thing, and plucked out a few choice poppies for me.
Why weren’t they coming in? Why weren’t they telling me what was going on?
My mind tripped back to the horror videos I’d watched in my youth. All of the awful things they could do to you even in a hospital as professional-looking as this. I’d seen films about people being kidnapped for their organs. Some spooky surgeon would just cut out people’s hearts without anaesthetic, on beds just like this one, and stick them in the chest of some rich guy that just had to carry on living. I’d seen films about body-snatchers lurking through wards. I’d seen films about… Oh why was I choosing to concentrate on thoughts like that?
I suppose it is part and parcel of bullying that the bullied develops this all-encompassing fear of everything. And in the end, they end up torturing themselves almost as badly as the torment which has been dished out by the bully. Tommy Peaker – whisper the name – hadn’t needed to warn me that he would watch me. Some part of him was already inside me, meddling with the wiring of my brain.
And with that thought, I suppose I screamed again. And this time, as I watched through the glass, a figure appeared. And this time, the figure at the door passed an access badge along a reader. Heavy locks clicked back. The figure ran a hand through his hair, paused for a moment as though composing his thoughts, and then stepped into my cell.
‘I’m, uh, sorry, Lance Corporal Bull,’ he began, absently looking around the room for something; refusing to meet my wild eyes. ‘I’m sorry we kept you waiting, only… Only I’m only just back from trying to scrape two of our own boys off a dirt track. These road-side bombs… Simply terrible.’
I grunted by way of response.
‘Don’t know if you remember me from yesterday, son,’ he continued. ‘I’m Dr. Montaffian and I’m apparently scheduled in to treat you today.’
Treatment? What were they planning to do to me? I studied his face carefully for any signs of what was to come. Dr. Montaffian was a grim-faced little Yankee with salt and pepper grey hair, a goatee beard and a big tattoo on his right arm. He didn’t look like a doctor. He didn’t sound like a doctor either. As he reached over to the foot of the bed and picked up a flip-chart which obviously contained my observation records, he began whistling that old Prince number, ‘Purple Rain’.
If my foot was working properly, I’d have leaped off the bed and clocked him one. He could have at least shown me some respect, no matter that I wasn’t one of ‘his boys’. Instead, I concentrated on staring at him; hoping that my eyes would burn a hole in him. I watched him flip through a couple of pages before he abruptly stopped whistling. Now he started this annoying tutting, occasionally nodding his head, all the while stroking his stupid goatee beard. For some reason, I kept wondering why he was allowed to have a beard, being a doctor. Surely it was some kind of hygiene-risk. And all the time he was reading, I longed for him to start whistling again, because that would mean that I was all right, wouldn’t it? That would mean that it was nothing serious…
Suddenly, he slapped the clip-board against the metal rung at the bottom of the bed and looked me full in the face for the first time as though only now remembering that I was still in the room.
‘Where am I?’ I gasped.
‘You don’t remember our conversation yesterday then?’
‘Clearly I don’t or else I wouldn’t have fucking asked,’ I seethed.
Dr. Montaffian strolled around the side of my bed, bumped one of the machines away with his thigh, and promptly took a seat, almost crushing my arm.
‘Perfectly understandable that you’re a little… wired,’ he said in a new, softer voice. His face didn’t look so grim any more now either. ‘From what the nurses said, you had a rough night. But they checked on you round the clock.’
‘Stuck their heads through
Why weren’t they coming in? Why weren’t they telling me what was going on?
My mind tripped back to the horror videos I’d watched in my youth. All of the awful things they could do to you even in a hospital as professional-looking as this. I’d seen films about people being kidnapped for their organs. Some spooky surgeon would just cut out people’s hearts without anaesthetic, on beds just like this one, and stick them in the chest of some rich guy that just had to carry on living. I’d seen films about body-snatchers lurking through wards. I’d seen films about… Oh why was I choosing to concentrate on thoughts like that?
I suppose it is part and parcel of bullying that the bullied develops this all-encompassing fear of everything. And in the end, they end up torturing themselves almost as badly as the torment which has been dished out by the bully. Tommy Peaker – whisper the name – hadn’t needed to warn me that he would watch me. Some part of him was already inside me, meddling with the wiring of my brain.
And with that thought, I suppose I screamed again. And this time, as I watched through the glass, a figure appeared. And this time, the figure at the door passed an access badge along a reader. Heavy locks clicked back. The figure ran a hand through his hair, paused for a moment as though composing his thoughts, and then stepped into my cell.
‘I’m, uh, sorry, Lance Corporal Bull,’ he began, absently looking around the room for something; refusing to meet my wild eyes. ‘I’m sorry we kept you waiting, only… Only I’m only just back from trying to scrape two of our own boys off a dirt track. These road-side bombs… Simply terrible.’
I grunted by way of response.
‘Don’t know if you remember me from yesterday, son,’ he continued. ‘I’m Dr. Montaffian and I’m apparently scheduled in to treat you today.’
Treatment? What were they planning to do to me? I studied his face carefully for any signs of what was to come. Dr. Montaffian was a grim-faced little Yankee with salt and pepper grey hair, a goatee beard and a big tattoo on his right arm. He didn’t look like a doctor. He didn’t sound like a doctor either. As he reached over to the foot of the bed and picked up a flip-chart which obviously contained my observation records, he began whistling that old Prince number, ‘Purple Rain’.
If my foot was working properly, I’d have leaped off the bed and clocked him one. He could have at least shown me some respect, no matter that I wasn’t one of ‘his boys’. Instead, I concentrated on staring at him; hoping that my eyes would burn a hole in him. I watched him flip through a couple of pages before he abruptly stopped whistling. Now he started this annoying tutting, occasionally nodding his head, all the while stroking his stupid goatee beard. For some reason, I kept wondering why he was allowed to have a beard, being a doctor. Surely it was some kind of hygiene-risk. And all the time he was reading, I longed for him to start whistling again, because that would mean that I was all right, wouldn’t it? That would mean that it was nothing serious…
Suddenly, he slapped the clip-board against the metal rung at the bottom of the bed and looked me full in the face for the first time as though only now remembering that I was still in the room.
‘Where am I?’ I gasped.
‘You don’t remember our conversation yesterday then?’
‘Clearly I don’t or else I wouldn’t have fucking asked,’ I seethed.
Dr. Montaffian strolled around the side of my bed, bumped one of the machines away with his thigh, and promptly took a seat, almost crushing my arm.
‘Perfectly understandable that you’re a little… wired,’ he said in a new, softer voice. His face didn’t look so grim any more now either. ‘From what the nurses said, you had a rough night. But they checked on you round the clock.’
‘Stuck their heads through
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