by James Hannah
Your voice. Come on, think of something, Keep thinking, now. You and me up in the valley. You remember? Up on the top, with the grass washing all around us, the sky above, and the sky below. Are you with me?
I can’t think. I don’t want to think. Leave me alone.
I don’t know what sounds are coming out of my mouth.
I can hear you. I can still hear you. You’re not talking to me. You’re talking to Mal. Your voice in the whirl.
There, there: there’s the Hospital sign. Do you know where Accident and Emergency is?
Mumbles from Mal.
Your voice changes.
Are you all right? Mal?
I hear no response.
There’s a big sustained heave, and my head and shoulders feel funny. Funny heavy.
I’m awake, I’m aware, I’m aware of the orange lights sweeping past. I’m lying on the back seat, and I can see Mal’s towering silhouette, lurching and twitching around in his seat, and you’re on at him to stop.
Stop!
And then there’s a thump, and your voice and Mal’s are silent suddenly, like a sudden sweeping intake of oxygen, and the weight on my head and shoulders is immediately immense, and then gone, and in one snap I’m dumped down into the footwell and shoved, forced, hammered into the metal and the carpet and the cogs of the seat mechanism, I’m being crushed, and an immense and horrendous sound smashes all around us, of everything smashed and shattered.
Your hand. I’m holding your hand with my hand.
The ventilator breathes out, you breathe in; clicks; in, you breathe out.
I’m here for you. Can you feel me holding your hand?
I want you to feel me holding it. My palm to your palm. Fingertips on the back, by your wrist, our thumbs turned around each other. Can you feel the life coming into you through my palm? Good energy, good energy coming into your palm from my palm.
I want you to know what’s happening to you. You were in a car crash. You were hurt. You’re in the General Hospital. They’re keeping you asleep on purpose, because they want to see if your body can heal itself. Do you understand?
In; clicks; out.
But listen, it’s really important you listen to me.
They’re talking about turning off the machine. You need to get strong enough do this on your own.
So if you can just get a little bit better, just try to get on top of this – now’s the time. Now’s a really good time.
Your mum’s here, and your – your dad’s here too.
We all just want–
Baby, you can’t go, you can’t go.
Who’s going to buy me silly stocking fillers at Christmas?
I need you to look at my garden designs. For the course. I need you to approve them.
How could you leave me to do that?
Are you receiving me?
Can you feel my thumb stroking your knuckles? Can you feel my hand?
‘There we go,’ says Sheila as the burly young student nurse fastens the final buttons on my pyjama jacket, ‘a bit of cleanliness makes the world go round.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
‘No worries,’ says the nurse. ‘Thank you.’ He turns to Sheila. ‘What should I …?’
‘Take the water though to the washroom down the corridor on the right, and you can pour it away there.’
The nurse flicks me a look and a shy smile before leaving.
‘There we go,’ says Sheila. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘It’s fine. Hard work being a student.’
‘Lovely, now, I’d better go and check on the lunch orders and make sure–’
‘Sheila–’
‘Yes, lovey?’
‘Do you have the number for Kelv? The man I spoke to on the phone.’
‘Phone number? Yes, of course.’
‘Will you phone him? Tell him I want to speak to him.’
Her face lets slip no glimmer of opinion.
I’m grateful.
I– What’s that?
For a moment I could honestly feel the shape of your hand in mine. The softness of your skin. Are you back now, for me? Now that I am the one in the hospital bed? Are you holding my hand, like I once held yours?
I’m here.
I’m going to imagine you here.
I’m here.
My hand cradled in yours.
Your hand.
Your hand.
Your thumb tenderly strokes my knuckles.
I need you to tell me this is the right thing to do.
You know it’s the right thing.
The quietest of knocks, just enough to make the wood of my door resonate.
My dull brain sharpens once more to see what’s what.
‘Hello, mate, how are you doing?’
‘Hi, Kelvin.’
‘How are you doing today?’
‘Not great.’
‘No, no.’
There seems to be no hint of the bad feeling of our last phone call. Good. I’m glad of that. Life’s too short.
‘Sheila told me you wanted to see me.’
I beckon him in, gesture him over to the chair.
The door, which he left open is now fixed shut from outside, and I see the stipple of Sheila’s tunic as she drifts away beyond the slot window.
‘Well,’ says Kelvin, ‘it’s a nice old day out there. Nice and sunny. Not too windy. Perfect, really. I’d take you out again today if I could, but I think you wouldn’t thank me for that, would you?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe next time, then eh? If you concentrate on getting a little bit stronger, you and I can go out there and have a bit of an old roll around the gardens.’
His nervous jabbering slows to a halt. Of course, he wants to see why I’ve summoned him here.
And I’m not sure. I’m going to have to–
‘I wanted to make sure we’re OK.’
‘Of course we’re OK, mate, don’t be daft.’
‘You’re a good friend.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ he says, again, and looks away.
‘I want a favour.’
‘Oh, typical,’ he says. Forced amusement.
‘I can trust you.’
‘You can.’
‘I want you to make sure they’re all right. Laura. Mal’s mum and dad.’
‘Of course.’
‘When I’m gone. I want them to be OK.’
‘Yeah. Of course.’
This isn’t going in the direction I want it to. Be more direct.
‘My funeral.’
Kelvin sighs and sets himself to say something.
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I didn’t want one. I hate fuss. But it’s – it’s for others. Other people.’
‘People will want to pay their respects.’
‘Yeah, well, I want it to be me. I want them to – to know me.’
‘Ah, mate,’ he says, ‘I’m really pleased to hear you say it. It’s definitely the right thing.’
‘So: music.’ I let go a wobbly sigh, look up at the ceiling. ‘“Closer” by Low.’
Kelvin scrabbles around for his phone and makes a note of what I’m saying.
‘And I like Gillian Welch singing “I’ll Fly Away”.’
‘Right.’
‘They’re me. That last one’s a bit happy, anyway.’
‘Anything else?’
‘“Monkey Gone to Heaven”?’
He looks up at me a moment, before smiling and shaking his head.
‘I’ve always thought the can-can is unfairly overlooked.’
I tense. Laughing, after a fashion.
OK, now we’re getting somewhere.
‘Something to make them feel better,’ I say. ‘I can trust you.’
‘Of course you can, mate.’
‘And – could you write some words? Something that means something?’
He looks genuinely taken aback. ‘Well – yeah. I’d be honoured. Are you sure you trust me to do it?’
�
��I want you to do it. If you could just– just say–’ Sudden unexpected choke in my throat. This is hard. ‘Could you just say that I knew – a bit late in the day maybe but, I realized that – you know, I shut myself away. And that – that wasn’t maybe the right thing to do. I could maybe have – been around, you know? And helped people through. Does – does that make sense?’
Kelvin nods, wordlessly.
‘And that this funeral is my gesture–’
‘Too much.’
‘Too much?’
‘Yeah.’
‘OK, well, the rest of it, not too sad, not too hilarious. You know me.’
‘Thanks, mate. Thank you. I’ll do that.’
‘Oh, and ashes.’
‘Ashes.’
‘Scattered up on the top of the valley.’
‘Up at the top, right.’
‘Somewhere that feels right.’
‘OK.’
‘There aren’t many trees out there, but – if you happen to see an apple tree–’
‘Apple tree, right–’
‘Just there. At the root.’
‘Got it.’
My mind drifts out the window again, and I push my fingers through my blanket, gather you up around me.
Voice
‘HELLO.’
Wh–?
‘Hello.’
It’s – it’s you.
Clear as day. It’s you.
Your voice. Your friendly voice. Where was that from?
Am I hearing that? Are you really there?
So completely familiar. Familiar voice. Familiar tailoring to the sounds. The tilt and tone, the lift and fall, the pitch and percussion of it. So clear, so clear.
I have a blueprint. Right here, a blueprint of you. No one can take that away from me. I love it, I love it.
‘Hello.’
I can hear you saying it now.
Illuminates my grey brain.
Makes my heart accelerate now. I can feel it pulse now. Through the sheets. Through the mattress. It slows.
‘Hello, baby.’
Pulse up quick again now, pound through the mattress. It’s the tailoring to the sounds, my blueprint of you. I want to be close to you. I want to merge with you.
Hello, hello.
It slows.
Where are you?
Have you come to see me?
I say: ‘Mia?’
‘Morning, lovey.’
Oh.
Sheila.
Gentle Sheila.
That’s a proper sound. Physical sound.
I can hear it with my ears. Oh, that feels different, hearing with my ears. Bass vibrations.
‘I’ve got some fresh water for you here.’
Cruel confusing morphine. It’s confusing. Strange.
Sound. Gentle sound. Low sound. Stirring my grey brain. Strange brain.
‘Let’s wet those lips, OK?’
Cool mess on my lips, my chin. Low relief. It’s dripping, it’s dribbling.
Sheila still speaks to me. Lovely sing-songy voice. Nice voice. But slow, gentle.
‘I’ve been thinking about your A to Z,’ she says. ‘Where have you got up to now? V is it? Or W?’
Voice, voice. Sheila’s voice.
When did I last use my voice?
I want to say, thank you. I’ll try to say–
‘Don’t try to talk, lovey.’
Too dry now. Too parched.
What were my last words? I can’t remember.
I hope I’ve said enough.
Enough for them to be going on with.
Light flick.
Switch on.
All I can feel about me now is a heartbeat in a bed. I can hear it through the mattress. Faster, now faster.
It’s sensed what I’ve seen through the window.
My heart beats out what I have seen.
Should I push the button?
Sheila? Is Sheila there?
No, no.
Faster now, my heart beats in the sheets.
My heart beats and I breathe.
I breathe and I see.
That’s all I am now.
I’m seeing now through the window and beyond. Beyond to the magnolia tree.
In the breeze between the hard-bitten branches of the little tree outside, there flutters and bobs a heart.
A love heart.
A crochet love heart.
It’s there. Look, it’s really there, in the tree.
I can see it.
Wings
I’M UP ABOVE the valley.
I’m here. I can sense it here all around me.
I can feel the sun’s warmth, my blood basking beneath the surface.
And it’s you.
You, look, you’re holding up your palms and crossing your hands now, pressing your thumbs together to make a bird. A fluttering bird.
I take my right hand, press it to your left, thumb to thumb.
A bird. A fluttering bird.
Hold our hands against the sky.
Fluttering, fluttering in the blue.
Two songbirds, fluttering on the eddies, energized by the fruit from the tree, out in the gasping yawn of valley air. That’s when we’ll be together, mingling in the wind.
You’re smiling and widening your eyes.
Your eyes.
‘Oh, it’s so good to see you,’ I’m saying. ‘I thought I’d never see you again.’
Let me look at you, let me drink you in.
‘You look so well and so happy. Are you happy?’
‘Really happy.’
‘Oh, I’m so pleased. This is amazing. You look amazing. I’ve missed you so much.’
‘Miss you too.’
‘I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’
‘I know.’
‘You were so straight and clear and good and honest with me. I’m so sorry.’
‘I know.’
‘I can’t even ask for your forgiveness. You must never give me it.’
‘Nothing matters.’
I can’t tell you what a relief it is. After all these years. You’re exactly, exactly as I remember you, only clearer. Crystal clear. Your eyes glisten brightly for me.
‘Will you give me your hand?’
‘Here.’
I can feel it! I can feel the soft skin. I can feel you stroking my knuckles with your thumb.
‘Hereing me.’
‘Oh yes, yes. I am hereing you.’
‘Knowing my words.’
‘They sound just the same, exactly the same as they used to.’
‘Same sound, no sound.’
‘Can you hear me now? Do you know my words at the same time as I think them?’
‘I know.’
‘Forgive me.’
‘Come.’
‘Where are you going? You’re not going, are you? Please don’t go.’
‘I won’t leave you. Here for you. Don’t worry.’
Washed-out quality of your voice.
Signature squiggles of birdsong.
The flutter of wings.
Ohhh.
Still here.
Awake for ever.
This breathing, this breathing.
Like through a drinking straw.
Sleep won’t come.
Lying across the pain.
Pain like a branch through my back.
Sharp twisted tree branch.
Tinkle trolley.
‘Hallo, lovey, it’s only me. It’s only Sheila.’
Tinkle tinkle.
There it goes. Hm.
Tinkle tinkle.
The people don’t speak to me now. Not Jef, not Jackie. Only Sheila.
Good good.
Speak stirs the chemicals, busy head.
Keeps me awake.
No more.
Good.
They’re good people.
Good people.
Angels.
Night now.
Shhh.
Shhh shhhh shhhut up.
‘Morning, lovey.’
Tinkle, tinkle.
Here comes trolley.
Drink, I can’t drink.
Good, go.
I like it when nothing happens.
What was I, what was I supposed to be–?
I?
‘Hallo, lovey. It’s only me. It’s Sheila.’
Sheila.
‘I’m just going to take your blanket, OK? Let me unhook it from your fingers here, so we can sort your bedding out, OK?’
Mm?
‘I’m just going to put it by your bedside, all right? It won’t be far away.’
No. I–
No – no, that’s not right.
I don’t feel right.
Cold.
Cold now.
X
WH–?
Familiar sound of the double doors slipping shut off down the corridor.
Doesn’t feel quite–
Who’d be walking down there now?
It just feels – wrong. Seems – against the routine. What’s–?
Ridiculous. Stop, stop.
Stop thinking.
I have it in my mind that Mal is approaching, wafting through the double doors, unchecked, unbalanced.
Ease off now.
That’s mad thinking.
Mini squeak of shoe rubber on glossy floor. Trapped and amplified by the shiny walls.
He is out there. That’s enough for me: these two things. Door slip, wrong time of day; squeaky shoe.
Who else could it be?
No.
Fix eyes shut.
Think of other things.
X. X-ray.
Xylophone. Ribs as a cartoon xylophone.
Xs for eyes.
X-chromosome.
‘All right, fella.’
Wh–?
Brain on.
Flicks on like a security light. There’s – was there movement over by the doorway?
Anything?
Is anybody over there?
My ears listen out, but I’m too asleep to open my eyes. I’m realizing I’m more asleep than I thought. Can’t – move.
There’s nothing there.
Same old night terrors.
Brain off.
‘Y’all right, are you?’
On.
Over by the doorway, at the foot of my bed, definitely.
The room remembers the sound.
Paintwork resonates.
‘Nice place you’ve got here. All mod cons.’
