Trolley

Mr Black wasn’t sure what annoyed him more: the mess he'd made himself, and now had to clean up, or the fact he’d broken one of his favourite mugs.

He pushed open the door to his small office and stepped into the dark. He didn’t bother with the light. He knew the room too well for that. He could have found what he wanted with his eyes closed.

He reached out to where he usually parked the clean-up trolley.

His hand passed straight through empty space.

He tried again — not for the trolley this time, but for the light switch. A fluorescent hummed and popped to life, filling the room with a tired, flickering glow. The office was barely larger than a cupboard and had no window.

A faucet and drain sat in one corner. Nearby, a kettle and toasty-maker were balanced on a tray. A squat armchair. A dartboard. Metal shelving stacked with spare lightbulbs, toilet paper, cleaning products, coils of electrical cable.

But no trolley.

Realisation dawned. He’d left it in Leaf Wing — abandoned there when Mr Omnia had scared the crap out of him with his deranged ramblings about wall people.

With a curt flick of his arm, he switched the light off again.

The room fell back into darkness.

He spotted his trolley the moment he entered the Leaf Wing’s recreational area. Beside it, a WET FLOOR sign lay exactly where he’d dropped it. 

He retrieved the sign, spun the trolley around, and headed back the way he’d come — weaving through patients who drifted casually between activities, forever stepping just close enough to be irritating.

That was when he spotted him.

Mr Omnia sat crooked in an old high-back armchair. He was no longer in the TV room, but tucked away in one of the Wing’s quieter corners. A place for reading, jigsaws, and board games. Small tables were scattered about, surrounded by a mismatched collection of armchairs.

Mr Black stopped pushing.

He kicked the trolley brake, left it where it stood, and marched towards Mr Omnia, intent on answers — only to realise, on closer inspection, that the man was asleep.

He considered waking him.

A voice spoke beside him. Old, silver-laced and hiding something venomous — like how cobwebs would sound if they had a voice.

“Don’t you even fuckin’ think about it.”

Mrs Baldwin.

She sat opposite Omnia on a small sofa, her petite frame bent over a low table. All bones and elbows, with skin that was like a wrinkled treasure map of blue-green veins and olive spots. She was playing cards — alone, given that Omnia was clearly unconscious.

She lifted a fresh card from the deck and slid it face-up onto the table.

“Poor cunt needs his sleep, dear. Needs his energy for the demons. They’ll be back tonight.”

“Well if it isn’t the Wicked Witch of the West. I should’ve guessed you’d be with him,” said Mr Black. “Why don’t you go for a walk . . . Maybe you’ll find who dropped that house on your sister. Me and Sleeping Beauty here need a word.”

Mrs Baldwin moved another card. Her eyes stayed on the game; her mouth and ears handled the rest.

“I bet he said something to you earlier, aye. I bet he was probably right too.”

“Yeah. Something like that.” Mr Black took a step forward. “And I ain’t leaving without answers . . .”

A sharp, high-pitched gasp escaped through his clenched teeth.

He looked down.

Mrs Baldwin’s arm was extended. It disappeared between his legs.

“Sit the fuck down.”

She squeezed a little harder.

Mr Black made a strange noise at the back of his throat and then slowly lowered himself onto the sofa beside her. Colour drained from his face. One hand clamped onto the armrest, knuckles white.

“Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this, you filthy fucking pervert.”

She released him and returned calmly to her cards.

“You’re insane, lady!” Mr Black breathed.

“Why the fuck you think I live here?” she replied with a cackle. “You needn't wake him. I’ve got the answers you want.”

She moved a card. Drew another. Studied it for a moment before placing it upon another face up card.

“He’s got a gift. He’s . . . special. Foresight, you could say. Comes at a cost though.”

“Christ,” Mr Black muttered. “Why did I think I’d get any goddamn sense out of you nut-jobs?” He stood back up.

“Before he nodded off,” said Mrs Baldwin, “he gave me a message. Said you’d be here. Told me to tell you the answers are in a book called the Aeneid. On the book bus.”

She pointed.

Three waist-high shelves stood connected like train carriages, each mounted on pram wheels. A thick rope was tied to the front for pulling. The institute couldn’t force patients to visit the library — but it could always bring the library to them.

Mr Black muttered curses under his breath, one hand briefly, gingerly checking his crotch.

“I didn’t ask for a goddamn book, Granny.”

“That ain’t how this works, but it doesn't matter, you'll go get the book anyway.” 

Mr Black moved fast.

He leaned across the table and swept up her deck of cards before she could react, pinching the stack between thumb and forefinger.

He grinned.

Mrs Baldwin stared at him. He stared back — childish, defiant.

“Tell me,” he said. “Did Sleeping Beauty tell you I was going to do this?”

He squeezed.

Cards burst upward, spraying into the air before raining down like autumn leaves.

“Didn’t think so.”

“No, you little cleaner of piss,” said Mrs Baldwin. Her words dripped with bile. “But I do predict you’ll be unblocking a toilet in the ladies’ soon.” raised both hands like a fisherman describing the one that got away. “Turds going to be this fucking long.”

Mr Black’s grin curdled into a sneer.

Without another word, he walked away — back to his trolley.

Cleaner of piss in a fucking nut-house. 

That’s all he was now.

He grabbed the handle with both hands, kicked off the brake, and pushed on.

Dr Clark was waiting in Elizabeth’s office when Mr Black returned.

He sat stiffly in one of the room’s plastic chairs, a piece of furniture that looked wholly unsuited to him. The man radiated a kind of authority that did not belong on the wrong side of a desk. He was positioned facing the door, not waiting exactly, but holding the expectancy of a dog that knows what time the postman visits.

He didn’t shift a muscle, neither body nor face as Mr Black entered, pushing his trolley ahead of him.

“Well, if it isn’t Dr Frankenstein,” said Mr Black. “Fancy seeing you on this side of the facility. I thought you’d be up on the roof, adjusting your lightning rod. Been having some mighty good storms recently.”

“Mr Black,” said Dr Clark calmly.

His voice cut the letters out of words so neatly that the C and K felt like entirely separate entities.
“I had hoped to speak with Dr Malone before she departed. However, I believe I may be too late. What a tragedy.”

Mr Black ignored him. He retrieved the long-handled brush and pan from his trolley and set about sweeping up the mess he’d made earlier.

“Perhaps you could assist in passing her a message?” Dr Clark continued.

His composition hadn’t faltered. He remained stiffly seated, betraying no impatience, no hurry, no suggestion that he intended to leave.

“Ask her yourself,” said Mr Black.

“Very well, Mr Black. I had simply wished to inform Dr Malone that I agreed with your earlier declaration. An orange-scrub patient, unsupervised and tied to a plastic chair. Bad form. You were quite right to intervene, and justly so,” said Dr Clark. 

Mr Black leaned on the handle of his brush. He said nothing for a moment. He tilted his head, as though trying to view the world from a different angle.

“You knew she wasn’t here,” he said at last, like a man who had just worked out which cup the ball was under. “Stop playing games. Why’re you really here?”

Dr Clark finally moved, but only slightly.

He relaxed his posture. Leaned back in the chair. And then did something that left Mr Black genuinely uncomfortable — he smiled.

It was a sight rarely witnessed. Unnerving. Like the painted grin on a ventriloquist’s doll. The mouth complied, but the eyes forgot their role entirely. They remained open, empty, rarely blinking.

“As you wish, Mr Black. We all have things we desire,” said Dr Clark.
“Possessions. Aspirations. Goals. Some of those things are achievable, some are not.”

He paused — not for effect, but because he expected the space to be listened to.

“I myself have a new treatment I wish to trial on Cactus Wing’s less favourable tenants. I see no harm in it. After all, these people . . . if one can still apply the label ‘people’, have contributed terrible things to this world. This may be their only genuine opportunity to achieve something positive with their lives. Perhaps even . . . redemption.”

“And what’s that got to do with the man that cleans the toilets?” Mr Black asked.

“Absolutely nothing. However,” Dr Clark said smoothly, “today I believe I witnessed an additional string to your bow, Mr Black. Something from which we may both benefit.”

“You ain’t got nothing I want. And I don’t think you’re offering to roll up your sleeves and unblock toilets for me.”

A short dry laugh escaped Dr Clark. “I can offer you Mr Langley. One last time. I’m sure Dr Malone would find it quite . . . admirable, when she discovers that it was you that acquired him”

“Christ,” snapped Mr Black. “Are you out of your goddamn mind? You can keep your monster, Dr Frankenstein!”

“Mr Black,” said Dr Clark, unperturbed, “what do you believe happens to someone like Dr Malone when her research begins to plateau? When she can no longer invent sufficiently unique experiments to produce new results?”

Mr Black said nothing. It was a question he had never considered. A problem that never seemed to arise in Acorn Wing — but then, perhaps that was because everyone there, apart from Dr Clark and Dr Malone, were merely physicians.

“Dr Malone’s funding will dry up,” Dr Clark continued.
“And when it does, she will leave. Likely to pursue a new career, one that no longer involves . . . card tricks and spoon bending.”

Mr Black’s posture slackened. His shoulders dropped. His hands slid lower on the brush handle.

“You like her, Mr Black. It’s quite apparent,” said Dr Clark.
“I would not imagine you would express similar concern about anyone else in the faculty working alongside Cactus patients.”

“She’s normal,” Mr Black muttered. “That’s rare around here. Anyway, I thought you didn’t like the idea of her being left alone with a nut-job tied to a plastic chair?”

“Then build her a better chair,” said Dr Clark evenly, “and bolt it to the floor. That is your job, after all, Mr Caretaker.”

“Bit excessive . . . for just one visit.”

“There could be more . . .”

Dr Clark brushed an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder, then adjusted his cuffs.

“We have not yet discussed what I hope to prosper from this arrangement,” he said. “Like Dr Malone, I too am funded in the pursuit of research and results. I have certain . . . ideas. Ideas that would allow me to take the next step in my field. It would secure my funding. Possibly even increase it.”

He reached inside his jacket and produced an envelope.

“All I require,” he said, “is Dr Malone’s signature. I will be direct, Mr Black. There is little value in dancing around the truth. I have made this sound far simpler than it is. You may or may not be aware that while you and I share similar views regarding the patients of Cactus Wing, Dr Malone does not.”

He turned slightly, just enough to make the words land.

“She believes they remain entitled to the same rights as the people they brutally murdered. I need you to change her mind.”

Dr Clark placed the envelope on the desk, then tapped one corner until it sat perfectly square. He stood, flicked the creases from his trousers with the back of his hand.

“I will leave you to consider matters,” Dr Clark said calmly. “You know which small corner of the facility I inhabit when you wish to inform me of your decision.”

Mr Black already knew his answer. Nothing would persuade him to leave Dr Malone alone in a room with rapists and murderers.

“Not going to happen,” he growled. His stance hardened. “I’m not going to be the reason she gets herself killed.”

“I can assure you, Mr Black,” said Dr Clark, “there won’t be a next time. And that is precisely why I am confident you will make the correct decision.”

“When Hell freezes over and I’m ice-skating the Phlegethon.”

For the first time, Dr Clark appeared momentarily off guard.

He turned to leave, then stopped. Turned back.

“I generally consider myself a good judge of character,” he said. “Most people can be categorised, stereotyped, neatly grouped. However, I must confess and apologise . . . it would not have occurred to me that you were the sort of man to familiarise yourself with works such as Virgil’s Aeneid . . . and its rivers of Hell. Congratulations, I am impressed.”

Dr Clark turned on his heel and left the room.

Mr Black remained where he was for a long time, staring at the door. He thought about Dr Clark's last words and the mention of the Aeneid. Eventually, he returned his brush and pan to the trolley. He drummed his fingers against the trolley handle, then crossed the room and retrieved the envelope from Dr Malone’s desk.

It was just a coincidence — Right?

He definitely wasn’t going to get the Aeneid from the book bus.

Not tonight.

Not while the private patients were back in their rooms on Stick Wing. Heads on pillows. Counting pink elephants.

Definitely not.

— Probably not.