A woman with a green nylon uniform, pens in her breast pocket and a badge that said ‘Gyongyi’ brought him a tray. On it was a dinner plate with a metal cover on top, and a small bowl of ice cream. She smiled at him as she held it out, and for the briefest moment he wanted to tell her everything. It was a genuine smile. She seemed happy to bring him his food, and he wanted to talk. But ‘Thanks’ was all he said.
She lifted the lid. Some kind of fish, broccoli, potatoes.
‘Would you like it now?’ she said. ‘I know you haven’t eaten. It’s what we have left.’
He wasn’t hungry but he nodded. ‘Sure, why not,’ he said.
She placed the tray on the table over his bed. Metal cutlery, salt and pepper in paper sachets, a toothpick, a glass of water, a quarter lemon. The student stared.
‘Excuse me,’ he called out.
The woman with the Gyongyi name tag stepped back into the room.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the student, ‘I don’t mean to be difficult, I’m sure you’re busy and everything, but might I have some more lemon?’
She looked surprised. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Wait a minute.’
She ducked back out of the room and he heard the clatter of metal covers being lifted and dropped. She emerged with two more quarters.
‘These were left over. Most people don’t like them. You want both?’
He smiled his thanks. ‘I’ve heard they’re good for you,’ he said. ‘Vitamin C and all that. Thank you …’
He attempted her name, and she laughed.
‘It’s pronounced “Jon Gee”,’ she said.
He tried again and she smiled again.
‘That was your friend just now?’ She nodded her head towards the door.
He shrugged. ‘Yeah, kind of.’
‘She shouts a lot,’ she said.
He nodded his agreement. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. She’s kind of on edge.’
Gyongyi turned, then hesitated, uncertain, caught between two thoughts.
‘Does she treat you bad?’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘Oh it’s not like that.’
She stared at him, unconvinced. ‘OK,’ she said, and left.
Thursday. Three days. He had to try something. When she had gone, he pushed the table away and swung his legs out. Carefully manoeuvring the IV bag, he retied his hospital gown, cursing his lack of clothing. He closed the door to the room then quickly drank his glass of water, wiping it dry on the sheet. Kneeling on the bed, and with as much precision as time and nerves allowed, he squeezed each quarter lemon into the glass. Breathing heavily, he caught the sharp, acid smell as he pressed the skin between his fingers. He kept pressing until he was sure there was nothing left. He removed the pips, then held up the glass and peered at what he had. A few millimetres of juice at best. It wouldn’t be enough, he was sure of it. He would use small letters, few words. He had to try.
He pushed the plate, lid and cutlery off the tray and on to the blanket, replacing them with the glass and the toothpick. There were two ‘hospital comments’ cards on his bedside table. He reached for the first one, placed it on the tray. He dipped the red plastic toothpick in the lemon juice, then twisted it slowly between his fingers. He tapped the pick on the glass rim, then hovered above the card. It left spaces for name, address and a comment. He stroked a letter on the card, dipped again, stroked again. The letters shone briefly on the card before disappearing. He wrote in capitals.
The leader had given many talks. He loved to recall his revolutionary heroism in Turkey, Syria or wherever he had pitched up. He had reminded them that the old ways can be the best ways. That the dark web is patrolled by the security services, that computers are inherently vulnerable, and that if they couldn’t afford encryption, to stay analogue. Stay dark. No website, no emails, no texts. Instead, letters, typewriters and invisible ink would keep them hidden. And it had worked.
It was, he said, the Russians who had brought back invisible ink. For at least the last ten years they had been using paper impregnated with chemicals to transfer secret messages on to real letters. The student’s method was, of necessity, more primitive. He dipped and scraped more letters. Small, capitalized, as few as possible. They shone, they disappeared, absorbed by the paper. He wasn’t sure whether any of it would be readable.
He was close to finishing when the door opened. With a start he grabbed the dinner plate, pulling it back on to the tray and over the card. He started to retch.
‘I can see your arse. And I’d rather not.’ The woman flung some clothes at him. ‘What are you doing anyway?’
‘Trying not to be sick,’ he said, heart hammering in his chest.
The wrong thing to say. She grabbed the tray.
‘You just ate what they brought you? Are you fucking mental? You’ve just been poisoned, remember? Who knows who could have got this to you.’
There was a crash as she dropped the tray by the door.
He shook his head. ‘No, no. It’s just the smell. I didn’t eat any of it.’ He looked at her, red-faced, then looked for the tray. The plate was still covering the card, the glass with the lemon juice was on its side, empty.
He slid back into bed. She paced the room.
‘I can’t believe you even thought of eating their food,’ she said.
He closed his eyes. Wished Gyongyi had come back.
‘Well I’ve taken their medicine,’ he said. ‘If they were going to get rid of me they’d have done it by now.’
The woman, clearly anxious, continued to pace. ‘You need to get dressed.’
‘I haven’t been discharged,’ he said.
‘He wants you out. So you’re discharged.’
‘He’s discharging me?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s the hurry?’ he said. ‘The toxicology tests aren’t through yet.’
She stood at the head of his bed. ‘We know what happened. You were poisoned. You were compromised. We need to get you out. Get dressed.’ Before he knew it, she’d removed the drip from his arm and motioned at the assortment of clothes she had flung at him. Jeans, shirt and shoes.
‘Where did you get them?’ he asked.
‘Someone died.’
He stared at the jumbled clothing. ‘You stole them? From a dead guy?’
She sat awkwardly on the far corner of his bed. Her face was fixed. Her voice was raised. ‘You need to get dressed. You need to be ready. It doesn’t matter where the clothes come from.’
He held up the trousers and shirt. They looked too big for him but not by much.
‘Underwear? Socks?’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘You’ll cope. Get dressed.’
He thought he would try one last time. ‘You should really leave me here. I told the leader. If I’m compromised, I’ll ruin everything. I’ll be fine.’
She slid up the bed. ‘Yes, you’re compromised. No, you’re not staying here. It’s not safe.’ She glanced at the jeans. ‘I’ll step outside if you’re suddenly feeling modest.’
He nodded and she left, clicking the door shut behind her. He had just swung out of bed when the door opened again.
‘Woman here to collect the poison shit she brought you. Decent?’