In The Garden Of Stones (27 page)

The
nurse shakes his head, smiling now. “I’m afraid you’ve made a
mistake Miss Dove. Your description certainly fits someone we have
here, but if you say you’ve been talking with him recently it
couldn’t possibly be the same man.”

“
Why not?”

“
Because–”

The
glass doors slide apart and admit two women in pale blue nurse
uniforms.

The man
frowns at them and comes out from behind the desk. “It’s getting
crowded in here,” he says. “Let’s go somewhere more
private.”

His
trainers squeak on the tiled floor as he leads Grace to a door
marked 'Strictly Private'. It opens onto a small cramped room,
three of its four walls lined with shelves loaded with folders and
files. He puts on the light and lets the door swing
closed.

Grace
takes hold of his identity badge, tugging its orange lanyard tight
around his neck, pulling him forward so she can read the
details.

“
Charge Nurse Simon Gibbs,” she reads, and lets the badge
go. “What’s going on, Charge Nurse Simon Gibbs? Why can’t I see
Colin? I already know he’s here, you’ve as good as admitted it, and
you wouldn’t be asking all those questions if he weren’t, so why
are you hiding him?”

Gibbs
tucks his card into his breast pocket. “We’re not–”

“
If you’re worried I’m going to get all hysterical and have
a fit of the vapours when I see that he’s burned and scarred and
has no legs, you can rest assured, I won’t. I know all about his
injuries and if I am shocked or upset, I promise not to let it
show.”

“
It’s for his own protection.”

“
Against whom? What is it you think I’m going to do to
him?”

“
I’ve already said too much by confirming he is here at all.
Even talking about him with you is breaching regulations. It could
mean my job.”

“
And your job means more to you than the comfort and
well-being of one of your patients does it? Oh wait, doing what’s
best for your patient
is
your job, isn’t it?”

Gibbs’
mouth opens half an inch, and then snaps shut. There is no answer
he can give.

Grace
scrubs at her forehead, creasing the fine skin with her fingertips.
“For goodness sake.” A pause. “Okay, here’s an idea. If you are
breaking the rules by telling me stuff, then don’t. Don’t say
another word, just take me to him. Let me visit with him for just a
few minutes and then I’ll go away. That’s all I’m asking for,
Simon. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a few minutes. What can it
hurt?”

Gibbs
chews on the inside of his cheek, twisting his mouth, considering
his options, pondering which of the lesser of the two evils he
should opt for – facing discipline for breaching confidentiality
and security by allowing the unknown Grace access to a vulnerable
patient, or denying someone in his care a much needed visitor who
might do him some good.

"I shall be loyal to my work AND devoted towards the
welfare of those committed to my care
." Thank you, Florence Nightingale. Thank
you very much.

“
Okay, you can see him,” he says at last. “But just for a
few minutes.”

“
That’s all I’m asking. Thank you very much, Simon. You’re
doing the right thing.”

Gibbs
harrumphs. “Yeah. Tell that to my disciplinary hearing.” He opens
the door. “If you’ll come with me I’ll take you to him.”

They
pass through a pair of self closing doors below a sign reading
'Residents Accommodation – No Unauthorised Access', and she follows
him down a wide carpeted corridor, walls lined with photographs and
paintings and other works of art, through a second set of fire
doors and down a shorter corridor spurring off to the left,
stopping when they come to a slab of pale wood inset with a disc of
obscured glass and carrying the brass numbers 28.

“
Here we are,” says Gibbs.

A white
plastic rectangle attached to the wall beside the door frame has
the name Capt. C D McLeod and a number, all marked out in sharp
black figures.

Gibbs
knocks on the door and pushes the wood against its self closing
mechanism just far enough for him to poke his head
through.

“
Sorry to barge in Captain McLeod, but there’s a visitor for
you, sir. A young lady.”

No
reply.

He holds
the door open, inviting Grace to enter. She hesitates in the
doorway before stepping into the room.

It is
bright and airy, if a little small, painted in fresh clean magnolia
and white, its sparse furnishings reflecting functionality and
efficiency rather than comfort.

A good
proportion of the room is taken up with a regulation hospital bed,
its safety sides let down for ease of access, neatly made up, its
mountain of pillows tidily arranged. There is a panel affixed to
the wall at the bed’s head housing an array of knobs and buttons
and pipework; a bright red emergency call button, an outlet and
valve for oxygen and suction, a secure wall cabinet for medicines.
Attached to the wall itself is an articulated swing arm at the end
of which is a television - internet - telephone
combination.

A
structure like a miniature monorail crosses the room at ceiling
height, disappearing through a gap in the wall, above a door which
does not reach all the way to the ceiling. An en-suite bathroom she
assumes, and recently used if the lingering smell of disinfectant
overlaid with a zesty lemon air freshener is anything to go by.
Smells which are at the same time both cheery and
depressing.

There
are no personal items on show on the bedside cabinet. No
photographs. No flowers. Not even a get well card; only a jug of
water, a glass and a box of tissues.

A
wheelchair with a high back stands parked at a window overlooking a
landscaped garden area, a mess of tousled unruly hair just visible
over the padded neck rest entangling the afternoon sunshine leaking
through the blinds.

Halfway
across the room Grace stops again, doubts lapping at her like waves
at a pebble beach.

What if it’s not him? What if I’ve got the wrong man? What
if...?

Chapter 28

“
Miss Dove?” Gibbs is waiting.

She
approaches the chair with trepidation, keeping her eyes on the mop
of curly hair. When she gets her first proper look at the man in
it, the ripple of doubt becomes a wave strong enough to almost
knock her off her feet.

This
can’t be her Colin, hers is robust and tanned, full faced with
intense brown eyes. This man looks like death warmed over with his
thin sallow face, skin the colour of milk pulled tight against the
underlying bones as if he’s lost a lot of weight very quickly. A
thin rubber tube is taped to his sunken cheek, one end tucked
behind his ear and closed with a blue valve like contraption, the
other snaking up his right nostril.

Closed
purple lids hide eyes sunken into dark swollen shadows, and from
one corner of loose pale lips hanging slightly agape, a fine sliver
of saliva is escaping. He looks like a young man turned old
overnight.

This isn’t him. I’ve made a mistake.

Then she
sees the puckered scar running down the side of his neck from
behind his left ear and into the collar of his khaki T-shirt, and
the crescent shaped mark on his right cheek, and she knows she
hasn’t.

What did
she expect? Her Colin is an illusion, a projection, an avatar of
his real self. The poor creature here in this chair is what the
real Colin looks like.

“
You alright Miss Dove?”

She’d
forgotten about Gibbs. “Yes. Thank you.”

From the
pocket of her jacket she takes a tissue and gently wipes away the
trail of spittle from Colin’s lopsided mouth. “There you go
sweetheart.”

She then
kisses the top of his head, smelling shampoo and soap and shaving
foam, along with the faintest whiff of disinfectant.

“
There should be a chair,” Gibbs says, looking around.
“Where’s the chair. Someone’s always pinching the sodding chairs.
I’ll go fetch you one. Don’t go away.”

Grace
uses Gibbs’ absence to take the measure of the ghostly pale man in
the wheelchair, of the empty footrests and the open space where the
rest of his legs should be, of the plastic bag holding some pale
yellow liquid in a metal cage attached to the chair’s frame, of the
clear tube snaking up his shortened thigh to disappear into the
crotch of his camouflage patterned pants, their empty bottom halves
tucked neatly under him, giving the impression he is kneeling in
the chair, of the feeding tube up his nose.

The
sight is so pitiful it makes her want to weep.

She lays
her hand on Colin’s bony shoulder and gives it a little squeeze of
reassurance, just as Gibbs returns carrying a blue plastic
chair.

“
There you go,” he says, setting it down beside her. “Not
very comfortable, but it’s the best I can find.”

“
It’s more than adequate,” Grace says. “Thank
you.”

“
I’ll give you a little privacy, but if you need anything
just press that –” He indicates the nurse call button attached by a
clip to the head of Colin’s bed. “–and someone will
come.”

“
We’ll be fine.”

“
I can let you have fifteen minutes. I can’t risk any more.
You shouldn’t–”

“—
be here. I know. And I won’t tell anyone if you
won’t.”

She sits
demurely on the utilitarian seat, hands in her lap, legs crossed at
the ankles, a butter wouldn’t melt expression on her face. “Thank
you, Simon.”

“
Right. I’ll … leave you to it.” He collects up Colin’s file
and medical charts from the adjustable over-bed table, clutching
them protectively to his chest. “Fifteen minutes,” he repeats, and
lets the door fall closed behind him as he leaves.

Grace
shoogles her chair closer alongside Colin’s wheelchair and looks to
his hands, lying like loosely curled claws in his lap. She wants to
hold one, but what she sees frightens her.

Taped
securely to the back of his left hand is a long plastic cannula,
the sort that can be connected to an intravenous drip or have
medications injected through a needle inserted deep into a
vein.

On the
back of his right hand is a large painful looking bruise,
indicating the previous location of a similar device and its recent
removal, its purple and black discolouration standing livid against
the waxy paleness of his skin.

She
lifts the right hand to her lips, as if she can magic away the
bruise with a kiss, and then presses its marble cold palm to her
cheek, shrugging off the dead fish feeling that abhors her so
much.

“
Colin?” she says, softly.

No
response.

“
Colin, sweetheart, it’s me, Grace. Can you hear
me?”

Nothing.
Not a twitch. Then she has an idea.

“
If it worked for Snow White …?”

She
cradles his cheeks with her hands, taking care not to dislodge the
rubber tube, and kisses him full on his cold slack lips. She then
sits back and waits.

Slowly
his eyelids part, he blinks, once, twice, and focuses on her,
recognition flooding across his face.

“
Grace?”

“
Hey.” She lays warm palms back against his cool cheeks. “I
said I would come and here I am.”

“
Aye, here you are.” His voice is hoarse and brittle, but he
manages to turn on the radiant smile she has come to know. “It’s
good to see you … in the flesh at last.”

“
You too.”

His eyes
fill with tears. “I’m sorry, Grace. I’m afeered there’s no much of
my flesh left ta see, and what there is, is –”

She puts
her finger to his lips. “Shhh. It’s no more or no less than I was
expecting.” She uses the tissue to wipe away a stray tear which has
leaked from the corner of his eye. “Don’t get upset.”

He tries
to smile, then shivers, and his arms rash with goosebumps. Grace
runs her hand up and down his bare arm.

“
You’re so cold,” she says, and grabs a blue cellular
blanket from the bed and drapes it around his shoulders, pulling it
snugly around him. “How’s that?”

“
Better. Thanks.”

“
I haven’t got long,” she says. “I’d like to say it’s
because it’s my first visit and the nurse thinks I might tire you
out.”

“
What’s the real reason?”

“
I’m not supposed to be in here at all. I have my pass, but
I didn’t arrange a visit, didn’t know I had to. He took a chance
letting me in without one so if we are caught, he might get into
trouble.” She squeezes his hand. “But now I know where you are and
what the rules are, in future I’ll make sure I follow
them.”

“
In future? That means you’ll come again?”

“
Of course I will. As often as I can. In fact, I’ll probably
be here so often that you and the staff will be sick of seeing
me.”

“
Never.”