Free A Petrol Scented Spring by Ajay Close Page B

Needlessly brutal. Quite without regard for her modesty.
    The doctor bends over her, blocking Dunlop’s view. His jaw is tight, a whitish margin around his mouth within his florid face. Behind him, Dunlop mutters something about not wanting to undo all your good work and for a split-second the doctor’s glassy stare sharpens to check her reaction. It doesn’t take her long to work it out. He has been boasting of winning her confidence, dropping nuggets of intelligence into his reports. She has told him nothing that matters. What difference can it make if they know about her early rheumatic fever, or her mother’s disapproval of militant action? Nevertheless, to have told him anything now seems an error of judgement. This too is more than she can bear.
    She fights him, really fights him, trying to sit up. The wardress can’t get close enough to help him and Dunlop doesn’t try. Doctor Watson warns her she is growing excited. This agitation is not good for her. She must lie back so he can sound her chest. His would-be calm demeanour fools no one. The tendons in his neck are taut, his breath smells violently metallic. She too is out of her depth, past the point of histrionics, revolted by what he has done to her, the talking no less than the feeding, all that cant about cowardly politicians at odds with the public good. The cynicism of it rises within her, filling her throat.
    She vomits over his legs. Considering the length of time since her last feed, the quantity is remarkable.
    He shouts, ‘You did that on purpose !’
    â€˜I wish I had!’
    His face contorts in rage and disgust. ‘You are out of order.’
    â€˜Take your hands off me!’
    â€˜Will you lie down! ’
    Is Doctor Dunlop reminded of anything, as he watches this scene; might he even feel a pang of exclusion? How like it is to marriage, the uninhibited passion in their voices, the murderous vigour in their limbs. Neither hears Dunlop’s cough, his sotto voce warning. The medical officer handles her as roughly as he would a man, using all his might to overpower her.
    She screams at him, ‘You’re hurting me.’
    â€˜And you are putting on a show for the company.’
    She sinks her teeth into his hand.
    â€˜Damn you!’ he roars. His arm draws back. Not the flat of his hand, but a fist.
    â€˜Doctor Watson! Calm yourself.’
    The arm drops, the blow unstruck, a cloudiness in both their faces, as if wrenched out of a dream.
    Dunlop takes over, despatching the doctor to change his sodden trousers. A wardress arrives to help, but by now Prisoner Scott is docile. She reclines on the mattress, a fetching colour in her cheeks.
    That afternoon, when Dunlop has departed and Doctor Watson is absent on his rounds, Arabella gets out of bed. Immediately, the wardress is upon her, dragging her back. No matter. She has stood on her own two feet again.
    Â 
    With me, he sulked. Silent days, weeks, months on end. When he spoke at last, I had to smile as if it were a day like any other. As if his moods were as unchallengeable as the weather. If I dared to remark on the change, he withdrew again. I could not rouse him to violence, or any other passion.

NINE
    The doctor believes the prisoner’s resistance may be dietary in origin. He will try three tablespoons of sugar, not four, in the pint and a half of eggy milk, plus regular soap-and-water enemas. The wardresses grumble about cleaning her up, but she’s always quiet after, purged of the irritability that so disturbs her rest. He goes over the Governor’s head to the Commission and gains approval for two wardresses to remain with her at all times. Any movement seems to excite her, jeopardising her health. There will be no turning a blind eye when she rolls onto her side. Even in sleep, she will obey doctor’s orders.
    He sees now he has been too lax with her. What he called humanity was weakness. He won’t make that mistake again.