‘Have you ever had any dead people in here?’ Jesse’s big brown eyes have dried up and are wide open now. The paramedic looks slightly flustered.
‘Jesse,’ I say in a hoarse kind of whisper. I’m tempted to give him a sharp dig in the ribs, but I’m scared he might start up again with the waterworks.
‘I was only asking . . .’
‘Nearly there,’ says Sam. ‘Not far now.’
I suddenly realise it’s quite small and cramped and warm in here, and we’re going pretty fast and I don’t like the speeding motion much. For some reason known only to my digestive system (and possibly my brain), I start remembering that nasty greasy lasagne and chips I bolted down at lunchtime. Not only can I remember it, I can almost taste it. And that’s when I know I’m going to throw up.
By the time they’re wheeling Jesse in, I’m looking worse than he is.
Sam says, ‘Don’t you worry. I’ve got a clean uniform here at the hospital.’ She’s sponging sick off her jacket. I’d been aiming at Jesse, but I missed by a mile.
As we head through the scratched, grey double doors that swish like big rubber mats, I spot Mum’s best friend, Mia. She’s another nurse. As she sees me, she does a double take.
‘Luke? Luke? What are you doing here?’
She looks puzzled, her hand goes to her head. I think, I could ask the same of you. She should be on the geriatric wing with Mum.
‘It’s Jesse,’ I say, nodding my head towards his wheelchair. ‘He knocked himself out playing football.’
Mia sighs. ‘Not again. Is he all right?’
‘He looks fine,’ I say. The paramedics have propped Jesse up in a corner with a bag of cheese and onion, a can of Fanta and a copy of some crappety football magazine. He’s got a big smirk on now, an I’ve-got-the-afternoon-off-school kind of look as he happily swigs his fizz and practically inhales the crisps.
‘Can you tell Mum we’re here?’ I ask.
Mia looks embarrassed.
‘She’ll want to see Jesse,’ I add, while I think, actually, does anyone really want to see Jesse? Surely not. ‘She always looks in on him,’ I say. Mia knows this. She must have been through Jesse’s injury stories a hundred times with Mum.
‘Your mum’s not on the geri ward, Luke,’ says Mia. She takes my hand in hers. I know there’s something up now. Nobody over thirty ever holds the hand of a teenager unless something really awful has happened. Or they’re a bit dodgy, and Mia’s not.
‘She’s been brought over here,’ says Mia. ‘I just looked in on her.’ I can see the worry on her face. She’s stroking my hand now. Oh God, I knew it was bad news.
‘She’s not very well, Luke. You mum collapsed on the ward this morning.’
chapter three
Mum’s propped up in a bed, hair pushed back off her face, and she’s wearing a regulation hospital nightie. God, I think, things must be bad if they’ve got her into one of those. She’s always bringing patients’ nighties home and washing them because she says the hospital ones are ‘a disgrace’. From where I’m standing, I think she’s right on that score.
Mum has her eyes closed. I walk up close to her and notice for the first time the little criss-cross network of lines over the corners of her eyes. She’s asleep. I can tell by her light, regular breathing, but I want to reach out and touch her. She looks so weird sitting in that bed. I can’t remember how many times I’ve seen her tucking up the old people like a mother tucking in her baby, lifting them, getting them comfortable, taking their temperatures and fiddling with the clipboards at the end of their beds.
Normally, it’s while Jesse and I have been waiting for her to finish a shift. She always says, ‘I won’t be a minute. I just want to get so-and-so settled. Then twenty minutes later, she finally manages to tear herself away. It doesn’t seem right now, seeing her here in this bed.
I pick up her hand. Her hands are usually quite cold, but this feels warm, with soft skin and bony fingers. I wrap my fingers around hers, and give them a slight squeeze, very gently. I didn’t really want to wake her, I just wanted her to know I was there. Well, okay, I suppose I did want to wake her.
Her eyelids flicker into life and she opens her eyes, fixing me with a smile.
‘Luke …’
The word hangs between us and hovers there. She lifts her hand and strokes my face. She looks sheepish, embarrassed.
‘What happened, Mum?’
‘I don’t know, love …’ Her voice trails off. ‘All I remember is this terrible pain in my shoulder. It was like a red-hot poker being plunged in. I think I must have passed out. Next thing I know, I’m flat on my back in here. Who told you I was here anyway?’
I explain about Jesse and tell her how I intercepted Mia. Mum grimaces while I speak. Jesse’s casualty habit has never gone down that well with Mum. ‘I put in enough hours in this place,’ she always says, ‘without having to come back because of you.’
‘What’s the matter, Mum? What’s wrong with you?’
She shrugs her shoulders, and then I see her wince with pain again.
‘Don’t know.’ She sighs. ‘Nobody knows yet. They’re talking about doing some tests.’
‘Tests?’ I’ve heard Mum spit the word out often enough to know that it normally means bad news. ‘Tests? What for?’
Mum closes her eyes momentarily. I’d say the pain was hitting her where it hurts. There’s a little smear of sweat on her forehead now, a bit like condensation.
‘Go and check on Jesse for me, would you?’ she says.
‘Jesse? He’s all right. It’s you I’m worried about. What about you?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Mum says. ‘He’s only little, Luke. Look after him. He’s your brother.’
‘He’s a bloody liability, that’s what he is,’ I say. ‘He’s in and out of casualty so often now that they’re making jokes about booking him his own bed. And he’s not little – he’s eleven and a half.’
‘But he’s very young for his age.’ Mum starts to try and hoist herself up.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I can’t sit round here listening to you moaning,’ she says. ‘I’ve got to see Jesse.’
Mum starts ferreting around as if she’s about to move. Suddenly there’s a nurse standing at the end of the bed.
‘And what do you think you’re up to?’
She’s a tall, elegant black woman with her hair in hundreds of tiny braids, and she stands with her arms folded. Oh-oh, looks like there’s going to be a stand-off at the Gospel Park corral.
‘It’s my other son, Jesse,’ says Mum, wiping her forehead. ‘He’s been admitted to casualty. Had an accident playing football. I’ve got to go and see him.’
The nurse raises one eyebrow. Nothing else on her face changes, just the eyebrow. How cool is that, I think, and make a mental note to practise it at home in front of the mirror. I imagine using that one at school on Mr Mayer. ‘Napier, your homework seems to have gone AWOL.’ Reaction? Raised eyebrow. Genius.
‘Now listen to me, Patricia,’ says the nurse (nobody calls Mum Patricia – it’s always Patty or Pat). ‘You’re not a well woman. You of all people …’ She breaks off here and unleashes a volley of tuts in Mum’s direction. ‘You of all people should know that you’re here to get better. And that, my dear, means doing what you’re told.’
‘I’m a sister too, you know, over on geris …’ Mum’s objection doesn’t cut any ice.
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ says Sister Calder. She’s close enough for me to read her name badge now.
‘You stay right where you are. Ten steps out of this ward, you’re flat on your back, and whose job’s on the line? Well it ain’t yours!’
Her eyes are blazing. I can see she’s not to be messed with and Mum’s picking up on the vibe too. Mum also knows she’s right.
‘That’s all very well for you,’ says Mum, not giving up without a fight. ‘It’s not your son in casualty.’
‘No, you’re right, it�
�s not,’ says Sister Calder. Her tone’s softening a little. ‘But I’ll tell you what I’ll do, shall I? I’m going into the office right now, I’m going to pick up the phone, and I’ll call casualty to find out how …’
She leaves a gap for Mum to insert the name.
‘Jesse.’
‘ … Jesse is doing. All right? But first you have to promise me to stay right here in this bed. No moving. No more getting any ideas about wandering round the wards in your nightie. Deal?’
She fixes Mum with a stern look. Mum knows she has no choice.
‘Deal,’ she sighs.
‘Right, let’s find out how Jesse is getting on, shall we?’
She turns away from Mum and throws in her parting shot.
‘Funny kind of name for a boy …’ she says, winking at me as she sets sail off up the ward.
I take Mum’s hand and I squeeze it a bit. I can see she’s upset.
‘He’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘He always is. I’ll go and check on him if you like.’
‘No, don’t worry, love,’ says Mum. ‘Maybe later.’
She squeezes my hand back. Her hands feel colder now. Bad circulation.
‘How was school today?’
‘Okay, nothing much happening this morning. Then this afternoon I got dragged out of class and bundled into an ambulance to escort Jesse here.’ I edit out the bit about throwing up over the paramedic. Nobody needs to know that.
‘Don’t let this interrupt your lessons,’ Mum begins. ‘Go and phone Jack now and find out if you’ve got any homework.’
Jack’s a mate of mine. Well, my best mate, really. Mum loves him because he always comes top in everything, and he calls her Mrs Napier. My other best friend Freya calls her Patty, which isn’t surprising as she calls her parents by their first names too. Mum’s right though. If anyone is up to date with the homework, it’ll be Jack. I check my watch: 5.48 p.m. He’ll have done the lot by now, I reckon, and be logging on to play ‘War and Retribution’, the latest shoot-em-up that’s doing the rounds.
Sister Calder is marching back up towards us now. She allows Mum a little smile.
‘I’ve just spoken to casualty and your son’s been transferred to one of the children’s wards,’ she says. ‘They’re keeping him in overnight. Just as a precaution.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ asks Mum.
‘Well, apparently he’s eaten two fish pies and three bowls of jelly, so not much by the sound of things,’ Sister Calder says, smoothing down the covers. You can tell she’s good with the patients. ‘Shall I get him to pop in and see you in the morning? The charge nurse on Churchill ward reckons he’ll be able to come across after breakfast when he’s seen the doc.’
Mum nods and Sister Calder strides off down the ward. ‘Looks like old bossy drawers won’t be letting me out of here tonight,’ Mum says. ‘At least Jesse’s sorted for the night, anyway. Now, what are we going to do about you?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I’ve got my key. I can just go home.’
‘You are not staying in that house on your own,’ says Mum. ‘You’re not even fifteen. Anything could happen.’
I’m not happy about the way this conversation is going. I know what’s coming next. I don’t want to sleep on that rank mattress that Jack keeps under his bed. Not tonight.
‘Stay at Jack’s,’ says Mum. ‘Go on. Go and phone him now. Have you got your mobile on you?’
‘Forgot it.’
She tuts. ‘I asked Mia to bring mine over but she must have got distracted. Get my purse out.’
Mum’s looking at her locker. It’s like something out of the 1950s. She’s nodding her head in a way that indicates ‘Get my bag out and take some change and make that call’.
That’s how well I know my mum. I know what all her gestures mean. I know that when she purses her lips together tightly that means, ‘Stop that now, I’m about to erupt.’ Jesse and I call that one her ‘volcano lips’. Highly dangerous. Tonight she has another look altogether. She closes her eyes and her eyelids flutter so gently, you almost wouldn’t notice. I have an inkling this means that something, somewhere is hurting badly.
I’m down the corridor, holding my nose against the wave of antiseptic smells that are washing over me, heading for the phone. I’m confident about lying about the sleepover. I do need to sort out the homework though.
I insert the money and dial the number. It keeps falling through, making a tinny chink against the little metal scoop at the bottom.
There’s an old geezer standing next to me in purple striped pyjamas, with the waist tied up with string. Only he hasn’t tied it tight enough, and his todger is trying to escape, though he hasn’t noticed yet. He’s only a metre away, and I can smell the fags from where I’m standing.
‘Lick it,’ he says.
‘What?’
He looks at me as if to say, you idiot. It’s obviously an instruction.
‘Lick the coin. Before you put it in.’
‘Oh.’
I lick it. Disgusting, cold metallic taste, probably covered in superbugs.
This time I put it in and it stays. The old bloke smiles triumphantly.
A male nurse arrives and hooks him away by the arm.
‘C’mon now, Bernie, you’ve had your ciggie. Emmerdale starts in a few minutes. Oh, look at you, you’re all coming undone …’
‘Always works,’ he shouts over his shoulder as he’s escorted away while his pyjama bottoms are yanked up.
Eventually Jack answers the phone. It always rings for ages in his house, as though they’ve got better things to do. In our house, as soon as it rings we all dive for it. Like we’re bored out of our tiny minds.
‘Jack?’
‘What d’you want?’
That’s what I like about Jack. Always straight to the point, never any small talk.
‘It’s me.’
I know he knows it’s me. I’m the only person from school who ever calls him, apart from Mad Marty Perrino and we don’t want to go there.
‘I’m in hospital.’
There’s a pause. I can tell he’s digesting this information. He’s dead clever is Jack, but sometimes it’s the simple stuff that catches him out.
‘What’s the matter? You ill or something?’
‘No, not me.’
‘Oh, it’s that stupid knobhead brother of yours, isn’t it? I heard he got pulped again on the pitch …’
‘Yeah, listen, Jacks, have you done the geography homework yet?’
I already know the answer, but it seems rude not to ask the question.
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘What was it?’
‘Dead easy. Glaciers and how they form. Then you have to do a diagram. Piece of piss.’
‘Okay, what else?’
‘English. We read some poem about daffodils and now we have to write twelve lines inspired by another flower. Only not carnations.’
‘Why not? What’s wrong with carnations?’
‘Nothing. Only Mrs Blythe hates them, and apparently every year when she sets this homework she gets at least ten carnation poems. They remind her of evaporated milk. And funerals.’
Fine, I’m thinking, I’ll do roses.
‘What did you do?’ I ask Jack.
‘Roses.’
‘Bastard! I was going to do those …’
‘Tough, I’ve done mine. Anyway, you can copy the geography, but I’m not writing you another poem. Try hyacinths.’
‘Why?
‘They rhyme with plinths.’
‘Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, quarter to. That’ll give me enough time to copy the geography, won’t it?’
‘Yeah, should do. But don’t forget your poem. I’m not writing that, too.’
‘So you said. Okay, laters.’
I could have told him about Mum, but I didn’t want to somehow. Anyway, he’d have been part of the deception then, and this one’s got to be all mine.
I head back to the ward. Mum has closed
her eyes, but she’s not sleeping.
‘All set?’ she says.
‘All set. Back to Jack’s tonight.’
‘I must get something for Ruth when I get out.’
Hmm. I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it. Ruth is Jack’s mum. She and Mum are good friends. It all goes back to when Jack and I started nursery on the same day. They share a bottle of wine occasionally and start moaning about blokes, then laughing about blokes, and usually end up crying about blokes. It normally happens when Jack’s dad, Colin, is out for the night with his mates. Jack and I make ourselves scarce and watch a DVD.
‘You’ll be home tomorrow, won’t you?’ I ask.
Mum opens an eye. It’s looking like a real effort.
I can see Sister Calder heading towards us now with a little pill rattling around in a plastic cup. At least Mum will get some sleep tonight.
‘Course I’ll be home tomorrow,’ says Mum. ‘They won’t be keeping me in here. I’ll go mad. Anyway, I’ll be right as rain by then.’
But I think we both know that isn’t true.
chapter four
It’s weird the noise the key makes as I turn it in the lock. I mean, it’s not as though I haven’t done it a thousand times before. But then, there was always going to be someone coming home at some time – Jesse and Mum. But tonight, here I am, letting myself in. No one home. No one coming home. Just me. I know if I really think about it I could freak myself out. Home alone, nightmare on Colbourne Way. I shut the door behind me with a nice heavy clunk. Then I slide the bolts across, top and bottom, and put the chain on for good luck. Ghosts, ghouls, vampires, burglars. That’ll keep them out.
Now on any other day, I suppose this would be my idea of heaven. No Mum. No Jesse. Just me. I can stay up all night if I want. I can eat whatever I like – okay, we’re all out of smoked salmon and caviar, but Mum’s stocked up on the oven chips, and there is a particularly tasty-looking Americano pizza in the freezer with my name on it. So I whack the oven on (gas mark nine – you need a proper little inferno to get the old oven chips nice and crispy), kick off my trainers and I’m just flicking through the channels (news – depressing, EastEnders – deadly, some reality TV show set in an opticians, called Sight for Sore Eyes – dire) when something happens that I haven’t anticipated.
Life, Interrupted Page 2