I had, but from the little I knew neither had actually occurred. That night, though, he wasn’t to be fobbed off with such
distractions, especially not after months of being denied.
So, not to put too fine a point on it, he had his way with her, and I had to listen to the gasps and gulps and then the screams.
A lot of screams, even though despite it all you could somehow tell that she was trying to be quiet about it. I shoved my
fingers into my ears so hard that I thought I was going to puncture my eardrums, and I hummed as hard as I could, but I could
still hear her.
It took much longer than you might imagine. Perhaps it was the drink, or the screams. But eventually the screams stopped,
to be replaced by sobs and, shortly, snores.
I had, of course, imagined myself bursting in on them and hauling him off her and beating him up and so on, but I was only
eleven, and slight, like her, not big and burly like him. Therefore there was nothing I could have done.
Meanwhile my sister had been set off by all the screaming and she was crying the way that very small babies do, and had probably
been crying like that all the time but I hadn’t heard her over the screams from my mother and my own humming. I heard mum
getting up from her and dad’s bed and going over to the cot and trying to comfort her, though you could hear her own voice
breaking and her sobbing as she did this. Dad snored very loudly, and mum was sobbing and breaking down and my sister was
screaming in a high, unpleasant whine. It was only at this point that our next-door neighbours started hammering on the wall,
shouting, their voices like a sort of tired, distant commentary on events.
I am not ashamed to say that I cried quite a lot throughout the rest of that night, though I still dropped off to sleep eventually
and got up for school the next day, because it is amazing what you can put up with and get over. Almost anything, in fact.
Nevertheless, I think it was then that I decided I would never get married or have children.
3
Patient 8262
T here is a certain purity to my existence. A simplicity. In a sense nothing much happens; I lie here, gazing into space or
at the view presented by the window, blinking, swallowing, turning over now and again, getting up occasionally – always while
they make the bed each morning – and staring open-mouthed at the nurses and orderlies. Now and again they’ll try to engage me
in conversation. I make a point of smiling at them when they do this. It helps that we do not speak the same language. I can
understand most of the one that they speak – sufficient to have an idea what my perceived medical status is and what treatments
the doctors might have in store for me – but I have to make an effort to do so and I would not be able to speak much sense in
it at all.
Sometimes I nod, or laugh, or make a sound that is halfway between a sort of throat-clearing noise and the moans that deaf
people make sometimes, and often I frown as though I’m trying to understand what they’re saying, or as though I feel frustrated
at not being able to make myself intelligible to them.
Doctors come and give me tests sometimes. There were quite a lot of doctors and quite a lot of tests, early on. There are
fewer now. They give me books to look at with photographs or drawings in them of everyday objects, or large letters, one to
a page. One doctor brought me a tray holding letters on wooden cubes, from some child’s game. I smiled at them and her and
mixed them up, sliding them around on the tray, making pretty patterns out of them and building little towers with them, trying
to make it look as though I was attempting to understand these letters and do whatever it was she wanted me to do, whatever
might make her happy. She was a pleasant-looking young woman with short brown hair and large brown eyes and she had a habit
of tapping the end of a pencil on her teeth. She was very patient with
distractions, especially not after months of being denied.
So, not to put too fine a point on it, he had his way with her, and I had to listen to the gasps and gulps and then the screams.
A lot of screams, even though despite it all you could somehow tell that she was trying to be quiet about it. I shoved my
fingers into my ears so hard that I thought I was going to puncture my eardrums, and I hummed as hard as I could, but I could
still hear her.
It took much longer than you might imagine. Perhaps it was the drink, or the screams. But eventually the screams stopped,
to be replaced by sobs and, shortly, snores.
I had, of course, imagined myself bursting in on them and hauling him off her and beating him up and so on, but I was only
eleven, and slight, like her, not big and burly like him. Therefore there was nothing I could have done.
Meanwhile my sister had been set off by all the screaming and she was crying the way that very small babies do, and had probably
been crying like that all the time but I hadn’t heard her over the screams from my mother and my own humming. I heard mum
getting up from her and dad’s bed and going over to the cot and trying to comfort her, though you could hear her own voice
breaking and her sobbing as she did this. Dad snored very loudly, and mum was sobbing and breaking down and my sister was
screaming in a high, unpleasant whine. It was only at this point that our next-door neighbours started hammering on the wall,
shouting, their voices like a sort of tired, distant commentary on events.
I am not ashamed to say that I cried quite a lot throughout the rest of that night, though I still dropped off to sleep eventually
and got up for school the next day, because it is amazing what you can put up with and get over. Almost anything, in fact.
Nevertheless, I think it was then that I decided I would never get married or have children.
3
Patient 8262
T here is a certain purity to my existence. A simplicity. In a sense nothing much happens; I lie here, gazing into space or
at the view presented by the window, blinking, swallowing, turning over now and again, getting up occasionally – always while
they make the bed each morning – and staring open-mouthed at the nurses and orderlies. Now and again they’ll try to engage me
in conversation. I make a point of smiling at them when they do this. It helps that we do not speak the same language. I can
understand most of the one that they speak – sufficient to have an idea what my perceived medical status is and what treatments
the doctors might have in store for me – but I have to make an effort to do so and I would not be able to speak much sense in
it at all.
Sometimes I nod, or laugh, or make a sound that is halfway between a sort of throat-clearing noise and the moans that deaf
people make sometimes, and often I frown as though I’m trying to understand what they’re saying, or as though I feel frustrated
at not being able to make myself intelligible to them.
Doctors come and give me tests sometimes. There were quite a lot of doctors and quite a lot of tests, early on. There are
fewer now. They give me books to look at with photographs or drawings in them of everyday objects, or large letters, one to
a page. One doctor brought me a tray holding letters on wooden cubes, from some child’s game. I smiled at them and her and
mixed them up, sliding them around on the tray, making pretty patterns out of them and building little towers with them, trying
to make it look as though I was attempting to understand these letters and do whatever it was she wanted me to do, whatever
might make her happy. She was a pleasant-looking young woman with short brown hair and large brown eyes and she had a habit
of tapping the end of a pencil on her teeth. She was very patient with
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