This is an idea that has been around for a while and decided to surface today. It was written in about an hour - which may be obvious.
Out of Mind - 697 Words
Jacob Frimley examined his soft, manicured hands. “I do hope everything’s clean,” he said.
“Of course,” the woman in the starched white uniform said. She had a slightly 1940’s look, her hair in a smooth roll, her lipstick bright red. She also looked tired, and older than she’d sounded on the phone, her eyes sunken, lines cutting down either side of that gleaming mouth. The label on her lapel said; ‘Letitia Bramling, Supervisor.’
“At these prices…” Frimley said.
“We endeavour to provide complete satisfaction.”
Frimley snorted. He knew those kind of words, he’d used them himself, they could be a neat way of avoiding responsibility while pretending to take it.
He looked around. Outside, the ‘Golden Acres Retirement Home’ was a brute concrete box, like so many of them; little more than a storage facility. Inside, once you got past the outer rooms, it was done out like a classy hotel: fresh flowers, staff with just the right level of obsequy. Only a few of the residents were visible; pottering gently around or sitting blank-faced in their chairs. It was a beautiful spring day; he could see a few staff taking the sun in the grounds, but no residents.
Bramling stood with her hands folded, a monument to patience.
“Let’s get to it, then,” he said. As they walked along the corridor he marvelled at the size of the place; it seemed to go on forever. “Where do you get them all?”
“An ageing population, Mr Frimley. They have to go somewhere, and where better than here? Here, at least, they are still able to be of some value to the working population. Earn their keep, as it were.” She was moving too slowly for him, walking like an old woman herself.
Frimley felt the warm build of excitement in the base of his stomach. Some value, indeed. Most of them were probably having the time of their lives here; if they were still capable of appreciating it; he wouldn’t mind betting that the circumstances they lived in now were a damn sight more comfortable than their previous miserable little lives. The place had to be kept nice, of course, for visitors like himself.
“You’re absolutely sure,” Frimley said, “that there can be no complications? No backlash?”
“So long as you followed our instructions,” Bramling said, “there should be nothing. And a man such as yourself, with your expert financial experience, should have had no problems making sure the donation was not tracked.”
Was that a dig? Frimley decided, magnanimously, to ignore it. Donation, indeed. That was one word for it.
“And we know you weren’t followed,” she said. “It’s quite all right, Mr Frimley. Really. No-one knows you’re here at all.”
She opened the door.
The room was clean and fresh-scented: the old woman lying in the big bed looked tiny, dried up and fragile as a leaf, ready to blow away on the wind.
“The agreement was for two hours,” Bramling said. “If you decide to stay longer, we will require a larger donation, obviously. The items you requested are in the cupboard on the left.” She folded her hands again. He hadn’t noticed before but her hands seemed veiny, rootlike, ancient.
“And I can…” he swallowed.
“Mr Frimley, you have paid, I know, a great deal of money. You can do anything you like. That’s what we’re here for. That’s what they’re here for. Now, is there anything else you require?”
“No,” he said, looking at the figure on the bed. “No, thank you.”
Bramling smiled, blandly, and closed the door.
Frimley walked towards the bed.
***
Letitia Bramling opened the door, and rolled her eyes. The place was a state. Blood everywhere. “Ethel,” she said.
“Oh, hello, dear. I’m sorry about the mess.” Ethel sat up. She was plump, bright-eyed, juicy as a steak.
“You’re a disgrace. Where is it?”
Ethel got out of bed, her bloodsoaked cotton nightgown clinging to her rounded belly, and kicked something towards the supervisor. It was a dried brown husk, in a suit.
“You look tired, dear. I’ll get the cleaning crew,” Ethel said. “And then, I think, it will be your turn for the next one.”
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