The Cleaner: Retribution in Lockdown

2nd April 2020

Kyle arrived in intensive care. Another body bag was being moved from the ‘COVID positive’ area. Intensive care staff scrubbed and washed the specialist equipment that Kyle and the other cleaners had been told not to touch. Kyle was glad that he didn’t have to go anywhere near it; what if he pressed a button by mistake? Or broke one of the tubes? What if he ended up killing someone? A nauseous feeling rose in his chest at the thought. Michelle, his supervisor, appeared beside him. She was puffing like a steam train after racing up the stairs to respond to the emergency bleep.

‘Kyle, we’re going to have to get a move on in here, they’re just moving this body to the morgue. Another patient is due in, just been flown in by helicopter, they’re waiting in A&E resus, needs a ventilator apparently.’

‘OK, Michelle’.

‘There are no other spare ITU beds in the whole of North Wales, nearest one is now Liverpool.’

Kyle’s heart began to beat faster. What had happened to the part-time cleaning job that he had applied for in the morning before school? Mopping the hospital floors? Cleaning ward surfaces and around patients’ beds? Scrubbing the toilets? How had he ended up here, partly responsible for ensuring the safe passage to intensive care of a patient with a life‑threatening illness?

‘None at all?’

Michelle shook her head.

‘How long have we got?’

‘Less than fifteen minutes if we can,’ said Michelle, rolling her eyes. ‘That’s why I’ve had to come up, you’ll never do it by yourself.’

There were no short cuts in intensive care, nothing that could be left for next time, and no way of missing anything out. Everything needed to be done thoroughly. Kyle made his way into the changing room, pulled his suit on and collected his cleaning supplies. He could feel the vibrations of the room through his hazmat. The patients in this part of intensive care were all COVID positive, anaesthetised and relying on ventilators for every breath. They didn’t look like people, they didn’t move, or talk. They just lay there, wrapped in all kinds of tubes and equipment.

Sweat dripped down Kyle’s face as the suit steamed up. He looked up at Michelle who pointed to the entrance. Like a colleague in a nuclear power plant, or an actor in a movie scene reminiscent of a scene from an apocalyptic disaster, she was indicating that they had to leave. But this was not a nuclear power plant, or an apocalyptic disaster, this was a British National Health Service hospital in 2020.

As Kyle finished mopping the floor, a team of medics appeared at the door with a patient lying on a trolley enshrouded in resuscitation equipment. The plastic at the front of Kyle’s mask had long since clouded over and his armpits were sopping.

Kyle began to undo his the hazmat suit as he made his way out of ITU and into the changing rooms. He discarded it in the clinical waste bin together with the rest of his protective equipment. What a relief. He looked up at the clock – it was nearly time to go home: he couldn’t wait to get into the changing rooms and have a shower.

‘Well done, mate,’ said Michelle, following closely behind him with her hair plastered to her head and beads of sweat dripping off her nose. ‘We did it.’

‘Yeah, just about.’

When he had started this job, he had known exactly what it was that he needed to do. He had a schedule, a routine. There were no such things as face masks, or hazmat suits. Because of his age, he could only work for limited number of hours, no nights, no anti-social shifts. Whether this was an antisocial shift was questionable, but with the hospital short of cleaners, nobody had batted an eyelid when he had applied to work for a few hours before school every day. Now, in the space of just under two months, things had changed. They were changing every day, every hour, sometimes every minute. Kyle didn’t like it.

Outside in the fresh air, Kyle breathed a sigh of relief as he left the stale, clinical environment. He felt human again after his shower. As he made his way home, his thoughts turned to what he’d just seen at work. He’d not seen the face of the patient in the body bag and he was glad. Regardless, he wondered who it was; had they been unwell anyway? Were they old? Had they known they were going to die? In the hospital, because of COVID? Did their families know?

As he walked home deep in thought, Kyle realised that he had reached Jade’s old house. It was still cordoned off by red tape and metal fencing that had long been kicked in; burned out, looking as forlorn as ever. COVID had stalled any plans that anyone had of renovation. Always a reason to make him smile. As much as he realised how badly it could have all ended, Kyle grinned to himself. It had been nearly six months since he had last seen Daryl. He wondered if the police had caught up with him yet? Was he still on the run? Kyle felt certain that he wasn’t; he would have come looking for him by now, wouldn’t he?

One thing was for sure, the hospital was the last place that Daryl would come looking for him, wasn’t it? That said, cleaning the COVID-filled wards of the local hospital could never, ever be worse than working for Daryl. Had Daryl executed his plans, Kyle could have been one of the occupants of the body bags making their final journeys through the corridors of the hospital – if anyone had ever found him that was. He shuddered to himself as he contemplated the possibility.

Eventually, he reached the park. Covered in litter from the increased lockdown footfall, it was more of a mess than usual. Kyle usually avoided walking through the park when he was on his own, but today he didn’t care. He was tired and wanted to get home as soon as he could. As he crossed the car park by the shops, he heard a voice.

‘Alright, Kyle?’

Kyle stopped. His blood froze. Slowly, he turned around. Daryl.

1st July 2019

Kyle inhaled deeply and blew out the cigarette smoke. It was a glorious day. The summer sunshine beamed down on the school field as he and the other smokers congregated underneath the shade of the big fir tree. He took another drag of the cigarette and handed it back to Mo. Mo took it, then paused.

‘Aw, man! Quick, everyone, hide your fags, Marchant’s over there,’ he said as he stubbed the cigarette out and placed the remainder on the stone wall behind them. ‘By the old stile on the road.’ Everyone hastily disposed of their cigarettes.

Lunch breaks when Mr. Marchant was on duty consisted of him finding novel and innovative methods of catching pupils smoking. Today - attempting to be as evasive as possible - he had crept behind the old stone wall that separated the school grounds from the road. Climbing over what was formerly a stile in years gone by, he precariously balanced on the top. Eventually, he took the plunge and jumped into the clump of well-established blackberry bushes on the other side. He screeched in pain as his thin spindly leg became trapped. Eventually he freed himself from the tangled undergrowth. Kyle, Mo and everybody else looked on, sniggering, as he cursed and shook his leg. Seeing them standing there with no cigarettes, minding their own business, seemed to infuriate Mr. Marchant even more.

However, standing behind one of the fir trees, oblivious, Barry continued to puff away on the cigarette that he had obtained from Ishmael. Ishmael didn’t smoke but he was being “encouraged” to purchase a regular supply of cigarettes for Barry. Eventually, Barry registered the fact that Mr. Marchant was advancing at significant speed towards him.

‘Quick, hold me fag!’ he said to Ishmael.

‘No, I can’t, Barry… they’ll kick me out this time.’

‘Just hold it, before I leather you!’

Ishmael fearfully took hold of the cigarette. Barry tried, but failed, to creep inconspicuously behind the nearby fir tree.

Ishmael was one of the many kids in school who lived in care. He had only been attending since February. He had told Kyle all about his past. He painted a bleak and dismal picture of life before he was removed from his family home. Ishmael’s eyes emitted a dreadful sense of melancholy which seemed to follow him around everywhere that he went. There was an air of desperation about him, a pathetic sense of wanting to belong somewhere, anywhere, even if it was to the worst club in the world. Unfortunately, this rendered him vulnerable. Ever since he had come to the school, he had been trying to fit in somewhere, to be accepted. Sadly for Ishmael, the school bully, Barry – who by now had managed to alienate himself from the majority of his peers - had taken full advantage: Ishmael was a perfect commodity for him to use. Kyle liked Ishmael.

‘Well, what have we here? Ishmael Ali! And you, Barry Tomlins, come out from behind that tree immediately!’

Barry emerged. A spiral of smoke trailed up Ishmael’s back and rose into the air. Mr. Marchant’s beady eyes scanned them, eventually fixing on the top of Ishmael’s head as he noticed the wispy trail wafting over it.

‘Aah!’ said Mr. Marchant, pointing his long, bony finger towards Ishmael. ‘Now tell me, what do you have behind your back?’

‘Wot? Me? N…n…nothing, sir!’

Mr. Marchant crept closer to him. ‘Show me your hands!’

Ishmael pulled one hand out from behind his back, then the other. The trail of smoke that had previously crept up from behind his back was now wafting up from the ground at his feet. Mr. Marchant spotted the cigarette burning on the grass. He beckoned to Ishmael.

‘Right! You can come with me!’

Ishmael looked up at Barry in despair, waiting for him to say something. Barry remained silent. Mr. Marchant frogmarched Ishmael towards the school.

Tall and well built, Barry threatened anyone who failed to do what he told them to. Ishmael had already been in trouble several times, taking the blame for Barry’s actions and was on his final warning before expulsion. Barry was aware of this; evidently he didn’t care.

Ishmael wasn’t stupid. Over the past few months Kyle had got to know him. Behind the exterior of the frightened little boy who was petrified of being abandoned again was a hopeful spirit who wanted to succeed and learn. He pretended not to be interested in school but he went to his lessons and he achieved reasonable grades. Barry was grinning to himself. The grin dropped away from his face as he caught Kyle’s look of contempt.

‘Well, fess up, Barry, otherwise that’s Ishmael out.’

‘What? Dopey git! Fancy dropping it on the floor and not putting it out first!’

Kyle picked his cigarette up from where Mo had strategically placed it behind the stones and re-ignited it, continuing his stare off with Barry. Barry shrugged and picked up the burning cigarette that Ishmael had dropped.

‘Yeah, but Barry, then you’d have had a go at him for squashing your fag. Fancy letting him take the rap for you, man!’

Barry’s face fell. ‘What?’ he said as his face scrunched up, like a bulldog chewing a wasp. ‘And get into shit meself? Na!’

Barry had done some evil things to people in the past, but this really was too far. His cowardice was evident, his contempt for Ishmael brazen. Barry seemed confident that Ishmael mattered as little to Kyle as he did to anyone else.

Kyle watched as Ishmael was escorted down the field by Mr. Marchant; as he listened, he could hear him pleading with the teacher not to phone the foster home where he lived.

‘Aww, come on, Barry, aren’t you meant to be hard?’ Kyle asked, blowing smoke in Barry’s direction. ‘Why you letting him take the rap? It was your fag, if you’re so hard, what you letting him get into shit for? He’s taken enough for you as it is!’

The gang fell silent, all eyes on Kyle and Barry. Barry shifted around uncomfortably.

Kyle had had many arguments with Barry over the years, and, funnily enough, despite all the intimidating threats that Barry had made to “kick his head in” etc., the threats had never materialised. Things had come to a head earlier in the year when Kyle had called him out over calling his best friend Mo a terrorist because he and his family were Muslim. Barry had threatened to “deck him”. Kyle had advised him to proceed, but Barry had declined to do so, stating that he would “kill him”. Despite Kyle’s further invitations, he then had stormed off into school claiming that the teachers were coming and that he would finish him off later. He never had.

‘Ahh, what does he matter anyway? Who is he? Yer new boyfriend?’

Kyle held his arms out widely to the sides.

‘Well, it’s just that I thought you were meant to be hard, Barry. Or are you just hard when it’s someone you think you can start on and they ain’t gonna say anything?’

‘Fair warning, Kyle, shut your gob if you don’t want a hiding.’

‘Whatever, go and tell Marchant the truth if ya meant to be so hard, Barry! That’s Ishmael’s final warning here.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ll… I’ll… I’ll flatten you.’

Kyle let out a snigger as he handed the cigarette back to Mo.

‘Barry, the only thing you could ever flatten is your own turd if you sat on it!’

The group collapsed, guffawing as they tried to muffle their sniggers. Barry’s face turned purple.

‘Yeah, but it’s true though, innit?’ said Kyle as he turned to face the rest of the group.

‘Right, you’ve… you’ve had it now!’ said Barry as he swung his huge arm towards Kyle. ‘Time for a decking; get back home to Africa where you came from.’

Rage bubbled up in Kyle. He ducked out of the way of Barry’s arm. Barry’s centre of gravity shifted as he stumbled forwards. Before Kyle could stop himself, his right arm had automatically pulled itself backwards: it flew forwards, straight into Barry’s nose. Barry sank to the floor in a heap as blood poured out of his nostrils. He lay on the floor, not moving. Everyone gasped.

‘Mate, I think you’ve killed him!’ said Mo.

Kyle bent down and poked his finger into Barry’s face, squelching the bottom jowl of his large flabby jaw. Barry moaned.

‘Na… he’s still alive.’

The bell rang.

‘Catch ya in a bit, Mo!’

Kyle hurried back down the field towards the school, leaving the group standing with their mouths open. Mr. Marchant was heading across the netball court with Ishmael in tow.

‘Sir,’ said Kyle to Mr. Marchant as he drew level with him, ‘the fag you accused Ishmael of having, that was Barry’s - Ishmael doesn’t even smoke, Barry just makes him buy them for him.’

Luckily, Barry had regained consciousness by the time that the ambulance arrived. Barry’s status as the hardest kid in the school was destroyed as a new school legend was formed: Kyle Adams, the guy who knocked Barry out cold. However, due to the fact that he had been suspended for a month, Kyle wasn’t there to revel in any of it.

His mum was furious. She grounded him for two weeks and stopped his pocket money for a month. She made him do all the work that they sent home for him. Even though Kyle found it easier to study when he sat on his own without the distractions of school, it got so boring after a week or so.

‘Can’t I just leave this bit? I hate history anyway, Mum?’

‘Very funny, you’d better start getting your head down in that school. I don’t scrub toilets all day so that you can chuck your life away.’

‘Yeah, yeah, Mum!’

Kyle’s mum worked as a cleaner in the local hospital. She got up early to go to work and was back home by the time Kyle got home from school.

She wasn’t like everyone else’s mum; she always knew where he was. She went to every parents’ evening, phoned the school on a weekly basis to make sure that he had turned up and even had a rota on the wall of when his GCSE coursework was due.

30th August 2019

The final rays of the summer sun glared through Kyle’s bedroom window. The window was huge, which would have been great if the view hadn’t been of the uninspiring concrete blocks of post war housing, now a sad testimony to the failed ideology upon which it was based. It was grim.

Kyle was bored. So much so that he had even wished that school would re-start. After a few weeks, the summer holidays had lost their charm. There were only so many times that he could go to the park and play football with his mates, so many games that he could play on his computer, and only so many things he could buy with the sparse amount of money that he had before it ran out. His mum was at work until mid‑afternoon. That meant that he had to make his own dinner every day. Furthermore, to his dismay, their usual summer holiday to Devon to see his aunt, uncle and cousins had been cancelled due to the fact that his uncle had been unwell.

But this morning, Kyle had woken up early. He was excited! He looked at his phone, it was seven a.m. Not long now! Unlike most mornings, when Kyle got