Thankfully Nathan had been busy working on another commission that his friend had pushed his way.
Graham had phoned and said, ‘I need your help on a health campaign, Nathan.’
‘Nothing to do with nettles?’
‘No, though I wouldn’t put it past them to come up with some health thing to do with them; no, this is for kids. Constipation is on the increase due to poor diets and increased obesity.’
‘Is it?’
‘Apparently.’
‘So what is it?’
‘A suppository for under sevens.’
‘A what?’
‘A suppository, you know, that you stick up—’
‘Yeah, I know what you do with it. How are we supposed to sell that?’
‘That’s why I need your brains on this.’
Later, as he sat staring at a picture of the product on-screen Nathan realised why it had been given to him. The infantile staff in Graham’s office would have wasted hours joking and mucking about instead of expending any serious energy working out how to sell it.
Sending it to him made a perverse kind of sense – he had nobody to joke around with.
As he sat and thought about the products and their purpose he asked himself how the hell he could persuade anyone to buy them.
The target market was mothers – what made mothers buy things for their kids?
To make them happier, cleverer, healthier or safer. Nathan spent hours mulling over ideas and trying to work out an angle. Around lunchtime he took a break and remembered he had his last (hopefully) hospital appointment in the afternoon. He’d had the plaster cast from his arm removed by the GP weeks ago and today would be his last visit unless they found something else wrong with him. He welcomed the interruption from thinking about infant constipation and how he could persuade a mother to somehow think it would be a good idea to shove a hard white pellet up her kid’s bum at bedtime.
The hospital had also scheduled a session with the psychiatrist that had visited him soon after his miraculous return from the dead but, given his current delicate mental state and his preoccupation with toddlers’ suppositories, Nathan might give that a miss.
He drove to the general vicinity of the hospital and parked on a quiet street rather than be forced to pay the exorbitant car-park fee. An icy wind cut across the road and open land around the hospital, making him pull up the collar of his coat. The warmth of spring had yet to reach this far north; London would feel positively balmy compared to Edinburgh. The sky had darkened considerably since he’d left his flat and rain looked imminent. He waited in the outpatient department half an hour past his allotted time before being ushered into a cramped and dimly lit consulting room. A middle-aged consultant, Dr Spencer, reviewed his case notes whilst periodically peering over the top of her glasses at him as if to convince herself that he really existed and wasn’t the figment of someone’s imagination.
She closed the file, sat back and gazed at him. ‘Remarkable.’
Nathan nodded but remained silent, not knowing how to respond.
‘What did you feel when it happened?’
‘When what happened?’
‘When you died?’
He sighed. ‘Nothing, but then I wasn’t really dead, was I?’
‘Weren’t you?’
‘I don’t know, you’re the doctor.’
‘You know it’s called Lazarus Syndrome?’
‘Somebody did mention that, yes.’
‘Named after the man that Jesus brought back to life.’
‘Okay.’
‘There are well-documented cases around the world, and probably many others that don’t get recorded, but, in your case, we think you had a cardiac arrest when the bus hit you, and at the scene the paramedics couldn’t revive you. Then later, probably in the ambulance, your heart started spontaneously, but possibly with an extreme bradycardia arrhythmia which made it difficult to detect. Then your severe concussion kept you unconscious until you became normally responsive in the mortuary.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘It doesn’t matter, you seem fine now, but I’m not sure why we didn’t pick up any life signs when you arrived at the hospital. Perhaps the equipment was faulty or maybe the autoresuscitation didn’t happen until later. We still have more questions than answers. Are you spiritual, Mr Jones?’
‘I’ve never seen any ghosts.’
‘That’s not quite what I meant. Do you believe in God?’
Nathan had to think about that. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I’ve never really given it much thought.’
‘I take it you’re not a regular churchgoer, then?’
He shook his head.
‘Shame.’
Nathan wondered if she worked on the side as a lay preacher, trying to convert or recruit lost souls into religion.
She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I’ve never reviewed a case like yours before. I suppose now that you’re physically healed – all except your skull, that might take a few more months to knit together fully – the only issue is your mental well-being. I see you’ve got a psychiatric evaluation scheduled after you’re finished here?’
He nodded.
‘Well, as I say, physically you’re on the mend. I do think that you might need some spiritual counselling but, of course, that’s up to you. However, for the next six months or so you need to take care not to damage your head. Do you play football?’
‘Err, no.’
‘That’s good, as I wouldn’t recommend you head any footballs. Do you take part in any other contact sports?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Do you regularly crawl into small spaces?’
Nathan stared at the doctor. ‘I don’t make a habit of it, no.’
‘That’s good – just in case you bang your head, you see. People who crawl into small spaces, especially when they’re older, do suffer some serious head injuries. Do you jump up and down a lot?’
‘Not usually no, and again it’s not something I’ve got planned.’
‘Good – it wouldn’t be good either. I recommend you try and remain as sedentary as possible for a few months. What’s your occupation?’
‘I work in advertising.’
‘Right, well, that should allow you to stay relatively calm, shouldn’t it?’
‘Physically yes, but it’s mentally challenging at times. Is it okay if I think a lot?’
Dr Spencer completely missed his sarcasm. ‘Yes, that should be fine. Everything in moderation though.’
He left the consultation room with an overwhelming sense that he’d wasted an hour of his life. He headed towards the main entrance, having no intention of meeting with a psychiatrist who would no doubt try and recruit him into the Masons or Rosicrucians. He remembered an old joke about psychiatrists. How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb? Only one but the light bulb needs to want to change.
Chapter 11
I rushed into the waiting area beside the outpatient section and spotted him immediately, smiling as if he’d just come out of a brilliant comedy show. I think I startled him when I asked, ‘Something funny?’
He stopped in his tracks and his smile vanished when he saw me. Not a good sign.
‘Oh, hello, I didn’t expect to see you today. Sorry, what did you say?’
‘Doesn’t matter. How are you?’
‘Better than the first time you saw me anyway. Just here for my final evaluation.’
‘I know, that’s why I came up, just to say hi. I got delayed and thought I might miss you.’
‘You nearly did. How did you know I’d be here anyway?’
‘You were in the computer. I’ve only got about twenty minutes, busy day in the morgue, lots of doctors not doing their jobs properly.’
Nathan frowned at me, his sense of humour obviously a million miles from mine. ‘Just a joke,’ I said. ‘Would you like to grab a coffee, as long as you’ve got time?’
&nbs
p; ‘Yeah, okay. I could use a drink.’
‘Tough afternoon with the doctors?’
He smiled. ‘Just one. She seemed more worried about my spiritual rather than my physical well-being.’
‘Dr Spencer?’
‘How’d you know?’
‘She’s well known as a God botherer, though I didn’t know she did that with patients too. You must have come across as a lost soul.’
We were both silent for a moment before Nathan asked, probably quite reasonably, ‘What’s this about, Kat?’
‘What’s what about?’
‘Well, maybe I’m missing something, but you came down to meet me like you had something to say?’
‘I just wanted to say hello, like I explained.’ You’re so cute – I could wrap you in cling film and keep you in my fridge. Uh-oh, did I just say that out loud? I stared at him for a moment but, as he didn’t flinch, I thankfully must have kept it inside.
‘You mean you broke all sorts of data-protection protocols just to come and say hi?’
Yeah, he wasn’t buying into the whole ‘I just wanted to say hi’ scenario. ‘I didn’t break anything. You’re technically one of my patients.’
‘I’m no longer dead.’
‘True, but you were registered as deceased in my system.’
‘That might make getting a mortgage a little tricky.’
‘Do you need a mortgage?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not important right now.’
‘Is your wife divorcing you?’ Oops, I think I sounded pleased.
‘How’d you come to that conclusion?’
‘Well, the mortgage thing, I suppose, and because she couldn’t be arsed fighting to see you in the hospital.’ Better – slightly more like an emotional detective and less like a stalker.
‘I need to go, Kat. In case the psychiatrist I’m due to meet appears.’
I’ve offended him. No surprise there. ‘You’re avoiding him?’
‘Yes, I’m not in the mood.’
‘Sounds like you really should go, then.’
He smiled. ‘Maybe, but my wife and kids are in London this week and I’m missing them.’
‘Why didn’t you go, then? A break would probably do you good.’
‘It’s complicated, Kat, and I don’t really want to discuss it.’
‘She’s left you, hasn’t she?’ Oops, none of my business but I couldn’t help myself.
He scowled at me. ‘Kind of.’
I drained my mug, trying to think of a response. ‘How can someone “kind of” leave you?’
‘As I said, it’s complicated.’ He stood up and gave me a strange look. If I didn’t know better I’d think he might be appraising me; if so he’d probably conclude that I had a large pot at home to boil bunnies in. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Kat. I’ve got to get back to work. I’m trying to figure out how to make inserting a hard white tablet into a child’s bum a pleasant experience.’
I stared at him open-mouthed as he walked away. I’d no idea what that last sentence meant but strangely enough I found it quite comforting, as it meant he might be a bit bonkers. We’d get on famously.
The thought encouraged me and as he walked away I decided I needed a plan. Nathan had something about him that intrigued me – well, let’s be honest, I had the hots for him; just the sight of him made my bits tingle and that hadn’t happened for a long time, if ever. I hadn’t expected the physical attraction to continue, I’d thought that my initial feelings for him were down to him being vulnerable and injured but, no, they went way beyond that. Shame he had a wife, kids and multiple complications. Still, nothing worthwhile ever came easy. I also recognised some of me in him; he seemed to have loads of insecurities and doubts and I knew all about that.
So how could I get closer to Nathan? And would he want me to? I had no idea, but I did know where to go for inspiration – my BFF Hayley.
*
Hayley Dunlop had been my best friend since high school and the best friend a girl could ever have.
I think it would be fair to say we were ‘forced’ together at first. Hayley had been an awkward overweight teenager with a speech impediment, and I’d been a similar outcast due to my dress and attitude, both of which had been more extreme back then. As a result, nobody wanted to sit beside either of us, so we sat together. I spent countless hours beside Hayley in History refusing to answer any questions.
‘Klaudette, can you tell the class which king had to be forced to introduce Magna Carta?’
As usual whenever Mrs Brock spoke to me like that, using my ‘official’ first name, I ignored her. I kept my head down. I used to be able to recognise most of my classmates simply by their shoes, I spent so much time with my eyes down trying to avoid conversation. I stared at Mrs Brock’s foot as it tapped impatiently. Whilst waiting for the moment to pass I noted the horrible wedges that complemented perfectly the hideous tweed skirt and faded grey cardigan. Mrs Brock, as well as being a cow, had a fashion sense akin to 1957.
As usual she moved on to torment Hayley. ‘And how about you, Miss Chatty Pants? Can you tell the class which group of medieval noblemen forced King John to seal the document? In fact, Miss Dunlop, don’t bother trying to answer, we’ve only got fifteen minutes of the period left and we don’t want to spend it listening to you trying to string a sentence together.’ The other kids in the class screamed with laughter and jeered like opposition MPs during Prime Minister’s Question Time. Poor Hayley sank down as low in her seat as possible.
That day I readjusted my view of Mrs Brock. As well as being a cow she had a cruel, vindictive streak that should have barred her from ever being a teacher. Hayley suffered from a stammer at school and Mrs Brock knew it became worse whenever she got put on the spot and made to speak aloud. Most of the other teachers knew this and made allowances but not our bitch of a history teacher – she went out of her way to make Hayley as uncomfortable as possible.
Our misery wasn’t restricted to history lessons and the taunts were usually accompanied by a barrage of paper pellets fired at us whenever a teacher turned their back.
Although we had to endure this in other classes it always felt worse with Mrs Brock, who condoned our treatment as outcasts by doing little to intervene in the torture. I knew I’d been ostracised by insisting on my self-imposed name estrangement and dress-noire. The misery didn’t lessen though, just because it happened to be self-inflicted. I only ever wore black. Some of the kids even referred to me as Grim – as in the Grim Reaper – but I secretly quite liked that taunt and wrote it on the front of all my notepads.
Hayley, as well as her speech issues, pushed the scales around to a hefty twelve stone at age fifteen. She did her best to hide the excess flesh in dark baggy outfits dotted with small patterns accentuated with a light belt around her midriff to draw attention away from the obvious, but it only went so far.
Hayley’s worst day at school (though there were so many to choose from) came about when the coolest guy in school, James Cochrane, turned his attention on her. He also happened to be totally gorgeous and for some reason walked like a panther, positively prowling the halls of our high school leaving teen girls breathless in his wake. Part of his appeal undoubtedly lay in the fact that he sang lead vocals in his own grunge-rock band, The Fluckers. In addition, he had considerable artistic ability and, unfortunately, he used this talent to draw a picture on the whiteboard in Mrs Brock’s classroom. He did this just prior to a double period of torture using a permanent black marker. He drew the Michelin man of Michelin tyre fame with his new girlfriend, an even larger blown-up tyre girl with rolls of fat spilling down her body, called Dunlop Girl.
Mrs Brock made things worse by leaving it on display for weeks and referring to Hayley as Dunlop Girl for the rest of the year. Even when rubbed out, the permanent marker meant a faint image remained as a reminder of how shit her life had become. I’m not sure how long she could have taken this but something remarkable started to happen later that year as sh
e approached sixteen. The latter stages of puberty subjected Hayley to an unexpected late growth spurt that also kicked her metabolism into overdrive. It had the effect of changing her body shape forever. Once the transformation started she augmented it by shunning the sweet drinks and fatty snacks all the rest of us guzzled with abandonment.
Her face began to reflect the changes and her visage went from pudgy puffy panda to sculpted smooth sophistication. High cheekbones emerged, so did a slim aquiline nose. She also began to experiment with make-up techniques that accentuated her new features and the transformation could only be described as breathtaking. Hayley’s cornflower-blue eyes and natural blonde hair that had been lost in the lumpiness together with the other changes meant her teenage-boy rating shot up from ‘untouchable’ to ‘totally shag-able’.
She blossomed academically too and after studying law at St Andrew’s University she joined a Glasgow law practice and had recently been made up to partner. She lived in a small flat in Glasgow’s trendy West End with a perpetually nervous cat called Whisky.
I buzzed the intercom at the outside door of Hayley’s flat. A gust of icy wind blew some light rain into my face, making me shiver. Hayley’s voice sounded tinny from the tiny speaker and I smiled as I bounded up the stairs, glad to be out of the rain that had started to get heavier. My friend waited for me at the top of the stairs with a hug and the warmest welcome I got anywhere. Hayley had changed physically and mentally over the years we’d known each other, but her affection for me remained as solid and loyal as it always had.
Hayley ushered me into the living room where the large picture window had views of the river and busy expressway running alongside. I watched the headlights of the cars bouncing off the dark water.
‘Did you drive?’
I shook my head. ‘No, I took the train. Just as well as I think it’s going to be a filthy wet night on the roads.’
‘Yeah, good call – wine?’
‘Chablis?’
‘Of course.’
‘Yes, please.’
Whilst Hayley fetched alcohol I wondered how best to broach the subject that had brought me here. In the end Hayley made it easy.
The Second Life of Nathan Jones Page 8
