The Universe versus Alex Woods

by Extence, Gavin

  ‘Jesus fucking hellfire Christ, Woods!’ she said. ‘You scared the living crap out of me! What the hell are you doing here? Why are all the lights out? Why the fuck didn’t you come up and knock?’

  I gawped and blinked like an idiot for a few faltering seconds. I didn’t know what else I could say or do; I removed the letter from its still unsealed envelope and handed it to her.

  Gone abroad to help Mr Peterson die, it read. Please don’t worry.

  From the amount of time she spent staring at it, she must have read it through at least a dozen times. Her mouth was open. Her facial expression was so frozen she might have been sculpted from ice.

  ‘Woods, please, please tell me this is one of those jokes I’m too stupid to get.’

  ‘It’s not a joke,’ I said. ‘We’re leaving tonight.’

  I had no time to duck. Her right hand hit my cheek like a thunderclap. I sat on the floor, my ears ringing.

  ‘You fucking moron!’ Ellie yelled. ‘I know the old man’s as crazy as a fucking loon, but you! I thought you had at least a shred of common sense in that warped brain of yours! Good fucking God, Woods! What were you thinking? If he wants to kill himself, that’s one thing, but convincing you to help him – that’s just fucking sick!’

  ‘He didn’t convince me,’ I said flatly. ‘I had to convince him.’

  Ellie raked her fingers through her hair and then started pacing back and forth like a caged animal, stopping periodically to shake her head and swear. Several times she looked like she was going to assault me again. Eventually, she stopped pacing and sat beside me on the floor, our backs pressed up against the counter.

  ‘You need to phone your mother right this second,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not phoning my mother.’

  ‘If you don’t, I will,’ she threatened.

  ‘You’re not phoning her either.’

  She handed me the letter. ‘Woods, this is too fucked up for words.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s not. It might seem that way right now, but it really isn’t. You have to trust me on this. We know what we’re doing.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re doing! You don’t have a clue what you’re doing!’

  I waited for a count of five and then looked her in her eye, which was barely a foot away. ‘Ellie, you have to listen to me. I’m doing what I know is right. And nothing you or anyone else can say is going to change my mind. I’ve thought about this – I’ve spent months thinking about it – and no one’s forcing me to do anything I don’t agree with.’

  ‘You’re going to end up in a whole world of shit.’

  ‘Maybe. That doesn’t matter, though. I’m doing what’s right.’

  Ellie rolled her eyes in disbelief. ‘Jesus, Woods! How can you be so sure of yourself? You shouldn’t be so sure of yourself – not with something like this.’

  I took several deep breaths. I knew I wasn’t going to falter any more. Ellie’s slap had knocked any residual hesitation straight out of my head.

  ‘Ellie,’ I began, ‘I’m sure of myself because I know that from this point there are two possible futures. In one, Mr Peterson is going to die four days from now, peacefully and with no pain. In the other, he’s going to die six months or maybe even a year from now, after many, many weeks of pointless suffering. He’s going to die bedbound and scared and in pain, and unable even to tell anyone how terrified he is. There’s a good chance that by that time he won’t be able to do so much as move his eyes. Mr Peterson’s not crazy and neither am I. We’ve chosen the way out that seems kinder to us. And if you think this decision is wrong, you don’t have to support it. You don’t have to do a damn thing. Just don’t try to intervene. Please. I’m asking you as a friend.’

  I knew that it was the most compelling argument I could deliver, and I knew that I’d delivered it well, but still, when I’d finished I was shocked to discover that Ellie was crying. She’d turned her face from me and was sobbing into her sleeve. It was a reaction I was completely unprepared for, and I didn’t know what to do. I tried kind of smoothing her hair for a bit, but because her body was shaking, it was more like I was patting her on the head, the way you might a dog or a horse. I gave up and put my arm around her shoulders. She leaned her head into me, and after a few minutes, she’d stopped crying. All that was left was the occasional twitch.

  ‘Woods, I don’t know what to say any more. You’re a fucking saint.’

  Then she pivoted her head and kissed me. Right on the lips. I was too surprised to do much. I was far too surprised to kiss her back. To tell you the truth, I didn’t really know how to kiss her back. In case you haven’t realized yet, when it comes to certain things, I’m irremediably dense. But the odd thing – maybe the thing that surprised me the most – was that Ellie’s kiss didn’t feel even remotely awkward. It wasn’t awkward for me, and I know it wasn’t awkward for her. Afterwards, she just settled straight back into my shoulder as if nothing at all had happened. And we stayed like that for I don’t know how long. My lower lip was warm and tingling. My left cheek was throbbing like I’d been stung by a wasp. And I’d lost all sense of time and urgency. I only came round when Ellie touched my left hand – the hand that was still holding the letter.

  ‘How long did it take you to dream up that masterpiece?’ she asked.

  ‘Six and a half hours,’ I admitted.

  ‘And you’re seriously planning to tell her like that?’

  ‘I think it’s the only way I can tell her.’

  ‘You’re putting me in one hell of a position.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I acknowledged. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’

  I thought things through for a couple of seconds. ‘It might be better if you just act surprised tomorrow morning,’ I suggested.

  ‘It might be better if you just trusted her with the truth.’

  ‘This is the truth. I haven’t lied to her.’

  ‘Stop being a moron,’ Ellie countered. ‘You know what I mean.’

  A few moments ticked by. I stared deep into the glass of one of the four-inch diameter crystal balls that were stationed on a shelf at the back of the room.

  ‘I think I have to go now,’ I said. ‘I need to get to the hospital bef—’

  ‘Don’t tell me what you’re doing,’ Ellie interjected. ‘I don’t want to lie to your mother any more than I have to.’

  She wriggled out from my arm, wiped her eyes and started straightening out her hair. I got up and sealed the letter, then placed it just to the left of the cash register.

  ‘Will you at least call her tomorrow?’ Ellie asked when I turned back towards the rear of the shop. ‘I think you owe her that.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  Ellie planted her hands on her hips. ‘She’ll want to know that you’re okay.’

  ‘Maybe I could phone you instead? Then—’

  ‘I am not going to act as your go-between. Don’t you dare call me unless you’ve called her first.’

  I bit my lip. I knew that I needed to keep my head clear and focussed for the next few days, and a conversation with my mother was not going to make this project any easier.

  ‘Well?’ Ellie asked after a few more moments of silence.

  ‘I really need to go now,’ I told her.

  If Ellie had still been holding the high-heeled boot at that point, I’m fairly sure she would have thrown it at me. Instead, she turned and walked back up to the flat without saying a word. I didn’t pursue her. There was no time and little point.

  Outside, the evening air had got noticeably colder. As I hurried back to the car, the only part of me that still felt warm was my left cheek.

  Thirty minutes later, thirty minutes behind schedule, I pulled up in a disabled bay twenty metres from the front entrance of Yeovil District Hospital. The fact that it was possible to park this close to the entrance in the late evening – something that was virtually impossible in the daytime – had been a key factor whe
n we’d decided on our moment of departure. At this time, the whole hospital would be quiet. The foyer wouldn’t be congested with people. The lifts were more likely to be available when we needed them. There would certainly be fewer doctors on the ward. With luck, there’d be none. If it came down to it, we thought a doctor was more likely to stop us from leaving than a nurse or an orderly. Doctors were used to making swift, authoritative judgements.

  Of course, our planned leaving time presented certain unavoidable problems as well. With the ward corridors empty, or close to empty, it would be much harder to slip past reception unnoticed. But Mr Peterson and I had already agreed that there was no time when this best of outcomes could be guaranteed. The overriding concern was that if we had to make a break for it, there’d be no physical barriers and no passing medical staff to halt our progress. For this reason we planned to make our exit just after 9.45, which was when the nurses did their final ward round before lights-out, leaving just one of their number to man reception. The nurses would be coming round with their charts and trolley-load of medications no later than 9.48, by which time we’d be all set to go, with Mr Peterson already loaded into the wheelchair for our fictitious trip to the lavatory. The moment the nurses moved on to the next room, we’d be on our way, with a window of at least ten minutes before they returned to reception.

  It was all very clear and simple in my head, but after what had happened with Ellie, I was feeling highly alert to the potential for mishaps. Nonetheless, as I headed up to the ward, I was able to reassure myself by checking off all the accurate assumptions we’d made. Apart from a lone cleaner sweeping the floor at its far end, the foyer was dead. There was an unimpeded path from the automatic doors to the lifts, and when I reached the sixth floor, I was pleased to discover that the corridors leading to the ward were similarly deserted. There was one nurse on reception, and another in the adjoining office. The whole place was as quiet as a morgue.

  Mr Peterson started scribbling the moment he saw me approaching the bed.

  You’re late, his note read.

  ‘I got held up,’ I explained.

  Did someone hit you?

  ‘Ellie hit me.’

  That figures. What about your mom? You told her?

  ‘It’s all sorted,’ I said evasively.

  And?

  I shrugged. ‘Well, I’m here, aren’t I?’

  She’s OK?

  ‘She will be, I think. It’s just going to take a while.’

  Thankfully, Mr Peterson didn’t grill me any further. There wasn’t all that much time. My watch showed that we had about fifteen minutes until the evening ward round.

  Put this in my overnight bag, Mr Peterson wrote. Then he passed me a second, larger note reading: for charity. I slipped it into the bag.

  ‘I think you’re going to be cold when we get outside,’ I said.

  We’ve been through this. I can’t get dressed for a trip to the bathroom. How’s that going to look? My dressing gown will have to suffice. You can throw a blanket over me when we’re in the car.

  ‘You can’t wear a hospital gown all the way to Zurich,’ I pointed out.

  We’ll find somewhere on the 303 to pull over so I can get changed. Did you get some sleep today?

  ‘I managed a couple of hours this morning. What about you?’

  I’m not driving. My lack of sleep’s irrelevant. What about the ferry times?

  ‘I’ve got a full print-out in the car. I think the three twenty’s the one for us, but there’s also one an hour later in case we miss it.’

  Great. Just don’t rush. Let’s get there in one piece. You’re not to let me die until we get to Switzerland.

  ‘Ha ha,’ I said.

  Seriously. If you need to stop, we stop.

  I nodded. But privately, I thought I’d like to put as much distance as possible between me and my mother by eight forty-five the next morning.

  A few silent moments dragged by, then Mr Peterson slipped me another note. I think it’s time.

  I looked at my watch again. My heart had started pounding. ‘I’ll be back in two minutes,’ I said.

  I got to reception just as the ward round was beginning. As expected, neither of the fold-down wheelchairs had been left out; both were stowed in the small alcove on the near side of the reception desk. I’d already decided that I’d have to ask before taking one. The nurse left on reception hadn’t yet looked up from her stack of paperwork, but there was no sense trying to sneak one of the chairs away when I had a perfectly legitimate reason for borrowing one.

  I walked to the desk, clocked her name badge and said: ‘Excuse me, Nurse Fletcher.’

  Her eyes snapped up and straight to my left cheek. I estimated her to be around forty-five years of age. She had severe cheekbones and a brisk, school marmish air about her, and the small bags under her eyes suggested that she’d already had quite enough of her shift. I decided to proceed with caution and extreme politeness.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ I said. ‘I was wondering if it might be possible to borrow a wheelchair? My friend, Mr Peterson in room two, needs to use the toilet and, as I’m sure you’re aware, he has rather restricted mobility at the moment.’

  It sounded a little stilted, but if I came across as awkward and meek, I reasoned this was all to the good.

  Nurse Fletcher tapped her pen against her angular jaw for a few seconds. ‘Can it wait until after the ward rounds, Mr . . .?’

  ‘Woods,’ I said. ‘And unfortunately, I don’t think it can wait.’

  Nurse Fletcher wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m afraid, Mr Woods, your friend is not supposed to leave his bed without proper medical supervision. Doctor’s orders. The last thing we want is to risk him having another fall.’

  ‘I’ve been caring for him for some time. I can assure you that he won’t be falling on my watch.’

  Her eyes flicked back to my cheek for a few seconds. ‘Forgive me for asking, Mr Woods, but have you been in a fight?’

  ‘No. I’m a pacifist.’

  ‘Did someone hit you?’

  ‘Yes, a friend.’

  Nurse Fletcher let this slide. She got up and produced from somewhere under the desk a vase-shaped receptacle made of thick cardboard. ‘Perhaps this might be adequate for Mr Peterson’s needs?’

  I coughed delicately. ‘No. I’m afraid it’s the other sort of toilet he requires.’

  Nurse Fletcher’s expression remained neutral. She tapped her pen a few more times, then said: ‘Oh, very well. Take a chair. But if you have any problems getting him in or out, wait for one of the nurses to assist you. We don’t want any mishaps.’

  I didn’t hang around for her to change her mind. I grabbed the nearest chair from the alcove and hurried back to Mr Peterson’s bed.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It took a little longer than I expected.’

  Who’s on reception? Mr Peterson wrote.

  ‘Nurse Fletcher.’

  Great. The humorless Nurse Fletcher. Let’s not engage her in conversation if we don’t have to.

  ‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘Have the others been round yet?’

  Mr Peterson shook his head. He’d already moved his bed into the upright position and was now gesturing hurriedly at the wheelchair. Despite Nurse Fletcher’s warnings, transferring him wasn’t too difficult. He had to lean on my shoulder with his left arm and on the bedside table with his right, but once he was on his feet, he only had to manage a couple of steps and a half-turn to lower himself safely into the seat.

  When one of the nurses arrived at the bed, a few minutes later, she immediately wanted to know why Mr Peterson was out of bed and why we’d not waited for assistance. She addressed these questions to me, but we made her wait so that Mr Peterson could explain in writing and at length. We’d already agreed that part of our strategy should be to hold up our nurse until her colleague had finished with the patient in the bed adjacent and was ready to move along to the next room. We also thought that a long, tedious exchange was the bes
t guarantor against her offering any further assistance.

  ‘Nurse Fletcher said it was okay?’ our nurse asked when Mr Peterson had handed her his elaborate missive.

  Yes, she said that it was fine. Alex is going to assist me. He’s quite capable. As soon as I’ve had my codeine we’ll be on our way. Can I have it, please?

  The nurse wordlessly handed him the small plastic beaker containing his medication.

  Thank you, Mr Peterson wrote.

  The nurse turned to me. ‘Visiting hours are over in fifteen minutes. You shouldn’t be here after that.’ Then she and the other nurse wheeled the medication trolley back out into the corridor.

  Let’s go, Mr Peterson wrote. Remember – walk past confidently, but don’t rush. If she says anything, stick to the story.

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  In the corridor, we veered right and proceeded at what I thought to be an appropriate, confident pace. I kept my back straight, my head up, and my eyes focussed on the double doors that marked the ward’s terminus. I didn’t cast a glance at reception as we approached, but I was dimly aware of Nurse Fletcher in my peripheral vision. She was still sitting at her post, hunched over her paperwork, but I had no idea if we had registered on her radar. The next five seconds would give me my answer. I held my breath and pressed forward. I was gripping the handles of the wheelchair so tightly that my knuckles had gone white. Two paces, three paces. My legs were no longer my own. They felt as rigid as stilts. But they only had to manage another ten metres to the doors. Reception slid past. My footfalls were barely perceptible in the enfolding silence. A dozen more steps and we’d be free.

  ‘I’m not sure where you think you’re going, Mr Woods,’ Nurse Fletcher said.