But she doesn’t look back.
She crosses the bridge.
(How I love this damn bridge at night…Although I love it best at dawn; the sky tender and blushing like some uptight, Victorian virgin on the morning of her deflowering, the clouds crazily spiralling, the random puffs of vapour from the city’s air conditioning, the tug horns blaring, a thousand lights on the riverside blazing, then gradually growing dimmer and more ineffectual in the shimmering glare of the rising sun.)
She stands at the far end of the bridge and watches Blaine for a while. Then she checks herself (I can tell–even from where I’m standing–that it takes some effort of will) and strolls on. She walks on. She’s not heading for the nightwatch. And she’s certainly not heading home again. So where’s she going?
My following gets more furtive now (I mean if she catches me behind her at this stage it’s gonna look pretty dodgy, eh?). She walks on briskly for a further five minutes, then she stops. I, peer up at the large, grey building towering above her.
But of course. Of course. Guys. The bloody hospital.
I shouldn’t (don’t even waste your breath), I know I shouldn’t, but I still keep on following. And it’s not like I’m saying that the hospital security is a bunch of shit or anything (wouldn’t fucking dare), but I pursue her, unchallenged, down a labyrinth of corridors, through a dozen swing-doors, up a series of stairs…
Eventually she reaches her destination; enters a brightly-lit ward and marches up to the nurses’ station.
I’m peering in at her through the wire-meshed glass in the heavy, white, hospital regulation swing-doors. She’s talking with a nurse. A blonde nurse. The nurse is listening, then frowning, then responding quite emphatically. Aphra says something else, then dumps a bag of food on to the desk. The nurse grabs it, lifts it up, holds it out to her, gesticulating. Aphra turns on her heel. The nurse calls after her…
Jesus wept, she’s heading back!
Fuck.
I sprint down the corridor and turn a sharp left.
She’s still coming. I zip into a private room (dimly lit. Some poor plugged-up geezer beep-beeping it on a heart monitoring machine). Still I hear her footsteps approaching (How unlucky is that?). I shove my back against the wall, in the lee of the door, holding my breath.
I feel her–I feel her–peering in through the glass (the light from the hallway cuts out as her head blocks the gap).
I count to ten. Then to twenty.
She sneezes, loudly (the bloke on the bed stirs. His breathing quickens, his heart rate)…
And then she goes.
She does.
I count to five, put my hand on to the doorhandle, twist it, pull…Am just about to take my chance and scarper, when I detect a further- rather sharp- exchange underway in the hallway (between Aphra and the nurse), so I pause, push the door to, and glance anxiously around the room.
Wow. It’s nice in here. Very nice. Homely. Swanky. Flower displays everywhere (forget the bunch. Fuck the bunch. The bunch is so passé), a strongly scented candle- Jasmine? Lavender?- a veritable stall of fruit, and a whole host of well-framed family photographs all crammed together on a side table in a fashionably congenial bohemian mish-mash.
A piece of sculpture. A small, bronze minotaur. Looks old. And important.
Paintings on the walls. Huge fuckers. This amazing Ben Nicholson (swear to God, it’s the real deal–I touch the paint with my thumb); something brilliant and abstract which just must be by Howard Hodgkin; and some very strange but rather magnificent work by the Chapman Brothers (which I saw–or something very like it–I’m pretty certain) at a recent exhibition.
Along from those, on a beautiful, dark-wood sideboard (ebony? Swathed in carved birds and ivy–Man, this just can’t be hospital issue) are literally dozens of Get Well Soon cards (someone–or someones–certainly loves this sick-o). At the front of the pack is a scruffy, hand-drawn cartoon, which looks like the work–if I’m not very much mistaken–of no less an individual than serial Brit-Art sex-kitten, Tracy Emin.
An Apple laptop (of course. The last word in modern). A fantastic crystal ashtray (spotless).
And he’s wearing a watch (this sick geezer, keeping time? Crazy, huh?), which the dull light catches. Solid gold. Flecks of ice. Looks like something which even 50 Cent might consider a little too blingin’ obvious.
Bedside table is stacked with magazines and books (this is some cultured ill-mother-fucker). I cock my head towards the door, holding my breath. The argument continues.
At the sound of raised voices, the sick geezer (no word of a lie, he has this fabulous silk counterpane, hand-embroidered and beaded with this sumptuous–but manly–geometric pattern in black and silver) starts moving around and grunting slightly.
Has he seen me?
Oh God.
I take a step closer. I don’t want to intimidate him–or to come over like some kind of crazy interloper (which–let’s face it, I effectively am).
‘Hello…’
In my keenness to introduce myself I knock into his books–quickly snake out my hand to stop the pile from falling (I mean is this any kind of an arrangement for a very sick person?) And guess what?
No. Seriously. Guess…
Top of the pile (I say top of the pile), Shane by Jack Schaefer.
Shit.
The door opens. It’s the blonde nurse.
‘Who are you?’ she asks (she has a soft Irish accent, but her voice is tight and defensive, and her cheeks are still flushed from the argument she’s just had).
‘Adair Graham MacKenny,’ I say calmly. ‘I came along with Aphra.’
‘Oh.’
The nurse scowls.
‘This is my book,’ I say, grabbing the Shane, opening it to the frontispiece and showing her my name printed there (Yup. I know it’s a childish habit, but it’s helping me out of this embarrassing predicament, isn’t it?).
‘You wrote that?’
(She looks momentarily impressed.)
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I cluck. ‘Jack Schaefer.’
The nurse continues to weight me up. ‘So she brought you along to take her place?’
‘Yes.’ (If in doubt, agree. That’s my philosophy.)
She glares at me for a moment, obviously quite disgusted (I check my fly), ‘And you know Mr Leyland well?’
I shake my head. ‘No. I couldn’t honestly admit to that…’
‘So is she paying you?’
I draw myself up to my full five foot eight (Oh come on, what’s an inch between friends, eh?). ‘Absolutely not.’
She turns and inspects a timetable on the wall.
‘Taking the damn piss,’ she mutters (in that lovely, musical, nurse way, just underneath her breath). ‘Okay, fine,’ she eventually grouches. ‘Can I get you anything?’
(From her tone of voice I realise that my answer has to be ‘No. Absolutely not.’)
‘Like what?’ I ask.
‘I dunno. Tea? Coffee?’
‘Coffee. That’d be good. Milk, one sugar. Thanks.’
‘Take a chair,’ she scowls, and points.
I take the chair.
Wow. Nice chair. Philippe Starck.
She leaves.
I stare over–a little anxiously–towards my unsuspecting ward. He’s in his late forties. Well upholstered. Not bad looking (like James Spader with an MA and less hair).
But ill. Very ill.
He tries to say something through his oxygen mask. I lean in closer.
‘Vacant,’ he says.
‘Pardon?’
‘Vacant.’
‘Vacant?’ I quiz him. ‘Who is?’
He clumsily knocks the mask off. ‘You cunt.’
Ah. Good. Right…
‘She’s a nurse,’ he groans, ‘not a fucking tea hostess.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ I clear my throat, nervously. ‘Sorry.’
‘Well don’t apologise to me,’ he pants.
(Is that an American accent?
Australian? Canadian?)
He’s silent for a while, struggling to breathe, his left hand shaking, uncontrollably.
‘Lovely room,’ I say.
No response.
‘Certainly looks like you’ve been in here a while…’
Blanked.
‘Made yourself quite at home, eh?’
‘I’m fucking dying,’ he snaps.
(Funny, isn’t it, how these death’s door types lose all sense of propriety?)
He turns and attempts to push his face back inside his mask. I jump up and help him. He brusquely nods his acknowledgement.
(Australian. I’m almost certain now. And sharp as a damn kumquat).
I slowly sit down again (I mean should I just leave? Or will things pan out better for me–legally speaking–if I stay a short while longer and prove myself obliging?).
‘Fantastic chair,’ I say.
‘Can’t take it with you…’ he gasps (Vader style-ee).
‘Of course not,’ I say (chastened). ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘No.’ He rolls his eyes and points weakly to his chest. ‘I can’t.’
For some reason, the image of a dying man struggling to carry a Philippe Starck chair into the afterlife strikes me as rather droll.
‘The Ben Nicholson’s a better bet,’ I opine, ‘less bulky.’
He snorts (and I’m not sure whether it’s actually with amusement), then he’s quiet for a while, his breathing laboured, as if he’s slowly gathering his resources together. ‘Aphra?’ he eventually asks. There’s definitely an edge to his voice (Christ knows I’ve been there).
‘Fine,’ I say immediately.
Silence.
‘She was gonna come in,’ I continue, ‘but I think the scented candle might’ve scared her.’
‘Fucking thing,’ he murmurs, continuing to fix me with a demanding glare.
‘The oven in her flat broke down,’ I burble on, shifting uncomfortably, ‘so she came over to my place to cook…’
‘Food?’ he asks, almost excitedly.
‘Of course,’ I say (I mean what else?).
‘For you?’ he asks.
‘Are you kidding?’ I bleat pathetically. ‘She brought it all over here, packed up in Tupperware.’
He’s smiling. He seems to’ve been immeasurably heartened by this news.
‘Where?’ he eventually gasps.
‘She gave it to the nurse.’
He slits his eyes.
‘Bring it,’ he says, and motions his hand clumsily towards the door.
I don’t move.
‘Maybe later, eh? Once nurse is off her war path–’
‘Good cook,’ he butts in.
‘Oh yeah,’ I heartily concur. ‘I mean the way that girl handles a leek…’
He chuckles, dirtily (giving final confirmation–if any were necessary–of the indelible link between sex and the sickening).
‘It may well interest you to know,’ I say, ‘that she prepared the entire meal in a short skirt and knitted bra. My unsuspecting flatmate almost had a seizure…’
He laughs even harder.
The nurse marches back in bearing a plastic cup of lukewarm instant coffee (holding it haughtily aloft like it’s some manner of precious, ancient, papist artefact–perhaps St Paul the Apostle’s index finger). She frowns when she sees him laughing.
‘Don’t make him laugh,’ she says, ‘it hurts him. His stomach muscles are extremely fragile.’
‘What?’ I tease her (she seems quite teasable). ‘He can’t laugh at all?’
She gives me a stern look.
‘Not even the odd giggle?’
She sucks on her tongue.
‘A small snigger?’
(His chest starts to move again.) She hisses.
‘A tiny snort?’
Now he’s really shaking. The beep from the heart monitor speeds up slightly.
She kicks me (like a vicious little Shetland), adjusts something on his arm (there’s a tube entering there, and a bag of fluid hung up above the bed), straightens his oxygen mask, and tells him, ‘Please press the button if you’re in serious pain, okay?’
He nods.
She turns back to face me again. ‘So did Aphra send you here tonight with the express purpose of knocking him off?’ she enquires.
I slowly shake my head.
‘Then read him the book,’ she says, tapping the cover with an aggressive finger, ‘and less of the other stuff.’
She heads for the door.
‘Bitch,’ he murmurs.
‘I heard that, you cheeky sod,’ she rebuffs (quite some lip on her for a nursing professional).
His chest shakes a little more (he’s pretty, bloody genial for a man with more wires in him than a computer terminal).
I open Shane, flip through it, discover the point at which the corner of the page has been turned over as a marker (Doesn’t that girl have even the vaguest idea of how to treat a book respectfully?): chapter 6 (Hmmn. Much as I suspected), then start to read him the section about Sam Grafton’s general store…
Before I’ve completed more than a couple of sentences, though, he puts out his hand.
‘No,’ he says. ‘She’s reading that.’
Ah.
I grab the next book down from the pile: The Future of Nostalgia by Svetlana Boym (She’s given the first chapter the nifty title ‘Hypochondria of the Heart: Nostalgia, History and Memory’. Yo-ho! Well isn’t this going to be a rip-roaring half-hour?).
As I begin to read (a little shakily at first) I see his hand snake out towards a small, custom-built table which he yanks around to face him. There’s a notebook affixed to it–the pages held in place with strips of elastic–a pencil and a tiny reading light. He clicks the light on and grabs the pencil between his shaky fingers.
‘Slower,’ he barks, then proceeds to take a series of the world’s most detailed and laborious notes.
In longhand.
With page references.
He’s an Athlete of Pain. An Olympian. In the hours that follow I watch him vault and parry a thousand searing hurdles. But I don’t stop. I don’t comment (he clearly doesn’t want that). I simply read on.
I see him grit his teeth, gnash them. I see the top-half of his torso jerk–uncontrollably–towards the bottom in a series of random, horrible, pitiless spasms. I see beads of sweat forming on his brow as his free hand clenches, then unclenches, then clenches again (but the working hand still diligently continues writing).
Sometimes there’s a sudden, hog-like grunt–as the pain shoots from the back of his neck, to the back of his throat, up into his nose–and a small spray of mucus blasts out. His feet, under that eiderdown, are in constant motion, dancing an endless, joyless jig of torment.
The knees pull up, then flatten down, then pull up again. His shoulders lift, then rotate, then drop. He gasps. He pants…
Hard not to remember S’omogyi, the Hungarian Chemist, in the Primo Levi, and how difficult it was for him to give up the mortal coil. Almost three days of struggle, punctuated, only, by the awful, repetitive murmuring of ‘Jawohl.’
‘I never understood so clearly as at that moment,’ Levi whispers, ‘how laborious is the death of a man.’
Jawohl.
Jawohl.
Jesus Christ I wish he’d press that button.
Kill the pain.
Press the button.
Go on.
Press it.
You know you want to.
It’ll make things better.
It will.
It will.
Go on.
That’s what it’s there for.
Go on.
Go on.
Just press the damn thing!
But he doesn’t. He won’t. He can’t.
I replace his notebook with a fresh one on two separate occasions. It’s then that I discover (to my palpable horror) that he has a huge pile of the bastards in a suitcase by the wall. In fact there are two cases: on
e containing the notebooks he’s already filled (numbering approximately seven to eight dozen), the other holding the empty ones (numbering approximately twenty-odd).
I’m literally gagging for a piss by around 4 a.m. (fine for him, he has a catheter). We’re halfway through St Petersburg, the Cosmopolitan Province (page 124, chapter 9) when I grind to a halt, uncross my legs and beg a short intermission.
‘Ever been to Russia?’ he croaks agonisedly as I stand up.
‘Never.’
‘Pity,’ he hisses, through pain-gritted teeth, ‘I have.’
I bump into a nurse, outside, in the corridor. A different nurse. A night-nurse.
‘Is Brandy still up?’ she asks (in a thick but confident Eastern Bloc accent).
‘Afraid so,’ I say.
‘In agony?’ she enquires.
I nod grimly.
‘Only damn thing keeping him going,’ she phlegmatically opines.
Then she pauses for a moment and smiles. ‘Same as the rest of us, huh?’
It’s 4 a.m. I’ve been clumsily articulating Russian place names for over five hours. For once in my life I’m not entirely certain how to respond.
‘Admire your stamina,’ this kindly philosopher-nurse murmurs (conserving my breath for me), then she pats me firmly on the shoulder and points straight down the corridor, ‘Toilet’s that way, okay?’
I am awoken at 8.15 by the book falling. It clatters off my lap and down on to the linoleum.
What?!
(How long’ve I been sleeping? One hour? Two hours?)
Brandy Leyland is flat out (Face battered and pocked like the head of an antique hammer. Skin like silver birch bark. Breath coming, then going, in racking bursts. Hands still clenched so hard his knuckles glimmer like alabaster).
I lean down and pick the book up. A young man enters. He seems surprised–and not entirely delighted, either–to see me there.
‘Hi,’ He holds out his hand. ‘Punch Leyland. Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?’
Punch?
I clamber to my feet. ‘Adair Graham MacKenny,’ I say, refusing to elucidate any further (If in doubt, clam up. That’s my philosophy).
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