Rubbernecker (7 page)

There was a TV in the front room that Jackson had brought from home, and which he controlled jealously – even taking the remote to the toilet with him. So Patrick learned all about the Turner Prize and
Hollyoaks
, and had to go to the bookies over the road to see any horseracing.

Sometimes they had parties in the house – not
him
, but Jackson and Kim. At first they’d tried to involve him in the planning and the purchasing, but Patrick had no interest in parties and said he would stay in his room.

Jackson had narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘Don’t think you’re going to come downstairs in the middle of it and eat our food and drink our booze then.’

‘I don’t drink,’ said Patrick. ‘And I wouldn’t eat your food in case I got salmonella.’

‘No need to be rude,’ said Jackson.

‘I’m not,’ Patrick told him. ‘You always have meat juice on your shelf; it’s only a matter of time.’

‘Don’t come then,’ Jackson said petulantly.

‘OK,’ said Patrick. ‘Can I put the racing on?’

‘Absolutely not. Cruel sport.’

Patrick was alone on the planet, it seemed, in being without a mobile phone. He’d tried one once but he could actually
feel
his brain being fried, and still flinched whenever a phone went off nearby. But it did mean that he had what seemed to be exclusive use of the public phone outside the bookies, although he always wore a stolen pair of the bright blue gloves when he called his mother every Thursday night, in case of germs on the receiver. She’d insisted he call once a week and Patrick did, only so that if he died he would be missed before his body started to smell too badly.

‘Are you eating all right?’ was one of the first questions she always asked.

‘Yes,’ he’d say. ‘Monday I had toast and jam, then a cheese sandwich at lunch and pasta for dinner. Tuesday was the same but the sandwich was Marmite. Wednesday was the same but the sandwich was peanut butter. Thursday I ran out of peanut butter. And bread.’

‘Did you get some more?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good,’ she’d say. ‘Don’t forget to eat.’

‘I won’t,’ he’d say, although sometimes he did.

Then, even though he never asked, she would tell him about the garden and the cat. It always went on for a lot longer than either of them deserved.

And then there were the silences. Patrick liked those bits of the conversation – the in-between bits that were so soothing and allowed him to think about things she wouldn’t understand: adjusting the derailleur on his bike because first gear was clipping the spokes; the way fat looked like greasy yellow clots of sweetcorn under the skin; and Custom Lodge and Quinzi, who had died at Wincanton on Wednesday night.

‘You are wearing your bike helmet, aren’t you, Patrick?’

He nodded, his head elsewhere.

‘Patrick?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are wearing your helmet, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. I told you already.’

‘Sorry.’

The first death had been too quick, the second hidden from view behind screens, so neither had been useful to him.

‘Well,’ she’d say after a few more moments of silence. ‘Thanks for calling. You take care of yourself and work hard.’

‘OK.’

‘I love you, Patrick.’

‘OK.’

‘Goodbye until next week then.’

‘OK. Bye.’

Then he’d peel off the blue gloves and drop them in the bin on his way back to the house.

The click of disconnection always came so quickly after his last word that Sarah knew he was hanging up even as he said goodbye. Desperate to get away from her.

Could she blame him?

She often did.

Every week she thought of all the things she should ask him. But when Patrick wasn’t around it was all too easy to forget how hard it was to keep a conversation going. As soon as she heard his voice, all the questions she would have asked any
normal
son died in her mouth.

Are you having fun in the evenings?

Who’s your best mate?

Met any nice girls yet?

Patrick never had fun in the evenings. Not what most boys his age would call fun, anyway. He liked being on the Beacons, watching racing and collecting roadkill. The closest he had to a friend was Weird Nick next door, which said it all. And she could never imagine him even talking to girls, let alone allowing one to touch him or attempting a kiss. Asking Patrick those questions might not have upset
him
, but they would have upset
her
, because the answers would have reminded her of just how odd he still was – and possibly why.

And so every week they exchanged the same banalities and, instead of feeling relieved by them, his calls left her feeling guilty and resentful, even after all these years.

Or would it have been the same if Matt were still alive?

She’d never know now, she thought with a bitter dart. She stroked the cat too hard, so that it pushed off her lap with reproachful claws. It made Sarah think of trying to help three-year-old Patrick to unwrap a birthday gift – the way he’d squirmed away from her, and how she’d dug her fingers too deeply into his chubby little arm to keep him by her side.

But she’d lost him anyway.

And every Thursday she lost him again.

11

THE FLIRTING HAD
worked. Now, whenever Mr Deal came to visit, he caught Tracy’s eye and gave a little smile – and she always made sure she was looking her best and being her kindest. It was quite an effort.

It was all a little strange, of course, because the flirting usually happened somewhere close to the bed where Mr Deal’s wife was lying comatose. Plus, it was not conventional flirting. Tracy had already resigned herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to flash her boobs or slide her bottom provocatively against the front of Mr Deal’s trousers as he stood at the bar. No, this was secret flirting, using Mrs Deal as an unconscious conduit for their feelings.

‘I’ve been putting extra moisturizer on her hands. I notice they get very dry in here.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Her wedding ring is lovely. Did you choose it?’

‘We went together.’

‘That’s romantic,’ sighed Tracy. ‘Nobody’s romantic any more.’

Mr Deal just nodded, as if he didn’t have an opinion on romance one way or the other, so Tracy changed to a more professional tack.

‘Did you know that the doctor upped her morphine?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I noticed she was frowning a lot. We discussed it and thought it might mean she was in distress.’

Jean had noticed, actually; Tracy hadn’t noticed a thing.

‘Frowning?’

‘Yes. Like now. Look.’

‘Oh yes, I see.’

Mr Deal stared at his wife thoughtfully. ‘Does she ever say anything?’

‘Oh no,’ said Tracy. ‘But when they frown, it can be due to physical discomfort, so we turn her more often and we thought it best to increase the dosage. The doctor did, anyway.’

‘Which doctor?’

Tracy was irritated that Mr Deal wanted to know which doctor, when the point of her story was her own caring and observant nature, coupled with the life-or-death responsibility she bore as a nurse. She couldn’t show the irritation though; irritation was an unattractive trait and to be kept hidden until at least a few weeks into a sexual relationship, along with nagging, and farting in bed.

‘Oh, it begins with a B,’ she giggled. ‘There are so many doctors, and then there’s juniors and students too, and I’m new on this ward, so I haven’t learned them all yet.’

‘Where were you before?’

‘Paediatrics.’

‘Did you like that?’

Did she? What would he want to hear? Tracy could have kicked herself for not checking whether the Deals had children. Even then there was no right answer. If they had children, maybe he’d rather have someone who didn’t have baggage; if they
didn’t
, then maybe that was
Mrs
Deal’s fault, and he’d be keen to start a family with somebody new.

‘Oh yes,’ she enthused. ‘But I like this just as much in a different way.’ She hoped that covered both bases. He only nodded, which gave her no clue. But the next night, he brought a small box of
chocolates
and told her they were just for her. Sadly, they were truffles, but she was gushing in her thanks and promised to keep them a secret. She re-gifted them for her sister’s birthday that very weekend, but took heart from the fact that she and Mr Deal were making progress.

Unlike her patients.

The most annoying bad patient had died and everything was easier without his thrashing and crying. They were all very relieved, particularly Angie, whose crooked finger was the only sign now that he had ever been there.

Still, all Tracy seemed to do was put food and fluids in at one end of the patients and clean up at the other. They were less people than simple flesh tunnels for processing calories into shit. It repulsed her.

The few patients who could communicate were painfully slow at the process. Between all her other tasks, Tracy was often required to sit and interpret their weird stretched moans, or their long-winded attempts to spell out pointless messages on the little Possum spelling gadgets.

‘T … H. Is that an H? Or a G? Can you blink if it’s an H? Was that a blink or a twitch? Try to be accurate, OK? I’m going with H.’

T … H … God, it took
for ever
and they never said anything interesting. It didn’t help that one of the ward Possums was a bit dodgy and sometimes needed a good shake, or to be turned off and on again to avoid scrambling to gobbledegook.

While she waited for the patient to blink her way through the alphabet, Tracy’s eyes wandered to the TV on the opposite wall. It was
Bargain Hunt
and the blue team were considering a hideous green vase. Her mother had one just like it, and Tracy made a mental note to admire it next time she was home; maybe her mother would give it to her. When she looked back the patient had laboriously spelled out ‘T … H … I … R … S …’

Tracy smiled. ‘Thursday? Aw, bless! No, it’s Friday today, silly.
TGIF!
Off to Evolution tonight for a few drinks and a dance. Better get back to work now, though. No rest for the wicked.’

She put the Possum down beside the water jug, then went over to the nurses’ station and slumped in the swivel chair. The coma ward was boring yet difficult. Like golf.

Then Tracy sat up and dug about and found a hazelnut cluster in the lower layer of the latest Terry’s All Gold.

12

I SURGE UP
from the depths of the well like a killer whale, with everything going from dark depths to bright white as I break the surface, and open my eyes on a pair of breasts encased in blue with white trim, almost touching my nose. Her enormous name tag says, ‘Tracy Evans, RN’.

She straightens up and looks at me and says, ‘Oh!’

Help me, Tracy! Someone killed the man in the next bed
. But my ears hear only ‘Aaaaaaa waaaaa aaaaaaa,’ like an annoying sheep.

‘Oh,’ she says again, ‘you’re awake.’ Then she leans down close and looks into my eyes from about six inches away, so that I can see all the little flecks in her blue irises.

‘
Are
you?’ she says, suspiciously.

All I can do is blink slowly and hope she understands that I need to report a murder
right now
.

Instead she bustles away and I get so angry that I fall asleep …

I open my eyes again to find a woman old enough to be my mother, but who’s not my mother, weeping at my bedside. She wears blue gloves and a surgical mask. Her hair is greying and her eyes are red, and snot from her nose has made a dark patch on the front of the mask.

Why is she crying? Has something gone wrong?

For a horrible second I wonder if
I
’ve gone wrong.

‘Maaaaaa!’

She stops mid-sob and looks up, gasps, then chokes a bit. ‘Doctor!’ she croaks.

I flinch inside. A doctor is the last person I want to see, but what can I do? I have to show I’m awake and in one piece or they’ll let me just
slip away
…

My stomach rolls in fear as a set of blue scrubs walks into my vision and looks down at me over an armful of clipboards. He’s even younger than me.

‘You awake again, mate?’ he says – and this time I
do
cry with happiness – and relief – because that’s such a nice friendly thing to say; not sinister or frightening.

I hope I’m nodding, but either way he turns and calls across the ward. ‘Hello? Can we have some help?’

We. Can
we
have some help. I’m with
him
now; regardless of the scrubs, we’re on the same side.

Tracy Evans with the big blue boobs comes over and it’s all bustle bustle bustle with people pinching my fingernails, requests to say my own name, establishing one blink for yes and two for no – while the young doctor announces each positive like a poo in a potty.

‘Withdrawal from pain! … No comprehensible language, but that might come … Spontaneous eye opening. Very good!’

He makes a quick calculation, then tells the weeping woman that my Glasgow score is now ten. I have no idea what he means, but ten sounds pretty perfect to me. Then he gets all serious and lowers his voice – as if I can’t hear him.

‘But I need to warn you not to get your hopes up too high. He’s not out of the woods yet. This may be as good as it gets, or he may even regress. We know so little about emergence; it’s never straightforward, and he’s still incredibly vulnerable.’

The woman nods and catches her mascara on the back of her fingers, her optimism tempered.

My optimism is sky high! He may or may not be a killer, but the
doctor
is my new best friend. He gave me a ten, didn’t he? I feel like a traitor, but I’m so grateful to him that I don’t care about the man in the next bed. I’ll worry about him later.

Or maybe I won’t.

He’s dead and I’m not, and that’s all that matters right now.

When Tracy Evans and the doctor finally go away, the woman in the mask lays a rubber-gloved hand on my head.

‘I knew you were in there. I
knew
it!’ she says like a zealot.