There’s an oversized gobstopper in my mouth. My tongue.
‘Hell me, leese.’
The window lowers by a few inches. I make like a dog locked in a car on a summer’s day.
‘Clease,’ I say firing blood and spit and god knows what into the man’s face. ‘Hell me, m’dying.’
To the driver I’m nothing more than a wasp. He swats at me and we wrestle for a few seconds. Then I catch sight of his face.
No, it can’t be.
Pressman?
‘Cressman?’
A woman screams. I stagger back. He speeds off.
Pressman. Of all the people.
Police car rounds the corner. Lights blinding. Siren explodes in my mind. Sends my chimney toppling in the opposite direction. I don’t bother trying to steady myself. In this light, and with my back to them, I look like a drunk. At least that’s what I’m hoping.
I hold my breath.
The siren grows louder. Louder. Deafening now.
Then quietens.
It’s followed the ambulance. As soon as I make that connection, I’m running again.
A few hundred metres and I see a black cab parked. The light’s not on but that doesn’t stop me falling into the back seat.
‘Here, you ain’t my fare,’ a podgy-faced cabbie says to his rear view mirror. It’s an effort for him to twist in his seat and look back at me.
‘Fucking ‘ell son, you’re in a bad way.’
Coming from him, that’s saying a lot.
‘I meed a ‘osbital.’
‘Hospital? I’ll say you do, son, but–’
Another withdrawal from my inside pocket silences him. Can’t feel my hands anymore. I daren’t look at the amount that I’ve produced this time. The cabbie does though. His eyes are saucers. He indicates. Pulls out.
‘They’ll only miss the first act,’ he says, consoling himself.
We’re a mile or so along the road before he disturbs me again.
‘So what ‘appened son? You pick the wrong pub? Get too close to the football crowds?’
I murmur something. Even that hurts.
‘Yeah, it’s fucking disgustin’ the way they go around. They only gets fired up every couple of years when a bunch of overpaid ponces lose on penalties. Want’s sorting out, like the rest of this country, but it’ll never change, there’s too much been allowed to ‘appen. And who’d do it anyway, eh?’
Oh no, please no, this is the last thing I need.
‘It’s like that little fucker who blew up that plane up yesterday. They reckon they know where he is, but will anyone lift a finger to catch ‘im? Will they bollocks!’
I lean as far forward as my head will allow.
‘Dey- dey’ve found humm?’
‘Yeah, got ‘im tracked like a homing pigeon according to the news, just a matter of time. You want my opinion, they should make an exception and bring back the rope–’
But all this is too much for me. A flush of watery blood pours from my mouth and splashes onto the cab floor.
The driver hits the brakes.
I feel the cold sting of the elements again.
‘Come on out, son, that’s the way. This is as far as I’m allowed to take you, I’m afraid, but the hospital’s only a few hundred yards over Waterloo Bridge. You’ll be alright.’ He helps himself to the money in my hand. ‘You look after yourself, eh?’
From the comfort of a sopping kerbstone, I watch the hackney pull away.
Cars pass by. Spray my face.
Winding black strips of screeding cover the tarmac surface. Remind me of the junk that I have pumping through my veins.
Standing makes me retch again.
If there’s any part of me that’s not torn or frayed or purple or broken or on the verge, then it must be a memory.
Stagger on. Dark blurs pass me by. Wall leads to a cold rail. Must be on the bridge. Pavement’s flat but I climb it regardless. Just keep putting one in front of the other.
Lights dim. Cold railing guides me. Darkness on either side.
Where’s the emergency lighting? I’m lost.
‘Where you gonna fucking go now, Shill?’ Carl’s voice snarls at me through the white noise. I feel myself shout back, though my voice is inaudible.
‘You can button it. You only got what you deserved. Anyway, you’re not even dead? You’re not, are you? Are you?’
Clap of thunder. Wind billows behind plastic sheeting.
‘What are you going to do now, Felix?’ Paul asks.
‘And you can shut the fuck up as well; you’ve done no better, nothing more than a would-be pimp’.
But he’s right, isn’t he? What are you going to do now? That’s the question right there, isn’t it? The one you’ve been dodging this whole time. Come on now. Time to be honest. That’s the reason you came up with the list in the first place, isn’t it? This whole exercise has been nothing more than a distraction.
The aerial of my portable set’s gone. The picture’s shifted into monochrome. My father steps to within an inch of my face.
‘Felix, where are you going with all this?’
‘Fuck you, too; it’s all your fault. You killed him. Killed her. Killed me.’
These silly reunions, they’ve been nothing more than a means to buy some time, as a way for you to avoid facing up to the responsibility.
Specks of distant light are all that I can make out among the blizzard of noise.
‘So what now?’ I hear Demeter ask. ‘You walking out on me as well?
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.’ Blubbering now. ‘I tried to tell you, I did, but you wouldn’t listen.’
Well, no more. It’s time you faced up to the truth. Should’ve left it well alone. You were almost healed. Almost cured.
Sirens. In front. Behind. All around. Getting closer. I hear a woman’s voice.
‘What are you going to do now, Felix?’ a soft, sweet voice asks.
‘Kalila? Katharine? Help me. Help me please, I’m not a bad–’
‘Daddy, you will be home in time for my birthday party, won’t you?’
‘Amelie! Oh Amelie, I’m sorry, baby. I’m so–’
Blue lights flicker through the snowstorm.
‘Got ‘im tracked like a homing pigeon.’ The cabbie’s words reverberate.
Like a homing pigeon, except you can’t fly home because your wings are useless. You crushed them. All those memories of the past that kept you going, they’re broken now. Spoiled forever. And you can’t hide in the cosy, snug ambiguity of the future because you don’t have one. You don’t know where you’re going.
No past. No future.
You’re trapped.
In the present.
‘Remember, Felix, you’re my little egg. You can still be so many things, but you’re fragile, and you have to take care of yourself. If you’re not careful then you might break.’
‘No, Bebe, no, I can’t. Not any more. Tired. So tired.’
Can’t fly. Can’t go on. Can’t go back.
‘Can’t take it anymore.’
Only one direction left.
I lunge. Fall.
Down.
13
‘And when I woke up, I was here.’
I’m scanning the sparse room that I’m floating in. Four buttery white walls. One tiny window. Two identical chairs. Me in one, an angel in the other.
Shards of light, uncontaminated by dust, are glistening through her long silver hair. Her hands, clasped serenely, are rested on her long white dress. She’s looking at me now, a warm, though slightly bewildered look on her face.
‘And how are you feeling now, Felix?’
I hold my hands open in front of me. They’re glowing.
‘Lighter. I feel lighter.’
‘Any pain?’
‘Yes, but it’s not immediate.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I know that it’s there, but I can’t feel it.’ I try to roll my neck. It won’t budge. ‘Exactly h
ow much have you pumped into me?’
The angel picks up her clipboard, looks back through her notes. The radiance of morning through the window behind her dampens as cloud cover temporarily obscures the sun. My angel vanishes. The eminent Dr. Susan Morton replaces it.
‘Over the last twelve hours you’ve had 100 milligrams of Cadonex.’
‘Any chance that I can get that on a repeat prescription?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ The good doctor is humouring me. She’s been doing a lot of that lately.
‘So what do you think?’ I ask. ‘Your professional opinion? Do I have any marbles left up there?’
She laughs it off. I laugh it on.
‘Come on, don’t worry about my feelings, you can cut straight to it. You know my situation, I’ve got places to be.’
Dr. Morton picks up a jug of water. The build up of oxygen bubbles around the inside of the container reminds me how long we’ve been in here.
‘You want another drink?’ she asks.
‘VAT, please.’
She smiles and fills my polystyrene cup. The pain in my throat is so overpowering that I can only manage a sip.
‘Yours is a fascinating case, Felix, truly fascinating. There’s no question that you’ve suffered a severe trauma, and I believe it’s that which has caused you to behave in the way that you have over the last few days. It’s what we call an acute stress disorder, and is often triggered by a very severe threat to a person’s life or well-being. It can often develop into post-traumatic stress disorder, though in your case, that seems to have occurred rather more quickly than normal.’
‘Post-traumatic stress disorder? Isn’t that what soldiers suffer from? Some kind of Gulf War syndrome?’
‘That’s the most modern name for it, yes, but the condition’s been around for over a hundred years. Da Costa’s syndrome, shell shock, battle fatigue – it’s been called many different things in many different wars, and I believe your symptoms are a variation on that theme. One might say you are an unconventional casualty who mirrors this unconventional war. Tell me, have you experienced any flashback in the last forty-eight hours?’
I shake my head. The good doctor makes a note of it.
‘And although you’ve described feelings of nervousness, they’ve usually been with good reason, so it’s interesting that you almost bypassed the phase of hyper-arousal and proceeded to isolate yourself so soon. Or could it be that your continued substance abuse has simply sedated the desire?’
‘Hold on, hold on.’ I’m giving her my most impassioned gesture to slow down, which at the moment is nothing more than a slight lift of my fingers.
‘You’re well and truly losing me now, I don’t understand a word. Can you not put it in layman’s terms?’
She checks herself. ‘Of course, I’m sorry, Felix. What I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t worry. The impulses and behaviours that you’ve been exhibiting are all perfectly normal. The feelings of detachment, the heightened aggression, the emotional numbness, even the alcohol and substance abuse, they’re all your brain’s way of coping with the shock of death.’
‘Does that mean that I could plead self-defence instead of manslaughter?’
‘Ah, well…’ The brakes go back on. ‘That’s another question entirely, and it’s one that I’m afraid I’m not qualified to answer.’
‘Of course you’re not. So when can I leave?’
‘Is that really what you want?’
‘Yeah, of course, why not?’
‘Felix, you can hardly walk. Do you realise just how close you came to dying last night?’
She shouldn’t make me laugh. It hurts me when I laugh.
‘Dr. Morton – sorry – Susan, have you not been listening? I’m a cockroach. I’m indestructible.’
‘Yes, you might not feel like taking this seriously now, Felix, but you really do need to think this through. Hate the world as much as you like, but it’s never going to change. Next time it might not end as a failed attempt.’
It’s not so much fun when Dr. Morton does the talking.
‘Attempt? What the fuck do you mean, “attempt”?’
‘Witnesses at the scene seemed to think that you jumped from Westminster Bridge–’
‘Jumped? Listen, I wasn’t trying to off myself, you know.’
‘Were you not?’ She’s striking the well-honed balance between concern and scepticism that therapists come equipped with as standard. ‘Then how did you end up in the water, Felix?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t remember.’ Rub my eyes. Try to focus. ‘This is starting to make my head hurt again.’
‘Don’t force it, Felix. There’s no pressure. Why don’t you get some rest?’
I nod.
‘I’ll fetch you something to help you sleep, and then, when you wake up we can discuss your options.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, I’m sure there are a great number of people who are worried about you, Felix. Your family. Friends. The police?’
She dropped that one in nicely. Crafty fucker.
‘I’m not sure that I want to talk to them.’
She’s looking disappointed. Authoritative. I know this technique: it’s intended to make me question my own perception. It’s working.
‘What if I don’t want to speak to them? Will you still get in touch?’
Dr. Morton searches her notes for an answer that we both know isn’t there.
‘Felix, I know at the start of this conversation I swore to you that I would remain impartial–’
‘You did, yes.’
‘And that everything you told me in the confines of this room would remain in the strictest of confidences…’
‘But?’
She’s squirming. ‘But that was before I knew all of the details.’
‘Well that’s just fucking great, you might’ve told me about the terms and conditions of sale before I handed you my life on a platter.’
‘Come on now–’
‘I trusted you.’ See, I’ve got a few tricks of my own. ‘I trusted you, and now you’re just going to hand me over to the very people that I’ve been trying to avoid.’
‘No, I never said tha–’
‘I thought there were rules guarding a patient against this kind of thing in your fucked-up profession. Whatever happened to the Hippocratic oath?’
‘Now, Felix, I’m not saying that I intend to contact the authorities, it’s just that you need to realise how difficult a situation you’re placing me in. Someone might’ve died.’
‘And they might not.’
‘Absolutely, they might not, but don’t you think you owe it to yourself to find out for sure?’
If there’s one thing I have learned in the last few days, it’s that there are some things that you can live with without knowing. Unfortunately, Dr. Morton doesn’t seem to have been listening to my little confession.
‘I tell you what,’ she says, sounding like a schoolmistress. ‘Let’s not make any decisions now. This has been a long session and you must be exhausted. Why don’t you go back to your bed and get some rest, and I’ll make some calls to see if someone matching Carl’s description was admitted on Friday night. Then, once we have the facts in front of us, we can decide how to progress. How does that sound?’
Got to tread carefully here. Keep my options open.
I nod.
‘Wonderful. Now, I’ll ask one of the porters to take you back to your ward and I’ll go and fetch you some more Cadonex to help you sleep.’
And away through the sallow maze of St. Thomas’ Hospital we go.
We’re a little way from the ward, when the good doctor excuses herself with a strained smile and apprehensive pat on the shoulder. If that’s her best attempt to console a man apparently wracked by inner turmoil then we’re both in trouble.
‘What’s that underneath my bed?’ I ask, as I cruise down the ward.
‘Your things,’ the porter replies. ‘All c
lean and dry.’
Yes, but are they all present and correct? That’s what I want to know.
A bear hug into bed, then tucked in and left for dead, the sheets like a straight jacket.
What to do? What to do?
Glance around the ward for some kind of inspiration or hope or solace, but the other inhabitants are of no help at all. None of them want to be here; not the nurses; not the good doctors; and especially not the patients. Their faces are drooping under the weight of apprehension, pain and monotony.
In a futile attempt to help take patients’ minds of their situation and push sand through the hourglass faster, the nursing staff have parked a television at the head of the ward but all it seems to be doing is reminding everyone that life is passing them by. Even the news reporter looks pissed off.
‘…still awaiting the press conference from the Prime Minister, due to be delivered at any moment from here, outside number ten–’
‘What do you mean, “history of heart problems”? I’m sure it has. Same as every other bloody family, if you go back far enough.’
The nurse is trying to mollify the gaunt man lying in the bed next to mine. His incessant noise is making my head hurt. I feel like a newborn baby.
Swaddled.
Trapped.
Scared.
‘Now you listen to me, I’ve been lying here now for two days…’
He shouldn’t worry. The way he’s chomping on that oxygen mask, he’ll be out of here soon enough. A this rate he’ll wind up checking himself out.
‘Bloody obsessed with health, we are. Low cholesterol, high fibre diets, five portions a day, and for what?’ He takes a gulp of air. ‘I ain’t gonna live forever, am I?’ And another. ‘It ain’t natural, living till you’re seventy.’
I can’t help feeling that he’s got a point. It doesn’t stop him fighting for every breath though.
Hold up. Stand by your beds. The eminent Doctor Morton’s back, and she looks pleased with herself. .
‘I came as quickly as I could,’ she says, reassuring me. ‘Good news, I’ve done a bit of ringing around and it appears that your old friend is still with us.’
Try to look happy about that, Felix.
‘Really?’
‘Mmm. He’s in the ICU, but the doctors there are very optimistic. They say, ah, they say, that he has every chance of recovery – every chance – so it’s fingers crossed, eh?’
Felix Shill Deserves to Die Page 33
