Farewell Tour of a Terminal Optimist

by John Young

  “I’ll get another. There’s no one in that phone I want to hear from.” He waves me away. “Don’t forget, Connor, ever quit, never bloody quit.” He rounds the corner and is gone.

  I sigh and turn to the door.

  Once inside, I approach a security window, feeling like an impostor. Now that Skeates has gone I really feel out of sorts, but I’ve learnt enough from him about confidence to roll my shoulders and carry on. Guards sit behind a small row of window boxes, like you might see at a bank or a ticket office. Instead of selling tickets or overcharging grannies interest on their loans, they’re processing a mix of aggressive and nervous-looking visitors. I stand at an empty booth between a man on the left and a woman on the right. A prison officer sits behind the glass, completing a form.

  I look at the woman to my right. She has a tattoo on her arm that says in a scrawl: All policemen are bastards.

  She must be proud of it as it’s shown off in all its glory by her cap-sleeved t-shirt. She catches me staring. “Want yer heid bust?”

  I dart my eyes sideways at the equally inked man to my left and feel self-conscious about my lack of homemade tattoos. I laugh nervously. He hears me and says, “Hey kid,” and smiles a big, honest happy grin, which takes me by surprise.

  The prison officer behind the screen looks up, face blank, no smile, no welcome. “Yes?”

  “Connor Lambert,” I say through the glass, which sports a sign saying: Audio Boosting Fitted.

  Nevertheless, he asks for my name again. I clear my throat and tell him while he looks down the list.

  “Have you made an appointment?” he asks.

  “Yep.”

  “Who do you want to see?”

  “My dad.”

  He puts down his pen and glares at me. “Don’t be funny with me, son.” He looks serious for a few moments and my face pales with thoughts of being kicked out before I can see him. The guard suddenly breaks into a great belly laugh.

  “His name, your dad’s name, please.”

  “Angus, Angus Lambert, that’s my dad’s name,” I say as I realise how stupid I must have sounded. I want to see my dad. I laugh at myself.

  He looks back to his forms and up at a screen, pushes some buttons on his keypad.

  “And your name?” he looks at me.

  “Connor Lambert,” I say again.

  He examines his list and I suddenly understand his problem. Skeates booked us in under ‘Connor Skeates’. I thought it might have been a good idea at the time – not now. Again I envisage getting kicked out.

  “Ah, I see, we have you down as Connor Skeates.” He looks up at me.

  “There must have been a mistake, I told them on the phone it was Connor Lambert.”

  “Wait there,” he says and heads off into the offices at the back. I stand nervously, peeking into the guards’ area, worrying that he’s about to tell me I can’t see Dad because of the mix-up with the names.

  He returns ten minutes later and carries on where he left off. I wonder why he went out, because he doesn’t have anything else with him. Maybe he just went for a crap.

  “If you have anything in your pockets, put it in one of those.” The guard nods to a pile of plastic containers on a shelf behind us, then hands me a form. “Fill this out.”

  I take it and ask for a pen, which he pushes under a little gap in the window. I lean on the shelf to complete it.

  “ID?” he asks, when I hand back the completed form.

  I hand him my Dachaigh House card, which he copies and returns.

  “Wait there.” He points to where I’m standing and leaves.

  A loud buzzer sounds. The guard gestures me into a chamber and my heart begins to race as I get closer to my dad. Years I’ve wanted to do this, years of waiting and now I’m here.

  The door slams behind me and another door at the end opens into a secure area. I turn and my head explodes with the realisation of what’s about to happen. I’m about to see my dad! I hand the plastic box to another guard. All men so far. I suppose it would be hard to be a female guard in here with all the locked-up testosterone.

  The next guard searches me and sends me through a scanner into a holding area. He gives me a receipt for my gear and points to a door. “In there.”

  I enter a small interview room. I expected a row of armoured glass panels and a telephone to chat into, like in the films. Must only be in America that they have those. This room looks private. Maybe this is for kids and parents? I’m too excited to sit, so I pace the room in my lopsided way and sit after a while because I’m tired. Now that I’m here I’m crapping it. Nerves soon overtake the weariness again so I stand and walk about. I imagine them going to collect my dad from his cell and marching him down the corridor, boots thumping on metal steps.

  “Come on,” I say aloud. I know this is going to be difficult and I just want to get this first chat, the uncomfortable one, over with. I wipe my hands on my trousers. I feel ill. I ignore it and take some deep breaths.

  I wonder if they’ve forgotten me. I wave at a blinking CCTV camera. I listen at the door.

  Silence.

  It’s a thick security door – I probably wouldn’t hear a riot outside. My stomach churns with nerves. I sit down again, put my head in my folded arms and belch.

  Suddenly the door opens and a suit enters. I jump at the noise.

  “Mr Lambert?” He holds his hand out for me to shake.

  “Eh, yeah, Connor Lambert,” I say, feeling uncomfortable with the formality. I stand and take his hand, which unlike mine, is cold and firm. He gives it a hard shake.

  “Please, Connor,” he gestures with an open palm to the seat.

  I sit.

  “I’m Jim Bagshot, one of the Junior Governors at Shotts. Your father is Angus Lambert, is that correct?”

  I nod. Junior Governor, that sounds senior despite being called otherwise. I know something must be up because every Charlie that comes to see their dodgy crim relatives won’t be met by Jim Bagshot, Junior Gov. I begin to panic.

  Something has happened to Dad.

  They’re going to arrest me.

  I won’t see him after everything I’ve been through.

  It takes every bit of willpower that I have not to start shouting.

  “Have you been in touch with him?” he asks.

  “No, that’s why I’m here. I want to see him.” We stare at each other. I worry that his face appears puzzled. “When can I see him?” I add eventually.

  “Well, he isn’t here.”

  I would hate to have seen my face when he said that. Confusion. Panic. Disgust. Was he ever even here? I ask the only question that feels logical, “Has he escaped?”

  Bagshot laughs. “No, Connor, your father has gone home. He was released yesterday on parole.”

  My expression is blank. I’m completely numb.

  “Good behaviour, personal circumstances, compassionate grounds and such like were also taken into consideration.” He stares hard at me.

  I feel faint, giddy and try to stand. “Compassionate grounds?” I waver about and collapse back into the chair. Someone must have died – my mum, it must be my mum.

  “Are you all right, Connor?” He asks and pushes a remote button for assistance. Another warden enters and I’m helped into a medical room.

  “I’m going to be sick,” I say. The other man gives me a cardboard kidney-shaped puke bowl and I retch and fill it.

  They discuss what to do with me while I talk to the bowl. They know loads about me and my cancer is mentioned, along with the meds that I should have taken, were I not out nicking cars and clubbing with Skeates. I stop vomming and look up, desperate to ask what ‘compassionate grounds’ means but too sick to speak. They’re examining notes, chatting about the best course of action.

  “We’ve called for an ambulance for you.”

  “Ambulance?” I rasp between bits of vomit. “Why?”

  Chapter 27

  Parents!

  A friendly PC enters the
room and brings a chair to sit beside me. I look up from my sour-smelling kidney bowl. “Hi Connor,” she says.

  I stare without saying anything. She looks at some paperwork and smiles at me. I recognise it as a good smile. She looks the sort who would ruffle my hair or hug me and say something reassuring, but I guess they aren’t allowed to touch anyone any more.

  “Connor Lambert?”

  I nod.

  “Thank goodness we found you. You’ve caused quite a stir. Everyone’s been worried sick.”

  I stare at the friendly looking PC, wondering who she means by ‘everyone’. As if she read my thoughts, she expands. “Your parents have been desperate, phoning every hour.”

  “Parents?” I say. I haven’t heard that for years. I smile with relief. My mum can’t have died then, can she?

  She nods and winks at me, then continues with her definition of ‘everyone’. “The police, your neighbour – the chatty one…”

  I laugh, “Mrs MacDonald.”

  “Yeah, that’s her. Then there are the folks in Dachaigh House, and your lovely wee girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Yes, Emma. She’s been frantic. You have a keeper there,” she says and laughs.

  I beam red. “Aye well,” I say sheepishly. “My phone ran out of charge.” As I say it, I remember my box also contains Skeates’s out-of-charge phone too.

  She smiles. “Of course, never mind. I’m PC Briggs.” She holds out a hand for me to shake. It’s soft and cool from outside. I would miss outside if I was in prison. I love fresh air. I’ve only been in this room for a short while and the smell of air on her is like the sweetest perfume. What would it be like after years in here, I wonder? Suffocating. I worry how my dad has coped.

  “Why compassionate grounds?” I ask her.

  “Everything’s alright, Connor, you just concentrate on feeling better,” she replies.

  Another policeman joins us. He’s chirpy too and gives me a sandwich. He has a thick Glaswegian accent.

  “Did you go to the match yesterday?” I ask him.

  “Naw, I was working. Are you Hearts or Hibs?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Neither, but I know a few of their songs. ‘Old MacDonald’ is my favourite.”

  “‘Old MacDonald’? Don’t know that one.” He rubs his chin in confusion before changing the subject. “Your friend, Leslie Skeates. I presume the cannie laddie has legged it? You wouldn’t know where, would you? We have someone who wants to talk to him.”

  “I bet you do,” I say, cheeky as I can. I wonder what will happen to me about the stolen car, too. I try not to think about where Skeates might be – there’s enough on my plate. Skeates is a survivor. He never intended to hang around and I suppose I would feel hurt if I thought about it too much. This is where our paths were always meant to diverge.

  “Not in the way you think. It may even surprise him,” he continues. “What you two did in Perth was brave. You saved two lives. I think there may even be an award for you: the woman you dragged from the car is a retired sheriff. The onlookers said only the mad or brave would have gone back into that car for her. I read the story in the paper.”

  “The paper?”

  “Aye, The Daily Record.”

  “Well, Skeates is both mad and brave,” I say.

  “We know Mr Skeates has a history, but everyone deserves a break and he’s earned it. So have you, mate.” He gives me a friendly thump on the arm and walks off, looking sad.

  I wasn’t expecting a kicking or anything, but I certainly wasn’t anticipating hugs, rugs and cups of cocoa, which is exactly what they give me, before walking me to the ambulance. PC Briggs half hugs me all the way out and up the steps into the rear of the ambulance. I’m too tired to help or resist, and anyway, she’s pretty enough for me to put aside fear of condescension. She introduces me to two medics.

  “They will check you over on the way to hospital and arrange transport home.”

  “How do you feel?” asks one of them.

  “Great, well no, actually I feel like a bag of shite. I forgot my meds and well, you know they…”

  He nods. “Don’t worry, we have a prescription waiting for you. We’ll get you back on track before you know it. We’re going to get you checked over at Glasgow Children’s Hospital and organise transport home for you.”

  All this niceness is making me feel nervous.

  “OK, Connor?”

  I nod. Things are changing for good. I don’t know how, or in what way. I do know that ever since I heard the words ‘compassionate grounds’ that life has taken a sharp turn. I’m surprised at how relieved I am to be in an ambulance again. The vacuum in my stomach and the pains that have developed since stopping my meds can finally be checked out.

  “Your parents have been told and are waiting for you at home.”

  “My parents,” I repeat. Parents! I have parents and they’re together, waiting for me. I can’t remember the last time someone said ‘parents’ to me. I say it aloud again. “My parents!”

  The ambulance man nods.

  The strongest of my current mix of emotions is still the anticipation of seeing my dad. But when I think of him I’m reminded again that he was released on compassionate grounds, a term that no one will define for me. Absurd thoughts are going round my head like bogiemen.

  “Is Mum OK?” I check, because I don’t know what to ask. She must be, to have been phoning. At least it confirms that she isn’t the source of ‘compassionate grounds’.

  “I think so, Connor. I’m afraid I don’t know any more about your situation, but I know they’re waiting for you in Stornoway.” He smiles sympathetically.

  Awesome. Someone shuts the rear door and the ambulance starts its floaty journey. It feels more like being in a boat than what is really a well-equipped transit van.

  “Can we put the lights and sirens on?” I say.

  “Sure thing.”

  Chapter 28

  Compassionate Grounds

  The ambulance rattles its way to the new Sick Kids’ Hospital in Glasgow. Being fifteen, I’m technically too old for it, but as I’ve been ill for years I’m still in their system. When I arrive, the nurses pop me in a gown so they can wash my stinking clothes, take blood for tests and top me up with medicine. They lead me to a ward. I’m to be taken for scans and kept overnight for observation, after which I’ll be treated at Stornoway or Inverness.

  Despite the new meds, I still feel crap. I’m used to them taking their time to build up effectiveness. I scrounge a charger and plug my phone in while I lie in a cartoon-decorated ward. It goes mad with beeps, messages full, and I well up with tears at the panic in the voices of Mum and Emo’s voicemails. I have one last message left to play and as I hit the button I’m still in a state of heightened emotion. It sends me over the edge.

  It’s a man’s voice. I recognise it right away; hoarse, deep, Glaswegian. My hand begins to shake. “Hi son. It’s Dad here.”

  There’s a pause as he thinks of what to say.

  I shout out, “Dad?” which of course is pointless because it’s just a message. Other kids in the small ward look round at me. I hold up the phone and point. “It’s my dad!”

  Two of them smile; the other three clearly think that I’m weird. I don’t care and grin at them. My dad’s message continues.

  “Eh, I’m home, and you aren’t here. I can’t wait to see you. Come on back. Eh, I hear you’re a bit of a hero! Come on home, son.”

  My tears flood out. I replay it over and over. I must look a right sight as a nurse comes over and asks me if I’m alright.

  “I’m awesome, thanks,” I say.

  When she leaves, I buzz Mum. I hear her phone ringing and my heart bangs just as loudly. Then she answers. “Connor?”

  “Mum, it’s me.”

  “Connor!” Her voice fades slightly as she turns her head away from the phone to shout at whoever else is there. “It’s Connor, it’s Connor!” Her voice comes back strong again. �
��Connor, are you alright?”

  “Fine,” I say. “And you? When did you get out of hospital? Are you OK? Are you in the house? Is Dad there? When did he get back?” I explode with questions.

  She can’t answer them all because I ask too many too quickly. But she must know what I’m thinking because she says, “I’m fine, Connor. Here’s your dad, love.”

  “Son. Get your arse up here now, wee lad. We’re going to have a big party to welcome you home.”

  “More like welcome you home, Dad. You’ve been away longer than me!” I say this with humour, but in the back of my mind lurks anger. I’m sad to find it there. In fact, I’m almost too choked up to talk.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow, son. We talked to your doctors earlier.”

  In all honesty I don’t know what to say to him. Should I shout at him for refusing me a visit? For abandoning Mum and me when we were desperate? Should I tell him how much I want to see him, how much I missed him? Should I ask him how he coped in prison, or why the hell he was there in the first place? I can’t decide, so the call ends quicker than I thought it would. Certainly quicker than I wanted.

  “Just hurry up and get back here, ya scamp! I canny wait to see you.”

  “I can’t wait to see you too, Dad.”

  I take out my time-capsule box and stare at the photo of us together with Erica. I try to call Emo a few times, but her phone is switched off. She might be in school. So I text her instead. I began a long-winded message to bring her up to date, then delete it and send:

  “C u tomorrow!”

  And add,

  “XXX”

  ***

  The following morning I’m checked out and introduced to Frank, a care worker, who is to drive me home.

  I’m sick twice into a cardboard bowl on the drive to Ullapool for the ferry, and feel guilty as Frank’s car now smells mingin. I’m being as friendly as I can to make up for it, and he’s been cool about the mess. Five hours in the car, stopping once for fuel, food, toilet and a sponge. Then a few hours on the ferry.