by Irfan Master
William stopped speaking.
‘You know what?’ said Adam, after a pause. ‘Most people leave behind money, houses, family heirlooms, letters and all that kind of stuff.’
‘Yeah, they do.’
‘But my Dadda left behind his heart. I would have just been happy with a watch or something, you know.’
‘Yeah, I know, but I’m quite attached to mine,’ replied William and began to laugh.
Adam began to laugh too. The wind continued to whistle round them, whipping the leaves about the two figures, carrying their laughter across the rows of the dead and beyond to the land of the living.
‘Let’s play a word game, William. We use the word heart in so many ways. First one to drop one, buys fish and chips. Ready? I’ll start … Heartbeat …’
William: Heart attack
Adam: Heartless
W: Heart sore
A: Heartbroken
W: Cold heart
A: Braveheart
W: Great heart
A: Sweetheart
W: Half-hearted
A: Heart of stone
W: Heart of gold
A: Pure of heart
W: Kind hearted
A: Lionheart
W: Take heart
A: Hard-hearted
W: Stony-hearted
A: Light-hearted
W: Faint-hearted
A: Chicken-hearted
W: Heart-shaped
A: Heart of the matter
W: Heavy heart
A: Heart-warming
W: Heartful
A: Heartache
W: Big-hearted
A: Soft-hearted
W: Dis-heartened
A: Open heart
W: Blackheart
A: Erm … Erm … Aaargh! I give up.
W: I have one more …
A: Show-off.
W: Heartsick
A: Nice. End on a positive note.
W: Yeah, thanks. I’ll have a haddock, please.
The doors to the operating theatre were closed as Adam peered through the square-cut windows. He was back in the hospital, but this time not in the green patient’s gown. Looking at his hands, Adam again saw that they weren’t his. They were delicate, like his, but different. Something covered his mouth, a tight elasticated cap on his head stretched over his scalp.
‘Glad you’ll be assisting on this one,’ said Mr Desai.
‘Me too.’ That wasn’t his voice. What was happening?
Adam felt himself move towards the sinks. He felt hot water and soap being rubbed into his hands. Hands that were not his hands. He didn’t want to look behind him. Not yet. He knew that lying there on the operating table, connected to wires and tubes, was his Dadda. Slowly and with purpose, the body that was not his moved towards the operating table where another doctor and two nurses were waiting. His Dadda was attached to oxygen, but his eyes were glazed. One foot in this world and the other jamming the door to the next.
The first cut was to divide the breastbone, opening the chest cavity and clamping the ends in place. Adam’s eyes widened as the heart was slowly revealed. Confused, disoriented, he tried to make sense of what was in front of him by closing his eyes. He imagined the peeled-back skin as a flower that had opened, the first of the season, containing a prize within. He imagined a bee picking up its scent from a distance and angling towards it. A honeysuckle heart. A heart that gave sustenance. A heart that gave life. That was what was in his mind’s eye. An open heart. Still beating as he snipped away the delicate threads holding it in place. Adam stared at his Dadda in fascination and horror as the surgeon, with watchmaker’s patience, continued to sever links between the heart and the body. Each cut made Adam flinch, each tug made Adam blink. It was easy to lift the heart out from his Dadda’s chest, tiny tendrils still attached to it, and for the first time Adam saw a heart as it was. Your heart is the size of your clenched fist. And it was. A bloody fist. He saw himself remove the heart, a slab of meat no different to those at the butcher’s, and place it in a cool box. And that was it, his Dadda was gone. Kept alive long enough to give life, but now it was more about the living. The operating theatre emptied, following the living heart out of the room and into the next. Turning his head, Adam saw a carcass sprawled on the operating table, clamps still in place, wires and pipes sprouting from his chest like weeds, but what caught Adam’s eye was a flash of green. His last view as he left the room was his Dadda’s hand that was hanging limp over the edge of the operating table, a green opal ring on his left index finger.
He saw himself discard the bloody gloves and gown and felt the hot water washing over his hands again. William lay on the table in the next theatre, chest open to the world, ready to receive another chance at life. He had already been prepped and was sedated and unaware of what was happening to him. But do you know what just happened to my Dadda? Do you know that he’s lying in the next room discarded, clamped open, arm dangling? Adam took his place beside William and watched as the surgeon produced his Dadda’s heart from the cool box. Adam had expected a delicate lowering, a surgically precise implant, but the heart was placed into the shallow grave of a hole and then the work began. He saw the surgeon’s hands work quickly, not wasting a single movement, attaching, incising, suturing, knotting and sealing all the valves of the heart. Blood flowed into the heart cavity and was quickly vacuumed by a pump, but the crimson liquid was hungry. Adam imagined the clamps to be dams; once raised the blood would thunder into the heart valves. But something was wrong. Streams of blood had already flowed over the heart, but it was yet to start beating. Adam looked up at the other surgeon, who nodded.
‘We’re going to have to jolt it.’
‘OK.’
Adam looked down at his hands. Not a tremor or a shake affected them. A nurse handed him two small paddles which he attached. They stood back and an electrical surge was pulsed into the heart, involuntarily jerking William’s body. Still nothing. The heart sat in its new shell, unmoved.
‘Again, please,’ he heard himself saying.
Another pulse pricked the heart and Adam looked up to see William’s eyes flicker open for a second. William, it’s me, Adam screamed, their eyes meeting, a flicker of recognition before William lapsed out of life once more. Adam stared at the heart. Beat! Please beat! Blood flowed into the heart cavity and with a twitch the heart flickered to life. There! A subtle contracting as the blood, deprived by the vacuum, flooded the cavity and the heart began to pulse. Slowly at first, ventricle and aorta stretching in their new surroundings for the first time until the heart filled the space. The beat quickened and now the heart was pulsating at a vibrant pace, fist squeezing, urgent and new and alive. Holding up his bloody hands, Adam nodded at the surgeon opposite him. He began to carefully suture the remaining connections, checking all five strands to make sure everything was attached and complete. Unlike his Dadda, who was incomplete. Who would be stitched up and buried without a heart. They removed the clamps and the skin was stretched back over the breastbone. Deftly, Adam used wires to close the cavity before he could begin the final stitching. Finally he tied a knot, pulling the threads tightly across the chest, before cutting off the excess suture thread and sealing the chest. Adam turned to look at William, who was still drifting, eyes half closed. Suddenly, William’s eyes flickered open, bloodshot and wild. Sitting up, he looked down at his chest, at the brutal stitching, and turned to Adam. Reaching towards him, he tugged at the wires, the stitches pulling taut against his skin.
‘What have you done?’ he said, grabbing Adam’s hand. ‘What have you done?!’
Adam woke to William shaking him gently. Adam sucked in large gulps of air and stared at William.
‘You were talking in your sleep,’ said William. Adam blinked his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear it.
‘It was a dream. So real. I was there.’
‘Where?’
‘In the operating theatre with Dadda, then I … I saw the heart removed fro
m him then put into you. I saw everything. I felt everything.’
William nodded and sighed. Hooking his right hand over his left shoulder, he stood up.
‘You were talking for a long time in your sleep. I didn’t want to shake you …’
‘I was the surgeon in the dream, William. I made the cuts. I stitched you up. I’ve never had a dream like that before.’ Holding up his hands Adam saw that they were shaking. Not like a surgeon’s hands. Closing his fists, he squeezed his hands, imitating the beating of a heart. Two fists, two hearts. So many stitches and cuts and repaired tissue and marrow and blood. So much blood.
William looked up at the frowning grey clouds. The sky was angry, and he knew that meant any minute now hot tears would fall. Going for a walk had been Adam’s idea. After insisting on meeting William’s doctor, he would accompany him on a daily walk that would improve his lung capacity and help his breathing. William liked the walks and the quiet conversations they had.
‘It’s going to pour down,’ said Adam, looking up at the sky.
‘Yeah, we’d better get home,’ replied William. Chuckling to himself, he shook his head. Home. Home to Farah and Yasmin and Daddima.
‘Keep laughing to yourself like that, William, people gonna think you’re crazy,’ said Adam, but he was smiling. He enjoyed these walks too, the quiet, solid presence of William comforted him, their conversations about ideas and people giving him somewhere to park his thoughts.
William turned to see Adam looking up at something.
‘What’s up?’ asked William, walking back to where Adam was standing.
‘It’s a church,’ replied Adam, pointing to the sign.
‘Yeah, and?’
‘Do all churches have confession? I’ve only seen it in films. Is that where you speak to a priest and tell him all the bad things you’ve done?’ asked Adam.
‘I haven’t been for years. Dad was a Catholic and used to make Mum go to church with him, and she just carried on going after he’d left and used to drag me with her. Confession is a way of getting things off your chest. Things you feel bad about.’
Adam thought about it and realised there wasn’t anything similar at the local mosque. You could talk to the imam there but it wasn’t quite the same.
‘It sounds like it could be useful.’
‘It could be, I suppose, if you have something you need to confess,’ replied William.
Adam nudged him.
‘Did you realise why I stopped at this church?’
‘No?’ replied William.
‘The name. Of the church. Did you see it?’
William looked up at the blue sign with gold lettering. Church of the Sacred Heart.
‘We’re in the right place then,’ said William with a smile, and followed Adam through the door. ‘OK, I can see someone’s in there right now so just wait here. You remember what you have to say?’
‘Yep. I got it.’
‘Look, someone’s just left and the priest’s taking a break. Go on.’
Adam slid the door open and, closing it behind him, sat down. Feeling nervous, he took out his notepad and pencil to calm himself. He thought of the image he’d seen illuminated on the stained-glass window as he’d walked in. Of dawn and the sun rising.
Daybreak. Daybroke, Daybroken, Broken Days.
Hearing a shuffling in the other half of the booth and the screen being pulled back, Adam hurried to put his pad and pencil away and sat up straight. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he felt that was appropriate.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ said Adam in a firm voice.
‘Go on, my son …’
‘This is my first confession!’ Adam blurted out.
‘It’s never too late to confess, my son. If you are penitent, God will hear you and forgive. Go on …’
‘I don’t know where to begin …’
‘You are safe here. Go on, my son. Confess and lay the burden down.’
‘I’ve lied to my little sister. Just to make her go away.’
‘Go on …’
‘I’ve argued with my mum, even when I’ve known I was wrong, because I was angry at her. I’ve tried to make her cry, but it was for her own good.’
‘Go on, my son …’
‘There was this time I took a pound from my grandmother’s purse. I was short for some spray cans.’
‘Yes …’
‘Is this the right type of confession stuff …?’ asked Adam, a little flustered.
‘There is no right or wrong type of confession, my child. Go on,’ replied the priest.
‘I am ashamed of myself about one thing in particular. Of standing there and doing nothing. Of running away and covering my ears when I was younger. My father … he used to hit my mother and she would stand there and take it. She would sob to herself quietly and take it. I would be in the other room, and I didn’t do anything to stop it … I mean, he would hit me too, but that was OK, I could live with it, but I should have done something …’
‘You were a child. It was not for you to do something,’ replied the priest.
‘Yeah, but once the neighbours or somebody called the police. When they knocked on the door, my dad went out to meet them and took me along. That was my chance, you see … They asked me if everything was OK. If there was a problem. I could have told them everything, I could have, but I chose not to. Because he’s my dad and I didn’t want him to go away from us or get into trouble. But everything was not OK.’
There was silence on the other side and some shuffling.
‘My child, what you did was not a sin. You were afraid and you did what you thought was right. That’s not a sin. It’s not your fault you didn’t speak, but you’re speaking to me now and that’s a good step.’
‘But if I had done something then, it wouldn’t have got as far as it did. It wouldn’t have got to more fists and violence and I wouldn’t have left that door open …’
‘What door, my child?’
‘I left the door open and she fell. Like Icarus, she fell and now she doesn’t speak.’
‘What door? Who fell, my child? Who doesn’t speak?’
Adam opened the door and ran from the booth, sprinting past William without stopping.
The priest came up behind William, looking troubled.
‘I wasn’t able to absolve that child of his sins.’
‘The sins are not his, Father,’ replied William, moving to follow Adam out of the large double doors.
William found Adam sitting on a bench in the street nearby, elbows resting on his knees, head low.
‘What happened? What did you confess?’
‘I didn’t. I couldn’t tell him,’ replied Adam without looking up.
‘Tell him what?’
‘About Farah. Why she doesn’t talk. About what happened to her. Because I left a door open.’
‘Tell me …’
‘I can’t. I can’t. I should’ve been looking after her, I should’ve …’
‘Tell me,’ urged William.
Adam looked up, his mind reliving the moments, and finally began to speak.
We were drawing and messing about in the living room. Like we always did. I was scribbling in my pad, watching Farah as she tried to copy me. She held the pencil in her chubby fingers and made large circles. Stopping to see if I was watching her after every scribble. I gave her the thumbs up each time, making her squeal and encouraging her to try again. I finished my sketch and showed her a drawing of a figure with wings, hands outstretched, and she smiled, pointing at it. The door to the living room was closed, but we could still hear Mum and Dad arguing. Again. We tried to ignore them and carried on, but the sound carried through the door, filling the empty spaces in the living room. Farah’s ears pricked up, a frown creeping onto her face. I flicked through my notepad and showed her another drawing, trying to distract her. But there were other sounds now. Sounds we both recognised. Sobbing. Hard sounds. I got up and went to stand by the door. We could hear things
being thrown. Farah stood unsteady on her little legs and tottered to stand by my side, grabbing my hand. I smiled, trying to calm her. As young as she was, Farah knew it wasn’t a real smile. Leading her back to the notepad, I sat her down and put the pencil back in her hand. Eventually she set about scribbling in her book once again. I went back to the door and signalled to her, Shhh. I’ll be back in a minute. Draw something nice for me.
Pulling the door open, I slipped out. Another crash. In my hurry I forgot to pull the door closed behind me. The angry sounds. The crashing sounds. The sobbing sounds. Sounds I had heard for years now as I took each step. Each step was a reminder of how this house had never known peace. Each step took me closer to the eye of the storm. At the top of the stairs I stopped and waited. What would I do? What could I do? I knew the answer to that. What I had done in the past. Get in the way. Be a distraction. Take the hurt onto myself. I knew by now how that could be done. The sounds continued, coming from the bedroom. I knocked on the door and took a step back.
‘Leave her alone,’ I said, making sure my voice would carry.
‘Adam, please go downstairs. It’s OK, just go down,’ came my mum’s voice, wavering and unsteady.
‘No. I won’t. Stop fighting – you’re scaring Farah.’
‘Please, Adam …’ said Mum.
Another crash, swearing, and things being kicked over.
Just as I was about to go into the bedroom, the door opened and my dad appeared.
Light flooding from behind him, he stood, a silhouette in the doorway. I saw Mum, her face bloody, hair pulled in all directions, body bent over on the floor in pain.