A Petrol Scented Spring by Ajay Close Page A

His fingers press on her tongue. He pushes the tube down her throat, grazing the sides. She retches and chokes, but still he pays it in, inch after inch, until it finds her stomach and she spasms. He pours the liquid down the tube. More and more of it − too much! − her stomach convulsing to expel it, so it burns a path down her nose. Quick fingers pinch her nostrils. Doctor Lindsay yanks out the gag and clamps his hand over her mouth.
    â€˜Swallow . ’
    Swallow her own vomit, he means. But there are things the body will not do, instincts stronger than the will, even the will to life itself. She cannot swallow. And she cannot breathe. Panic beats its wings inside her chest. And then the man I will marry in two years’ time says ‘We will let you breathe when we see you going purple’. Her lungs are bursting. She knows she will die. And finally she looks into his eyes and
    Â 
    Oh God, I don’t know, I don ’t know. I don’t want to know.

SEVEN
    Muriel never receives the letter. The Governor says a note in an unfamiliar hand would only inflame the family’s fears, making them think Prisoner Scott too ill to write herself. The sister is troublesome enough as it is. Some damn fool let her into the Commission in Edinburgh the other day. She got into the Chairman’s office. They’re all writing to the gaol, the sister, the mother, that woman he fed in Edinburgh. She begs the Governor to be present at every feeding, to satisfy himself that it is done with the least possible cruelty . The words are underlined. What does Doctor Watson make of that?
    The doctor says it’s obvious. Lacking the grounds to make a formal complaint, she is trying to smear him by innuendo. Fortunately he enjoys the Commissioners’ complete confidence. A sore point for the Governor. It is his gaol, the chain of command runs through him, he receives the Medical Officer’s daily reports and forwards them to his superiors, but for all this, the doctor’s presence undermines him. Twice their differences of opinion have gone all the way to Edinburgh. On both occasions word came back: Doctor Ferguson Watson must use his discretion. The Governor has given thirty years of his life to the Prison Commission, Doctor Watson has not yet one year’s service. Who wouldn’t suspect deals in back rooms stitched up over a dram and a sixpenny cigar? And yet the doctor’s a nobody. You only have to look at him to smell the manure on his boots. Amazing how far he has got on a few Latin words, a university degree, and a grand opinion of himself.
    Yesterday, the Governor learned that Doctor Lindsay had taken a day’s leave: Doctor Watson did not require his presence. It is not Doctor Watson’s place to decide when a member of the prison staff can take a holiday. The fellow needs taking down a peg or two. The Governor can’t get a day’s peace without Matron knocking on his door, chewing his ear off. Himself has doubled the amount of dirty laundry coming out of the prison hospital. Himself has hand-picked a team of wardresses to assist him. Himself draws up the rota, to make sure none of the other staff get in. When Matron catches them coming off shift and asks them to report, they tell her the doctor has forbidden it. To her face, they say it! Is she the Matron of this gaol or not? The Governor has some sympathy, but what can he do? And there’s a useful side to the Medical Officer setting up his own wee fiefdom. When it all goes to hell in a handcart, it won’t be the Governor’s fault.
    Those suffrage women are out on the High Street every night, ranting and singing their damned hymns. The King and Queen are due in town next month to open the new infirmary. The Provost calls him in, wagging his finger about not wanting trouble. To cap it all, they’ve arrested another one in Rutherglen, trying to burn down somebody’s fine house. She’ll be arriving on the six