Rhinoceros: Ryon's story 24
So I kept on writing. Not sure why. Something to do in hospital, when I got the use of my arms back. Bored shitless otherwise. The nurses gave me a spare pad and a pen; good of them, I suppose. Can't remember if I thanked them. Can't remember ever thanking anyone, for that matter. So I just lie here watching my limbs heal, listening to the moans of the others in the ward, waiting for the inedible macaroni-cheese to arrive, and the occasional unasked for visitor. There's the nurses with their checklists, tablets, the pigs, who got nothing out of me - that was satisfying, pretending I'd lost my memory - and a flustered doctor who did fuck all except pronounce all to be fine. Not in my world it isn't, chum. Still, a rest never did anyone any harm. And I had three actual visitors, if you can call them that. About as welcome and comforting as the grim reaper at a party. In the correct order, we have:
1. Mum. She was late, of course, complaining about the buses, and deperate for a fag as soon as she sat down, and went on about how she was gasping and how far it is from the ward to the smoking area near the entrance, and anyway she'd had a bad night what with the pigs visiting trying to get her to stitch up everyone, and all the worry and the threats the Mitchelson's had sent to her via their teenage Joey's. Then she called me a stupid twat, blamed her shitty life on me, went on like that for a bit, ran out of steam, then asked how I was feeling, before coughing her guts out, watching the muted telly and then announcing to the ward that she'd have to get going 'cos the shopping won't do itself, which is a new one on me. Thankfully, she never came back for a repeat performance.
2. Scopey. He was at least entertaining for a while. He had a story to tell me, and seeing as I was stuck in a hospital bed trussed up like a turkey, I thought I may as well listen. Turns out he'd been continuing his meetings with Mitchelson, which is sweet. After the man himself had put a friendly arm around me in the town centre, on my way to the fucking station but slightly too late, you could say - and drove me to one of his safe houses for a quick work out, like I fucking cared that much, he paid a visit to Scope at his flat, taking along his biggest lump of muscle for security. Then they turned over all the contents in front of him and left with all the taps running. And they didn't lay a finger on Scope, which is quite clever for them. Restrained even. So Scope was left lying there as the water rose, tied to a chair, like some disaster movie on a low budget. Pathetic really, but he tried to make a funny story of it, which was about as funny as AIDs. No heroics from Scope, though, just a long wait until a neighbour downstairs noticed the drips and went up to save him. Still, shame about them pissing on his precious books, I said that at least they didn't fancy a shit, which Scope said wasn't even funny the first time, whatever that means. But Scope, it turns out, had developed a tiny amount of balls, because his story went on. In fact he was quite chuffed with himself, which struck me as a bit sad, but let him have his moment - there can't have been many in his life. What he did was play along with Mitchelson and his pet Orc for the whole performance, watching the precious memory stick go into his pocket and out of the flat forever. So I made Scope's day when I said 'you stupid twat, I'd left that in your fucking car deliberately, not just so's you hand it straight over. You could at least have hidden it or something.' Which Scopey loved, so I knew he'd double crossed them in some way, but I was bored and played up to him a bit, like I used to with Mitchelson. Of course looking back, writing Mitchelson's name on it and dating it was a bit obvious, just a bit too neat, and I'm surprised Mitchelson didn't see through it. Scope, like a teacher that he is, said 'oh Ryon, yea of little faith' which, if I hadn't been strapped to splints would have deserved a punch. Probably quoting Shakespeare, or something. He said 'what do you think was on that memory stick?' so I shrugged as much as the plaster and k-pins would allow, and tried to get him to the point before he burst with smugness. He was getting cocky now he'd been inducted in the real world. 'I'll tell you' he said, 'I put a word document on it with a short message written on it.' He was building this up, like he's found Elvis in a Sheffield pub. 'Did it end in OFF?' I asked, getting bored now. 'Not so prosaic' he said, 'just BYE, font 72, Ariel bold.' Well if that's his idea of a joke I'd avoid the working men's clubs round our way if I were him. So I punctured his balloon by looking bored shitless until he looked all dejected, then felt guilty and cheered him up by asked what happened to the real memory stick, as if I couldn't guess by now. 'It was already in the post while they were having their fun, first class, recorded delivery, by name, to that detective who'd called round.' Yeah, of course. So I asked him about his beloved shithole of a flat. 'You'll never get the smell of piss out of it' I said. Well, it turns out he'd already decided to move out, ditch most of his stuff, and shack up with a bird he'd met recently. So I called him a dirty old bastard and we left it at that. He was deperate for me to admit that he was getting cunning in his old age, so I pretended to nod off to sleep, and I when I opened my eyes he was gone.
3. Gary Mitchelson. Least of all expected, though I didn't look surprised when he skulked in. He had a hood over his face, and he snuck in and out like a cat. Kept looking around as if he was being followed, kept an eye on the rest of the ward and the nurses. It's getting more and more like a cheap movie in here, I thought. But he confirmed Scope's story, at least, pater having been picked up by the suddenly efficient pigs as soon as he got home. Helping them with their enquiries now, but Gary was out on bail instead, seeing as he wasn't anywhere to be seen on the film on the memory stick. Like them fucking weather vanes in Orchard Square shops, them too: one trundles out, the other trundles in. I reckon the police just have Gary on a short leash while they piece it all together, which is why he looked so shifty. Once they've fitted daddy up, they'll have him and a couple of the henches as accomplicies. All nice and neat. Then Gary, who was once my old mate, as he reminded me in a not very matey voice, leaned over me while the nurses were distracted. 'Gonna whisper sweet nothings?' I asked him, just to show how un-fucking-scared I was. He pressed down into my broken ribs with all the weight he could muster, and I screwed up my eyes, screaming inside, and I sweated a bucket or two, but no sound came out of my mouth. I wasn't giving him that satisfaction, I just held my breath, bit my tongue, and dug my nails into my hands, waiting. I've felt worse. Not a squeak out of me. Not for him or anybody. Nothing. He told me he'd be waiting for me when I got out, that it wasn't over yet, then gave a final dig at my innards and stood up, looking round like the fucking runt of the litter he is. I breathed out, felt puke in my mouth, swallowed it down. And I said nothing. He did one of his daddy faces, trying to look menacing, but he was too pimply for that. Lacked the presence. 'Get well really soon' he said, emphasising the 'really'. Then, hood up, sticking to the walls, he slunk out, like phlegm.
Here I am, at death's door, sort of, in my hospital bed, and these are the visitors I get. Everyone else got caring parents, aunties, nieces, genuine best mates. Besides the pigs, I get a woman purporting to be my mum, a fucking teacher, and a trainee psycho. Lucky fucking me.
