Hiding in Plain Sight

by Eoghan Egan

  ‘Paperwork?’

  ‘All in order. You won’t need it.’

  The man separated his hole cards and placed the eight and ten of clubs on either side of the nine. ‘Straight flush.’ He looked at Malcolm’s pale face. ‘Beat that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Cha-ching.’ The man’s arms enveloped the kitty, swept the pot to him, the fob bobbling like a boat on the sea of chips.

  ‘I’ll have cash by Tuesday,’ Malcolm said. ‘Wednesday at the latest. I’m good for it.’

  The man produced a notebook and a pen. ‘Gimme your number.’

  Malcolm did. The man picked up the fob, tossed it from one palm to the other. ‘Don’t know if you’re good for it or not. One week. Cash or paperwork. I’ve no problem lettin’ your Audi go for eight grand. Don’t give two shites ’bout cars, so call me. Tough luck, kid,’ the man said, and stacked the chips into tall towers.

  Malcolm walked out.

  ‘Hey, kid.’

  Malcolm looked over his shoulder.

  The man was holding a phone to his ear. Malcolm’s mobile rang. The man nodded. ‘Just checkin’. Don’t have me come huntin’ ya’.

  Malcolm moved away.

  ‘Hey, kid.’

  Malcolm turned around again.

  The man pointed his cigar at him. ‘You’re not a bad poker player. Not great, but not bad. Some days you’ll win. Most times you’ll lose. Either way, you’ll learn. Want my advice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll give it anyways.’ The man clamped the cigar back in his mouth and talked around it. ‘You might think you know how to play poker, but it takes a lifetime to learn. This is a hard way to make an easy livin’. We’re way outta your league, kid.’

  Malcolm roamed the Prince of Wales car park, scrolling through phone contacts, searching for somebody around Athlone he didn’t owe money to. His stomach growled. The last food he’d eaten was lunch yesterday. Mobile jammed between ear and shoulder, he searched pockets and counted the change trapped in his cupped palm.

  Nine euro, and a week to find eight thousand. He had to repay the money before the Audi got missed.

  It took a dozen calls to get the loan of a Honda Civic that reeked of beer and damp clothes. Malcolm drove towards Ganestown, fiddled with the radio dial. A wall of tinny noise filled the car interior. The speakers sounded crap; thin, no bass. Horrible, compared to the quality high-end Bang and Olufsen speakers he’d got fitted as an extra in the Audi. He turned into Rossbeg Industrial estate and drove around to the back of the hardware shop.

  Milo Brady was in the breeze block office, twisting on the swivel chair and talking on a landline. He’d smeared the desk with fillings from a BLT sandwich. ‘The way I see it, you can run with the big dogs, or you can sit in the garden and bark. You’ve gotta show them what you’re made of. I’ve got this place humming like a happy bee. When I take over the sales manager’s—’

  ‘Ahem.’

  Milo twisted. He’d nicked his chin while shaving, and a dollop of mayonnaise gummed his jacket. ‘Catch ya later, man.’ He banged the receiver into its casing and varied a range of facial expressions that ended up a smirk. He scratched his chin. ‘What’s happening, cousin?’

  ‘Nothing. Passing by. Forgot my wallet. Need cash to tide me over.’

  ‘I’m low on funds too. How much?’

  ‘Five hundred.’

  ‘Five hun …? Not a chance.’ Milo dug into a trouser pocket, pulled out crumpled notes. ‘Twenty, five, five, five. Thirty-five. That’s it.’

  Malcolm’s knuckles clenched. ‘That won’t get me to Dublin. What’s in petty cash?’

  ‘The cupboard’s bare, Mal.’

  Malcolm grabbed the money. ‘I’ll repay you tomorrow.’ He checked the wall clock.

  13:24.

  The four-year-old Bob’s Your Aunt was in the 1:30 at Lingfield. 12/1. A racing certainty. His sire was Dunne’s Dilemma, its dam The Actress. Milo’s monkey would’ve netted him six thousand. Not enough, but sufficient to stake a big win. Instead, he had … thirty-five euro, plus nine. Malcolm rummaged between the seats, found a two euro coin in the cupholder. Forty-six euro, at 12/1. Worth nothing, he thought, but it was easy winnings.

  He spun out of the exit and his mobile buzzed. Ciara. No point pressing ‘Decline’. She’d keep calling. ‘Hey, what’s up?’

  ‘Not much. Wanted to hear a friendly voice. I’m having a crap day. You coping any better?’

  Malcolm slid the car nose first into a space outside the bookies. ‘So far, so good.’ His eyes stayed glued on the dashboard clock.

  13:26.

  ‘You at work?’

  Malcolm switched off the ignition. ‘Yeah. Up to my elbows here.’

  ‘Did you visit Dad today?’

  ‘Haven’t had a chance. I’ll go in tonight.’

  ‘I’ve an idea, Mal. After he’s discharged, I’ll like to take him to my house for a week or—’

  ‘Whatever works for you.’

  ‘Problem is, I can’t imagine he’ll agree. Dad prefers his own place. Next option, I thought if we took turns to stay with him, till he recovers? Remember what the nurse said? It’s vital we keep him monitored. What do you reckon?’

  13:28.

  Malcolm squirmed. ‘Didn’t think about it. Listen, I—’

  ‘We should decide soon. Then I had another idea. We could hire a—’

  ‘I’ll buy into—’

  ‘Pay attention, Mal. We could hire a live-in nurse for a month or two. It’ll give Dad more independence.’

  ‘If it’s okay for you, I’m on board.’ Malcolm crunched the money in his fist. ‘I’ve another call on hold. Lemme ring you back.’

  ‘Phone me tonight,’ Ciara said.’

  ‘Sure. We’ll figure … hello? hello?’ Malcolm cut the connection and jumped from the car. The girl behind the counter smiled in recognition. He shot a quick look at the clock; the red hand sweeping off seconds.

  ‘Made it,’ he said.

  Afternoon

  The nurse station was deserted.

  Hugh dashed along the corridor and careened into Ruth Lamero.

  Ruth sidestepped. ‘Easy, tiger. Oh, hi, Hugh. I just popped by to see Kathleen.’

  ‘Hope I didn’t miss doctor—’

  ‘He’s been and gone.’

  ‘Crap.’

  ‘Kathleen’s discharged—’

  ‘Great.’

  I helped her dress and pack.’ The pager beeped in Ruth’s coat pocket. ‘The release form has to be signed, and go see Keith Abbott before you leave.’

  Hugh said, ‘Okay, I’ll go check out what’s what.’

  He found Kathleen up and dressed, peering into the built-in wardrobe. Her coat hung on a doorknob. The suitcase sat on the bed, toilet bag beside it. She raised her eyes. ‘Not a stitch to wear.’

  Tiny strips of gauze patched the scabbed wound; the bruises camouflaged by foundation. ‘I’ll put a jacket on over this old dress. Where’s my purse? I’ve to pay the hospital bill. We’ll stop off at Ozanam House on our way home. When can you take a day off work? We’ve parcels to deliver. Can’t have people without food, and Christmas ’round the corner.’

  ‘Christmas is … Concentrate on getting better first, Ma. Sure, I’ll help. No problem.’

  Kathleen searched her toiletry bag for perfume, sprayed Chanel Cristalle in the air and stepped into the mist. ‘Well? Let’s go.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Ma. I’ll get the release forms.’

  On the fifth floor, a nurse pointed him to Keith Abbott’s office, and a secretary nodded to a seat. A line of overlapped Vogue magazines and the latest Ganestown Weekly lay on a coffee table. The front page depicted a blurry, enlarged passport photo of Roberta Lord.

  The receptionist closed her laptop and left.

  Hugh flipped the pages of a glossy. Before he’d a chance to read the twenty things women wished men knew, Doctor Abbott appeared from an inner room, overcoat buttoned across his beach-ball belly.r />
  Hugh could see the doctor didn’t remember him. ‘Hugh Fallon. I missed you on the ward rounds. We spoke yesterday. My mother? Kathleen Fallon? Has the specialist assessed Ma?’

  Keith Abbott beckoned, turned back into a cubby-hole office, plonked into a seat behind a desk strewn with folders and files. The chair squeaked in protest as the man bent to unlock a drawer and remove a sheet of paper. ‘My suspicions got confirmed. Your mother is in Stage Four Alzheimer’s.’ The doctor took off his glasses. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Hugh stared, the blood draining from his face. ‘What? It’s a mistake. I … There’s been a mix-up. Yes, that’s it, an error. This cannot happen to Ma. She … I don’t believe … I want another opinion. I insist …’ Realising he was shouting, Hugh took a breath and lowered his voice. ‘It isn’t feasible she’s contracted this thing. I’ll query the results.’

  The doctor bit on the glasses’ temple, leaned forward, using his elbows to push files aside. ‘That’s your prerogative. It won’t change our findings. We’ve carried out a glut of tests, PET scans … the works. It is what it is.’

  Dark and bright spots swam before Hugh’s eyes, and he lost his train of thought, unprepared for this cold, matter-of-fact, definitive prognosis. ‘I still—’ He felt himself getting dizzy.

  ‘I’m sorry this has arrived at your doorstep.’ Doctor Abbott replaced the paper back in the drawer.

  ‘I don’t …’ Hugh began. ‘There haven’t been any symptoms—’

  ‘The signs were there for a while,’ the doctor said, ‘but when you’re close to the person—’

  ‘I’m sure I’d have noticed. What does this mean? How will Ma—?’

  ‘Alzheimer’s is comparable to a tsunami let loose inside the brain,’ the doctor said. ‘I’ve heard people describe it as a volcanic eruption, but every family have their own descriptions. Whatever words you use, the results are the same: it destroys everything in its path. Everything the patient has learned is forgotten, and thus the extended family’s lives change. Everyone adapts to survive the stress Alzheimer’s generates. Constant fine-tuning becomes your new normal.’

  Too stunned to interrupt, too many emotions to handle, Hugh’s mind ran amok for the second time in twenty-four hours. Questions jumbled up his brain. ‘So, what now? Where do I …? What do I do?’ Realism crashed like breakers. It felt as if he was tumbling in waves, choking, unable to breathe. His head swelled with white noise. The pounding in his ears drowned out most of the doctor’s words: ‘… need time to process … at ease in locations she’ll recognise … Your siblings will have to … day-to-day—’

  ‘There’s only me. I’ve cousins. We meet at weddings and funerals. You said Stage …?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘How many stages in total?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘How long before …?’

  The doctor shrugged. ‘Alzheimer's disease usually worsens slowly, but its advance depends on the person's genetic make-up, age and medical condition.’

  ‘Ma’s in good health.’

  ‘There are a plethora of factors that determine its progression. Reaction to medication or vitamin deficiencies, for example. Infections. Hypothyroidism. Autoimmune neurological disorders and paraneoplastic disorders can cause rapid—’

  ‘I never heard Ma say—’

  ‘For now it’s best you help Kathleen shop, pay the bills, control her expenditure and so forth, the usual everyday transactions, while she maintains a regular lifestyle.’

  ‘And that’s Stage Seven?’

  ‘No. That’s stage four. Stage Seven is …’ The doctor scratched an eyebrow. ‘Going on prior cases, you’ll have to stop her driving in, I’d say three to six months, tops. She’ll—’

  ‘What’s Stage Seven?’

  ‘Severe decline. The patient loses the ability to respond or communicate. More often, the end comes with mini-strokes or pneumonia.’

  ‘Who can I talk to? Other families or associations I can contact? I can’t … This can’t be right.’ Hugh’s imagination spun, still in a bubble of denial.

  Doctor Abbott nodded. ‘My secretary will send you a letter. Alas, we’ve limited resources. The ward nurse has a prescription you need to fill. Ganestown has a good Alzheimer’s support group. I recommend you get in touch. However, all the talk in the world won’t prepare you. This’ll change your family dynamic. You’ll become a carer and learn to live it day-to-day. Soldier on. The medication I’ve prescribed may help delay the process. And um, you might consider gene-sequencing for yourself.’

  ‘Not sure how I’d handle the results if they were positive.’

  ‘Early intervention could be crucial—’

  ‘I’ll consider it.’

  Doctor Abbott stood, the impromptu chat concluded.

  Hugh stumbled out, a vulnerable sheep sheared of its protective coat.

  He bought a box of chocolates for the ward staff and plodded back. At the nurse’s station, Ruth sorted through a pile of files stacked on the countertop. ‘Hugh? Want to talk?’

  ‘I won’t be fantastic company after Abbot’s—’

  ‘Listen, consultants don’t do bedside therapy, but if I’m ever sick, it’s Keith Abbott I want in my corner.’

  ‘Managing directors and consultants have no emotional intelligence. No idea—’

  ‘Hugh?’

  Hugh waved the chocolate box in the air. ‘No empathy. No clue how to deliver—’

  ‘Hugh?’

  Hugh stopped talking.

  ‘Maybe you’re focusing on the wrong person,’ Ruth said.

  Hugh’s shoulders slumped. ‘You’re right. His manner is the least of my concerns.’ He left the chocolate box on the counter. ‘You knew.’

  ‘Thanks for those. Yes, I guessed.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about Alzheimer’s, or how to manage someone with it. Where do I start? How do—?’

  ‘My father has dementia, too. Parkinson’s. So I understand your reaction.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘One reason I came back to Ganestown.’

  ‘How is he? I mean …’

  ‘It’s heart-breaking to see Dad lose his mobility. He gets around with a stick, but soon he’ll need a walker. Still has strength in his arms, but his fingers are getting to the point where he can’t hold a knife or a cup.’

  ‘God. Tough to witness.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘How does Alzheimer’s differ from …?’

  ‘Both have to do with parts of the brain dying. Different symptoms though. I’ll help, but I’m not a qualified carer,’ Ruth said. ‘If there’s anything you need, any queries I can answer, or you just want to chat—’

  ‘I’ll have a ton of questions once I get my head sorted.’

  ‘Write them down. Phone me anytime. But give yourself space to process this—’

  ‘Doctor Abbott said that. To be honest, I can’t think beyond the next hour. I’ll Google later and learn as much as I can.’

  ‘My advice, Hugh, is talk to people who are at the Alzheimer’s coal face. I don’t recommend Google. It can induce blind panic.’

  They swapped mobile numbers. Hugh walked towards the wards, stopped and turned. ‘Thought you worked in A&E?’

  ‘I do. It’s quiet at the moment. This weather means patients aren’t visiting their doctors, so GPs aren’t sending them in for minor ailments, clogging up the system.’

  ‘Was busy the other night.’

  ‘Night-time’s always bad. No doctor house calls anymore, so anyone who needs help either rings for an ambulance or walks into casualty. Anyway, I reckoned you’d want to see a friendly face after talking to Keith.’ Ruth shrugged, ‘I waited around.’

  ‘That’s … Thanks a million.’

  Hugh strode into room twenty-four, determined to keep a brave face, yet obliquely viewing his mother differently. Earlier, she seemed okay. Now she appeared unsteady. Brittle. Was that normal after a few days in hospital, he wondered? Or
was it part of the Alzheimer’s symptom? A nurse arrived with the prescription. No wheelchair was available, so a porter helped him link Kathleen out to the Hiace.

  At home, she sank into her armchair. ‘I could start enjoying this fuss.’ There was no mention of Ozanam House. Hugh prepared a meal and phoned Brendan at McGuire’s.

  ‘Don’t worry ’bout bringing the van back today,’ Brendan said. ‘But there’re a couple of deliveries tomorrow for Kilbeggan.’

  ‘I’ll be there before you open,’ Hugh promised without thinking, then remembered … He phoned Eilish again. This time the phone kicked into voicemail. He left a message, asking if she was free for a few hours in the morning.

  ‘Free for what?’ Kathleen asked.

  ‘Eilish will stay with you tomorrow. I’ve to go—’

  ‘I don’t need a babysitter.’

  ‘Just to keep you company, Ma.’

  ‘I’ve managed on my own since your father died, and I’ll—’

  ‘You might feel weak after—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Hugh. Leave me alone. Stop mooching around like a … I don’t know what.’

  ‘Well, I need to get your tablets.’

  ‘I don’t want them.’

  ‘Okay, Ma. I’ll go collect post at my house.’

  Hugh drove to a pharmacy. The quantity of tablets will be problematic, he thought, looking at the array of medication. Kathleen wasn’t a pill advocate.

  -----

  The art dealer strolled around Belfast’s city centre, inspected a competitors’ gallery and met a solicitor acting on behalf of a deceased client. He hated the bureaucratic hassle that third-parties generated—individuals who were neither intimate with art nor loyal to collectors. Dealing with them reduced his role to that of a glorified shop-floor worker. In a music store, he browsed through the classical and jazz sections, memorised titles from Bach and Count Basie CDs, before waving a taxi.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Kennedy Way Industrial Estate.’

  The art dealer snubbed the taxi man’s chatty attempts at conversation. At the business park, he directed the driver to a warehouse and asked him to wait. Inside, he ignored the latest gadgets on display and walked to the desk.

  A rotund, cheery Pakistani man bowed. ‘Khush’aamdid. Welcome. I’m Kabir. How can we help? You search for deal on iPhone, Ipod or Ipad?’ He gesticulated. ‘I give good deal. Come, I show you. If you’re in the market for—’