by Priya Basil
The way he examines her is reassuring. There’s a practical confidence in his touch, like he knows what he’s doing. So Helen doesn’t flinch or tell him to stop, even though she’s aware that it’s odd to have a stranger do this in the middle of a crowded train carriage.
‘Can you see OK out of that eye?’ he asks. Kerm continues with the questions even after she nods. ‘No double vision? No floaters?’
Helen shakes her head. The pain is now spreading across her face.
‘It might be an idea to have an X-ray. Make sure your zygoma – your cheekbone –’ he adds, aware that he’s lapsed into doctor’s speak, ‘isn’t damaged’. Kerm suddenly realises how odd he must seem, offering his opinions like this without being asked. ‘Sorry, I should have explained, I’m a doctor . . . in case you’re wondering. Dr Kerm Vora.’
Helen nods as if she’s already guessed. The throbbing at her right eye is getting worse. It’s as if someone’s playing drums on her eyeball.
‘I’m sorry I can’t give you something for the pain. I don’t have anything on me.’ He flaps the empty pockets of his coat, whose hem, he notices, is brushing along the dirty floor of the carriage. Kerm stands upright for a moment, then bends down again. He sets a hand on one of the armrests on either side of Helen to support himself. It’s not a very dignified position: knees bent and bum stuck out as though he’s getting ready to take a dump.
There are some irritated glances from nearby passengers who have to budge a little because of him. All Helen can see are his clean-shaven face and broad shoulders, which seem even wider in the thick wool coat he’s wearing. She notices the way his hair, which is tucked behind his ears, flicks out under his long earlobes.
‘Thanks for your help.’ As she speaks Helen becomes aware of a metallic taste in her mouth. Her impulse is to spit, but that’s hardly possible right now.
Kerm sees the slight shift in her features and catches sight of a red wash on her teeth as her lips part slightly before pressing together again. ‘You may have a wound on the inside of your cheek. Your teeth probably cut into the inside of your mouth when his hand hit your face.’
‘Here, have this.’ A girl with a high ponytail and too much eye make-up holds out a half-full bottle of mineral water.
‘Thanks.’ Kerm takes the drink, which is still cold, and passes it to Helen.
Her fingers close over the ribbed plastic bottle, but she doesn’t raise it to her mouth. The idea of washing down the warm iron-y taste with water makes her feel sick. Why the idea of swallowing your own blood is so unpleasant, she has no idea. Your body if full of the stuff anyway, she tells herself, but the thought still makes her shiver.
Kerm brings his face level with Helen’s. ‘Try holding the bottle to your cheek; the cold might help. It’s not going to look pretty tomorrow.’ She can feel his breath on her mouth as he talks. Her jaw trembles with emotion at his concern, at the kindness in his dark eyes.
‘But don’t fret about it!’ He sees anxiety pulse across her features. ‘It’s not going to change the fact that you have a very nice face. You’ll be fine in a week or two.’ He looks in the direction the boys went. He has no idea that they are just three or four metres away, behind thirty-or-so standing passengers, still trying to un-jam the door to the next carriage. ‘They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this. We could raise the alarm with the driver. Maybe try and get them caught?’ Nearby, he can see a red lever behind its protective glass box.
Helen is already shaking her head.
‘I’d be happy to give a witness statement. I’m sure other people would too.’ He glances around, but if anyone has overheard they’re not jumping up to volunteer. ‘We could raise the alarm. Someone will get on board at the next station to see what’s up. It’s not right that those boys should go scot-free.’
‘No.’ The police may well think there’s something wrong with her at this rate. Helen’s mum, Sheila, will definitely think she’s to blame. It will be too much hassle, she decides, and she can’t cope with that as well, at the moment. It occurs to Helen that she’s probably going to have a black eye for Jill’s party. ‘No,’ she repeats. Her words sound like they’re being gargled out because of the mouthful of blood she can’t bring herself to swallow.
‘However you like.’ Kerm stands tall again. ‘You should just sit tight for a few minutes. Take some deep breaths.’
He realises he’s still holding the woman’s phone. He’d kept it clutched between his thighs while he’d helped her sit down, then he’d slipped it into his pocket. He takes it out now, ready to give it back, but she’s looking into her lap again. Her shoulders heave slowly as she follows his breathing instructions and she has a wad of tissues pressed over her lips.
He sees how her hair falls in an extreme side parting. How glossy her hair is. Brightness dazzles through the thick strands like flashes of lightning. It’s as if he’s never seen a woman’s head before. The straight line of scalp that’s visible somehow has more erotic appeal than the longest legs or the most perfect breasts. He wants to run his tongue along that line, and down over her forehead to the sharp ski-jump bridge of her nose until her lips . . .
Kerm has to catch himself again. He tenses all his muscles, as if that will stop his thoughts from wandering. What is wrong with him today? Is this what death at close quarters does? Forces you to obsess about sex? It makes a twisted kind of sense: promoting the cycle of life is our best weapon against death.
Kerm feels ashamed, guilty, sad and a touch horny at the same time. If his grandfather’s death has shown him anything, it’s that emotions can co-exist in the most bizarre combinations.
Chapter Ten
In ungracious moments, Kerm would wonder whether his family would have been as pleased to see him at the hospital if he wasn’t a doctor. These thoughts usually occurred when he was standing on the windy, dimly lit platform, waiting for the last train back into central London.
His medical expertise was what the relatives seemed to relish. Within seconds of his arrival at each visit to his grandfather’s hospital bed, consultants’ comments, newly prescribed drugs and the tiniest changes in Baoji’s appearance or diet would be listed for Kerm’s benefit, followed by, ‘But he’s going to be fine, isn’t he?’
It quickly became clear that Kerm’s professional opinion was required only to confirm signs of improvement. There was no room for pessimism around Baoji’s bed. The bunches of flowers, piles of fruit and lines of cards seemed to have been arranged to wall out negativity. Even the old man himself was not allowed a say in how he was faring.
Several days before his death he had begun to predict it. ‘I’m going . . .’ he had whispered to his son Rajan one night in Kerm’s presence. ‘I’ll be gone soon.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Rajan stood up and began plumping the pillows at his father’s head. The shape of Baoji’s skull, every curve and hollow, was visible under the loose folds of skin.
‘I’m going,’ Baoji repeated.
‘Yes, going to get better.’ Rajan shot Kerm a look, as if he ought to know how to put an end to this sort of nonsense.
Kerm glanced at the floor. He noticed all the scratches on the lino from the wheels of the trolleys bringing meals, and the beds being rolled to and from the operating theatre.
‘No, I’ll be gone.’ Baoji spoke with his eyes shut. His eyeballs twitched under thin lids.
‘Stop talking like that.’ Rajan gripped the metal rail of the bed frame. His eyes were red and puffy from lack of sleep. All the lines in his face were deepened by worry. ‘Everything will be fine. You tell him, Kerm.’
‘I’ll get the nurse.’ Kerm stood up. ‘Maybe they can up his morphine or something.’ As if that was the answer.
Kerm walked off, aware of his father’s discomfort. How do you tell your father that his dad is about to die? Maybe if they’d had a different relationship it would have been easier. On one level Kerm understood the family’s unwillingness to face the truth. But at the same tim
e, by denying the old man’s prophecy, his family was missing out on the chance to face the end with him, to say goodbye properly, to let him go more easily. It wasn’t even as if the family had resolved their differences and were all on good terms with one another. There was still lots of unfinished business between them.
Nothing, for instance, had been said regarding Sam’s sudden return from the other side of the world. It was as though the simple fact that he was there was enough. Maybe it was, Kerm told himself as he walked down the corridor, past the waste disposal room with warning signs on the door. Maybe the Vora family had it right. Perhaps his own preference for analysis and discussion was strange. Hadn’t his father once called him a sissy? Saying he’d spent too much time in female company and had turned out just like his mother? Who was he to judge?
In the last days of Baoji’s life, normal rules about visiting hours had been waived for the Vora family: a sure sign that the end was near. Late on a Monday night, Kerm had sat on one side of the hospital bed. Directly opposite, his father and aunt kept their nightly vigil over Baoji’s wasting body under the bleached white sheets.
Kerm had listened whilst the two of them talked about their father. They remarked on how he wouldn’t let anyone leave the house without sharing a shot of something with them first. It didn’t matter who the visitor was, the Granthi from the local gurdwara or the widow from down the road, and it didn’t matter what time of day they came. Every guest had some kind of alcoholic drink thrust into their hands.
It was interesting to see how, already, the past was being re-cast. There was no mention of Baoji’s problems with the tipple, or his tendency to overdo it.
‘He never drank alone,’ whispered Veena, squeezing the old man’s hand. One of the nurses had mentioned that, towards the end, it was better to keep a gentle hold on the patient. Then they didn’t have the sense that they couldn’t let go. The nurse had said it made it easier for the dying to leave if they felt they had your consent. Ever since then Veena had been keeping an extra-tight grip on her father.
‘No, he liked company,’ Rajan agreed. ‘He enjoyed making toasts. He loved quoting Oscar Wilde, do you remember? “Work is the curse of the drinking class.”’
‘It was all from that book you gave him!’ Veena jabbed playfully at her brother’s arm. Rajan had once bought their father a small volume called Cheers!, which was full of famous quotations about alcohol. Baoji had memorised many of them and would recite them regularly as he lifted another glass of whisky to his lips. ‘There was another Wilde quote he liked a lot . . .’ Veena pulled a pin out of her bun and stuck it back in more securely. ‘What was it?’ She clicked her front teeth together, trying to remember.
‘“Moderation is a fatal thing – nothing succeeds like excess,”’ Rajan said. The sharp point of his turban looked slightly off centre. It was hard to tell if that was because it hadn’t been tied perfectly, or if it was because of the angle at which his head was tenderly tilted as he watched his father.
‘Yes!’ Veena smiled. ‘And the Churchill one.’ It was coming back to her now. ‘“I have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me.” Baoji loved that.’
‘You have to show me this book some time,’ Kerm said to his dad.
They talked in hushed tones so as not to disturb the three other patients in the small ward. Every bed was partitioned by a curtain hanging from a mobile rail, and from behind each flimsy cloth, the hum of life support machines and the painful sighs of laboured breath could be heard: a soundtrack of ebbing life.
‘That was the beauty of Baoji’s drinking.’ Veena stood up and smoothed the sheets. ‘The sharing.’
‘Yeah,’ Kerm said, not sure whether the observation was intended to be ironic or nostalgic. ‘He even offered me a drink when I got here earlier.’
Kerm had arrived before his father. He had been keeping Veena company for a few minutes when Baoji had stirred into one of his rare moments of wakefulness. Veena had pushed her nephew’s head close to his grandfather’s, exhorting the old man to acknowledge the younger one. Baoji had appeared to recognise him, or at least Kerm’s name triggered something. Who could tell how much the dying man could see from behind the milky film of his cataracts? In a faint, rasping voice, like tissue paper being crushed, Baoji had welcomed Kerm. Then, as if he were still presiding over the minibar in his living room, he’d asked his grandson what he’d like to drink.
‘You know,’ Kerm’s musings continued, ‘the first time he gave me alcohol I was well below the legal age.’ He’d been twelve when Baoji had poured him a whisky on the rocks. Not that Kerm had drunk it, but he still remembered the casual ceremony with which his grandfather had handed him the crystal glass. Inside it the amber liquid had glowed, while the ice cubes had snapped and crackled as if they too were excited by the gesture.
‘He’s one of a kind.’ Veena pressed a palm against the old man’s forehead.
They all lapsed into silence for a while, until someone started calling out from one of the neighbouring beds: ‘Ted. Ted?’ The voice was feeble, but it sounded urgent.
Rajan and Veena looked at Kerm as though he should know what to do. His reaction was to turn to the nurses’ desk a few metres down the corridor, only to find it temporarily deserted.
As the calls continued Kerm shrugged. ‘There’s no medicine to stop you wanting someone.’
The voice went on every few seconds for another minute, ‘Ted? Ted?’ Then it stopped. Almost immediately the bed next door to Baoji’s creaked and a voice abruptly enquired, ‘Dead? Who’s dead?’
Kerm had to slam his hand over his mouth to stifle the sound of his laughter. He sat shaking for several minutes, his eyes streaming, his body convulsing uncontrollably with giggles. It was infectious and Rajan and Veena joined in. To anyone watching from a distance it might have seemed like the figures huddled around bed number two were rocking with grief.
When a nurse came by a short while later they had barely composed themselves; one just had to catch another’s eye and they would be off again. ‘He was calling for help.’ Kerm’s words sounded choked as he pointed in the direction from which the calls for Ted had come. The nurse disappeared behind the curtain, and when she emerged again Kerm knew what had happened. He could read it in her posture: the slight rounding of her shoulders, the sudden briskness in her stride.
The hard fact filled the room like a blast of cold air. Kerm had shivered and his dad had stiffened. Veena had reached over and wrapped both her hands around Baoji’s. She squeezed tight, holding on for dear life.
Chapter Eleven
Innocent, Blessing and Comfort give up on the swing door that is supposed to be their escape route to the next compartment of the train and instead make their way to one of the main exits. People move out of the way without being told now. The boys simply choose a direction and lift a foot and a pathway is clear in seconds.
At the sliding double doors, they try to squeeze their fingers between the join and push them apart. People watch furtively, peeking out from behind their newspapers. Everyone’s wondering what they’re up to. Are they just impatient? Do they intend to jump off the train and run across the tracks? A little area has cleared around the boys.
‘This is shit.’ Innocent stares out of the glass that covers half the door. Not much is visible outside. A train hurtles by in the opposite direction, a long ribbon of light being pulled through the night.
Innocent’s stomach growls. He hadn’t had breakfast that morning because of the rush he’d been in. For lunch he’d had the special meal at Chicken n’ Ribs – four drumsticks and chips for a pound – but that felt like ages ago.
The rustle of the intercom fills the carriage. Everyone stops talking and turns an ear towards the ceiling, where the speakers are located. The driver’s voice informs them, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, sorry about the delay. The emergency alarm has been activated on this train. We’re just waiting for some support to arrive at the next station before we pull up the
re. It shouldn’t be much longer now. Thanks for your patience.’
A wave of groans rides the length of the carriage. Innocent pulls his jeans up a fraction, Blessing flips his hoodie over his head and Comfort rolls his shoulders forwards and dips his chin towards his chest. They all know what this means.
Innocent’s face twitches as he thinks of the inspector. ‘That clown has messed up everything.’ He kicks at the metal frame of the door, then checks the tip of his brand-new white trainers to make sure none of the grime has come off on them.
‘Here, let me try.’ Comfort signals that the other two should mask him. He pulls something out from the inner pocket of his puffer jacket, steps up to the doors and jams an object between them. It’s a knife. One flick of the handle and eight centimetres of steel blade snaps into view.
If they can get off the train here, Comfort reckons, they’ll be fine. He knows this strip of track well from earlier graffiti-spraying sessions. He has run from side to side dodging the police and passing trains before. They could do it again, if they could just get the hell out.
Kerm can’t help glancing at Helen’s phone, which is still in his possession. It keeps lighting up, its screen bursting with a blue the colour of summer skies. Each time a new statement appears on the screen. It’s Facebook, he realises. Her Facebook page. He scans it, looking for her name. Helen Summers: he sees it in the top left-hand corner. Helen. His eyes swing guiltily away from the screen. He clears his throat, hoping she might look his way, but Helen is too busy trying to spit discreetly into the crumple of tissues pressed between her mouth and palm. She manages somehow. Then, afraid to look at what might have come out, she crushes the paper into her fist whilst wiping her mouth with the other hand.
The slim cable of her earphones is splayed around her neck like a futuristic garland. Kerm notices that its connecting end has been pulled from the phone and is dangling between her legs. He bends down to pick it up, his hand brushing her knee in the process. She lifts her head and sees the man reconnect her headphones to the phone.
