What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Four

 

Chapter Four: Kindness

 

As the next couple of days passed I began to fear the sound of the opening of my door – the grinding of its hinges, following the sliding of a steel bolt on the other side.

 

My fear wasn’t centred around the door itself, but rather the split seconds of uncertainty as to who would walk through the door into my cell.

 

Would it be Him… or Her.

 

The man was kind. He had given me a blanket. He had seemed shocked that I had been doused in ice water. That had been overstepping the bounds of decency, he had said. I had been Inner Party, after all. That had to mean something, he said. The next time he visited – perhaps twelve hours later - he had brought a thermos flask of hot tea and two scratched plastic cups.

 

“This must be such an ordeal,” he said as he sat down opposite me and placed the thermos flask on the table. “Now, I don’t know whether you take sugar or milk?”

 

“Please.” I gazed at the thermos flask. I was feeling very hungry. I tried to ignore the smell of stale urine from the chamber pot that sat on the floor on the other side of the room. That was my toilet and it hadn’t been emptied since I had been forced to squat over it and relieve myself. A camera fixed high on the ceiling had no doubt watched me while I did so. 

 

The man smiled as if I had just made some comical misunderstanding. “Now, is that, yes to milk, or yes to sugar, or perhaps yes to both?”

 

I sniffed and wiped my nose with the sleeve of my white blouse. I still wore the coarse blanket over my sticky, damp clothing. The cell was too cold for my clothes to have dried fully yet. “Milk, no sugar.”

 

“Ah, of course. You’re sweet enough as it is,” he said with a warm smile and a wink. “There’s nothing like a good, hot cup of tea to improve the spirit,” he said as he poured two cups and handed me one. As he slid the small bottle of milk across the table, I flinched slightly, the reflex of tension in my shoulders and the tightening of my fingers around the blanket almost faster than thought. My heart skipped, then slowed again, as if waiting for some unseen instruction.

 

“I haven’t done anything,” I said.

 

“Hush, hush.” The man put his finger to his mouth and smiled kindly again. “It’s not a question of whether you’ve done anything, Palmer. That’s not how this works.”

 

Palmer. My first name had been whisked away with my shoes, and my self-control. “I don’t know why this is happening. Please…” 

 

“Well, that’s part of the problem, isn’t it, Palmer? You say you don’t know why this is happening.” He slid his hand across the table and gently touched my outstretched fingers. “You’re in denial. And, frankly, that makes it very difficult for me to help you.”

 

“Please, I’ll…”

 

“Drink your tea, Palmer. You could use a good cup of tea right now. You must be famished?”

 

I nodded quickly and then sipped the tea, hands shaking slightly from cold and exhaustion. The warmth seeped slowly into my fingers, and for a moment, I felt almost safe - but my bladder burned with need, reminding me that every reflex, every comfort, was temporary, measured, conditional.

 

“God’s sake, haven’t they fed you yet?”

 

I shook my head, desperately, as I sipped my tea. It was hot but weak tasting, like the cheap teabag had been used for a third time and left to stew. 

 

“I’ll speak to someone,” he said, leaning back. “These things are always handled according to protocol. It’s not personal. It’s simply the way the system operates.”

 

Hope flickered, faint and fragile. I wrapped the blanket tighter around my shoulders, as if the fabric could somehow contain it, could make it real. My stomach tightened—not from hunger alone—and I realized that even small comforts came with strings.

 

“I took a look in your file,” said the man as he sipped his own tea, before placing the plastic cup back down on the table. “You went to a rather good school, didn’t you?”

 

“Ravenscourt Hall,” I said.

 

“Well, I’m impressed, Palmer. And it said you were in the top tier Hockey team?”

 

Where was he going with this? “I was, yes. I was good at hockey.”

 

“Jolly hockey sticks, and all that, eh?” The man smiled again. “I understand Ravenscourt is a staunch bastion of New Feminism?”

 

“Yes. I was wearing a white Purity Ribbon when I came here.”

 

“And an education centre for the daughters of the Steel Worlds? Those privileged women who would hold the switch in their right hands, not feel it upon their naked backs?”

 

I hugged the blanket tighter around me, shivering despite the warmth. The words of Ravenscourt Hall slipped into my mind unbidden, like echoes from a life that belonged to someone else:

 

“No hesitation, no apology!”

 

I had marched through the assembly hall chanting it, all of us - heads held high, shoulders back, convinced that fear was for others. Now I flinched at the creak of a door, trembling before men who did not hesitate, who had no need for apology.

 

“Power is not given; power is taken!”

 

I had believed it, felt it in the rallies and debates, in the speeches and drills. I had thought strategy and wit could make the world yield. But here, in this grey room, power had already been taken — taken from me — and all that was left was obedience.

 

“Eyes open, heart steady, hands ready!”

 

I stared at the cement floor. My eyes were open, but all I could see was the drip of water from my hair onto the tiles, the tight, humiliating pressure in my bladder. My heart was anything but steady, and my hands — so uselessly idle — could only clutch the blanket like a child.

 

The slogans, once a shield and a banner, now felt like a cruel reminder: the creed I had memorized so fervently had no power here. They had not needed to teach me to obey; I had learned it too well already.

 

I closed my eyes and whispered one final line under my breath, almost a prayer, almost a taunt at my own foolishness:

 

“We are the daughters of action, not whispers.”

 

And yet, all I could do was whisper.

 

“You had a great future ahead of you, Palmer. Your file says you were earmarked for something good. And now this.”

 

“I didn’t do…”

 

““And there it is again: denial, obfuscation, a desire to cheat the system.”

 

The word denial echoed in my mind, ticking like a metronome I couldn’t stop. Denial. Denial. It pressed against my skull, not as meaning, but as rhythm, as accusation. My throat ached. My hands tightened around the blanket without my thinking. “I don’t know what you want from me,” I cried, my hands shaking.

 

“I want you to understand and come to terms with your failings. I want you to be honest with me, Palmer. I can’t begin to help you until you are honest with me.” He tapped his fingers on the table and thought about something for a moment. “Would you rather speak to Hesther Cain? The woman who interrogated you when you first came here?”

 

“NO! Please, no! I want to speak with you!” There was a sound of desperation in my voice as I reached my hands across the table. To my relief the man took them and held my hands to comfort me.

 

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I shouldn’t have suggested that. Between you and me, Hesther can be a bit overbearing at times. It’s just that… well, my patience isn’t infinite, Palmer. There are other demands on my time.”

 

“What do you want me to say? I’ll say it. Please, I will”

 

“It’s not for me to tell you what to say, Palmer. What good would that be? It’s for you to tell me what you need me to know. When you can do that, why, then we can move forward. They took away your shoes, didn’t they?” 

 

I nodded quicky.

 

“Well, how about as a reward for your first steps to rehabilitation, I find you some replacement shoes? The cement floor must be cold against your feet.”

 

“It is,” I said. 

 

“And maybe I can arrange a mattress? Have you slept yet?”

 

“I couldn’t sleep. Not on the concrete floor. And the bright lights never go off. But I’m so tired.”

 

He squeezed my hands. “There are things I can do for you, Palmer, but you have to take the first step. Do you understand?”

 

I nodded quickly. “Can I… can I ask you a question?”

 

The man smiled. “Perhaps. Just as long as it’s not a question about your mother or father. I can’t help you there.”

 

“Will you tell me your name? Please will you tell me your name?” I held his hands, fearing that if I lost contact with him, he would never return, SHE would return instead.

 

“What would you like me to be called, Palmer?’

 

I sniffed back some snot in my nose. It was so cold in this room. “Michael?”

 

“Then I’ll be Michael,” said the man. “Just for you. You can call me Michael. This is good, isn’t it, Palmer? I think we’re actually getting somewhere?”

 

I nodded, too choked up to speak. 

 

And then it was over. ‘Michael’ gathered up the cups, the small bottle of milk ,and the thermos flask, and with a final smile he left me alone in my cell. I sat still on the chair, alternatively lifting up one foot and then the other, to avoid too much contact with the stone cold floor. I ran my hands through my hair feeling how matted it was from being inside the leather hood for several hours. The armpits of my blouse had the odour of dried sweat. produced by the bouts of terror I had felt ever since being bundled into the black van. My black tights were torn at the knees and my plaid jumper dress had still to dry itself properly. 

 

I wanted to climb into bed and sleep for a whole day, but there was no bed here, not even a mattress.  

And the intensity of the harsh strip lighting on the ceiling was overwhelming. 

 

But given enough time, enough ongoing stress, I knew my body would give in and I would be able to sleep even in these conditions.

 

Were they ever going to feed me? I wasn’t used to feeling hungry. I was Inner Party. We never went hungry. My father had two maids, either of whom could rustle up a snack at a moment’s notice. Surely they would feed me? They must feed me.

 

I rose from the chair and paced about my cell, running the fingers of my right hand along the surface of the rough grey-painted walls. 

 

The soles of my stocking-clad feet were cold. 

 

And I needed to go to the toilet again. The cup of tea had seen to that. I gazed up at the unblinking half globe that was the security camera mounted on the ceiling where I couldn’t reach it. I had no idea whether it might pick up sound as well as video.

 

“I’m hungry,” I said as I gazed up at it. “Please, I’m hungry.”

 

The silence in my cell was my only answer. As the pressure in my bladder intensified, I pulled down my black tights, rolled down my panties, and squatted down on the chamber pot, rolling the hem of my jumper dress about my tights. I refused to look at the camera as I relieved myself into the chamber pot. There was no toilet paper, so I had nothing to wipe myself with. I simply slid my panties back in place and rolled my tights back over my hips and then soothed the hem of my jumper dress down to my knees.

 

The smell of urine was now fresh again. 

 

So cold.

 

So very cold. 

 

The harsh strip lighting seemed to crackle every now and then, adding to my discomfort. 

 

So cold. So tired.  

 

So cold.