Unlike Dougie, I experienced no such awkwardness here, in fact quite the opposite. I felt a closeness to the patients, a connection with them I hadn’t experienced elsewhere in the hospital. Perhaps it was because many were so close to the end of the road. They weren’t afraid of death. A good proportion would no doubt be welcoming it when the time came, their lives full, long years well spent. There was a colour to the geriatric ward that was missing from the others. Sunlight streamed in through every window, each room decked out with great bouquets of flowers. It was times like this that I missed my beating heart, envied the sense of smell which the living took for granted.
‘Straight ahead,’ said the sister, directing us toward a private room off the main ward. ‘You’re welcome to sit with her for a while. Visiting time ends in half an hour, lovely.’ She smiled sweetly and went on her way, leaving us to enter the bedroom.
It was as if we’d stepped into another world, an altogether more solemn one at that. Ruby Hershey lay motionless in her bed, surrounded by a collection of medical paraphernalia. I recalled Stu’s time in hospital after his fall from the Upper School roof. Those same pinging, blinking machines that he’d been hooked up to were now getting used on dear old Ruby. She looked a shadow of the woman we’d first met. Her cheeks were hollow, eye sockets dark, the misting of her face mask barely noticeable. There were no flowers on show, no stacks of get-well-soon cards, no shafts of daylight cutting through the gloom. This was a calm, quiet place. In that moment, I realised there was only one way Ruby was leaving the hospital. She was approaching the end.
The Major stood at the foot of her bed, his blue glow invisible to all but Dougie and I. I’d never seen him like this; he shone like a beacon, bright and beautiful, light rippling from him like waves from an aurora. He stood to attention, hands behind his back, keeping vigil over his love. He glanced our way as we approached, nodding solemnly before turning back to Ruby. The air was charged, death and desire, love and loss, swirling about us in a maelstrom. I looked down, my own palms throbbing with that same azure illumination, fingertips humming with an electric white fire. Was I feeding off the strange, heady atmosphere that came close to the moment of passing?
The Major spoke.
‘I knew she was coming before she’d even arrived. I . . . sensed her. Knocked me sick, like a punch to the guts. By the time the ambulance pulled up I was on my knees.’
‘We would’ve come sooner,’ said Dougie. ‘We wanted to tell you what had happened, at least warn you in advance, but something popped up. Stuff with my dad. And Bradbury.’
‘It’s alright, Sparky. I know how it is. These things are out of our hands. Life has a funny way of throwing curveballs. Besides, you couldn’t have changed what had happened. Ruby would still be lying here, flitting in and out of consciousness.’
Dougie cleared his throat nervously. ‘Is she . . . going to be OK?’
The Major smiled at the frail figure in the bed. ‘Yes, Sparky, but not in the way you think.’
Dougie scratched his head, confused by the American’s cryptic words, but I understood. The ghostly airman shared my certainty, a sense that Ruby wasn’t long for this world. As if in an attempt to directly contradict our thoughts, the old lady stirred, turning her head on her pillow and releasing a soft moan. Dougie looked to the door, searching for the duty nurses as the Major dashed to Ruby’s side. My friend was about to set off and call for help, when I reached out to grab him.
‘The cigar box,’ I said, snatching for his wrist.
It connected.
‘What the—?’ Dougie looked down to where my hand clutched his arm, eyes bulging with disbelief. I could feel his flesh within my hand, his skin against mine. Until this moment I’d forgotten that sensation, so real, so alive. It all came back in that split second, hitting me like a runaway bus. Every ounce of human contact I’d ever enjoyed – my parents, my brother, Dougie, Lucy. I kept hold, refusing to relinquish my grip, worried that if I did I might never feel that bond again.
‘Bring the box, Dougie,’ said the Major. ‘Quickly!’
That was the one and only time I recall him ever using my friend’s real name. It jolted Dougie into action, a lightning bolt to the brain. I let him go, my friend hopping to the bed on one leg and fishing the box from his bag. He gave it a quick polish with his T-shirt as the Major watched on, his expression caught between anticipation and anxiety. He fumbled with it, all too aware of the American’s gaze upon him.
‘Young man.’
Dougie almost dropped the box. Ruby’s rheumy eyes had flickered open. They were fixed on my friend with a look of recognition.
‘Mrs Hershey,’ said Dougie, managing an awkward grin. He looked at the Major, who nodded with keen approval.
‘Go on, Sparky. You can open it.’
‘What do you have there, child?’ asked Ruby, the mask misting as she spoke, obscuring her lips from view.
‘It’s a box of chocolates,’ grinned Dougie, unable to resist joking as he fiddled with the latch.
‘Chocolates? The ward sister won’t be pleased. That’s contraband!’ She began laughing, but within seconds it had shifted into a fit of coughs.
‘You stupid sod,’ I said. ‘You’re going to give her another heart attack before you’ve opened the blooming box. Get on with it, you muppet!’
Ruby began to rise in the bed, the spluttering hacks threatening to fold her in two. The Major was there instantly, his hand upon her chest, connecting as surely as my own had moments ago with Dougie. The effect was instantaneous, relieving the old lady’s painful attack. Gradually, Mrs Hershey eased back in her bed, comforted by that bright blue hand across her breastbone, slowly relaxing once more.
‘The box,’ whispered the Major without looking at us. Dougie’s fingernails caught the little brass clasp and unhooked it, flipping the lid open.
I couldn’t help but look. It reminded me of a time capsule, like the kind people buried beneath buildings. I remembered them doing something similar when I was in primary school and the new library was opened. The teachers wanted us to pick something thoughtful and worthy. Our class voted on what should go in there, each child trying to get their pick chosen. Thanks to democracy and bribery, that particular container – to be opened in years to come – would reveal an eclectic selection of treasures. The most notable item was a whoopee cushion that Stu Singer had campaigned for. This would be a warning to our descendants: never let children choose the contents of a time capsule.
The cigar box was a treasure trove from the Major’s past. There was a pack of dog-eared playing cards. A bundle of letters were tied up with an old shoelace, the faded handwriting barely visible. Loose change, a pack of matches and a petrified bar of chocolate rattled around in the bottom, alongside other ephemera picked up on his travels: British beer mats, train tickets, a couple of bottle caps. There were even the obligatory photographs of ladies in varying states of undress, just as Dougie had hoped for.
‘What am I looking for?’ hissed Dougie, rifling through the contents and tipping the box so we could all look inside.
‘Where did you get that?’ whispered Ruby, the Major’s pale blue hand still resting upon her chest, somehow bringing her peace and comfort.
‘There was a man, Mrs Hershey,’ said Dougie, glancing to me for approval. I nodded and he continued. ‘Do you remember . . . Chip?’
Ruby’s mask stopped misting. She froze where she lay, still as a statue. She didn’t even blink.
‘Flippin’ Nora,’ I said. ‘You’re the Grim Reaper! Please ask her to breathe!’
‘Mrs Hershey?’ said Dougie, and that was enough. She gulped at the air, breathing again, ragged and uneven. She closed her eyes, and through that misted mask I caught her smile.
‘Captain Chip Flowers, from Columbus, Ohio.’
The Major gasped, his free hand going to his mouth to stifle the traitorous sound.
‘He was my first love,’ said Ruby. ‘What a fellow he was. So handsome, such a rog
ue. He flirted with all the girls, you know? But it was just that; teasing and toying. He only had eyes for me.’
‘Do you know why I’m here?’ asked Dougie.
Her eyes opened again. ‘I never said goodbye to him. I never told him how I truly felt.’
The Major was moving now, his hand hitting the box from below and launching the packet of playing cards into the air. The sudden, violent action took us by surprise, Dougie almost dropping the box (and his guts) with fright. The cards erupted from the tattered cardboard, exploding into the room and showering us like confetti. We looked about, watching them flutter to the floor like sycamore pods flying on the breeze. The empty playing card box landed on the bed beside Ruby. The Major reached forward and flicked its base with a forefinger. Out rolled the ring.
As teenage boys, Dougie and I had never been one for showing our emotions. First rule of the jungle: when faced with acts of great, heart-breaking love, keep it zipped. There were certain films we knew to stay away from, certainly when in the company of mates. The Shawshank Redemption is a fine example, a great buddy-buddy film which will have grown men weeping at the end when these two former prison inmates are reunited. Don’t even go there with Toy Story 3 – that was a cartoon and it had me reaching for the hankies. Best to claim there’s something in your eye if you’re ever moved to tears. Never let your pals know you’re in any way empathic or have an ounce of humanity in your cold teenage heart. Never.
That said, Dougie and I now wept freely. I’m not kidding; we were a pair of babies who’d just had their teddies swiped. The ring may have appeared old and tarnished, the gold discoloured having been tucked in the bottom of a playing card box for decades, but the diamond set within it still sparkled like a star. The Major had manoeuvred around the bed and was now knelt beside it, his blue glow reflected in the gem, his face in line with Ruby’s, his heartfelt words flowing fast as a waterfall.
‘I’m here, my darling. I’ve always been here. I never left. How could I leave without saying goodbye? I swore to you that once the war was through with us, that’d be our time. When all that craziness was over, and all the dying was done, you and I would get to know one another. Turned out, all the dying wasn’t done after all; I had my part to play. But I never stopped loving you, Ruby. In all those years, alone here with my thoughts, with other folk passing through, I never stopped thinking about you. They all went on, loved ones waiting for them in the light, but I was going nowhere without you.’
Could she hear what he was saying? I wondered. She was looking at the ring on the bed, this ring that had somehow jumped to life, out of the packet of cards, which had previously leapt from the box. I could certainly see her smiling, could see tears trickling down her wrinkled cheeks.
‘Last time we spoke you called me a heel ’cause I winked at a waitress. I was keepin’ you on your toes, tryin’ to get a rise out of you, and it worked. You didn’t know I planned to propose to you, did you? That this ring, my mother’s ring, was destined for your finger that coming weekend? It was all just me playin’ games, messing with you like a darn fool. I’d never have winked if I’d known that was my last deed on this earth. Heck, I’m too charming for my own good sometimes.’
He glanced up and winked at Dougie and I. My pal was sniffing back the tears, unable to make eye contact. He wasn’t alone.
‘A heel, you called me! Well I’ll be damned if those are the last words you ever got to say to me. We’ve more talkin’ to do, my love, and when you’re ready to chat, chinwag, bump your gums, or whatever dumb thing it is you Brits do, know this: I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll be here. By your side.’
Bony fingers emerged from the confines of her bedsheet and blanket, trying in vain to reach the ring. A long fingernail caught the gold band, threatening to send it off the bed and skittering into the shadows. Dougie jumped in to help, picking up the jewellery and holding it between thumb and forefinger. Ruby extended the ring finger of her left hand.
‘Oh, Chip,’ she whispered, her eyes fluttering again, threatening to close at any moment.
My mate looked to the Major who nodded reassuringly. Dougie held his breath and reached forward, sliding the ring over a bony knuckle until it sat snugly on Ruby’s twig-like finger. If only she knew the Major was there, by her side. Could she sense him? Feel him there? Was she even truly conscious? They’d doped the poor girl up with so many drugs she probably thought it was all a dream.
‘Chip.’ She smiled, staring off into space. Space, it so happened, that was occupied by our American friend. It was the weirdest thing to witness: a frail old lady and a handsome young man, freeze-framed in the prime of his life.
‘Dougie,’ I whispered, but he needed no coaxing. He was already backing up. We turned and departed the hospital bedroom, leaving the two time-torn lovers, so close but still worlds apart.
TWENTY-FOUR
Right and Wrong
‘How’re you feeling, cocker?’ I asked as Dougie clambered off the bus at the top of his street. He winced, wobbled and wailed a bit as he landed unsteadily on the pavement.
‘I’ve had better days.’
‘I can’t think of many,’ I said as the bus pulled away and into the night. ‘You’ve foiled a bank robbery, set your old man free and reunited two star-struck lovers. All in all, that’s a pretty flipping mint day’s work.’
He shrugged. ‘Guess you’re right. I am, however, still without my girlfriend, and have the ugliest-looking scar and stitches on my shin.’
‘Your leg’s going to be legendary. Just imagine the tales you can tell with a war wound like that: shark attack, sword fight, mauled by a randy sixth former. Take your pick!’
Dougie chuckled as he hobbled along. He pulled his phone out, checking it for messages again. He grumbled as he pocketed it. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting mauled by Lucy. I miss her.’
‘Give it time. She’ll come round.’ I wasn’t sure she would, but what was the point in being maudlin on an evening like this? ‘Cheer up. We can put this one in the win column.’
We turned into his drive, feeling pretty good with ourselves. The Bentley was parked out front. Maybe Mr Hancock was finally going to get it back on the road. It might have had a knackered wing – not something I’d ever forget in a hurry – but it didn’t belong hidden in the garage. He’d be able to bang that panel out again, fix the crack in the windscreen no problem. I reckoned he owed his boy a long drive in the sunshine. He’d been a changed man when we left that morning. I had such hope for the pair of them. It was a new dawn in their relationship. I hoped to goodness this was the start of something glorious between father and son.
‘It’s a nice feeling, doing the right thing, isn’t it?’ said Dougie as he stepped up to the front door, putting his key in the lock.
‘Doesn’t happen often. We should savour it.’
‘Odd,’ he said, giving the door a gentle nudge. It swung open. ‘Silly old sod’s left it open.’ Dougie stepped into the house, while I paused on the threshold. For a fleeting moment, I felt a chill descend. I glanced at the car, that crumpled wing beside me. I turned back to the door, still unsettled as I followed him.
‘You there, Dad?’ shouted Dougie.
‘Dougie,’ I said, my sense of unease growing now at a frightening rate. He waved his hand to me, trying to shush me as he continued to call to his dad.
‘Sorry I’m late. Had to go to the hospital. Cut my leg playing football.’ He turned into the lounge, pushing the glass-panelled door open. ‘You won’t believe the number of stitch—’
His words were cut short by the sight that awaited him.
The lounge had been a pigsty for months now, but it was a mess we’d grown accustomed to. Chaos had since visited the room in terrible fashion. The television set lay on its side, the picture flickering. The mirror above the fireplace was smashed, the heirloom carriage clock busted on the floor, lying on a bed of shining glass shards. Mr Hancock lay slumped in his armchair. No change there, one might have thought,
but he was in an awful state. His face was battered and bloodied, his right eye puffy and swollen shut. His lips were split, and when he saw his son enter the room he immediately started moving, raising his hands in warning, burbling through bloodied teeth.
‘Look out!’ I shouted, but too late.
The figure who had been hiding in the shadows behind the door had emerged fast, sucker-punching Dougie from behind, right in the kidneys. He went down like a sack of spuds, hitting the cluttered carpet with a crunch, his face millimetres away from the daggers of broken mirror. Mr Hancock rose from the chair on unsteady legs, desperate to help his son.
‘Sit down,’ said Bradbury, booting Mr Hancock in the chest. The poor man flew back, sprawling back into the tatty old chair with a wheezing wail. ‘You don’t know when you’re done, do you, George?’
Bradbury turned his attention to Dougie. ‘You came home at the wrong time, didn’t you, sport? Your dad and I were having a wee chat. He’s been a bad lad, y’see? Been talking to the rozzers, hasn’t he? I can’t have that. I can’t be having my people being . . . disloyal.’
What was I doing? I was frozen, a statue, a spectral spectator in my killer’s company. The last time I’d encountered him I’d been unaware of his horrific crime. There had been something between us though, for sure. I knew Bradbury had been a bad man as sure as night followed day. He was a wrong’un, as my own dad would say. And he’d reacted to my presence as well; an imperceptible turn my way, as if catching me fleetingly in the corner of his eye. Once more he glanced across his shoulder in my direction; could he sense me there, so close?
‘Leave him alone.’ Dougie’s words were a mumble, a murmur as he inched along on his belly. With his hands beneath him, he reminded me of a helpless worm, squirming away from Bradbury, across the broken glass. ‘Murderer.’
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