Serious Sweet by A.L. Kennedy Page A

reminded Meg of a trip she made once to a number of foreign countries as a student – excursions involving unwise hopes for excitement. Those in authority – their uniforms, their slack pullovers – had seemed scary and shabby and odd in the same way as these guards. The more notorious the regimes, the more their uniforms gave the impression that power was power and was unmistakable, but rested, somehow, with amateurs who’d get things wrong and make a point of not caring about it when they did. The idea of possibly being oppressed by people who didn’t bother to iron their trousers seemed somehow to make the threat of harm more harmful, or just more insulting. It suggested the way that important things worked might not be logical, or civilised.
    Handcuffs in a hospital didn’t seem civilised.
    Fair enough, when it was time for the woman to head off and be examined, Meg watched as the unattached warder hooked out long-distance cuffs – a significant length of heavyish chain there between bracelets. It was tangled and the officer tutted while she sorted it out, shook it like a badly behaved length of washing line.
    Meg made a point of meeting the prisoner’s eye in some effort at empathy. There was a moment of interchange, but it would have been hard to define what passed.
    Solidarity.
    You never know how you’ll end up. You never know, do you, whether you’ll be in civilian clothes and not look like a prisoner, but nevertheless be chained to a stranger who doesn’t talk to you and who will soon probably see you half naked and be watchful in case you try to run away. If you’re honest, you’ll admit how close bad stuff always is to you and even feel it brushing by your cheek.
    Half naked and running away. Imagine.
    The party was summoned – one prisoner and one prison officer – and twenty minutes dawdled by while those left behind – the other warder included – sat and let the telly explore current property values and opportunities for investment. The clock provided was louder than the TV.
    Tick, tick.
    Then there was the noise of doors opening and feet. The pair had been released – at least from the examination room – and sat on the chairs placed out in the hall, chatting now. It would, Meg supposed, be odd not to chat after having done what they had done together. She took the back and forth of it as a sign of civilisation. The prisoner spoke softly about unjust accusations and the officer’s replies were warm with amusement.
    The next woman was called out, leaving her partner (still supportive) to wait behind.
    Nice that he came with her.
    Or weird that he came with her.
    Or suffocating that he came with her.
    That patient took twenty minutes, too, and then reappeared, gathered her man, held his hand. What must have happened to her meanwhile had left no visible trace.
    The TV now spoke about a charity giving support to deserving cases, cancer cases.
    And there was no cause for alarm – neither on screen, nor off.
    Nothing beyond the usual causes for alarm.
    This was no big deal.
    And yet also a big deal, a big unavoidable deal, because Meg’s turn was next.
    Breathe in faith.
    Tick, tick.
    Breathe out fear.
    Tick, tick.
    Doesn’t work.
    â€˜Hello, Meg. My name’s Kate.’ That was the nurse. She was cheery, outdoors-looking, Caribbean and clean-handed, neat nails.
    What I would say or do if she looked infectious, I can’t imagine. And she’s not going to touch me, anyway – the gynaecologist will touch me. I am just taking the nurse as a symptom of the regime and being optimistic, that’s the thing. I am not feeling powerless.
    So. The nurse’s name was Kate and Meg’s name was Meg. And Kate’s knowing your name and you knowing hers couldn’t help but involve you in an admission that you were here and that you had to stay and had to go through it all