Cell 34

Chapter 1 ¦ May 22nd 1928 ¦ Letter from Mr. Frank Green to Dr. Henry Smith

Chapter 1

Letter from Mr. Frank Green to Dr. Henry Smith

May 22nd 1928

Dear Henry,

I stood outside the vets holding the newly empty cat basket as innumerable identical sharp-suited businessmen with newspapers crumpled under their arms rushed past me. They mingled seamlessly with packs of overcrowded omnibuses and the evening's first dog walkers. A couple of minutes later, I found myself in a nearby alleyway with my forehead pressed against a wall and sobbing like a child.

I used to seek the comfort of warm friends and room-temperature ales in The Albert Arms. We'd sit for hours at our corner booth by the fireplace on the first Friday of every month to discuss society, poetry, philosophy, literature, and, of course, cricket. I'd always arrive early to secure a couple of extra seats and while away the time until the others came with a pint and a newspaper; the evening stretched ahead of me like at the start of those endless childhood school summer holidays. We called it 'The Alcove'.

When the Great War broke out, we all signed up and vowed to meet again on the first Friday after peace was declared. The last one to turn up would buy the first round of drinks. Looking back, I can see the tragic naivety of this, but when we were caught up in that heatwave of patriotism, anything felt possible.

When that day arrived four years later, I hobbled to the pub, pulled the tables together, grabbed a discarded newspaper, and sat with a pint as usual. My eyes involuntary checked the door every time it opened, just like a dog waiting for its owner outside a shop. The moment of realization hit while I shuffled home late that night. I'd asked other pubs whether they recognized anybody from a photograph I kept of us and even checked with restaurants whether they had taken any bookings in their names. That was why I finally decided to let Charlie into the flat.

He was an affectionate black and white short-hair I had often seen slinking between the bins on my street. He more than filled the emptiness left by the absence of my friends, gave days a sense of purpose, and was always waiting for me whenever I returned home. I found him in the middle of the road this morning. His killer, presumably some motorist showing off, hadn't even the decency to leave a note. It is an awful thing, Henry, to go to a vet and ask them to bury your cat because you have no garden.

Besides Charlie's warm presence, it's no secret that my life over the last decade enjoyed little variety, urgency, or structure, and the days blur together. I write, read, eat, drink, sleep, and smoke, although none to a desirable degree. With unpaid tabs barring me from most pubs, my afternoons are often spent reading and watching the world go by from my window.

The only regular punctuations are when I feed a stray tabby three times a day. He's an affectionate creature, so I'm unsure whether he was recently abandoned or is simply after a couple of extra meals. Henry, this will sound terribly self-pitying, but caring for an animal transforms anybody for the better. It isn't just the structure it provides for the day but also knowing I make a difference, however slight, to somebody else. We should all feel like we matter to somebody.

For as long as I can remember, the weather has been ghastly, which provides a ready-made excuse for almost anything. It's why I can't sleep until dawn or rise until noon. It's why I don't go outside. It's why I have receded from the world and neglected the last of my friendships (except yours, of course). While I'm aware this is purely a comforting fantasy, as it provides something outside my control to blame, it is a convincing fantasy to tell oneself nonetheless.

The weather also reminds me of the night we met, which, I can't believe, was over a decade ago. The rain fell like ball bearings, and there was nothing we could do to keep the cold out from that draughty medical tent. I remember repeating the same fact in my head over and over again as if it were a mantra: the Victorians only needed thirty seconds to amputate a leg. It would be over before I realized, I thought; all I had to do was bite down on the rag in my mouth. That, alongside the near-half pint of whisky I had drank, would soak up all the pain. I couldn't bear imagining the back-and-forth-and-back-and-forth of the saw cutting through my shinbone, sending vibrations throughout the rest of my body. Then, I would feel the weight of my leg drop away, and the real horror would begin.