by Fin C Gray
The two of them wrestle Tom’s body to the open area, and Vince arranges his arms and legs into the recovery position before clearing the rest of the vomit from his mouth. He can feel bile rising in his throat again as he notices blood in the foul-smelling sick. Vince takes Tom’s pulse again.
‘It’s still there,’ he says to Benny. ‘But it’s very faint. Go back downstairs, and look out for that ambulance. Bring them straight here when they arrive. And throw me the remote that’s on the floor over there. I can’t stand listening to another note of this fucking song.’
Vince lightly slaps Tom’s face.
‘Mr McIntyre, wakey, wakey. C’mon, sir, you need…’
There is no response. Vince spies the boxes of pills on the sofa and the floor. He collects the empty foils together – evidence of how many Tom has potentially swallowed – and stacks the boxes neatly. He looks at his watch and checks Tom’s pulse again. It is still very feeble.
‘C’mon, you bloody ambulance. Where the fuck are you?’
He opens the French windows to let in some fresh air and take away the sour stench that is clinging to his nostrils. Every few minutes, he checks that Tom is still breathing and radios Benny almost as often to see if there is any sign of the ambulance. After fifteen minutes, he hears the sound of voices in the hallway and heaves a huge sigh when Benny appears, followed by two burly paramedics.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ he says.
Chapter Twenty-Six
A Future
Tom will awake to white walls, tubes and the unmistakable aroma of hospital. There will be no one else in the room. An easy chair will stand unoccupied in a corner, a table adjacent to it, and a few anaemic pieces of art on the wall will look as if they’d be happier anywhere else than here. A sense of hurried activity will rush back and forth beyond the closed door, and a faint noise of phone and medical chatter will be somewhere distant. He will inhale deeply and will groan at the burning sensation in his throat and chest. Didn’t I die? Is this some new version of purgatory? Fuck, am I still stuck in the same fucking nightmare?
He will feel to his left then his right, searching for the call button. It will be there on his right. He will take it in his hand and hover his finger over the button. Bleak thoughts will come. Will he want to know? Maybe if he presses it, it will plummet him back into the nightmare he had so desperately fought to escape. Maybe this is purgatory, and he will go straight back to the start. Experience it all again. His finger will move away from the button then move back over it again. This will be real. Purgatory doesn’t smell of anything. Does it? He will press.
He will feel tubes in his nose, and he will see more tubes running from a cannula in his right hand, which leads to a drip at the side of his bed. As he puts his left hand to his face, to feel for the tubes in his nose, he will touch the hard plastic of the oxygen mask that covers both his mouth and nose. A machine next to his bed will whirr and click, with an occasional beep that seems to spur a spike in the graph that will constantly refresh on the screen, creating a pixelated mountain range. The door will open, and a tall young man in green scrubs will enter, looking harassed.
‘So you’re back with us, Tom,’ he will say, approaching the bed. He will touch Tom’s hand as a cursory introduction. ‘I’m Amos. What’s the problem?’
Amos will study the screen by Tom’s bed as he speaks.
‘I just woke up. Where am I? How did I get here? Am I alive?’ Tom will ask.
Amos will laugh. ‘Yes, you’re very much alive, lovey. It was a close-run thing, mind you. Did you think you were in heaven? This place is St Thomas’s Hospital, Acute Admissions Ward. You were in a terrible state.’
‘My head is aching,’ Tom will say.
‘Yes, that was quite a knock you gave yourself. Mind you, the turban suits you. Let me check your chart and see what you’ve had so far. We don’t want to go giving you an overdose now, do we?’
‘Ha, ha – very funny,’ Tom will say, no vestige of mirth in his tone.
‘Sorry, deary,’ Amos will say, picking up the chart from the end of Tom’s bed. ‘Just trying to lighten the mood. By the way, your daughter is here – downstairs in the waiting room. She’s been here all night.’
‘Jenny?’ Tom will ask, a rush of memories and guilt pounding his throbbing head. ‘What time is it? How long have I been here?’
‘It’s just after seven. Saturday evening. Do you want me to have her brought in to see you, or would you like a bit longer to come to? I can give you some more pain relief – you’re well within the window for another dose.’
‘Thanks, doctor. I’d like to see her. Maybe let me have some painkillers and give them ten minutes to work first.’
Amos will laugh again, and as he breezes out of the room, will say, ‘I’m just a lowly nurse. But thanks for the compliment. I’ll be right back with your pills.’
A soft hand on his cheek will wake him up. The same hand will squeeze his arm, the one without any tubes running from it.
‘Dad, it’s me.’
Tom’s vision will be blurred, and he will blink repeatedly, screwing up his eyes from time to time to try and clear away the aquarium he will feel he is looking through.
‘Jenny, love,’ he will say. ‘Was I asleep? I was waiting for you to come.’
‘Yes, Dad. You were sleeping like a baby, but not for long. I didn’t want to disturb you, but it’s getting late, and I need to get home.’
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s nearly eleven. I’ve been here since late last night. Rashid is worried about me so I want to get back.’
‘I’m sorry, love. I’ve been such a fool. I should never have put you through this. Identifying Danny yesterday just pushed me over the edge. I just couldn’t get my brain around it.’
‘Dad, I’m very sorry about Danny. I had no idea when I called you. It’s been all over the news, constantly. Rashid and I only got back from holiday a few hours before, and I called to tell you something important.’
‘I’m glad you did. The nurse said that you called the desk at my building after you spoke to me. It was young Vince who got me help. What an idiot I was. I’m so ashamed.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up, Dad. You’re here now, alive and with us. That’s what matters. And I’m going to tell you something that is going to hopefully take some of the pain away.’
Tom will look deeply into her eyes, willing his daughter to tell him this good news. Jenny will stand up and move away from the side of the bed so that he can see her better, and begin stroking her abdomen. Her dress will be thin cotton, a bright-blue summer one, and it will hug clear signs of a bump on her slender figure.
She will beam at him and say, ‘You’re going to be a grandad.’
Tom will look up to the ceiling and experience a small shard of pure joy coursing through him. All the bleakness and misery that has pervaded these last hours will not exactly disappear, but this happiness will at least make it bearable. He will pull off his oxygen mask.
‘Thank you!’ he will say, grinning so hard that his jaw will hurt.
‘I’m over the twenty-week mark. I’m due at the end of December. It’s a girl, Dad.’
‘My God. A girl? You’ve given me the most incredible gift. And if she comes on the first of January, that’ll be the anniversary of…’
‘I know. It’s the first thing I thought when the doctor told me the due date.’
Tom will feel his eyes welling up, and he will fight the urge to burst into tears. The tears will come in any case, but for once – for once in the longest time – there will be happiness behind them. Jenny will lean over and put her arms around him.
‘You’ll name her Alison, won’t you? You have to call her after your mum, given when she is due.’
Jenny will pull away from Tom, her smile fading. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit morbid, Dad?’
‘Please, Jenny. There’s bound to be so much of her in the baby. It would mean so much to me. It would mean so
much to her too.’
‘Mum’s dead. This baby won’t bring her back. I’m sorry, Dad. I really don’t think Rashid will go for it, anyhow. But whatever we call her, you’ve got everything to live for,’ she will whisper. ‘Now make me a promise.’
Tom will turn his face away from her and lie quietly for a moment or two. More promises? More deals? Does everything have its price?
‘Anything,’ he will say, a feeling of dejection slithering through him.
‘When you get out of here, no more drinking, OK?’
‘Never again,’ Tom will say. ‘I’m going to make the most of this chance. You’ve made me so happy, Jenny. You’ve given me reason to live again. This promise is unbreakable. I will do anything to convince you that I mean what I say.’
Twice he will have seen his daughter’s face glow with happiness in the space of minutes. More dark thoughts will pervade: How could I have forgotten her? How could I have been so keen to leave this earth without giving her a thought? It was all Daniel, me and my fucking problems. I sidelined her all these years, hardly considered her. She is my link to Daniel, to Alison, to myself. Now she will be my link to the future, to life, to new life. It is impossible to see why I’ll have this second chance. Have I been released from the diabolical deal I’ve made? Have I finally done my penance?
Somehow, he will not believe that he has. Something nasty will be waiting down the line. Will this be another poisoned arrow to teach him the lesson of failure to consider what is important? If this is what’s on offer, he will take it. He will accept whatever stay of execution this represents.
Fuck God, fuck Lucifer, fuck whatever powers that are controlling my fate. He will take this on whatever terms it means. In some way, Alison is being given back to him, even if it will just be a tiny part of her, a mere inkling. To see even a faint notion of his wife in his granddaughter will make these last purgatorial years worthwhile, of that he will be sure.
Jenny will blow him a kiss as she leaves his hospital room. He will do his best to reciprocate, but will push the oxygen mask back to his mouth as soon as she has gone. Deep inhalations will seem to make no difference, and a growing panic will exacerbate his shortness of breath. He will press the call button by his side and watch the light above his door illuminate like some beacon of hope. ‘Come quickly!’ Death will be so wrong now. His heart will beat faster than he can ever remember. The room will spin. The thoughts that form, as he begins to black out, will be despondent.
I am dying. Here is the ultimate punishment for this awful misspent life. How fitting that He should deny me the chance to see my beautiful granddaughter.
An angel will enter the room, clad in blue scrubs. She will take his pulse, her other hand on his forehead. Tom will feel a slowing in his chest, and a calmness will gradually return.
She will say, ‘Just a panic attack, my love. I’m going to increase the flow to your mask, alright? You’ll be fine.’
Tom will feel the rush of oxygen in the mask and chide himself. You fool, you idiot; this bastard gets you every time, doesn’t he? Stop letting him rule your life. What will be, will be. Second-guessing Satan won’t change anything. Live. Be alive. Enjoy it while it lasts. Breathe. You’ve done the deal. Take whatever is offered now.
He’d given his wife, his son. He’d given himself. Enough is enough. There has to be some reward, doesn’t there? No more. Just take what is on offer and be grateful. Tom will be grateful. He will have a granddaughter. A second chance.
Rain will fall. Tom will keep little Alison dry under his big red golfing umbrella. She will be chattering away about her school friends, her gym class, the fact her latest painting has pride of place on the classroom wall. Grandad will respond exactly as she will expect him to and his reward will be a big blue-eyed trusting face at every word he says and an abundance of smiles, more than he will ever be able to believe he deserves. They will have to get a move on or Alison will be late for school. Alison will yank at his arm and tell him to stop. Mummy will be calling them.
Tom will hear Jenny’s voice some way behind and look back. His daughter will be waddling as fast as she can go, carrying a lunchbox in one hand, and waving wildly with the other. By the time Jenny reaches them, she will be clutching her protruding belly and extending a lunchbox to Tom with her free hand.
‘You two will be the death of me,’ she will gasp, thrusting the lunchbox at Tom. ‘I’ve been calling after you both for the last ten minutes.’
Tom will laugh. ‘Did we forget again?’ He will look down at Alison. ‘You promised to remind me when you went to bed last night, didn’t you?’
‘Sorry, Grandad,’ she will reply. ‘I forgot.’
Tom will tousle her hair and say, ‘My fault, titch.’ Then to Jenny, ‘Jesus, you shouldn’t be dashing around in your condition. I could easily have gone back with it.’
‘You’re not getting any younger, Dad,’ Jenny will say, sheltering under his brolly. ‘But I could’ve done without getting soaked.’ Her look will have turned frosty. ‘You smell very… minty, Dad. Have you been drinking?’
For fuck’s sake. One small snifter of scotch to take the edge off the morning. Call the fucking prohibition police, why don’t you?
‘Walk with us,’ Tom will say, putting his arm around her. ‘Not far now and you can keep me company on the way back. Don’t worry, we can take it slow.’
‘Sure, Dad. I could do with the exercise. The doctor says it’s the best thing for my blood pressure.’ Jenny will rub her tummy. ‘And maybe some pounding of the pavement will get this one out and into the world… Dad, you promised to lay off the booze. You’ve been doing so well. What’s changed?’
It’s the fucking weekend. Can I not have one tiny drink once in a while? ‘Bloody hell, Jenny. It’s mouthwash you smell. Stop being so suspicious all the time. I told you I’ve stopped and I have.’
Jenny will glare at him as Alison says, ‘Grandad said a bad word, Mummy.’
‘OK, Dad, whatever you say. Let’s get this one into school and get home. I can feel the bump struggling to break free.’
‘At least wait until you get home, will you? Rashid can deal with it then. I’m not your man for maternity duties.’
‘Like I’d even want you to be,’ Jenny will laugh.
The rain will have stopped by the time they reach the school gates. Tom will stoop and kiss Alison on the cheek and watch her run into the playground, swinging her lunchbox as she goes.
‘Bye bye, Grandad. Bye, Mummy,’ she will call without looking back.
When Tom turns back to his daughter, she will look pained. She will be clutching her stomach.
‘I think I spoke too soon,’ she will say, through short breaths and gritted teeth.
Tom will start to panic. ‘But you’re not due for another fortnight. You’ll make it home, won’t you?’
Jenny will sit on the little squat wall at the side of the school gates, in spite of it being rain-soaked.
‘You can’t tell because the pavement is wet but my waters just broke, and the contractions are coming quite hard and fast,’ she will gasp and clutch her belly. ‘I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I’ve been having small contractions since the early hours of this morning. Call an ambulance, Dad.’
Tom will scrabble in his pockets for his mobile and will shout too loudly at the emergency operator when the call connects. Other parents will come to help and comfort while they wait for the ambulance to arrive.
The cherry tree will no longer be a sapling. The trunk will be thick and sturdy, covered in a heavy, beautiful, rough bark. Blossom will cascade from its branches, and a soft carpet of pink will cover the grass around it. Tom will put his bag down on the ground and smile at the scene. He will pick up a handful of blossom and hold it to his nose, breathing in the delicate scent. Thank you, Alison. The bag, a black leather attaché case from Asprey, with a glimmering gold hasp, will look incongruous on the carpet of pink. Tom will fiddle with the handle and gently touch the cl
asp. It will have taken the longest time to work up the courage to do this. Not yet, he will tell himself.
The dense branches will be silhouetted by a deep-blue cloudless sky and they will spread over what must be other graves, offering them gentle shade. There will be other trees nearby, mostly saplings, ash, birch, sycamore – loving tributes of the bereaved – but none of them will stand as tall or as majestically as Alison’s cherry. Hers will be the healthiest in the whole setting and stand out like the centrepiece of the wood, a beacon of hope, renewal, life. Tom will be grateful that there will be no one else there. Only him, only Alison, only Rufus, only Daniel.
He will pick up the bag and kneel down, placing it on his lap. Undoing the hasp and opening the flap, he will pull out a small wooden box that will be held closed by a yellow satin ribbon, tied in a bow. Attached to the ribbon will hang a blue paper tag, upon which will be written in black ink, ‘Rufus’. Tom will finger the label for a moment or two before pulling at the bow. The yellow satin will fall on the grass, giving an added cheerful splash of colour to the fallen pink petals, and he will gently lift the thin lid from the box. Standing up, he will scatter the dust from inside the box around the base of the cherry tree.
‘Now Rufus is here to keep you company, my darling. You are together again. Let him purr and rub against you until I join you.’
Tom will reach into the bag again and take out a silver urn. He will lay it on the grass and kneel down in front of it. It will look small and insignificant against the thick trunk of the tree, but it will glisten and catch the flickering light through the leaves.
‘Here he is,’ he will say. ‘Our baby boy, our firstborn. I’m sorry it’s taken me so very long to let go of him and give him back to you. It took a long time for me to feel ready. Do you remember how happy we were when you found out he was coming into our lives?’
