by Ricky Fleet
“I know what will cheer you up,” smiled his mother before planting a kiss on his forehead, “Eggs and toast for dunking.”
“Yes please,” beamed young Malachi.
“Do I get to be cheered up too?” asked his father making a pouty face. “I had a bad dream as well.”
His mother laughed and threw a teacloth across the room, “I know exactly what you were dreaming about, mister! Your hands were everywhere even though you were fast asleep.”
“Have some of your juice, buddy,” said his father, dropping him into a chair and walking over to embrace his wife at the frying pan. “Even in my dreams I can’t resist you.”
“Smooth talker,” she giggled and craned her neck for a kiss.
Malachi watched the display of affection with a child’s innocence. The bond his parents shared would not become clear until he had grown up and could appreciate the boundless love he been surrounded by. Any relationship he nurtured would be judged against the example of his beloved parents. If he could make each moment shine as if it were a lifetime, to adore every breath she took and cherish every wrinkle that developed with the passage of their years together, then he would be proven worthy of the legacy.
He wrinkled his nose as their lips parted and a tongue lingered too long. “Eww, gross!”
“Sorry,” said his mother, blushing. “Paul, can you watch the eggs while I put the toast on?”
“Of course, love,” he replied, winking at Malachi by way of apology.
Taking a sip of the orange juice, Malachi let it drain back into the glass when the liquid soaked his taste buds.
Seeing the look of revulsion his mother came over, “What’s the matter, sweetie?”
“It doesn’t taste right. Sorry, Mummy,” Malachi said quietly.
“Oh, baby. Don’t be sorry.” She stroked his face and sniffed at the glass, “It must have turned since yesterday. I’ll get you some water to wash the taste away.”
Raising the carton, Paul frowned, “I can’t even see the best before date.”
“It has gotten so dark all of a sudden, I think we have a storm coming,” she explained, glowering at the dark grey clouds and flicking the light switch.
Above their heads, the fluorescent tube flickered and blinked on and off rapidly.
“I think it’s broken,” said his father, voice dwindling and kitchen fading.
The strobing white light became the familiar beacons of flashing emergency vehicles as he was rushed into the emergency room.
The corridor passed in a blur, with many vacant assessment cubicles in the initial treatment area. Being a weekday, the hustle and bustle of activity was minimal and only a lone drunk shouted from a corner about his confiscated alcohol. For a split second the trolley was aligned with the inebriated man and their eyes met. Feelings of guilt caused the bum to avert his gaze; self-loathing at his own circumstances magnified by the pitiful, bloodied stranger who had been attacked.
“We have a twenty-year-old male. He has sustained a deep laceration to the right flank and penetrating abdominal trauma,” detailed the head paramedic to the emergency surgeon.
Laying prone on the gurney, Malachi felt the strangest sensation as if he was walking then realised it was only a nurse elevating his legs. The emergency team were gathered around and discussing the treatment options available, none of which mattered one bit. Malachi’s only concern was to ask again about the redhead who had been assaulted but the words came out as a weak croak. An alarm started to shrill, masking the question.
“Blood pressure is dropping!”
“He must be bleeding internally. Nurse, get an eighteen-gauge cannula in and begin blood transfusion immediately.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she replied, hurrying to the equipment trolley.
“What is the patients name?” asked the doctor.
“Malachi.”
“Malachi, I am Doctor Ballachandra,” a pretty young Indian doctor introduced herself, upside down from his horizontal viewpoint.
A witty response about meeting in these circumstances only appeared as a grimace of pain. Malachi felt weaker than at any point in his short life and the soothing darkness of unconsciousness tugged at his senses. Join us, it whispered from the shadows.
“You are going to be fine.” Her face betrayed the uncertainty. Before his eyes closed, the medical lamp over her head gave the illusion of a halo. The grimace of pain was replaced by a wan smile; he was going home.
“He’s crashing!”
“Prep for surgery. We need to…”
Darkness was banished with the sudden illumination of the faulty kitchen bulb.
“It must be the starter; I can pick one up later. Leave it off for now,” said Malachi’s father, flicking the round electrical component.
“Can we afford it?”
“They are only a few pound. It’s either that or wait for the landlord to fix it, which could take weeks,” he shrugged.
Taking out the first slices of bread, a layer of green mould had started to grow around the edges. A faint sob escaped his mother and she replaced the rotten dough.
“I’m sorry, honey, we only have eggs. Is that ok?” she asked, wiping away the barely suppressed tears.
“That’s ok, Mummy. I like them with or without,” smiled Malachi, hoping to banish some of her shame.
“We can always cut the bad bits away?” suggested his father.
“It will make you both ill,” she crumpled the bag and threw it away in disgust, “You’re not eating rotten food.”
“We can’t afford to buy food until the end of the week when I get paid,” muttered Malachi’s father guiltily.
Malachi watched the exchange from the table, his head barely reaching above the top. The creaky wooden chairs had been claimed before finding their way into a local bonfire, but the table didn’t match and sat too high for the young boy. Normally a trio of old, tattered phone books doubled as a booster seat, though his angle of view changed with each passing month. It wouldn’t be long before he could get rid of the uncomfortable tomes.
“I’m sorry, love. I will have a word with Trevor and see if I can get some extra shifts.” Malachi’s father embraced her tightly and she turned herself away so their child would be spared the tears.
“You can’t do any more than you are,” she protested, “We don’t get to see you enough as it is.”
Being innocent of finances and the adult world, Malachi found nothing strange in being hungry most of the time. A lot of the other children in his class were skinny and the words that were being discussed in his last parent teacher meeting like emaciated, anorexic, gaunt had no meaning. His mother had cried and hugged him close through the harsh questioning. Angry and confused at the argument, Malachi had shouted at the teacher to be quiet. They had left under a pall of sorrow and fear about the threat of social services becoming involved. It had been too much to take in at the time. All he understood was that the brief rainclouds of melancholy usually evaporated when the radiance of their mutual devotion shone through. With each passing month of pennilessness, the optimism of life diminished and the clouds grew thicker and stronger.
“It’s not like I have a choice, sweetheart,” he explained, nuzzling the smooth neck and making her giggle.
“I will just have to keep looking for a job.”
“You know there aren’t any. We are lucky that I have kept mine with all the redundancies,” he said, looking deep into her blue eyes.
“But you are going to work yourself into an early grave.” She wasn’t placated by the affection. As the months stretched into years the toll it was taking became obvious. His normally dark brown hair was surrendering to slow creep of grey commensurate to the increasing stress of the battle to keep a roof over their heads.
“At least I will leave a good looking corpse,” he joked and received a punch on the shoulder.
“Don’t speak that way,” she begged, “Mal has only just had a bad dream about us.”
Slapping h
is forehead in a ‘what a knucklehead’ gesture, Malachi’s father looked over and said, “Sorry, buddy.”
“That’s ok, Daddy. I remember you telling me about the man on the motorbike and how he was a huge film star.” Malachi responded with a grin, meaning James Dean.
What his father hadn’t explained was the tragic nature of the aforementioned superstar’s untimely demise. In his heart he knew that the situation was untenable in the long run, but with the global economy in recession there were people in a worse situation. For years the banks had lavished money on people without the means to repay the debt, ruthlessly exploiting the human desire for stability. The opportunity to own their own home had proven to be a temptation too far and now the houses stood empty; their abandoned contents a reflection of the hollow promises of the unscrupulous money lenders.
“We could always try and get a loan to tide us over for a while?” she offered cautiously.
“No,” he dismissed the idea instantly, “We can’t help ourselves by getting into debt. I know we struggle but at least we have no one chasing us for what we owe.”
“You can have this.” Malachi had quietly left the room and returned with his small piggy bank.
Holding it out and giving it a shake, the loose change rattled but carried no real weight. Taking the porcelain swine, his mother regarded at him with a look of purest love.
“Thank you so much, sweetie, but you earned these pennies.” She handed it back, unwilling to explain that it wasn’t enough to make any difference to their plight.
“You can use it to buy some bread and juice,” he persisted, pulling the rubber stopper free and tipping the coins out.
“I…” his mother started crying again but Malachi didn’t see, so rapt was he on piling the money into tidy piles.
“I promise I will return it all on payday, ok?” vowed his father, gently turning his sons face to look him in the eye, “Shall we take your bike and go to the grocers before I go to work?”
“Can we really?” Malachi exclaimed, hurrying away to get his going out clothes on and tumbling the lopsided metal coin towers in the process.
A lone penny rolled and his father caught it as it fell from the table.
“He is such an angel,” said his mother quietly, wiping away tears of pride.
“He takes after his dad,” joked Paul, surmising the table held just over four pounds. It would just about cover the fruit juice and a single loaf of cheap brand bread. The smile disappeared at the realization that he had been reduced to taking money from his eight-year-old son. He couldn’t even be classed as a man any more. A real man provides for his family, no matter what.
Seeing the expression of defeat as he regarded the change in his palm, she made sure Malachi wasn’t close and quickly raised her top. “What do you think of these?”
The pert breasts bounced and Paul burst out laughing, totally forgetting the dejection. “How many wars could have been avoided if the women just flashed their boobs in the negotiations? Weaker sex my ass.”
“And don’t you forget it!” she chuckled, nudging him with her rump.
“Ready, Daddy!” shouted Malachi front the front door.
“We will be right back,” Paul kissed her, “I love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you more.”
The door was open and a draft ruffled the loose threads of the tattered carpet. Malachi was seated atop the old bike which had been repaired so many times it was a miracle the wheels still turned. It didn’t make any difference though, he loved the bike and the twisted handlebars.
“Bombs away!” he cried and pushed away, letting the gradient of the access ramp carry him onto the pavement in a blur. The concrete slope had been installed for the previous tenant who had been confined to a wheelchair and the landlord refused to pay to reinstate a set of steps.
“Careful!” cried Paul.
Every time his son made the descent his heart seized in unnecessary apprehension. With the apartments being largely empty, and those that were occupied lacking money to buy a car, the deprived cul-de-sac was clear. The youngster expertly leaned into the turn and mounted the grass verge without hitting the road itself, waving back and merrily pedalling away. Paul started jogging to keep up which was part of the game.
“Get back here, you!” he called out, reaching for the giggling boy but making sure to miss with each swing.
“You’re getting old, Daddy!”
“I’m going to get you, you little monster!”
A raspberry was his only response which triggered more giggling. With a screech of unoiled brakes, the bike pulled up outside the small grocery store and Paul doubled over, pretending to gasp for breath.
“How did you get so fast?” he asked through exaggerated inhalations.
“Lots of practice, Daddy.” Malachi smiled, locking the bike to the wall mounted rack, “Mummy watches me while I go up and down the street.”
“You are growing up so quickly,” Paul said, a mixture of pride and anguish at the lost time together.
“I’m going to be big and strong, just like you!” he declared.
The sky exploded with a crashing rumble of thunder which made the shop’s windows rattle in their frames. The source was directly overhead and was swiftly followed by a dazzling coruscation which bounced from cloud to cloud.
“Daddy, I’m scared,” Malachi whispered.
“It’s only God getting home. The thunder is Him slamming the door and the lightning is the light being turned on.”
Malachi started wheezing and clutching at his throat, unable to breathe.
“It’s ok, don’t fight it,” said a sweet female voice as he opened his eyes.
She gently pulled the breathing tube from his throat and held a tray to catch the vomit triggered by its removal. The convulsions eased off and he lay back down with a sigh of exhaustion.
“Now you can’t swallow, but you can gargle the taste away and spit into this,” she offered, holding out a glass and a fresh sick tray. He gratefully took a long draw to rinse away some of the bitter taste of bile and spat the contents out.
“They said you were a fighter, but goodness me,” said the nurse, checking his vitals on the computer screen.
Still groggy from the anaesthetic, the room spun several times before firming up in his field of vision.
“What do you mean?” he whispered, lacking the energy for full speech.
“You only came out of surgery a couple of hours ago and with the injuries you sustained, we didn’t expect you to regain consciousness for a few days at least.”
“You can’t keep a good man down,” he smiled weakly.
“We all heard what you did for that lady. You are a hero,” she gushed and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Helping hurts,” he attempted to laugh but agonising pain radiated from his abdomen.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just wanted to thank you for women everywhere.”
He had never felt so tired and, with the drugs still having an effect, found himself searching for a floating battery bar above the bed, flashing a red warning of his impending shut down.
“Lie still now,” she cautioned, back into professional mode, “What are you looking for?”
“Battery,” he whispered, and she nodded with false understanding. As far as drug addled conversations went, it wasn’t the strangest she had ever held.
The intensive care unit consisted of four beds with accompanying equipment designed to support the patient. One bed stood empty and the other two held an elderly man and a woman who was heavily bruised around the face. Even in his debilitated state, the flames of rage ignited in his belly at the sight of the beaten lady. Accordion looking respirators rose and fell, pushing life sustaining oxygen into their unresponsive lungs. Forcing himself to look away, a mixture of scents was carried on the air; disinfectant, faint perfume from the medical staff, and the lingering acidity of the vomit on his lips. The burning sensation didn’t abate and it becam
e an increasingly painful experience. The nurse saw his discomfort and the way he doubled over, risking damage to his recently stitched wound.
“Malachi, what’s wrong?”
“It hurts,” he started to say until the sensation of nausea washed over him again, “Need to be sick.”
“That will be the anaesthetic wearing off, hold on,” she said calmly.
Before she could even offer the newly collected sick tray, a stream of blood burst from his mouth, covering her skirt and the floor. Unfazed by the sight, she reached over and hit the emergency alarm button. A nurse came running into the room as Malachi was helped onto his side to prevent choking on the unending torrent of scarlet liquid.
“What is it?”
“I think the stitches in his upper intestine may have ruptured.”
The other nurse immediately picked up the phone to call the surgery team. Malachi was fading and everything went quiet, even the discomfort of blood expelling itself through his lips disappeared. In the wall to his side, a dot of gleaming light appeared at waist height. As the seconds passed and the frantic activity of the intensive care nurses bustled around him, the dot grew into a sphere eight feet in diameter. The brilliant light wasn’t uncomfortable, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the glare, dark forms could be seen standing within.
“Mum, Dad,” Malachi croaked, red slobber dripping into the tray.
He reached out and the pulse clamp on his finger came away, causing the already noisy machine to go into a flat line screech. A shadow reached out in response and as their fingertips touched, a sense of unconditional love washed over him. All fear fled and as the feeling of floating took hold, he closed his eyes and joyously awaited the coming reunion.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pulling his wife close to ward off the chill, William blew out a streamer of smoke and tossed the cigarette overboard. The glowing tip fluttered away into the darkness before meeting the ocean’s surface. Standing on a freshly scrubbed wooden deck with evenly spaced lamps casting spotlights over the revellers as they enjoyed the hush of the walkway, he felt relaxed for the first time in months. The tightly bound lifeboats gave off an aura of reassurance and safety, despite the captain insisting they were an eyesore. It hadn’t escaped their attention that a similar sentiment doomed a voyage in the not too distant past with the loss of over a thousand souls.