Luke Adams Boxset 1

by Dawson, H A

  Having paid for her purchases, Michelle exited the supermarket, stepping into the dulled light. In the skies, the darkness gathered and the swift wind blew. A sharp chill penetrated her thin jacket. She fastened her top button, and bags in hand, trundled out of the car park and along the road, absorbing the scene - the cars, the people, the buildings, and the trees.

  She should strive for justice. What O’Riordan had done was wrong, and he could still be doing it. How many more lives was he ruining? Her anger swelled. She should have been enjoying Brittany’s recovery after the transplant, and not dwelling on the numerous what-ifs from a prison cell, yet still, in spite of what he had put her through, her lack of restraint and O’Riordan’s irresistible charm still tormented.

  Michelle rested her bags on the ground, and paused to wipe a smear from her red-rimmed glasses. To her side was the park, and a short distance away, above the tree line, was Brittany’s block of flats. She could take a short detour, so she trudged along the pavement scanning the extensive grasses and flowerbeds. There was a woman with two terrier dogs, a young man hobbling with a walking stick, and two girls with their arms linked, but there was no sight of Brittany. Disheartened, she crossed a street and headed up an incline. At another junction, she peered to the right and her heart fluttered. Could it be?

  It was, and she was struggling. Brittany was stooped and finding it hard to breathe. Instinctively, Michelle surged forward, heading in her daughter’s direction, but then she stopped. She had witnessed this extreme fatigue before, when her kidneys were failing, and it was happening again. Immersed in guilt, filled with images of all she had done wrong, she trotted away.

  Tears stung her eyes. She was weak, pathetic and had failed her daughter once too often already; she could not hurt her again and had to stay out of her way. A heavy feeling pressed against her insides, swelling and restricting her of breath, and her eyes swirled. She glimpsed back. Brittany was battling but she was making progress.

  Suddenly, the dark, cold walls of her cell, and the loneliness and desperation appealed. Her daughter had suffered needless pain and she had been without a maternal figure during her teenage years. How could she ever forgive herself for that?

  The clouds burst and the raindrops pounded, trickling down her face and masking her tears. It was the first rain she had experienced for years, and it was a strangely gratifying sensation. She wanted to be wet and cold, and she wanted to suffer.

  Nonetheless, after several minutes enduring the droplets, her flat and the privacy it provided was a welcoming sight. She placed her bags to the ground and fumbled in her handbag for her key, and with quivering, chilled hands, she connected with the lock and opened the door. Once inside, she slumped onto the sofa and covered her face. Brittany’s tormented cries were relentless and she told her she was cowardly and deplorable, both appropriate descriptions. Michelle tightened her limbs closer to her body and searched for a solution.

  Everything had been O’Riordan’s making. If she hadn’t become embroiled in his dirty, little secret, she would have been able to form a relationship with her daughter. It was time to stop running and do something about it; it was time to make him pay.

  The little boy was sat up in bed. His head was too heavy to support and rested on the pillow, his arms were drooped at his side and his legs were splayed. Exhausted and ashen, he struggled to converse.

  Jason tried to rouse Ethan, and yearned to see his pale lips move more than the miniscule amount that was fast becoming the norm. Where had the animation gone? His son’s chocolate-coloured eyes rarely reflected anything but fatigue, not fear, neither anxiety nor happiness. Even when Jason had arrived in the hospital ward, it had created little more than a flicker of joy, and his gut ached.

  Ethan’s decline had been rapid; three days ago, he had been fine, responding well to treatment. It made no sense and it was desperately unfair. The night before the onset, he had been a little more tired than normal, but by the morning he could barely stand; he was feverish, ached all over, and was painfully tired.

  There was worse to come. Jason’s consultant, Dr O’Riordan, had told him Ethan was not responding so well to dialysis and so they would raise his priority for a transplant. Jason was frantic. He knew the possibilities of getting an organ swiftly were slim, and he knew his son was growing weaker by the day. He paced the room and headed to the window.

  The sunlight bounced from the cars, the leaves on the trees and shrubs were expanding from buds, and the winter gloom was dissolving into warm spring days. Some folks strode out of the grounds, others walked to the hospital doors. No one seemed tormented and desolate; no one cared for his suffering.

  ‘There are other options,’ Dr O’Riordan had whispered.

  Jason had heard the rumours of immorally raising priorities, and he had criticised parents for resorting to such an underhand method. But maybe, just maybe it was an option. What harm could it do? Ethan was already high on the priority list, so it wasn’t as if he was pushing aside too many other patients to get to the top.

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced a message. ‘Let me know if you’re in,’ it said. His heart beat faster and his fingers hovered on the buttons.

  ‘Daddy,’ Ethan groaned.

  He replaced it into his pocket and spun around.

  ‘I want to go home.’

  Jason hurried to his bedside. ‘I know you do, but first you must get better. How about I read you a story?’

  Ethan shook his head.

  ‘It’ll be a good distraction.’

  ‘Don’t want to.’ His voice was feeble.

  ‘I know you feel rotten, but it won’t last forever.’

  Ethan shuffled.

  ‘We should plan our summer holiday. Where do you want to go?’

  ‘Not bothered.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. How about, as a treat, we go to Disney World?’

  He pulled a face.

  ‘Then somewhere warm. Spain perhaps.’

  Silence.

  ‘Please have a think for me.’

  ‘I want to see whales.’

  ‘Wales? Why do you want to go there?’

  Ethan frowned. ‘Not the place, the animal.’

  ‘Aw.’

  Jason smiled. The glimmer of amusement reflected in Ethan’s eyes was the most he had witnessed in days and it warmed his heart.

  ‘I didn’t know you liked whales,’ he continued.

  ‘I got a book.’ He gazed at a cupboard by his bedside. ‘From Uncle Danny.’

  ‘Really, can I have a look?’

  Ethan nodded.

  He retrieved it and flicked through the pages. Each page had at least one colourful glossy image, and alongside were several lines of information. ‘This is very good. Do you have a favourite?’

  Ethan reached across for the book. It slipped from his hands, the weight overpowering. Seeing his distress, Jason lifted it up and rested it in his son’s palms. Taking his time, the little boy flicked through the pages and then stopped on an image of a white whale, a beluga.

  ‘I didn’t know there were whales like this,’ Jason said.

  ‘They live in the Artic.’

  ‘Well, I think we should go see them as soon as your better. Would you like that?’

  Ethan nodded and then took a huge gasp of air. His head dropped to the pillow and his eyelids closed. Jason smoothed her hand across his forehand. It was sticky to touch and his heart heaved.

  ‘Show me some others,’ he said.

  Glassy-eyed, Ethan turned over the page. He was not able to maintain any focus on the photographs, and it tore at Jason’s heart. He wanted to hug him and tell him how much he loved him, and he wanted to remove his pain, take away his burden. If only he could be ill for him. It would be far easier to handle than seeing his little boy sick.

  After a few more minutes, and relenting to Ethan’s fatigue, he allowed him to sleep and placed the book back into the cupboard. Within seconds, his young son’s nostrils rose and
fell and his bottom lip was slack. He wished him a peaceful slumber and leaned back into the chair.

  Ethan’s small, frail body was grey and lifeless, his voice was monotone and heavy, and his words were breathy and strained. It turned Jason’s stomach. He had to find Dr O’Riordan, and the sooner the better. Treading to avoid making a sound, and with his helplessness swelling in his abdomen, he exited the ward and glanced between the rooms looking for his son’s consultant.

  If all went as promised, Ethan would soon be a normal boy again and join in his friends’ energetic activities. He could drink as he pleased without fearing for his life, and they could go on day trips without having to return for dialysis. Ethan would be healthy . . . but he wasn’t yet.

  Jason had to fast track a solution for his son’s plight, and quick. If not, the transplant would be months away . . . or even years. Would Ethan last that long? His body was failing and treating him was becoming an ever more arduous task. It was a race against time. Panic set in.

  He started to quake and his skin turned cold. He would rather die with him than be alone. His muscles tightened and his breathing rate increased. What did the future hold? Would he be forced to live a lifetime of perpetual agony and torment without his son? Would he die a slow painful death, heartbroken and inanimate?

  His feet stopped moving, his legs refused to drive him on. Negative news could be imminent and he may not have the strength to absorb it. He thought back to the earlier conversation, and Dr O’Riordan’s promise that he would do everything he could to help his child. There had been a glint in his eye, a small sense of optimism seeping from his clinical demeanour. He had believed him; the doctor would not let him down.

  The door before him swung open and the hammering of his pulse echoed through his hollowness. It was Dr O’Riordan with a doctor and a nurse, and they were rushing along corridor. Jason trotted after them.

  ‘Dr O’Riordan?’

  He turned his head but his steps did not falter.

  ‘I need to speak to you.’

  ‘Not now. I have to get to accident and emergency.’

  ‘Please, it’s about Ethan’

  ‘Speak to the ward nurse.’

  The lift door opened and closed. Jason watched it descend. He decided to follow.

  By the time Jason arrived, Dr O’Riordan was in the office. His hand was hovering over the door ready to knock and tell him his decision, when to his rear another door opened and there was the sound of frantic voices. A crash team was performing CPR on a patient, and alongside, laid rock-steady on another bed, was another patient. His heart skipped a beat. If Dr O’Riordan couldn’t acquire a living organ, this would be how his son’s life would restart.

  A nurse hurried into the room and the door swung closed. Sensing death in the air and unable to shake off the need to speak with Dr O’Riordan, Jason headed to the waiting area. Most of the plastic chairs that were set in rows were occupied. Nevertheless, there was little conversation and the atmosphere was subdued. He sat on a chair at the end of a row next to a man with a huge belly, a grey pallor and worn-out clothes, and his eyes flitted between the office and the room with the crash team.

  He should be distressed. Someone only a few metres away was fighting for life, yet instead, he felt a trickle of excitement. It was a daunting sensation and immediately he chastised herself. He should not be revelling in someone else's misfortune. It could just as easily have been someone close to him. It could have been Ethan.

  Yet, if the person died they could give others a second chance through organ donation. It could be Ethan’s time; he could finally receive the new kidney they both deserved.

  Of course, the dead person’s family could decline to donate.

  Jason fidgeted with his watch. What if this person was a perfect match for Ethan? What if this was his son’s one and only chance at recovery? Was it right that the next of kin could play God? A selfish and spontaneous decision could, in affect, kill his son.

  Jason shuffled to the edge of his seat and scanned the room. Who was this person? He had to influence them, insist that they did not die in vain. Ethan was just a child. He had never been a healthy boy and had spent most of his life in and out of hospital. Was that fair? How much time had the dying person spent ill? Days? Weeks? Maybe not even that. He had probably fulfilled many of his dreams and desires, and had more good times in one year than Ethan had had in his entire life. It was time he gave something back. It was Ethan’s time.

  He reached for his phone, opened the message from Dr O’Riordan, and whilst he had the courage, typed in ‘I’m in’. Then he sent the message, his pulse throbbing in his throat and his skin clammy.

  A nurse with a grave expression strode to the reception desk only metres away. She spoke to the woman behind the counter in a low voice and explained that Tim Canning had died. They both looked towards something at Jason’s rear, and then she scampered away. Jason turned around. There was nothing there except an empty room.

  Growing restless, and still feeling a need to see his son’s consultant in person, he stood up, stretched his legs, and headed towards the room where he believed the dead person rested. Two men in white coats strode by. He tucked in closer to the glass and tried to peer through the almost closed blinds.

  ‘Someone you know?’

  He spun around. The woman was short and wore red-rimmed glasses. ‘No, I’m waiting to speak to someone.’

  ‘Me too . . . that consultant in that room.’

  Jason’s jaw dropped. ‘Dr O’Riordan?’

  ‘That’s the one. Can’t trust him as far as you can throw him.’

  ‘He’s my son’s consultant.’

  ‘Oh. I hope he’s not up to his bloody tricks. He ruined my daughter’s life . . . and mine for that matter. I’m Michelle Handley by the way.’

  His blood drained. Could she be Brittany’s mother?

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I hope you’re not involved with that creep. You should be very careful . . . don’t be taken in by his promises.’

  Jason slumped onto a chair. What had he done? Was it too late to back out?

  ‘No, I . . . I know someone with that name. Brittany Handley.’

  Michelle turned away, headed to the office where Dr O’Riordan resided, and paused. ‘How well do you know her?’ she asked, turning around.

  ‘Not that well. We had a drink together but . . .’

  ‘I see regret in your eyes.’

  Jason hesitated. ‘Are you related?’

  ‘Could say that. If you like her you should keep seeing her.’

  He perched onto a chair, reluctant to respond.

  ‘She needs someone decent in her life. I’m a very good judge of character. You’d be good for her.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’d be doing me a favour. You do like her, don’t you?’

  ‘She seems lovely. I’m just not sure if she’s my type.’

  ‘And how do you know that if you say you don’t know her?’

  He averted his gaze and saw the office door open. Dr O’Riordan was marching away and Michelle raced after him.

  ‘O’Riordan,’ she yelled.

  He continued on, not responding, not moving his head.

  ‘Don’t you dare ignore me!’

  He stopped and turned around. ‘Not here,’ he hissed.

  ‘No,’ Michelle said, ‘you wouldn’t like that, would you?’

  ‘We’ll meet later, I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘You better. Or else . . .’

  Michelle turned around, headed to the seats in waiting area, and smiled at Jason, satisfaction settling into her eyes. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘about Brittany . . .’

  Chapter 7

  The city library was situated in an unimpressive rectangular building, constructed of grey concrete beside a main highway. There were no striking features. There was a large car park at the rear, the walkway was without appealing embellishments, such as archways and potted plants, and merely s
erved a purpose, and the entrance sign was bland and worn.

  Brittany eased open the glass door and stepped inside. Already the silence was oppressive, and she padded the heavy-duty maroon carpet and headed to the children’s department on the ground floor where she worked. Having greeted her colleague, she placed her handbag and jacket in a secure site, and sat on a chair near her desk, gathering her energies. She had books to return to their rightful positions, summer storytelling programs to plan, and a selection of new books to categorise. She decided to start with the storytelling programme, to allow her a chance to recover from her walk across town.

  She had an idea which of the books were the most appealing, and wanted to select some with summery themes. Sifting through an assortment upon her desk, she looked at the colourful images and large text. They were wonderfully eye-catching, with images of monsters, adventurous boys and girls, and talking animals, and her heart warmed. The children would be entranced. It was a rewarding experience, a pleasure to participate.

  Brittany typed up a rough outline of each story into a document onto her computer and placed the book into another pile ready to return to the shelves. She glanced at the list. Her first aim was to ensure the books appealed to both sexes; her second aim was to ensure there was variety in the stories. Sensing she was achieving both, she leaned back, satisfied.

  People started to arrive. There were two boys of preschool age with a young woman, and there was an elderly man with a girl of about ten years. Fleetingly, she wondered why the girl wasn’t at school.

  Emma, her colleague, strolled towards her. ‘Oh,’ she moaned, ‘I feel terrible. I think I’m dying.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘My throat is killing me. I can hardly open my mouth. Can you die from a throat infection?’