...and yet more of John John

Awaking with a pain in his lower stomach he turns his body away from the pain. The pain follows him. He pushes himself up the bed.
The nurses have already opened the curtains. Has he woken late? No, other patients are just joining the morning rush to the bathroom.
The pain sits within the cradle of his pelvis. He raises his hips above the pain. It eases.
He considers telling a nurse of the pain, how to describe it. The nurses appear unusually busy this morning. Fresh beds are being prepared and the phone keeps ringing. No sooner has a nurse answered it and hurried back down the ward than it rings again; and with an exasperated sigh the nurse leaves the bed and the patient and to go striding back up the ward. The tea trolley is not yet in sight.
The pain grips him again, slicing up through his abdomen, abating. He finds himself gasping, is damp with sweat. Hearing voices in the bathroom he wonders if moving will help.
Cagey of rousing the pain he swings his legs out of bed and stands. The pain moves to one side, and decreases. Collecting up his shaving equipment he makes for the bathroom, where a croaky chorus of 'Morning John’ greets him. He forces a smile to his face, urinates. That alleviates the ache. Letting out his breath he shakily joins the queue at the basins. The pain has now changed character, has descended to deeper in his bowels.
A cistern flushes and a cubicle door opens. That’s it, he realises, and goes pushing past the tottering man coming out, bolts the door on the surprised laughter of some outside.
The cubicle stinks. Trying not to inhale the airborne bacteria he drops his pyjama bottoms and sits on the still warm lavatory seat. His anus instantly opens. As his turds go plunging into the water below he thinks Oh the horror of it, Oh the horror of it...
He stares at the plain wooden door before him. That he should have no memory of ever having done this before... That he should not be able to read such a mundane signal from his body... That, now that the pain has gone, is the horror. To have no memory even of this cloying stink.
He drops his head into his hands. To not know here, where the nurses' main preoccupation is with bowels and the composition and colour of shit...
Lifting his head from his hands he puzzles over a new sour smell. Sniffing over his fingers and wrists, he rubs his hair again. His scalp is excreting a sebaceous ordure. Distaste for his own body pulls up his lip. Calculating the correct use for the roll of white toilet paper he wipes his anus. It still feels unclean.
Emerging from the cubicle he re-examines the bathroom. One door is labelled ‘Shower’. He opens the door. It is a small room, tiled, pipes on the wall, a porcelain square in which to stand. The air steamy from its recent use.
He returns to his bed. The paper trolley has arrived, so too the morning’s cup of tea. He buys a Guardian, collects his shampoo and goes back to the bathroom. Hanging his pyjamas and towel behind the door he turns on both taps, tests the temperature of the spraying water and takes his nakedness under it. The wooden slats feel slimy underfoot. Turning carefully, he adjusts the temperature, increasing the hot, then reaches for the shampoo.
He finds that he has to step out of the spray to get up a lather. The bruise at the back of his head is still tender. Coming back under the spray he feels the suds sluicing down over his body, cleansing him. Taking up a square bar of yellow soap he sets about scouring himself from head to foot.
Finally he deems himself clean. Shaking the water from his body he steps out of the shower and towels himself dry, all the while examining the patterns of the hairs on his pink skin. He has no memories of this his body.
His pyjamas have a stale smell. As he buttons them over his clean skin he tells himself to ask the nurses for a clean pair.
Having shaved, feeling refreshed and not a little foolish, glad only that he didn't tell the nurses of his pain, he returns to his bed, drinks his tepid tea and glances through his paper. The day nurses and cleaners arrive. One of the women cleaners, a dumpy miserable person, complains that her floor polisher is on the blink. Whenever it stops she walks over and kicks its plug. Kicking the plug has no effect. The polisher's fickleness is more in tune with the flickering lights. The woman finally curses aloud and flinging about its lead she packs the polisher away.
When breakfast is brought John John recognises his hunger, has orange juice, porridge and a poached egg on toast. Then he sets about the crossword.
Two new patients are wheeled in on stretchers. Both men appear to know the nurses. The curtains are hurriedly drawn around their beds. There is much urgent coming and going and ringing of the telephone. Neither of the new patients is Assan's. All the nurses this day appear preoccupied, subdued. John John wonders at the change in them; or is it in his perception of them?
John John watches Osman Rustar wince as he turns in his bed, as he wincing moves again, the pain within not letting him settle. John John realises that he has screwed up his own face in sympathetic mimicry. He studies Osman Rustar: he is breathing open-mouthed now, looking up at the ceiling. Osman Rustar is a man collapsing inside himself, going ever deeper within himself to escape the pain.
John John has three clues of the crossword left to solve when the young doctor, who first examined him, stops by his bedside. He asks John John how he is feeling. He does not call him John John. John John tells him that he is feeling much better. That does not appear to cheer the doctor, who asks if his memory has returned. John John tells him not.
"Well," the doctor looks at the nurses busy with yet another new patient, "we can't release you until we discover what was wrong with you. Don't want you collapsing in the street again. And we can’t let you go until we know who exactly you are. Just have to be patient. Mr Assan will be seeing you tomorrow."
The doctor seems to be searching for other things to say to John John. John John realises that the doctor hasn't come to him with any particular purpose in mind, has just happened by.
"Could I have some clean pyjamas?" John John asks him.
The doctor expressionlessly studies John John for so long that John John becomes uncomfortable. Finally the doctor says,
"I'll have a word with sister," and he goes.
All three of the new patients are taken to surgery. John John asks Osman Rustar if he knows what is wrong with them. Osman Rustar doesn’t know, remarks though on the downcast faces of the nurses this day, says that whatever is happening it must be bad.
John John begins the second of his library books. He is reading when a man in black clothes kneels beside his bed. The man introduces himself as the hospital chaplain. He smells of sugar, as if he has scented his breath. His unscented breath therefore, John John deduces, must stink.
The chaplain, smiling, continues to breathe into John John's face. John John waits to find out what the man wants. Mr MacMaster's bed is still stripped. John John wonders if the chaplain has come especially to see him or if he has come to see everyone in the ward and his is the first occupied bed.
The idea of the unscented breath is making his own breathing difficult, and the chaplain's face being so close disconcerts him. It is a long face with large discoloured teeth. And why is he kneeling? He is a long limbed man, but so too is the spotty doctor and he used the chair. This is behaviour wholly at odds with what John John has so far witnessed in the ward. Even the most ebullient of visitors hasn't behaved like this. Even the fussing wives haven't stayed this close.
"I don't know what denomination you are," the chaplain speaks just as John John is about to turn away, "but here in the hospital chapel we hold en ecumenical service."
John John knows what the man is talking about: he can’t see, though, what connection it has with him.
"And should you not be of our persuasion," as before he gives John John an understanding look, an inference of forgiveness, "that will not stand in the way of my doing all that I can to help you. Is there anything that I can do for you?"
John John can think of nothing that this man might do for him. He shrugs into the face.
"Are you C of E?" the chaplain asks him.
"I don't know." John John says, recognising at last his prejudice against the man. The chaplain is false. He is trying to give the appearance of intimate concern and yet he hasn't bothered to find out anything about him.
"You were baptised?"
"I don't know."
"John's a biblical name. A doubly biblical name," the chaplain savours his own astute observation.
"John's the name they have given me here," John John tells him, "They don't know my real name. I’ve lost my memory."
For the first time the chaplain lowers his eyes from John John’s. The large chin is unshaven, the dog collar dirty.
"Surely though," the chaplain's eyes come slyly up, "no man can forget his God. Be it," he dismissively signifies Osman Rustar in the bed behind John John, "Allah or Jehovah."
"I think I may have forgotten him," John John says, "Though I do know what you're talking about."
"Do you know the bible?"
"I know what it is."
"Then you are a Christian."
John John searches for a rebuttal. He doesn't want this false man with the shabby theatricality of his dress and gestures and his television actor's grimacing to be right, recalls a conversation with Osman Rustar and his wife. She too said that no-one could forget their religion.
"Does to know or something make me a follower of it?" he asks the chaplain, "Because I also know of the Koran. Does that make me a Muslim? I also know what’s in these books," John John gestures to his four library books, "it doesn't mean that I am a follower of their philosophies."
The chaplain tilts his head to the book titles,
"These are novels. That's a biography."
"A life story. And parables. Ideas. What else is the bible?" The chaplain, wearing now an expression of sad resignation, ponderously nods his large head. "If your memory does return," he lays a heavy intimidating hand on John John's shoulder as he rises, "and you do find that, after all, you are a Christian, and that you do require my services, then don't hesitate to call me. God be with you."
John John watches the chaplain in his loose black suit stride past Osman Rustar's bed and kneel beside the next bed. The kneeling, John John sees, is an affectation, an advertisement of his calling, as if the black suit and the yellowing dog collar were not sufficient.
Osman Rustar is looking over the top of his Daily Mail.
"He doesn't call on you then?" John John asks in Urdu. Osman Rustar grunts, presses a hand to his stomach.
"Some holy man," he says, and burps. They smile at one another and return to their reading.
Between pages John John watches the chaplain progress from bed to bed, kneeling beside each, even clasping his hands in prayer beside one. Two of the patients call a nurse over to adjust their televisions. He hears her tell them that there is some interference that's affecting the phones as well. The chaplain, with grey dust on his trouser knees, leaves the ward. Lunch is served. Another new patient is brought in, is put in the isolation room. Nurses and doctors are busy.
Before afternoon visiting John John solves the last three clues and looks with satisfaction upon the completed crossword.
During visiting he takes his novel into the television room. A stiff-backed patient joins him there, tries to find a television channel without interference. On all are a crackle of black and white diamonds.
"Freak weather conditions," the man crisply informs John John, switches off the television and, picking up a magazine, he sits in one or the high caramel armchairs. He glances at the cover of the magazine, tosses it back onto the table. His fingers tap on the arm of the chair.
"Hate hospitals," he says, "This public sitting around. All this waiting. Hate it." John John makes a sympathetic face, and realises that he does not know what it is to be private.
The man abruptly leaves. John John notices someone's discarded Daily Mirror. Laying down his novel, he finds the quizword. His mind answers eight of the general knowledge clues. He wonders if his memory is returning. Or is he learning?

Voice Off. The idea of truth is a fiction.

The radio clock's red numerals are flashing 12:16. On losing power and being turned back on the clock resets itself to 12:00. The real time has to be late afternoon.
Barry looks to the yellow light flickering around the drawn bedroom curtains. How many times today, he wonders, has the power been cut? The last time it came back on was sixteen minutes ago, of that alone can he be certain.
Turning and stretching in bed he recalls the events of yesternight — the aurora, the Nimrod losing control, the drive home, his trying — to the security men's consternation — to phone both Steve Church and Brian Waters, the security men's relief when he was unable to reach either, their waiting for him to go to his dawn bed and out of earshot before they again phoned their masters and adjourned to their car.
The more he remembers the greater his interest in what has been happening while he has been asleep. Curiosity will not let him lie abed. Flinging off the duvet he tiptoes to the window and looks around the side or the curtain. The security men's white car hasn't moved. Both men are sat in it. One is looking up at him. And having seen Barry, out of habit, out of longstanding practise, he averts his face.
The duvet is folded over like a fat triangular sandwich, the thought of which activates Barry’s gastric juices. His watch says 19:08. Or is his watch slow too? No, the day has that feel to it — the angle of the sunlight, the lack of urgency in the noise of the traffic.
Dressed he flips aside the curtain, acknowledges the presence of the security men with a lift of his chin. Neither responds. Before leaving the bedroom he checks the radio. Crackle only. After the bathroom he tries the phone. Not even a dialling tone now.
The cooker still has gas. His mind though balks at cooking a meal. But, he tells himself, this might be his last hot meal for days; and, if the electricity is cut for any period, the contents of his freezer will ruin. So, out of the freezer, he wrenches a packet of lamb chops and a lump of peas. The chops and peas go into the microwave while he scrapes some potatoes. When they are in the pan he pops into the living room to check the television. Crackle only.
He eats his dinner on the living room's round table, pacing himself, having cooked too much but loath to waste it. As he eats he flips through various books, laying down both his knife and fork to make notes, calculations. By the time he finishes coffee his watch says 21:17. The day, though, is already darkening. He has not one mechanical clock or watch in the house. A few streetlights are showing beyond the houses out back. But that too means nothing; their timers will have been upset by the power cuts.
He is in no hurry to reach the observatory, knows that the scope will, in all likelihood, be out of action. But neither does he want to settle down here to some serious reading before he is certain that the observatory can be of no further use to him.
This time he doesn't wave to the security men, simply climbs into his red car and drives off. His car stalls at the first junction The white security car is behind his. His lights flicker as he restarts the engine.
He drives out through Hastings towards the marshes. A line of streetlights glow red as they come on, go abruptly off again. His engine stalls. In his mirror he sees the lights of the security car fade and die. His battery acts as if dead. Barry sits in his car and waits.
There are no lights in any of the houses in this street. Above the black roofs the golden aurora curls in the violet sky.
Barry looks again at the darkened windows. No lights, no telly. What are the people doing, he wonders. Rise in the birthrate probably. Will the television stations continue to transmit? Probably. Even if no-one's receiving them. While they have local power people will be able to catch up on their backlog of videos, play computer games. For a while longer. News addicts, though, must already be screaming without their regular supply.
Lights come on. He starts the engine, stalls twice more on the way to the castle. He notices too that his watch stops. Once he sees the security car stall, leaves them behind. When next he stalls the security car catches up, stalls behind him. The interference, Barry realises, cannot then be distributed evenly overall, but must lay in pockets or descend in swathes.
Not wanting to waste time turning when he comes out, especially if he's stalled then, Barry parks near the entrance to the carpark. The security men park alongside him. Both security men get out of their car.
"I doubt I'll be here long," Barry tells them, "Better come in with me."
The carpark is lit by the aurora, its organ pipes seeking a golden infinity. The light casts no shadows. Both security men regard it suspiciously.
There is no-one in the observatory nor in any of the offices. The lights go off, come on again while Barry and the security men walk the corridors.
From his office Barry collects two yearbook directories and three almanacs. In the observatory someone during the day has switched off the computers, has left the scope vertical. They must have been unable to close the roof: like two wayward leaves of the Sydney Opera House it is stuck partially open. A black plastic sheet has been tied over the scope.
"You’re witness to the end of an era," Barry tells the two security men, "From here on in it’s back to manual adjustments and chemical plates. So bye computers," he pats one, "Yours was a short but productive existence. Bye electronographics. Bye yon speckled interferometer. Bye photon counter. Bye satellites," he waves to the ceiling; and at that the lights go out again.
In the dark Barry says,
"I'm going home. You still with me?"
"Until further orders."
"They could be some time coming. This way," Barry guides them out of the tower, "When we get back you'd best come indoors and stay with me. One of you can have the sofa, and there's a spare bed." They are on the soft lawns now. "If this lot," Barry indicates the aurora like a festive Chinese dragon chasing its own tail, "should move on to the sun, there's bound to be a big flare. If it’s day here when that happens, this whole side of the planet might burn. If you're sat inside that car you'll roast in seconds for sure."
"What," they reach the cars, "if that, what d'you call it, flare goes on for twenty four hours?"
"The end of all our worries and trifling cares," Barry opens his car door, looks over to them, "If either of you have families..."
"We stay with you," the older security man tells him.

Voice Off. Human intelligence is preoccupied with limits. Higher than, further than, faster than, deeper than, smaller than... Humanity is incapable of viewing anything simply in relation to its direct cause and probable effect.