THE LAST MONK: 7

Betty seems to be well enough to lrave hospital

THE LAST MONK

7

Another night with its company of shadows and darkness crawled through my hospital window and eventually I went to an uneasy sleep.

One of the things about sleep that I’ve always enjoyed is the fairyland of dreams that I enter, and sometimes they can be troubling. The three special monks in the monastery are all dead, but sometimes at night they come alive and for a short time things are back to normal. They even talk to me… although I suppose it could all be no more than a recording in my head, like the recordings the monks sometimes played to me, of men and women singing, usually what they caled love songs, though I don’t know much about love. What I mean is that the music is sung by people who are nowhere near the monastery and pressed into a black plastic disc which can be made to repeat it..

But the dreams I was having during the night, be they memories or something deeper that I cannot begin to understand, made me feel uncomfortable. August was there, gently rubbing my thighs, and in my dream I wanted him to stop because they were my thighs and the last thing I wanted was for a dead monk to be rubbing them. Then Colonius ran his fingers through my hair until it was all in a tangle and began to fall out in long strands even though my hair has never been long like that, and I actually screamed at him to stop what he was doing. He obviously couldn’t hear me, but the constable sitting in a chair near me must have heard. I have been told by ll three monks that when I’m dreaming I can react very loudly.

“What is it, Betty?” he asked.

I shook myself and somehow everything fell into the right perspective.

“Er… I was dreaming,” I stammered.

“Was it a scary dream?” she asked, and I didn’t ponder as to whether the enquiry had more to it than appeared on the surface.

“Not really,” I said, and yawned, “it was August, that’s all, stroking my leg, and I didn’t want him to. But he was only trying to comfort me, that’s all.”

“Did he often do that” he asked.

“What? When I dream? I don’t think so,” I replied, “but when something’s been on my mind he says it’s good for me, that’s all, and he does it. I don’t always like it, but he means well.”

“I see,” he murmured, frowning, “I’ll pass that on to the Inspector and he might want to ask you about it.”

I couldn’t imagine why the inspector might be interested in my legs, but yawned and closed my eyes. I felt very tired and the questions weren’t making me any less tired.

“I’ll let you get some shut-eye, then,” he said, “you look how I feel: done in. If you get to sleep you’ll not notice me going, but I will, and this chair should have the sergeant in it, if she can’t find a subordinate to take her place, that is.”

I hadn’t a clue what she meant. I mean, what on Satan’s Earth I a subordinate? But I let my ignorance go, and allowed my eyes to drift shut.

The next thing I was aware of was light shining through the window, and when I looked up a strange man was sitting in Janet’s seat. He was reading a book, one of those flimsy things with a gaudy cover that I was ordered not to look at in the monastery where the was a collection ofall sorts of books, most of which I could almost read properly. Celestial told me that if I put my nose deeply into one of the brightly coloured papery books I might lose my charming innocence, whatever that might be. I had no idea what he meant, but I steered clear of the few books with lurid covers to be seen scattered about the monastery because if he caught me with one he might choose to punish me.

The man was clearly the sergeant and the least interesting thing a person can do is watch another person reading if what they’re reading transports them into another world. They sometimes chuckle at a joke I’m not privy to, or murmur sympathetically, and back in the monastery I’d once spotted Colonius with his head buried in what must have been a particularly emotional book, with tears running down his cheeks. If he’d known I’d witnessed it he would almost certainly have thrashed me, so I sneaked off, unnoticed.

I coughed quietly to myself, wanting to give a sign that I was awake. The Sergeant looked up and smiled at me.

“Ah! So sleeping beauty is awake,” he said, “I’m sergeant Lovelace, though you can call me Amy. If you like first names.

“You can call me Betty,” I told him, “it’s my only name.”

She smiled at me again. “That’s most unusual,” she said, “what was your father’s name? Because if you know that you might be able to work out your own surname.”

“I don’t have a father,” I replied in all seriousness.

“Once again, most unusual,” she said, still smiling, “well, young lady, the good news is the hospital doctor says you’re fit enough to go to the station and try lo answer a few simple questions. The Inspector says he’s found a room for you in Crooked Gates. Do you know it?”

I shook my head and growled about being called a young lady, and I didn’t like the sound of a place called Crooked anything.

“You’ll like it there. You’ll be in a room away from the addicts, so you won’t be troubled by any of them, not that they’re often any trouble. I’ve seen your room there. It’s really nice, with a large double bed, which is big enough for two.”

“But… but I’m only one,” I told him, recalling my cot in the monastery, a squalid thing that was barely big enouh for one, and always uncomfortable. Celestial had said it was like that as a warning of what might come if I have the wrong sort of dream. He never said anything more about them and as I was never punished for my dreams I know I never had the wrong sort.

“You never know,” she smiled at me, “you might want to put your mother up? She’s a lovely woman and really wants to get to know you…”

Before I could give vent to my anger when my long dead mother was mentioned, the door opened and the man I knew as the inspector walked in, smiling. Did everone in this hospital spend most of their time smiling?

TO BE CONTINUED

© Peter Rogerson, 11.08.23

...