smerdyakov
01-06-2012, 02:17 AM
The lift in the block of flats wasn’t working again so Peter had to walk down seven flights of concrete steps which smelled of piss. He started to wake up a bit once the cold air touched his face. The sky was still dark, and there was a holy silence. All the shutters were down on the shops and the only living things to be seen were murderous looking crows who charged about the place, tilting their heads slightly as he walked past them. Litter was strewn around the road, and every now and then it would move about in a sort of disorganized ballet as gusts of wind blew. It was a funny looking sight, and normally would have amused him, but he just so bloody tired he couldn’t laugh. The baby kept him awake most of the night.
Should’ve worn another pair of socks, he mumbled, as he stood waiting for the bus. The zip on his jacket was broken as well, so he had to cross his hands inside the pockets to keep it tight against him. He struggled to keep awake on the bus and kept nodding off, waking up abruptly every ten or fifteen seconds when the bus hit a bump in the road. There was no traffic around so the driver drove quite fast. He thought how he’d like the bus to crash; then he could ring in and tell work he had been involved in an accident. Not a big crash. He imagined himself maybe getting thrown forward and banging his knee against the seat in front, but not so it was too sore or anything. Then he would just walk off and go home to bed.
The bus journey wasn’t long and he was at least ten minutes early when he got off at his stop. As he turned into the industrial estate a big dog started barking at him from behind one of the factory railings. A brute of an Alsatian. It was an evil looking thing as well, jet black fur and all teeth. If the railings weren’t there the dog would have jumped up and bit his throat, he was certain it would have. Bloody guard dogs, vicious bastards they were. It made him think of the big dog he had that attacked him when he was a child. Twenty seven stitches on his face he had to get. And another forty two stitches on his arm and hand. It was the dog his Dad bought him for his eleventh birthday. The dog attacked him a few months later, around the time his Dad left home. He was just sitting there playing with it, playing tug o war; then the dog went crazy and started tearing into him. His Ma couldn’t get the thing off him. She ran into the kitchen and got a knife then stabbed the dog in the eye or something; then the neighbor came in and killed it with a hammer. Shark face, the kids in school used to call him. The jaggy scar ran down the left side of his face curling into an L shape under his chin. On cold mornings it looked much more noticeable.
The factory he worked in was down the end of the estate. They manufactured tablets, pharmacy drugs. It was a huge site and part of one of the biggest drug companies in the world. It was by far and away the biggest factory on the estate. Every kind of tablet was produced there: anti depressants, anti inflammatorys, beta blockers, benzodiazepines, sleeping tablets weight loss tablets, weight gain tablets…and then you had the different types of tablets: coated, layered, lozenge, chewable, implant, soluble, sub lingual (ones that went under your tongue-for people who can’t swallow) well, you get the idea. He worked on a big plant floor which was part of a sterile underground maze like structure, and he wore protective clothing and a mask and ear plugs, and poured chemicals into compressor machines that made the tablets. The machines made these whirring noises and just spat tablets out all day, millions of the things. They were then put into containers, packaged, and transported all over the world. The shifts were ten hours long, sometimes twelve when he had to do overtime.
One of the lads who were on Peter’s shift was outside having a smoke. Peter nodded to him. There was no point in saying hello because the guy never spoke to anyone. When Peter first started working there, he figured the guy just didn’t like him, but soon enough he realized there was something wrong with the guy, because he was like that with everyone.
Peter swiped his badge and nipped into the canteen to get some hot tea. A few of the other lads were sitting around a table so he went over and joined them. Most of the guys were okay. They were nothing special. Beyond certain topics he couldn’t have a conversation with them. But it was so long since he had conversations outside these topics, Peter would be probably be stuck for words himself. There was one lad who worked there though, Robert, the security guard. Peter spoke with him now and again, and he always left a pleasant impression, a lingering impression. He was around the same age as Peter, mid twenties.
“Did you see the match last night?” one of the lads asked him. The strip lights high above their heads made a funny crackling sound.
“Nah, missed it.” He hadn’t much interest in the football lately. Since his Dad was sick, Peter didn’t have as much spare time. None of the family bothered going to see him in the hospital, just Peter. He didn’t care to tell the guys in work that his Dad was dying of lung cancer. What do you say to someone who tells you anyway? No point, he figured.
“Do any of youse know what’s happening with the union’s case?” Peter asked, taking a big mouthful of tea and getting up from his chair.
“They lost. The pay cut is goin ahead,” one of the lads said.
For a second or two Peter felt like going into a fervent diatribe on the pig ethics of companies and governments in general but he checked himself, thinking: what was the point?
The day ticked along slowly and six o’clock came around like a benediction; the only thing Peter felt like doing was going home to bed, but he had to go over and see his Dad.
By the time he reached the hospital the rain eased off. As he came up the steps, the man behind the desk nodded to him.
The ward was on the second floor and had four beds in it, but only one of them was occupied tonight. Whenever he came over in the evening the place was silent as a graveyard.
A solitary nurse shuffled around, poking her head in the wards every now and then. Peter supposed there must be other doctors and nurses on duty, but he didn’t see them. He smelled the usual sterile hospital smell, comingled with the scent of dead flowers.
His father's gaunt face was illuminated by the lamp beside his bed. The skin looked like an off colour parchment drawn over the skull. Tubes ran into him from drips and machines, making feint bleeping sounds in tandem with his heavy breathing. If Peter didn’t know his Dad was sixty, he might have guessed that he was eighty just looking at him. There was one tube, which was half an inch thick in diameter, going into his ribcage to drain fluid from the lung.
"Da." Peter put his hand on his Dad's arm. The skin was yellow and sagging and the arm felt soft. His Dad reached up and pulled the oxygen mask down.
"You came, son." A thin smile broke across his lips.
“I told you I was coming.”
The doctors told Peter that his father was due to die any day soon, certainly within the next week. Advanced stage four they said. It was amazing how the doctors could pinpoint it. They could work it out by the rate of mitosis in the body. It would be a pulmonary embolism or a stroke that would kill him. That's what the doctors told him. DNR was written on the chart at the bottom of the bed: Do Not Resuscitate.
His Dad tried to sit up a bit in the bed. He must have weighed about seven stones. For a man six feet tall, it was pitiful to look at. Peter always remembered his Dad as a big bull of a man. Strong as an ox he used to be.
"So, how are United doing, son, top of the league, are they?" he whispered in a hoarse voice.
“United? Don’t know.”
The cardiogram made funny shapes as his Dad shifted in the bed.
"I've been here three weeks and you're the only one who's come to see me. Doesn't say much for me, does it? Did you see James and Carol?" his Dad asked, looking apprehensive.
Peter talked to his brother and sister again, telling them Dad was critical, that he hadn't much time left. They already knew anyway; they were told the same as Peter was. But they didn't want to know. They didn't want anything to do with their father, just like he didn't want anything to do with them when they were growing up. That’s what they said. His brother and sister had their own families now, and Peter only saw them very rarely himself. When Peter did see them, it wasn’t long until repressed antagonisms began to surface, and he usually got away as soon as the moment presented itself.
"No.” Peter answered. His Dad’s wan face screwed into an expression of disappointment, and he sighed ruefully.
"That little nurse is a fine bit of stuff isn't she?" his laughter turned into a hacking cough as he said this. The old man put a fist up to his mouth, holding out his other hand as if to apologize. His face went very red. When he took his hand away from his mouth there was blood on it.
Peter looked at him with a blank expression. There were many things he wanted to say, but he found it hard to begin.
“I’d say she’s a gamey little thing as well,” his Dad continued. The old man’s voice was barely audible, and Peter had to put his head down beside his mouth to hear him. “Yer auld Ma, God rest her, should have went into the convents. I swear, that woman didn’t even know what a blowjob was,” his Dad broke into a fit of simultaneous laughter and coughing. He waved his hand. “Ye see, I didn’t want kids, son. Didn’t want any of ye. But I learned to love ye. I did. There’s two types of people: those who just love, instinct, yeah, like yer auld Ma did, and those that have to learn to love. You’ll find that out yourself. Now, son, listen. See this”—the old man felt down one of the tubes then held the morphine button up and turned it around—“this is no use. I want you to put that pillow over me face. Go on, son. I won’t be up der”—the old man pointed up to the ceiling and then pointed down—“but if you act the boll*x, I might see ye down der,” the old man smiled, and then coughed up blood. Peter reached across …
“Son…“
Peter remembered when his mother was alive how she and his Dad would argue late at night. It was usually after he came home with drink on him. Peter would sit at the top of the stairs listening. He used to feel like going down and hitting his Dad, so he would stop beating his Mam. But he was too small to do anything. And he was too frightened. He had other memories of his Dad too. Good memories of when he would bring him off for spins in the car, out to the beach, or up to the park to collect chestnuts in September, when school had started again after the summer holidays. They would collect big bagfuls of chestnuts. Shopping bags full of the things. Most of them would be on the ground, near the trees where they fell from. Peter preferred the ones up in the trees though. He used to like throwing a stick up and knocking them out of the tree. It was much better fun than just picking the ones up off the ground. He loved opening the green spiky things, the burrs, and finding a big shiny horse chestnut inside. It was magic…
Peter pressed the pillow down on his Dad’s face. The noise grew more insistent, finally culminating in a single uninterrupted bleep. He looked over his shoulder towards the door, then sniffled and wiped his face. Nobody was there. He put the pillow back under the old man’s head, walked down the stairs, and out into the lashing rain.
Should’ve worn another pair of socks, he mumbled, as he stood waiting for the bus. The zip on his jacket was broken as well, so he had to cross his hands inside the pockets to keep it tight against him. He struggled to keep awake on the bus and kept nodding off, waking up abruptly every ten or fifteen seconds when the bus hit a bump in the road. There was no traffic around so the driver drove quite fast. He thought how he’d like the bus to crash; then he could ring in and tell work he had been involved in an accident. Not a big crash. He imagined himself maybe getting thrown forward and banging his knee against the seat in front, but not so it was too sore or anything. Then he would just walk off and go home to bed.
The bus journey wasn’t long and he was at least ten minutes early when he got off at his stop. As he turned into the industrial estate a big dog started barking at him from behind one of the factory railings. A brute of an Alsatian. It was an evil looking thing as well, jet black fur and all teeth. If the railings weren’t there the dog would have jumped up and bit his throat, he was certain it would have. Bloody guard dogs, vicious bastards they were. It made him think of the big dog he had that attacked him when he was a child. Twenty seven stitches on his face he had to get. And another forty two stitches on his arm and hand. It was the dog his Dad bought him for his eleventh birthday. The dog attacked him a few months later, around the time his Dad left home. He was just sitting there playing with it, playing tug o war; then the dog went crazy and started tearing into him. His Ma couldn’t get the thing off him. She ran into the kitchen and got a knife then stabbed the dog in the eye or something; then the neighbor came in and killed it with a hammer. Shark face, the kids in school used to call him. The jaggy scar ran down the left side of his face curling into an L shape under his chin. On cold mornings it looked much more noticeable.
The factory he worked in was down the end of the estate. They manufactured tablets, pharmacy drugs. It was a huge site and part of one of the biggest drug companies in the world. It was by far and away the biggest factory on the estate. Every kind of tablet was produced there: anti depressants, anti inflammatorys, beta blockers, benzodiazepines, sleeping tablets weight loss tablets, weight gain tablets…and then you had the different types of tablets: coated, layered, lozenge, chewable, implant, soluble, sub lingual (ones that went under your tongue-for people who can’t swallow) well, you get the idea. He worked on a big plant floor which was part of a sterile underground maze like structure, and he wore protective clothing and a mask and ear plugs, and poured chemicals into compressor machines that made the tablets. The machines made these whirring noises and just spat tablets out all day, millions of the things. They were then put into containers, packaged, and transported all over the world. The shifts were ten hours long, sometimes twelve when he had to do overtime.
One of the lads who were on Peter’s shift was outside having a smoke. Peter nodded to him. There was no point in saying hello because the guy never spoke to anyone. When Peter first started working there, he figured the guy just didn’t like him, but soon enough he realized there was something wrong with the guy, because he was like that with everyone.
Peter swiped his badge and nipped into the canteen to get some hot tea. A few of the other lads were sitting around a table so he went over and joined them. Most of the guys were okay. They were nothing special. Beyond certain topics he couldn’t have a conversation with them. But it was so long since he had conversations outside these topics, Peter would be probably be stuck for words himself. There was one lad who worked there though, Robert, the security guard. Peter spoke with him now and again, and he always left a pleasant impression, a lingering impression. He was around the same age as Peter, mid twenties.
“Did you see the match last night?” one of the lads asked him. The strip lights high above their heads made a funny crackling sound.
“Nah, missed it.” He hadn’t much interest in the football lately. Since his Dad was sick, Peter didn’t have as much spare time. None of the family bothered going to see him in the hospital, just Peter. He didn’t care to tell the guys in work that his Dad was dying of lung cancer. What do you say to someone who tells you anyway? No point, he figured.
“Do any of youse know what’s happening with the union’s case?” Peter asked, taking a big mouthful of tea and getting up from his chair.
“They lost. The pay cut is goin ahead,” one of the lads said.
For a second or two Peter felt like going into a fervent diatribe on the pig ethics of companies and governments in general but he checked himself, thinking: what was the point?
The day ticked along slowly and six o’clock came around like a benediction; the only thing Peter felt like doing was going home to bed, but he had to go over and see his Dad.
By the time he reached the hospital the rain eased off. As he came up the steps, the man behind the desk nodded to him.
The ward was on the second floor and had four beds in it, but only one of them was occupied tonight. Whenever he came over in the evening the place was silent as a graveyard.
A solitary nurse shuffled around, poking her head in the wards every now and then. Peter supposed there must be other doctors and nurses on duty, but he didn’t see them. He smelled the usual sterile hospital smell, comingled with the scent of dead flowers.
His father's gaunt face was illuminated by the lamp beside his bed. The skin looked like an off colour parchment drawn over the skull. Tubes ran into him from drips and machines, making feint bleeping sounds in tandem with his heavy breathing. If Peter didn’t know his Dad was sixty, he might have guessed that he was eighty just looking at him. There was one tube, which was half an inch thick in diameter, going into his ribcage to drain fluid from the lung.
"Da." Peter put his hand on his Dad's arm. The skin was yellow and sagging and the arm felt soft. His Dad reached up and pulled the oxygen mask down.
"You came, son." A thin smile broke across his lips.
“I told you I was coming.”
The doctors told Peter that his father was due to die any day soon, certainly within the next week. Advanced stage four they said. It was amazing how the doctors could pinpoint it. They could work it out by the rate of mitosis in the body. It would be a pulmonary embolism or a stroke that would kill him. That's what the doctors told him. DNR was written on the chart at the bottom of the bed: Do Not Resuscitate.
His Dad tried to sit up a bit in the bed. He must have weighed about seven stones. For a man six feet tall, it was pitiful to look at. Peter always remembered his Dad as a big bull of a man. Strong as an ox he used to be.
"So, how are United doing, son, top of the league, are they?" he whispered in a hoarse voice.
“United? Don’t know.”
The cardiogram made funny shapes as his Dad shifted in the bed.
"I've been here three weeks and you're the only one who's come to see me. Doesn't say much for me, does it? Did you see James and Carol?" his Dad asked, looking apprehensive.
Peter talked to his brother and sister again, telling them Dad was critical, that he hadn't much time left. They already knew anyway; they were told the same as Peter was. But they didn't want to know. They didn't want anything to do with their father, just like he didn't want anything to do with them when they were growing up. That’s what they said. His brother and sister had their own families now, and Peter only saw them very rarely himself. When Peter did see them, it wasn’t long until repressed antagonisms began to surface, and he usually got away as soon as the moment presented itself.
"No.” Peter answered. His Dad’s wan face screwed into an expression of disappointment, and he sighed ruefully.
"That little nurse is a fine bit of stuff isn't she?" his laughter turned into a hacking cough as he said this. The old man put a fist up to his mouth, holding out his other hand as if to apologize. His face went very red. When he took his hand away from his mouth there was blood on it.
Peter looked at him with a blank expression. There were many things he wanted to say, but he found it hard to begin.
“I’d say she’s a gamey little thing as well,” his Dad continued. The old man’s voice was barely audible, and Peter had to put his head down beside his mouth to hear him. “Yer auld Ma, God rest her, should have went into the convents. I swear, that woman didn’t even know what a blowjob was,” his Dad broke into a fit of simultaneous laughter and coughing. He waved his hand. “Ye see, I didn’t want kids, son. Didn’t want any of ye. But I learned to love ye. I did. There’s two types of people: those who just love, instinct, yeah, like yer auld Ma did, and those that have to learn to love. You’ll find that out yourself. Now, son, listen. See this”—the old man felt down one of the tubes then held the morphine button up and turned it around—“this is no use. I want you to put that pillow over me face. Go on, son. I won’t be up der”—the old man pointed up to the ceiling and then pointed down—“but if you act the boll*x, I might see ye down der,” the old man smiled, and then coughed up blood. Peter reached across …
“Son…“
Peter remembered when his mother was alive how she and his Dad would argue late at night. It was usually after he came home with drink on him. Peter would sit at the top of the stairs listening. He used to feel like going down and hitting his Dad, so he would stop beating his Mam. But he was too small to do anything. And he was too frightened. He had other memories of his Dad too. Good memories of when he would bring him off for spins in the car, out to the beach, or up to the park to collect chestnuts in September, when school had started again after the summer holidays. They would collect big bagfuls of chestnuts. Shopping bags full of the things. Most of them would be on the ground, near the trees where they fell from. Peter preferred the ones up in the trees though. He used to like throwing a stick up and knocking them out of the tree. It was much better fun than just picking the ones up off the ground. He loved opening the green spiky things, the burrs, and finding a big shiny horse chestnut inside. It was magic…
Peter pressed the pillow down on his Dad’s face. The noise grew more insistent, finally culminating in a single uninterrupted bleep. He looked over his shoulder towards the door, then sniffled and wiped his face. Nobody was there. He put the pillow back under the old man’s head, walked down the stairs, and out into the lashing rain.