They Come to Me Now and Then in The Dying by D.P. Strickland
Image by Tim Mossholder for Pexels
They Come to Me Now and Then in The Dying,
birdslung—
their bodies suspended in the air,
as they were,
my memory of them
caramelised,
look: their clothes, feet, eyes, just the same as
when I took care of them,
each with that same, owlish expression,
look, look! just as I remember them.
The day before Mr. Shoals asks me to help him, a washing machine explodes in the laundry room and eight hoist-slings catch fire. It sounds like a growl and then a bang but I am no good at noise so I scratch my ear until it bleeds, but still I step towards the noise because the light in the doorway is interesting, step-step through all the shouting and the smoke.
They will think it was me, even though it wasn’t me: it was a failure to abide by HTM-01-04, the health memorandum on the decontamination of linen which clearly states that commercial purpose-built machines must be maintained in a care setting as clothes can be soiled with blood, faeces and other bodily fluids. I start to tell George this and he tells me to Shut Up and then he tells me to Get Out, and someone else pushes me aside, trying to deaden the flames by use of a powder bottle.
I realise there might be a resident trapped by the fire and I want to run forward but I can’t; I choke on the white spume spilling out into the corridor and then I put my hands over my ears and scream.
They come to me when my pain is at its worst: a yawning bear, black throated. They come to soothe me, suspending themselves in the air.
At times, they also fly—free to enjoy their weightless mass, shaking out their blinding plumage. It is like this in The Dying: everything moving then stillness then moving, broken away from the world’s heavy crust, or that is how I see it, and I see it clearly.
When they come, they talk without moving their mouths, as if my mind and theirs were threaded in agreement. They have no ills or complaints, unlike the living who I have never liked very much. I recognize them one after another: Miss Parkes, Miss Campbell, Mrs. Acre, Mr. Duckingfield. I washed your feet! I laugh, and they nod brightly.
They tell me stories: silly, joyful things from long ago and it makes me forget the throbbing inside my back. When they grow quiet, I paint them. Not as they are in The Dying, but how I remember them when I met them. I paint them sitting on a chair or in bed, astounded by the peach light falling into their room, an eye slanted upwards, imagining lover’s meetings or the soft hand of a parent. I spread the oils thickly over the canvas, greens and browns and reds, carving out their faces and bodies, the loose skin and sun marks. I love the scratchy thickness of the work; if I paint them, somehow, they are even more alive.
The fire alarm stops, and everything returns to normal. Mrs. Jarne is completing an incident report in her office.
She beckons me in to ask if I am alright and the skin tightens over her left eye. I have never wanted to paint Mrs. Jarne. Her face is young and pretty and completely uninteresting.
You know how much we love having you here, Mrs. Jarne says.
This is not actually true—Managers are like parents in that way—they say what they mean when they think you aren’t listening like I Don’t Know Why She Keeps Coming Here and But God Knows, We’re Understaffed and Maybe She’s a Blessing. My arm begins to hurt but I try to smile. It is important that I keep working here, that I continue to see them all.
George, the Assistant Manager, sits down heavily next to Mrs. Jarne and rest his arms on his belly. He watches me closely over his glasses.
We need to ask you something, George says. Something happened in the laundry room, didn’t it?
There are too many things to say to this, so I do not say anything.
Did you touch something? You know you can be careless sometimes, Helen.
I pick at my ear; a low hum rises in my throat.
OK, George says, shaking his head. If you’re not going to tell us—
He looks at Mrs. Jarne who is pretending to write something, then he stares up at the ceiling as if summoning an eternal patience.
Once we are out in the corridor, George takes hold of my elbow. Is your neighbour still checking in on you? he asks.
I tell him that I can look after myself.
You are nearly fifty now, Helen, he says. You need a man to take care of things.
Finally, George lets me go and I turn to ask if he would like a cup of tea.
Thank you, he says. That would be great. But his face is a dry sheet, worrying elsewhere.
As I pass the laundry room, I notice the blackened walls. The cleaning machines have been pulled over by the firemen, revealing a mousy filth around the electric sockets.
I walk downstairs to the kitchen and place my wrist on the kettle as it rumbles. When the tea is ready, I spit in it.
You shouldn’t let those bureaucrats get to you.
Mr. Shoals is talking about George. I have just told him that I am the prime suspect in the case of the exploding laundry room.
It’s not his fault, I say.
Mr. Shoals tries to sit up but winces in pain, so I lean him forward in the bed and place a turquoise cushion behind his back.
That George has a big nose, Mr Shoals says—bats fly out of it. And then he pulls a face; his hands become winged creatures, flying out into the air. Mr. Shoals is my favourite. Even though he is very sick, he is still handsome (like Kirk Douglas without the jutting forehead), so the ugliness of his face now is extraordinary, and this is what makes me laugh.
We don’t deserve you, he says. But that’s how it is sometimes. I didn’t deserve my wife, Audrey. But she never left, not in forty-two years.
I love it when he talks like this, like my father once did, as if he has a taller view of time’s expanse and could light up the dark parts you had been wondering about.
Mr. Shoals, I say.
I’ve told you before, call me Joe.
Joe.
Have you applied for your independence payments yet? he asks.
I shake my head.
You bring the papers in tomorrow. Let me look at them; I can still read fine. He curls his lip: Bastards; penny pinching crooks. Then he bends over and coughs, as if to release some black creature from his lungs.
A few minutes later, George comes in.
Out, Mr. Shoals says without lifting his head.
George walks over to the bed and checks the fluid chart, then looks up brightly. I see you found our Helen, he says. Time for a wash.
Go fiddle yourself, Mr. Shoals says. Helen can wash me fine.
George leaves the room muttering.
After he is gone, Mr. Shoals lets me massage his hands. They have big, beautiful veins crawling over them. His skin turns white when I press it.
Out in the lobby, the click of a steel latch and wheels thudding against the wall. Mr. Hillard is refusing his wheelchair again; he lifts a finger as if to say something important before his hand is lowered. A minute later, he raises it again.
I wash up all the dishes in the kitchen and then place small towels in the microwave. Afterwards, I push the trolley into the lift and press 1.
Upstairs, all is quiet. The staff are holding a flash meeting about the fire and the residents wait in their high-backed chairs while a dancing programme buzzes in the background. Every now and then the television ruptures with loud applause.
I hand out the warm towels to everyone. Good for you, Miss Hammond says. She smiles and her cheeks tighten like silken paper.
Good for you more like, cries Mrs. Kepling.
Balls, says a voice from across the room. Mr. Headingley has dementia which means his mind is full of small wonders and disconnections. He cannot always say what he means which often ends in a fight, but this time everyone understands: he is allowed the silence he has demanded.
Before I go home, there is a death. Mrs. Wilkins has been coughing in her room for several days now. Vascular equipment is rolled down the corridor. No one is allowed to visit, but I find excuses to stay close. When the nurse leaves to fetch some blue gloves, I slip into the room and hold Mrs. Wilkins’ hand. I’ll see you soon, is what I say, and her eyelids flutter. By the time the nurse returns, I am already sweeping in the corridor. Mrs. Wilkins’ coughing starts again, a desperate, muculent effort. The staff move around her with the precision of an orchestra.
No one is with Mrs. Wilkins when she dies. By the time I have returned from downstairs, it is too late. Within minutes, two men have entered the room with a large black bag and re-appear with it filled. As the trolley rolls away, more staff arrive with cleaning fluids.
I stay until everything is finished. The nurse looks inside the empty room and then closes the door.
See you tomorrow, Helen, she says.
John agrees to meet me in the park after work and we walk to the top of the hill; he sits next to me on the bench, leaving a space large enough for two children to sit between us. There aren’t any children but we both like the space. John is autistic like me, but he has a job in the Tate & Lyle factory and his parents are still alive. He rubs his eyebrow; a hair catches on his finger.
Do you want a sandwich? I ask.
No.
They’re ham and mustard, I say.
We look out at the dogs jumping down the slope; a warm current of the wind curls around us and then passes by. John looks at me from the corner of his eye and places a hand between us.
You still going to that care home?
I work there, I say.
Yes, and they don’t pay you. And you—
I am making myself useful!
My voice sounds like a bark, I did not mean it like that. Pain leaps up my neck as I remember the laundry room.
They’re not kind, John says. They should be kind to you.
I told John I loved him once; it was about twelve years ago because we’ve known each other a long time, since children actually; our parents knew each other from the support groups. After I told him I loved him, he became very angry and I thought I would never see him again, but then we agreed to be friends.
Do you want to walk? I ask.
My leg hurts, he says. I shouldn’t have come.
Don’t worry, I say. I’ll see you home.
Not yet, he says. In a minute.
His finger moves a bit closer on the bench and finds a gap between two slats. The gap is the same width as all the other gaps; I try to find my own gap next to my right leg.
The sun turns red, and the stiffening light quiets the dogs.
The next day, I visit Mr. Shoals again. This time, he is surrounded by people I don’t know. His skin is yellow, and I can tell by the quietness in the room that something is wrong.
After they have left, I bring a hot water bottle for his feet and pull back the torn, pink curtain. He wheezes out a breath and it follows me around the room.
Helen, he says quietly as if he has just found me. Did you bring the papers?
No, I say. I’ve applied twice already.
I’ll help you with it this time. Then I need you to help me.
He pats the pillow next to him.
I’m sick, he says. I am not going to get better. The pain—you need to help me stop it; will you do that for me?
Yes, I say without thinking, and then my heart thuds.
You understand what you need to do? he says, gripping the pillow. You shut that door and I will lie here and then you press down for at least five minutes. You keep pressing, even if I struggle.
I nod to show I’ve understood. Then I drop his hand; I want to leave now.
My Helen, he says. Just between you and me.
He taps his nose. Tomorrow, he says.
At home, I knock the photographs of my parents off the mantelpiece, then kneel on the floor. The fibromyalgia comes for me, making me shout. I stay there with the front door still open, arching my back to make it stop. No one—can’t—leave it. I can’t stop shouting.
Mrs. Adams, my neighbour, is here. She has my hair in her hand and waits with me until I calm down.
Don’t worry, she says, which I like. Things will get better—you just need to keep going. Now, let’s tidy this up.
Mrs. Adams helps me to my feet, then hooks her arms together as she contemplates the mess, but her face is open; a part of her face is always smiling.
Have you eaten, she says, but her hands keep busy, so I don’t mind. She carries on through the house and I follow her up the stairs. Before I can stop her, she has opened the door to the spare room—No, I shout—too late, they come tumbling out, painting after painting, a spray of colour over the floor.
I’m so sorry, she says.
I run hand open to slap her, but I can’t. She is holding Mrs. Shaw in her hands. She disappears into it and then comes out again, looking at me seriously.
This is— she says. Can I borrow this one?
I nod.
After she has checked me over, she leaves. I wait until I hear her shut the front door. The house feels empty and then I feel scared, so I run up the stairs and climb into bed.
They come to me during the night when I don’t want them, changed but still recognisable. I make up other names for them: Herod, Smields, Over-Hunter, Tomorrow. Each of them passes smiling, with blood in their teeth. I keep searching among the invisible matter, hoping to see her, but they sense my yearning and seek to hide her from me. They laugh at my fleshly ignorance, my thudding heart, and howl at me in my sleep.
Whenever I feel like this, I am unable to rest. My mind hums like a hot ocean. Usually I can manage it all, but tonight is different. I throw back the duvet and switch on the lights in the little porcelain houses which once belonged to my mother. The bottle of pills is on the table; I flick and snap the cap, again and again and then hide the bottle in my pocket.
It all dulls. I think of what will happen if I help Mr. Shoals. They may send me to prison or more likely somewhere worse. But then I remember how my father looked when he was in pain. I wish now that I had helped him, helping is what I am good at, and besides, I have made Mr. Shoals a promise.
I imagine the different options: sharp knives or syringes, a coil of rope fastened like a wet eel over the door. We could discuss it tomorrow, Mr. Shoals and I, but that feels hideous (both of us crows, sitting in black, pointed influenza masks) so I try not to think of that, but of the pillow. Then I remember a game I played when I was younger. Days spent trapped inside a room at Bethlem, alone; biting down on a blanket until I could not breathe, drowning from euphoria. I nearly, I nearly—enough, enough, enough!
I find myself in the street outside, woken by the blare of a towering lamp and I realise I am making myself ill again. I walk back inside and rest on the carpet. The others have gone now; even the dead need their sleep. But then a warmth appears on the floor behind me, a foetal hug. Go to sleep now, a voice somewhere says, and I cry and cry and cry.
The next morning, Mrs. Adams from next door brings me banana bread and cleans up a little. She has a secret smile—I don’t know why, and I don’t ask—too busy thinking of the task ahead.
It is lunchtime before I make it in to work; The staff don’t notice me; I am invisible here. When I reach his room, Mr. Shoals is not there. George, the Assistant Manager, tells me they have taken him into hospital for tests. They think it’s spread, he says, and shoots me a look I don’t understand.
I walk quickly on, past Mrs. Jarne’s office, but she sees me and asks me to come in, so I sit down and scratch at the fabric underneath the chair.
Helen, she says. How long is it that you have been coming here?
Six years, I say.
I remember when your mother came to us; she was a lovely woman, God rest her soul.
Mrs. Jarne taps her fingers on the desk.
You know I have always had your best interests at heart, Helen. Now, I need to talk to you about something. With things the way they are, the rules are changing about our use of volunteers. I’ve ignored it so far—
Would you like a cup of tea, I ask.
I’m sorry, Mrs. Jarne says. I’m just not sure how much longer we can have you with us.
I forget to breathe.
Can I come back? I ask.
I’m not saying tomorrow. But there will be an inspection soon. We must follow the rules.
Can I come back?
Mrs. Jarne sighs. Let’s talk about it tomorrow, she says.
Then she pauses.
Your mother did everything she could, you know. She fought for years to get you out of Bethlem; all she wanted was to take care of you. But sometimes we can’t keep it all going. She just got old, Helen.
After lunch, I wash everyone’s feet. Mrs. Cadiz wets herself and Mr. Headingley locks himself in the first-floor bathroom for twenty-five minutes.
It is three o’clock by the time Mr. Shoals returns. I sit next to the bed as they lie him down. He is thinner, just bones really. The nurse brings him a tempting platter of macaroni cheese and Mr. Shoals makes an effort: he sits up and with all his strength throws the bowl against the wall. His face is blank and unapologetic.
I’ll stay with him a while, I say, Keep him company.
The nurse nods and closes the door. The pillow feels soft, its innards beaten to a doughy pulp by the many nights under Mr. Shoals’s head. It won’t be enough, I realise so I take the pain pills out of my pocket and crunch them into a white splintery dust, smoothing it all into the water cup.
Mr. Shoals watches me, expressionless. He takes the cup and drinks it in one swallow, then pushes the pillow into my arms and pulls the blanket over him, his breathing raspy. I climb on top of him and cover his face.
His eyes are the last thing I see. They look like the eyes of the dying, to whom none of it matters anymore, all this struggling. When we atomise, our cells lose themselves, mixing into the great expanse of colour, and all that is really left is our love. His legs shudder under me so I press harder. Then he screams. Warm urine soaks my dress and I hold on to the pillow—no, no, no—he rocks and mewls under the pillow, suddenly full of life force, and I have to remember I am doing this for him, he asked me for this, and I tighten my knees to his waist and keep pressing, but I am crying now; I hear myself shouting words and then he reaches up and hits me on the head and I let go and blood circulates through his face again; he hangs over the side of the bed and pukes.
A voice: Helen.
Mrs. Jarne has opened the door, dead bones in young skin.
Don’t— she says. I can’t—
She looks at me and then at Mr. Shoals, still coughing, the white dust on the table.
You need to leave, she says quietly. You can’t come back, Helen.
I walk out of the room and remember my mother here, laughing happily in the corridor. Mrs. Jarne stays by the doorway, scratching her fist. A tear appears on her cheek.
I turn to look at her before reaching the lift. That’s it, I think, that’s good. I can paint her now.
The streetlights turn on as I run home. Inside, I climb the stairs, stepping over a plate of leftover pasta. I pull out the pots from under the bed and smear paint on the walls with my hands. The dying appear in the green and brown swirls, but Mr. Shoals is not with them. After a while my neck hurts so I lie down on the bed. My phone is under a sea of warm, soiled jumpers. I click the charging cable in and the phone lights up. A message flicks across the middle of the screen.
John friend: Meet on Blackheath tomorrow. Only if it’s warm.
I realise I am free tomorrow, and the day after that. I turn off the lights in the little houses and then lie down and listen to the water running in the bath. It all grows dark and quiet. My little chicken, my mother says, bouncing me in her arms. Her eyes are opaline, not dead but alive. My little girl, she says. I curl up and lie still, listening to the water running, then scratch myself all over.
When I wake up, it is light. The door is knock-knocking, so I open it. It is my neighbour, Mrs. Adams.
Hi Helen, she says. This is Miss Yendall. She is a trustee for the South London Gallery on Peckham Road.
Miss Yendall nods and smiles. She does not wish to shake my hand which is good.
We are looking for new artists for a show we are doing, she says. I would love to see more of your work if you would permit me?
I am not sure what to say so instead I stare at the scuffs on her purple brogues.
We only pay you if we sell them, of course, she says. Otherwise, we will return them to you.
But Miss. Yendall does not need to continue. I have already opened the door to invite her in.
I wait ten minutes before I tell John about the paintings.
Good, he says. How many.
Twelve.
How many with red paint.
Six.
How many with blue paint.
Four.
John nods. We keep walking. He treads on each square of pavement, never missing, as if his feet are finely balanced on the edge of a ravine.
They’ve given me a new job, he says. In Blending. They said it suits me. I told them I like machines more than people.
I smile up at him.
We could go out, he says. To celebrate.
He stutters the word celebrate and then firms his chin, making himself look at me. I nod and he reaches out to take hold of my hand, pressing it.
And I let him.
D.P. Strickland (he/him) is a neurodivergent writer with an MA in Creative Writing from UEA, whose work has previously appeared in various anthologies. He takes particular interest in under-represented perspectives in fiction and recently completed a novel about fundamental religion based on his own childhood experience. He lives in London with his family.
You can find D.P. Strickland on Instagram.