In The Garden Of Stones (43 page)

Gibbs
eases the door open with his hip and enters the room, a steaming
cardboard cup of coffee in each hand.

He sets
one down on the bedside cabinet, saying nothing about Grace taking
up space on Colin’s bed, about the two of them huddled together
like lovers under the blanket, because nothing Grace Dove does
surprises him any more. He’s seen her do some amazing things
already and knows there must be reason in her madness.

Grace
hasn’t noticed the incursion, or the coffee. She is totally focused
on Colin, keeping up a continuous stream of banal chatter. At first
Gibbs is confused, and then he gets it.

She is
using the God given gift of her own voice to talk Colin back to
her, using it as a beacon for him to follow.

Gibbs
checks his watch. The Consultant Neurologist, Mr George McLoughlin,
should be on the premises by now. Whatever Grace is doing, she
needs to get on with it, but as there is nothing he can do to hurry
things along, he withdraws from the room to drink his coffee in the
corridor, leaving her to it.

“
There are days when time folds in on itself,” Grace is
saying.

“
When my days are darker than your nights, when nothing
makes any sort of sense, where every thought, picture, word, smell,
sound takes me to a dark place, when the ground becomes unsteady
and I don’t know where to put my feet, when every step causes a
crack, hairline at first, gradually becoming wider until it is big
enough for me to fall into. On days like those, all I want to do is
sit in a corner with a blanket over my head, and quite often I do,
in the dark and the quiet while I wait for the world to stop
spinning. I know you’ve had those kinds of days too. Lots of them.
You will again, and that’s okay, because I’ll be there for you just
like you were there for me. We have these things in common. It’s
why we understand each other so well. Birds of a feather flock
together, two suits cut from the same cloth, Tweedledum and
Tweedledee.”

She
pulls his arm tighter around her and kisses his cold fingers. “When
I have one of my dark spells again, and I will, I don’t want anyone
but you there with me to help me, to build me a nest like you did
before, to get in bed with me and stay with me, to walk with me in
the garden of stones until I’m ready to face the world again. I’ll
be lost without you Colin, you and the world of our own making. You
saved me from myself, brought new meaning into my life, gave me
something to live for. Without you, I am in that place beyond
despair, where there is only a void. I want to live Colin, not just
exist, not just muddle through, and for the first time in my life,
I want to be in love.”

Was that
a sigh? Keep going.

“
I’ve heard it said that w
hen you love someone, you love them
completely, every cell of their being, every breath they take,
every touch, every smile, every tear. There are no half measures.
You can’t half love someone. You do or you don’t. It really is one
of those all or nothing situations. I want to see for myself. I
want to love someone so wholly and completely that I would die
without them, and the person I want to love is you, Colin McLeod. I
hardly know you but my soul does, and my soul is telling me to love
this man–”

“
So help ma Boab, will you
shut up!
Yer non stop bloody blethering is givin’
me a migraine.”

The
voice is croaky and dry, like a creaky wheel … but most definitely
not inside her head. It is a real, live voice, and the sound of it
sings in her ears.

She sits
up and stares down at him. “Colin?”

“
Who else were ye expecting?”

“
Gerard Butler at the very least.”

“
Sorry to disappoint you.”

She
bends to kiss him. “Oh sweetheart, I thought I’d lost you. Welcome
back.”

He looks
around confusedly. “Back where? Where is this? Fit’s gain oan? This
is no my room.” He makes a clicking noise with his tongue. “Gah!
Feels like something hairy died in my mouth.”

“
You’re in a different part of the centre, sweetie. You’ve
had some treatment, but don’t worry about not being able to
remember it. It will all come back to you. You’re going to be fine
now.”

Their
sweet reunion is rudely interrupted by the door whooshing open and
Simon Gibbs rushing in.

“
Grace–!”

He gets
no further before a ruddy faced, middle aged man of gargantuan
proportions bustles in, closely followed by a man in dark blue
scrubs, and the nurse who had been attending Colin when Grace first
arrived.

When the
man in the rumpled grey suit sees Grace kissing his patient, he
erupts. “What in the blue blazes–!”

Charge
Nurse Simon Gibbs pushes his way forward to stand protectively
between the angry consultant and Grace.

“
It’s okay Mr McLoughlin. This is Grace Dove. She’s a friend
of Captain McLeod’s and I gave her permission to be here. I
thought, under the circumstances–”

“
It is most definitely not okay, Mr Gibbs. This man is
critically ill–”

“
Not any more,” says Grace, and shifts on the bed so that Mr
McLoughlin can see Colin, wide awake and smiling weakly up from his
pillow. “You can cancel the transfer to the Neuro place in
Newcastle. He won’t need it now.”

McLoughlin’s mouth falls open like a gate with a busted
hinge, adding a new chin to his already considerable collection. He
turns his eyes to the ceiling and bellows. “Doctor
Critchley!”

A man in
dark blue scrubs steps forward. “Sir?”

“
Doctor Critchley, you led me to believe this man was in a
post-anaesthesia coma–” says McLoughlin in a cold measured
tone.

Critchley looks across at Colin, his mouth opening and
closing like a landed fish. “He is … was … I don’t
understand–”

“
Looks pretty un-coma like to me, wouldn’t you
agree?”

“
I … er … no, sir. I mean yes, sir.”

“
Yes sir is right.”

McLoughlin opens Colin’s file, the one with the bright red
letters DNR still plastered across the front, and flips over the
pages.

“
Catatonic depression … pre-ECT anaesthesia …
post-anaesthesia failure to respond … query possible persistent
vegetative state … blah, blah, blah. Did you write this, Dr
Critchley?”

“
Yes, sir,” Critchley says, his ears turning bright
red.

“
Rather jumped the gun a bit don’t you think? First time
administering ECT anaesthesia I suppose and you
panicked?”

“
No sir, he’s my eighth…no ninth case, and in every one of
those priors, the patient woke up within a few minutes; full
recovery within fifteen minutes.”

“
So what went wrong this time?”

Dr
Critchley’s ears redden even more. “Er… well…I… we didn’t think
anything had gone wrong … at first. Anaesthesia and ECT were
administered as prescribed, although we knew Captain McLeod’s
catatonic state would mean we had to rely on our observations of
his pulse, blood pressure and breathing rate to assess his level of
consciousness. There was some agitation recorded in the first
couple of minutes after administering the first shock, and again
for a longer period after the second, which did give us some cause
for concern, but it settled, and so we felt hopeful that
consciousness would return shortly, except it didn’t. I decided to
wait a little longer, but he continued to show no sign of recovery,
so I thought it best to seek a second opinion, and I called you …”
Gulp. “Sir?”

“
It’s not his fault,” cuts in Grace, before Critchley
spontaneously combusts. “He’s right. Colin’s condition would have
made it hard to judge his level of consciousness and sometimes, as
in this case, ECT can make things worse, not better.”

McLoughlin’s baleful gaze falls now on her, still sitting
on the bed, still clutching Colin’s hand. “And what would you know
about it, young woman. Are
you
a doctor?”

“
No, but I have had ECT several times, so I have first hand
experience of how things work. I was lucky, I came round
immediately with no major ill effects, but I understand how
difficult it can be to estimate depth of consciousness without
wiring someone up to an EEG machine. Brains are dodgy delicate
instruments, Mr McLoughlin. They don’t like to be tinkered with,
and if they are unhappy with what you’re doing to them, they will
let you know in no uncertain terms. I’m sure even in your long and
illustrious career you’ve had cause to seek further
reassurance.”

McLoughlin rumbles deep in his throat, a harrumph wobbling
the lower of his three chins. Guilty as charged.

“
It would be nice, though,” Grace says, smiling sweetly, “if
you would ask Colin how he’s feeling. He is still in the room you
know. Or had you forgotten?”

McLoughlin gives her a last hard look before turning his
attention to Colin. “Apologies, Captain McLeod. How
are
you
feeling?”

“
All things considered, nae sa bad,” Colin says. “Go’ a wee
bit of a headache, and I feel as weak as a new born rabbit, but I
could murder a bacon butty. I feel like I haven’t eaten in months.”
He frowns up at the ruddy faced man staring down at him. “Who are
ye again?”

Grace
sniggers and squeezes Colin’s hand. “Shhhh. Don’t be
cheeky.”

McLoughlin slams Colin’s folder down on the bedside table,
turns to the last clean page and scribbles on it, signing off with
a flourish. He thrusts the folder back into Critchley’s hands, sees
the red letters stamped on the front, and snatches it
back.

“
Won’t be needing those either.”

A few
strokes of his pen and the letters are crossed out and the crossing
out initialled. He slaps the folder against Critchley’s
chest.

“
He’s fine! Give the man a bacon sandwich. He looks like he
needs feeding up.”

“
Yes sir.”

“
Who’s next?”

The
party bumble out of the room, Doctor Critchley trailing behind, his
face carrying the expression of a man who has narrowly escaped a
bomb blast.

Grace
and Colin are left alone, staring after them. Before they can get
intimate again, Simon Gibbs edges back into the room.

“
What just happened?” asks Colin, still bemused.

“
This young lady just saved your life,” says Gibbs. “Feel
free to thank her properly after I’ve gone.” He winks, smiles, and
leaves to find Colin’s bacon sandwich.

Chapter 42

Four
weeks go by. Colin has lost the feeding tube and is eating a proper
if light diet, supplemented by little treats Grace manages to sneak
to him, and has gained sufficient weight that Grace can no longer
feel his ribs through his shirt.

Instead,
a band of muscle is developing, a result of his hard work with his
physical therapist. The cannulas used for delivering antibiotics
and painkilling medications into the backs of his hands have been
removed, and the bruises faded.

He still
has days, particularly after a gruesome physical therapy session or
following an invasive examination by one of the doctors, when he
withdraws to his private internal garden to find some peace and
quiet, but they are growing fewer and Grace doesn’t have far to go
to bring him back, although quite often they will stay … if only to
spend some time together away from a dreich and dreary
afternoon.

She’s
expected today and so knows Colin will be washed and shaved and
ready to greet her, although when he sees what she has done, it may
very well wipe the smile from his face and invoke a spell of
scowling and swearing and sulking.

Steeling
herself, she pushes open the door to his room and peers around
it.

“
Hey sweetie!”

Colin
glances over his shoulder to see her sidling through the door,
letting it fall closed behind her.

“
Hey yerself.”

When she
has still not given him her now customary welcome kiss, he breaks
off from the jigsaw he has spread out on the table by the window
and pulls on the big wheels of his chair, turning himself around.
She is still standing at the door, handbag clutched in both hands,
looking nervous.

“
Ye coming in or no?” he asks.

“
In a sec. How are you today?”

His eyes
narrow with suspicion. “Fine.”

“
Busy?”

“
Thought I might head out later and sample the hedonistic
fleshpots of Banchory, but at the moment I’m pretty much
unoccupied.” He gives the wheels a turn, moving forward a couple of
feet. “Fit’s gain oan?”

“
Nothing.”

“
Where’s ma kiss?”

She
pecks him on the cheek.

He looks
disappointed. “That it?”

“
You’ll get a proper one in a minute.” She clears her
throat. “Now, I want you to promise not to be angry with
me.”