Crow Boy (17 page)

Twenty-Two

Tom opened his eyes and, for a moment, was dazzled by a glare of lights. He blinked violently and became aware of a series of blurred shapes around him that gradually swam into focus. He was lying in bed, his head propped up by thick, clean-smelling pillows. A dark blur to his left slowly became something solid and he saw that a man was sitting beside the bed, reading a newspaper.

‘Dad?'

Tom's voice emerged as a kind of strangled croak and Dad dropped the paper as though he'd been electrocuted.

‘Tom!' He leaned closer to the bed. ‘You're awake! Thank God. We've all been so worried about you.'

Tom blinked again, trying to put it together. He moved his head from one side to the other, taking in the scene. He was in a small hospital room. Beside him, machinery beeped and chugged rhythmically. Various wires led from him to the machines but he couldn't work out exactly how he was attached to them.

‘What . . . what's happened?' he croaked.

‘Just a moment.' Dad got up from the chair and pressed a button on a length of wire. Then he picked up a plastic tumbler of water from the bedside locker. He lifted it to Tom's mouth and let him take a couple of small sips from it. ‘Not too much,' he advised. ‘Got to take it slowly.' He set the tumbler back down on the locker. A door opened and a young nurse looked into the room. ‘He's awake,' Dad told her.

‘I'll get Doctor Wilson,' she said and closed the door again.

Dad slipped back into his seat and smiled at Tom. ‘How much do you remember?' he asked.

Tom shook his head and then wished he hadn't, because it made him feel dizzy. ‘I was . . . I think . . . I went to Mary King's Close,' he said. ‘A school trip. Yes. We went this morning.'

Dad shook his head. ‘No, Tom. That happened three days ago,' he said. ‘You've been unconscious since then.'

‘Three . . . three days?' Now Tom became aware of a dull ache at the top of his head. He lifted a hand to find that it was covered by a thick layer of bandages.

‘Better not touch that, son,' said Dad. ‘Let's wait until the doctor gets here.'

‘The Doctor?' Tom looked at Dad in alarm. ‘I don't want to see The Doctor!' He tried to sit up but Dad placed a hand gently against his chest and eased him back against his pillows.

‘Calm down,' he said. ‘Of course you have to see him. He's got to check that everything's OK.' He looked at Tom. ‘So that's all you remember?' he asked. ‘Going on the school trip?'

‘I . . . well, I remember going into this room and then, the floor gave way . . .'

Dad was shaking his head. ‘That's not what they told me!' he protested. ‘They said you tried to go into a room with a low lintel and you bashed your head on it. It wasn't even part of the tour; nobody can work out what you were doing there.'

‘I was following Morag,' said Tom.

‘Morag? Is that one of the girls from your class?'

‘No . . . she was sort of all flickery . . .'

Dad looked baffled. ‘Your teacher said you were on your own. You'd left the others and gone wandering off.' He waved a hand, as though dismissing the details. ‘That doesn't matter,' he said. ‘You're awake again; that's the most important thing. Everybody's been so worried about you.'

Tom sighed and then gestured for more water. Dad got the tumbler and lifted it to his mouth again. Tom's mouth felt drier than sand. It seemed to absorb the mouthfuls of water like blotting paper. He swallowed gratefully then lay there for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts.

‘So . . . is this real?' he asked. ‘Or just another alternate reality?'

Dad frowned. ‘You're not making a lot of sense, son,' he said.

‘Because there's been other realities,' said Tom, trying to explain. ‘I kept coming back but everything was different. You were driving a BMW.'

‘Was I?' Dad looked impressed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.'

Tom looked at Dad for a moment. ‘So . . . what are you doing here?' he asked.

‘What do you think? Obviously I came as soon as I heard what had happened to you.'

‘I thought you couldn't take time off work?'

‘Sod that, some things are more important. I've squared it with my boss, anyway; he was very understanding. Told me to take as long as I needed. I got straight in the car and drove for five hours solid.'

‘But, what . . .?'

‘In a way, it took this to make me wake up, Tom. To make me realise that I couldn't just let things go on the way they were. This happening, it's knocked some sense back into me and your Mum. We've had to straighten things out between us.'

‘You're . . . getting back together?'

Dad shook his head. ‘It's too late for that, Tom. What happened between us, it's . . . well, it's sad of course, but life goes on and your Mum shouldn't have involved you the way she did. I told her that she couldn't just take you and run off. How irresponsible was that? And I told her there are two parents in this situation, not just her. I said I wasn't going to take it lying down and that you're old enough now to know your own mind. She argued with me, of course she did, but in the end, she had to agree that I was right.'

‘So . . . where
is
Mum?'

‘We've been taking it in turns to sit with you. This just happens to be my shift. She'll be along in an hour or so.'

Tom nodded. His head was becoming clearer by the second. He was pretty sure now this wasn't an alternate reality. He was really beginning to think it was actually happening. ‘So . . . what now?' he asked.

‘That's up to you, Tom. You have the choice. Come back
to Manchester with me or stay here with your Mum and
. . . her new bloke. Wherever you choose to stay, we'll arrange it so that you can have regular contact with both of us, whenever you want. But we'll do it through the courts so it's all properly sorted. In the end, it has to be your choice, son. You're not a baby any more.'

‘I'm coming with you,' said Tom, without hesitation.

‘Are you sure? You're not just saying that because I'm sitting here in front of you?'

Tom shook his head. ‘I miss my friends. I miss my room. And I hate it in Hamish's place. It feels . . . like I'm in the way, the whole time.' He scowled. ‘There are Hibs posters on my bedroom wall!'

Dad pulled a face. ‘Nasty,' he said.

‘So, if it's OK with you, I want to go back to Manchester.'

Dad nodded, smiled. ‘I'm glad,' he said. ‘Really glad. And Tom, I'll try to sort everything out for you, but if I get things wrong, you just have to tell me, OK? And then I'll try a bit harder.' He put a hand on Tom's shoulder. ‘When Mum gets here and you're feeling stronger, we'll have a good talk about this. You can tell Mum what you've decided.'

Tom scowled. ‘Do I have to?' he muttered.

‘Yes, I think it's for the best.' Dad looked at Tom. ‘Whatever you think about her, Tom, she didn't stop loving you. She's still your mum.'

Tom nodded. ‘I want to come back here too,' he said. ‘For holidays and stuff. To see Mum. And to find out more about Edinburgh. It's a really cool place.'

Dad looked surprised. ‘You really think so?'

Tom smiled. ‘Oh yes,' he said. ‘It has . . . hidden depths.'

Just then, the door opened and a figure stepped into the room. Tom steeled himself, anticipating the worst, but Doctor Wilson was just a young man in a white coat, with a face that Tom had never seen before.

‘So, the sleeper finally awakes,' he said, in a soft Edinburgh accent. He approached the bed. ‘You gave everyone a proper scare,' he said. ‘How are you feeling?'

‘Confused,' said Tom.

‘I'll bet you are. That was quite a bash on the noggin you gave yourself. Had us all very worried for a while.' He took a small torch from his pocket and switched it on, started moving it left and right in front of Tom's face. ‘Follow the light with your eyes,' he said and, after a few moments, he seemed satisfied with Tom's efforts.

‘Excellent,' he said. ‘I was pretty sure you'd wake up before long but three days was pushing it. I was starting to think we might have more of a problem on our hands. What do you remember about the accident?'

‘I already asked him that,' said Dad. ‘He said something about . . . falling through the floor?'

Doctor Wilson shook his head. ‘No, I'm pretty sure he just bumped his head.' He smiled. ‘Any dreams?' he asked.

‘Dreams?' Tom looked at him. ‘Yes! The weirdest dreams. But not like dreams, more like they were really happening. I went back to the seventeenth century. But I kept coming back to now, and things were different.' He looked at Dad. ‘You were an architect,' he said. ‘And Mum worked for the BBC!'

Dad and the doctor exchanged looks and laughed.

‘But I kept being pulled back to Mary King's Close . . . not the way it is now. In the seventeenth century. People had the plague and I had to work with The Doctor . . .' He looked at Doctor Wilson. ‘Not you,' he added. ‘A plague doctor. He wore this weird outfit . . . made him look like a big bird.'

Now Dad was looking anxiously at Doctor Wilson, but he just smiled and shook his head. ‘It's quite common in cases of severe concussion,' he said. ‘It's almost as though the brain creates these things in order to keep itself active, to stop itself from shutting down.' He moved to the machines and studied the screens for a few moments. ‘Everything here looks just as it should,' he said. ‘I think Tom's been very lucky. But obviously, we'll keep him in for another day or so, for observation, just until we're absolutely sure there's no damage.'

Dad let out a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks, Doc,' he said.

‘No worries. Now, I suggest you let him sleep a bit more. He's still groggy and it really is the best thing for him right now. From the look of you, I'd say you could use a little sleep yourself.'

Dad nodded. ‘I'll just say goodbye, if that's OK. And I'll wait outside until his mother gets here.'

‘Of course.' Doctor Wilson smiled at Tom and left the room, closing the door behind him.

‘Sounds like you had quite an adventure,' said Dad.

Tom nodded. ‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Yeah, I did. Dad, I wouldn't mind calling at Mary King's Close again before we head back to Manchester.'

Dad raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Want to see if you can give yourself a bigger bump on the head?'

Tom shook his head. ‘I want to buy a doll and leave it for . . . for the ghost.'

Dad grimaced. ‘The place sounds a bit creepy,' he said.

‘It's not,' Tom assured him. ‘It's more . . . atmospheric.'

‘Well,' said Dad, looking around. ‘Whatever you want. I'd say you've earned a couple of treats. I'd better let you get some rest now. If you need anything, me or your Mum will be out in the waiting room. And if you feel sick or anything, just press the button.'

He got to his feet and then seemed to remember something else. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Tom's mobile.

‘Oh, yes, this was in your blazer pocket when they brought you in. I charged it up for you. Thought you might be glad of it when you're feeling a bit better. You can play that game you like so much.'

‘
Timeslyp
,' said Tom. ‘Thanks, Dad.'

Dad put the mobile on Tom's locker and went out of the room. Tom lay there, listening to the rhythmic sounds from the machine beside him, a strangely comforting lullaby. He felt tiredness plucking at him with insistent fingers and he was almost ready to surrender, to go down into it. He had never felt more exhausted in his entire life. But a sudden thought occurred to him. With an effort, he reached out a hand and picked up the mobile, then pulled it to him. He pressed the power button. He stared at the screen for a moment, not quite knowing what he expected to find. He took a breath and pressed the icon that opened up the photo app. The screen filled instantly with the last picture he had taken.

He lay there looking at it. It was Morag. She was sitting in a chair in Missie Grierson's dingy kitchen and there was a questioning look on her face. Her mouth was open as if she were saying something. Tom seemed to remember that she'd been asking him what he was doing. He smiled. He didn't know what to think about this. He considered calling for Dad; he could show him the picture and tell him how it had come to be on the phone, so he could try to explain everything in detail. But then he imagined Dad's worried expression, how he might think that maybe Tom wasn't so well after all, that the blow to the head had caused permanent damage. He didn't want to worry anyone . . . and besides, right now it was all too much effort. He was so tired. So very tired.

His eyelids came down like a pair of shutters. The phone slipped out of his hand and fell onto the bed covers beside him.

He slept. And this time there were no nightmares waiting for him.