‘You look as good as new,’ one of the nurses told her.
‘I’ve never looked as good as new,’ Margaret replied. She still wanted to do something about her drooping eyebrows and the bags under her eyes, and her lips and cheeks and forehead and maybe her bum and her boobs. But she had seen enough of hospitals for a while. She was even going to put the Botox needle on the long finger. Or with her luck, through it.
What was concerning her more than anything was the man in her room.
Nurse after nurse was telling her about the pleasant young fella who’d shown her such devotion while she was unconscious. Sitting by her bed, reading to her, arranging her flowers, talking away. They seemed to think he was called Walter. And they were certain that they weren’t getting him mixed up with her soon-to-be ex-husband Billy. But the only Walter she knew … well, she hardly knew him at all. They’d endured one date together and parted acrimoniously. Why on earth would he choose to spend days watching over her? How did he even know she was in hospital?
Unless he poisoned me in the first place. But no, she’d chosen the cafe and the carrot cake at random. There was something more to it. She thought back to their abortive date - she had caught him out in a lie and stormed off even though he had been apologising profusely. Perhaps this was another way of saying sorry, mounting a vigil.
Is that something I should feel good about? Or is it a bit weird?
Every nurse she spoke to confirmed Walter’s devotion, but they all seemed to have slightly different impressions of him. He was fat. He was well-built. He wore glasses. He didn’t. He was cleanshaven. No, a moustache. He chatted amiably. He was quiet and morose. One claimed to have seen him wearing a hospital dressing-gown. Another said he hadn’t washed or slept or eaten the whole time. It was like sightings of Big Foot. Too many to dismiss his existence out of hand, but no hard physical evidence either.
If it was the Walter, and he was supposed to be so devoted, where was he now that she was awake? More to the point, what sort of a hospital would allow a complete stranger to hang about in a patient’s room anyway? Anything could have happened! She’d seen a Pedro Almodovar movie once where an obsessed man had done the business with a woman in a coma, and she’d become pregnant.
What if I’m pregnant?
Margaret knew she was getting a bit ahead of herself, but she had a point. She raised it with the Sister next time she called in.
‘But he was so lovely,’ the Sister said.
‘Well, that’s all right then,’ said Margaret.
The Sister turned to leave.
‘I was being sarcastic,’ said Margaret.
‘Well, it doesn’t become you.’
‘I was just making the point that—’
‘If you’re not happy, tell whoever’s paying for your room. I’m sure they can negotiate a discount.’ The Sister flounced out.
Who the hell did she think she was? Margaret swung two feet out of bed. Nobody talked to her like that. Except for her husband. Sometimes Mr Kawolski at work. And the robbing Millies who plagued her every day in Primark. But apart from them - oh, and Mrs Morrison, who owned the apartment she rented - nobody talked to her like that.
As soon as she tried to stand, Margaret immediately felt a little woozy. She grabbed the end of the bed for support, but was determined to stand upright. She took a deep breath and staggered forward. Then the door opened again. Margaret expected it to be the Sister again, thinking better of her attitude, but instead an extravagant bunch of flowers entered, followed a moment later by the tall, blonde, lithe Emma Cochrane.
The boutique owner smiled widely. ‘Look at you!’
‘Look at me,’ Margaret said weakly, then staggered backwards.
‘Just like Bambi!’ Emma gushed.
Margaret collapsed back on her bed. ‘Sorry, I …’
‘It’s all right! It’s all right!’ Emma rushed forward. ‘You lie back, darling! You’re so weak! What a dreadful experience! But you’re alive! My little genius is alive!’
‘Well, I don’t know about that.’
‘Yes, you are! Oh darling - I have a confession to make!’ She dropped her Prada handbag from her shoulder, undipped the logo lock, and produced a creased brown A4 envelope.
Margaret was feeling a little better now. ‘You took my designs.’
‘Only for safekeeping - and I couldn’t help myself. It was the dresses - they were so fantastic, the thought that there might be more … Please forgive me!’
Margaret nodded, then ventured a hesitant: ‘What did you think?’ Her heart was beating twenty to the dozen, and it was nothing to do with her weakened state. This was her big moment. Did she have what it took to be a fashion designer?
Emma set the flowers on a chair and came and sat beside her on the edge of the bed. She put her arm around her and gave her a little squeeze. She smelled of expensive perfume or fabric softener. Margaret sometimes found it difficult to tell the difference.
‘Margaret, darling, the designs … I’m just lost for words.’
What? Words like crap or rubbish or amateurish or rip-off or pathetic?
‘Well, they’re fairly basic, I’m sure.’
‘They are magnifique!’
‘What?’
‘Magnificent! Fantastic! Superbly original! Dynamic!’ Emma Cochrane didn’t appear to be lost for words after all.
‘Really?’
‘Darling, I’ve been looking for designs like these for twenty years!’ She gave Margaret another squeeze. ‘Do you know what I’m going to do?’
‘No.’
‘I’m going to make us both rich and famous.’
Margaret blinked at her in disbelief. ‘Can I have that in writing?’
25
Dr Chicago
Dr Manuel Speranza had been Chief Medical Officer of La Picota prison, outside Bogotá, for three years. He was a handsome man with short grey hair and a pristine white coat. Although he had a team of four nurses and a junior doctor to assist him, he was primarily responsible for the health of the three thousand inmates with just nineteen beds at his disposal. He had an ulcer. (There is probably a Colombian equivalent of ‘physician heal thyself’, but that should not detain us.) His medical wing had state-of-the-art equipment, thanks to a United Nations grant, but it continually broke down, and even when it was working, the power surges and blackouts meant it was either unreliable or downright dangerous.
La Picota was cramped, dirty, sweaty and provided perfect incubation for 127 different diseases. Competition was intense amongst the prisoners to catch the most virulent and deadly of these, as suffering in the medical wing, with its air conditioning and pretty nurses and decent food was infinitely preferable to suffering in the prison itself, which lacked air conditioning and decent food, and where the pretty nurses were invariably transvestites or transsexuals who, although attractive in a certain light, usually fading, weren’t the same, no matter how willing they were.
Redmond O’Boyle was in the medical wing, recovering from a stab wound to his left buttock. Three men who either disagreed with his training of FARC guerrillas, or just wanted to steal his chicken, had attacked him and he had suffered his wound while running away. If he had stayed to argue either politics or fowl, he would undoubtedly have died. Now he lay face down on a soft bed and sipped warm Coke through a straw. The wound was not particularly serious or painful, but it had to be watched carefully to make sure that infection did not set in. A nurse called Maria was assigned to watch his buttock. She was very pretty, but did not say much. Redmond talked away to her, although she didn’t appear to understand even the most basic English. He told her about his life at home, about the Mourne Mountains in the spring and Van Morrison, and because Maria had brown eyes, he sang her ‘Brown-Eyed Girl’. He also gave her his version of ‘Star of County Down’.
On his third day in the prison hospital wing Dr Speranza arrived at Redmond’s bed shortly after lunch. He examined the wound.
‘How’s it looking?�
� Redmond asked.
Dr Speranza’s English was reasonably good, if quite slow. He stood back, scratched at his brow for a moment, then said, ‘Do you have … English word … for gangrene?’
Redmond swallowed. ‘Ahm, “gangrene” works in English.’
‘Really? It is the same word?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wonder what the origin of it is? Do you think, French?’
‘I don’t know. Doctor, do I—’
‘I do not think Spanish, and it is not harsh enough for German.’
‘Doctor …’
Dr Speranza bent to the buttock again. ‘I am pleased to tell you that there is no sign of gangrene. However, the wound has not yet healed.’ He turned to Nurse Maria and said in Spanish, ‘Maria, you must keep a very close eye on our esteemed guest’s buttock.’
Maria nodded.
‘She is very pretty nurse, no?’
Redmond glanced at Maria, who continued to watch his buttock. ‘Yes,’ he said.
“Very pretty indeed,’ said Dr Speranza, ‘but I do not make love to her.’
‘Oh,’ said Redmond.
‘Though I very much want to.’ Redmond nodded. Dr Speranza smiled. ‘Do not worry, Redmond, she does not speak English. You may speak freely on the subject of her loveliness.’
‘Well, yes. She certainly is lovely.’
‘I think this also. I am married, alas. You are married, Redmond?’
‘No. Yes. I mean - I’m not sure.’
‘Ah - yes, I know. Do you think I look like George Clooney? Many people remark that I look like George Clooney.’
‘Well ...’
‘I big fan of George Clooney. I learn my English from DVD of ER. First season.’
‘Ah. Right.’
‘George Clooney - I think he has his pick of nurses. You think?’
‘I would imagine so.’
‘I think he will be a big star.’
‘Well, I think he actually …’
‘But he will have to leave ER. Perhaps I could be his replacement?’
‘Well …’
‘I have good bedside manner, no?’ Redmond nodded. ‘And I very popular with the pretty nurses, no?’ Redmond nodded again. ‘And I act as well. Just a little. Very small. Colombian TV - not pay well. You think ER is … ambitious?’
‘Well …’
‘Perhaps Chicago Hope. I also have this on DVD. Not as good but perhaps a better place to start?’
‘Could be,’ said Redmond.
Dr Speranza’s brow furrowed suddenly, and he bent back down to examine Redmond’s wound. ‘Oh, my goodness,’ he said. ‘How did I miss that?’
Redmond glanced at Maria. She too was looking concerned. His stomach turned over.
Dr Speranza grabbed the young nurse’s elbow, ‘Maria - I have not seen anything like this in thirty years,’ he said in English. ‘We must operate immediately—!’
Maria jumped to her feet. She was just hurrying away when Dr Speranza caught her arm again and almost twirled her back towards him. ‘Hush, child, hush,’ he said dramatically, then spoke rapidly to her in Spanish.
Anger flashed across her face. Dr Speranza patted her shoulder.
Redmond was beside himself. ‘What’s wrong?’
The doctor looked sympathetically down at his Irish patient. ‘You see, Redmond? I think I make good actor. You both believe. It’s all in the eyes - and intonation.’ He laughed, then moved on to the next bed.
Redmond’s own eyes blazed. He was on the verge of snapping something not very pleasant after the doctor, something which would undoubtedly have resulted in a speedy return to his prison cell, when Maria stopped him, by simply by putting her finger to his lips.
‘Shhh.’
‘But—’
‘Do not lose your temper,’ Maria whispered. The finger lingered where it was for a moment, then slowly dropped away. She had spoken English. Perfectly. Redmond could only wrinkle his brow in a mix of surprise and confusion.
Maria smiled. She moved closer, and began to smooth down his blankets. Then she knelt down by his pillow and lifted his hand, as if she was checking his pulse. ‘Yes, I do speak English, Redmond O’Boyle. And Doctor Speranza is an idiot.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘I wanted to see what kind of a man you are.’
Redmond looked at her oddly. ‘And what kind of a man am I?’
‘You are romantic. Doctor Chicago - that is what we all call him - he thinks he is romantic … but no, you sing to me and you talk even though you do not think I understand. But he is right about one thing - it is in the eyes. That is how you tell if a person has a good soul. You have a good soul, Redmond O’Boyle.’
Well, thought Redmond, who could occasionally be as shallow as a dried-up riverbed, I may be stuck in a Colombian prison with a stabbed buttock, but things are starting to look up.
‘I think you have beautiful eyes,’ he said.
‘Save your bulls**t. I am FARC, and I am here to get you out.’
‘Oh,’ said Redmond.
26
Tomorrow Is Another Day
Later, Walter decided that he’d been drunk with fatigue. How else to explain running away from the hospital like that? Leaving his clothes and wallet and car keys behind like that? And his car clamped and Security probably charging about looking for him, thinking he was a weirdo who sneaked around morgues poking at the dead bodies. In fact, he should have stood his ground and reported them for shipping him to the morgue in the first place, when all he’d done was lie down for a bit of a kip on a spare bed.
Now he was back home, having climbed through the window he’d left ajar for three days and nights. Luckily no one else had climbed in during his absence, although there were paw-prints on the kitchen counter. Probably the neighbour’s cat. He moved along the hall into the lounge. He looked at the newspapers spread across the sofa, the foil dish stained with curry lying on its side on the carpet, the curtains hanging loosely off the rail, the TV with the thin coating of dust, the clock on the wall still not adjusted for summertime. He felt deeply, deeply depressed. He trod up the stairs to his bedroom. The sheets which hadn’t been changed in months, the Venetian blinds bent from poking out to see what the kids in the street were up to, and to watch that twenty-one year old in the mini-skirt from three doors up walking for the bus in the morning.
Is this what my life is?
Yes, it is! The answer seemed to scream from every cobwebbed corner of his house and heart.
I must change this, he decided. Starting tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the first day of the rest of my life.
And if not tomorrow, because I’m going to be absolutely knackered and I need to get to work, then certainly the next day. Or definitely Monday. Get the weekend out of the way first - never a good idea to start—
No!
no! no! no! no!
It has to be tomorrow. For once in my life, I have to follow through on something.
Walter crawled into bed and immediately fell into a deep sleep. He dreamed of gerbils eating their young and naked old women with ash trays on their chests. He was drenched in sweat when he woke shortly after 10 a.m. He made himself do fifteen sit-ups, then showered. He had Rice Krispies for breakfast. He sprinkled on Canderel. It was a year and a half out of date, but he doubted somehow that fake sugar really could go off. Unlike the milk, which was slightly turned.
Then he phoned work.
‘Let me guess,’ said Mark. ‘You’re going to be late.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘In fact, you may not make it in at all today.’
‘That’s a distinct possibility.’
‘Oh, Walter. What are we going to do with you?’
‘Shoot me,’ said Walter.
‘That’s a bit harsh. Although your flexitime is so far into the red you’ll be paying it back till Christmas. That is, if you ever turn up. The good news is, nobody’s missed you yet.’
‘That is good.’
‘The bad news is, that’s not quite true. That funny guy in Office Twelve was asking for you.’
‘Steven?’
‘Is that what you call him? Anyway, he knows you’ve not been in. Don’t know if that’s good or bad, but forewarned is forearmed, or something like that. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, how’s “Girlfriend in a Coma”?’ He sang the last bit. It was an old Smiths’ song.
‘Just the same.’
‘Did you ever see that De Niro film where he was in a coma for like thirty years and then he suddenly woke up and fell in love and then fell asleep again?’
‘No.’
‘Yeah, wasn’t much cop, but just warning you, you might be in it for the long haul.’
‘I know that.’
There was silence for a few moments. Walter didn’t quite know what to say - or how to explain how he was feeling. He felt like he was standing at the edge of a precipice, and the wind was at his back. It would be so easy to fall over. The only thing was, he didn’t know if he was in for a soft landing, in warm water, with bubbles, far below, and that it was therefore something to be embraced, or if he would be dashed to pieces on the rocks.
Mark said, ‘Just to let you know, I passed the first hurdle.’
‘The what?’
‘You know, with the Unionist Party. I went down for a chat and they’re all for building me up as a potential candidate. They think the local council first - they say any idiot can get elected there.’
‘Well, that’s good.’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘You don’t sound over-enthusiastic.’
‘Well, you know - councillors. What do they do? They deal with drains and speed humps. I’d prefer to be where the action is. But they say I have to learn to walk before I run. But what if you’re a natural athlete?’
‘Well, I’m sure there’s things you still have to learn.’
‘Yeah, I know. Although going by the ones I’ve met so far, I have to ask exactly what that might be. Half of them are farmers and the other half are doting.’
I Predict a Riot Page 10
