Trash by Andy Mulligan Page B

Where are you going, Sister?’
    ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘What country?’
    ‘American? American? Hi there!’
    ‘I love you! I love you, Joe!’
    The guard came back. Gardo had my hand and my arm, and was trying to get me moving. It was oven-hot, and the smell was getting worse. I knew that if I didn’t move, I would fall. I had a water bottle with me, thank goodness – and I drank deep and long, and there were people cheering. People were shouting out for water. I lost my balance and staggered against bars – Gardo was there, but he couldn’t hold me. I felt hands on my arm and on my hair, and voices whispering close:
    ‘Help me, ma’am …’
    ‘Nobody here, ma’am – nobody coming, ma’am …’
    There was a young boy with dyed hair lying back in the arms of an older man; there was a child in a pair of torn pants curled up on a piece of newspaper. They were living in a furnace.
    Gardo disentangled the hands – they were stroking me. Anxious eyes, still so well-mannered – even in despair, to keep your manners – I could feel tears, useless tears rising in my stupid eyes.
    I managed to walk on. It was like going uphill – I managed to take one step, then another, and as if I was on stepping stones, I continued up the corridor. I looked ahead, at the guard’s blue-shirted back, and followed him, and we came to a metal door and went through it. When it shut behind me, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes and cried.
    There was a staircase, and when I had recovered, I went up it. The noise and the smell gradually faded from me.
    The guard said, ‘He is in the hospital now.’
    He said something to a second guard, and another door was unlocked for us. We moved out of the bright light, and I was aware of a breeze from a wall fan. My eyes took time to adjust, because the light was dim. I was led along a narrow corridor – I think there was a wheelchair. Then I was taken to the right, into an empty room, and there was a table, and several folding chairs. I sat in one and put my head low down, because I still felt that I might pass out. I think Gardo disappeared for a moment – I think I was left alone. I drank more water, and after some time I felt better.
    Gardo reappeared and sat next to me.
    I said, ‘There were children in there.’
    Gardo just looked at me.
    ‘What have they done?’
    He shrugged. ‘They’re poor. They do many things.’
    ‘But … you can’t lock people up like that. What have they done?’
    Gardo said nothing. ‘They steal,’ he said, after some time. ‘Maybe fighting.’ He smiled his thin smile, as if to encourage me. ‘They get some food. It’s not so bad.’
    We waited for … I don’t know – time had changed. Maybe not long. And then we heard voices, and two guards arrived. They were helping a very old man towards us. They had to be slow and patient with him, because he could not walk very well. He was wearing dark, loose-fitting trousers and a white shirt, buttoned at the neck. The guards supported him, but I saw that he had a stick as well, and he made his way painfully along the passage. He was staring at me, and I was struck by his burning white eyes – short-sighted, but hungry – peering, as if he had been waiting for me.

5
    Olivia still. They asked me to write all of this but maybe Gardo needs to say things as well. I noticed that he – Gardo, I mean – had stood up and moved behind me. I stood up too. Nobody seemed quite sure what to do.
    ‘Miss Olivia?’ said the man.
    ‘Yes,’ I said.
    He blinked. ‘Sit. Please, sit.’ Then he said something in his own language, and the guards helped him to the chair. He was perspiring heavily – I could see moisture all over his forehead, and he found a handkerchief and mopped first his brow, and then his face, and then his neck.
    At last he sat back and smiled. ‘They told me your name,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much for visiting me. I hope it hasn’t been too … dreadful for you.’
    It