The facility, p.1
The Facility, page 1
SIMON LELIC
THE FACILITY
For my mum, dad and sister
Contents
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Epilogue
PART ONE
Welcome. Come in, sit down. Would you like some coffee? Muffin? They’re yesterday’s but they’re fine. There’s blueberry and chocolate and a lemon one with some kind of seed. Sesame, he thinks but his friend cuts in. Poppy, the friend says. Lemon and poppy seed. His personal favourite. Low fat too, he adds and he winks. And Arthur is saying, no, no thank you, and for the second time since entering the room he says, who are you? What is this about? And that is when they ask. They give him coffee even though he said no and they say, so, Arthur: do you like cock?
Arthur blinks and the skinny one, Sesame, smiles. He is seated across from Arthur and he leans in close and sniffs, as though expecting Arthur to emit some stench.
‘What?’ Arthur says. ‘What did you say?’ And he is smiling too. He cannot help it.
Poppy Seed, a big man in a double-breasted suit the same shade of charcoal as that of his colleague, appears at Sesame’s shoulder. ‘Cock, Arthur: do you like it? Rubbing it, chewing it, sitting on it? Is it cock that gets you hard?’
Arthur looks from one man to the other. From the expressions on their faces, they might have asked him if he wanted sugar or a drop of milk.
‘This is a joke,’ Arthur says. His smile, though, has grown stale. It is rigid and ready to crumble.
Sesame keeps his eyes on Arthur but angles his face up and towards his friend. ‘Maybe it’s our whatdoyoucallit. Our terminology. Maybe his lot refer to it as something different.’
Poppy Seed nods, as though his colleague has made a valid point. ‘Let’s see,’ he says. ‘Let’s see.’ And he turns and paces the length of the grey-washed wall. ‘Choad?’ he says. ‘Schlong? Tool? Shaft?’
‘Johnson,’ says Sesame but Poppy Seed shakes his head.
‘Not over here,’ he says and Sesame rolls his eyes like yeah, of course.
‘I’m leaving,’ says Arthur. He stands and edges between the wall and the table, towards the steel-lined door. He expects to be stopped. Sesame, though, remains in his chair; his colleague is in Arthur’s path but steps back and out of the way. Arthur keeps his eyes on Poppy Seed as he passes. His outstretched palm meets metal and his fingers fumble for purchase and only when he turns to look does he realise that there is no handle.
‘Beaver cleaver,’ says Sesame. ‘Does that count?’
Poppy Seed nods. ‘Shit dipper,’ he says. ‘Man handle.’
‘Enough!’ says Arthur.
‘I’m running out,’ says Sesame. Then, ‘Cumstick.’
‘Penis,’ says Poppy Seed. ‘You understand the word penis, don’t you, Arthur?’
‘I said that’s enough! Who are you? Who the fuck are you?’
Sesame flinches. ‘Please, Arthur. Language.’
‘Take a seat, Arthur.’
Arthur glances at the chair he has vacated. He does not move from his position by the door.
‘Sit down,’ says Poppy Seed and Arthur, this time, obeys.
‘You haven’t answered our question,’ says Sesame.
Arthur has shifted his seat as far back as the wall behind will allow. The room, though, seems to be contracting. It is a concrete cube, without windows, decoration or furniture other than the table and two chairs. There are Sesame and Poppy Seed and Arthur and there is Arthur’s mug of coffee.
‘I’m married.’
‘No you’re not,’ says Sesame.
‘What? Yes I am.’ Arthur holds up his hand to show Sesame his ring.
‘You’re separated. And I’m married is not an answer.’
‘I have a son, for Christ’s sake.’
Sesame creases a cheek and shakes his head. ‘That’s not an answer either.’
‘You haven’t touched your coffee,’ says Poppy Seed.
Arthur looks at him like he is joking but something in Poppy Seed’s expression makes him lift the cup to his lips. Just the smell is enough to stop him drinking.
‘That bad?’ says Poppy Seed and Sesame smiles.
They wait.
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Answers, Arthur,’ says Sesame. ‘Just the one, for starters.’
‘Who are you? Are you the police? This isn’t legal, you know. You can’t hold me like this.’
Sesame looks up again at his colleague. ‘Maybe he didn’t hear. Maybe we didn’t ask loud enough.’
Poppy Seed nods and turns to Arthur and he is closing the gap between them and leaning forwards and grabbing Arthur’s chin with one hand and tugging his ear up and out with the other. Arthur screams. He grips Poppy Seed’s wrist but when he tugs it is like tugging on oak.
‘Cock!’ yells Poppy Seed. Sour breath and spittle slap against Arthur’s cheek. ‘Do you like cock!’ Then Arthur’s head spins free and drops forwards and the pain in his ear sinks into his jaw.
‘Surely he heard that?’ says Sesame and Arthur looks up in time to see Poppy Seed give a shrug.
‘What?’ Arthur says. He is drooling, he realises. He is slumping forwards and a rope of spittle has caught on his stubble. With the hand that is not clutching his ear, he wipes. ‘What are you asking me? If I’m gay, is that it? What the hell does it matter if I’m gay? This is a free fucking country!’ The pain is making him angry. He knows he should resist but he cannot. ‘It’s none of your fucking business if I’m gay!’
Then Poppy Seed is moving again, with the same rage in his eyes that Arthur feels, and Arthur is scrabbling backwards, sliding his chair but sliding off it, and before he knows how he got there he is a muddle of limbs on the floor.
‘Is that a yes?’ says Sesame and Poppy Seed stops his advance.
‘What?’ Arthur’s eyes are on the man looming over him: on his forearms and his palms, just one of which would smother Arthur’s face.
Poppy Seed reaches and Arthur flinches but he is only reaching for the toppled chair. He sets it upright, angling the seat towards Arthur, and moves away.
‘Your answer,’ says Sesame. ‘Is that a yes?’
Arthur does not respond and Sesame, for the first time, betrays his impatience. ‘Get up,’ he says. ‘Sit down.’
Arthur totters as he stands but the wall catches him. He checks the palm he has been holding across his ear because the pain, surely, warrants some flecks of blood. He sits. ‘I’m not gay,’ he says. His voice is a whisper so he raises it. ‘I have a wife. I have a son. I’m not gay.’
Poppy Seed tuts. Sesame rubs at his forehead with two fingers.
‘His name’s Casper. My son. He’s three. He . . . he looks like his mother. Here.’ Arthur pats his breast and locates his wallet. He draws it from his pocket and it flaps open. ‘Here,’ he says again but his fingers keep slipping from the photograph inside. He spies Poppy Seed moving and he holds up a hand. ‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Look. I have a picture.’ The wallet, though, will not let him have it. ‘It’s stuck,’ he says. He laughs. ‘Wait. Here. Look.’ The picture is free but blank side up. He flips it. ‘Look. That’s him. That’s my son.’
Sesame’s hand is like the peak of a cap, directing his gaze towards the surface of the table. Poppy Seed is close now but he too ignores the photograph. ‘Put it away,’ he says.
‘Here,’ says Arthur. ‘Look.’
‘Put it away. I said, put it away!’
Before Arthur can respond, the picture and the wallet have been knocked from his grasp. They hit the wall and drop to the floor and when Arthur bends to reclaim the photo Poppy Seed lunges for Arthur’s collar and hauls him upright.
‘It’s sad,’ says Sesame, finally looking up. Poppy Seed releases his grip and Arthur drops back into the chair. It takes a moment for him to shift his gaze. ‘Truly,’ says Sesame. ‘It’s sad.’
Poppy Seed snorts and turns away. ‘It makes me sick.’
‘You’re the worst, Arthur. Do you realise that? You, people like you: you’re the reason we’re in the mess we’re in.’
Poppy Seed snorts again, bobs his head.
‘Because if it wasn’t for you,’ Sesame continues, ‘this wouldn’t be necessary. None of this –’ he rolls his eyes upwards and around the room ‘– would be necessary.’
‘I don’t know . . .’ Arthur says. ‘I still don’t know . . .’
‘We want answers, Arthur. I’ve told you what we want.’
‘I answered. Didn’t I? I’m not gay. I’m not. I just don’t see . . . I mean, even if I were . . .’
‘Perhaps I should clarify,’ says Sesame.
‘Please! Please do!’
‘We want answers,’ says Sesame, ‘but we also want the truth.’
Arthur’s head slumps forwards. He grins at his lap and shakes his head.
‘Sit up,’ says Sesame. ‘Look at me.’
Arthur looks. He is still shaking his head; he is still grinning.
‘Stop smiling,’ says Sesame. ‘Arthur: stop smiling.’
Poppy Seed takes a step and Arthur raises his hands. ‘Okay!’ he says. ‘Okay, I’m not smiling! I wasn’t! It’s just . . . All of this is just . . .’
‘Unfortunate,’ says Sesame. ‘Necessary. And time-consuming. It’s becoming time-consuming, Arthur.’
‘Drink your coffee,’ says Poppy Seed.
Arthur looks from one man to the other. ‘Coffee? What? No, I . . . I don’t want any coffee. I don’t feel like drinking coffee. To be honest, the only thing I feel like doing is talking to my goddamn soli—’
Poppy Seed takes two strides and he is beside him. He grabs Arthur’s hair this time and yanks back his head. Arthur makes to yell but the coffee cascades and flushes away his voice. He struggles, for breath as much as anything, and either the mug chips or his teeth do and his scalp feels like it is tearing from his skull.
The mug falls away. Arthur hears it clatter and crack on the floor. His scalp is still ablaze but Poppy Seed, he realises, has let him go. He coughs. The cough makes him gag. He hacks and he spits and he wipes at his face with a sodden sleeve. He tastes what he has been made to drink, as well as blood and something stronger. Like Windolene. Like Windolene might taste. He spits again and shrugs his shirt and slides upright on the chair. He glares at Poppy Seed but Poppy Seed has turned his back. He shifts his glare to Sesame but notices when he looks that there is something on the table.
‘A friend of yours,’ says Sesame, nodding at the photograph he has set in front of him.
Arthur looks, shakes his head.
‘Pick it up. Look closer.’
Arthur leans in but keeps his hands in his lap. The image shows a man of about Arthur’s age – thirty-ish, maybe younger – with hair as dark as Arthur’s but longer, lanker, and with a narrower face tapering towards a cleft chin. He is seated at a table just like this one, in a room just like this one. The image has been taken from above and to the side, as if by a security camera. Arthur looks up and to his right and for the first time notices an air vent, grey like the walls and tucked into a corner.
Sesame sees him looking. ‘Say cheese.’
Arthur spins the picture and slides it across the surface. ‘I don’t know him.’
Poppy Seed begins to pace.
‘Funny,’ says Sesame. ‘Because he knows you.’
‘I’ve never seen him before.’
‘And yet he gave us your name. Told us where we could find you. He told us, in fact, that you stuck your dick in his mouth and your tongue up his arsehole.’ Sesame turns to his colleague. ‘What do they call that? They have a name for that, don’t they?’
‘Rimming,’ says Poppy Seed.
‘Right. Rimming. He said you rimmed him.’ Sesame turns to Poppy Seed again. ‘Can I say that? Can I use it as a verb?’
Poppy Seed does not answer. He twitches his shoulders, cracks his neck. He continues pacing.
‘Why would he say that?’ says Sesame to Arthur. ‘Why would he say that if it wasn’t true?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know.’
‘No. I don’t. You could ask him. Why don’t you ask him?’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘And I’m telling you I don’t know. Ask him. Bring him in here. I’ll ask him, for Christ’s sake!’
Sesame smiles. ‘I’m afraid you wouldn’t get much of a response just now.’
Poppy Seed sets his hands on the table. The table creaks. ‘Give us the names.’
Arthur leans away. He looks to Sesame. ‘What names?’
‘The names of the others,’ says Poppy Seed. ‘The others you’ve fucked.’
‘What? What are you talking about? There aren’t any others!’
‘Just him then,’ says Sesame and he spins the picture back across the table.
‘No! Not him, not anyone! Jesus.’ Arthur’s hands find his head and he bows as if in prayer. ‘Jesus,’ he says again.
Poppy Seed mutters something to his colleague that Arthur does not catch. Sesame clicks his tongue. Poppy Seed mumbles again and Sesame continues clicking and there is a scrape of metal on concrete. Arthur looks up and Sesame is standing. He is as short as he is skinny but his size does not detract from his menace. He is like wire, Arthur thinks; like wire that would work just as well as a barb.
‘What now?’ says Arthur.
‘Now I’m leaving,’ says Sesame.
Arthur’s gaze swings to Poppy Seed, who is standing beside his colleague at the door. Poppy Seed is smiling. ‘Wait a minute!’ says Arthur. He stands and thinks for a moment he has stood up too quickly. He sways. He takes a step and he stumbles. He reaches for the table but his focus fails him and he grasps only air. ‘Wait,’ he says again. He falls, on to his knees and then forwards on to his hands. Through a haze he sees his son, staring back at him from a different world.
‘Wait,’ says Arthur once more. He can talk still but his voice sounds distant. He tries to crawl but his hands are numb. He can hear, though. He can hear quite clearly. He hears Poppy Seed cracking his neck again and then Sesame’s impassive voice.
‘Try not to make a mess,’ Sesame tells his friend. And then the door opens, then shuts again, and he is gone.
Henry Graves watches through the doorway as the man from the Home Office surveys the room. There is little to see – two bunks, two piles of bedding, a toilet, a sink, a narrow window with wire-mesh glass – yet Jenkins inspects what there is as though considering whether to make an offer. He taps a wall and seems satisfied, then taps again and gives a frown when his knuckle yields a thud. He peers in the toilet and behind it. He fiddles with a tap and turns it on and the ferocity of the water takes him by surprise. He arches his groin to avoid being sprayed and turns the tap off again. He moves to a bunk and presses a palm to the mattress. He sits.
‘I’m no prude, Graves,’ he says, after a moment. His attention is on the bunk opposite. ‘But two bunks. In each cell.’ He turns to face the corridor. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’
He is not the first to make the point. Graves’s assistant, John Burrows, asked too, though in less delicate terms. ‘The inmates will eat together, minister, and they will exercise together but they will only be required to share a room with a member of their own sex.’
‘Quite,’ says Jenkins. ‘That’s precisely my point. I’m not concerned so much about the women but the men . . . I mean, aren’t most of them . . . That is, aren’t they all . . .’
‘They are not all homosexual, minister. And besides,’ Graves adds, ‘I do not see the harm. The harm, I would say, has already been done.’
Jenkins’s lips give a twitch: not quite a smile but not far off it. He casts around once more. He stands. ‘Good. More than adequate. So: is that everything?’
‘Except for the grounds.’
Jenkins checks his watch. He squints behind him at the cell window. ‘Is it still raining?’
Graves looks where the minister is looking. Through the wire and the dappled glass, he can make out only a pervading greyness. ‘There is cover. We shan’t get wet.’
Jenkins checks his watch again. ‘Just quickly then. I’ve another appointment and then a long journey back.’ He steps from the room and turns in the wrong direction. ‘This way?’
‘This way, minister,’ says Graves. He gestures with an open palm towards the opposite end of the corridor, then follows at his guest’s shoulder.
‘You won’t be staying for lunch?’ Graves asks. ‘We were told you would require lunch.’
‘Perhaps next time.’ Jenkins is scanning the walls around him as he walks. ‘Could do with a lick of paint down here, Graves.’ He pauses for a moment and points. ‘Is that damp? You should get that seen to. The longer you leave it, the worse it’ll get.’
Graves peers. ‘Indeed. It does look like damp. I will ensure it is dealt with, just as soon as the budget allows.’
‘Do it sooner rather than later,’ says Jenkins, walking on. ‘You have a budget, naturally, but it’s a question of priorities. It’s all very well having a forty-inch plasma screen in the recreational area but if that damp spreads any further, you won’t have any power to run it.’
‘Power, minister?’
‘Power, Graves. I’ve seen it happen. The damp gets to the cabling and the whole damn fuse board ends up fried, especially in an old building like this. Where will your budget be then?’ Jenkins turns his raised eyebrows towards his host but Graves has stopped three steps behind. He stands at the door to the stairwell.
‘This way, minister,’ Graves says. Jenkins retraces his steps and rumbles his thanks as he passes through.
‘You are sure about lunch?’ says Graves, returning to Jenkins’s side in the corridor below. ‘It would not be any trouble. In fact, I believe it has already been prepared.’
