The Exit Read online

  At 6.30 every night, set the dinner table with tablecloth, napkins, cutlery and condiments which are appropriate to the meal listed on the weekly menu on the fridge. (This, Catherine, is something I would like you to do from now on.)

  The conversation at dinner was always the same. Mum would ask me if I had any news. I’d say no. She’d say I must have and I’d say nah, not really, and she’d tell me hers, which was always about some famine or a political tyrant, and I’d always feel glad I hadn’t told her about the fab new foundation I got on sale at Boots. Tonight she didn’t start with the interrogation, just picked at her food in silence and didn’t seem to notice when I left.

  Marcus Baird called before I made it to Studio. ‘Just wondering if you could come in tonight? We need cover from nine till two. Harriet can’t make it in till two and Molly’s sick. It’ll be time and a half.’

  I pondered the maths. If I worked there for a month, doing as much overtime as possible, I’d have enough for a ticket to Ibiza. I could get work in a bar there and spend all my spare time dancing on the beach. I could not be here. ‘I’ll be there in two hours.’

  I arrived three vodka and Red Bulls later, mint in mouth to cover the smell. Marcus had his evening wear on – jeans, purple designer T-shirt and that leather biker’s jacket he was always zipping and unzipping. He was ever so grateful. Nurse Gabriella was doing a double shift again. She’d show me the ropes, he said, and then he headed out to a gig at the Barrowlands.

  Nurse Gabriella was like one of those women you see in a bank or in a baker’s shop, the kind who is either unhappily single or married to a drunken violent brute, her only relief to torment underlings at work. She wanted to make me feel small. ‘So, you’ve never worked as a carer? Hmm.’ She wanted to make my life miserable. ‘You can scrub the kitchen units. Then tidy the office.’ She wanted to assert her power whenever possible. ‘You’re saying you already cleaned that? Clean it properly.’

  Being used to finishing things on lists, I completed all the tasks diligently, but slowly, so she wouldn’t give me any more jobs. It was midnight by the time I finished. I couldn’t find her anywhere, so I closed the door to the office, hoping for some peace. There was nowhere comfortable to sit. Deliberate, I suppose, to stop staff falling asleep. I checked myself in both mirrors. (I needed to pluck my eyebrows and could maybe consider some leg toning exercises one day. Nah, they were fine. Were they? I lifted my trousers to knee-level and stood on my tippy toes – yeah, calf muscles were still there at least, thanks to my three-inch wedges probs, no need for drastic action.) Satisfied with myself, I sat at one of the two office chairs and started looking through the logbooks.

  Note to self: If suffering from insomnia, read Dear Green logbooks.

  They were in bullet-point form, mainly: medication changes, maintenance problems, messages from visitors, shift changes.

  Nothing interesting in the current one, or the one before it.

  I don’t know why I kept looking, but I found myself going back through the months. Eighteen months ago, and earlier, the entries were far more entertaining. In between the usual shift changes and medical emergencies were entries about the people who’d died here.

  Bill died at 3.35 a.m. He had wanted to die in bed, listening to Mozart’s fifth, holding the hand of his daughter, Maisey.

  He died in Room 4, sitting up in bed, listening to Bach, holding the hand of his daughter, Maisey.

  His last words: ‘Make this stop.’

  His last breath: Gurgling exhalation, very loud.

  He looked terrified.

  There was no reflection in his eye.

  And the one before that:

  Brenda died tonight at 5.04 a.m.

  She had wanted to die at home, window open, listening to the river, holding the hand of her beloved husband, Jack.

  She died in Room 3, in bed, window closed. She was alone. (Jack died at home suddenly three days ago.)

  She sat bolt upright and took a last silent breath. She looked excited, as if she could see someone at the end of the bed.

  Her last words: ‘You’re there!’

  At the moment of death, there was small rectangular shape reflected in her left eye (145.jpeg).

  Jpeg? Why would anyone take a photo? Maybe the relatives wanted one, or the funeral director required one, or perhaps it was just an innocent shot of something else altogether?

  All the dull entries were signed – Harriet Gavern, Molly Wallace, etc. But under these weird death entries there was no signature. And the entries were all printed, with a fountain pen, judging by the frequent splotches. I skimmed through the entries before that. For over twelve months, every time someone died, the moment was meticulously recorded by an anonymous weirdo until eighteen months ago when Carmel Tate died (at 5.12 a.m. She’d wanted to die in her sleep, and she did.) No jpeg under her entry, just a weird code or something – zKgy48r9fP2_9b.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Shite, Head Bitch had caught me.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well, we don’t pay you to do nothing. Rose needs a change. Stay with her the rest of the shift. Do not spend any more time in here.’

  A change. Holy mother, please make it a change of scene or a change of heart or change of playlist.

  It wasn’t what I feared – an oldie-nappy filled with number two. It was a complete change, top to toe. Rose had taken a shower, fully clothed.

  She was ten again, thankfully, because ten-year-old Rose didn’t want someone to take her pants off for her. ‘I’ll do it, Margie, you sit by the window. The fresh air might help!’ As she took off her wet zebra onesie, she whispered frantically. ‘I was swimming across the river, it’s quicker that way. But then I don’t know what happened!’

  She managed to get into another onesie, a bunny rabbit this time. (Where’d this old dude get all her funky gear from?) She fell asleep a few minutes after hitting the pillow, and I was soon to follow.

  *

  When I woke, Rose had her hand over my mouth.

  ‘Shh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m not going to hurt you. Just . . . listen.’

  I was in the armchair by Rose’s desk. The bedroom door was shut. Her art materials were strewn across the desk – she’d been drawing. What was the best response? Kick her? Scream? It was dark outside, but I saw headlights approaching. A car was coming up the drive. I gently prised two bony fingers apart and drew a breath, having decided not to provoke her.

  ‘I know you think I’m crazy. Fine, that’s fine. I am confused, most of the time. But not when I draw. The truth is in my drawings.’

  She still had her hand over my mouth, so all I could do was nod. She sighed. My nod was not convincing.

  ‘Do something for me. I’ll give you this.’ She had an open envelope in her other hand, with a roll of twenty-pound notes inside. ‘Can I take my hand away? You won’t yell?’

  Another nod.

  ‘You’re no use, but Natalie will be. She knows me, and she’s cluey, she’ll see.’

  There was a drawing in a plastic folder on her lap. ‘Her address is on the envelope. Tell her what I said, about my drawings. What did I say about my drawings?’

  ‘That the truth is in them.’

  ‘Yes. Good. Tell her that. There’s five hundred pounds. I see from the rota you’re on late shift tomorrow. I’ll give you the same again at two, as long as you’ve done what I asked. It’s very important. You’ll do it? Good. Tell her to study the page very carefully.’ Rose looked out at the driveway. The car lights had gone out. The engine stopped. ‘Go home now, Catherine. It’s nearly two. It’s not safe here.’

  It sure wasn’t. An elderly ferret had tried to suffocate me and was now scaring the bejesus out of me.

  ‘And remember this, listen carefully: whatever you do, don’t go in Room 7.’

  *

  There was £500 in the envelope. £500! And I’d get the same again tomorrow. I said goodbye to Harriet, who’d taken over from Nurse Gabr
iella for the night. She was short and chubby, Harriet, with grey-white shoulder length hair that had mostly fallen out. At least sixty, I reckoned, jolly and kind, but with the most unfortunate facial features I’d ever seen. Tiny colourless piggy eyes, no eyelashes or eyebrows, a red lumpy, perhaps even cancerous, nose, and thin lips that couldn’t close to cover her yellow teeth. Also, she smelt of cheese. I got a whiff as she saw me to the door with a ‘Safe home and God bless’.

  I smiled all the way home in the taxi, imagining a life dancing on a beach in Costa Rica rather than Ibiza, a life which could start tomorrow night. I’d wear nothing but a bikini all day. And tiny wee dresses at night. My skin would be brown. My legs SO toned from the dancing.

  *

  Mum was weird the next morning. She did her usual part for breakfast – making poached eggs and toast – but didn’t pick me up on it when I arrived late to make the coffee and squeeze the orange juice.

  ‘You look tired, Mum.’

  ‘I was tired when I went to Paris, remember? I could hardly eat my ticket on.’

  I laughed. ‘What are you talking about?’

  She laughed too. ‘I really don’t know.’

  *

  Natalie Holland had been making bruschetta for lunch, and offered me some when we got to her kitchen. She was around my mother’s age. By now I realised that was not old. She was teeny tiny, about five foot two, and slim, with shiny black shortish hair that was wavy, but with a very short fringe. She wore a tight black wraparound dress that forced you to check out her toned figure and perfect small boobs (wow) and she had nude wedges on that forced you to check out her legs (wow). Or maybe I’m just a perv. Whatever, this woman was cute and should be checked out and congratulated for it. She’d totally get it. Her house, a pebble-dashed semi-bungalow that I’d have labelled as depressing from the outside, was quite the opposite inside. It was messy in an organised, arty way, books and newspapers and magazines everywhere. Signs of hobbies littered the living room, kitchen, and garden. I noted seven – piano, karate, dress-making, drawing, football, Xbox, baking, guitar. This woman and her children – boys, by the looks – were into everything. They knew how to be happy. No wonder Rose liked her. She was still holding the plastic folder I’d given her at the door.

  ‘So, Catherine, have you been working there long?’

  ‘Just started.’

  She placed Rose’s folder on table beside the teapot, handed me a piece of tomato-topped ciabatta, poured me some tea.

  ‘She said to say the truth is in her drawings.’

  A sad sigh. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What do you do, Natalie?’

  ‘Now? I feed and ferry my boys. I was Rose’s social worker.’

  ‘Are you going to look at the drawing?’

  Natalie didn’t seem to want to, but did eventually. Her eyes seemed to well and for a moment I thought she might have understood something, that there was a message of some sort on the page. Natalie put it down on the table and sighed again. ‘It’s the same as usual.’

  ‘She’s sent you drawings before?’

  ‘She started drawing this exact one about six months ago. At first, I wanted to understand it, to believe she had something to say. I thought maybe something bad was going on in there. When she moved in I visited a few times a week, but six months ago she started getting really distressed so I visited every day. I complained when her phone was taken away. They’d started treating her like a prisoner. I took her to the police station once when she begged me to – course, by the time we arrived she’d forgotten why she’d wanted to go. That was four months ago. The day after we went to the police, my boss hauled me in.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ach, it’s complicated. Someone complained. I wasn’t behaving like a professional, apparently. I was upsetting her, making things worse.’

  ‘So they sacked you?’

  ‘No, I left. Might do some agency work, not sure. I thought after that I could visit Rose as a friend, but they banned me. I haven’t seen her for four months. Now she only has Chris, her grandson. Her daughters don’t even bother with her. Is she okay?’

  *

  I’d only known Rose for twenty-four hours, but I could already detect what year she was living in by the look on her face. She was purposeful but not frantic: eighty-two. She looked up from her desk, where she’d been drawing again: ‘Did you get the page to Natalie?’

  ‘She said to give you a hug.’ I moved towards her, arms wide, not wanting to deliver said hug at all, but feeling it would be deceitful not to. Rose ended the awkwardness for me.

  ‘A hug? Oh for fuck’s sake.’

  My arms slunk back torso-side. Phew.

  Rose handed me the second envelope full of cash. ‘Thanks for trying, Catherine.’

  ‘I shouldn’t really take your money. She didn’t understand your drawing.’ But my hand was already extending itself.

  ‘Ach, surely you know by now I’m rich as a bastard. Take it. And if you’re interested, I’d like you to try again. I’m not giving up.’

  In my head, I was already buying a connecting flight from Costa Rica to Tahiti. ‘I’m interested.’

  ‘I’ll finish a new drawing today.’

  In two days, I’d have earned £1,500. I was beginning to love this job. I agreed to take the page as soon as my shift was over and felt clever and elated. There was something special about me. I’d walked into the shiteiest job in the universe; the one no fucker wanted to do; the one that required no skills, experience, qualifications, drive or vision, and yet . . . This was so postable, and Rose wouldn’t object, wouldn’t even understand. I changed the camera view so it was on me, pointed at my jubilant, wealthy, clever face, and began working on the caption in my head:

  I am happy and rich and clever.

  I just earned £1,500! Suck it peeps!

  See me. See all you arses who thought I’d amount to nothing . . .

  My posting was interrupted by Rose’s voice: ‘That’s Emma.’ She was looking out into the hall. Two men were carrying a stretcher with a sheet-covered body towards the front door. Rose’s eyes followed the body, and she spoke to it: ‘I’m so sorry, Emma. I tried.’ Once it was out of sight, she wiped her tears with a tissue.

  It seemed insensitive to wheel them out so publicly. ‘Couldn’t they take them out the back door?’

  ‘It’s too narrow,’ Rose said. ‘I like to wave them off. Will you come with me?’

  We were now standing on the ramp at the front door. The trolley was already beside the ambulance. An elderly man and two middle-aged women sobbed as Emma was lifted and rolled into the back. Rose was still crying. ‘Poor things. They missed it by hours.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ I wasn’t meaning to sound cold-hearted, but it seemed odd for relatives to worry so much about being there the moment it happens. It’s not like the person knows most of the time. People shouldn’t feel guilty about it.

  My comment angered Rose, who chastised me the way my mother sometimes did. ‘It matters.’

  I found myself responding with a snide: ‘Why?’

  Rose sighed. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘How do you want to die?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You still think you won’t, eh?’

  ‘No.’ But she was right. I wasn’t even going to get old, let alone die.

  ‘When the times comes, it’ll matter to you where you are, who you’re with. You’ll have a last wish, and it should be granted.’

  ‘What’s yours, then?’

  ‘My wish?’

  ‘Yeah, what’s your death wish, Rose?’

  A dead arm fell out the side of the trolley and it made one of the grievers howl.

  ‘I don’t want to die in Room 7.’

  Rose probably didn’t have a good singing voice when she was young. Add old age to it and you had the thin wavering whimper that came out now: ‘You take the high road and I’ll take the low road.’ I didn’t want
to join in, and wasn’t the type to feel forced into rituals, but I was glad that I did, because the sound was less feeble with my voice in the mix. Behind us, a male voice joined ours. Marcus. And before we knew it, the husband and the middle-aged women in the drive were singing ‘The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond’ too, singing all the way through to the end of the song, by which time Emma and her dead arm were long gone.

  *

  When Rose was safely back in her room finishing off her picture, Marcus suggested this might be a good time for my first supervision session. I followed him round the back of the building and upstairs into his apartment, which took up the entire first floor of the mansion. There were hints of what the place would once have been – original oak flooring, huge central hall with open doors leading to several enormous rooms, narrow stairs going up to a probably creepy and definitely turreted attic, and a drawing room twice the size of most houses. But Marcus had stripped all he could of its old-world beauty, transforming his living quarters into a minimalist gadget-ridden bachelor pad. The wooden flooring, he’d painted white. He’d taken down picture rails, which had no doubt held portraits of generations of Bairds, and placed iPod docks and speakers on a wall in every room. In the drawing room, he’d bolted a television the size of a cinema screen where a fireplace should be. One work of exceptionally ugly art graced each room, two of which involved naked flesh and bulging eyes. The old library was now a box of handle-less black gloss kitchen units which opened with ‘barely a whiff of your pinky’. All the appliances were hidden behind these shiny walls: the ice maker, the wine cooler, and the Italian espresso machine, which he was using now.

  ‘Sugar?’ Marcus sat at the polished concrete dining table and stirred sugar into our tiny cups of black coffee. ‘What are you reading at the moment?’

  ‘I’m not much of a reader.’ The only books I’d managed to sit still long enough to finish were the ones on the school curriculum. I hoped he didn’t want to talk books. I’d have nothing to say.