Mall extra light.

‘I became an undercover detective.’ Father Leo’s face was stone cold as he said

it, his eyes fixed on Joey’s.

In the background they could hear Leonard Cohen singing, Famous Blue

Raincoat. The two men sat staring into each other’s eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Joey. I know you’ll never forgive me. I had to tell you. It was eating

me alive.’ A tear rolled down Leo’s cheek. ‘I sat in that confessional and took

notes. Every hit, every job, every play – I took it all down and passed the

information on to the local precinct. Do you remember telling me about how

old Bone-head Sam killed the DaSalamos brothers. Didn’t you ever wonder

Confession

49

how the gun was found? I sold you out. I sold out the only family I ever really

had.’

Joey said nothing. He just sat there and listened as Father Leo went

meticulously and chronologically through a lifetime of secrets. At the end of it,

Father Leo had his face buried in his hands, ‘I’m so sorry, Joey,’ he said, but he

knew that sorry would not be penance enough for this man. He knew what he

had coming and he was prepared to take it. At least it would be an end to his

guilt.

‘Leo,’ Joey’s voice was slow and compassionate, ‘Leo, my friend, my brother.

Look me in the eye.’ Joey balanced his cigarette in the groove of the ashtray and

put down his whisky glass, ‘Leo, I have a confession to make, too.’

Father Leo narrowed his eyes pushed his head slightly forward.

‘Leo, we always knew you had become an undercover. We used the

confessional to feed the cops false information. None of it was true. Take the

case of Sam for instance. Bone-head Sam didn’t kill the DaSalamos brothers.

He did steal half a million big ones from my old man. We had to punish him. It

was either a bullet in the head or a lifetime in prison. We talked it over with

him. He chose prison. The only thing left to do was decide who would to go to

the confessional and tell you where to find the gun we planted.’

50

Bad Timing

‘Andrew, thank you for agreeing to see me under these circumstances.’

‘You’re welcome, Dr Lambert, and thank you for seeing me at such short

notice.’

‘Well we don’t have time for niceties, so I’m going to dispense with all the

background questions. I’m well-briefed on the circumstances of your suicide

attempt and have read your note.’

‘I agree, doctor. Let’s get straight to the point…’

Planning a suicide is never a pleasant thing to do. In planning my own, I found

myself faced with an array of possibilities, none of which was terribly appealing.

In retrospect, I might have considered expedience over comfort.

I remember that, as a young psychiatrist, I would hypothesise as to how I might

kill myself, were I to ever find myself that way inclined.

Shooting oneself in the head has the advantage of being quite definitive. I was

always a neat man and the idea of a civil servant having to scoop together the

gelatinous blobs of my brain, wobbly and elusive and webbed by a sticky mesh

of coagulating blood – well the idea of it was simply appalling.

An overdose is less messy. One might of course be found before dead and

somehow resuscitated in the local Accidents and Emergencies. I can just see it.

Me lying on one of those NHS beds with the white linen and the shiny chrome

railing on either side. An Australian nurse would be passing a latex nasogastic

tube through my nose, down my oesophagus and into my stomach. ‘Not to

worry, dear, everything is going to be just fine.’ Overdoses fail too often. It

would never do.

Bad Timing

51

I thought about hanging myself. Again, the possibility of failure existed. Would

I manage to tie a noose? Would I find myself dangling in some cheap hotel, not

quite dead, spluttering, gasping and wriggling like an insect? My face would turn

purple and the cornea of my eyes would speckle with pataecial haemorrhage.

There seems to be no dignity in having a purple face and bulging eyes. Hanging

would not do.

Cutting ones wrists is just silly. Firstly, it would hurt. And secondly, it would

scare me. The idea of my blood pulsating from my wrists, slowly draining my

body of life, made me feel a little nauseous. One would feel like a slaughtered

animal, a cow perhaps, being killed in a kosher fashion, left to slowly leak and

ooze the last of ones vitality into a puddle on the floor.

Slitting one’s throat is possibly the worst of all. It is unnatural (not that any

suicide modality is natural, but this is by far the most unnatural of them all).

There needs to be a profound self-loathing to inspire this kind of infliction. Not

a simple depression, a reluctance to continue with the pain of life, but rather a

genuine hatred of life, of oneself. This is more a homicide than a suicide in my

mind. The knife has to be stabbed deeply into the neck to traverse the carotid

artery. Then, it is not just a simple slitting motion to traverse the neck. Oh no –

it’s a strenuous sawing motion that must be undertaken. The knife has to cut

through the tough Sternocleidomastoid muscles and the hard cartilage of the

trachea. Warm venous blood from the jugulars would then begin to trickle

down the trachea into the lungs. There would probably be an almost religious

warmth in the chest at first which would contrast with a coldness in the side of

the face being deprived of arterial blood. Throat slitting was not an option.

After considerable research, it occurred to me that the most unlikely of suicide

modalities was in fact the most preferable: drowning. Near drown victims

usually describe a sense of euphoria and peace as a rush of endorphins takes

hold of them. There would have to be the process of throwing oneself into


52

deep water of course. That would not be pleasant. But I had resigned myself to

a certain portion of unpleasantness and found this kind to be acceptable.

I would simply lock a heavy ball and chain to my leg and throw myself off the

Richmond Bridge as it crossed the Thames. I would do it late at night so as not

to be seen and rescued and on a weekday so as not to disturb the forensic

pathologist on a weekend.

It was 3am on Wednesday 15 Jule 2005 (fortunately a warm month in London).

I dressed well for the occasion and thought of Virginia Woolf as I walked my

way half way across the Richmond Bridge. Mrs Woolf drowned herself in the

Thames for very different reasons, of course. I was in no way clinically

depressed.

I had been diagnosed with cancer, a brain tumour to be more specific. The

tumour itself was slow growing and unlikely to kill me for many years to come.

It was putting pressure on a part of my brain – the temporal lobe – causing me

to occasionally feel homicidal. These paroxysms would last for about an hour at

a time and didn’t happen very often at first. They were, however, growing in

intensity and frequency. One morning, I awoke to find that, during the night, I

had killed both of our lovely pet Labradors. It was just a matter of time before I

hurt a family member or some innocent member of the public. I had enjoyed a

full and enjoyable life and felt that an ending, which involved me killing off

loved ones, was less than optimal. Killing myself was the rational thing to do.

The Richmond Bridge has a low railing, which I found easy to scale, even with

the heavy ball and chain attached to my left leg.

I had in my pocket, a corked green bottle within which was a suicide note I had

written for my family. I didn’t want them to think that this was an act of

desperation or selfishness, but rather a calculated decision made by a clear

Bad Timing

53

minded man. I took a moment to reflect on what a fortunate life I had lived,

and before there was time for second thoughts, threw myself into the river.

The Thames is a tidal river. This was low tide and I found myself standing in

water, which came up to the level of my chest. A scenario for which I had not

planned. I could hardly bring myself to hold my head underwater until I

drowned and the ball and chain prevented me from getting to the edge of the

river and pulling myself out. I would simply have to stand there and wait for the

tide to come in, at which point I would be drowned. This would take an hour or

two. I had time to kill. I took the bottle from my pocket and wondered if I

should give the note one last read through. But what good could that do? I

decided against it. An hour later I was overcome with boredom. I had gone

through all my happy memories and deeply considered the questions of God

and the afterlife. I was achingly bored. There was nothing left to do but read

that damn suicide note.

Out came the cork and in went my index finger to retrieve the note. I unfolded

it and began to read. As I read it, I thought about the many suicide notes that I

had read over the years during my profession as a psychiatrist. This was by far

the most beautifully written. The words were carefully chosen and the sentences

flowed neatly from one idea to the next. ‘Smooth as chocolate,’ I thought to

myself.

A frustrating thought kept popping into my head while reading the letter. If

this were the letter of a patient who had not yet killed himself, would I as a

psychiatrist, be able to read the letter, make a diagnosis and talk him or her out

of the act. A challenging prospect. I decided to role play. I, the suicide

candidate, would be Andrew. And I, the clinician would be Dr Lambert.

‘Andrew, thank you for agreeing to see me under these circumstances.’


54

‘You’re welcome, Dr Lambert, and thank you for seeing me at such short

notice.’

‘Well, we don’t have time for niceties, so I’m going to dispense with all the

background questions. I’m well-briefed on the circumstances of your suicide

attempt and have read your note.’

‘I agree, doctor. Let’s get straight to the point.’

‘Firstly Andrew, can you be sure that this suicide attempt is not just an

expression of your homicidal tendencies acted toward yourself instead of

someone else.’

‘Quite sure, doctor. The paroxysms of homicidal feelings are discrete and last

for about an hour. I’ve been planning this for a few days now.’

‘Ah, but might the pathology not have changed slightly? The tumour could

have grown a little and changed the way in which your psychological symptoms

present themselves.’

‘It is possible, of course, Dr Lambert, but it does not resolve the underlying

problem that, were I to continue living, I would possibly do harm to a loved

one.’

‘I quite understand, Andrew. Have you thought about what this will do to your

family - the fact that they would have liked to have said goodbye? The fact that

they might have wanted to spend every possible moment with you and enjoy

your company until it was not possible to do so anymore.’

‘Yes, that is true. But weighed against the possibility of me hurting one of

them, I would still say that this option is preferable.’

‘Preferable perhaps because of the way you might be remembered if you were

to do something to one of them.’

‘Yes.’

Bad Timing

55

‘So it’s a selfish motive then?’

‘It’s more than just that. I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone I loved.’

‘So it’s the risk that you put them at that bothers you is it?’

‘Yes, Dr Lambert, it’s the risk.’

‘Well Andrew, isn’t that a decision which they should have the liberty of

making? You deprive them of the choice by doing this.’

‘They are unlikely to be rational about that choice. Even if they could see that

the right thing to do would be to let me die, they are unlikely to have the heart

to actually go through with it. I have to make this choice for them.’

‘My next question pertains to a comment in your letter, Andrew. And I quote: I

have no alternative but to end my life.’

‘Yes, and what of that line?’

‘I challenge the idea that you have no alternatives.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘Well, I can think of at least one alternative to suicide which would satisfy your

need to keep your family safe and my need for you not to act selfishly.’

‘And what would that be, Dr Lambert? Keep in mind that I am privy to your

thoughts and know that you, in fact, do not have an alternative suggestion but

are simply following standard psychiatric procedure: give the patient hope.’

‘Let’s assume, Andrew, that I do, in fact, have an alternative. Would you

consider it? Or are you too proud to change your mind at this stage?’

‘I would consider it, yes.’

‘Then what about a partial frontal lobotomy?’

I suddenly went cold. I was right! I could have my frontal lobe removed. It

would leave me intellectually nothing more than a hamster but completely safe


56

to everyone around me. Nobody would feel the remorse and guilt associated

with having a loved one kill himself and, on some level, my family would be

able to enjoy my company. Why hadn’t I thought of this before!

At this point, the water was so high that I had to tilt my head back and pout my

lips in order to suck any air in through my mouth. At that angle, my ears were

underwater and I was unable to hear if there was anyone on the bridge

overhead. I tilted my head forwards, bringing my ears out of the water. I could

hear the footsteps and the chatter of a couple walking over the bridge. I tilted

my head back in order to call for help but found that my mouth simply filled

with water and I was, at best, making some kind of gurgling noise. It wasn’t

long before I felt the sweet euphoria of my endorphins kicking in and before I

knew it, I was standing in front of you, St Peter, asking to be let into heaven.

Now that silly little rule that I learned as a good Catholic about those that

commit suicide not getting into heaven can’t possibly apply in this case, St

Peter. From this account of my death, it is clear that I was not a suicide but

rather a victim of poorly timed thinking.

57

Realisation

I began waking up in the summer of ’75. I say began, because when you have

been in a coma for almost six months, you don’t wake up all at once. It is a slow

process of realisation, of surfacing.

My earliest memory of consciousness, following the accident, is of the

awareness of pain. My right hip had been broken in the accident and the pain of

it burrowed slowly into the depth of my comatose mind and reminded me of

the outside world.

The pain was first, next came hearing. I could hear bits and pieces of the daily

ward-round each morning. With time the sounds of the ward-rounds became

clearer and my attention to them, more vigilant and acute. Eventually I was not

just hearing the ward rounds, but actually listening to them.

‘What is the patient's Glasgow Coma Score today?’ the voice of the more

senior doctor, questioning his underling.

‘He seems to have improved. His GCS is about 10 today.’ The junior doctor

sounded young and nervous.

‘About ten?’ clearly a reprimand.

‘Sorry,’ came the reply. ‘His GCS is ten today. His vitals are stable.’

‘Stable is not a clinical evaluation. The patient could be dead but nevertheless

stable. What are his vital signs, Perkins?’

‘Yes, of course, his vitals…’ I could hear the young intern shuffling though his

notes, ‘Ah, pulse is eighty, temperature, thirty seven, respiratory rate, sixteen and

his blood pressure is fine, systolic of one hundred and diastolic of sixty.’


58

‘And you call that fine? Have you considered what long-term hypotension

could do to this man's renal tubules?’ The voice of the older man was neither

calm, nor enraged, but rather comfortably arrogant, deliberately condescending.

‘Tell me about his plasma urea levels. Please tell me that you’ve been doing daily

urea and electrolytes on this patient?’

The ward-round banter continued in this manner. Over time, Perkins seemed

to present my case with increasing confidence. My level of consciousness

continued to improve. The darkness didn’t bother me. I didn’t feel any urgency

to become wakeful. There seemed to be a collected confidence within my chest,

a knowledge that I would recover.

One morning, as a surprise to even myself, I opened my eyes. The fact that I

was in a hospital did not come as a shock to me. What did surprise me however,

was the fact that, when I tried to think about it, I seemed to have no clear

recollection of my preceding life. What was my name? What did I do for a

living? Was I married?

I propped myself up on my elbows and looked around the ward. It was your

emblematic NHS setting, tiled floor, white walls, the smell of disinfectant and

the bleeping sounds of medical equipment.

‘Oh hello, dear,’ a nurse said as she noticed that I was awake. She was young

looking, had pale blue eyes, straight black hair and a lilting Irish accent. ‘You are

awake at last. Don’t be afraid, my dear. You are in the hospital and we are

taking good care of you. I’m going to call your doctor. He’ll be delighted to see

that you’re awake.’ And with that, she scuttled off down a long white corridor.

While she was away, I began to hear the most peculiar sound. It was like a

shovel being plunged into a pile of gravel, grainy and coarse. The oddest thing

about the sound was that it was coming from the inside of my head. As the

Realisation

59

sounds grew louder, it became clearer, almost as if it were being tuned in. Quite

suddenly, the crackling and hissing of it became a clear and echoing voice:

‘THIS IS A MESSAGE BEING BROADCAST TO YOU FROM MISSION

COMMAND. WE HAVE LOST CONTACT WITH YOU AND MUST

ASSUME THAT YOU ARE DEAD. THIS MESSAGE WILL CONTINUE

TO BROADCAST FOR SIX MONTHS. YOU HAVE A SIGNAL

RECEIVER IMPLANTED INTO YOUR AUDITORY CORTEX. IF YOU

ARE RECEIVING THIS MESSAGE, YOU ARE TO MEET WITH YOUR

SUPERIOR OFFICER IN LEICESTER SQUARE AT FIFTEEN

HUNDRED HOURS ON JULY THE NINTH. HE WILL DISABLE THIS

SIGNAL RECEIVER AND ESCORT YOU BACK TO MISSION

COMMAND. IF YOU HAVE BEEN CAPTURED BY THE ENEMY, YOU

MUST UNDERSTAND THAT WE WILL DENY ANY KNOWLEDGE OF

YOUR ACTIVITIES AS A SECRET AGENT. YOU MUST BE AT

LEICESTER SQUARE ON THE NINTH.’

My eyes were now wide and my heart was beating like the hooves of a

racehorse. What the hell was going on? Was I going mad? The cold war had

been raging for years now. Could it be that I was a secret agent of some kind?

A tall, gawky looking man entered the room with a broad smile and a jubilant

stride. He didn’t have any of the usual doctor paraphernalia, the white coat, the

stethoscope, but his tinny voice was unmistakably, ‘Well, well, look at who has

finally woken up,’ he said triumphantly.

‘Hello, Dr Perkins,’ I said and enjoyed the look of surprise on his face.

‘And how are we feeling?’ he asked while stabbing my photophobic eye with a

poker of light from a penlight torch.

‘I’m fine,’ I said out of habit. Clearly, I was not.


60

‘What is your name? You were brought into the Accidence and Emergency unit

without any identification and you haven’t had any relatives identify you, so

we’ve been calling you Joe Blogs for the last six months.’

‘Well Joe Blogs is going to have to do for now doctor. I don’t have a clue.’ I said.

I considered telling Dr Perkins about the voice that I was hearing. I decided

against it.

He was now tapping on my biceps with his patella hammer. ‘Do you have any

medical conditions that you are aware of, sir, diabetes, epilepsy, asthma,

tuberculosis or heart disease?’

I wasn’t sure why, but I was immediately aware of the fact that the first letters

of those diseases, when put together spelled the word ‘DEATH’. The doctor’s

accent was Manchester, his hospital ID number was 9349, a prime number.

‘Can’t say that I remember having had any of those diseases doc.’ I was aware

that there were two exits to the ward, that there was probably a fire escape on

the east wall of the building and I had identified at least three objects in the

room, which could, if necessary, be used as weapons.

‘IF YOU DO NOT REPORT TO YOUR SUPERIOR ON JULY THE

NINTH, THEN THIS RECEIVER IN YOUR BRAIN WILL SELF

DESTRUCT TO PREVENT IT FROM LANDING IN THE ENEMY’S

HANDS.’

‘Doctor,’ I said, ‘before you go, could you tell me what the date is, which

month and which day?’

‘It’s July the second, 1975. I’ll see you again in a few hours.’ He left the room.

July the second - that gave me a week to get to Leicester Square. I had a sudden

mental image of the small device lodged in the cortex of my brain, exploding

and turning the delicate tissue into a porridge of blood and grey goop.

Realisation

61

The following day, the blue-eyed nurse brought me breakfast.

‘Good morning,’ I said.

‘And good morning to you.’

‘Could you tell me, when will I be able to go home?’

‘Go home?’ she laughed. ‘Firstly, we still don’t even have a name for you, let

alone a home address. And besides, considering what you have been through,

it’ll be weeks before you are well enough to go home. Best case scenario - we’ll

have you out of bed and walking about by the end of the week, but you won’t

be discharged from the hospital for quite some time I’m afraid,’ she punctuated

the sentence with a sharp nod.

There was no question about it: I would be going to Leicester Square on the

ninth - discharged from the hospital or not. Perhaps, once back in the loving

arms of ‘mission control’, whoever, or whatever that was, my memory would be

jolted and I’d be able to account for myself once again.

My recovery was swift. After just two days, I was able to hobble my way

around the ward. I felt confident that I’d be physically well enough to get to my

rendezvous on the ninth. The only problem was the fact that the patients in the

neurosurgical unit were kept under strict observation, day and night. I needed to

get transferred to a regular medical ward.

‘Nurse Anderson my dear,’ I said with as warm a smile as I could muster, ‘I

wonder if I could have a little chat with you.’

She came over to my bed, ‘What is it?’

‘Becky, what if I told you that I really needed to get out of this ward and into a

regular medical ward, say, sometime within the next few days?’

‘Don’t be silly. You’ve had serious head trauma and are severely disorientated.

You still need regular neuro-obs I’m afraid and the medical ward staff won’t


62

cope. You’ll have to stay here.’ She started to walk away from the bed. I

grabbed her wrist in desperation, gripping it a little more tightly than would

have been appropriate.

‘Look Becky, we’ve become friends over the last few days, I need your…’

‘I won’t hear another word of it!’ She cut me off, jerking her wrist from my grip

with a snap.

‘Look, I have to get out of here on the ninth!’ I blurted out. ‘I’ve been hearing

this voice inside my head and…’ I stopped mid-sentence. Damn. How could I

be so stupid?

‘I see,’ she said curtly as she turned and walked toward the nursing station.

‘Well, I’ll see what I can do.’

The following day, as could been expected, I had a short visitation by the

psychiatric registrar on call.

‘I’m told that you’ve been hearing voices. I wonder if you could tell me more

about them, Mr… umm… Mr…’

‘I’m not sure of my name myself,’ I put him at ease. ‘Actually I was just kidding

about with Nurse Anderson. I didn’t think that she’d take it this seriously. No

voices, none whatsoever.’

‘I’m going to have you moved into the psychiatric ward for a few days. For

diagnostic purposes of course.’

Not good. The psych ward would be kept under lock and key. This was

jumping from the frying pan into the fire. ‘But what about my neuro-obs?’

‘Oh the psychiatric nursing staff are well used to neurosurgical patients. It

won’t be a problem. Your amnesia might turn out to be supra-tentorial,’ he said,

making some notes in my file. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning in the psych

ward,’ he said as he left the room.

Realisation

63

And so it was, that I found myself being transferred from the neurosurgical

ward into the psychiatric ward.

My first escape attempt was met with a stiff jab of intramuscular

benzodiazepine, enough to sedate a small camel. The staff then reclassified me

as a problem patient and I was written up for a daily does of oral Rivotril, a

sedative, and Haloperidol, an antipsychotic, ‘for diagnostic purposes of course.’

The psychiatric ward was a place of routine. That was the very thing that made

my second escape plan so feasible.

The staff gave us our medication straight after breakfast, at nine thirty sharp,

no exceptions. Thereafter, the nursing staff would go for their morning tea. Pre-

made tea was dispensed from a central urn and gulped down eagerly. I was

careful to note that all the nursing staff were avid tea drinkers.

The Rivotril tablets were white and the Haloperidol, pink. I noticed that Jimmy

and Lance, who had the beds on either side of me, were given the same regime

as I was. On my third day in the ward, I conducted a little experiment. I

convinced Jimmy and Lance to give me their Rivotril tablets and took the triple

dose all at once. I then made a small pen mark on the edge of a London

Illustrated Times for every thirty seconds that I was able to stay awake. Despite

my best efforts to fight it, I was out cold in less than five minutes.

My fellow inmates, as I called them, were quite a delight. Peter Woodhouse

believed that the CIA had sucked all the ‘juices’ from his brain and were now

controlling him through an experimental device which they stole from the

Russians.

Lance Saunders, an accountant by profession and a man with an unfortunate

helping of ugliness, was hearing the voice of his dead wife who seemed to be

telling him to tidy things up all the time.


64

Jimmy Appleton spent most of his day looking for possible fire hazards in the

ward. Jesus Christ himself had told Jimmy that he was destined to die in a raging

fire.

Then there was me of course. I fitted in just fine. I believed that I was a secret

agent who was receiving a transmission signal in his head. Of course the doctors

thought I was a psycho. Why wouldn’t they?

I once made the mistake of making a comment to Lance Saunders about his

fussy wife from whom he was taking so many instructions. His response was

volcanic. He threw me against the wall and was about to start pounding my face

with his clenched fists when a curious and unexpected instinct kicked in.

Without thinking, I swung around and elbowed him in the jaw. At the same

time, I manoeuvred my feet in such a way as to steady myself while I leveraged

him over my hip and onto the ground. There, I quickly twisted his arm into a

half-nelson and placed my foot upon his head to hold it steady while I growled,

‘Touch me again, and I’ll kill you! You understand?’

I was as astounded as everyone else. From that moment on, the rest of the

patients referred to me as Sir and it wasn’t difficult to convince a few of them to

give me their Rivotril tables. I crushed the tablets up and kept the stash of white

powder in a matchbox underneath my pillow.

The morning of the ninth: After breakfast we lined up for our meds. The

nursing staff dispensed our pills as usual and then proceeded predictably to their

tea room.

It was now time for me to start my mischief. I mentioned to Peter that and

Lance that I had overheard the nursing staff talking about a fire which had

started in the east wing of the hospital. Being the psych patients, we would of

course be evacuated last, I said.

Realisation

65

Their disposition toward paranoid delusions and their state of under-

medication were the perfect catalysts for a fire of panic which spread amongst

the patients with escalating levels of alarm. The commotion was something to

behold. I felt bad for poor old Jimmy though. He went into a catatonic stare, as

if he had seen his own end, like the coming of a tidal wave.

The rest of the patients, however, served my purposes rather well. The staff

came running out of the tearoom to control the commotion. Five patients

needed restraints, a good jab of intramuscular Etomine was given to almost

everyone else. The entire affair took roughly 10 minutes, enough time for me to

slip the crushed Rivotril into their tea urn.

Getting control of a riotous psych ward is thirsty work. I was sure that each

nurse would drink at least one cup of tea at the end of the commotion. I

watched carefully though their tearoom window. Sure enough, they were

gulping the stuff down. Now it was just a matter of standing back and waiting

for five or so minutes.

On cue, at the five-minute mark, the door swung open. A large male nurse

stammered out of the tearoom. His eyes were glazed and at half-mast, his face

hung like a used teabag and his walk was sloppy, as if the bones in his limbs

were slightly melted.

He was heading for the nursing station. He slumped into the chair behind the

desk. His eyes now completely closed, he groped for the telephone receiver.

Holding it to his ear he frowned slightly before crashing his head onto the desk

with a hollow thump.

I removed the keys to the ward from his belt, poked my head into the tearoom

to make sure that everyone was asleep and then left the ward, locking the door

behind me.


66

‘YOU HAVE FOUR HOURS TO MEET WITH YOUR SUPERIOR AT

LEICESTER SQUARE. HE WILL BE WAITING FOR YOU AT MAX

WINE-BAR.’ The voice was much clearer now that I was out in the open air.

The transmission must have been interfered with by the hospital walls, I

thought.

I was pushed for time. I had no money for transport and so would have to get

there on foot. There was a lot of distance to cover and I was slowed down by

the pain in my hip. It was going to be close.

‘FIVE MINUTES COMRADE, BEFORE THE RECEIVER SELF-

DESTRUCTS,’ I heard the voice saying as I entered Leicester Square. ‘Five

minutes comrade?’ Was I a Russian spy? I tried desperately to recall my past life.

At this point in time I didn’t really care if I was Nigerian or a bloody Inuit for

that matter. I just needed to know!

Now, to find Max Wine-Bar. The opposite end of the square. My pace

quickened. Entering the bar, I looking for a man sitting alone at a table in a

corner. Nobody fitted that description. I looked at the barman - now wait just a

minute - I recognized him, that face, that smile.

I caught his eye and he grinned at me ‘Charles!’ he said, ‘How the hell are you?’

‘THIRTY SECONDS LEFT. YOU MUST MEET WITH AGENT CHEV

AT MAX WINE-BAR IN LEICESTER SQUARE.’

I leaned over the bar and whispered, ‘Agent Chev?’

‘TWENTY FIVE SECONDS LEFT. YOU MUST LOCATE AGENT

CHEV.’

‘Agent?’ he laughed aloud.

‘Do we know each other?’ I asked desperately.

Realisation

67

‘It’s me, Chevy. I’ve been serving you drinks here for years. Each time you’re

allowed out of the hospital for a…, what do you call them, weekend pass-out.’

He looked at me with accepting eyes, ‘You’ve never pitched up in your hospital

pyjamas before though. Do you need a ride back to the psychiatric ward? I’m

off in ten minutes.’ As he said it, my memory returned to me.

I am Charles Henry Wall. I have been suffering from paranoid delusions and

auditory hallucinations since the age of nineteen. I have spent most of my adult

life in St Pancras Psychiatric Hospital. On a weekend pass-out, I became a little

lost and confused, ran across a road and was hit by a car. I was hospitalized and

in a comatose state for nearly six months.

‘Thank you,’ I replied as both sadness and relief intermingled through my

cortex. ‘I will definitely need a lift back to the hospital.’


68

69

And a little bit of that…

70

Welcome to Umtata The following is a collection of emails which I sent from Umtata while working

there as a junior doctor. On the whole, I’m a believer is short emails. Out in

Umtata however, I had an inordinate amount of time on my hands, and so (and

I hang my head in shame as I

type this), I became one of

those dreaded perpetrators of

‘group’ emails, which travelling

people are under the delusional

belief, that their friends and

family actually read.

I’ve selected the emails which

describe the fantastic people

that I met while in Umtata.

Note: The ‘ph’ in Aphiwe and Siphokazi is pronounced as a hard ‘p’ sound and not as an ‘f’.

71

Meet Aphiwe

Aphiwe, who has Chronic Juvenile Arthritis, has been learning to walk again

and is now proudly inching his way back toward his bed after taking himself to

the bathroom for the first time in weeks.

With his head bowed and eyes fixed on his little feet, he extends his neck ever

so slightly as he lifts his left foot off the floor, almost as if he were picking his

foot up with an imaginary string connecting his forehead with his toes.

Head still bowed, eyes wide with concentration, and his tongue sticking out the

side of his mouth, he shuffles his tiny foot forward just a little and then lets it

drop, pulling his head down by the string connecting it to his toes.

He diverts his attention to the other foot and readies himself. This was a small

step for mankind, but a giant leap for this little man.

Just as I was beginning to hear Dire Straits singing ‘The Walk of Life’, my

attention was distracted down toward my right knee by a soft tugging on my

trousers.

Standing at full length, only sixteen inches high, was Yandisa, the little sister of

Siphokazi. She had one hand tugging on my trousers and the other hand

holding her recently injured index finger in her mouth.

All wounded fingers get sucked, regardless of the mechanism of injury. In this

case, it was a paper cut.

Liquid brown eyes look up at me with two requests. Firstly, that she be the

object of my undivided attention, and secondly that I pick her up and carry her

on my hip for the remainder of my ward round as a gesture of sympathy, to

both of which I agreed.

72

Aphiwe in the Sun

I’m going to miss the paediatric ward when I leave. I’m here for another month

and a half and then it’s off to work in surgery for about four months. I’ll

probably never work with children again which is a pity because I’m kinda just

getting the hang of it.

I’ll really miss the cute ones. Aphiwe for instance; he is quite the star walker

nowadays and while rushing around the ward I’ll pass him quite a few times on

his daily pilgrimage to the outdoors.

It takes him the better part of the morning to get from his bed to his chair

outside, from which he can watch the other children play.

The height of the top of his head coincides with that of my hand. As I pass

him, I can’t resist making a little spider out of my fingers and brushing them

over his bald little head. His concentration is broken only long enough for him

to give a little smile and to say, ‘Ewe’.1

Aphiwe doesn’t often smile. He has a knowing look on his face. He seems

acutely aware of his gross disability and poor prognosis. He seems too young to

have thought about the fact that his life will never be normal, that he is unlikely

to find the kind of happiness for which the rest of us seek, and yet, despite his

age, his face tells me that he knows and his eyes tell me that he’s old enough to

be sad.

With an all-serious face he struggles down the cold dark corridor of ward 6,

heading toward the door. As he approaches the door, he becomes an

unstoppable machine. He gears downs and presses forwards with untold

1 ‘Ewe’ means ‘yes’ in Xhosa.

Aphiwe in the Sun

73

resolve. He reaches the door, ups the pace as he takes the corner wide, pushes

his head forward and ploughs his way into the bright warm sunlight.

The sun seems to shine especially brightly when it sees Aphiwe, and, as if these

yellow sunbeams were wind, they blow the skin on his serious little face

backward and upward into a delightful grin. The gloopy place of his heart,

where the blood runs thick and slow and heavy, suddenly perks up and breathes

and hums.

A quick and gentle gust of wind congratulates him with a peck on the cheek

and a nearby bird seems to chant a victory cry.

All of the other child brighten up at the sight of Aphiwe and his smile is now

that of a champion. His smile is, in that moment, so complete and sincere that I

have to suspect that he knows the very happiness for which the rest of us so

desperately seek.

74

Aphiwe and the Phone

I was in the ward late yesterday afternoon. I was suppose to be in the clinic, but

the clinic was quiet, so didn’t feel bad about leaving one of the other doctors to

hold the fort while I got some of my ward work done.

The afternoon was hot and dry, the air seem to rob every morsel of energy

from my mind and body. Siphokazi was taking an afternoon nap. He was curled

up in a patch of sunlight on his bed like a cat.

Aphiwe was standing in the middle of the ward and seemed to be quite content

to be doing nothing else but stand for awhile. I’m never sure what goes through

his mind, but often feel that he is watching me and that we have a deep, if

unspoken, bond.

As he caught my eye, my cell phone rang. It was Mathew just calling to say hi.

It’s always good to hear from him and he invariably puts me in an excellent

mood.

I told Mathew to say ‘hello’

to Aphiwe. I bent down and

put the phone next to

Aphiwe’s ear. I’m not sure if

he had ever seen a cell phone

before, but he seemed to be

a natural and pressed his ear

against the phone and

listened.

Mathew, in his usual way, burst forth some kind of long and jubilant greeting,

all of which was lost on young Aphiwe. All except his name that is. In all the

Aphiwe and the Phone

75

jumble of foreign language, he heard and understood his name and with that, he

knew that the entire monologue was directed specifically and uniquely toward

himself and he burst into a combination of chuckles and snorts of joy. His

chubby cheeks and eyebrows popped up like a spring and his eyes sparkled in

wonder at this miraculous plastic block, which somehow knew his name.

Of all the medical procedures I’ve performed, putting a phone next to a little

boy’s ear has been one of the most rewarding to me; we should all phone and

greet little children by their names more often, I think. This was an unexpected

joy to both Aphiwe and myself.

76

Siphokazi was Brave

Siphokazi took bravery to new heights. Here was a young man with the heart

of a lion, a true warrior, afraid of nothing, not even the dreaded needle. To the

average six-year-old, the phlebotomy needle sent a cold shiver of dread down

the spine. Yelps and cries of anguish could be heard from all corners of ward 6

on Monday mornings as the blood taking rounds were done.

The needle represented a formidable enemy, capable of bringing even the

bravest of children to tears. Siphokazi had watched and seen the quivering lips

and screwed up eyes of his fellow soldiers and wondered if, put in the same

situation, he would be able to withstand the onslaught. First the tears, and then

the crying; the sound of pain, the sound of defeat.

It was Monday morning and Siphokazi knew that his number was up. This

would be the first time that his bravery would be tested in this way. He had told

the other children that he was not going to cry. He would set and example -

show them that this serpent could be defeated. The other children gathered

around his bed and watched with fascination.

Out went his left arm. A rubber glove was tied firmly around his upper-arm,

squeezing and contorting his biceps brachialis. I rubbed some cold Savlon onto

his cubital fossa making his dark brown skin sterile and glistening. A gloved

hand slapped the skin once or twice coaxing a vein into a bulge.

He became nervous, not because of the imminent sting of a needle, but rather,

the thought of crying in front of his new-found hospital friends. He wasn’t sure

if it was the pain, or the sight of blood, but there was something about the

taking of blood that made children cry.

Siphokazi was Brave

77

But he could be brave and was determined to be so. Another slap on the

cubital fossa and an instruction from me to look the other way. He couldn’t, he

had to watch; something inside him wouldn’t let him look away.

He focused hard as he watched the needle being pressed against his skin and

then piercing it and entering the vein. He felt the sharp twinge of pain shoot up

his arm and then a tugging at his throat, but he would not cry out, not while

being watched, he would not. And then there was the sight of deeply red

venous blood squirting into the plastic cylinder, slowly filling it. The procedure

was not painful and yet somehow he could feel a welling up of agony in his

chest. Siphokazi gritted his teeth and swallowed hard, determined not to cry out.

He held his arm out straighter and stiffer as he held his breath and felt his face

redden. The ward around him suddenly became blurry as, against his will, tears

began to fill his eyes.

With his head bowed slightly forward, a single tear crept over his lower eyelid

and hung from his cheek. It fell like a raindrop and landed on his arm just next

to the inserted needle, mixing with a drop of blood which had seeped out and

then ran off his arm. He didn’t make a sound.

The procedure was over, the tear had gone unnoticed and his bravery

applauded by all. He stood up with pride, gave a concerted sniff and smiled.

‘Not a sound,’ he thought to himself as he walked outside, ‘not a sound.’

78

Siphokazi in Trouble It was an extraordinarily hot day - the heat was thick and heavy, making my

skin sticky and my hands weak. I was doing a ward round and discussing one of

the more problematic cases with one of the other doctors when I was witness to

the strangest thing.

Behind my colleague and slightly to the left was an open window. I was looking

through the window, wondering whether God would consider my commitment

to a life in a monastery and an offering of one of my kidneys, as a fair exchange

for some rain or even a cool gust of wind when, from behind the window,

popped a little head.

Siphokazi looked around the room with wide mischievous eyes and a grin

which made even me a little nervous. Our eyes met. His eyebrows tented

upward as he let

out a delightful

burst of laughter

and then, just as

suddenly as it had

appeared, his

head popped back

down. He was

most certainly up

to something.

Siphokazi was no

longer a sick child. He had been treated for Tuberculosis and was now waiting

for his mother to return from their rural home and take him back with her. She

was not coming back however. She had, in the interim, died of AIDS. The

Siphokazi in Trouble

79

social worker was going to have to explain this to young Siphokazi and find him

a place to live. I wondered when she was going to do this. What effect would it

have on this little man? In the interim, ward 6 would be his home and

playground.

Siphokazi was an exceptionally intelligent boy with eyes as bright as a full moon

on a clear night and always wide and alert and ready and watching. They

reminded me of a drop of water splashed onto a hot frying pan. Siphokazi was a

delight, a bundle of energy and a wound up spring of mischievousness. He

smiled and laughed all the time and often took good care of Aphiwe, whom I

had grown to adore over the previous four months.

After the ward round, I stuck my head outside to see what it was that he was

up to. As I did, he was once again standing on the bench, popping his head up

to the window, taking a look around and then crouching down again. He still

had a big grin on his face and had obviously chosen a victim, probably one of

the sisters in the ward.

He had collected some sort of arsenal. There was an old can, filled with water, a

piece of string and a small rock all on the bench next to him.

I felt an arm wrap around my knee and looked down to find little Aphiwe using

me for support as he too watched in anticipation.

‘Dr Martin…’ I was being called to the ward for some reason and would have

to leave Aphiwe to support himself while I went back inside.

While chatting to one of the other doctors, whatever it was that Siphokazi had

been planning had come to fruition and we heard a clanging, then a yelling and

a charging out the door by a big, fat, irate sister who was now clearly on a

warpath to find Siphokazi.

And a Little Bit of That

80

I continued with my ward work, all the time wondering whether or not

Siphokazi had been found. Later that day, while walking to the clinic, I saw him

hiding behind a tree. He saw me too, and with his pointy little face, smiled, put

one finger over his lips and

mouthed ‘shhhh’. He knew

that I would never betray a

fellow soldier.

Unfortunately he had been

seen. The big fat sister had

snuck up behind him and

grabbed him around the

waist. He shrieked with

delight as if even getting

caught was part of his game and was carried off over her shoulder like a sack of

potatoes.

While being transported to get what he had coming, he turned his head toward

me and winked as if to say that it was all worth it. For a moment I felt

privileged, as if some special honour had been bestowed up me but then I

looked down to again find Aphiwe, the true recipient of the wink, standing at

knee height, again grinning and chuckling and I looked back up at Siphokazi

with admiration and understood his little game.

81

Old-Man Thomas

The doctors’ quarters of the Umtata General Hospital are found on the east

end of the premises and are surrounded by an ad-hoc arrangement of wild and

woolly gardens. The walls of the house are white with splatterings of green ivy

and the occasional orange of clay brick peeping though the eroding plaster.

I have a small room with a lofty ceiling and a tiny window with black burglar-

bars. My window looks down over the gardens and, from it, I can see the

winding path which leads through a thicket of trees and shrubs to the children’s

ward where I work.

I love standing at my window during a rampant hailstorm, watching the trees

flap about in the wind as if they were made of spaghetti and listening to the

angry hail beating against the corrugated iron roof. The sound is powerful and

makes me feel alive, putting me in the mood for running out into the storm and

squishing my bare feet in

the mud. I never do it of

course (run out into the

storm that is). I’m afraid

of lightning (it’s that

whole ‘dying is bad, living is

good’ rule, which I try to

apply to my decision-

making process in life).

I enjoy my walk to the

children’s ward in the mornings. The air is crisp and the wild grass grows knee

high on either side of the path. It has little yellow fluffy bits at the ends of each

green stalk. The early morning sun shines obliquely though the grass, which


82

becomes a fine mesh of bright green. Slithers of sunlight squeeze though the

blades, illuminating the clinging drops of dew and the little yellow fluffy bits

which light-up as if they had been plugged into an electric socket.

As I walk to the children’s ward, I pass the psychiatric ward and find myself

under a canopy of branches and leaves and twigs all knotted up and contorted

as if mother nature were having a bad hair day.

There are always a few psych patients standing around ready to say hello and

ask me if I can discharge them from the hospital. Despite their friendly

appearance, I’m always a little wary of psychiatric patients. Amongst them may

be some kind of psychotic murderer who has been eyeing out my jugular for

weeks. A man with no remorse and a lust for the macabre. This man is affected

by the moon and lurks in the shadows, watching me with his sunken eyes and a

barely noticeable twitch.

I emerge from the thicket at the

entrance to the tuberculosis ward

where I’m greeted by an assortment

of coughs and splutters. Old-Man

Thomas, who has been on TB

treatment ever since I arrived, is

sitting on his usual tree stump and

greets me with a toothless grin on his

gaunt and emaciated face. I smile back and listen for what I have dubbed ‘the

train station’ - the sound of TB patients coughing. When you have them in a

large group, it sounds a lot like a train. Just as one persons coughing fit begins

to subside another will explode into a coughing episode of his own - the net

result is a engine like pulsation.

Old Man Thomas

83

There are times when I am called out to see a child in the middle of the night.

The walk to the ward at night is cold and eerie. A dog wines in the distance and

then stops as if to sniff the air as it fills with the scent of my fear.

I make my way down the winding path by the blue-grey light of the moon as it

etches its way through the twigs and branches of the overhead canopy. The

branches and shadows all have edges and corners and fingers. The wind makes

a high pitched scream as it moves the trees and shadows, making them come to

life.

I swallow hard and press forward but all the while know that he - the psycho -

could be out there, watching me, waiting with a wanting glint in his sunken eyes

and his barely noticeable twitch. A thick contorted tree trunk could easily be a

man… Is that a branch or an arm? … Is that a knife or a reflection of

moonlight on a leaf?... Was that a scream I heard or, or what… God, what was

that… ?

Then a cough, I’m sure that was the sound of a man coughing. I turned the

corner, the unmistakable white of a man’s eyes, wide and ready. My muscles

tense up, I can run but I freeze.

Then another cough, and a splutter, and a cough... Thank God, its Old-Man

Thomas. What a relief.

A brisk stride to the ward to find out what was happening at two in the

morning and then a quick sprint back to the safety of my burglar-barred room.

84

Georgio and Ayanda

Paediatrics is over now and I’ve just started my surgical rotation. I’ll be in

orthopaedics for a short while and then move over to general surgery until the

end of April.

The orthopaedics department is pretty laid back and everyone seems to enjoy

what they do. On my first day I was introduced to Georgio, an Italian doctor

with a personality which makes even Bill Cosby seem a little dull.

‘Me, I’m Georgio,’ he introduced himself with a broad Italian accent while

pinching my cheek as if to check that I was real. ‘Come, we do ward round,

yes?’ The pinch turned into a playful slap, he cocked his head to the side twice

with a snap-like movement that made his thick knot of red-brown hair bob with

the movement and beckoned me to follow him into the ward.

He was in charge of the paraplegic ward. What would ordinarily be a

depressing, gloomy place, was instantaneously transformed into a sea of smiles

and laughter as Georgio swung the doors open and bounded in.

‘Good morning, everybody,’ loud and flamboyant and overwhelmingly present.

He walks straight up to the first bed. The patient is almost entirely one big

plaster cast - a motor vehicle accident victim.

‘And so, are you walking yet?’ We all laugh at the ridiculousness of the

question.

The poor man has both legs in traction. He also had the misfortune of having

the soles of his feet exposed. Georgio’s natural instinct was, of course, to begin

to tickle this helpless man’s feet causing untold distress to the poor patient but

endless entertainment for the rest of his audience.

Georgio and Ayanda

85

From there, he seemed to randomly pick out patients whom he would see,

mostly to perform important medical procedure like flicking them on the

adam’s-apple and making comments about their future careers as long distance

athletes.

He teased and winked and flicked and laughed and was loved by all and knew it

well and loved the fact.

All of a sudden he stopped, placed one finger in the air as if he had just made

some groundbreaking discovery, which he was about to announce to the world,

‘I need a smoke,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for air, yes?’

As he got to the door he turned to the ward and with a fake cross face and his

best Arnold – I am the terminator – voice said, ‘I’ll be back – so don’t any of

you even think of making an escape.’ The room was filled with laugher as I

follow the piper like a child.

Our smoke break turned into a festival of hugs and kissed directed at anyone

whom he had not seen for a period of longer than an hour.

We finished the ward round and went to the clinic to attend to the outpatients.

There I met big, fat, smiley sister Ayanda, who can best be described as the

African female counterpart of Georgio. What are the chances of the two most

flamboyant people in the world working in the same department in a rural

hospital in the middle of Africa?

Ayanda decided to give me a hand in the clinic and act as my assistant and

translator. As I did my level best to interview the patient with my broken

Xhosa, she would unashamedly bounce about the room with mocking laughter.

She had a deep hearty laugh, the kind that was (at my expense) quite contagious.

She would then explain to the patient what it was that I was trying to say and

relay a message back to me from the patient.


86

Her translation would invariably be accompanied with a host of actions to the

amusement of both the patient and myself.

She would for example never simply relay the message that Mr Nglovo had

hurt his back while lifting a heavy object. Instead, she would do a big song and

dance and charade act, pretending to lift some imaginary heavy object, cry out in

imaginary pain and then hobble around the room for a few moments as if she

was really hurt. Her act would be complete with sound effects, facial

expressions and a convincing sense of self-pity.

Georgio’s head would pop in through the door occasionally, as if to make

absolutely sure that he had not been upstages in anyway.

Between Ayanda and Georgio, a day in orthopaedics turned into a day of

entertainment for which I would have gladly paid good money.

87

Meet Mavis Most of my surgical patients can speak English at about the level of my Xhosa.

That is to say, not very well at all. We get by, though, with the help of the

nursing staff who are always willing to translate back and forth.

It often looks a little like this:

Dr Martin: ‘How many children do you have?’

Nurse translating: ‘bla bla CLICK bla di bla bla bla?’

Patient: ‘CLICK bla di bla bla CLICK CLICKidy CLICK.’

Nurse: ‘BLA BLA BLA BLA?’

Patient: ‘BLA bla tralala.’

Patient/nurse/patient/nurse: ‘bla blab la click click click…’

Nurse, turning to me: ‘Two.’

For all I know, they might have just had a quick discussion about the weather

and local politics. At the end of the day, however, the job gets done and I seem

to extract the information that I’m looking for.

It’s always a delight to find a patient who can speak English perfectly. Mavis

Ndlovu is one such patient. Not only does she have an sound command of the

English language, but with this, she has a extraordinary sense of humour and

the thunderous laugh of a highlander Scotsman.

When she’s not laughing out loud, she seems to have an underlying twinkle in

her eye, as if she is about to chuckle at something silly that she’s just seen. She’s

a breath of fresh air and her smiles and jokes and laughter make ward ‘A’ a

really pleasant place to work.


88

Her forehead is short and her wide face is made even wider by her frog-like

smile. Her chubby cheeks, dumbo ears and electrocuted hair make her look a

little like those cute baby trolls from the gummy bear cartoon.

And then there are her eyebrows - when she listens to you talking, she fixes her

eyes attentively on yours, her eyebrows moving up and down in response to

your every word, always able to indicate surprise, sympathy or delight.

‘Any problems today, Mavis?’ my standard ward round question.

‘Oh yes, Dr Martin, if you must know. I’ve made a list,’ she said with a wink.

‘Is that a fact? Well I promise to fix everything. That is what I’m paid for after

all.’

‘The first is that I need more morphine,’ she smiled.

‘Having trouble with pain again?’ I asked.

‘Oh no, not for the pain,

God no. It’s for that lovely

feeling it gives me. I think

everyone should have some at

least twice daily. Have you

had any today, Dr Martin?

You really should you know.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. And

the rest of your problems?

You said there was a list.’

‘That’s right, number two on the list is poverty in Africa. Can you fix that for

me too please?’

Meet Mavis

89

‘Not before lunch, I’m afraid. That’ll have to wait for this afternoon I think,

and let me see, oh that’s right, today's my afternoon off, sorry Africa.’ I said

with my pretend serious voice.

‘Oh, you heartless beast. I think I’m going to reserve my list for a doctor who

cares, or have those been invented yet?’

‘You’ll change your mind about me when you see how much morphine I’m

going to give you, my dear,’ I said as I returned her morning wink.

For someone as sick as she is, Mavis is incredibly removed from her own

predicament and always inquires after the health of her fellow patients. She is

just one of those people who was born with a kind heart.

I had to break the news to her the other day - the fact that the cancer had

spread and was now incurable. She understood. I mean really understood, and

was deeply sad.

Here is a woman who has a real love affair with life. She seems like few people

I’ve ever met - able to find amusement, joy and inspiration in all the little day-

to-day stuff that the rest of us just put up with. She completely enjoys being

alive. The news of its imminent end slapped her coldly in the face.

‘Today I think I’ll just lie here Dr Martin. I think you should do the ward work

for a change. I’ll co-ordinate things from my bed, okay?’ she joked, but her eyes

were lowered and her eyebrows pulled inward and I saw a solitary tear slip out

from the corner of her eye. I really wish that things could be different.

90

More Mavis

Nothing like starting the day off with an early morning run. My alarm was set

for five thirty. Somehow my internal clock was on standby and seconds before

the alarm went off, I was awake and read for it.

It started with what it (the clock) thought would be an annoying beep, beep; my

brain however chuckled at its feeble attempt to shock me.

I sprang out of bed like a cat out of a cold stream, bopped my head from side

to side once or twice and found my running shorts.

Outside, the air was still and fresh and filled with the smell of dewy grass. The

sun was about to rise and Umtata was quiet. I stood there, took two deep

breaths like a racing car revving up before a race and started a slow rhythmic jog

through the garden toward the gate. These morning runs are a good time to

clear the head and think about the coming day.

The sky seems so high and the distant Drakensburg mountains look like

crumpled tin-foil as the first rays of sunlight kiss the shinny granite.

I got back to doctors’ quarters, out of breath but feeling very alive. Ready for

the day. Invincible.

I undressed, wrapped a towel around my waist, grabbed my shampoo and soap

and headed for the showers. I turned on the hot water tap and let it run for a

while. It always took a minute or two for the hot water to get through the long

cold pipes. While the water was still cold, I cupped my hands and filled them

with ice-cold water, which I splashed against my face. Man, I felt alive.

Now I would wait for the water to warm up, take a long, hot shower and head

off for a great day at work. Or so I thought.

I waited… and waited…hmmm…and waited! No hot water today! NOOOO!!!!

More Mavis

91

Okay, a cold shower, how bad could it be, after all, I was about as tough as they

came, right?

Wrong!

I jumped in, under the icy cold water, my body convulsed and contorted with

disapproval as if being shocked by high voltage electricity. Breathless and

annoyed I quickly soaped and shampooed myself, rinsed off and got the hell out

of there.

Things were bad. What the hell was I doing in this godforsaken place anyway?

Work would surely be hell. They’d probably put me on call too. I hate surgery. I

hate my car. I really hate taking a cold painful shave. Stop the world, I think I

want to get off.

I got to work in a bad mood. ‘Don’t piss me off – okay!’ was the sign on my

forehead. Sure enough, I was on call. Damn!

I started the ward round wondering if it was too late to call in sick. I could say

that I had caught a rare form of pneumonia and would be off for, oh let's say,

the next ten or twelve

years.

The day, however,

brightened when I got

to the bed of good old

Mavis. Her grey/white

hair was sticking out in

all directions as if she’d

been shocked by the

same guy who got me

in the shower. She looked like the African female version of Albert Einstein in

his later years. She greeted me with a familiar smile.


92

‘So how are we this morning Dr Martin. What can I do for you today?’

‘Oh I have a list Mavis, if you have the time. We could start with hot water in

doctors’ quarters and then, when you’ve sorted that out, how about you deal

with that poverty in Africa thing?’

‘You know that I would of course. It’s just that I’m a cold-hearted monster,

you understand. But I can recommend morphine. How about it, let’s just do a

quick 10mg? I’ll share some of mine with you.’

However tempted, I declined the morphine and accepted her warmth. The day

suddenly seemed a little more tolerable and my problems, next to hers, seemed

trivial.

I was reminded of how much life I had left, of the fact that for me there would

always be morning runs and sunny days and, if all else failed, there would always

be a quick 10mg of morphine. Mavis was good medicine for me. I always keep

10mg worth of memory of her wherever I go nowadays.

93

Samuel Samuel It’s four in the morning. I’m in the process of stitching up some guy’s head.

Heaven knows why he pitched up at this time of the night; this wound is a few

days old now and has bits of grass and gravel stuck in the dry blood, which is

now black and hard and craggy.

It’s a big gash on the side of his head, not a nice clean wound mad e by a knife

or a panga, but rather a jagged crack. He has probably been hit on the head with

a knobkerrie, which split it open like a watermelon. If you squint your eyes, you

can imagine that you’re looking at an aerial view of the Umtata landscape - a

long squiggly river with twiggy tributaries branching off the sides.

The first thing to do is to get it cleaned up. A little pungent Savlon on some

gauze and some hard rubbing to get rid of all this dried up blood.

His face is old and

wrinkled, his sparse grey

hair brushed backward

and his eyes are little

horizontal slits in his

face. His chubby cheeks

are pulled backward and

upward as he smiles and,

as he looks up at me, the

skin between his chin and his neck is stretched making him look like an old

turtle. His voice is that of an old man, hoarse and frail.

He winces slightly; his wrinkles become furrows as his face pulls in ever so

slightly at the sting of the Savlon. I apologize for hurting him and explain that I


94

have to do this; he doesn’t understand a word of my Xhosa, but with an

understanding smile he gives me the go ahead.

I shave the hair surrounding the wound and then inject 2% Lignocaine to

anaesthetize the skin. Now I debride the wound; using a scalpel I cut away the

dead tissue, jagged edges and dried blood and make it into a nice fresh bleeding

wound.

Before stitching I need to check that the skull is not fractured, and as we have

no x-rays available at the moment, I stick my gloved finger into the wound and

feel the bone - all clear. It’s now time to suture.

The wound begins to bleed profusely and before long there is a steady trickle

of blood flowing down the side of his temple, past his left eye and over his

cheek. It begins to drip off his chin.

I use a the forceps-with-teeth to hold a flap of skin while I poke a suture

through it. Then the same suture through the skin flap on the other side. The

blood around the wound is beginning to clot and has becomes a sticky gooey

mess. I hold the two ends of the nylon in my hands and tie and nice neat

surgical knot and pull it to the side of the wound. The two flaps of skin appose

neatly; I smile to myself and think, ‘poetry’.

The trickle of blood running down the side of his face has become a small

torrent. I can see its origin is a pulsatile spring - I must have nicked an artery

while debriding the wound.

The blood dripping from his chin collects in a pool on a fold of green linen-

saver paper which the nurse has put around his shoulders and body to protect

his clothes.

Another suture, more poetry. The pool of blood collecting in the fold of the

green linen-saver deepens and begins to flow over the edge and down the

furrow of another fold, just outside of my field of vision. The old man tries to

Samuel Samuel

95

tell me something, but at this stage I’m not really interested and just want to

finish the job at hand.

I begin to wonder where this old man comes from. He might have travel for a

day or two to get to me

* * *

He is injured. He leaves his little mud hut on the side of a green mountain and

walks all morning to get to his local clinic. There, he waits for the better part of

the afternoon to see one of the community nurses who explains that he’ll have

to go to the hospital in Umatat. Unfortunately the transport has just left and

he’ll have to stay in the clinic overnight and wait for the daily ambulance to pick

him up in the morning.

He does so, wondering if his goats and sheep will be stolen in his absence. He

wakes up the next day to find that he’ll have to wait until four o’clock that

afternoon for the transport.

He figures that he’s come this far, he might as well wait, but wonders if he’ll be

given any food while he waits. He isn’t.

Eventually the ambulance arrives at five and packs him in with three other very

sick looking people. It’s a three hour drive to the hospital and by eight o’clock

he finds himself in a long line of patients, most of whom have been waiting

since before lunch time that day to see the doctor.

He is tired and hungry and on an uncomfortable bench. Without noticing it

happen, he falls asleep and loses his place in the line.

At four in the morning, he wakes up; it takes him a few seconds to remember

where he is. All the other patients have been seen and the place is quiet.

He stands up, looks around and sees a nurse sleeping at a desk. He decides to

wake her and asks if there is a doctor who can see him now. She shouts at him


96

and asks him if he has a brain in his head and wants to know who he thinks he

is, waking her up like that in the middle of the night.

He is in the middle of an apology when a young looking doctor walks in,

dressed in green and looking tired and dishevelled.

The nurse indicates that he should take a seat. She places a green paper gown

over his clothes. The doctor begins to rub some sharp smelling yellow stuff all

over his wound. It stings like a snakebite. The doctor tries to say something. It

doesn’t make much sense but seems to be an apology for having used the

yellow stuff. The old man smiles as if to say that he understands.

He feels an injection and then a dull aching pain as the doctor pokes his finger

under the flap of his wound. He can feel a trickle of blood running down the

side of his face and dripping off his chin. It is collecting in a little pool on a fold

of the green paper just below his chin. The pool fills and then overflows and

continues to run down the folds of paper.

He has a clear view of where the blood is running as it makes it’s way down the

folds of paper. He notices that it is about to start dripping into the side of the

doctor’s shoe. He tries to warn the doctor. The doctor seems quite disinterested

in the warning and continues with the job at hand. The blood drips into the side

of the doctor’s shoe. The doctor seems quite upset by this.

* * *

Fresh blood is warm and sticky. If you ever get it in your shoe, you’ll know that

it’s blood because of the convulsion your body goes into when you foot realizes

that it has been inundated with foreign blood and sends a strong and

unambiguous message to your brain, telling it that this is indeed the grossest

thing that has ever happened to you in your entire life.

Samuel Samuel

97

I take my shoe and sock off, clean my foot and continue to suture the guy’s

head, all the time wondering if they could ever pay me enough money to make

this job worthwhile.

When I am finished suturing, the old man looks me in the eye and with the

sincerity and dignity which seems to have been lost in my generation he said,

‘Ndiyabonga, Baba. Thank you Sir.’ He bows his head in gratitude. ‘Samuel

Samuel’ he smiles and touches his hand to his chest. ‘Greg Martin,’ I reply and

smile back. This kind of payment makes my job more than worthwhile. I feel

privileged to have met men like Samuel Samuel.

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A little bit of this and a little bit of that: An update

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