There was a pip-pip sound on the line to indicate there was someone else trying to call, so Walter made his usual promise - he’d be into work tomorrow - and rang off. Immediately the phone rang again and a woman said: ‘Is that Walter North?’
‘Possibly,’ said Walter, who was naturally suspicious.
‘Walter from the hospital?’
Walter cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t do anything. I just went to sleep and woke up there. I never interfered with anyone.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Walter - this is Jenny. Nurse Jenny? I spoke to you in the cafe, got your clothes washed?’
‘Oh yes. Sorry. Of course.’
‘You just disappeared on us.’
‘Yes, I know - sorry. Bit of a mix-up.’
‘Didn’t know where you’d got to. Had to get the maintenance guy to break into that locker, get your wallet. Luckily found your Xtravision card.’
‘My … ?’
‘Phoned them, they gave us your home phone number - although they say you’re overdue with that dirty movie …’
‘What dirty movie?’
‘Only joking. But your clothes and all your stuff’s here - are you not going to come and get it?’
‘I … Yes, of course. Sorry - I’m just very tired.’
‘That’s all right. I understand that. But still, you must be delighted.’
‘Delighted?’
‘About Margaret being awake and all.’
Walter was silent for a moment, wondering if she was winding him up again. ‘She’s awake?’
‘Yes. Didn’t you know?’
‘No, I …’
‘Oh yes, she’s awake all right.’
‘And no … ?’
‘Brain damage? Paralysis? Not a sausage. She’s full of the joys of spring, so she is.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ said Walter.
‘So you’ll be coming to see her? Will I tell her?’
‘No,’ said Walter. ‘Don’t tell her.’
‘But why not? She’s been asking for you.’
Walter’s heart skipped a beat. ‘She has?’
27
Prelude To A Kiss, Or Something
At first Walter was going to bring Margaret a Get Well Soon gift of hardboiled eggs and nuts, just like in the Laurel & Hardy film. But then he was worried that she wouldn’t get the joke and would think he was an eejit. He’d already made a fool of himself by trying to bring her a bag of hamburger baps - thank God only her estranged husband and his neighbour had been a witness to that one. Perhaps Billy had told her about it - chasing him up the street like the coward he was and yelling dog’s abuse after him. Maybe they’d laughed about it. Maybe they’d looked into each other’s eyes and decided that yes, despite everything, they really did love each other and had now promised eternal devotion. What if Billy had also promised to permanently get rid of that creep who was hanging around the hospital?
But no. Nurse Jenny had said it: She’s been asking for you.
Which meant: She wants to see you. That was a good thing. Unless it was some kind of a trap. An ambush. Perhaps it wasn’t Nurse Jenny at all, but an undercover cop setting a honey trap. Sex-Stalker Trapped by Heroic Coma Girl. Or if Billy had anything to do with it: Fat Speccy Sex-Stalker Trapped by Heroic Coma Girl.
No.
I have to go and see her.
It was just a feeling. In the pit of his stomach, in the cavities of his brain. An instinct. A desire. Their entire history comprised of one miserable date. He had no way of knowing if she was feeling any of the same things he was feeling, but there was only one way to find out.
Or I could phone her, he thought. Send her a letter. A bunch of flowers, and include my phone number. Put the ball in her court.
No.
Today is the first day of the rest of your life, he told himself. You have done your sit-ups. You have sprinkled Canderel on your Rice Krispies. You are sorting your life out and this is one step you have to take yourself. You have to walk in there and use everything in your power to convince her that you are genuine and sincere.
Walter put on his suit. Then he took it off. He put on an open-neck black shirt with short sleeves and a pair of black jeans. He pulled on a Pringle jumper over the shirt, then took it off again. Not playing golf. He tried on a navy zip-up jacket with yellow piping around the collar. There. What they call ‘smart but casual’.
Walter took a taxi into town, then bought an understated bunch of flowers from a proper florists. He went into Waterstones and picked out a biography of Tom Hanks. He stood outside Bar Bacca for ten minutes, debating whether to go in for a steadying drink. Then proudly decided against it. He caught another taxi up to Psyclops Surgeries on the Malone Road. He went straight in. He still had his clothes and watch and wallet to pick up, and the clamped car to sort out, but he could do that later. It was important not to be deflected now. It was a little after 2.05 p.m. Visiting had been underway for five minutes. Walter approached Margaret’s door and peered nervously in.
Billy was standing at the end of the bed.
Walter cursed silently, then hurried on down the corridor and took up a position where he could see if her room door opened, but in the opposite direction to the one Billy would take when leaving. The last thing he needed was another confrontation, or a hiding.
Walter knew from past experience that Billy never spent the full hour visiting. He always left ten minutes early to beat the rush in the car park. He was an accountant.
‘Nice flowers.’
Walter jumped. He turned. The girl from the cafe. Nurse Jenny.
‘Oh - thank you.’
‘You’re not going in?’
‘Her husband.’
‘Oh right.’ Then Nurse Jenny said: ‘Do you want me to throw him out? I could go in and say she needs her rest or an enema or something. I can do that. I have the power.’ Walter smiled, but shook his head. ‘Well, seeing as you’re here, do you want to come and get your stuff?’
‘No, I’ll wait.’
She nodded, understanding. ‘All right. Well, I’ll be around. Just ask for me. And, well - good luck.’ She gave him a wink, then walked on.
No honey trap there then. Walter felt more confident now. He took a deep breath. He needed to use the bathroom, but knew if he did, he was taking the risk of something going wrong. He was that kind of a guy. The guy things happened to. He would be locked in. His trousers would be ripped off in a bizarre hand-dryer malfunction. But he had to. Wouldn’t be able to settle otherwise. Nothing worse than trying to have a life-changing encounter while busting for a pee.
He went. He washed his hands. He dried them carefully. He checked his hair, his face for dry skin, his jacket for dandruff. There, perfect. He took his glasses off and polished them. Then decided to keep them off. Then decided to put them back on again.
Okay.
Walter took up his position again. The only way of being sure that Billy hadn’t slipped out while he was in the Gents was to go right up to the window and check, but that would run the risk of bumping into him. He’d only been gone for a minute. Chances were, Billy was still in there.
Be patient. For the patient.
A few minutes later, the door opened. Walter stepped back, out of view. He counted to ten. When he chanced another look, Billy was just passing through the swing doors and taking the stairs down to the Exit.
This is it then.
Margaret hated him.
He was a sanctimonious, pompous, nit-picking, whiny knob. He had snapped something snidey at her on the way out, and now here was the door opening again and it would be him back to take a final parting shot.
Except it wasn’t her husband Billy, it was Walter. He stood in the open doorway, his hair combed impeccably, his face flushed, a small bunch of flowers in one hand, a Waterstones bag in the other.
‘Hello,’ said Walter.
‘Hello,’ said Margaret.
‘’Scuse me.’
Walter turned. A nursing assistant was trying to push a trolley into Margaret’s room.
‘We’re ju … we’re just …’ Walter stuttered.
‘Tea’s up, love.’
He stepped into the room and looked helplessly at Margaret. She was blushing. The nursing assistant pushed the trolley ahead of her.
‘Cuppa tea, love?’
‘Please,’ said Margaret. She couldn’t take her eyes off Walter.
‘What about you, love?’
It took a long moment for Walter to realise she was talking to him.
‘No - yes - thank you.’
The woman set Margaret’s tea down on her locker. Then she poured one for Walter and turned to hand it to him. But then she stopped, smiled, and said, ‘Spurs are at the bottom of the league.’
Walter blinked at her. ‘I’m sorry? What?’
‘Zip-adee-do-dah, love.’
Walter looked at Margaret in confusion. She had lifted her tea, and now seemed to be giggling into it.
‘I’m sorry - you’ve lost me completely.’
The woman rolled her eyes. ‘For godsake, man, pull your zip up before your willy falls out.’
Behind her, Margaret erupted.
Walter looked down at his flies in horror, at the square inch of tartan boxer short poking out, then backed out of the room.
28
Talks About Talks
‘Well,’said Walter, ‘that didn’t quite go according to plan.’ He had prepared scrupulously for his big moment with Margaret Gilmore, and then forgotten to make sure his flies were done up.
‘I think that’s what Janet Jackson called a wardrobe malfunction,’ said Margaret.
Walter stepped fully into her private room in Psyclops Surgeries. He was, of course, very familiar with it, having recently performed a seventy-two-hour vigil by her bed while she hovered on death’s landing. But now that she was awake again, it felt very different. While she’d been unconscious, he had been in control. He decided what they did. When she needed to be read to. If a window needed opening. When she needed to hear another tale of woe from his sad life. But now she was back in charge. He stood awkwardly at the foot of her bed, just as he had seen her husband Billy do. As if he was waiting for punishment.
‘Well,’ said Margaret.
‘Well,’ said Walter. He had written down a list of thirty-seven interesting conversation-openers, but now couldn’t think of one. Apart from: ‘Well, uhm, how are you feeling?’
Margaret just looked at him.
‘Not so good, eh?’ Walter volunteered.
‘No. Not so good.’
‘I understand it was carrot cake.’
‘Yes, it was. What are you doing here?’
‘Visiting.’
‘Someone else?’
‘No. You. Oh.’ He came forward and thrust the flowers and the Waterstones bag at her rather too enthusiastically. She took them, but looked at the flowers without reacting, and set the bag down by her side. She returned her attention to Walter.
‘Aren’t you … going to look inside it?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
‘So what are you doing here, Walter - if that indeed is your real name?’
‘Yes of course it’s my real name.’ He stopped and shrugged. ‘Well, I was passing, and …’
‘You’ve been here three days and three nights.’
‘Well yes - like I say, I was passing.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I, ah, - well, I thought we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. Our big date wasn’t exactly … We argued.’
‘And do you do this with everyone you have a cross word with? Camp out on their doorstep until they forgive you?’
Walter cleared his throat. ‘I don’t want you to forgive me.’
‘What?’
‘Well - yes, I do, but also, ahm, I don’t think you were, ahm, exactly honest either.’
Margaret sat up further in the bed, her brow furrowed, her nostrils flared. ‘What exactly are you implying?’
‘I’m not implying anything.’
‘Insinuating then, is that a better word?’
‘No - yes - it’s just … well, you never said you were, you know, married, or working as a security guard in Primark.’
‘So you’ve not only been plaguing me day and night, you’ve also been sticking your nose into my affairs?’
‘I never mentioned your affairs.’
It sat in the air for a moment, then Margaret shook her head and a smile almost appeared. She took a deep breath. ‘Well,’ she said.
‘Well,’ said Walter.
‘You spent three days and nights here, you hardly ate, you hardly slept, you read to me and you talked to me.’
Walter shrugged. ‘Yeah,’ he said, avoiding eye-contact.
‘I wasn’t aware of any of it. None at all.’
‘That’s all right. They say it helps. And you never know. Subconsciously.’
She looked at him doubtfully. ‘I don’t know whether you’re sicker than I am, or if it’s quite the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’
‘I would, you know, incline to the latter.’
‘I’m sure you would.’ Margaret shook her head again, then lifted the Waterstones bag. ‘This had better not be something weird.’ She removed the biography of Tom Hanks. ‘You remembered.’
Walter nodded. ‘And I thought this whole thing was a little bit like Sleepless in Seattle.’
‘It’s nothing like Sleepless in Seattle.’
‘Okay.’
‘Although there was one with Sandra Bullock. And that actor who’s in everything but nobody knows his name. Do you know who I mean?’
Walter shook his head.
‘While You Were Sleeping, that’s what it’s called. But it was really nothing like this.’
‘I’ll … ah, look out for it.’
She opened the book and began to leaf through the pages.
‘I thought that we could start again,’ he said suddenly.
Her eyes flicked up to him. ‘You thought that?’
‘Yes, I did. Only this time with absolute honesty. And I am sorry for telling fibs.’
‘Fibs, were they? Not lies?’
‘The point is, I was kind of embarrassed and we all buff up our CVs, don’t we?’
She nodded a little reluctantly.
‘But if we could start again, well - it was good fun before you …’
‘Caught you out?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You made fun of me eating so much bread.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’
Margaret sighed. ‘I looked such a mess.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘Don’t beat around the bush there.’
He smiled. She smiled.
‘Ahm - what do you think?’ Walter asked.
‘Absolute honesty?’
‘Absolute.’
Margaret looked back down to the book. Then, after several long moments, and still not looking up, said, ‘I suppose.’
Walter smiled again. There was hope. There was a God. He went to sit on the end of the bed but she suddenly stretched her legs out in front of her to stop him. He moved to a chair opposite.
‘I’m not a property developer,’ said Walter.
‘Mmm-hmm?’
‘I’m a Civil Servant.’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘But there’s a possibility of me becoming a spy.’
Margaret’s eyes flicked towards him.
‘Only kidding,’ said Walter.
And he was. Sort of.
29
Tripping the Light
He could have danced all night.
Or something like that.
Walter skipped ecstatically down the hospital corridor. He wanted to hug nurses, but didn’t. He really wasn’t touchy-feely. He wanted to embrace old folk and reassure them that everything would be
all right, but couldn’t, because he felt a bit weird about old people. Inside, though, inside, he was on fire. Walter was tripping the light fantastic. He was walking on air. It was like that scene in It’s a Wonderful Life where James Stewart realises that it is indeed a wonderful life and he charges down the main street in celebration. Just like it. Except for the snow.
Walter retrieved the clothes, wallet and car keys he had left in a locker the night before, then waited patiently in the car park while the clamp guy freed his vehicle. He even tipped him. The poor guy didn’t know where to look. When Walter had reached for the fiver the clamper had instinctively stepped back, half-expecting a knife to be pulled. And even when Walter had handed the tip over, the clamper had examined it doubtfully, nipping it between the very tips of his fingers, convinced that it was either a joke note that would explode in his face, or that handling it would somehow automatically tie him into the latest IRA bank heist.
‘It’s fine,’ Walter tried to reassure him. ‘Just printed it this morning.’
The clamper didn’t smile. Of course, it wasn’t in his nature. Or if it had once been, it had long since been driven out. Or not driven out, as the case may be.
And the reason for Walter’s happiness? He wasn’t a proud new father. He hadn’t had a marriage proposal accepted. There wasn’t even the promise of a date. He had asked Margaret if he could visit her again that night. Her first reaction was to shake her head. But it wasn’t a no. It was half-surprise, half-exasperation. But then she’d shrugged and said okay, and it might as well have been a resounding yes to a proposal, the effect it had on Walter.
It meant they were back on an even keel. That he was forgiven.
They had laughed together. They had sworn to be honest with each other. It was a new dawn. A new beginning. He had come so close to ruining things, but now he was back, better than ever. He was on top of his game. He was cool again. He was Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. And now, as he gunned his vehicle out of the car park, he was Bullitt.
He saw her - but too late - a little old lady crossing the exit lane from the car park. There was just a fraction of a second where she looked up, and saw death approach.
I Predict a Riot Page 11
