by Pete Adams
Jack got up, opened the interview room door and shouted, ‘Barney.’
‘What?’ a muffled voice in the distance.
‘Holding cells tonight, any chance for the perverts and cop killers?’
Barney must have walked into the corridor, he was a lot clearer, ‘Not a chance, we expect to be busy, have to charge ‘em and ship ‘em.’
‘Okey-dokey, Barney,’ and Jack stepped back in, sat, and stretched his legs. Buddha, Paolo, and even Len moved their feet so he could fit his long legs under the table; three nil. Back to his phone, ‘Johnny, you heard, brilliant these phones, iPhone, your missus got one, oh, lah-dee-bleedin’ dah, okay, we’ll charge the feckin’ eejits and get ‘em down to you. Do your best, see you.’ Jack passed the phone to the solicitor. ‘How d’you switch it off?’ The solicitor showed Jack how to tap the large red off button. ‘Cheers, Len. Paolo get these guys charged, and if they’re around tomorrow, we can hang the murder on them, pronto Tonto, need you out coppering, not sat on your arse all day.’
Mr Blobby grunted, ‘Oi, I 'ave rights, you ‘ave to keep me here.’
Jack looked pleased for the opportunity to set the world to rights. ‘Indeed, you do have rights, Mr Buddha, and I suggest you or your solicitor write to Mr Mackeroon directly,’ it was his Mr Darcy voice, ‘see if he wouldn’t mind releasing some money so we can staff and run the Remand Centre for you. The only way we can keep you here is if you start talking, got it, you fat paedophile bastard.’ Oops, Mr Darcy slipped, Jack calmed in a Hawaiian way, ‘Book-em, Danno,’ and grinned as he was passing through the door.
Buddha called after him, ‘I’ll talk, but you keep me here.’
Jack looked back from the door. ‘Depends on what you say.’ Jack looked at Paolo and nodded to Buddha, ‘Okay, Fatty, I’m off to the hospital to talk to the kids you fiddled with, so make it good, and if you don’t...’ he looked at Paolo ‘...charge ‘em and ship ‘em, and if they’re around, we’ll talk to them tomorrow, after church.’ He sketched a blessing and left, feeling holier than thou.
‘Was that okay, Jane?’
‘Bloody marvellous, Barney,’ Jack replied, leaning on the counter, a tired look in his eye. Barney mimicked the lean. ‘I try very hard to see the best in everyone, but that fat bastard...’
‘Can’t save 'em all,’ Barney counselled.
‘No indeed,’ and Jack trudged the hallway, plodded the stairs; he should feel elated but didn’t, settled for his old companion, melancholy, felt down in the dumps as he sat in the deckchair, an apathetic Italianate flourish only. He dozed, slept, a dribble of spittle oozing from the corner of his mouth as his head drooped to the side.
He felt the gentleness on his face as he slumbered, sensuous, perfume intoxicating. ‘Darling, time to get up,’ and Mandy tossed his jacket on his lap, embarrassed at what she witnessed. ‘Love the dribble, I cannot tell you what a turn on it is.’
He yawned and stretched, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then on his trousers, didn’t see the revolted look on Mandy’s face. ‘Amanda, I dribble for you.’
She restrained an uncouth retort, ‘You wanted to go to the hospital and the vet?’
He looked up at her face; he liked it, even upside down, had a perverse thought and felt a charge of energy in his loins and leg departments. ‘I do, Ma’am, and I want to sail away with you, to toxic lands and sample their delights and your wondrous body.’
‘Let’s get going then or we’ll miss the feckin’ boat,’ and she clipped him around the head, and waving his new phone, he followed her to the door where Jo-Jums waited.
‘Paolo called up, singing like a canary, he seemed impressed, Jane.’
Jack nodded, ‘Frankie, thanks for rigging the phone, seems to have worked,’ and headed for the staircase for a Nelson Eddie, ‘I’m a calling you, oo, oo, oo, oooooo.’ Mandy, at the bottom of the stairs, nodded her irritation as he leaned over the banister, 'You're supposed to sing, I will answer too-oo-oo-ooo.’
She was unimpressed with his lumberjack impression, but she was impressed with his interrogation, and as he tramped down the stairs, ‘Heard from Paolo, nice one, Jack.’
‘Lumberjack, Mands,’ he grinned and tilted his best Canadian head.
Mandy felt lumbered.
Jack followed Mandy to her car watching the gyrations of her bottom; how come women’s bottoms gyrate and blokes don’t? He thought, cranking his neck, looking behind to see if his bum gyrated. Mandy at the car looking back, wondered if he’d hurt his back this morning, 'You okay?’
‘Headache, I’ll score some atom bombs at the hospital,’ and he was asleep before they were onto the road. She chanced a look at him in repose. He was not a looker; she had often said he was a Jack Nicholson type, in that he got away with looking old and overweight with a boyish charm, but looking at him, she thought his face a cross between Geoffrey Rush, the actor, and a slapped arse. She giggled to herself, not classically attractive to a woman, but somehow it was. Get a grip, Mands, she counselled herself, and subconsciously looked at his crotch.
Twenty-Five
The hospital car park was crammed. Mandy nudged Jack awake, ‘I’ll drop you and meet you in there.’
‘Thanks, babes,’ he said, rubbing his recently inspected face.
‘What, no diatribe about the scandalous parking charges, and how this penalises the families of the poor?’
He said nothing and it worried her.
Outside the hospital main entrance, Jack exaggerated his fight through the fog of sick smokers. ‘What’s with you dipstick?’ a smoker’s retort, a man looking like he was out of a concentration camp, peeking out from behind his wheelie drip-stand.
Jack rummaged for his warrant card, gave up. ‘You’re what’s up, pollutin’ the feckin’ entrance to a hospital so people are forced to walk through your cancerous smog and have to look at your emaciated, cadaverous bodies.’ There is nobody more zealous than a reformed smoker; Jack had given up when Alana was born.
‘I only asked,’ the drip-stand replied.
Jack put his finger in the air. ‘Ah, Charlie Drake, or was that Bernard Bresslaw?’ But the bloke hadn’t heard of either comedian from the distant past, so Jack explained, ‘“I only asked” another was “Hello my darlings,” no, that was Charlie Drake, the other one was Bernard Bresslaw.’
The Philistine smokers sidled away, and Jack pretended to rub his hands with the alcohol gel; too early for a drink, and he slouched along the hospital corridors eventually finding the lifts.
‘I know you?’ a lift passenger said.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve a headache,’ Jack replied and he had silence; the man did not seem offended. Ding, “Doors opening,” ‘Well of course they feckin’ are,’ Jack said in his head, but also out loud, mouthed an apology. Accepted; diplomanic corps, Jack? He eventually found where the girl and Gail should be, approached the nurse and showed his Blockbuster card, said it was Doctor Who psychic paper and asked for some Paracetamol and to see the girl.
‘You brought her out of the house?’ the nurse said. ‘Saw you crying on the telly.’
‘Yeah,’ Jack sighed. She gave him the Paracetamol and strutted to a water cooler. Jack took the pills and slugged the water, the nurse pensive, appraising his physical wellbeing, too nervous to say anything.
The girl was in bed, in a single room, the sheets tight under her chin, her eyes blinked instant recognition as Jack entered. She eased her skinny arms from the binding sheet and held them out. Hesitantly, he went to her and kissed her cheek, leaning past Gail, which, considering her size, was a feat worthy of an Olympic medal. He tingled as a tiny palm stroked his face, ‘Are you my dad?’
That tugged, and Gail looked worried about how Jack would reply. He looked to Gail, ‘I hope Keanu went into work this morning.’
‘He did, Jack,’ and gestured her head to the girl.
‘No, sweet’art, I’m not your dad but I wish I was. I’m just someone who loves you very much and wants you to get bet
ter.’
He had his reward as she put her arms out again and wet lips slobbered into his ear. ‘Meesh,’ she said.
‘Meesh?’
‘My name is Michelle, but call me Meesh.’
Jack wanted to press for a second name, but felt a rising heat in his left leg, thought it might be some reaction to his accident this morning. It got hotter. Is it the left leg if you’re having a stroke? But it felt wet. ‘Kin 'ell, Gail, you’ve pissed on me.’
‘It’s me waters, they just broke.’
‘Yeah, and all over me leg, look at these round the houses, clean on this morning.’
Gail grabbed her distended belly, ‘The baby’s coming.’
Wiggling his leg and trousers, trying to hold the wet material from his skin, ‘No bleedin’ kiddin',’ and he could see Meesh was worried. ‘It’s okay, sweet'art, Gail’s having the baby,’ and he noticed a mixture of fear and excitement on her face.
Gail moaned, ‘Get someone, Jack.’
‘It’s okay, they’ll dry in a minute,’ looked at Gail, ‘okay, but should be like shelling peas for you?’
‘Yeah, shelling peas, go, before I give you a right hander.’
Waving his leg, Jack loped to the door, looked back and saw Meesh hop out, helping Gail, who had stripped and climbed onto the vacated bed. Jack called to the nurse, ‘We need help please, Gail’s having the baby, and if you have a hair drier?’ The nurse sprung into action, probably looking for the drier, Jack thought.
Back in the room, Gail was open for business, not what Jack had in mind for today, but Meesh seemed galvanised, fussing like a trained midwife. He stood beside the bed and, impressing himself with his sensitivity, he said softly to Gail, ‘A doctor’s coming.’ She grabbed his arm as a contraction came, squeezed, and Jack screamed; so much for feckin’ sensitivity, he thought.
Meesh stared. ‘Stop being a softy, Jack.’
‘Jeyziz, where’s that doctor?’ More sensitivity; he considered himself a modern man.
‘Jack, this is not right,’ but Jack was all out of sensitivity.
Meesh was dabbing Gail’s forehead, holding her hand. Jack thought she’d better get her hand out of there before another contraction. It came, ‘Feck, Gail, look at my arm,’ another contraction, another disappointing look from Meesh, who’d had the foresight to remove her vulnerable hand, managed a tut.
In amazement, Jack asked, ‘You don’t have a grandmother called Dolly, do you?’
‘I have no family,' matter-of-fact.
He felt a Roman Candle moment coming, but it was another contraction, and Jack yelled as the doctor entered. The nurse was about to clear the room, but Gail asserted, ‘The girl stays, and Jack is my birthing partner.’
‘What? I’m not her birthing partner,’ he pleaded. ‘I can’t stand the sight of blood, and my legs are soaking wet and beginning to pen-and-ink,’ then falling back on cold logic, ‘I’ve got to take my library books back.’
‘Please,’ it was Meesh shaking her head like Jack’s mum used to do and Dolly still does.
‘Oh feck, oh Gail, Jeyziz my arm!’ he shouted.
Mandy, strolling down the ward corridor, heard Jack scream and reacted in panic, heard him scream again and thought, should I call for back up? Too late, she burst through the door, Jack screamed; not a contraction, Mandy had made him jump.
Jack resumed his writhing agony in case he got some sympathy, ‘What the?’ no sympathy then.
‘Please,’ the doctor said, ‘the baby’s in an awkward position.’
‘Pants, Gail,’ a brilliant and quite sensitive idea, Jack thought.
‘Pants, you eejit?’ Mandy exclaimed,
Meesh explained, ‘He means panting breaths.’
Everyone, including the doctor, looked at Meesh, who somehow had taken charge, practicing for when she was a woman Jack thought, still in considerable pain, and miffed nobody seemed to care about him, and more miffed everyone thought panting was Meesh’s idea when it was his.
‘Here he comes, steady, don’t push yet, okay, now, one more, and here...she is.’ The doc said.
Jack looked down to the business end, farted, then fainted.
When he came around, Mandy and the doctor were struggling to get him into an armchair. ‘If he wasn’t so fat, this would be a lot easier,’ Mandy said, puffing and wheezing.
Meesh squared up to Mandy, ‘Don’t talk to moi dad like that.’ Pompey accent.
Jack’s eye became clearer, avoided looking at Gail lest he faint again.
‘Leave him there, he’ll be alright,’ Mandy said, giving up and returning to Gail, Meesh, and the baby.
Jack looked up from the floor, his leg was wet, cold, and horrible, he was sure his arm was broken, did nobody care about that? Jack noticed the doctor, a young lad with no spots, looked exalted at the birth, and he looked at Mandy too much. ‘My first delivery, exciting,’ looked at Gail, ‘are you going to name the baby after me?’ realised his gaff having delivered a girl.
Gail answered, ‘No, doctor, I’m naming her after him,’ pointing at Jack.
‘Jane,’ Meesh said, jumping up and down. Dolly had left the child’s body, and Jack felt relieved. The Exorcist film scared him; just he didn’t tell anyone. The doctor looked confused about the Exorcist reference, still beaming, and much to Jack’s constellation, was looking too closely at Mandy, who was unreasonably beaming back; this was not on, so Jack vomited. The doctor and nurse reacted, Mandy told them he was concussed this morning.
‘Then what’s he doing out of hospital?’ the doctor yelled, and Mandy thought about saying he was, technically, in hospital, but accepted maybe she would have to settle for Jack who stank of sick and had a smelly wet leg; such was her lot.
Jack recalled getting into a wheelchair, Gail telling Meesh to stay with her, as Mandy pushed him to another ward and undressed him; a fantasy come true, but not how he’d imagined it, and if he only knew, Mandy was thinking the same thing.
Twenty-Six
‘Your partner said you were Church of Egypt, I’ve amended that to Catholic now.’
‘Partner, Catholic?’
‘Father O’Brien has been sitting with you, but left to do Sunday morning mass.’
‘Sunday?’
The nurse had things to do, ‘You’ve been asleep nearly twenty hours,’ and she left.
Jack slipped out a long groan, you’re allowed to groan in hospital, but his heart wasn’t in it; he felt woozy. ‘How’s he doing, nurse?’ Mandy was there.
‘The doctor says he’s okay, he’s slept a long time, so I think his body must have needed it.’ Both women looked at him: one, matter-of-fact; the other, a little love. Jack missed both; you do if you’re woozy.
‘He’s been through a lot lately, God love him. When can he come out?’ Mandy asked.
‘Doc says now if he's up to it, so let’s see, let him sleep.’
Mandy nodded, ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours, here’s my card, let me know if anything happens, I’d better get some clothes for him.’
‘His son and girlfriend came by earlier and left clean clothes; we’ve binned the others.’ Jack heard and groaned; he hated shopping for clothes.
Mandy saw him stir, ‘I’ll sit with him for a little, okay?’
No comment, the nurse still had things to do. Mandy held his hand, drifted, then fell asleep with her head on the bed.
‘See, she loves your Jack,’ Meesh stood beside Gail who had the baby Jane in her arms.
Mandy rubbed the sleep from her eyes. ‘Meesh, isn’t it?’
‘Are you my Jack’s girlfriend?’ Meesh asked.
‘Well, ah,’ Mandy was stumped.
‘Do you love him, because he loves me?’
Mandy looked long and hard at Jack asleep. ‘Yes.’
‘Then I love you too.’ A tear formed in Jack's good eye. ‘He’s not really my dad.’
‘I know, darling.’
‘But he’s the next best thing, isn’t he, Gail?’
&nbs
p; ‘He is that, sweet’art,’ Gail replied, dewy eyed.
Mandy repeated, ‘He is that, sweet’art.’
Meesh mouthed, ‘He is that, sweet’art.’
Jack heard this exchange and decided not to wake up, but it didn’t stop the tear from rolling down; wuss.
The ward clock said four-thirty, he rubbed his eye, thought he saw Sitting Bull’s squaw sitting beside the bed. ‘How are you, Jack? You should sleep, “A great restorer sleep,” my husband says, when he falls asleep in the armchair, so I suppose it is, but it does mean we do not get much chance at conversation.’ Jack’s hallucination offered a doughy smell of baking; is this what you smell before you’re about to die, or was that toast? ‘Are you okay, darling?’ the squaw calling me darling? This cannot be happening. ‘I brought some of my freshly baked scones, they insisted at the station this is what you would want.’
Jack laughed; he hadn’t laughed so much since his mum caught her tit in the mangle, the Chief Constable's squaw’s baking notorious, and she responded he shouldn’t have laughed at his mum.
‘Mrs Chief,’ the squaw smiled at the kindness done to her with this tiniest of epithets, ‘you’ve made a young-looking, middle-aged man very happy. D’you mind if I eat them later, I’m still a bit tom and dick.’
'Pleased to see you laughing.’ A wet smacking kiss from Meesh, but it was Father O’Brien doing the talking, not the kissing; the Lord be praised.
‘See, he’s better, can you come out now, please, Jack, pleeeeease?’ Meesh pleaded, ‘Uncle Mickey has made a kite and we can fly it on the hill, please, please,’ pulling at Jack’s hand. Four faces now, the squaw, Meesh, Gail and Father O’Brien, and this became five as Mandy arrived with some flowers, and to Jack’s amazement, she pushed through the crowd, gathered Meesh in her arm, plonked her on the bed, and planted a loving kiss on Jack’s lips. ‘There, that will shut you up,’ she gave him the flowers.
