Wet Blankets

by Victor Okechukwu

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Kingsley lay on the straight-small bed in the backyard where they carried him. It was warm under the sagging roof, with a pile of assorted junk in one corner – a dirty motor tyre, sundry split and warped boxes, and an old display sign where the enamelling had cracked away to reveal the map of some faraway world. The smell of dust and chicken droppings and urine hung in the air.

From outside, beyond the yellow blazing sun, came a clatter of voices. Kinsley opened his eyes and peered down the length of his body, past his bare, dirty toes, he saw several pairs of legs in tattered jeans and black torn stockings.

Somebody, probably one of them, was speaking “…that was coward… from his side, Chude.”

“Vic, but look what has done to others…”

Kingsley thought, to hell with those baskets. To hell with them all. Somebody had thrown a wet blanket over him. It was torn and threadbare with blood stains. He touched the exhausted blanket with thick, grubby fingers. The texture was tough in parts and shiny and thin where it had worn away. He was used to blankets like this.

Kingsley had been stabbed three times, each time from the side. Once in the shoulder, then between the shoulder blades, and again on the right side, out in the Avenue.

The bleeding had stopped and there was not much pain. He had been knifed before, admittedly not as bad as this, he thought as he waited for the ambulance. The blood on the side of his face had dried, and he also had a bad headache.

The voices, now and then raised in laughter, crackled outside. Feet moved on the rough cemented floor of the yard and Chude having a brown dog face, wearing an expiring cloth cap, looked down at him.

“You’re still alright, Kingsley? An ambulance is coming just now.”

“Fuck off,” Kingsley said. His voice was croaky.

The face withdrew, laughing: “My Kingsley. Oh, my Kingsley.”

He was tired now. His sordid fingers, like corroded iron clamps, strayed over the parched field of the blanket as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He saw himself being taken down a wet, tarred yard with rough wire netting over the windows that looked into it. The place smelled of carbolic disinfectant, and the bunch of heavy keys clinked as it swung from the hooked finger of the guard.

They reached a room fitted with shelving that was stacked here and there with piled white blankets. “Take two, young man,” the guard said, and Kingsley began to rummage through the piles, searching for the thickest and warmest blankets. But the guard laughed and pushed him aside, before seizing the nearest blankets and flinging them at Kingsley. They had patterned stains of dirt and smelly and within their folds insect waited like irregular troops in ambush.

“Come on. Come on. You think I got time to waste?”

“It’s cold,” Kingsley said. He was nine years old and his big brother, Clinton, twisted and turned the narrow, cramped, sagging bedstead that they shared, dragging the thin cotton blanket from Kingsley’s body. Outside the noise of rain was deafening, drumming against the cardboard-patched window as the wind wheezed through cracks and corners like an asthmatic old man.

“No, Clinton. You got the entire blanket,” Kingsley said.

“Well, I can’t help it, bro. it’s cold.”

“What about me?” Kingsley complained. “What about me?”

Huddled together under the blanket, fitted against each other like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. A woman’s hair got into his mouth and smelled of stale brilliantine. There were brown stains made by heads, on the crumpled, grey-white pillow, and rubbed smear of lipsticks, like a half-healed wound.

“No, man. No, man.” Her body was wet and sweaty under the blanket, and the bad smell of a mixture of cheap perfume, spilt powder, human bodies, and infant urine. The faded yellow curtain over a window beckoned to him in the hot breeze. In the early dark-coloured light torn underwear hanging from a brass knob was a spectre in the room.

The woman turned from him under the blankets, protesting, and Kingsley sat up. The agonized sounds of the bedspring woke the baby in the bathtub on the floor, and it began to cry, its toothless wail rose in a high-pitched that grew louder and louder.

Kingsley opened his eyes as the wail grew to a crescendo and then quickly faded as the siren switched off. Everywhere was throbbing, and when he tried to lift his head, sweat ran into his eyes as if someone had squeezed out a wash-rag. Kingsley saw the skirts of white coats and then the ambulance men. Hands were running all over him. One of the ambulance men asked: “Do you feel any pain?”

Kingsley looked at the brown face above his head, scowling. “No, sir.”

The wet blanket on which he was lying was soaked with his blood.
“Knife wounds,” the attendant said.

“He isn’t bleeding much.” The other said. “Put on a couple of pressure pads.”

He was carried on a stretcher and flanked by a procession of onlookers. The rubber sheeting was cool against his back. The stretcher rumbled into the ambulance and the doors slammed shut. A siren whined and rose, clearing a path through the crowd.

Kingsley felt the vibration of the ambulance through his body as it sped off on its way. His fingers touched the folded edge of the bedding. The sheet around him was white as snow, and the blanket was thick, warm, and new.