by Gary Baker
'Don't feel to bad. Sore throat for some reason.'
'You were intubated – had a special tube pushed down your throat - and you're probably dehydrated too.'
Roger nodded wondering when someone was going to ask what had happened. Which made him realise something.
'How did I get here?' he asked.
'Not sure. I think someone found you at the cemetery and called 999. Your things are in the drawer in that cupboard next to you. You might want to see what the mugger stole. Back in a second.' Nurse Becky, walking quickly, left the room.
Mugger. That's as good a story as any. Saves me explaining Lenny et al.
Nurse Becky returned after a few minutes with a male orderly. The pair manoeuvred Roger and his bed with attached drip out into the corridor and along to a small, three bed ward which had a gap where the centre, third bed should have been. This was Roger's slot. He nodded to the bearded occupant of the bed to his right. The man nodded saying, 'Now then.' Darlington's equivalent to London's 'Alright mate?'
The occupant of the bed to Roger's left was flat out, mouth agape, fast asleep.
Nurse Becky thanked the orderly, who left, then pulled Roger's curtain closed around his bed. 'Back in a sec,' she said. 'The Doctor wants to examine you.'
Nurse Becky's smiling blue eyes made Roger want to respond. He raised his hand. 'Thanks,' he managed.
She smiled raising one corner of her mouth. And was gone.
Roger relaxed. He felt suddenly weary. He should be dead. He remembered grabbing Lenny's gun and trying to point it up at his own heart. Forcing that trigger back with what he hoped was contempt in his eyes.
Being shot was weird. He didn't remember any pain. Just a feeling of 'this is it. It all ends here.'
But it hadn't ended and Jennifer and Harry were still dead. And I am alive.
Tears pricked at Roger's eyes. He put his head back, the ceiling a blur. The shapes and shadows above brought back the accident: the phone call with Julia, the girl cyclist with the bright orange satchel on her back, the squealing tyres, the lorry, the green lorry with gold writing, and the lorry driver, looking so intense. The memory smashed into Roger's mind's eye making him flinch. The image of the lorry driver's face flew towards him like a badly executed camera zoom. He recognised the lorry driver! Lenny. Lenny! Lenny was driving the lorry! The lorry he swerved to avoid.
Lenny was there driving the lorry.
The KOPALDA was there.
When Harry died.
When Harry was killed.
Nurse Becky arrived with the Doctor and a man in a grey suit. Dressings were lifted and replaced. Roger was prodded and poked, asked questions. He answered yes or no. Lifted his arms dutifully. Gave his address. Didn't ask questions in return. Didn't elaborate. Roger's hate numbed his responses.
The man in grey was a policeman. Roger confirmed he'd been mugged. Couldn't remember what the mugger looked like. Nothing had been stolen. The mugger must have got frightened and run off after Roger had tackled him and the gun had gone off.
'You're very lucky, sir,' said the policeman. 'This could very easily have been a murder investigation. I hope you'll think twice before having a go if – heaven forbid – it should ever happen again, sir.'
'I'm tired,' said Roger.
The Doctor and policemen left through the curtain.
Nurse Becky held Roger's hand. 'You okay?' she asked. Frowning slightly.
Roger looked into Nurse Becky's eyes. He said the words out loud for the very first time, set them free, made them an immutable part of the universe, embedded forever.
'Harry's dead. My son is dead.'
Roger put his head back and, from his tightly shut eyes, squeezed tears which rolled down cheeks shuddering with silent grief.
Nurse Becky swallowed hard, took a deep breath then, giving Roger's hand one last squeeze, left to check on another patient.
He felt the nurse leave.
The KOPALDA had killed Harry.
The Trojans stealing their money hadn't been enough. Not nearly enough.
*
That night Roger slept and dreamed of cockroaches, snakes and places where the dark writhed, dangerously alive.
He woke with a start. The pain in his stomach reminded him, with some relief, that the black, razor clawed entity he had been fleeing from, was just a cruel fabrication of his own mind.
'Now then. Just in time for breakfast. What you in for?' The brown bread voice came from his right. Sleeping beauty, to Roger's left, slept on.
'Morning,' said Roger, squinting his eyes against the light. 'What time is it?'
'Eight. You're just in time. If you sleep through it you have hell of a time getting summat to eat round here afore dinner.'
Roger pushed himself gingerly to a sitting position in time for the arrival of a plump, jovial orderly and her rattling trolley of assorted cereals, tea and coffee.
Roger found out later that these ladies who trundled food and beverages cheerfully around the hospital were called 'ward hostesses'.
This ward hostess was greeted by brown bread voice.
'Watch out,' he said, 'it's Florence Nightingale.' He tagged a wheezing laugh onto the end of his greeting.
'You should be so lucky,' said the ward hostess, adding a similar wheezing laugh.
Though Roger's bladder was pleading to be emptied, he accepted a bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes with tepid, skimmed milk, and a coffee.
Nurse Becky came to Roger's rescue after he pushed what he hoped wasn't a dire-emergency-button, hung on a cord by his bedside. He was, however, a little taken aback when his request to be helped to the loo was answered by Nurse Becky closing the curtain around his bed and producing a large necked, flat sided bottle for him to pee into. Which he did, noisily, after some fumbling.
Nurse Becky took his pulse while he peed.
'So, you must be the relief nurse,' said Roger instantly regretting he'd said it.
'Urine the right place for that kind of humour,' said Nurse Becky, her blue eyes twinkling at Roger. 'Feeling better?' she asked taking the full bottle from Roger and, not waiting for his response, continued, 'Thanks. We'll have this checked out right away.'
'Thank you,' said Roger finding it hard not to smile back at this open, friendly face. The swish of her dark ponytail dusted the air of gloominess leaving only twinkley happiness in its wake.
Give me a break, said Roger B.
*
The day passed slowly giving Roger the opportunity to think. To grieve and regroup. To let his anger subside to a low frequency hate. To think about a plan.
He could not go back home to his house in Barton. They would be watching. Either The KOPALDA or Julia and The Department. Or both. He needed somewhere else to go. They might be watching now. Right now. In this hospital. Or waiting for him to leave. How long will I be here?
'Barring complications, you should be home in four or five days,' said a boy doctor.
'Complications?'
'Infection.'
When the time comes, thought Roger, I have to leave here unseen. Go to a hotel perhaps. No. They could track the credit card. Need cash. Could get five-hundred pounds from a machine in the centre of Darlington then go somewhere else. Five-hundred would last me a while. Need a plan. My laptop. Need some help. Maybe nurse Becky? She seems to not dislike me. Or was she just doing her nursely duty? Cheques. I could go to the bank and get some of those emergency cheques. Then I could use them for larger amounts. Come to think of it, I could get more cash from the teller. That would be better than using a machine. Wouldn't it? Are teller transactions as traceable as card machine transactions? Can't think. I should know this. Can't remember. With a laptop I could move money to different accounts. There is a way. There has to be a way.
*
On the third, slow day of Roger's recovery, something happened.
Nurse Becky closed the curtain around Roger's bed, sat facing him with one leg on the mattress, the outside of her thigh pressed against his
hip, held his hand and looked into his eyes.
'You've had no visitors,' she said quietly. 'You sit and stare at the ceiling all day. You never talk to anyone.' Roger looked down at her hands. They looked quite small. 'Can I get you anything? Magazines? Newspaper? A book?'
'How tall are you?'
Nurse Becky cocked her head on one side causing her ponytail to swing briefly into view. 'Five feet four.'
'With your hands in the air, maybe.'
'Cheeky!' She smiled then looked serious. 'Look; I know your son died recently, have you any other family? A wife?'
'No. There's just me. Are you married?'
'No. Listen; if you need anything you only have to ask me. You know that don't you?'
Roger nodded.
It was such a simple offer. One that is made by thousands of people every day. For a moment Roger thought of Nurse Becky's unconditional offer of kindness, and pictured a globe where similar offers were being made in every town in every country on every continent. A planet whose inhabitants first thought, when meeting someone, was, if there's anything you need just let me know.
What a load of sentimental crap. Wake up, boy burbler. This bimbo might be useful.
'You're very kind,' said Roger. 'Your boyfriend is a very lucky chap.'
Nurse Becky leaned forwards. 'I don't have a boy friend.'
Then, for one heart stopping moment, Roger felt she was going to kiss him on the cheek. But she didn't. She patted his hand, stood then opened the curtain.
Now that, thought Roger, was pathetic. No way was she going to kiss you. On the cheek or any other place, lonely boy. Just because you wish for something doesn't make it happen. Just because … and Roger felt as though a hand had reached in and gently held onto his heart for a moment. Stopping it beating then letting go again. Leaving him feeling ever so slightly nauseous.
Roger inhaled to speak.
Just at that moment, brown bread voice, whose left leg was bandaged rigid, decided to try to get out of bed by himself to go and have a cigarette.
Nurse Becky, fists on hips, glared fiercely at him.
'Alright, alright.' Brown bread voice sank back, coughing, into his bed.
Nurse Becky turned back to Roger, winked and walked out.
She was very pretty. And that smile was very cheeky. Nice figure too. A genuine what you see is what you get person. And what is it about the way that damn ponytail swings as she walks?
*
It was day four of Roger's stay in the Darlington Memorial Hospital and he had just been examined by the boy doctor. The news was good. He could leave the following day.
A taxi had been organised for Roger. It would be outside the main entrance at ten o'clock the following morning.
Roger found it difficult to sleep that night. Sleeping beauty to his left suddenly became Mister Reads-with-a-torch-and-scratches-a-lot. Mr Ratslot for short. Brown bread voice snored like a friendly brown-bear loaf.
First, Roger's feet felt hot. Then his pillow was too hot. Then his fingers prickled so he held his arms out of the bed and low to encourage the blood to flow through his hands.
He tried his old trick of imagining a completely blank piece of white paper, A4, held in front of his face. But his mind wandered; Harry, revenge on The KOPALDA, money, where to go, avoid being seen, Nurse Becky's lips.
Blank paper. Imagine blank white paper. Concentrate. Now is not the time to fantasize what Nurse Becky may be wearing under that white uniform. White stockings with lacy bits at the top? Blank white paper! An erection at this time in this place would be about as welcome as a mole on a bowling green. A bacon-butty at a bar mitzvah.
But Roger did sleep and after breakfast Nurse Becky pulled the curtains around his bed, blushed and handed him a carrier bag from Marks and Spencer. She had bought him a new shirt to replace the one ruined by Lenny's bullet.
Roger tried to make himself think that she was an idiot for helping him but he was touched.
'Do you need help?' she asked him.
Roger's mind said yes but his voice said, 'No, I'll be fine. Thanks.'
She left him in his private space to cautiously sort himself out, put on his new vertically creased white shirt and push the curtains out with his behind as he put on his trousers.
Crunching up to put on his socks hurt his stomach and he almost called for help tying his shoelaces - he felt dizzy from holding his breath while the rabbit went round the tree and down into the hole.
He was dressed. His wallet was intact. One hundred and eighty pounds cash. More than he remembered. Credit and debit cards. A folded and creased strip of four pictures of him and Harry pulling faces in a photo booth. Roger had a big droopy moustache and a little van Dyke tuft of hair under his lower lip in those days. Those days. The photograph was taken only three years ago.
Time to go.
Roger pushed back the curtains, nodded at sleeping beauty, turned and said, 'Bye then and good luck,' to brown bread voice.
'You're off then?'
'Yes, bye.'
'All a best.'
'Thanks.'
Roger spun on his heel and Nurse Becky was there smiling at him. He smiled back. They stood for a moment before Roger realised she was waiting for him to sit in a wheelchair standing between them. He drew breath to speak and elected instead to sit carefully in the wheelchair hoping it would not go rolling back as he sat down.
He sat back and Nurse Becky pushed him out of the ward, along corridors to the lifts. Alone in the lift heading down, Nurse Becky smoothed Roger's hair.
There was a black and yellow taxi waiting for him.
Roger stood from the wheelchair and Nurse Becky and Roger faced each other.
'Thank you,' said Roger. They both expected him to say more.
'Take care of yourself and don't come back,' said Nurse Becky. She pushed her lips together then turned and wheeled the wheelchair back through the entrance into the hospital. Roger took half a pace forward. The automatic tinted safety glass doors closed. His own reflection looked back at him looking old and slightly bent. Not attractive. Hollow. Grey.
Roger turned and got into the back seat of the taxi.
'Where to?' asked the driver.
'Town,' said Roger. 'High road, opposite Natwest.'
The streets on the way to Darlington Town centre seemed alien. People walked looking at the pavement. Avoiding eye contact. Or so it seemed to Roger. He could not resist turning round and noting the traffic behind. That black car; always two cars behind. No, it's turned to go round the ring road.
The taxi driver said nothing until they pulled up outside the bank.
'Two seventy-five, sir.'
Roger handed the taxi driver three pound coins telling him to keep the change and felt cheap. No cars pulled up behind or ahead of the taxi. He entered Natwest.
His debit card got him one thousand pounds in cash from the teller.
'I need cash to get a good deal on a new computer,' he'd explained even though no explanation had been asked for.
Roger took his money and, never once looking back, walked south down High Road and then west along Conniscliffe Road then down West Street to the Victoria roundabout.
On the other side of the roundabout were some bushes that Roger knew fronted the fence and gardens of a block of redbrick and sandstone flats. The flats formed a courtyard with numerous entrances and exits a person could dodge through.
He'd discovered a hole in the hedge and fence months previously. He was bursting for a pee following a session in a pub called Number 22. Number 22, or, Jurassic Park, as it was known by youngsters as it tended to be full of dinosaurs. Middle-aged men drinking from a selection of splendid real ales. He'd slipped through the hole and relieved himself hoping he wouldn't be spotted in the shadows and that the traffic noise would drown out the sound of him unburdening himself of several pints of reprocessed Black Sheep Ale.
Roger hoped the hole was still there and quickened his pace as he drew closer, holding his stom
ach for support.
It was, and it was just as he remembered. He could duck through the hedge, through the fence and go in any one of several directions unseen. He paused at the first corner, turned and peeked around a wall at the gap in the fence from which he had just emerged.
No one followed him. He waited. Counted slowly to sixty.
No one.
He was not being followed. That was surprising and, in a strange way, disappointing. Roger frowned. Perhaps Lenny had left him for dead. No. Surely he would have checked. Or maybe he had been whisked off to hospital before Lenny could do anything about it and they had lost him. Or perhaps they were waiting for him at his home.
Roger walked to the northern entrance into the apartment gardens and courtyard. Left or right?
He sat down on a low wall. Took stock. His legs ached and his heart pounded. His wound was fine. Just itchy.
A greasy spoon café caught Roger's eye on the other side of the road. He'd been there before. Coffee. Food. Yes.
Roger ate and drank and decided he would make his move on Nurse Becky Ketteringham that evening. He would wait outside the hospital for her when she left for the night and … He'd think of something. Until then, ah yes, a newspaper.
*
Roger stood to one side of the hospital entrance. It was colder than he had anticipated and he huddled against the bricks which reluctantly shared some of their hard won daytime warmth.
This is madness, thought Roger. On several levels.
So many people coming and going. She could very easily slip past him. There she was. That dark, swinging ponytail was unmistakable.
'Becky!'
She turned, eyes wide, expectant.
'Roger!'
'Yes, sorry, I … '
'What are you doing here? You look freezing. You haven't been here all day have you?'
'I … ' Oh, crap.
'What?'
'I wanted to see you and … '
Becky cocked her head to one side. Eyebrows raised.
'I don't want to go home just yet and I thought you would be hungry so the least I could do is take you out for a meal especially after all you've done for me and this new shirt and everything and we didn't say goodbye properly for goodness sake and, well … what do you say?'