by Amy Cross
I slip into the room and carefully push the door shut until it clicks. Making my way across the room, I stop next to the dresser and look down at all Beatrice's old make-up and creams. Even though she was in her eighties when she died, she always liked to get made up properly before she left her room each morning, and sometimes she let me sit and talk to her while she was getting ready. I didn't appreciate it at the time, but now I realize I'm going to miss her so much. It's not fair that people always get taken away just when I become friends with them.
Hearing footsteps in the corridor outside, I turn and look at the door. I'll be in trouble if I get caught in here, but fortunately the footsteps carry on past the door and toward the other end of the corridor. I'm not supposed to spend too much time alone, and I'm definitely not supposed to be in this part of the hospital unattended, but I always feel the need to spend time by myself after I've made Mr. Kenseth feel better. I can't explain it, but I just get this icky feeling that takes time to pass.
Reaching down, I pick up an old lighter that Beatrice seemed to particularly treasure. It's made of whalebone, and she told me once that her sister gave it to her when they were girls. From the way she used to talk about those days, I always got the feeling that she missed her sister very much.
“Everyone thought it was so cool to smoke back then,” she told me once. “We didn't know about lung cancer, we just thought we were these very sophisticated young women with cigarettes in our mouths.”
I'm going to miss Beatrice.
After turning it over in my hands for a few seconds, I slip it into my pocket. I know I shouldn't steal, but all this stuff is going to get tossed into black bin bags and then burned, so I figure no-one'll get hurt if I take just one thing. I want something to remember her by, something that actually meant something to her.
Anyway, I'll ask her if it's okay.
***
“I was going to stay down here with you and talk,” I tell Beatrice as I stand by the pond, watching the fish, “but Mr. Kenseth wants me and Mom to fetch some things for him, so I have to go out. He actually wants us to go outside the hospital grounds for a few hours, which is kind of...”
I pause for a moment, before looking over at her.
“Beatrice?” I continue, noticing the glazed look in her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I'm just trying to remember what happened,” she replies, sitting on a bench next to the dilapidated little pagoda. “I'm not sure that I remember anything very well right now. I think...” She pauses again. “It's all very strange.”
“That happens,” I say quietly. Beatrice seems to be deteriorating faster than the others, which I guess is probably because she was already so old when she died.
“I remember being in my room,” she continues, looking down at her veiny hands as she slowly clenches and unclenches her fists, “but before that, I don't really know where...”
I wait for her to finish.
“You lived in Bristol,” I tell her. “That's what you said, anyway. You were a schoolteacher.”
“That's right!” she replies, turning to me with a look of hope in her eyes. “I was, wasn't I? I was a schoolteacher at the primary school near the hill. I taught all kinds of subjects in a little room at the end of one of the corridors, and there were so many lovely children... I loved teaching them, and seeing their little smiles when it was time to play a game, and...”
Again, her voice trails off, and the hope seems to drain from her face. She's already forgetting again.
“You went on a cruise once,” I remind her. “All around the Mediterranean, with your husband.”
“Yes,” she replies, “I had a husband, didn't I? His name was -”
I wait, hoping she'll remember by herself.
“Joe,” I remind her eventually.
“Yes, Joe,” she says with a smile, as if the name brings back so many happy memories. “Oh, my darling Joe, he was so big and strong. The first time I met him, I knew he was the man I'd marry. What happened to him? It's been so long since I -”
Before she can finish, she seems startled by something, and she turns to look over her shoulder.
“Did you hear something?” I ask, realizing that she's already reaching the end. I never knew it could happen so fast. This isn't fair.
“Didn't you?” she replies. “Someone... There! Did you hear it that time? Someone called my name!”
I take a deep breath. Why does Beatrice, of all people, have to go so soon? I wanted to talk to her some more.
“Who is he?” she asks, turning to me. “There's a man calling my name over and over. It sounds like he's getting closer, but I don't think I recognize his voice at all. It's not my husband, so who is it?”
“He has a name,” I reply.
“Well who is he?” she asks, sounding increasingly worried. “You said there was a man hiding in the bushes. Is it him?”
I shake my head.
“It's a different man?”
I nod.
“This doesn't make any sense to me at all,” she replies. “I thought you were a smart girl, Clay, but now I'm inclined to think that perhaps you're trying to make a fool of me.”
“I should go,” I tell her, making my way over to the bench and stopping in front of her. “I'll be back in a few hours, but you probably...” I pause as I place my hands on hers for a moment. “Thank you for all the times you talked to me in your room, Beatrice. It was really fun. I'll always remember those songs you taught me, and if it's okay with you...” Reaching into my pocket, I take out the lighter I stole a little while ago. “I took this from your room. I wanted something to remember you by. Is that okay?”
“Is it mine?” she asks.
“Your sister gave it to you, remember? When you used to smoke because you thought it was cool?”
I wait for an answer, but it's clear that she doesn't really know what I'm talking about.
“It doesn't matter. Just, please say I can have it, so that I'm not stealing. I'll look after it, I promise.”
“Well, I...” She stares at the lighter for a moment. “I don't know if I'll need it again or...”
“You won't,” I tell her, leaning forward and kissing her forehead before taking a step back. “Goodbye. I hope he... I mean I hope...”
I pause for a few seconds, trying to work out what to say.
“Bye,” I add finally, before turning and hurrying around the pond.
By the time I reach the lawn, there are tears in my eyes, but I know I can't look back. I made that mistake once, when Mr. Rossiter came down to the bottom of the garden, and everything became ten times worse. It's really none of my business what happens down there, and I don't even understand why I seem to be the only one who notices. Mom doesn't see it, neither does Mr. Kenseth, and none of the other residents here have a clue, not until they -
Suddenly I stop in the middle of the lawn as I hear a scream behind me.
It's Beatrice. I'd hoped that she might be spared, but it sounds like he's making her suffer just the same way that he does to everyone else. Turning her inside out, burning her, teasing her with her own mistakes. Sometimes I wonder if this is what happens to every person after they die, or if it's just something that happens here at the hospital. I close my eyes, forcing myself not to turn and look back toward the bottom of the garden, but Beatrice's screams sound so horrific, it's almost as if he's doing even worse things to her. I shouldn't turn and look, I know that, but finally I can't help myself.
Turning, I see that the bottom of the garden has burst into flames. Everything's burning, and Beatrice's screams are coming from the heart of the inferno.
“Hey, Clay,” says a voice suddenly.
Turning back toward the hospital, I find that Mrs. Clacker is moving slowly past me, leaning on her zimmer frame. She's nice and all, and I don't have anything against her, but she's not as much fun as Beatrice. Still, I guess I'll have to try to hang out with her a little more from now on.
“Hello,” I reply,
trying to ignore the screams that no-one else can hear.
“Are you having a nice day?” she asks with a kind smile.
I nod.
“That's good.”
As the screams continue, I watch Mrs. Clacker making her way over to some of her friends, who are sitting at a table by the patio. It's hard to believe that they can't hear Beatrice's agony, but I learned a long time ago that for some reason I seem to be the only one. At first it seemed kind of cool, but now I wish more than anything that there was someone I could ask about the things I see and hear. I don't want to go through my whole life being the only one who knows. Looking back toward the bottom of the garden, I see that the flames are gone, and Beatrice's screams have now become a kind of soft, low moan.
“Clay!” my mother calls from over by the car park. “Sweetheart, come on! Let's go!”
With Beatrice's cries still ringing in my ears, I run toward my mother. Wherever we're going, it'll be good to get away for a few hours. By the time we get back, Beatrice will be gone forever.
Today
It's not until I get all the way to the shopping center on the other side of the estate that I finally allow myself to slow down, eventually coming to a halt next to a shuttered clothes store. Leaning against the wall, I take a moment to catch my breath, although I keep staring back toward the street, just in case anyone's following me.
Dropping to my knees, I pull out the contents of my pockets and spill everything onto the ground. I got a good haul from Carl's coat, and even though it feels bad to have stolen from a guy who was dying, I've been living on the streets long enough to know that cloying sentimentality just gets you dead. I can't let my guard down, not even for a second, or I'll be found again. No matter what happens, I have to stay on my own.
With trembling hands, I pick up the handgun.
I've fantasized for so long about having one of these things. Sure, I've been able to defend myself over the years with a combination of fast reflexes and the occasional slash of a knife, but having a gun changes everything. I can intimidate people and I can go into dangerous situations knowing that I'll always be able to shoot my way out. I'll need to conserve my ammunition, though, and I'll also need to learn how to shoot the damn thing. After checking the handle, I find a safety catch and work out how to take it off. At least that's one rookie mistake I won't be making.
Raising the gun, I aim at a large glowing sign on the shopping center's opposite wall. For a moment, I consider pulling the trigger, before realizing that each bullet is precious.
“Bang,” I whisper, before lowering the gun again and flicking the safety catch back on. Sighing, I realize the truth: there's no way I could ever actually shoot someone. The gun's just to make me feel safe, but I suppose in an emergency, maybe...
I pause for a moment, as a cold wind whips around me.
Looking down at the gun, I suddenly feel nauseous, as if something deep in my body is repulsed by the sensation of cold steel against my skin. I know I should keep the gun, but finally I turn and throw it into the nearby bushes. It's as if, for a few seconds, I forgot what happened to me all those years ago.
No guns. I hate guns.
I hate guns even more than I hate trains.
Once I've gone through all the stuff I liberated from Carl's coat, I put some of it back in my pockets before dumping the rest in a nearby bin. I take a moment to get rid of some more crap that I've gathered lately, but just when I'm about to turn and walk away, I feel something familiar in the bottom of my deepest pocket. Pulling it out, I stare for a moment at the whale bone lighter that I took from an old lady's room many years ago. I turn it over in my hands for a few seconds, but although I've got no use for it anymore, I still can't quite bring myself to throw it away. It's dumb, but I slip it back in my pocket.
“Beatrice,” I whisper, smiling at the memory of the songs she used to teach me.
Hearing sirens nearby, I watch as a police car speeds past. They didn't see me, but I've got no doubt that they're going to be looking for me after everything that happened tonight. Turning, I run along the side of the shopping mall and then into the shadows of the underpass. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's disappearing. Still, it's so cold tonight and I've left it late for finding a good place to bed down. Since it's Christmas Eve, maybe I should go somewhere else for the night. After all, I've still got one friend, and I've even got a gift for him. No-one should be alone on a night like this.
***
“I knew you'd come,” Aaron says as he opens the door. “What's wrong, has the Christmas spirit got into your -”
Before he can finish, he starts coughing, and finally he has to sit on the chair in his dark hallway. Stepping into the house, I leave the front door open and hit the switch on the wall. The bulb above us flickers to life and I step over to pat Aaron's back, hoping to force some of the phlegm up and ease his coughing fit. At first nothing seems to help, so I pat harder and harder until he splutters and pushes me away.
“Merry Christmas,” I say as I crouch next to him. He looks worse than ever, but I guess that's only to be expected. He's clearly lost a lot of weight, which makes the scars on his neck stand out, and there are more bags under his eyes than ever. Even his hair seems to have turned gray.
“Thank you,” he splutters, wiping his mouth. “You too.”
“I got something for you,” I continue, reaching into my pocket and taking out the little bags of weed I stole from Carl. “It's good stuff.”
“You don't have to do this for me,” he replies, taking the bags in his trembling hands.
“How's the pain?”
He doesn't reply as he opens one of the bags and holds it up to smell the contents.
“That does smell good,” he says with a faint smile. “The doctor put me on some new stuff, but it doesn't really do much. Even morphine these days isn't strong enough. I think I must've become completely immune to every painkiller known to man.”
“Except this one,” I point out, tapping one of the bags with my finger.
He smiles, but it's the smile of a man in constant pain.
“So you saw the doctor?” I continue. “What else did he say?”
“Not much. That's what scared me, actually. He never talks about anything apart from the pain, as if he knows...” His voices trails off for a moment. “Hey, do you want to share some of this with me?”
I shake my head.
“It's good for you,” he adds.
“It's better for you,” I point out. “You're the one in pain. Anyway, I don't like drugs much. I don't even like paracetamol or coffee.”
“Well, you're losing out,” he replies, wincing as he gets to his feet and starts shuffling toward the kitchen. “Turn the light off. My last bill was huge, I need to save money. And shut the front door, it's cold out there.”
“I can't shut the door,” I remind him.
“Fine,” he says with a sigh, “but at least do the light.”
Flicking the light off, I follow him and turn on the light in the kitchen. Aaron lives mostly in darkness these days, and I figure the lights only ever come on when I visit. The house is pretty dirty, so I figure I'll give it a clean in exchange for him letting me sleep here tonight, but I know it's a losing battle. He's dying, and he knows it, and the weed I brought him will only help him with the pain for a few hours.
Then again, that's better than nothing.
“Feel free to make yourself some tea,” he tells me as he sits at the kitchen table. “I'm sorry I'm not a good host these days.”
“You're a fine host,” I reply, heading to the counter. When I see the paltry box of old tea bags, however, I realize that I shouldn't take anything from him. “I'll just have water,” I say, grabbing a glass and giving it a clean before filling it from the tap and taking care not to sip from the cracked side. “So is the agency not sending anyone to clean anymore?”
“Not since last month. They've had to make some cutbacks.”
“What about the
home nurse?”
“Cutbacks.”
“I thought the police union was going to pay?”
“Cutbacks.”
I turn to him and watch for a moment as he struggles to roll a joint. Heading over to the table, I take it from his hands and get to work.
“You don't have to do this,” he says after a moment.
“Please,” I reply, “it's painful watching you try to do it yourself.”
“I don't mean that. I mean this. Coming to see me.”
Glancing at him, I can see the look of concern in his eyes.
“Don't worry about me,” I tell him, forcing a smile, “I can take care of myself.”
“You've got your own life,” he replies. “You shouldn't be hanging around with some dying old man, it's pathetic.”
“You don't get a say in the matter,” I tell him as I finish the joint and light it for him, before placing it directly between his lips. “I already told you that. If you stop answering the door one day, I'll just pick the lock.”
He takes a drag on the cigarette.
“I wish this stuff worked faster,” he mutters finally.
“So can I stay tonight?” I ask. “I wouldn't bother you, but -”
“Of course you can stay,” he replies. “Clay, I've told you, you can stay every night.”
“Just tonight. I need to get going tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow's Christmas Day.”
“Not for me.”
“I'm afraid I can't offer a full roast dinner,” he continues. “I did save a microwave lasagne as a treat, though, and we can share it.”
“I don't want to take your food.”
“I can barely eat two mouthfuls at a time. The cancer's spread to my throat, so you'd be doing me a favor.”
“Did it spread anywhere else since last time?”
“This is probably going to be my last Christmas,” he replies. “Come on, stay two nights.”
“Maybe.”
“When you say maybe, what you really mean is no.” Reaching out, he touches my hand. “Jesus, Clay, you're freezing.”
