Spawn Read Free Page B

haste.
    “Careful, John,” said Phil Coot, trying to slow him down. “You’ll drown us all.”
    John laughed throatily and plunged the mop back into the bucket making a monumental splash. Coot, who was senior male nurse on the ward shook his head and smiled, watching the patient merrily slopping his way across the tiled floor.
    “How are you this morning, Harold?” he said as he passed.
    “Very well, Mr Coot, thank you.”
    Coot paused.
    “You had some trouble last night?” he said.
    Harold looked puzzled.
    “The dream,” Coot reminded him.
    “Oh yes, that.” Harold smiled thinly and raised one hand to cover the scarred side of his face but Coot reached up and gently pulled the hand away.
    “The usual thing?” he asked.
    Harold nodded.
    “You’re not on medication any more are you?” asked the male nurse.
    “No, Mr Coot.”
    “This is the first time you’ve had this dream for a long time isn’t it?”
    “Yes, I don’t know why. I’m sorry.”
    Coot smiled.
    “No need to be sorry, Harold,” he said. “Some of it is probably just tension at the thought of leaving here after so long.” He patted Harold on the shoulder. “Once you get out of here you’ll be OK. You’ll settle into your new job and forget you’ve ever seen this place.” He gestured around him, his tone turning reflective. “To tell you the truth, I shan’t be sorry when we all leave here. The place is falling down around our ears it’s so old.”
    “Where are you going then?” Harold wanted to know.
    “The staff and patients are being moved to a new hospital on the other side of Exham in a couple of weeks time.”
    Harold nodded absently, lowering his gaze. He felt Coot touch him once more on the shoulder and then the male nurse was gone.
    Harold took one last look in the minor then pulled the plug in the sink, watching as the water swirled around the hole before disappearing. It was something which never failed to fascinate him.
    Back by his bed, Harold put away his razor and smoothed out the creases in his trousers with the palms of his hands. He glanced out of the nearest window and scanned the grounds. The wind of the previous night had dropped and the leaves which had fallen from the trees now lay still on the lawns below. There were already a number of patients at work with large rakes, gathering the leaves up. Two interns stood close by, smoking.
    Three nurses were walking past and they paused to speak with a doctor. Harold could see that they were laughing together and he saw the doctor kiss one of them on the cheek. They all laughed again. Laughter was something which Harold didn’t hear too much of these days. He watched the little group almost enviously for long moments then turned away from the window and set about making his bed.
    Finally satisfied that all was in order, he wandered off towards the staircase which would take him down a floor to the Therapy rooms.
     
    There were already two other patients at work in the large room when Harold walked in. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the odour of the oil paint. His own easel was set up close to one of the meshed windows and he crossed to it, inspecting the canvas which he had lovingly decorated these past three weeks. The picture was a series of bright colour flashes, mainly reds and yellows. What it was no one was quite sure, not even Harold, but he swiftly hunted out a brush and some paint from the wooden cupboard nearby and set to work.
    Harold looked carefully at his canvas before applying the first vivid brush stroke. It was as if he saw something in those reds and yellows, something which stirred a memory inside him. His brush hovered over the place on his palette where he squeezed a blob of orange.
    Flames.
    He swallowed hard. Yes, they looked like flames. The memories of his nightmare came flooding back to him and he took a step back from the canvas as if he had discovered something vile and obscene about it. Perhaps, unconsciously, he was painting that