Glass Jar

GLASS JAR
by Kevin Patton

The light is like yellow-blue treacle dribbling from the ceiling. At
first, it's silent.
Then there are shapes in it, dragging their feet along the corridor to
greet me at the
gates. I see their faces and some of them remind me of people I know -
the dietician,
the MD, the debt-collectors the credit card people sent in?
'Mister Grice.'
There's a huge white explosion, glass and liquid spinning in slow
motion, its
echoing shatter-noises blending with horrified choirs into a long
drawn-out scream; a
horror movie played through a nylon stocking. There's an insect
somewhere in my
spinal column, building a nest; I can feel it chewing the tissue and
bone.
'Mister Grice.'
Think I'll close my eyes again, slip back into the glue and float on
the sticky
cushion. No, I don't want to join you. Not yet. Lucy can't cope without
me. She won't
manage that stopcock. And I haven't told her about the electricity
bill. She'll think
I've paid it. She won't know any different until they cut her
off.

The darkness is malignant and loud but I'm sure the footsteps won't
catch me as long
as I'm still breathing. And I am, aren't I? There's wheezing and
panting. I wish I
could feel my heartbeat but can't seem to reach my chest. I guess I
must be sleeping.
But it's a weird kind of sleep, flitting from one scene to another,
like taking part in a
television programme without having read the script.
'Relax, Mister Grice. Your wife'll be here in a minute.'
I can't feel my jacket, my shirt, my pants. Am I wearing anything? It
feels like
I'm in bed. Someone's turned the heating up way too high and I'm on
fire. They're
playing me piped music but it's playing through foam and I can't hear
it properly.
'There's some kind of high-powered meeting going on.'
Frederick? Is that you?
'All the Board are there. There's a rumour about improprieties.
They're saying
heads are going to roll. Know anything about it, Gricey?'
No, Frederick. It's nothing to do with me. My head's not rolling,
Frederick. Just
my eyes and stomach. Mind you, my head hurts. Like Hell.
Like Hell? Shit. Is that what it is?

The bedclothes are heavy. My God, they've cloaked me in lead. Am I
radioactive?
Jesus.
I can smell Lucy's perfume. Which is it - Charlie? Poison? LouLou?
They don't
all smell the same but they all smell of Lucy. She always wears one
when she goes
out, and I guess she's out now - this doesn't feel like home.
She's probably holding my hand. I'd hold hers too but I don't know if
I've still
got my arms. I guess there's nothing to stop me opening my eyes.
'I've lost my job, Lucy.'
'No.'
'Somebody in the department's been fiddling the books. There'll be a
full
investigation but I'm Head of Section so I've got to go.'
'You wouldn't do that, Walter. You wouldn't steal. You're a
church-going
Christian.'
'Come on, Lucy. You know as well as I do our vicar pockets some of
the
restoration fund. Anyway, they're not saying it's me. They're just
saying I've got to
go.'
'That's not fair.'
'Fair doesn't come into it, my love. This is life.'
'Your life, Mister Grice.'
Mm?
'Your wife, Mister Grice. She's here to see you.'
'Nnrg.'

Bright.
Dark.
Bright.
Something else.
I feel like a light switch God keeps turning off and on. And off and
on and off
and on and off and... there's a faulty connection somewhere. A supply
problem. Wait
a minute, did we pay that bill? Christ Almighty, it was a final final
demand. Did we
pay it? Come on, Walter. Think. Think. Think.
You were going to pay it this morning. You were going to go to the
post office
and were hoping for a smile from that lovely Pakistani woman behind the
counter.
You were on your way. You picked up the bottle of milk from the
doorstep and? you
never paid it. Shit. They'll cut you off and Lucy won't know what's
happening. The
bill was in your jacket pocket. You put it into your jacket
pocket.
Okay, but where did I put my jacket pocket? Am I wearing it? Am I
wearing
anything? Why can't I tell? Why can't I just feel stuff with my hands?
Where the hell
did I put my hands?
'Walter,' Lucy says.
She's moving her face close. I can smell it. Bugger me, if I'd open my
eyes,
maybe I'd see it. Fancy that. How amazing. Didn't I used to have a
modicum of
intelligence?
'Walter? It's me, Lucy.'
Of course it's you, my lovely. Who else would it be? Thank God it's
you. Hello,
darling. Lovely to see you.
'Nnrg,' I say.
'Oh, Walter.'
She's squeezing my hand. I can see it - a little blurrily but it's
there. So why the
bloody hell can't I feel it?
'Nnrg.'
'I was worried. I couldn't see you moving.'
'Nnrg.'
'It was so frightening, Walter. One minute you were fine and then
suddenly you
just?'
'Nnrg.'
'I knew you wouldn't leave me. I knew you wouldn't do that to
me.'
'Nnrg.'
*
I don't even fit my body, let alone my destiny. Is this really Hell? Is
that it? There's a
demon at the foot of the bed spitting fireballs. He's wearing a mask so
he looks like a
child but he doesn't fool me. He's Satan - the grand accountant of
life's failures.
'You know you'll be joining us, Gricey. We've a hot smelly hole
reserved for
you.'
'Uncle Frederick?'
'Don't worry, son. None of us bear grudges. Not any more. Not even
your
mother.'
'Mum?'
' You know, it's so satisfying seeing all the people you ever resented
ending up
in the same place as yourself. Life isn't fair, Gricey, we all know
that, but this place is
one hell of a leveller.'
'You lost me my job, you bastard.'
'You did that yourself. Like you murdered my sister.'
'No. I wouldn't kill my own mother, for God's sake. It just
happened.'
'Nnrg. Nnrg. Nnrg. Nnnnrg.'
'It's okay. Don't try to speak, Walter darling. You just concentrate
on getting
better.'

The curtains are heavy, draped between normality and this. They're
lead-lined too.
May as well be a fortress wall.
I think they've taken my brain out. They do that in hospitals, don't
they? They
take people's brains out when they're not looking and use them for
experiments. I
read it in one of Lucy's magazines. There was some kind of outcry,
either that people
shouldn't have them taken out without their permission or that people
shouldn't be
told they'd had them taken out, so they don't give up the ghost and go
on to live a full
and active life. I can't remember which.
Anyway, you can tell. I know they've taken mine because I can't feel
my arms
and legs any more and my head seems? detached. I'm in a glass jar,
aren't I?
They've removed my brain, put it in a controlled environment and shoved
the rest of
me into this bed. That's why I can't feel Lucy's lips as she's kissing
my brow. That's
why everything's different.
Is this how things are always going to be or will they connect me up
better later
on?

'I knew it was you. I knew what you were up to.'
'Didn't do anything about it, though, did you? They were right to sack
you.'
'You were family. I kept asking you for the figures. You said you'd
get them.'
'But you didn't check up on me, did you? You didn't make me do
it.'
'I was telling myself it would all go away if I didn't see it
properly.'
'You're a bastard, Gricey. You call yourself a Christian but walk past
homeless
people and only sneer at them. You know there are folk who abuse their
children yet
you throw letters from the NSPCC away without even opening them.'
'You lost me my job, you bastard.'
'You murdered my sister.'
'No.'
'You left her dead and screamed your innocence.'
'No. What did you ever do for her? Where were you when she needed
looking
after?'
'I was lying low, Gricey, because of you.'
'You lost me my job, our big house, my standing in the local
community, my
friends? God Almighty, if Lucy had been a lesser woman, I'd have lost
her too.
You're a scoundrel - a cheat, a liar and a thief.'
'I took nothing from nobody. The company had pots of money. If it
wasn't for
computers, they wouldn't have even noticed what I took. It was nothing.
It wouldn't
have caused them a moment's grief. Mine was a victimless crime.'
'No. I was the bloody victim.'

Music playing on antique violins with no strings, the atmosphere
toffee, stuck to the
bottoms of my boots. The guilt is gargantuan but I am weightless,
detached and
dislocated.
I gave her her tablets, that's all. She was having a bad day. She
hadn't felt well
enough to get out of bed and had been particularly grumpy. Abusive,
even. Foul. Still,
I was used to it. She'd called me names when I was a child, when I was
a teenager,
when I was a grown-up going to work. She'd spat at me, sometimes, and
thumped me
until I was bruised. She'd made me find a job for her drunken brother.
She hated me
because I looked like my dad.
She knew she was dying. Everybody knew. I knew better than anyone
because I
was there all the time. Yes, she had a lot of pain. That day, she was
screaming and
swearing and shouting for her tablets. There was no one else there. I
gave them to her.
'Yeah. Too bloody many. Far too bloody many.'
'That was never proved. Natural causes, the doctor said.'
'He knew. What were his words? "I think it's a blessing"? But you saw
the look
he gave you. You know he knew. Except he thought you'd done it out of
love. I know it
was because you hated the old trout. With a passion. Enough to
kill.'
Is this Hell? Is this what happens to you? All the mistakes you've
ever made
slip into the shadows and you think they're forgotten, but then they
jump out and mug
you when you can least defend yourself?
The rusty old anchor is digging further into the bed, binding me
closer to the
shapes, sounds and smells of the darkness. Fingers are prodding me but
I can't touch
anything. Words are sticking hot sabres into my flesh but I can't say
any of them. The
tingling, the nausea, the ancient metal torture device screwed to my
jaw, the pins
through my limbs, the coloured plastic sheets stretched and sellotaped
across my
eyeballs, the stench of rotting corpse beneath the covers of the
bed?
'Don't worry, Walter. We'll soon have you home. The doctor says you're
doing
great. He says you'll maybe recover some of your? of your?'
She's crying. My Lucy's weak and helpless, crying into her hands and
making
her skirt wet. Shit, why can't I reach her? Why can't I put my arms
around her? She
needs me. She can't get by without me.
'Nnrg.'
'I'm sorry, darling.' She's wiping her face. 'I didn't mean to get
upset in front
of you. Take no notice of me. Just you get better.'
'Nnrg.'
'I'll get the house all nice for you coming home. I'll scrub the
carpet where you
dropped the bottle of milk and I'll make everywhere good again.'
'Nnrg.'
'We'll start you on that diet again. Only this time I'll try a bit
harder to stick to
it.'
Great.
'? and we'll see if we can get a cheap holiday somewhere? and I'll
send your
jacket to the cleaners.'
She's trying to smile. She's trying to fool me into thinking she's
okay.
'See? I'll be perfectly fine. So don't you worry about me,' she's
saying. But I'm
hearing different. Shit. Have they connected the wires up wrong? Have
they already
started experimenting? Are they routing everything randomly to see what
happens?
Help me, somebody. For God's sake, somebody help me. Nobody hears. I'm
alone in
this laboratory, dropping into a whirlpool of diminishing colours and
shrinking
dimensions.
'So you just get better, then. Okay?'
'Nnrg,' I say. And it drops from my mouth like lead.
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