by Paul Kearney
‘Have you any pain, any discomfort? Apart from general stiffness, of course.’
He shook his head. No more than usual.
The doctor bent over him. A grey-haired aquiline profile with large black-rimmed glasses.
‘Hey, doc, you’re not so ugly after all.’ He grinned, ignoring the pain that shot through his jaw.
‘Neither are you, now. You look a lot less like a TV aerial than you did. Try and sit up.’
He did so, his lower jaw immediately pulling at him. Odd to feel its unsupported weight, like a pendulum attached to his lower skull. He felt himself dribbling and wiped his mouth.
‘Christ, it’s like learning all over again.’
‘It’ll be like that for a day or two, until you get used to being responsible for it.’
‘What about the rest?’
The doctor paused. ‘Longer, I’m afraid. You won’t be able to begin walking for some time yet, but the arm should be gaining in strength all the time...’
Time. Well, I’ve plenty of that.
The words he made were large, clumsy, with no sharp corners. It was as if they had been wrapped in dough. He still carried his notebook with him to cope with those occasions when he was too tired to make the effort to speak, or when those who tried to understand him were particularly obtuse. Doody, being Doody, understood every word he said, and frequently told him off for mumbling on purpose.
‘Now you’ve got that space-age hat rack off your face, you should try and have a go at the old cow Bisbee, sir. She thought your dogs weren’t on one leash, if you know what I mean. She’s a one to fucking talk. All she’s got between her ears is aspirin and elastoplast.’
And Riven laughed for the first time in a long time, though his face ached when he did so.
The white bulk of Nurse Bisbee entered the room like a ship in full sail. Doody rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, shit, wait for it. I’m probably supposed to be wiping arses or licking floors or something.’
‘Doody, shouldn’t you be somewhere else at this time of day?’ asked Nurse Bisbee, frowning. ‘Like the laundry room?’
‘Why yes, massah, I is on my way,’ Doody retorted, exiting with a nod and a wink to Riven. Nurse Bisbee continued frowning in his direction after he had gone, and then she became brisk. She plumped up the cushions at Riven’s back, manhandling him like a child. ‘Now, Mr Riven, I hope you’re feeling strong today, because you have a visitor, and a very important-looking man he is. I think he must be a lawyer or something. I’ll just make you comfortable and then I’ll send him in. Have you got your notebook handy? Good. I’ll go and tell him to come in.’
A visitor, come to talk to the newly vocal Michael Riven. Shit. A short, thickset man in a sober suit that hung on him uncomfortably, as though it wished it were somewhere else. His face was square and ruddy, the black hair almost militarily short. He might have been a blacksmith, or a sergeant major, were it not for the softness of the eyes. There was a smile on the face, aimed at Riven. His hand jutted out.
‘Hello, Mike.’
Riven returned his grip momentarily, a smile poking its way on to his lips. ‘Hugh,’ he said clearly. The man was his editor, midwife to the stories he had written back when the world was young.
The man called Hugh sat down beside Riven’s wheelchair. His chair scraped as he pulled it forward. He seemed reluctant to meet Riven’s eyes.
Christ. Is it that forbidding?
Finally he did. He shrugged. ‘Oh, hell. There’s not much to say, I suppose.’
‘No,’ said Riven, the word clear as glass in his mouth.
Hugh flapped a hand. ‘I’m supposed to be here to give you a bucketful of sympathy and then get down to the nitty-gritty in a decent space of time and ask you about your writing.’ He grinned, looking boyish for a brief moment. ‘My tongue’s as dry as day-old bread. This sort of thing is much easier under the civilising influence of alcohol. But that’s taboo, I hear.’
Riven nodded. ‘I’d sell my bloody soul for a pint.’
The ice broken, Hugh relaxed visibly. He glanced about and then sneaked one of his foul-smelling cigarettes from his pocket and lit it with relish.
‘Drugs. I know. I spoke to your doctor. You must be high as a kite, the amount they’re pumping into you...’ He trailed off, and contemplated his glowing cigarette. ‘I’m sorry, Mike. Sorry for you—for her. For the whole bastard thing. But what do you say that hasn’t been said already? You know how I felt about her, Mike. I adored her. She was a bewitching woman. Such a waste.’
Riven nodded again. Grief is not only embarrassing. It is banal. It is wholesale.
‘I know,’ he said savagely, the words slipping in his clumsy mouth. He sounded as though his batteries were running down. ‘Forget it, Hugh.’ Leave it.
His editor pointed, smoke dribbling from his fingers. ‘Good job you’re left-handed.’
Riven frowned. What? Then realised. My one good limb. My writing hand. Now there’s irony.
‘I’m not writing. I won’t for a long time—a long time, Hugh.’
The square-set man nodded, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t expect otherwise, to be honest. You’ll need time. It would be obscene of me to start spouting about deadlines and advances...’ But he looked as though he would have liked to, just the same. ‘You’re making progress, that’s the important thing. Last week you couldn’t even speak. The doctors think you’ll make a complete recovery... We won’t hurry you.’
You’re damn right.
‘There is one thing, though, Mike: the third book. Everyone is clamouring for it—the last of the trilogy. We have fans writing to us about it.’
Riven chuckled, startling himself. Fans! I have fans. Jesus Christ!
Hugh smiled in response. ‘I know. Sales have almost doubled since the accident. Human nature is a weird and unpleasant thing at times. A real-life tragedy, and suddenly everyone wants to read the fiction. I’ve never been able to explain that sort of thing.’
Riven’s laughter curdled in his throat until he felt like spitting.
‘Maybe I should write it into the next book,’ he snarled. His eyes glittered.
A rock face on Skye, and he sitting on a ledge and the rope gone slack, swaying. He could still hear the scream.
Why did it seem so terrible that she had screamed his name?
‘I’m sorry,’ Hugh said again, shifting on his chair. He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll go. You can do without this. Give me a ring when you’ve... sorted yourself out a little.’ He stood up and seemed about to offer his hand again, but thought better of it. ‘I’ll go,’ he repeated. ‘Hang in there, Mike.’ Then he turned and left. Riven toyed with the control knob of his chair.
Why are these such fearsome things? Sit in one for a while, and you’re a metal centaur and people’s eyes shrink away. Dan Dare, eat your heart out. Here comes Michael Riven in his fantastical rocket sled.
He directed the chair over to the window and gazed out. Autumn. Autumn on Skye. The bracken will be turning brown.
You might get the first snow on the Cuillin hills. Mind you, November can be quite mild up there...
‘Your visitor doesn’t look too chuffed with life,’ said Doody cheerfully. He pushed in a laundry trolley and rolled it to a halt beside Riven’s chair.
‘Red tape,’ said Riven absently. ‘There’s a lot of it about.’
‘I’d have thought you were well clear of that now, sir. Being in hospital does have its advantages.’
Aye. It does. ‘What’s the date, Dood?’
‘Twelfth of November. Bloody hell, these sheets are a mess. It’s Mr bloody Simpson being careless again. You’d think a merchant banker could control his bum. He’s in, but the light’s not on, if you get my drift.’
I’ve been here four months. Christ.
‘Doody, how many visitors have I had since I came in?’
Doody stopped to consider. ‘Oh, loads. At least, they’ve been here loads of times. Not that you’ve ever seen any. They only got to
see you when you were unconscious.’ His brow furrowed. ‘And you’ve never said why you wouldn’t see them.’
Memories. Sympathy. Ye gods.
He stared out of the window again, watching the river with its willows. Once he had seen the blue flash of a kingfisher there. A kingfisher summer...
How did he get in here to see me? ...The white whale, of course. What was it? Like a lawyer. Ah, the trappings of respectability. Poor old Hugh.
‘You know, sir, this may sound fucking stupid, but you’re getting bloody quiet these days. You used to say more with that notebook than you do now you’ve got your voice back.’ Doody was looking at him keenly, one hand clutching a forgotten bunch of linen pillowcases. Riven met his eyes.
‘Well, Dood, you know what it is, don’t you?’ he asked sadly.
Doody shook his head.
‘It’s alcohol withdrawal symptoms, you soft git.’
‘Ah!’ Doody nodded sagely, then went out, pushing his trolley in front of him. ‘Now you’re coming off the drugs, I’ll have to see if I can organise the proper medicine, Mr Riven, sir...’
TWO
THE BEECHFIELD CENTRE was a nursing home for those who preferred to be nursed in private. While not being what could be termed as ‘exclusive,’ it nevertheless tried to cultivate a certain calibre of clientele. One of its prime aims in life seemed to be to prepare members of the older, more privileged generation for the rigours of retirement. Thus, arthritis, rheumatism and wandering wits were high on the list of maladies encountered within its white walls. Riven was an anomaly in the system, but he had been welcomed at the centre nonetheless. He had something of a name in ‘literature’; he had written two fantasy novels that had done quite well, earning him a modest income which sufficed—just—to keep him, with only a few odd jobs to supplement it. His parents had always wanted him to get a ‘proper’ job, and though they had not been ecstatic, to say the least, about the army, at least it was that. But Riven had left the army as a lieutenant, deciding he had seen enough. It was not to be missed, but it was not for life, either. Still, he would always be proud of having been a soldier; it had fulfilled one childhood ambition, and had given him time to think.
The trustees of the Beechfield Centre were glad to have him, eccentric though some of his behaviour appeared. The fact that he refused to see visitors, for instance, or that he would not communicate in any way with certain of the staff. But there was the double tragedy of his dead wife and his terrible injuries to think about. They made allowances for him, as long as his insurance paid for him to be there.
The consultant, Doctor Lynam, dropped in often, in his smiling, pleasant way. He was the sort who smokes a pipe with consummate incompetence, but who sticks to it manfully, knowing that it will be conquered by the time he has retired to his house in the Cotswolds. He gave the patients the same kind of absentminded affection he gave to his dog, which did not make him a bad doctor, but which made those under his care think uneasily that by troubling him with their ailments, they were interrupting the gracious, even flow of his life.
There were two nurses: Nurse Bisbee and Nurse Cohen. Bisbee was a relic from a Victorian schoolroom, benevolent as a South American dictator. Her face resembled a large pink crag, with the hair pulled back from it so tightly that Riven half believed when it was loosed her face would bunch up like a bloodhound’s.
Nurse Cohen, on the other hand, was young and slight, with mischievous eyes and dark hair which it sometimes hurt Riven to look at.
There were several auxiliaries also, as well as a small kitchen staff. Doody combined the jobs of porter and nursing assistant, and sometimes helped out in the kitchen as well. No one seemed to know exactly what his job was.
When he was a nineteen-year-old corporal in the Buffs, he had chosen premature voluntary retirement rather than face a court martial for striking an officer. It was in Ireland, and his brick had come across a suspect van. Intelligence said it contained a device, so they set up an observation post on the hill above to monitor the area. When the platoon commander came on the scene, he demanded that Doody’s brick go down and check the vehicle at close quarters. When Doody refused, he was called a coward, and a few other names; he flattened the officer. A few moments later the bomb in the van exploded. It was then that Doody applied for the Royal Army Medical Corps. He was good at his job, but the officer had many connections. So it was, at the age of twenty, Corporal David Doody found himself unemployed, having learned in the army the twin skills of killing and healing. And that, he used to say, was about as logical as the army ever got.
‘So here I am,’ he would add, ‘wiping old geezer’s backsides and trying to keep on the right side of Stalin in a white uniform.’
‘IT’S SUCH LOVELY weather we’re having,’ said Nurse Cohen. ‘A real Indian summer.’
Riven nodded. She was pushing him across the lawn behind the Centre. He was wrapped up against cold, with a blanket across his knees, but the sun was bright and warm and there were starlings darting around the willows. Like spring.
‘I’ll leave you here and be back in ten minutes to make sure you’re not getting cold. All right, Mr Riven?’ He nodded again and managed to smile for her.
Wonder how long her hair would be when let down... shit.
He sat and listened to the river and the squabbling starlings. The sky was clear, winter-clear, and though it was only mid afternoon, the sun was beginning to set. He could see it in the faintly tawny light and the long shadows.
A heavy hand placed itself on his shoulder and he turned sharply. Molesy.
‘Ah. Mr Riven.’ He looked about craftily. ‘I hear you’re talking again.’
‘That’s right.’ You give me this shit about Skye again, Molesy, and I’ll plug you one, cripple or no.
The old man was less than perfectly clean, and there was a smell off him—sweat and earth—which surprised Riven. The Beechfield staff were usually very efficient about hygiene. Molesy seemed to have escaped their attentions. If it came to that, he had never yet seen the old man in the company of a nurse or an auxiliary. Riven felt a twinge of uneasiness. Almost as if they did not know he was here.
Molesy glanced about once more, watchful as always. Was he worried about being seen? Riven shifted in his chair.
‘How long have you been here, Molesy?’ he asked.
The old Scot ignored him. ‘We share a secret, we two,’ he said—and again there was that accent which Riven could not place jangling behind the brogue. ‘But don’t worry, the secret is safe with me.’
‘What secret?’ Riven demanded irritably.
‘Ah, now, don’t be mocking me, Mr Riven. You’re from Eileen A Cheo. You know what lies in the mountains above the sea, where the waterfall comes down to the Cape of the Wolf’s Heart.’
He’s gone. He is as loopy as a kangaroo.
But the old man’s face had become shrewd, and the stare of the eyes had focused. For a second the jowls of his face seemed to tighten. Riven had the momentary impression that Molesy was not old. But then it was gone.
‘When you have your legs, and the broken pieces of you have put themselves together, remember to go home. We must all go home in the end,’ Molesy said earnestly. ‘That is where you are needed—where the mountains meet the sea.’ His blue eyes twinkled. ‘There are things to be done up there.’
Riven saw Nurse Cohen walking towards him across the lawn. Molesy followed his gaze and flinched. He swore under his breath.
‘Time I was off,’ he said in a muttered sing-song. ‘Time to walk the Northern Road again. Remember the smell of the sea, Mr Riven, and the curlews calling through the peaks of the Black Cuillins. Don’t be forgetting it in this southern place, where the air is full of smoke and the water is stale. Remember where you must go.’
And he lurched away swiftly across the grass, bumping into another patient as he went. He disappeared into the trees, and there was only the faint, earthy smell left in the air to mark his passing.
‘All
right, Mr Riven?’ Nurse Cohen said cheerfully, taking the handles at the back of his chair.
‘Who the hell is he?’ Riven asked her.
‘Who?’
‘The old man—the old Scot. Has he been admitted here?’
‘We’ve no Scots at Beechfield, Mr Riven. Just one Irishman, who is ready for his dinner. It’s getting chilly, don’t you think?’
And Riven shivered slightly in answer, though not with cold.
HE SPENT A lot of time in the recreation room these evenings, as it got dark so early. There the patients watched television, played cards or argued half-heartedly amongst themselves. Riven read. He was attempting to keep abreast of the current fantasy scene, as his editor called it. He wondered sometimes if he would write again, but there was something there, something black and futile, which stopped him every time his pen touched paper and made every word he wrote into nonsense; useless nonsense. So he waited out the long evenings into the winter that was coming. Apart from Hugh, he had spoken to no one from his former life since he had left hospital. Former was what he called the life before. He could not quite believe that there had been a life before. The laughing platoon commander, the lover, the husband, the writer. All that had been someone else.
He looked out of the window to where the river ran off in the darkness. Where Molesy had disappeared.
It’s going to be one of those nights. Well, it’s not the first and it won’t be the last. How long ago was it, when I first went to Skye? A never-to-be-forgotten visit while I was still in the army. One winter, long ago.
STARING OUT ON the loch, he watched the greylags wheel round and honk their way into the water. The last light was going down behind the mountains, leaving herring-bones of pink cloud trailing across the sky, throwing sunset into the water, making the ripples incandescent.
His feet were wet, and the fire was sinking along with the sun. His mess tins sat at his side, undersides blackened, insides smeary with curry. He’d wash them in the stream later.