Page 58 of Locke

There was a special odour in this building. It wasn’t musk or sweat. It was indescribable. Like desperation mixed with stagnant old air that never moved but sat like a fog. It was impossible to wash off sometimes, or maybe it was in my head now, but it never got old. Wrinkling my nose, I stepped off at the third level and walked down the hall. Screams erupted behind me, coming from behind closed doors. It wasn’t unusual when couples argued, but it got quite physical here, and many times the police were called over. Derek said the wailing in the middle of the night was so horrific and violent, he had to call it quits and sleep at 5 in the afternoon just to ensure he could get some sleep.

I felt bad he was placed here, but he wasn’t keen on transitioning into a facility, and this was the best he had been given.

Like a hotel room, I scanned the card through the reader, and it flashed green. I stepped in, and it was dim, clouds of smoke heavy in the air. There were fans in both windows of his room, placed there to suck out the smoke, and while I had assured him it did its job, the room was still pungent of it.

The apartment was studio size with a bathroom to my right, a small storage closet next to it, and then the actual room Derek was in: an adjustable bed with bars and a mounted television pointing down at him. To my left was a tiny kitchenette, cluttered with a coffee machine and snack jars and other everyday items he used throughout the day.

“Kali?” he called out as I kicked off my shoes.

“Here,” I said.

“Good.”

Ten steps later and I was standing at his adjustable bed, his electronic wheelchair within reach of him. For 52 years old, he was a small man with a bald head and a soul that had so much life. He was also the sweetest guy ever. Turning away from the television, he smiled at me. “You made it.”

He always said that. You made it. Like he was pleasantly surprised every time.

“You mean, I made it alive,” I corrected him lightly. I went to his kitchenette and filled his kettle up. “How’d you sleep?”

“It’s getting louder every night.”

“I heard screams on the way here.”

“That’s nothing.”

I frowned, glancing at him quickly. “But they keep to themselves.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I get the occasional knock.”

“They can’t get in without a card.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t sound so sure.

I placed the kettle down and flipped the switch to boil. Then I pulled out the tea jar with all the packets. “I’ll have a word with the office on my way out. We need to get the cameras in the building working again.”

They’d been out long before I’d started here a year ago.

I doubted I’d get anywhere, so the offer sounded hollow to my own ears.

When Derek didn’t answer, I turned around to look at him. He had grabbed his phone and was looking through it, a tight expression on his face. He was usually very excited to see me. This behaviour wasn’t usual.

“Everything okay, Derek?” I prodded softly.

He nodded, still buried in his phone. “Yeah. How have you been?”

“I’m good.”

“Still babysitting those designer bags?”

“I’m going in tomorrow night.”

“But that’s a Monday.”

“She’s flying out suddenly, and he’s got a late appointment. So, he messaged me practically pleading.”

“Did they spell your name wrong again?”

“Yep.”

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