Beneath The Skin Episode 30

William headed off and Walt’s hand shot out and snagged him by the hood of his parka. “Hold it, kid. We should wait for your mam.” Fee – Walt suddenly remembered her name – waved them away. “Go ahead, it’s fine. Maura won’t mind.”

Maura will mind. Walt wanted to say no, you needed permission to do things around Mouse, she’s that kind of person, but he was taken up with the way Fee had called her Maura. He always thought of her as Mouse.

All his mates had a handle of some kind – Mac, Chalky, Muddy (his last name was Waters) – but it occurred to him that Mouse’s nickname was a dated family injoke. He must remember to call her Maura in future.

Fee was telling William just what he wanted to hear: Granddad was watching telly in the day room. Yes, David Dickinson had been on when she’d last looked in. The kid took off like a whippet. Walt stalked after him.

The day room was the first door on the left. Everything about it was full on: the heating, the volume of the TV. The screen was so enormous, Dickinson’s face was stretched out of shape, bloated and brown. By contrast, the residents were as white as shed-grown mushrooms.

They sat around the edges of the room in various stages of wilt, most sleeping, some with eyes fixed on the telly. One woman in a brown wig and a stained polyester cardigan strained forward with an empty smile, desperate for company.

Jesus. Walt wiped his face with his hand. Jesus, Tom, at least you escaped this. Death wasn’t pretty, but waiting around for it was worse.

William was standing beside a man who wasn’t even looking at him. The old boy was picking threads out of a ruined tartan rug, and judging by the holes in it, that was how he spent his days.

His fingers were clawed, nails thick and yellow as toenails, ingrained with something brown. All sense of recognition was gone: eyes empty, sunk into the bony hollows of his skull.

He had three-day stubble, not just forgotto- shave- this- morning stubble. Walt fingered his own chin, feeling the rasp of it.

They hadn’t washed him either. The nauseating sourness was inescapable.

William was still standing there, and when he said “Granddad?” in a little voice and got zero reaction, Walt stepped in and squeezed his shoulder.

“William’s come to see you, sir,” he said in the too-loud voice you always swear you’ll never use with old folk.

“You remember William?”

He’d got his attention. The old boy glanced up. His mouth was gummy, like he needed a drink, but he managed to speak. “Coby?”

“Um...” Walt looked at the boy, who shrugged. “I’m Walt.” Still too loud. “This is your grandson?”

“Coby?”

The carers bustled in behind them with a tea trolley. A blank-faced young girl came towards them, blue uniform straining over puppy fat, balancing a steaming cup and saucer.

“Is that for him? You can’t give him that. He’ll scald himself.”

“Are you a relative?” she asked. She had a baby face and round eyes ringed in black. She reminded him of a panda.

“He is,” he said, shoving William. The girl was manhandling a table with one hand, cup wobbling in the other. Walt caught hold of the table.

“If you’re going to leave that tea there, don’t.” His voice was dangerously low.

The girl’s bubblegum lips tightened. “Are you trying to tell me my job?”

“Are you telling me you know what you’re doing?”

“What did you just say?”

“I said for a carer you’re doing a s*** job. This guy is filthy. He stinks and he needs a shave. These old boys like to be smart, clean. They wear ties and bull their shoes. He needs to be cared for.”

The girl’s lip quivered. “I’m going to call my line manager now.”

“You do that, darlin’. Put some more milk in that tea and I’ll help him drink it.”

She clunked the tea down on the table, slopping it into the saucer, and stormed off. William was clapping. “Aw, man, that was dead good, Walt!”

“Coby?” said the old man.

“Who’s Coby? Have a sip of tea, sir.” Walt raised the cup to his lips. “Take it easy now. It’s a bit hot.”

“No, no, no.” The old man was getting agitated, fidgeting in his chair; his eyes suddenly lit up.

“Coby!”

He knocked the cup flying, showering himself with hot tea; Walt and William jumped back as the cup smashed into white, institutional pieces at their feet.

“Walt!” Mouse’s voice was as sharp-edged as the fragments of crockery. He glanced around to see the room full of people: Mouse, the sullen girl, Fee and a middleaged woman with a fixed smile and Maggie Thatcher hair.

“Get a mop, Michaela,” the woman said through the smile.

“We haven’t been introduced.” She proffered a hand to Walt, stepping over the spilled tea on clicking heels.

“This is a relative of yours, Maura?” Mouse gave him her I-could-kill-youright-now glare. “He’s an employee of my sister’s. He was supposed to be taking William home from school.”

“Oh, I expect William dragged him in here to see Granddad!” She was smirking at the kid now, like Fee had done. Why did adults get in kids’ faces like that?

Walt remembered his Auntie May used to do that. Come to think of it, she looked like Auntie May, this manager, all tucked in about the middle, as if someone had once complimented her on a trim waist and she’d worn little belts and fitted skirts ever since.

“But I’m afraid we have security procedures, Mr...”

He didn’t enlighten her and she went on: “You never signed in and you appear to have been abusive to a member of my staff.”

“Abusive ?” He stepped forward, stretching to his full height.

Mouse murmured his name like a warning. She was checking her father’s wet shirt.

“You told her she wasn’t doing her job properly.”

More tomorrow,

These old boys like to be smart, clean. They wear ties and bull their shoes. He needs to be cared for

Beneath The Skin, by Sandra Ireland, is published by Polygon, £8.99. Her latest book, Sight Unseen, is out now.