Surge

by Frank McGuinness

  James.

  Betty,

  I know this will hurt you. But what’s new? All I can do, alive or dead, is bring misery. At least, this way, there will be an end to it, you will get over it. It’s harder to get over things that go on living.

  James.

  Betty,

  I know this will hurt you. But what’s new? All I can do, alive or dead, is bring misery. At least, this way, there will be an end to it, you will get over it. It’s harder to get over things that go on living.

  James.

  Betty,

  I know this will hurt you. But what’s new? All I can do, alive or dead, is bring misery. At least, this way, there will be an end to it, you will get over it. It’s harder to get over things that go on living.

  James.

  Betty,

  I know this will hurt you. But what’s new? All I can do, alive or dead, is bring misery. At least, this way, there will be an end to it, you will get over it. It’s harder to get over things that go on living.

  James.

  He decided to sleep on it.

  ‘James?’

  He opened his eyes and saw Derek silhouetted against the Rose Nocturne behind him.

  ‘I’m awake,’ he said.

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Derek. And he stood there. He looked smaller.

  ‘James,’ he said. ‘I have some terrible news.’

  It was a heart attack, on the tenth tee. It was serious. She was in St Vincent’s, in intensive care.

  They drove there together, Derek’s Lexus a hobbled bull staggering through the Friday afternoon traffic. They didn’t talk.

  Behind the key-coded doors of the ICU the nurse ushered them into an empty waiting room. They were operating. They’d know more in a couple of hours.

  Friends and relatives trickled in. With each new arrival, Derek welled up, his voice cracked, and James updated them on the situation.

  A heart attack, on the tenth tee. They were operating. They’d know more in a couple of hours.

  Everyone said she was going to be fine. Everyone told him how strong she was.

  A doctor took James and Derek aside. She had come through the operation. An emergency bypass. She was sleeping now. They’d know more in a couple of hours.

  Father Mullins arrived. He’d seen her on the course only last week.

  They sat in the packed waiting room and drank tea.

  ‘Maybe an oul prayer,’ said Uncle Tommy.

  They did a decade.

  The priest left.

  Friends and relatives trickled in and out.

  A heart attack, on the tenth tee. They’d done an emergency bypass. She was sleeping now, they’d know more in a couple of hours.

  They talked about the priest, who had seen her on the course only last week, and they laughed.

  They sat and drank tea.

  ‘And then I said, “Maybe an oul prayer”,’ said Uncle Tommy, and they laughed.

  ‘You should go home,’ they said to James, ‘get some rest.’

  ‘I’m all right here,’ he said.

  In the morning, James and Derek were let in to see her. She was sleeping, grey-skinned. Derek shook by the side of her bed and sobbed into his cravat. James stood back, at her feet, and looked at the charts, the screens, the tubes pushed up into her arm.

  They’d know more in a couple of hours.

  Friends and relatives trickled in and out.

  They talked about the priest, and they laughed.

  A heart attack on the tenth tee.

  It was serious.

  ‘She’s awake,’ said the doctor to James and Derek. ‘You can have five minutes. She’s still very sick.’

  Inside, James moved around the bed, crept closer to her grey-skinned face. He held her hand, and she squeezed his finger.

  ‘Hi Mam,’ he said.

  ‘I was three under after nine,’ she said.

  Two hours later, she died.

  James and Derek sat in the back of the funeral director’s black Mercedes, the second car in the procession from the Foxrock funeral home to the church in Rathcoole.

  ‘Jessica said I can move into the spare room in her house in Rathmines,’ said James.

  ‘Your cousin?’

  James nodded.

  ‘You want to move out?’

  ‘I figure you don’t really want to see me around all the time.’

  ‘Well,’ said Derek. ‘There’s no sense in pointing fingers now.’

  The driver steered them around another roundabout.

  ‘If that’s what you want, that’s fine,’ said Derek, ‘but there’s no hurry. I think I’ll take a few weeks away, soon, maybe go and see my sister and her family in Atlanta.’

  ‘That sounds nice,’ said James.

  Derek looked at him. He seemed a different person in his white shirt and sober black tie. ‘Are you going to stay on at the museum?’

  ‘For a while anyway,’ said James. ‘I’ll have to find something else to do eventually, but …’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose we’ll see what happens.’

  From his attic room, James heard the front door open and close, and Derek’s Lexus start up, turn and purr down the driveway. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the printed copies of his suicide letter. He took his bin, with the long version and dozens of crumpled attempts at the pithy one, and the remainder of the ream of A5 paper, and he walked down through the house and out into the back garden.

  He lit a fag, pulled back a garden chair and sat down. It was a cold December night, and the light from above the back door struggled to reach him through the foggy darkness. He held his note in the air, the paper’s premium matte coating a dull grey against the tall black Cypress trees that bordered the lawn. Then he sparked his lighter and held it to the bottom right corner of the letter. Flames bounced and receded as an orange arc smouldered its way across the page. The flames reached his fingertips and he dropped the last corner of the note on the damp grass. Breathing the acrid air, he raised another copy in the air and sparked his lighter again. He burned each variation like that, then every page from the bin, then the blank sheets from the ream, and its paper wrapping.

  *

  James sat staring at the Rose Nocturne. Its waves seemed redder today, less pink. Perhaps, he thought, it was something to do with the light. A phone rang in his trousers, and he rooted in his pocket, confused because he thought he’d put his on silent and left it in his locker, and because the ringtone was wrong. The scattering of tourists and retirees wandering the room turned to stare at him. Just as his hand found the phone he remembered it was his mother’s.

  ‘Hello?’ he said. It was a lady from Dr Jenkins’ office, calling because a James Clancy had not shown up for his appointment at four o’clock. James apologised, said there had been a misunderstanding.

  ‘Would you like to reschedule the appointment?’

  ‘No, that’s okay,’ said James. ‘He’s all right now. He’s going to be fine.’

  Quality Time

  Madeleine D’Arcy

  If only one of those idiot nurses would turn his television on. All he had to contemplate was the ceiling above him. That dreadful ceiling, with its banal magnolia paint. Supreme blandness, but for a daub in a slightly darker shade right above his bed. An oddly shaped imperfection – the result, he was convinced, of something more sinister – blood from an exploding vein, a leaping spurt of pus, an ejaculation? The reason for the overlay of paint obsessed him daily since he’d found himself stretched out on this hospital bed, helpless and utterly immobile.

  The multiple ignominies of the past week made him seethe with impotent fury, but at least the lackeys had not overlooked his Laya GoldPlus health insurance, so he had a private room. His field of vision was limited to the upper part of the door on his left and of the window on the right, that dratted ceiling, the helpless emergency cord dangling like a neglected toy barely visible in the corner of his eye and, thankfully, the television, hanging on its metal limb high up on the far
wall.

  On duty today was the one he called Nurse Wretched. If only he could speak, he’d have a thing or two to say to that bitch. He detested all the nurses, in fact, except for little Nursie Tinybones, with her soft plump hands and incongruous scent of bubblegum and flowers. And Patchett, the physio, was not a bad sort – at least she provided the only smidgen of bodily ease he’d experienced since that blasted stroke.

  If only bloody Nurse Wretched would switch the dratted TV on. The careless cow had also left his door ajar. He could hear the enervating clatter of the underlings outside and smell some disastrous boiled vegetableness floating in the disinfectant air. Even more excruciating was Wretched’s fake-sincere chatter with some female in the corridor outside.

  ‘So, here he is, and won’t he be delighted to see you, the poor poppet!’ Nurse Wretched squealed as she swung round the door and into the room, hovering over him, showing him off as if he were Exhibit A.

  ‘Now, look who’s come all the way from London to see her dear old dad!’ she cooed.

  If only Wretched would drop dead.

  ‘Thank you, nurse.’ The other woman’s voice seemed unaccountably familiar, despite the slight English accent.

  ‘He can’t turn his head, dear. You’ll have to get in close so he’ll see you.’

  A middle-aged woman leaned over him. There was something distinctly recognisable about her.

  ‘So … this is a Diving Bell and Butterfly scenario, is it?’ asked the woman in her Englishy accent.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Am I correct to assume that he knows what’s going on even though he can’t move or speak or … well, do anything?’

  ‘He can move his eyes, dear, but that’s all. That’s how we know he likes to watch the telly.’

  The Englishwoman looked at him, and he rolled both his eyes at her.

  There, he thought. See what you make of that, girlie. See what you make of that.

  ‘And all these tubes?’

  ‘Well, pet, he can’t breathe properly without them. We have to feed him intravenously as well.’ Nurse Wretched lowered her voice. ‘He has to wear an incontinence pad down below, of course.’

  ‘And you don’t know how long this condition will last?’

  ‘No, dear … well, I’m not allowed to say. You’ll have to talk to the Consultant.’

  ‘I understand. Thank you, nurse.’

  ‘Right, then. I’ll leave you to it.’

  Exit Nurse Wretched. The door clunked shut behind her.

  The Englishwoman leaned over, so that he could see her face again.

  ‘Well, well, Dad,’ she said. ‘Long time, no see. It’s me, Trisha.’

  Yes, it was his daughter, Trisha. He recognised those bitter little eyes, the bone structure of her face, the still-beautiful hair. She must be almost forty now, he supposed. Well preserved, all the same. The lovely smooth blonde hair – a shame she wore it shorter now – what was the name of that style? A bob? The outfit was pitiful, somewhat like the clothes that Wifey used to wear. A blue denim jacket over a white blouse. Did they still call them blouses? Cheap dangly earrings. No class. How could she? Wifey had no class either. In the end, he had despised Wifey. Though not as much as she despised him, he supposed. He blinked. I’m still here girlie. See what you make of that.

  Trisha looked almost afraid, but she recovered within moments. ‘You’re in there all right, aren’t you? You’re still there, Dad. Not that you deserve to be.’

  The colour of his daughter’s hair was darker than he recalled. Ash blonde, was it? In his memory, she was a fairytale child with long golden tresses. From this rancid bedtrap he could still imagine – almost feel – the smooth ripeness of her hair.

  ‘Trust you to have great health insurance. Just as well, I suppose. You’re going to be here for a long time.’ She walked around the bed, and from the other side she leaned over again to peer into his face.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ she asked, loudly. She looked into his eyes. ‘You’re in there all right, you bastard. Yes, it’s me, your daughter. Let’s spend some quality time together, shall we?’ She straightened up and walked back around the bed. She sat down in the chair. He could barely see her now, but he could smell a faint lemony perfume.

  ‘Hilarious that you can’t talk,’ she said, in a hard voice. ‘You used to have plenty to say, didn’t you? Hardly ever stopped ranting at Mum and upsetting her. When you were in the house, the only time we had peace was when you read to me. But the books you chose – I couldn’t understand half of them. Remember Don Quixote? Tilting at windmills. I had no idea what it was all about. I was probably only four then. I just listened. I’d do anything to keep you in a good mood.’

  He remembered, quite suddenly and clearly, the cover of that book: a daft old man on a horse, wearing yellow armour, and little Sancho Panza, his underling, bound to obey a lunatic who was out of control. The tale had amused him once.

  ‘I remember the way you brushed my hair and counted. Forty slow brushstrokes on each section, and then you’d … oh God …’ She put her head in her hands.

  He thought she might be crying. What the heck was she fussing about?

  ‘I wish Mum could see you now – the state of you – but she can’t. She’s dead. She died two years ago. Did you know that? I didn’t bother letting you know. If only she had had your medical insurance – but the NHS wasn’t too bad.’ She wiped her eyes.

  He heard the door open. Nurse Minnie Mouse squeaked in, all pert and businessy as usual.

  ‘Just got to do his bloods,’ she chirped.

  How he hated them all.

  At his side he felt, rather than saw, Trisha rising from the chair.

  ‘No need to move,’ Nurse Minnie Mouse said. ‘You can stay if you like. So long as you’re not squeamish.’

  ‘No, I’m not a bit squeamish. Thank you, nurse.’

  He felt her sit down again, a small flow of air and that lemon fragrance, with a hint of flowers, perhaps lilies.

  ‘You’re the daughter, aren’t you? Call me Barbara,’ Mousey said cheerfully, as she jabbed a needle most painfully into the flesh of his upper arm. How he longed to roar at that despicable woman. All her persnickety tidiness and yet she was clueless about the most basic of tasks. That small rodent face of hers was asking to be hit.

  ‘I hear you only just arrived from London,’ said Mousey to his daughter. ‘You must be exhausted. I could bring you a cup of tea, if you like?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘So, whereabouts in London do you live?’

  He wished Mousey would quit sticking her nosy little nose in. He hated her even more than Nurse Wretched now.

  ‘Muswell Hill.’

  ‘That’s North London, isn’t it? I used to live in Clapham once upon a time.’

  ‘I lived there too, for a while, when I was ten. Then my mother met my stepfather, so we moved to North London when I was twelve.’

  From his stodgy static bed he felt intensely vexed. So Wifey had met someone else, the bitch? Surely it couldn’t have lasted.

  ‘And do you come back to Ireland very often?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Trisha.

  ‘Well, at least you’re here now, that’s the main thing, isn’t it?’ Nurse Minnie Mouse squeaked.

  He could not see what the nurse was doing, but he could hear her fannying about beside him, probably fixing adhesive labels on the vials of his still-warm blood.

  ‘Yes,’ said his daughter, absently.

  The nurse fumbled at the bottom of the bed. She wrote on a chart with a blue biro before returning the pen to her breast pocket and replacing the chart.

  ‘All done for now,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’ Exit Nurse Minnie Mouse with a see-through envelope containing his blood.

  As soon as the door closed, Trisha spoke again. ‘She’s left us in peace, Dad,’ she said. ‘Pity you never left us in peace.’ She stood up and began to pace. ‘Mum was never righ
t afterwards, you know. She tried. God help her, she tried. But she always went for the wrong men.’

  Wifey was an idiot. That had become obvious over time. He could not conceive now of any possible reason why he had ever married Wifey, but it was hardly his fault she was an idiot.

  ‘Mum was so naive,’ his daugher continued. ‘Of course, people didn’t talk about things in those days.’ There she was again, at the side of the bed. She leaned over and stared into his eyes. ‘Can you hear me? Yes, you can, can’t you? So, let’s see, how many years is it since we had some quality time together? Thirty, maybe? Can you cast your mind back?’

  How sarcastic she was, the little bitch.

  ‘Of course, Mum should have faced up to things, but she didn’t. You got off scot-free. You probably went on doing the same kind of thing all your life. Men like you, they don’t stop, do they?’

  A phone rang out, a cheerful cha cha cha tone.

  ‘Hang on.’ She reached down, and he could hear a zip being unzipped, some fumbling sounds. She stood up and plonked her handbag on the bed. ‘Yes, that’s fine. I’ll be there,’ she said, into one of those new-fangled phones, before replacing it in the bag. She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose, before continuing. ‘Poor Mum. I blamed her for a long time, you know. She was so naive. In spite of those enormous blue eyes she couldn’t see what was going on under her nose.’

  She got up again and began to pace up and down. ‘I wanted to tell her for so long, but you wouldn’t let me. You said I could never tell. You used to stroke my hair. Remember? You washed my hair too. That was one of your jobs. Then you’d plait it.’

  Ah, yes, he had loved every hair on her little urchin head. He used to brush it for hours and smooth it into two beautiful princess-like ponytails or plait it in various delightful ways. He could almost feel the sap rising now. How delicious it was when her little friends began to ask him to arrange their hair too, to fix it in pretty plaits like hers. Perhaps he should have been a hairdresser. In his day, only women did that job. It was a sissy job, though, and he was certainly never a sissy.