‘Ali?’ Tabitha hadn’t even looked up. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yep, all good. Dad told me to tell you lunch was horrendous and he’s ready for his G&T whenever!’
Tabitha laughed and continued with her work.
Ali ploughed on down the custard-coloured corridor, the rubber floors squeaking underfoot, as she looked for someone closer to her own age who could be trusted with photography duties. She turned left down another corridor, which led to the courtyard with a little garden that hardly any of the residents on this ward were well enough to visit. Until about a year ago, Miles had been able to walk with help but now he was stuck in bed.
The walls of this corridor were lined with child-like artwork that some of the more compos mentis residents had made during art therapy. The effect was weirdly reminiscent of a primary school. She often wondered if the Ailesend board was made up of sadists. Sometimes it felt like they were trying to compound the misery of the place. Her thoughts were interrupted by a feeble voice.
‘Help me … help me … help me.’
Ali shivered slightly. She was outside John Mahon’s room – he was another early onset patient like her dad. Suddenly the door opened and a hassled-looking woman in her thirties rushed out, nearly colliding with Ali.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘No probs, I know the feeling.’ Ali smiled gently in what she hoped was an understanding manner but the woman’s brow furrowed. ‘Oh,’ Ali went on. ‘You know, when you’ve done your bit and then you’re all, like, “Wah, get me out of here!”’ Ali flailed a bit in an attempt to mime escaping, but the woman looked less than impressed with the insinuation that she was fleeing.
Ali frantically started to backtrack. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that you’re dying to go – just me. Like, I love my dad but when I’m leaving I’m just so relieved, ya know?’ At this the woman’s face softened.
‘Sorry … I do know what you mean,’ she admitted quietly. ‘I’m Helen. I’ve just moved home from the UK. That’s my dad.’ She gestured back to the closed door. Another ‘help me’ came from within and Helen flinched. ‘The doctors say it’s a reflex – he’s not distressed. They think it’s more like a needle skipping on a record.’
‘Jeez,’ Ali muttered. ‘You got really unlucky in the Alzheimer’s lotto. Of all the things he could be stuck on saying.’
‘Yep.’ Helen sighed.
‘At least my dad doesn’t say anything.’ Ali laughed bleakly. ‘Imagine if they were all like, “Don’t you leave me here, you fuckin’ bitch!”’
Ali had a habit of saying the wrong thing when she was nervous. And from the look on Helen’s face, this was the wrong thing. ‘Oh my god, I’m so sorry. When I was a kid, my mum used to say, “Some things are inside thoughts.” That was an inside thought.’
To her surprise, Helen actually laughed a little. ‘That was the most inside thought ever! I know what you mean, though. Some days in here are just so shitty, if you didn’t laugh you’d cry. Or scream. Or throw something.’ Helen looked tired but a little more relaxed too.
Ali smiled and frantically tried to think of how best to introduce the idea of the photograph without seeming weird. ‘Will you take my picture?’ she eventually blurted. Helen looked surprised. You need to give a reason, thought Ali. ‘For a … souvenir.’ Jesus, maybe not that reason. ‘Sorry, not a souvenir … what I mean is … my aunt sent me this dress and I want to send her a pic of me wearing it.’
‘O-K.’ Helen was clearly a little dubious.
Ali edged past her towards the courtyard. ‘Maybe down here where it’s a bit brighter?’
It was chilly in the courtyard as Ali quickly shifted an overflowing ashtray off the table and out of the way of the shot. She took out her phone and reapplied her lipstick in the screen then handed it over to Helen with a list of directions for the composition.
‘We really need to get all of me in shot here, and don’t be afraid to let me know if I should suck my tummy in or whatever. You tell me what’s working.’
Ali arranged herself leaning back against the wall, one leg straight, one leg bent, revealing the thigh-high slit in the dress. She arched her back slightly and pulled her features into one of her practised pouts.
‘How am I looking, Helen?’ she called. ‘More leg?’
‘Well, maybe less, if anything. It’s for your aunt, you said?’
‘Don’t mind that. We need sexy but not too raunchy.’
‘Do we?’ asked Helen, looking baffled. She took what looked to be a couple of lacklustre snaps and stooped to gather her handbag. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I really need to be going … Eh, hope your aunt enjoys these.’
‘Wait, but I wasn’t ready!’ Ali glanced quickly down at the phone. The last shot was definitely not a goer – she was fixing her knickers, for fuck’s sake. She went after Helen, who had already headed back inside and was striding back up the corridor. ‘Helen, come on, just a couple more – I need to get the angles better.’
‘No!’ Helen wheeled around and looked reproachful. ‘Whatever this is for, I’m not into it. Frankly, it seems in bad taste posing here.’ She gestured around vaguely. ‘It’s really not the place.’ On cue, John Mahon started up again and Ali burned with embarrassment.
‘No, you’re right. Sorry, Helen. These are actually perfect. Gorgeous. Thanks for the help. Nice meeting you.’ She slipped past Helen and hurried back towards Miles’s room feeling Helen’s eyes on her the whole way.
Back in her dad’s room, Ali slumped against the door. Miles hadn’t moved so much as a finger in the time she’d been gone.
