Excerpt: The Healer

Rachel pushed the trolley along the brightly lit corridor, past the cell doors, all too aware of the soft shuffle of her shoes on the tiled floor, the slight jangle of her charm bracelet, and the squeak of the trolley wheels.

Despite the light, the ward felt eerie, perhaps because of the silence that somehow felt louder than her shoes, bracelet and the trolley wheels. There was something about stark lighting, bouncing off the straight white walls, which made it feel almost as bad as pitch darkness. It gave her the impression of having nowhere to hide. Nowhere to take cover from attack. She reminded herself they couldn’t attack. They were locked up behind thick metal doors.

And that smell. What was it? Not sweat or even excrement. An animal smell.

In the far corner of the corridor, some fifty feet away from her, was a spider plant. She could see how dusty it was even from this distance. Rachel presumed that by the time the janitor got that far, he just wanted to turn around and get back to safety.

She felt grateful that at least the patients were quiet on her first night. Doctor Patterson told her about the Meltdown. She’d heard a recording at her induction.

“You need to be aware of how bad it can get,” Patterson had said, whilst Rachel and the others who started with her covered their ears. Even on tape, the noise was inhuman. Patterson had reminded them that the people they dealt with were indeed human. “That doesn’t mean you can trust them.”

Rachel knew the silence couldn’t last, and she wondered if that’s why it felt so terrifying. As if it too waited for that first screech. As if it wanted that noise, because it too felt oppressed. Music would be nice, she thought. A radio, or maybe even a television blaring. When she got home, she’d put music on, full blast and damn the neighbours. Or she’d get into the shower and sing at the top of her voice. Something, anything to break the tension between her shoulder blades.

Each door had a metal drawer to one side. It was into these that Rachel put the trays of food, shutting them quickly. The hinges of the first drawer screeched, acting like an electric shock on her already shattered nerves.

The second drawer was lined with a yellowing newspaper from 1912. The headline was the sinking of the Titanic. Rachel wondered about the newspaper, until she put the tray of food into the drawer and realised that the newspaper muffled the noise of metal upon metal. Good idea, she thought. Why don’t they all do that?

Patterson’s voice rang in her ears. “Don’t take to long to hand the food over. Put the tray in and then move on. Quickly.”

So she moved on, only it wasn’t quick enough for her, and each delivery of food seemed to take longer than the next, directly in proportion to how far down the corridor she got.

She must have relaxed too much when she reached the last door on the left hand side. She pulled the drawer open, forgetting that she was supposed to have lifted the food off the trolley first.

(“There must be no pause between opening the drawer and putting the food in the tray,” said Patterson.)

Rachel almost hit the ceiling when a voice from the cell said, “You’re new.”

“Yes,” she said.

(“Don’t engage in conversation,” Patterson said in her head.)

“I started yesterday, but this is my first day on the ward.”

She saw a pair of eyes through the small gap. (“If they’re near to the drawer, tell them to step back,” said Patterson.) She forgot all that, and the eyes looking at her seemed to turn black as soon as the light hit them.

Without thinking, she slammed the tray into the drawer, her charm bracelet clattering on the metal sides. Immediately the drawer snapped back, trapping her hand. She felt his hand grasp hers.

“You’re a nightmare,” he screamed. He kept on screaming.

But not as loud as Rachel did.