Bullfighting (22 page)

—Good lad, good lad.

It was asthma. A nurse saw that before a doctor had looked at him. She put him up on a bed and got him to sit back against the pillow, and started to put some sort of plastic mask over his nose and mouth.

—Look at this yoke, Aaron, she said.—Will you put it on yourself or will I do it?

—What is it? Tom asked.

—A nebuliser, she said.—It'll open the poor lungs for him. It's just a spray, really, with the medicine in it. The easiest way to get it into them. And they love the drama.

She smiled, and he smiled. He saw how it worked now, the clear plastic pipe running from a box in the wall to the mask. Aaron didn't object as she put it over his face.

—Good lad, Tom said.—You're great.

He found a spare chair and sat beside Aaron. The place was packed. There wasn't an empty bed, and some of the children were lying across two or three chairs, depending on the length of the child. Most of them had nebulisers. All the hissing and wheezing, the white-blue skin, the strange calm – it was terrifying, and lovely. The courage of his own lad, and the other children. A broken leg or a burn victim would have ruined it. He was there for three hours, more.

Later, he sat on the steps outside the hospital with Aaron, waiting for a taxi. Four in the morning. Aaron was wide awake, deep inside his coat. It was freezing, and absolutely windless. Tom could feel the dirt in the fog. There were men, four of them, standing at the corner of Hardwicke Street. They had a fire going in a barrel – a brazier. They stood around it, in jackets that looked much too thin.

—Why have they a fire? Aaron asked.

His breathing was grand, not a bother on him.

—They're cold, Tom said.

—Why don't they go to their houses?

—They want to stop other men from selling drugs, Tom said.—It's why they're out so late. Concerned Parents, they're called. It's sad.

They said nothing else. They watched the men and the fire in the barrel and waited for the taxi.

She was awake when they got home. Lying in bed, well under the duvet. She lifted it, so Aaron could get in beside her.

—Asthma, Tom said.

She smiled, and kissed Aaron's forehead.

Tom got into the bed. He leaned across Aaron, touched the top of her head. She smiled. She closed her eyes. She opened them, and closed them again. He lay there. She was asleep again. He listened to her, and to Aaron. He'd get a book tomorrow. He'd read it – they'd read it – and know enough about asthma, quickly. About bronchospasm and allergens. About the inhalers and dust mites and mattress and pillow covers. They'd get rid of the carpets and the curtains, get blinds instead, and polish the floorboards. They'd sign petitions and phone the local politicians to make Dublin a smokeless zone. Aaron would be fine. He'd get into fights, he'd play his football. He'd go drinking in St Anne's Park, in the pissing rain, with his inhaler in his pocket. He'd join a band, he'd smoke, he'd stroll up Kilimanjaro. He'd come home one morning and tell them they were going to be grandparents, and make them both shockingly happy.

Tom sat up a bit straighter now, in the bed. He looked at her, sleeping.

The author would like to thank Deborah Treisman, Cressida Leyshon, Nick Hornby, Joseph O'Connor, Neil Gaiman, Al Sarrantonio, Dan Franklin, Paul Slovak, Charlotte Northedge, Oona Frawley and the late David Marcus.

THE COMMITMENTS
THE SNAPPER
THE VAN
PADDY CLARKE HA HA HA
THE WOMAN WHO WALKED INTO DOORS
A STAR CALLED HENRY
OH, PLAY THAT THING
PAULA SPENCER
THE DEPORTEES
THE DEAD REPUBLIC

 

RORY & ITA

 

BROWNBREAD
WAR
GUESS WHO'S COMING FOR THE DINNER
THE WOMAN WHO WALKED INTO DOORS

 

THE GIGGLER TREATMENT
ROVER SAVES CHRISTMAS
THE MEANWHILE ADVENTURES
WILDERNESS
HER MOTHER'S FACE