“You alright Miss Dove?”
She’d forgotten about Gibbs. “Yes. Thank you.”
From the pocket of her jacket she takes a tissue and gently wipes away the trail of spittle from Colin’s lopsided mouth. “There you go sweetheart.”
She then kisses the top of his head, smelling shampoo and soap and shaving foam, along with the faintest whiff of disinfectant.
“There should be a chair,” Gibbs says, looking around. “Where’s the chair. Someone’s always pinching the sodding chairs. I’ll go fetch you one. Don’t go away.”
Grace uses Gibbs’ absence to take the measure of the ghostly pale man in the wheelchair, of the empty footrests and the open space where the rest of his legs should be, of the plastic bag holding some pale yellow liquid in a metal cage attached to the chair’s frame, of the clear tube snaking up his shortened thigh to disappear into the crotch of his camouflage patterned pants, their empty bottom halves tucked neatly under him, giving the impression he is kneeling in the chair, of the feeding tube up his nose.
The sight is so pitiful it makes her want to weep.
She lays her hand on Colin’s bony shoulder and gives it a little squeeze of reassurance, just as Gibbs returns carrying a blue plastic chair.
“There you go,” he says, setting it down beside her. “Not very comfortable, but it’s the best I can find.”
“It’s more than adequate,” Grace says. “Thank you.”
“I’ll give you a little privacy, but if you need anything just press that –” He indicates the nurse call button attached by a clip to the head of Colin’s bed. “–and someone will come.”
“We’ll be fine.”
“I can let you have fifteen minutes. I can’t risk any more. You shouldn’t–”
“—be here. I know. And I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
She sits demurely on the utilitarian seat, hands in her lap, legs crossed at the ankles, a butter wouldn’t melt expression on her face. “Thank you, Simon.”
“Right. I’ll … leave you to it.” He collects up Colin’s file and medical charts from the adjustable overbed table, clutching them protectively to his chest. “Fifteen minutes,” he repeats, and lets the door fall closed behind him as he leaves.
Grace shoogles her chair closer alongside Colin’s wheelchair and looks to his hands, lying like loosely curled claws in his lap. She wants to hold one, but what she sees frightens her.
Taped securely to the back of his left hand is a long plastic cannula, the sort that can be connected to an intravenous drip or have medications injected through a needle inserted deep into a vein.
On the back of his right hand is a large painful looking bruise, indicating the previous location of a similar device and its recent removal, its purple and black discolouration standing livid against the waxy paleness of his skin.
She lifts the right hand to her lips, as if she can magic away the bruise with a kiss, and then presses its marble cold palm to her cheek, shrugging off the dead fish feeling that abhors her so much.
“Colin?” she says, softly.
No response.
“Colin, sweetheart, it’s me, Grace. Can you hear me?”
Nothing. Not a twitch. Then she has an idea.
“If it worked for Snow White …?”
She cradles his cheeks with her hands, taking care not to dislodge the rubber tube, and kisses him full on his cold slack lips. She then sits back and waits.
Slowly his eyelids part, he blinks, once, twice, and focuses on her, recognition flooding across his face.
“Grace?”
“Hey.” She lays warm palms back against his cool cheeks. “I said I would come and here I am.”
“Aye, here you are.” His voice is hoarse and brittle, but he manages to turn on the radiant smile she has come to know. “It’s good to see you … in the flesh at last.”
“You too.”
His eyes fill with tears. “I’m sorry, Grace. I’m afeered there’s no much of my flesh left ta see, and what there is, is –”
She puts her finger to his lips. “Shhh. It’s no more or no less than I was expecting.” She uses the tissue to wipe away a stray tear which has leaked from the corner of his eye. “Don’t get upset.”
He tries to smile, then shivers, and his arms rash with goosebumps. Grace runs her hand up and down his bare arm.
“You’re so cold,” she says, and grabs a blue cellular blanket from the bed and drapes it around his shoulders, pulling it snugly around him. “How’s that?”
“Better. Thanks.”
“I haven’t got long,” she says. “I’d like to say it’s because it’s my first visit and the nurse thinks I might tire you out.”
“What’s the real reason?”
“I’m not supposed to be in here at all. I have my pass, but I didn’t arrange a visit, didn’t know I had to. He took a chance letting me in without one so if we are caught, he might get into trouble.” She squeezes his hand. “But now I know where you are and what the rules are, in future I’ll make sure I follow them.”
“In future? That means you’ll come again?”
“Of course I will. As often as I can. In fact, I’ll probably be here so often that you and the staff will be sick of seeing me.”
“Never.”
She adjusts the blanket over his shoulders. “You warm enough now?”
“Aye. Much better.”
And so, hand clutching hand, they fall into friendly convivial chatter. He tells her about the utter tedium of his daily routine, starting at six every morning when someone comes to take his temperature, pulse and blood pressure. They then get him up with the hoist and transport him on the ceiling mounted monorail to the bathroom, to the toilet, to give him a wash and a shave and twice a week, a proper bath.
“Keep wishin’ the damned thing would break down,” he says with a sly smile. “Then I’d get masel’ one o’ those pretty wee nurses ta gi me a sponge bath.”
“So you are aware of them doing all these things for you?” Grace says.
“Only in a ‘something’s gain on in the other room’ kind of way. I can ignore it fer the most part, unless they do something ta–” He screws up his face as if recalling something unpleasant … or painful.
“Do they hurt you?” Grace asks.
He shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“How?”
“Ach, those little things that canna be helped. Bumps and knocks, a bath too hot, towel too rough on ma delicate hide, ye ken? But no’ on purpose. Never that.”
He explains to her how three times a day someone comes to feed him, slowly injecting liquid food into his stomach through the tube running up his nose and down his throat.
“You were asking why I can stay in the garden without needing to eat,” he says. “Well, here’s the reason.”
“No wonder you are so thin,” Grace says, pressing her hand against his ribs, feeling every one of them through the fabric of his T-shirt. “You can’t get bacon and eggs through a tube. You need to keep your strength up.”
“Fer what? Ta sit here and stare oot the window 7, 8, 9 hoors a day, rain or shine? Or ta lie in bed staring at the telly watching Jeremy Kyle or havin’ ma brain addled by stupid daytime soaps? Pfffttt.”
He tells her about the sessions of Physiotherapy they put his body through every day, even though he thinks these too are a waste of time.
“It’s to prevent pressure sores and blood clots, and to keep your joints and muscles flexible,” Grace says.
“Fit fer. No’ like I’m goin’ anywhere, is it?” He rubs his thigh. “Then every few hoors someone comes in and shoves something through that thing in ma hand.”
“Painkillers?”
“Among other things, but it can be a bit hit and miss. Sometimes they get it right. Sometimes they don’t.”
“And you’re left in pain. Can’t blame them entirely though. If you’re not telling them how much you need, there has to be some guesswork on their part.”
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He also lets her into a little secret. “Oftentimes, when they’re doin’ things fer me, they ferget I can hear them. They let their guards doon and can fair blether on.” He chuckles mischievously. “The secrets I kent, ye wouldna believe. I could pure fill a book.”
They are both laughing when the door swings open and Gibbs comes in. “I’ve given you a couple minutes longer than I should,” he says, “but I’m afraid time’s up for now, Miss Dove.”
Grace strokes her hand down Colin’s cheek. “That’s okay. We’ve had a lovely chat, haven’t we babe?”
Not much more than a breath of air, Colin’s voice carries only as far as her ears. “That we have.”
She presses a soft kiss to his brow. “I’ll come and see you again as soon as I can.” And another. “Bye bye, sweetie.”
“Cheerio.”
Gibbs holds the door open for Grace to pass through. “He didn’t like to make a fuss, but he was cold,” she says. “Either give him a sweater or turn the heating up a wee bit will you, eh?”
When Grace is safely in the corridor outside, Gibbs glances back into the room, at Colin in the chair, statue still, head supported by the padded rest, eyes closed, and apart from being swaddled in the blue blanket, exactly as he had been twenty minutes before.
Chapter 29
Charge Nurse Gibbs lets the door to Colin McLeod’s room fall closed and he and Grace set off towards the way out. After a few steps, he stops.
“What’s the matter?” says Grace. “You forgotten the way?”
“Have you got time for a chat, Miss Dove?”
She looks at her watch. “Sure. My bus doesn’t go for an hour yet.”
“Good. Not here though.”
Two sets of fire doors, a corridor and a set of stairs later, they are at a door labelled ‘Staff Lounge – Private’. Gibbs punches a four digit number into the security lock and lets them into a comfortable area with easy chairs, an occasional table, and a large picture window overlooking the driveway down which Grace can see all the way to the main gate and the road beyond. On a table sits a hissing gurgling machine, sending out waves of coffee scented steam.
“Ah good, looks like there’s some left,” Gibbs says, shoogling the pot. “Want some?”
“Please.”
While Gibbs busies himself pouring coffee from the machine’s glass jug into two mugs, Grace takes a quick look round. The walls of this comfy refuge for overworked staff are painted a cool grey, the carpet a darker charcoal. No art on the walls, but there is a clock, a general notice board and a whiteboard with a complex looking table in various colours. She edges over to take a closer look while Gibbs takes a carton from the fridge and gives it a sniff.
“Milk?”
“Please.”
“Sugar?”
“No thanks.”
Halfway down the table she sees Colin’s initials and room number, CDM (28) and a series of letters and numbers in boxes, AKx2, NG x 3, Foley, PT x 7, Hydr x 1. In a different hand, someone has added the letters GOK.
Gibbs comes to stand beside her, hands her a mug. “You shouldn’t be looking at that,” he says.
“Shouldn’t have it on the wall for everyone to see then should you. I’ve found Colin’s name and room number, but what do all these letters and numbers mean?”
“Erm … it’s a code we use when we have our staff briefings so everyone knows what each patient’s needs are. AKx2 is double above knee amputation, NG x3 means naso gastric tube, three feeds a day. Foley is the catheter. PT is physical therapy, at least an hour every day, hydrotherapy once a week, but he’s not having that at the moment.”
“What about GOK?”
Gibbs bites his bottom lip. “Therein lies a conundrum,” he murmurs. “Shall we sit?”
They do, and he takes the chair opposite hers, bum barely perched on the front edge of the cushion.
“Did you have a nice visit with Captain McLeod?”
“Yes. Very nice thank you. And I think it did him some good too. It was good to see him dressed and washed and shaved and not left in pyjamas and dressing gown.”
“We don’t do that here,” says Gibbs. “Patients they may be, but they are still service personnel and this is a military environment. You might not see it that way but they still have a job to do. It is their duty to rehabilitate. By making them wear their uniforms we instil a sense of self-discipline. They might wake up in the morning and think ‘I can’t be bothered today’, to which the reply will be, ‘Sorry, soldier, but you don’t have that choice’. If they are late for parade as a soldier in a line regiment, they’re going to get ticked off, or have some sort of disciplinary action taken against them. Same applies here.”
“You punish them for not getting better? That’s awful.”
“It’s nowhere as bad as you’re thinking. It’s a kind of tough love. Sometimes all they need is a gentle nudge to get them out of a dark place, to get them moving forward again. Others need a little more, so we give them a stiff talking to, but in the very gentlest of ways with a hand on their shoulder. We appeal to their sense of camaraderie – if you can’t do it for yourself, do it for your mates. More often than not, it works.”
“When I found out Colin was in a hospital, I sort of expected him to be in a ward with others,” she says. “He’s very isolated in a private room with no company and no stimulation. Is that his punishment for not doing well?”
“Not at all. There are people in and out all the time, giving him all the motivation and encouragement they can. He hasn’t always been on his own. He started out in a small ward with three other guys, a mixture of ranks and regiments, but when he began to decline it affected all of them, one of them quite badly. We had to consider the welfare of everyone concerned and so we took an executive decision to move him, if only to preserve his dignity when he needed more intimate physical care.”
“To quote the admirable Mr Spock, ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one’.”
“Precisely.”
“Can I ask you a favour?”
“Sure.”
“Could you please call him Colin? Using his rank seems so … impersonal.”
“I agree, but convention demands it. It makes no difference here, though. We treat every man or woman according to his or her needs, not their rank.”
“Do you have a rank, Simon?”
“Right now I’m a Staff Sergeant … by the end of the day, who knows?”
“So what did you bring me here to talk about? Colin in particular, or are we here just to be sociable?”
Gibbs hums in his throat and he studies the bubbles on the surface of his coffee. He looks edgy, fidgety, as if he has something important to say, but can’t sort out the right way to do it. He blows steam from his cup and takes a series of short rapid sips from it.
“We do need to talk about Captain McLeod, certainly,” he says. “But you have to accept that there are rules, patient confidentiality and all that, so what I’m going to say now, I never said. This conversation never took place. Understood?”
“Do I have to sign the Official Secrets Act or something?”
“I’m not joking, Miss Dove.”
“I know, but if you or his brother didn’t have at least an inkling of trust in me, I wouldn’t be here at all would I? You would have turfed me out on my ear instead of letting me in to see him. So why don’t you call me Grace and say what you have to say.”
Gibbs takes in a deep breath, clears his throat. “Before I do, why don’t you tell me what you already know about Capt… Colin’s condition?”
Grace shrugs. “Only that he was on foot patrol in Helmand just over a year ago when those Taliban bastards set off a … now what was it he called it … an IDE?”
“IED … improvised explosive device.”
“That’s it. They hid it in a poor donkey tied up in the street. Two of Colin’s party were killed outright. He lost his left leg at the scene, and suffered devastating injuries to the right lower le
g and foot. Your surgeons took those off out there, and then shipped him home. When it became clear the damage was much worse than they feared, and that the wound had become infected, they kept taking more and more, until he had a matched pair of stumps. He was also badly burned on his back and shoulders when his uniform caught fire, hence the scars. He was peppered with shrapnel too and had to have operations to remove the pieces. Still has a few bits and pieces stuck in there that you can’t get out. He’s had a horrendous time of it, poor love. What?”
Gibbs is staring at her. “Donkey?”
“Yes. Its panniers were stuffed with explosives, radio controlled from wherever the rat bastards were hiding.”
“That’s what I’d heard,” says Gibbs, “but it was never corroborated.”
“It is now. I saw it for myself.”
“Saw it? How?”
“Colin showed me.”
“He –? How?”
“In my head.”
“In your… head?” Repeated very slowly and carefully.
“Yes. He let me see and feel everything that happened to him. It was an unspeakably horrifying experience and should come as no surprise to anyone that he has post traumatic stress disorder as a result. Combined with a hefty dose of survivor guilt, they are tearing him apart.”
“Inside your head?” he repeats once more.
“Yes. It’s truly atrocious what he’s suffered … is suffering, and I can see now what’s happened.”
“Please, do tell.”
“I have no doubt his stress disorder has slid over into what might be catalogued as some form of catatonic depression,” she says.
“Why would you think that?
“I’ve been around mental illness long enough to be familiar with the many and varied aspects in which it can present itself.”
“Are you a professional in the field?”
“No… I was… am a patient.”
Gibbs’ open mouth furls into a perfectly round O. A pause. A nod. “I see,” he says, swallows, licks his lips, and then stretches his face into an overly ingratiating smile; a combination of actions Grace has seen so many times before that she lumps them together under the umbrella title of The Look.
“I think I’m right in saying that catatonic depression can lead on to cataleptic stupor, a condition whereby the patient might not move, speak or respond to external stimulus for periods at a time,” she says. “It can last for hours, days, weeks even.”
In The Garden Of Stones Page 19