RESIDENT EVIL

Resident Evil

“Have you seen this?” Marie asked, sticking her copy of The Boonhill Village Voice under Sally’s nose. The pair of them were sitting at the little Formica table of the Rose Garden Care Home staff kitchen on their break.

Sally put aside her Bumper Puzzle Compendium and adjusted her specs. “CARE HOME RESIDENT ARRESTED,” she read. “Ere – isn’t that old what’s-his-face?” She clicked her fingers, trying to jog her memory. She had all on recalling the names of all her children, nieces, and nephews these days. As far as the residents went, it was a bit of a grey blur.

“Mr. Grainger.” Marie’s memory for names and faces was second to none. “Came here last June… or was it July?. Only stayed a few weeks.”

“What’s he done then?” Sally asked. In the local paper, if someone did their big shop on a different day it made the headlines. “Stole the pink wafers? Tampered with the brakes on someone’s wheelchair? Dealing Viagra to his wrinkly old mates?”

“Suspected murder.” Marie said, nodding solemnly, as if she’d known all along it would come to this. Which was nonsense of course. She didn’t think there was anything out of the ordinary when the old man’s family decided to move him to Graves Road. It happened all the time. It starts off with, “put our father in a home? Not over our dead bodies.” And then it’s, “Well, if we absolutely must, but only the best care will do for our Dad.” And before you know it, they’re telling staff how, “we can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for him, but it’s the cost. We simply can’t afford it.” So, they end up at Graves Road. What a name, though. You’d think they’d tart it up a bit; mostly they’re named after trees, aren’t they? The Laurels, The Sycamores, The Willows. Here at Rose Garden, as the name implies, we deliver care the average crusty can only dream of.

*

Coming Of Age

I always wondered what it would be like to do it. Long before true crime was in vogue, I was always a little in awe of the Geins and Gacy’s of this world. But I never thought I could go through with it. It was a fantasy that for all I knew, everybody harboured somewhere deep inside themselves.

When I was looking after Mum, I came close a few times, I can tell you. And I defy any full-time carer to deny it hasn’t crossed their mind at some point. But that opportunity was taken from me by dear old Natural Causes.

You get to a point in life, don’t you, where you have to accept that certain things have passed you by. Then Covid came along. The way the papers talked, you’d think I would have been quaking in my slippers. They had you believing everyone over seventy has lungs as flimsy as a single use face mask. But Covid was my accomplice, my cover, the only truly living thing among the Zimmer-frame dead. I was never going to embrace armchair gymnastics or join the jigsaw jamboree.

The first time, I have to admit, was pretty amateur and absolutely nothing to write home about. She was sitting in her room, with the door wide open, choking on that  now familiar Covid cough. Music to my ears. She went down like a baby after a breastful of the white stuff. You’re probably imagining the old pillow over the face routine, but that’s just your squeamish sentiment. You don’t want to look death in the face – I understand.

When you’re young, you imagine The Reaper slashing at you, with his scythe fresh off the whetstone. By my time of life, he’s lost his edge; your fears age with you, you see. Sometimes I catch him with his trousers down. Not a pretty sight. He forgot where he left his scythe years ago, now he’s armed with a feeble butter knife. A butter knife will do the job, of course; you wouldn’t leave one lying around a murderer’s cell would you?

At first, I tried to make it quick, not wanting to get caught, but I learned to savour the moment. After all, I had the perfect cover. If anything, they wanted Covid casualties; the more dramatic the daily death toll, the more scared the public became. So I was performing a civic duty, when you stop to think about it. People really do become powerless when they’re scared. I should know.

Take Frank Harris. They’d put the little cross on his door, so I knew they’d be giving him a wide berth. The stained pajamas and sheets were a testament to that, and there was a distinct whiff of stale dentures hanging in the air. He was sat by the window, wheezing away, barely managing to mist the pane.  Maybe a family member had just been to look in on him. There was a lot of that. Strained conversations through the double glazing. Maybe he was waiting for a visit. I prefer to think he was looking for a way out.

“Hello, Frank,” I said, closing the door. His chair was positioned in between a walking frame to his right and a small dining trolley to his left: caged in by his own mobility aids. Pitiful. His lunch, four little triangles of salmon on whole meal, sat untouched on the tray. “Lost your appetite?” I asked, wheeling it out of the way.

He didn’t answer, just fell forward, so his chin was almost on the window ledge. So you can see, really I was doing him a favour. What sort of life is it? Stuck in these places, awaiting dispatch. And the location - Graves Road – who’s idea of a sick joke was that?

Before I came here, the ‘loved ones’ booked me into the Rose Garden for a short stay. A sort of ‘come and look what you could have won’ gesture. “I think I’ve adjusted rather well, all things considered, don’t you, Frank?”

I don’t know what came over me, but I was suddenly taken right back to the rugby scrums of my youth. I tucked his head under my right arm and stood upright, palm clamped over his wizened mush. I could feel him trying to force a desperate prayer through his gritted-gums.

While I held him there, I took his limp wrist in my left hand and placed my fingers on his weakening pulse. “Not long now, Frank. Soon be over.”

Even after the last faint tap, I counted to ten, just in case. There’s no feeling like it. Empowering – there’s a word that’s overused these days. But honestly, I had to stop myself tearing his bonce right off his scrawny little neck, running with it through the main corridor, and scoring a try in the staff room. I had to keep checking the mirror to make sure I hadn’t done a Benjamin Button.

Looking back, those last moments with Frank were really special. I sat on his bed afterwards and polished off those salmon sandwiches. They were delicious. Such a shame it took me so long to find my ‘Happy Place’. Such a shame it couldn’t last.

Seventeen I managed. Before they stuck me in here. Plucked from the Grave and cast into solitary confinement. I’ve made no demands, despite the lack of access to fresh air, the woefully limited library, and the menu, which is quite frankly in very poor taste.

All I’ve asked for is a cellmate. Hardly an unreasonable request, is it?