Farewell Tour of a Terminal Optimist

by John Young

  He stares at me.

  “So the short answer to your question is that there isn’t a high chance that treatment has worked this time, either.”

  “But there’s a chance?”

  “Yeah, a chance, otherwise I wouldn’t have gone through the treatment again. I’ll find out soon enough, and if they ask me back to Room Nine, then I know it’s the end.”

  “Room Nine?”

  “Aye, Death’s Door, I used to call it. That’s where you go for bad news. If it’s good news they sit you up in a ward. Bad news, it’s Room Nine.”

  He sighs. “Never quit, never bloody quit though, eh?”

  “Aye, right.”

  “What about your leg?”

  “I had pains for a bit and some swelling, which was diagnosed as growing pains and bruises because I fell out of a tree. My leg wasn’t broken but the pain got worse. I fell over a few weeks later and my leg shattered. That’s when the cancer diagnosis came along. They removed bits of leg and then started chemo. It’s rare, you know?” I said with mock pride. “Some people win the lottery – not me, I get unusual cancers.” I laugh half-heartedly.

  He smiles at me. “Connor, you are some pup.”

  I don’t know what to think of his chat. He’s interested, which I suppose is good. I feel uncomfortable because I don’t like talking about it – him, cancer, the devil inside me. He doesn’t deserve to be talked about. He is nothing. Cancer is nothing but death. I don’t want to be known for that. It reminds me that I’m vulnerable, my foolhardiness is a front and the fear returns as soon as I acknowledge that cancer exists.

  “What was it like when you found out?” he asks a bit sheepishly.

  Even though I mind chatting about it, Skeates clearly wants to know. The confines of the tent seem to encourage an honesty between us, so I swallow my fear and tell him.

  “I don’t think about it,” I say and hope that’s the end of it.

  “Head in the sand,” he says.

  It strikes me that he’s right. Time to man up and speak the truth. If the cancer doesn’t leave I’ll have to face it anyway, so I may as well practise.

  “I still remember the sign outside Room Nine had a smiley face under it. Smiley face? They should have had the Grim Reaper instead. The desk had two big boxes of tissues sitting on it. That should have been a warning sign, shouldn’t it?”

  Skeates laughs uncomfortably.

  “So they gave my mum the cancer chat. I didn’t know what cancer was, so it was no skin off my nose. They may as well have told me I had Ebola or swine flu for all I knew. I’d been looking at a Where’s Wally book. I looked up at my mum and said ‘I found him!’ and pointed to the wee figure amongst all the chaos. My mum just broke down and started to demolish the tissue box. It was hard to watch. I didn’t even understand that she was crying because of me. We were only just getting used to Erica having died and Dad being away.”

  “Shit,” he says and finishes off his tin. “What happened then?”

  “It went into remission, and returned. Then again when I was fourteen, and here I am.”

  Skeates is lost for words. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but I’ve never seen him this serious. I break the silence.

  “I wish we could just get to Shotts tomorrow.”

  “No point until Thursday, Connor. We may as well make a trip out of it and have a bit of fun on the way. Maybe find some girls, go clubbing. You have some fun to make up for, you miserable fud.”

  I grin at him teasing me. A few days of this should be a laugh, even though my worries hang over me. It’s Monday tomorrow, so not long to go until Thursday.

  Just as I think of Skeates being Mr Reckless, he surprises me again by making me clean my teeth before I nod off. He’s more of a nag than my mum. In two clicks I’m out of it again, despite my nap earlier. It’s after midnight and I’m totalled.

  That’s until we’re woken by a noise so enormous and close that it feels as if it’s replaced the air around us, so loud and sudden that I think we’re about to die.

  Chapter 18

  Crash

  “What the hell is that?” I shout. The tumult woke me from a nightmare about giant kangaroos, so I’m a bit hazy about what is real and what isn’t.

  Skeates pulls on his shoes and jacket and dives out of the tent. I slept fully clothed so I crawl after him towards the noise of metal crunching against metal. It’s deafening. It doesn’t stop. I imagine bloody carnage as I push through the branches. Skeates is already out and I run into him. He’s stopped to gape in horror at the scene of destruction before us.

  Two cars and a tanker, impacted so hard that it’s difficult to tell them apart. The middle car has been crushed so completely that it looks like a go-faster stripe. A string of other vehicles have rear-ended each other behind the initial crash. Further back we can hear the screeching of tyres from others attempting to stop.

  “We’ve got to help them!” Skeates shouts, pointing to the mush of cars in front of us with their wheels spinning and smoke blowing about. I look at the back of the pile-up. “They’re OK,” Skeates shouts at me, “these guys aren’t.”

  The lorry looms over a smoke-filled car like a shroud. Screams of panic and agony inside are muffled by the smoke and clamour of ripping metal as the top of the lorry swings down as if on elastic.

  A gap in the smoke reveals a driver conscious and terrified, upside down and struggling, his female passenger dead or unconscious. Smoke bellows from a broken window. The lorry cab springs back on its bungee, ripping more metal each time, coming closer to the passengers below. While I stare in horror from the sidelines, Skeates is rushing around the car trying to open doors.

  “Give us a hand!” he shouts up and I edge closer.

  The lorry makes a twisting, crushing racket and the top again hovers over the roof. I step backwards but Skeates remains fixed on the door of the car.

  “Hurry up!”

  The man screams again and I tighten my courage belt to limp over, staring at the recoiling lorry all the while. I retch at the smell of oil and stare in horror at the fire that’s likely to ignite the car soon – and us with it.

  “Connor, I can’t keep the door open and get in. Hold it and I’ll grab the guy, OK?”

  I nod, just wanting to get the hell out of there. The noise and heat is terrifying, but I force myself to focus on the task. Skeates has dragged the man halfway out but he snags on the seat belt. Skeates climbs in head-first and tries to release it as I jam the door open with my back, coughing at the thick smoke even though I’m outside. Skeates and the pair in the car must be choking. The man looks in bad shape, elderly too.

  “Here, pull.” Skeates has hauled himself out and flicks open a knife.

  I’m surprised he has a knife, but really I shouldn’t be – I saw him take it from Soapy. He cuts the belt and we both drag the guy out. He’s screaming with some injury, but we don’t worry about that, we just haul. He’ll be dead if he stays in there any longer.

  He yells, “My wife!” and points towards the car.

  His wife looks stuffed. The car door swings shut again.

  “Keep pulling him away,” Skeates shouts. He leaves him to me and returns to the car. He jams something in the door and dives through the upturned window after the woman.

  As I drag the screaming man to the edge of the road, I look up to see Skeates’s feet sticking out. Thick smoke oozes out, like an oily liquid.

  “Don’t worry, my pal will get her,” I tell him, even though I’m unconvinced of their chances.

  All the time he keeps looking at the car waiting to see his wife emerge. Skeates’s feet are still sticking out and haven’t moved for a bit. I think he must’ve passed out and I start crapping myself. I haul the man up to the woods and we both collapse on the ground, panting. I wince when I see the man’s injury: his foot is the wrong way round and a big white bone sticks through his trousers. I stand and hobble towards Skeates. Smoke is all over the place and the flames have spread.
There’ll be a hell of a bang soon. I hear sirens in the distance.

  Just as I approach, Skeates’s legs move. He drags the woman out of the car and hauls her across the road and up the grass towards our roundabout. She’s a dead weight, unconscious. I go and try to help. Finally others, shaken out of their post-crash daze, come to assist us. They lift her to the grass beside her husband who’s in bits trying to see if she’s OK.

  I don’t know how much time has passed, but eventually a man wearing a yellow safety jacket arrives to check her pulse. I’m amazed at Skeates. He put his own life in danger to help people he doesn’t know, and still he’s unfazed and in total control. I feel utterly useless, an onlooker at best. I can’t even blame my illness for me being so crap, I just don’t know where to start. This kind of fear seems very different from that of being ill, which is a much slower burn. This fear is immediate. I wonder how Skeates would cope if he was in my shoes.

  Safety Jacket is hard at work, giving Skeates a chance to rest and clear his lungs. At last the woman coughs.

  “Thank you,” she stammers, looking at Skeates.

  He winks at her.

  “What about you two?” Safety Jacket nods to Skeates and me. I guess that he’s a roads service man or something, not a police officer.

  “Fine,” I say, thankful, but Skeates is getting tetchy.

  He pulls me close to whisper, “We have to go, Connor.”

  “An ambulance will be here in a minute, lads. Don’t worry,” the man says to us.

  Skeates has cuts and bruises and is covered in dirt from scrabbling about in the smoky car. I must look a bit of a sight too.

  I look at the man and the couple we dragged from the car. I want to stay and make sure they’re OK.

  “Connor, if we stay here you won’t see your dad.”

  I look at the scene again, still not having taken it all in yet. A massive crash shocks us all from our private thoughts as the tanker finally falls, crushing the old pair’s car. Flames soak up round the tanker and the others around us run in a panic to get further away.

  “Come on, Connor – now.” Skeates shouts at me. “Now!”

  More sirens. Police, fire and ambulances are beginning to arrive.

  A man shouts from behind as we run. He wants us to come back. Skeates doesn’t change his stride; we’re across the other side of the roundabout in no time. I’m half-stumbling behind him, shouting for him to hold up before I fall. I trip, but he grabs me and tugs me back up.

  We weave through the stationary traffic and into a nearby side street. Eventually Skeates stops and I fall to the ground, heaving air into my lungs.

  “What was the panic?” I gasp. There’s a sudden pain in my stomach. I hold my side like I have a stitch and retch a little.

  “The polis will be all over this place. If they see us we’ll have no hope of ever getting to your dad.”

  “You saved those people,” I say, still gasping for air. Although my stomach pain is easing, something niggles in the back of my mind – is the pain more sinister? Is it the lack of medication? Is the cancer back?

  “And do you think anyone will care a hoot about that?” says Skeates.

  I look blankly at him, thinking he should have been rewarded for risking his life for those strangers. I don’t reply. I cough up some liquid and gag at the acid taste.

  Skeates doesn’t notice. He’s looking behind to see if anyone has followed us, and answers his own question.

  “No way. It would be, ‘Thanks, now get back into care’. We’re on the run, Connor, like it or lump it.” He turns and sees me wiping the spittle from my chin. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve just been dug up.”

  I shrug. “I’ll be OK. Come on.”

  Chapter 19

  Robin Hoods

  I spend the morning after the crash trying to figure Skeates out. I now know for certain he’s not the psycho bully I thought he was at first, but someone who cares enough to hear about my issues; someone who risked his life to save two people he didn’t know; someone who isn’t interested in any recognition or thanks for that.

  Seeing how green I look, Skeates finds a bench for me whilst he goes to get some water and food. He returns and interrogates me to make sure I’m OK. I don’t know how best to react. It’s not like he’s being condescending, he actually wants to help. Like a mad nurse.

  Once we’ve eaten and rested a bit, it doesn’t take long for Skeates to revert to normal psycho mode. He’s up and pacing, thinking of our precious tent.

  We hang around at the edge of the roundabout for a while and watch the bobbies and their notebooks and cameras crawling all over. Mid-afternoon, we see all our gear being dragged out of the bushes by the council and chucked into a waste lorry.

  “Shite!” said Skeates.

  That’s our accommodation gone.

  “What do we do now?” I ask.

  He seems unconcerned. “Find another cash machine. Come on, let’s get some more food and think about it.”

  We squander the rest of Skeates’s money on burgers and discuss plans. We’re sitting on a grassy bank opposite a row of small shops that service a housing estate. Skeates thinks that corner shops are cash machines. There are three nights to go before my appointment in Shotts to see my dad, but Skeates seems intent on getting us to prison tonight.

  “I’m not robbing a shop, Skeates.” I snap.

  He looks at me like I’ve failed to breathe or drink. Like it’s obvious you have to rob shops to live.

  “How else do we survive out here, in Perth, with no money?”

  “We can do something else.”

  “Like what, Mr Morality?”

  “Dunno. But my dad spent years in prison and I don’t want to join him.”

  “Come on Connor, we’re going all this way so you can join him. Make your mind up!” he creases up laughing at me.

  “Piss off.”

  “You have warped morals. You had no problem legging it from the pizza place, did you?”

  “I didn’t know you were going to do a runner in Inverness,” I say sheepishly.

  “So… you hid behind those bin bags because…?”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. It was a big pizza chain. They won’t miss it.”

  Skeates grins at me. “You didn’t mind nicking that car yesterday morning, did you?”

  “I didn’t nick it,” I laugh. “You did.”

  “Try telling that to the judge,” he laughs too. “Anyway, in what way is stealing a car different from stealing something else?”

  “I didn’t like the owner.”

  “Oh yes, the posh chappy who cut you up in the slush? Can you tell me where it says that it’s legal to steal cars from arrogant toffs?”

  I laugh at him and his over-the-top sarcasm. But I don’t have an answer.

  “There you are. No difference whatsoever. So, come on.”

  I look at the small store across the road opposite the park. It’s one of five shops: two have closed down and the other two, a newsagent and a tanning studio, are shut for the day. There are enough steel shutters to make me think of Mad Max. We’ve been watching the shop for ages to see the comings and goings. The place must be struggling because in the last two hours just three customers have entered and only one of them bought something.

  “This guy’s working hard in a tough area,” I say. “Lord Vauxhall will have insurance, but stealing from this shopkeeper could put him out of business. It just seems different to me. So no, I’m not thieving from that shop.”

  Skeates mopes a bit. I guess he’s wondering whether to knock the shop off anyway, even though I won’t. If he was by himself he’d have cleaned out the place already. I’m chuffed to have an influence on his wilder habits and wonder again about what sort of life he understands as normal. Insights like this make me realise that we’re still poles apart, despite our new friendship. I might think I have attitude and a tough upbringing, but I’m a
pretender compared to him. Hard is his default setting.

  “Right,” he says again, “you suggest what we do. We have no money and no food, our phones are out of juice, our camping gear is now landfill, it’s getting late, I’m starving and we have nowhere to sleep. I’m so tired and hungry that I might just eat your innards and make a tent out of your skin.”

  I don’t have an answer and can’t help but laugh. I hope he has a few other options before he gets to eating me.

  “We could sleep in the car,” I say, like it’s helpful when I know it isn’t.

  He doesn’t acknowledge my suggestion. Instead he looks back at the shop. Three boys around our age are now standing outside, egging each other on in the usual pathetic peacock way. They kick a small dog on a lead and chase its owner down the road. I hate skunks like them. One of them enters the shop, and a few minutes later there’s a lot of shouting as he races out with a bag of goodies, likely cash and alcohol. Different people with the same business plan as Skeates.

  “Conman, the bank has opened. I presume you have no problem with stealing from a crowd of morally vacant losers?”

  “No, I don’t. I do have a problem with getting a kicking for trying.”

  “Wuss.” He stands to get going.

  “There are three of them, possibly older than us, definitely bigger than me – you can see that from here.” I point to the trio of running muggers as they disappear into a park further down the road. “You can’t rely on me to be of much help.”

  “Rubbish, look at all the grief you gave me at school. Come on. My guess is your morals have limits when it come to hoods like that.” Skeates grins and clicks open Soapy’s flick knife.

  “No way, Skeates. Use that and you’re on your own.”

  “Like you say, there are three of them – there’s no other way.”

  “What if they have knives, too? What if one of them dies?”

  “And what if green spacemen come down and eat our ears for dinner? You think way too much; too many what-ifs and no get-on-with-its.”

  I sit down and fold my arms. “No way.”