Dancing With Mortality

by Mark McKay

  Sophie reappeared. ‘Well done, Daddy.’ She held up her hand as Clive began to speak. ‘You had to know sometime, I’m surprised it’s taken this long.’

  Harry slept badly. A part of him retained a peripheral awareness of the room, even with his eyes closed, and just as he began to sink into unconsciousness he would mysteriously snap back to a state of semi-wakefulness, as though a mild electric current had been passed through his brain, forbidding him to sleep. After some time he stopped trying. He got up with the sunrise and the dawn chorus, feeling disturbed and unrested.

  He didn’t feel like eating right away. He decided to wait till mid morning, and once the supermarket opened he’d get fresh croissants for breakfast. Right now it was that time just after dawn when the world felt new again. There was a light mist over the field behind the house, dissolving as he watched in the warmth of the new day’s sunlight. He pulled on his jeans, jersey, and Wellingtons and headed to the bottom of the garden, unlatched the wooden gate and stepped on to the damp green grass.

  He was quite alone as he walked across the field. He didn’t want to think, and perhaps because he was tired his mind decided to co-operate, turning down the volume on the usual chatter of thought to an unobtrusive level. He passed through pockets of mist, aiming for the fence dividing this field from the next, about 100 yards ahead. Right by the fence he could see two large copper beech trees, their auburn colour contrasting sharply with the other predominantly green trees around him. As he looked, the morning sun bathed them in bright light, turning the auburn leaves to a shimmering gold. For a long moment he stood there, completely absorbed by the beauty of this unexpected spectacle, and totally one with the view in front of him. Nothing else existed.

  He snapped out of it, after how long he wasn’t sure. I must have seen that view a thousand times, he thought, but never like that. He walked back to the house, feeling unusually serene. It was still far too early to go croissant hunting, so he returned to bed, and this time there were no electric currents. He slept until Sophie called four hours later.

  She asked him how he was feeling.

  ‘Better now. Though I didn’t sleep well last night. Sorry if I upset your parents, by the way.’

  ‘Well, they were certainly shocked. Daddy apologises for upsetting you too.’

  ‘After all this time I’m surprised it still gets to me. Just feels like unfinished business.’

  There was a short silence while she digested this. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean, “unfinished business”’?’

  He yawned. ‘I’m not sure I know the answer to that one. Don’t know why I said it. Can you come back today? I miss you.’

  ‘Pick me up from the station later. I’ll call you when I’m on the way.’

  He smiled. ‘Ok, will do. Now I need some breakfast.’

  The following week a letter arrived from the surgery, informing Harry that his blood test had come back positive. An appointment had been made for him with a specialist at Thomas’s hospital in London, so a few days later he found himself attending a morning clinic. After a long wait while several other people preceded him, he was finally called in to the consultant’s office.

  ‘Have a seat, Mr Ellis.’ His consultant sat studying the notes in front of him. ‘I’m Dr Ashe.’

  Harry did as asked, and waited. Shortly afterwards the doctor looked up at him.

  ‘Hepatitis C, what do you know about it?’

  Harry had to admit his ignorance on the subject. Dr Ashe nodded, leaned back and contemplated the ceiling.

  ‘It’s a blood borne virus, which attacks the liver. Left untreated it can do enough damage to precipitate cirrhosis and possible liver failure.’ He didn’t register Harry’s look of alarm. ‘We can’t say how long you may have had it. Have you ever injected hard drugs, had a blood transfusion before 1989...’

  ’Bingo,’ chimed in Harry. ‘Blood transfusion, 1981.’

  ‘That could well be the event. How much do you drink by the way?’

  ‘I don’t count,’ replied Harry. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘Alcohol speeds progression. Avoid it.’

  Wonderful. ‘Anything else I should know?’

  He was told of the treatment on offer – a chemical cocktail with possible adverse side effects and a 50% success rate, that the disease progressed at different rates in different people but was often fatal, and sometimes a liver transplant was the only option left if nothing else worked. He felt slightly overwhelmed by the extent and nature of this new information.

  ‘How long does it take to kill you then?’

  ‘You may die of old age first. Or not. But I think treatment is the best course of action. Liver failure isn’t a pleasant experience, so think about it and make a follow-up appointment in any case. We like to monitor people.’

  He left the hospital, reflecting on what he’d been told as he walked across Westminster Bridge. He couldn’t absorb the implications all at once – an hour ago he was as healthy as ever and now he was about to meet the Reaper. He needed a drink. He stopped at the next pub he encountered and ordered a whisky. Sitting nursing the drink, he wouldn’t accept that his diagnosis might mean a premature death. On the other hand, why be surprised? Death could come at any time. All he had to do was think of Natalie to know that.

  After 20 years the pain of Nat’s death was still with him. Occasionally he dreamed about the explosion and would wake up sweating. No one had been arrested, and Litchfield had kept insisting that O’Reilly was the man responsible. Harry was still inclined to agree, even in the face of Michael’s denial, which he’d never mentioned to Litchfield. He had stayed quiet about their meeting at Siobhan’s funeral. Harry had left Ireland shortly afterwards, and Michael O’Reilly had effectively disappeared.

  Harry had arrived in London, intending to stay a short time and then return home to New Zealand. That didn’t happen. He rented a small flat in Notting Hill Gate, financed by the payments SIS continued to make him – blood money. The money was still going into his account now, though he hadn’t seen anyone from SIS since Dublin. It was easier back then to pretend he preferred living in Europe, rather than face the condemnation of Nat’s family back home. And after a while he stopped thinking about it. He took a course in computer programming and began working in financial institutions in the City. And now he was a process analyst, and concerned himself with business problems and their solutions. His embryonic career as a linguist with academic aspirations had been packed away in the box marked ‘Ireland. Not to be disturbed.’

  And apart from the dream, it rarely was disturbed. He finished his drink. He’d taken the morning off work for this appointment, and intended to get in a half day at the office. He could walk to the City from here, along the embankment. He liked that walk and it was a beautiful day. The sun warmed his back as he strode by the river, admiring the view. He could see several cranes in action, and realised that ever since he could remember the cranes had been a part of the City of London skyline. He smiled to himself. Should be a nice town when it’s finished, he thought.

  ‘I had a mystical experience the other day.’

  ‘Really, Harry,’ said Cindy. ‘Is this a common occurrence?’

  Dr Lucinda Roberts was a psychotherapist with a practice in Chelsea. He’d been seeing her twice a month for the last year, albeit at first reluctantly. When Sophie had insisted he do something to address his drinking, which she thought was his way of ‘self medicating’ his anger at Natalie’s death, he’d picked up on the unspoken implication that if he didn’t agree his marriage might be headed for trouble. There were times, especially after a few glasses of wine, when he would snap at her irritably, which almost inevitably precipitated a shouting match, though he was the one doing most of the shouting. Sophie would rise to the bait for a short while, then she would sit quietly looking miserable till he shut up. He hated himself the next day, but it seemed a pattern had developed.

  Sophie knew Lucinda, or Cindy as she preferred to be c
alled, through Susanna, who had apparently consulted Cindy some years ago. Harry had never asked why, but he was almost certain Clive was the reason. Another man who drank too much, perhaps he was hell to live with too. So in the interests of marital harmony he had consented to meet Cindy.

  She was in her mid-40’s and rather too glamorous in his opinion for her profession. He had a pre-conception of a serious spinster type with horn rimmed glasses who spoke with perfectly received pronunciation, but Cindy was petite and well shaped, with a mane of shoulder length blonde hair, which tended to fall over her eyes on occasion. When this happened she would toss it back over her shoulders with a theatrical nod of the head, which always momentarily startled him. She had a penchant for short skirts and black stockings, and he often found himself distracted, especially when she crossed her perfect legs to reveal a generous expanse of thigh as the short skirt got even shorter. He was sure she did it to titillate him, and considered it to be rather unprofessional, but he thought, what the hell, they were there to discuss his neurosis, not hers, he would put up with her quirks. And she was Australian, though the accent had been diluted after ten years in London. For some reason their shared Antipodean heritage gave him a sense of connection, and though he knew it was irrational, it helped to relax him nevertheless.

  He realised he was staring at her legs again and had missed her last remark.

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’

  ‘Tell me about your mystical experience, Harry. You went quiet for a minute.’

  ‘Sorry, lost in thought.’ He described his meeting with the beech trees. ‘For a while it seemed I just forgot myself completely, it was actually quite beautiful. I don’t remember ever feeling like that.’

  ‘What do you think it means?’

  ‘I have no idea. Maybe it means there are opportunities to transcend my mundane little world from time to time. Just thought I’d mention it to you.’

  Her hair was getting unruly. Here it comes, he thought, the toss of the head, but she didn’t oblige. ‘What else has happened since we last met?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I’ve been diagnosed with a possibly fatal illness, otherwise nothing much.’

  The head went back, and the mane was restored to order. He thought about suggesting an Alice band, but restrained himself.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What sort of illness?’

  After he’d recounted his visit to Thomas’s she asked him how he felt about it.

  ‘Scared, worried.’

  ‘Angry?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens.’

  ‘Perhaps your mystical experience and your illness have a connection,’ mused Cindy.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sometimes, when people have an existential crisis they start seeing the beauty in everyday things around them that they never noticed before. When they realise their time in this world is finite after all, they start paying attention to things that have always been there, but that they’ve never really seen, if that makes sense. As a culture we do a lot of looking without seeing.’

  ‘Is that what I’m having – an existential crisis?’

  Cindy smiled. ‘I shouldn’t be putting words into your mouth. Will you take the treatment?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Maybe.’

  ‘And how are you and Sophie doing?’

  He thought for a bit. ‘We’re doing ok. I don’t shout at her for no reason as much as I did.’

  She smiled. ‘Good. I’m pleased to hear that. Are you still angry about Natalie?’

  He sighed. ‘Yes, that never changes.’

  A week later he was still undecided on what to do about his hepatitis. The research he’d done had not given him huge cause for optimism. The side effects of the drugs on offer ranged from mild itching and fatigue to full blown depression and psychosis. It was hardly an appealing treatment regime, but it seemed there was no alternative.

  Sophie’s reaction didn’t help either.

  ‘Is it contagious?’ She looked slightly disgusted.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Transmitted blood to blood I think he said.’ He realised with alarm that he hadn’t considered the possible effects on people close to him. ‘You can get tested, maybe you should.’

  ‘What about sex, Harry?’

  ‘We didn’t discuss sex.’

  ‘Well, find out please. I suppose I will have to get tested. How horrible.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’ She looked less than convinced. ‘But yes, I’ll find out for you.’

  He couldn’t swear to it, but he felt that for the rest of the evening she went out of her way to make sure he wasn’t too close to her. And sex was most definitely off the agenda that night.

  Chapter 11

  The following evening found him in a wine bar near Brick Lane, with a friend from work. It was low lit and cosy, with candles burning on strategically placed wine barrels to enhance the ambience. A half-full bottle of good claret stood between them. One bottle had already been disposed of.

  ‘You know, Neil, I’ve never been mad about financial services,’ said Harry.

  ‘Just mad about the money, Harry’. Neil was another contract analyst at the bank. He was ten years younger than Harry, single, good looking, and he dressed the part of the City wide boy. He was also intelligent and funny, with a dry sense of humour that Harry found refreshing.

  ‘Yes, it’s always about the money, and then about more of the money. Non-stop really.’

  ‘Very profound of you, Harry. Have some more wine. I’m just going to powder my nose. Can I interest you?’

  ‘Thanks, Neil, but alcohol is my poison of preference. Go ahead mate’.

  When Neil came back his eyes had that certain sparkle. Harry smiled in spite of himself.

  ‘I was going to suggest a restaurant, but no doubt your appetite is non-existent now’ he said.

  ‘We should sustain ourselves on nothing but liquids and chemicals, Harry. I swear by it.’

  ‘Don’t know how you do it, actually.’

  ‘Listen, Harry, the only really important thing in life is the pursuit of pleasure – women, drugs, money, that’s my religion. Excess is the only rule I live by. Hell, you could be dead tomorrow.’

  How very true, thought Harry.

  Neil disappeared again to replenish his nose. Harry looked across the room at a group of young women laughing at something over their drinks. One of them, a dark-haired, Italian-looking beauty, looked across at him briefly and flashed a smile. He smiled back. They look so beautiful and alive he thought. He felt a stab of anxiety. One day, this will all be gone, I’ll be dead, and what the hell will it have all been about? Perhaps Neil has a point after all.

  Feeling rather dispirited by this turn of thought, he reached for the claret and poured another glass. Nothing more wine wouldn’t fix. His mobile rang. It was Sophie.

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked.

  ‘With someone from work. Wine bar in Brick Lane.’

  ‘Right.’ There was a pause. ‘I had a blood test today. It will take a week to come back.’

  ‘Yes, sensible thing to do,’ he began, but she cut in.

  ‘I’m staying in Fulham for a while, Harry. There’s so much to do at work and it’s just easier than commuting every day. You’ll be ok on your own for a bit, won’t you?’

  ‘How long is “a bit”?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She sounded irritated. ‘I’ll call you when I do. Bye, darling.’

  ‘Sophie, hang on...’ She’d gone. He leaned back in his chair. Didn’t see that coming. Was he becoming untouchable? No, she was just overreacting.

  Meantime, Neil had reappeared.

  ‘Everything ok, Harry? You look a bit pissed off.’

  ‘Do I? Piece of advice, Neil. Don’t get married, it’s far too much like hard work.’

  Neil grinned. ‘I take it that was your wife. Well, if that’s the effect she has then your advice is duly noted.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’v
e got to move. Meeting a lady for a late dinner. Sorry to leave you in the lurch, she’s just texted me. I’d forgotten all about it.’

  ‘That’s fine, Neil. I need to get the train soon anyway.’

  Neil departed, and Harry examined the wine bottle. One more glass in there he thought. I’ll finish that and I’m out of here. He filled his glass, wondering whether he should call Sophie. He sat, mobile in hand, then returned it to his pocket. Can’t reassure her without any facts to back me up he thought. And not until she has her test results. It will be ok.

  He was aware of someone beside him. He looked up.

  ‘Hello, Harry.’

  For a moment he was nonplussed. The man next to him was in late middle age, wearing a well-cut pinstripe suit. Grey-haired, with almost feminine eyelashes, and smiling at Harry’s obvious lack of recognition.

  ‘It has been a while since we last met.’

  ‘Christ, is it you Jack?’

  ‘One and the same,’ replied Jack Hudson. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  Harry stared back blankly. Then he found his voice. ‘No, of course not. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘I’ll get you one. Give you a chance to recover. I wonder if this place serves Irish whiskey.’ He headed off in the direction of the bar.

  Harry watched him go. Jack Hudson, who he hadn’t seen for 20 years. What on earth was he doing here now? He took a few deep breaths. Maybe he’d had too much wine and was hallucinating. He suddenly felt as though the last 20 years had dropped away. Perhaps he should just nip outside and reassure himself that he was in Brick Lane and not Dublin. He decided against it. After all, if it did turn out to be Grafton Street out there, what would he do next?

  Jack returned, pulling up a chair opposite.

  ‘They do have whiskey.’ He handed one to Harry, raising his own glass. ‘Slainche.’

  ‘Cheers. How did you find me?’