I sit at the back of a room with a group of women, and we’re all watching the BBC news on a colour television set that’s stuck high up on the wall. The place is like a prison, but it’s not a prison. It’s also cold, even though it’s summer outside, and the room is lit with ugly fluorescent tube lighting. When I got here, they took away my clothes and then told me to take a shower. When I finished, they gave me this nightdress to wear. It makes me look undignified, and I have a feeling that this is the idea, but at least it’s clean. I asked for a belt as the thing is hanging off me like a tent, but they let me know that no belts are allowed. I then had to open my mouth and stick out my tongue, and they gave me a tablet that started me going all fuzzy, then tired, and then the coloured nurse said that I would soon be asleep, but I’m still sitting here watching television although I’m not sure what the man on the news is going on about.
The nurse has a deep cleavage, and she should cover herself up more. She asks me whatever did I eat to make myself so sick, but before I can reply, she pushes my head down into the plastic bucket and tells me to let it go — you’ve got to get it all out — but I haven’t eaten anything all day, so there’s nothing to come out. I’m trying to tell her that it’s the bloody tablet that’s made me sick, but I know she doesn’t believe me. She gives up and slowly gets to her feet. I watch her wipe her hands on the backside of her uniform, and then we look at each other for a moment before she starts to talk. They put you in this isolation room because you’re a top risk, Monica, but it’s up to you. If you want to do something irresponsible, then go right ahead, but you’ll have nobody to blame but yourself. I don’t say anything, and we continue to eyeball each other. Look, she says, if you want to put something on your stomach, just press the bell, love. I hate to see you like this. Really, you need to pull yourself together.
Apparently the library trolley comes around every morning. The volunteer woman stands by the door while I look at the books that are piled on top of it without any order of any kind. Everything’s just random, and then I notice that the woman has put a hand on her hip. Don’t you like reading then? She’s smiling now, like she’s got one over on me, but it’s easy to tell that behind that wide forehead of hers nothing has been imprinted. You know, it helps to pass the time if you read a bit. There’s one there on royal gardens, you might like that, for there’s lots of pictures in it. It’s quite popular actually. I look at Miss Librarian and wonder what her problem is. How dare they call this thing a library trolley? Book trolley would be better, for all it contains are scattered books that people have left behind, and I don’t get the sense that this woman gives a damn whether you ever return them or not. I pick up the glossy book on royal gardens and realize that it would have helped if my actor friend had brought me a book or two to the flat. Now that would have made the time pass a little easier.
At the end of the day the coloured nurse knocks on the door, and she opens it without waiting for me to say anything. She tells me that it’s six o’clock and time for me to go to the dining room and meet some of the others now that I’ve had a rest. But one look at the place, and it’s clear that I can’t stay, as it’s full of people sitting at tables in neat rows like some kind of eating factory, and I ask the nurse if I can please go back to my room because I’m not feeling too good. She says I’m free to go back by myself anytime I like, and so I tell her thank you. But she doesn’t stop there. She looks hard at me and then nods as though a thought has just struck her. You can also go outside to the courtyard and then come back in and eat a bit later. You don’t have to run off to your room if it’s a ciggie that you want. I want to laugh, but I keep a straight face and I tell her that it’s alright, it’s just that I’m not feeling too well.
Jesus, I shouldn’t have said that, for now I’ve got the doctor standing over me. I’m sitting on the edge of my narrow bed, looking up at him while he shines a bright light into my face. He has a beard and moustache, and I wonder why he wears them because they make him look older than he is. He has to be about my age, but he looks about fifty-odd, and his teeth are yellowing, which isn’t right for a doctor. I can give you only one pill at a time, and I’m afraid I can’t leave the bottle. You’re not very good with pills, are you? He looks at some papers in my file and asks me what went on at the house in Shepherd’s Bush, and then he quizzes me and wants to know about any male visitors. I shake my head, and he mutters something to himself and asks me if downstairs is itching, but the coloured nurse seems annoyed and whispers in his ear, and he stops his questions. I remember when the detective came to my hospital bedside and told me that they’d found him. It was maybe a week after he’d gone. That’s when I took the pills. I’d swiped a bottle when nobody was looking, and I tipped them all out on the bed. It said there were twenty-four, but it turned out there were only twenty-three in the bottle, and I wondered how many times I’d been done like this. I took them, one at a time, but it didn’t work, and they soon brought me back around. Anyhow, I suppose all of this is in my file.
I wake up in what feels like the middle of the night, but the door is locked from the outside, and the room is pitch black. They didn’t tell me that they lock us in at night, but I’m not surprised. I fumble my way back into bed and pull the scratchy blanket up to my chin and reckon that I’m probably in this so-called hospital because I won’t tell them what they want to hear. When I was a girl at school, I was always the one asking questions. Then, when the two boys came along, I was the one always answering questions. Now I don’t ask questions, or answer them, which is probably why everybody’s fed up with me. There’s no mirror in this room, which I’m sure is deliberate. In fact, there’s nothing in this room except me and the bed. I can’t remember much else about the room, or even what I’m wearing, so I’ll just have to wait until the light begins to stream in at about five o’clock, I think, but I’m not sure how long I’ll have to wait.
The coloured nurse has brought me a big bowl of cereal and a plastic spoon, and she’s set them out nicely on a tray. She asks me how I slept, and I say, very good, although the right answer would be, not much, but I don’t want to be rude. She tells me that the doctor has said there’s really no reason for me to be here and that things have obviously just overwhelmed me, haven’t they? I agree and tell her that I’m going to university in October, and she gives me a crooked smile. That’s marvellous, darling, but you’ve still got to eat. She tells me that it’s another nice day, and I tell her that if I wasn’t in here, I’d be in Hyde Park. Well, she says, I’m sure we’d all prefer to be in Hyde Park on a day like this, but I think you’ve got to try to trust people a little, and not be so defensive. Not everyone’s out to get you, love. If you open up a bit, then we can assess you properly, and the sooner we do that, the sooner we can think about you leaving.