by John Young
Emma is coming to visit today so I can have fun horrifying her with all the gory details. She’ll love it. I have someone else’s blood dripping into me from a pint-sized bag of red goo, which is dangling from the trolley. It isn’t Tarantino red – his is more crimson. This is proper blood red. It was prescribed because my red blood cell count was really low. Chemo does that to blood.
It feels cold as it goes in, as it’s been stored in a fridge. I wonder whose blood it was originally, and what they were thinking when they sat at the blood donation clinic. Donors should be given medals. What do they get out of it? Nothing. They don’t even know who it helps. They might be really irritated if they knew their blood was being wasted on the likes of me. Apart from the fact that I’m a scamp, it’s likely a waste of precious resources too. Yet it’s gifted without question to allow me some time and a slim-to-non-existent chance to live.
I wish I knew who the donor was, just to thank him, to say, ‘I would have had no hope without you’ and shake his hand. I would be dead already were it not for him taking a few hours out of his life to donate blood. Or maybe the donor was a girl – blood doesn’t discriminate. What if the donor was an old soak and the blood is laced with cheap vodka or cannabis? I could get merry without having to taste the stuff. A bit of someone else’s life, history, their sins, smiles and sorrows are now part of me.
As I ponder the ins and outs of the wonders of blood transfusion, I pull out my razor pack. Before the treatment Mum and Dad visited Boots and bought a razor and foam for me. An expensive razor, because the cheap ones would leave me with patchy cuts like the last time. Dad said he would get a haircut in sympathy but he doesn’t have much hair to start with. They were driving me mad with all the fussing so I sent them packing. I wanted to face the hair business alone, and as Emo is calling I don’t need Mum and Dad playing gooseberries.
I rub foam all over the top of my head. Earlier a girl in the hospital cut off the wispy bits. She was a volunteer from a local hairdressers, here to do her bit for the sick kids. I’ve met so many people doing their bit over the years. Maybe I shouldn’t be such a cynical wee shite.
I scrape the razor from the front to the back. It makes a sandpaper noise and forms a clean track through the foam. My scalp is so white it stands out even amongst the bubbles. I take another scrape. It feels weird, mental, to be hacking all my hair off, but I don’t want to watch the stuff fall out slowly once the chemo kicks in. I razor my head all over, wash off the remaining foam and repeat to catch any oddball scruffy bits I missed.
Thinking of how Skeates preps to wage war on the world, I roll my shoulders round and round and make some sucking noises with my teeth. Whilst doing this I think tough thoughts. I’m going into this battle with boots on and gloves off. I’m going to face the bastart down. That is what Skeates would do to ensure he wins. I wonder what he’s up to and I have to admit that I miss his banter.
I focus again on the task. I can’t go ahead with the whole treatment and cope with the pain and the debilitating sickness that the chemo will inevitably bring unless I believe I’m going to win. So I’m starting this process fully intending to kick some cancer ass.
Headshave over with, I examine my handiwork. “Awesome. The beast doesn’t stand a chance,” I say to the mirror. There isn’t a scratch on my head. I rub some hospital moisturiser over the newly exposed skin.
Now let’s see what the other walking dead are at. I pull on Gumbo’s sweater and the stolen orange Ray-Bans. I laugh to myself about my ski trip with Skeates. That seems so long ago.
I push my trolley and it wobbles and squeaks out of the bathroom. The rusty smell of blood and chemo strengthens as I enter the main ward. One thing about being a cancer patient is that there’s always someone worse off than you. Take this kid Jonny Gorman, who I’ve seen on and off these last few years. He won’t be around much longer, weeks at best as he’s off to a hospice in a day or two. I’ll miss him. He had some disease that meant he’s never been out of a wheelchair, and his parents are violent addicts.
When he told me all about it, I tried not to cry at his list of tragedies. He told his story like each horrible event was the end. ‘I haven’t finished yet. There’s more: after all that, they told me I have cancer. I mean what else can go wrong?’ Then suddenly he flung himself off his chair, like it was an accident, and near wet himself laughing. And I did too, we all did, the wee live wire.
Despite all the horrors that the world has placed at his door, I know that when I come into the art room at the hospital he’ll be the happiest person in there. I guess he’s had to learn to cope without hope.
Wee Jonny paints pictures of bicycles, because he always wanted the freedom of a bike, but could never ride because he was stuck in a chair. He smiles more when he’s painting his crap pictures. The therapist in the art room says art helps kids get by, to imagine anything, to release inner demons, to be free. I’m not sure a paintbrush is going to solve any of my problems, but Jonny asked me to join him today, so how could I say no?
Skeates would probably laugh at me for being soft, but I draw a picture of us skiing. I’ve forgotten about how cold it was, and my bruises have finally faded: I just remember it as being the funniest day of my life. I smile as I sketch Skeates face-planting into the drift.
A while later, I look up and see Emo walking along the corridor. She grins when she sees me and I watch her lovely little scamper as she comes towards me. She gives me a hug and rubs the top of my head.
“Nice haircut,” she says. “So, tell us the inside story on your big escapade.” She grins. “You and Skeates away on a wee holiday together. Lovely.”
I smile. “Yeah, well, he isn’t the character I thought he was. We had a laugh and, you know, he looked after me. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t have got anywhere. I wouldn’t have run off the island, climbed out of that building instead of going to the hearing, I wouldn’t have gone skiing, or taken a tour around Edinburgh in a shopping trolley, or stolen that car from the toffs…”
“You did what?” she shouts. I’d kept the stolen car a secret even from her.
“Keep your voice down, don’t tell anyone,” I say and wish I hadn’t mentioned it.
“You eejit!”
“They deserved to lose their car.”
“What did your Mum say?”
“I didn’t tell her we nicked a car, you numpty!”
Chapter 31
Your Own Sins
A few days later I’m lying at home on the sofa, recovering from the latest onslaught of chemical cure. The treatment is always worse at first; later the body gets used to it or the anti-sickness drugs begin to work. I doze off and wake to the metallic reproduction of Dropkick Murphys’ ‘The Warrior’s Code’ sounding from Skeates’s old Nokia.
I grab it immediately. It must be him, and I’m dying to know what he’s been up to. Actually, given my situation, maybe ‘dying to know’ is too strong a way of putting it.
I’ve taken to wearing a little beanie hat, partly because my head is freezing now I’ve shaved my hair off and also because I feel self-conscious. I straighten the beanie as I answer the phone. My nasal gastric tube irritates the skin on the inside of my nose and I try to scratch where a plaster holds it in place so I can get at the itchy bit.
“Where did you get that phone?” asks my dad.
I don’t answer him and put the old Nokia to my ear, glad that I’d managed to power it up with my mum’s old charger. I’d thought that Skeates might call, and true enough it’s him.
“Hey, Marilyn,” he says and laughs.
“Yo,” I say. “How you doing?” It’s good to hear from him. A few weeks ago I would have been happy to let him be eaten slowly by bacteria. He asks a few questions and I answer him as follows:
“Not good.”
“More chemo.”
“Six weeks. Suck and see. Nadie deja este mundo vivo.”
He answers that with silence.
“There’s a small chance that
the chemo will work,” I add. “I have to go for more tests. If the treatment works they’ll give me radiotherapy. If it doesn’t, then it’s back to Room Nine.”
“Good man,” he says. “Never quit—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, never bloody quit. So, what have you been up to?”
“The polis picked me up in a pub in Aberdeen.” He laughs. “The barman didn’t like my sense of humour and, well, he came off worse, if you know what I mean. They were cool about it. The polis didn’t like the guy anyway. When they found out who I was they treated me like a real hero. That old lady we pulled from the car was a sheriff, did you know that?”
“Yeah, I heard.”
Skeates laughs again. “So anyway, I’m seeing my mum later to tell her that her son is a hero. Happy days.”
“That’s great, Skeates. Let me know how it goes.”
“Aye. Good luck with the chemical warfare. See you.”
He rings off. I’m glad he’s OK – and weirdly surprised we’re still chatting like mates, now we’re back in the real world. Maybe I can visit him when I’m better and we can go camping, properly this time.
“Who was that?” asks my mum.
“Skeates.”
“Is he alright, love?”
“Aye, looks like he’s getting his shit together.”
“Goodo,” says Dad. “I’m going for a walk down the pier. Coming son?”
I get up slowly. I feel crap, but when was the last time I did anything with my dad apart from gurn in hospital rooms? “Yeah, give me a minute.”
We walk slowly through the town to the shore and sit on a church wall overlooking the harbour. It’s a bright day with some warming sun. Dad buys us chips and Irn Bru and we pick our way through them, listening to the gulls. I stare at the church sign, which has a quote after the welcome message.
Fathers shall not be put to death because of their children, nor shall children be put to death because of their fathers. Each one shall be put to death for his own sin.
Dad nudges me and laughs, “I hope for your sake, son, that that sign is right!”
I have to laugh with him. We walk home as it’s getting dark. It’s going to be a lovely clear night so we sit outside with hot drinks and look at the stars.
“I’ve missed looking at these,” says Dad.
“They’re the dead saying hello.”
“Eh?”
“The stars.” I say. “It’s an old Inuit proverb.”
“Really?”
I nod. “D’you think there’s anything up there, Dad?”
“What, like little green men?” He grins at that. “You and your wild imagination son, it cracks me up.”
“Not necessarily wee green men, but something else, living like us, doing normal things like going to school, walking their dogs, eating, sleeping and farting, that sort of stuff?” I laugh at the thought. “Do aliens fart, Dad?”
“I don’t know son, but there’s as much chance of flatulent green spacemen as anything else.”
We chuckle again, but I want to get my point across. “You know what I mean, Dad. Something after death.”
“Aye, I know what you mean, and I can’t tell you the answer.”
I look to the ground. “One thing’s for sure,” I say, “I’ll find out sooner than you will.” He doesn’t say anything for a minute and I add, “Will I see Erica when I die?”
He doesn’t answer. I look round at him after a few moments and see why. He can’t reply, his eyes are watering at my mention of Erica and his drink shakes in his hand.
“I know I’ll see her,” I say. “She’ll look after me, and she’ll know the ropes ’cause she’s been there for ages.”
***
“The bucket!” I shout at my mum, who, two minutes ago, had taken it to empty and clean.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she shouts in rhythm with her steps, knees slapping against her plastic apron. She holds the bucket at arm’s length, in her lime-green Marigolds, a plastic washing up brush in her left hand. I would think she looked comical, were I not so ill. She holds the bucket out in front of her, like she’s presenting a church offering, and gives it to me just in time for me to dry-retch into it.
I’ve been boaking since I arrived home the other day from my final time-buying chemo session. There’s nothing left to come out. Someone should tell my guts that. We finished breakfast an hour ago and Mum has tried three times to go and clear up the dishes, only to be recalled for vomit duty.
We know a letter will come from Raigmore Hospital soon because they took more bloods and told us to expect a letter in the post. There’s a building tension in the house as we know the conclusion is coming. Until now, we’d carried on as if nothing was happening, acting all normal, daily grind and no tears, because there’s nothing you can do until the treatment ends. All responsibility had been taken away from us. In some respects it was dead easy. Now treatment has run its course, we know we’ll soon have to face the consequences and the anticipation has put us all on edge.
It’s like we’ve all been hypnotised to fall into a trance every time we hear the plink of the letterbox. Whenever the postman visits, our hearts drop and our mouths hang low in unison, only to be rewarded, so far, with an advert for Nisa and a shitty double-glazing flier. No hospital letter, no end to the wait, just another day of rising tension. There can be no other feeling like waiting for a letter to tell you whether you’ll live or die. The closest I can think of is waiting for exam results, except a billion times worse.
The dry barfing gives temporary relief and I lie back on the sofa, panting like a big dog, wishing the anti-nausea meds would kick in. After a while I sit up and rub my head.
“Feeling better, son?” asks Dad.
“Aye, sort of. The sickness is going. I feel restless, though.” That’s a good sign, I recognise, from the past.
I chat to Dad while Mum potters in the kitchen. He’s relaxed over the last few weeks, as he slowly comes to terms with being on the outside. I’m glad he’s back – he’s brought forgotten memories with him, good ones of Erica and me playing in the park and her infectious giggle. I know I should be glad that he’s home and leave it at that, but I can’t. If you bottle things up and keep them to yourself they’ll always get worse. Silence will always take its revenge. It’s been over six weeks since he was released and I think maybe he’s ready to open up, be honest with me. So I risk it:
“Dad, why couldn’t I come to visit you in prison?”
He sighs. “I told you. You were too ill to travel for ages.” He stumbles a bit over the words. “I really wanted to see you but I couldn’t bear the thought of you walking away. And I didn’t want you to see me in there. Prison does something to people, it makes them… you feel guilty in there… I’ve done my time and now I’m out, I’d like to start fresh.”
“Like it didn’t happen?”
“Yeah, I suppose so. Look, son, prison isn’t a place for wee lads to go to. Anyway, it would have torn me apart to see you.”
He gives me his stock answer, though there’s an edge to his voice, like I’ve touched a nerve.
“That can’t be the only reason.” I push it. “You let Mum visit.”
He shrugs. “Aye, well, she’s known me longer, whereas it would’ve been your main memory of me growing up.”
He’s uncomfortable with the questioning, but I persevere anyway. I need to know the answers. They can’t blame me for wanting to understand why I was fatherless most of my life. It’s the pain of the silence that’s the worst.
“Was it something to do with why you were in there?”
He falters, glares at me.
“Why were you in prison?” I ask, directly for the first time.
“Don’t ever ask that again,” he snaps.
“I just wanna bloody well know who my dad is and why he was taken from us for so long! What’s wrong with that?” I shout.
Mum stands in the doorway, fiddling with her rubber gloves. She has the face of a hundred
onions – the tears have started already. I see the hurt my questions have caused and despite my anger and need to understand, I feel guilty.
“I deserve to know,” I say quietly, the adrenaline has been replaced with sadness.
Dad’s mouth makes to say something, but words don’t come out and the three of us stand in silence for a while, unsure as to how to deal with this stalemate. Is it worse for him not to tell me and know that I’ll be upset? Or to tell me, worrying that the truth will hurt me more? I’m just about to make this point when suddenly the whole issue seems petty because the letterbox flips open.
Plink!
The hypnotist clicks his fingers. Our heads turn from each other towards the front door. No one moves. Our hearts and mouths stutter in shock.
“That’s the post,” says Dad.
“Mmmmm,” says Mum.
The three of us tiptoe towards the door, like we’re worried about waking someone up. We peek at the worn welcome mat with a letter sitting on top. It’s a brown official window envelope with NHS written on the front.
Again nobody moves.
“That’s from the NHS,” says Dad.
“Mmmmmmm,” says Mum.
They look to me and I shake my head. Can’t do it. Mum gathers the courage and grabs the envelope with an aggressive snatch. She slowly peels it open as if she’s already losing her nerve.
She reads, we wait. Her eyes well up.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s an appointment.”
“Where?”
“Room Nine.”
No one moves.
Life, what’s left of it, can’t get any worse. And there’s only one person I want to see.
“I have to go out,” I whisper at last. I close the door slowly behind me.