The Best New Horror 2 by Ramsay Campbell Page B

bad to say that we assigned Michael to that room because we didn’t think any other student could tolerate Michael and his moods. Stephen’s in a coma; you probably already know about that. We have brainwaves, and they seem quite active, but who can figure what kinds of unconscious states the human can fall into? But whatever it is, Stephen is not to be disturbed. I would appreciate it if you would remind Michael to stay on his side of the curtain.”
    “Of course I will,” said Anne.
    “Thanks.”
    Anne looked out the office door, toward the activity in the main hall. Several wheelchaired students were talking with visitors; family, possibly. She looked again at Janet. “Before Stephen came here, who was he? I mean, what did he do?”
    Janet sat, and dug her fingers beneath a pile of manilla folders, in search for a particular one. “What? Oh, music, he was a musician. A pianist. On the way up, I was told. Into classical concerts, things like that. A pity.”
    It felt as though cold water had been poured over Anne’s lungs. She held her breath and slid her balled fists into her pockets. “And what,” she began, “happened to him?”
    The phone burred on the desk, and Janet raised an apologetic hand to Anne before picking up the receiver. She dropped to her seat with her “hello”, and Anne left the office.
    Michael seemed glad to be out of the infirmary. He waggled his eyebrows at Anne as she came into the room and raised up on his elbow. “Miss Zaccaria! Did you miss me?”
    Anne sat in the visitor’s chair. “Sure, Michael. Are you feeling better?”
    Michael snorted. “Not a whole
hell
of a lot better, but enough to get me out of there. God, you should see the nurses they have for us sick students. The old ones all look like Marines, and the young ones look like willing virgins. Like going from hot to cold and back to hot again all the time. It’s enough to pop your nads, if you got some.”
    “Are you well enough to start back into the electronics program? You haven’t done anything for nearly a month; and you know you can’t stay unless you are working toward a future.”
    “I’ve been sick. I had my emotional problems, right? I mean, you can vouch for that. That’s why you’re here.”
    Anne scratched her calf. “You have to look at your goals, Michael. Without goals you just stay put in time, and don’t make progress.”
    “I got a goal.”
    “What’s that?”
    “To get my butt scratched. You ever scratch your butt with a hook?”
    Anne shook her head.
    “You scratch my butt for me, Miss Zaccaria?”
    “Michael, don’t start . . .”
    “I ain’t trying to be gross, honest. I just got an itch.”
    “Michael, it’s not my place to do that. There are nurses.”
    “Tell me about it. Okay, then my back. You scratch my back? Please?”
    Anne felt her hands catch her elbows. She sat straight, shifting as far from Michael as she could without getting from the chair. “I’m not supposed to.”
    “Why?”
    “I just can’t. It’s not professional. Therapists aren’t supposed to touch clients.”
    “I’m not talking like you being my shrink now. Just my friend. Please. My back itches.”
    “No, Michael.”
    Michael was silent for a moment. He looked away from Anne, and studied a faint spot on his blanket. When he looked back, his face was pinched. “I ain’t trying to be gross,” he said softly. “How about my face? Can you scratch my nose for me?”
    Anne, slowly, shook her head.
    “Please,” he said. “Nobody ever wants to touch me.”
    “I can’t,” said Anne.
    Michael watched her, and then with a quick motion, he reached out and jabbed the play button on his tape player. Shrieking music cut the air. “Fine,” he cried over it. “Sorry I asked. I didn’t mean it, anyway. It was a joke. A butt scratch, shit, I just wanted a butt scratch for some jollies is all.”
    And then the nurses came and threatened Michael and he turned the music off.
    “One of the last sets