A Smaller Hell (5 page)

I woke up to the sensation of being manhandled into a foil wrapper and on to a baking tray like a drumstick.  Radios crackled and green uniforms drifted in and out of my field of vision, past the flashing blue lights.  As they slid me into the yellow oven on wheels, I felt its warmth flood into my bones and darkness take me once again.

The accident and emergency room smell was unmistakable: booze, blood and disinfectant.  Fluorescent tubes in the ceiling scrolled by as I was wheeled past the bungled and the botched, bleeding patiently in their plastic chairs.  The orderly wheeled me into a bay and pulled the curtain halfway across: the worst revelation yet to come with the arrival of the doctor in the bay, who was about my age and had a kind demeanour.

‘Good day to you, Antony.’

‘I have to get out of here, Doctor.’

‘Hmmm, can I come with you?  It’s been a long shift,’ he muttered whilst scribbling on his clipboard.

‘I feel a bit sick, but other than that, I'm alright, I think.’

‘We'll keep you in overnight just in case.  The paramedics did an excellent job on you at the scene.  I think it's just a case of mild hypothermia.  With a little rest and hot food, you should be fine.’

‘Must I really stay in overnight?’

Shahabuddin shook his head.  ‘I would recommend it, but you can do whatever you want.’

I smiled at him, let my head fall back on the pillow and closed my eyes. 

‘Someone called Rachel is eager to see you.  Should I send her up?’

‘Thanks,’ I said, as the orderly began wheeling me away to the ward.  ‘Is the old lady … dead?’  

The orderly stopped.

‘There was no old lady.  She died years ago.  That was the gentleman's way of coping with her passing, you see.  He walks along that promenade every day with her old blankets and shawls in her chair.’

‘You’re joking.’

Dr. Shahabuddin was neither smiling nor laughing.   

The orderly wheeled me along the corridor and into a lift.  He pressed ‘5’, taking us to the top floor.

Rachel was waiting for me in the hospital bay and rushed to my side as soon as my bed was up against the wall.

‘I was so worried.  How do you feel?’ 

‘How do I look?’

‘You look better than you did.  I thought you were dead.’

‘Did you give me mouth-to-mouth?’ I said, smiling with cracked lips.

‘No, the old guy did.’

My smile crumbled.
 
‘The old guy?’

‘He might have got a bit carried away towards the end.  The paramedics had to pull him off you,’ she said, trying not to laugh.

‘You're having me on.’

‘He took out his teeth for you and everything.  So considerate.’

‘What?’

‘The paramedics said that he'd revived you, but that the excess saliva was blocking your airway again when they arrived on the scene.’

‘So, just a great day all round, really.  Should I assume that you already know about the blankets in the chair?’

‘I do,’ said Rachel, looking at the floor, again trying not to laugh.  ‘I thought it was very brave anyway.’ 

‘Hmmm.’

‘You should get some rest before the police come up and take a statement,’ she said, stroking my forehead.

‘The police?’

‘Yes, they just need a statement for their paperwork.’

‘I think I will get some rest then,’ I said.

‘Oh, ok then,’ she said, smiling uncertainly.  ‘Can I come back to see you tonight?  I'll bring something to stop you getting bored.’

I raised my eyebrows and smiled.

‘A book, you naughty boy.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘I'm going,’ she tutted.
‘Here's my phone.  Call 'home' if you need anything.’ 

I didn’t know whether it was just my body returning to normal function, the drugs they'd given me or her use of the word
home
, but I felt a warm sensation in my chest as she held my hand..

‘Thanks,’ I said, closing my eyes and shuffling further down the bed, pretending to get ready for sleep. 

As she clip-clopped away in her smart office outfit, I found myself so distracted by the more pendulous parts of her body and her long legs, that I almost did not hear the crackle of the police radio from further down the ward.  The warm, institutional stink bore down on me more heavily than ever now, making my skin sweat and my nervous system send pulses of panic through my limbs.

Unsteady on my feet as I eased myself out of the bed, I searched for my clothes, but was unable to find them anywhere.  For remaining inconspicuous, the hospital gown wasn’t ideal, but there was no other option.  I unhooked myself from the drip and poked my head round the wall of the bay, trying to locate the source of the police radio.  Two officers stood to attention, puffing out their pigeon-chests and holding on to various accessories on their belts or stab vests.  They were talking with two pretty nurses, who were giggling and blushing. 

The emergency evacuation instructions were printed above the sink on which I was leaning, and with them was a map of the hospital's fifth floor.  The nearest exit to the stairwell was about fifty feet away, but the corner I had to turn was only about twenty.   Waiting until I was sure that they were distracted, I made a dash for the next bay, my bare feet slapping on the cold tiles.  I steered into a bay and hid behind the wall.  The old man in the bed was sucking on an oxygen mask and looking at me with wide, startled eyes like an oversized, sickly pigeon.  Peering round the wall, I saw that the policemen were still engaged in their civil servant dating game, now laughing themselves, one of them exchanging bits of paper with one of the nurses.  Blood was thudding through my head as I walked out of the bay, not daring to look back.  I planned to run only once I'd rounded the corner, but the adrenaline got the better of me and I launched into a panicky sprint, the sweat on my forehead cooling as I picked up speed.

The stairwell was freezing and spiralled downwards into near darkness, sending up voices from the depths below.  I ran down it as far as I could go in the hope of finding a fire exit, attracting a few suspicious glances on the way down from arriving visitors climbing upwards.  There was an unlit corridor at the bottom, lit at the end by an oblong of daylight.  I ran towards it, pushed the emergency exit bar and burst out into the cold November air and into one of the black cabs lined up outside.

By the time I reached the house, the sun had almost set.  The taxi driver at first refused to drive down the street, citing insurance reasons and mumbling something about paying for another windscreen, but I convinced him that kicking me out at the corner in my hospital robe was tantamount to murder.  As we drove up the street, nothing stirred amongst the boarded up houses and pubs or in their yards overgrown with giant weeds.  Nearer the river, the docks glowed with patience for more industrious times. I got out of the cab and asked the driver to hold on for a moment while I fetched the fare from inside, but he just told me to
forget it
and drove away.

As if it wasn’t difficult enough negotiating the broken glass, stinging nettles and rusty syringes in bare feet, I’d also barricaded the yard door from the other side to improve security, ruling out an easy entrance to my hideout.  I held everything in as far as I could and took the leap of faith off the wall and into the back yard, praying that no trailing bits of flesh would catch or snag as I jumped down into the weeds, trying to avoid the nettles.  Beyond the wall, I could hear boots in the alleyway.  They stopped, then began scraping over the gritty cobbles in an attempt at stealth.  I held my breath and pushed into the nearest corner, so that should he look over the wall, he would struggle to see me right beneath him.  As I crouched against the freezing, slimy bricks with near-frostbitten balls, I felt as though I was being watched.  Three feet from my nutritious extremities stood an inquisitive alley rat with a gleaming set of incisors. 

Soaking wet and back on the brink of hypothermia, I finally managed to climb through the broken kitchen window once both predators had given up on their prey and gone foraging elsewhere.  I immediately went to the hiding place for all my remaining worldly possessions and was relieved to find them still there.  The boiler cupboard provided just enough space for my duffel bag, which I pulled out from behind the redundant copper green vessel itself and threw on to the bare floorboards in the front room.  Some of the firewood I had prepared the previous night was still stacked by the tiny fireplace.  An old kitchen chair had proved ample, once broken up.  I had meant to pick up some firewood or coal during the day, but what with the panic attack, the wounding, the blossoming of a star-crossed romance, the sea rescue, the hypothermia and the hospital break, time had run a little short.  I twisted up some newspaper and set a fire with the broken bits of chair and some lighter fluid.  Holding a match to it created a glorious warmth, lighting the room softly.  I made sure it was burning properly then stripped off, throwing the wet, dirty hospital gown in the makeshift laundry basket in the corner.  I dried myself with a towel I had found in one of the cupboards and pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

Using my duffel bag as a pillow and my charity shop reefer jacket as a mattress, I made myself as comfortable as possible, wondering whether the chimney would give me away.  No-one could see into the house on account of the plaster board covering all the windows.  The boards were covered with graffiti, but there was only one gang insignia that seemed fresh.  I wasn't able to make out the word, but the image behind it looked like a compass needle set to north.  It was unsettling to see kids’ clothes hung out to dry in the odd back yard in the alley, but never any children playing in the street.  The cobbles of these roads seemed only to be trodden by those hunting, those in flight or those lost in the wilderness of their minds, unaware of and unmoved by whereupon their feet struck.  There was no light recreation to be had in these streets: only the kind that took place in dark alleyways, just like the one at the rear of the house.  I had heard things which I'd sooner forget, but thankfully seen little evidence left behind. 

I pulled the blanket around me and as I drifted off to the crackle of the fire, I thought of the kiss that Rachel and I had shared and her smile when I saw her in the hospital.  The small wrinkles in her forehead as she leant over me in the hospital bed.  Even the thunderous horn blasts from the docks couldn’t keep me awake that night.  I slept long and deep, the pine in the dying fire like a soothing incense. 

I woke to the strains of ‘Man of the World’ by Peter Green.  Beside me on the bare floorboards, the phone that Rachel had lent me buzzed and crept along the wood.  The display screen read
MUM
HOME. 

‘They told me you'd discharged yourself from the hospital.’

‘Just didn't want to get bogged down in police statements and all that.’ 

‘Is something going on?  Where are you now?’

‘I can't tell you.  I don’t want you involved.’

‘I told the police at the hospital that I only knew your first name and didn't know where you lived.’

‘You did the right thing,’ I reassured her.

‘It was the truth.’

‘I'm sorry if this all seems a bit paranoid, but I just need some time to let a few things cool down.’

‘And you can't tell me?’

‘I can't.’

‘Well, will you at least come for dinner tonight?’ 

‘I'll meet you at the store, round the back where you picked me up last time.’

‘7 p.m.?’

‘I'll see you then.’

I hung up the phone and floated in the boarded up darkness of the morning, a few shafts of light penetrating the smoky room.  I made a list of supplies I would need for the next few days, now that I was satisfied that I wouldn't be found here; at least not by the police.

I was now down to the last packet of Twiglets and the last tin of pineapple chunks.  I had to decide just how comfortable I should make myself.  I could spend my remaining money on a camping stove and a pan or two, maybe even a kettle; or on hot meals over the next few days in the darkest, dingiest pub I could find, hoping that no-one would take any notice of me. 

I put on my trainers and snuck out.  As I walked closer to the docks by The Captain's Rest, wondering how many captains had actually taken their rest there, how many buckets of sea-salted, scurvied blood had been swept up after closing time, the result of sailors, fishermen and dockers disagreeing over spilt pints and dubious wagers.  Where were those men now?  Dying in a nursing home somewhere?  Already committed to the bosom of the sea?  Maybe some of them were still braving the high winds and perilous swells that they had come to know so well throughout their lifetimes.  I liked the things that the ghosts whispered of while I stood outside the Captain's Rest and I wished that I could have been there while they were able to swill ale, smoke pipes and tell their stories in full voice. 

But their time was past, as was the ale house's that stood before me, tattered and lifeless.

A door swung open violently as I peered through the stained, leaded diamond windows.

‘What the bleedin' ell do you want?’

I was shocked to see one of the ghosts standing before me in the flesh: a tall, white-haired man in a mended navy blazer.  He had a great mass of white beard, yellowed at the corners where his pipe rested and emitted the scent of exotic tobacco.

‘I just wondered … erm … whether anyone was … I heard someone,’ I stammered.  ‘I thought this place was empty.’

‘Aye, it is.’

His accent was local, but skewed as if he’d spent a long time far away.  He went to close the door in my face, assuming that his brash, unfriendly greeting would ensure that I would take the hint.  I stuck my foot in the door jamb to stop it closing.  He scowled at me and moved his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other, his wild white hair blowing in the sea breeze.  I noticed the medals on his rather grubby blazer.

‘Ah, you must be the captain then?’ I said, looking at the medals. 

His scowl deepened.
 

‘May I come in?’

‘You been at sea?’

‘Did a bit of canoeing in the scouts.’

The Captain laughed in my face, his powerful shoulders looming over me.  I was helpless as he pulled me into his lair like a sack of grain. 

Sweet smoke filled the room the Captain was pushing me into.  Lighting was provided by a few oil lamps strewn about the pub, illuminating the nooks and crannies of indecipherable conversation, with the bar an island in the middle of it all.  The scruffy figures hunched over it were engrossed in discussions that seemed serious and absurd in equal measure.

 The whole bar was made of tarnished brass and stained wood, behind which the Captain now stood, arms folded across his barrel chest.

‘Drink?’ 

His white hair was lit from behind by one of the oil lamps, briefly making it seem as though he wore a halo; though it was easy to see by the scars on his face and the tattoos on his hands that he was no angel.

‘What do you have?’ I asked, unable to see any bottles, optics or beer pumps.

‘You can have ale.’

I waited for the Captain to offer an alternative, but he just eyed me impatiently. 

‘Ale, please,’ I said.

He walked over to the other side of the bar, on top of which rested two battered barrels with a brass tap attached to each.  One had the world
ALE
branded into its wood, the other,
XXX
.  He held a metal tankard beneath the ale
barrel and turned it to release the dark amber liquid.  A few clouds of froth spilled on to the worn wood as he placed the tankard down in front of me.  The only beer mats were a few rolls of mouldy ‘90s logos that were still blowing around on the floor.

‘How much do I owe you?’ I asked.

‘We'll put it on the slate, son.’ 

‘I won't be staying all that long.’

As I uttered these words, the entire ale-house fell silent.  All eyes were on the Captain to see what his reaction was.  He stared at me from beneath his fierce eyebrows and iterated his point, his white beard twitching.

‘We'll put it on the slate,’ he repeated.

I nodded and picked up the drink in front of me.  All eyes were still turned towards me.

‘Cheers,’ I said, taking a drink of ale. 

And the hubbub resumed.

‘What
is
this stuff?’ I asked.

One or two of the patrons raised their tankards to me with their shabby hands, while the Captain smiled with what teeth he had left.

‘That stuff will put hairs on your coconuts, lad.’

The rest of the patrons had settled back into their furtive conversations with each other, so I faced forward and drank.
 
The Captain walked round the other side of the island and returned to my spot at the bar wielding a large, dangerous-looking sabre.  The brass fittings were spotless, the steel blade sharp and unblemished and the ornate guard finely crafted.

‘This is Pearl.’

‘Pearl?’ I said, leaning away from the sharp edge.

‘She was taken from me just before the war.’ 

The Captain cradled the blade with his left hand, the dim light from the oil lamps reflecting on to his scarred face and his large beard.  He still had his pipe clamped between his teeth and the smoke spiralled through the light dancing off the blade.

‘She was the best friend I ever had,’ he said.
 
‘We were outside a tavern in Denmark.  I had business in the port and she wanted to go to the market.’

‘She never came back?’ I asked.

‘I know he took her.’

‘Who took her?’

‘You know … Him,’ the Captain said, casting his eyes downwards.  ‘He’s everywhere.’

‘I’m sorry about Pearl,’ I said.  ‘But I don’t know what you mean about who took her.’

‘You will,’ he said.  ‘Oh, you
will
.’

‘Jesus.’

‘The other fella,’ the Captain said.  ‘The
other
one.’

‘I know, I’m just saying … Nevermind.  So what did you do when Pearl went missing?’

‘I sold my boat and its cargo, released the crew from their duties to find work elsewhere, and used the money to track her down.’

‘And you never found her?’

‘I went everywhere looking for Pearl … Knee-deep in it, some places.’

I hoped that it was only a figure of speech, but his hand looked far too familiar and comfortable with the sword's grip, as if he had drawn it a thousand times.  He parried and thrusted, telling me to stand back and taking a roundhouse swing with the sword at a wax-sealed wooden flask on the bar.  The cork popped out and pieces of red wax landed in my tankard.  I noticed that the scabbard resting on the bar was covered in notches, piquing my curiosity as to what they represented.  I lifted myself off my stool to head for the door, but the Captain caught me with the tip of the sword under my chin.

‘And where are
you
going?’ the Captain asked.

No words came.