Huts72

Wullie the Pole was holed up in his office smoking his cheap stinky cigars and listening to some crappy opera. I don’t know why I bothered. I didn’t owe Barry Ferguson anything, but I suppose I just wanted to let him know, for sure, that it wasn’t me that grassed him up, and I needed to get into the office, to use the phone, to do that. I skulked in the laundry room smoking fag after fag, the drone of the machines and sweet smelling laundry almost lulling me into thinking that I was somewhere else. I’d casually walked past a few times to see if Wullie the Pole was in a good mood, but his face was as opaque as granite.

I finally worked up the courage to pop my head around the door. ‘Can I use the phone?’

‘Is it official business?’ said Wullie the Pole, putting his feet up on the desk.

Some overweight chanteuse hit a higher note than usual on the radio, drowning out my thoughts, leaving me not time to decide; indecision marking my face its usual red colour. ‘No, it’s not official business,’ I admitted.

‘Then you can’t use the phone,’ said Wullie the Pole, taking his feet off the table.

Just as I turned to go, Wullie the Pole frowned, and exhaled a deep breath through his nose. His grey eyes pinned me like a moth to a piece of card, weighing me up, considering my use value. He reached over and turned down the diva’s caterwauling, until she sounded almost like a normal person stuck in a lift, and then a wasp in a jar, and then, with finality, off. He sat back in his chair, stroking underneath his chin, and as if coming to a decision asked, ‘has the phone call anything to do with the visit from that man?’ He spat the last part out as if naming James Munn was anathema to him.

‘Yes, kinda,’ I said, trying not to lie, or tell the truth.

‘You know, of course, that James Munn wants to move you from here. Wants to move you to another ward?’

‘No!’ I said.

‘You want to move?’ asked Wullie the Pole, adjusting his specs.

I wasn’t sure, had never thought that far ahead; thought I’d be on Ailsa ward for the rest of my life, perhaps even longer. ‘NO.’ I said.

I realized I didn’t want to move, as soon as the word came out of my mouth. I wasn’t happy in Ailsa ward, but I was used to it. I didn’t want to go somewhere else.

‘That’s good. That’s good,’ said Wullie the Pole, shaking his head, ‘that man wants to change everything about, to make the patients do nothing’.

I guessed at the meaning of what he was saying.

‘He’s a ...’ said Wullie the Pole.

My ears could not decipher, or hold the Slavonic phrase, but I knew it wasn’t a compliment. A smile began to form on my lips, but Wullie the Pole’s sturdy seriousness, and the lines across his forehead that could have held grappling hooks, affected me, and made me feel like I’d been laughing out loud at a funeral.

‘Of course, you can use the phone,’ said Wullie the Pole, sitting back, in an expansive mood, ‘after you’ve checked on all the patients in the dayroom’.

I walked to the dayroom. Nobody was there. I checked old Norah was still in her room, my sudden unexpected presence flustering her, so that I could almost see her heart beating, through her print dress, like a sparrow’s.

I could hear the opening of the operatic aria before I circled back to the office. When I opened the door it was in full bloom. Wullie the Pole was nodding along, in the centre of things, as if he knew what the fat diva was going to say, but that didn’t seem possible, it was too loud to hear. I over-elaborately mimed the use of a phone, but Wullie the Pole held his hand up, waiting. With one flick the radio was switched off; silence rung in my ears.

I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect Wullie the Pole to just sit there and watch me using the phone. I dialled 9 to get an outside line, then remembered it was an internal call, and I didn’t know Barry Ferguson’s number. I put the phone down and looked at Wullie the Pole, not because I expected any help from him, but because he was looking at me, and I didn’t know where else to look.

‘What number; you looking for?’ said Wullie the Pole.

‘Barry Ferguson’s.’ I mumbled.

‘It’s in the directory,’ said Wullie the Pole, pointing with one finger, like a gun, towards a scabby-stapled bit of paper. Its importance was hidden, wrapped in a yellow bit of plastic, like a cheap rain-Mac, lying on top of the filing cabinet.

‘Thanks.’ I said picking it up and looking carefully through it.

I didn’t know what Barry Ferguson’s proper title was, or whether I’d need to go through the challenging behaviour ward, to get his number. It all seemed like too much hassle and I wished I hadn’t started it. I shook my head and put Glendevon Hospital Directory back underneath the overflowing ashtray.

‘You can just dial 1 and ask the operator to put you through to Barry Ferguson’s office,’ said Wullie the Pole smiling helpfully.

‘Right,’ I said, reluctantly picking the phone up again.

I couldn’t get through. Wullie the Pole watched me dialling, my face getting redder and redder, each of the three times I asked the operator to put me through.

‘You’ll need to speak louder,’ said Wullie the Pole, ‘you're whispering’.

‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘I can’t get through, it’s engaged.’

‘Well if it’s engaged there’s somebody in,’ said Wullie the Pole, turning the radio back on, and flicking through the channels.

I’d done enough. Wullie the Pole was my witness if Barry Ferguson ever asked. But I gave it one more try to show him that I couldn’t get through.

‘Hallo,’ said the caller on the other end.

‘S-o-r-r-y,’ I stuttered out, and hung up the phone, as if I’d been stung.

The phone in the office rang almost immediately. It kept ringing. Wullie the Pole looked up and I shook my head. He hated phones almost as much as me. The phone kept ringing. He snatched up the receiver. I could hear someone speaking on the other line.

‘No. No one. No,’ said Wullie the Pole and banged the phone receiver down. ‘You didn’t know that Barry Ferguson and James Munn shared an office?’ asked Wullie the Pole.

‘No,’ I blurted out, ‘I thought James Munn had his own office.

Wullie the Pole nodded. ‘He will have. He will have.’