The Beard (9 page)

Having dispatched his friend to the couch, he raced to the front door, not knowing whether the people responsible for Ash’s injuries lay in wait. A quick glance up and down the street was undertaken to ascertain any sense of impending threat. The stubby street of red-brick terraces was silent. Relieved, Tom slammed the door shut and darted back into the lounge as Amy could be heard on the phone, explaining the urgency of the situation to an emergency operator.

Tom held Ash’s face in his hands. There were some obvious physical injuries, and dried blood was caked across his face and his favourite white shirt. If Tom didn’t know better, he would’ve assumed that Ash was just paralytically drunk. Yet it was transparently obvious that he was in a state of shock and considerable confusion. The cuts, bruises and blood on his face suggested th
at whatever had happened to him occurred some time ago. Quite how Ash had made it to Tom’s was a mystery.

Now that Ash was in a better position, laid out across the sofa, Tom checked for any other signs of injury. He lifted the blood-sodden shirt but could see nothing fresh. “Ash? Ash?” he repeated, trying to get a fix on his friend’s half-closed and rolling eyes. “Ash, listen to me – you’re safe now. You’re with me and Amy. You’re safe. Ash, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

Tom was holding one of Ashley’s hands while trying to steady him and remove debris with the other. “Ash, look at me. Ashley? Look at me,” he said over and over again.

The compact front room in Tom’s house was only big enough to house a two-seat sofa and a chair, once the television and bookcase were in place. Tom considered trying to lie Ash down on the floor but, fearful of ca
using more damage, opted to keep him on the sofa. Splatters of Ash’s blood speckled the stripped wooden floor as Tom kneeled down to try to communicate with him.

“They’re on the way,” said Amy, flying into the room with kitchen roll and a pot of water. “Ash,” she said with forced joviality. “Ash, sweetie, I’m going to clean some of this blood off your face, darling. Make you feel a bit better.”

As she dabbed gently at his pallid skin, smearing crimson swirls of blood around it as she did, Tom continued his attempt to get through to Ash.

“Squeeze my hand,” he continued to say, as if his friend were in a coma. “Just a little squeeze. You’re going to be OK; the ambulance is on its way.”

At that moment, Tom shuddered as Ash gingerly squeezed his hand. The weak caress was sufficient for Tom to know that, somewhere under the matted hair, torn clothes and bruised skin, Ash was still alive.

Tom was visibly affected by the small response, but battled on. “Ash, the ambulance is on its way. I want you to breathe calmly and relax now. You’re safe with us. You’re going to be alright.”

Amy and Tom looked at each other as Ash’s head drooped forwards and lolled back. Both of them were now as white with shock as their friend. From above, looking down at the three figures, bathed in an unflattering low-energy bulb’s hue, the scene must’ve looked as desperate as they felt. In the mania of the moment, the first and only reaction was to ensure Ash’s health and safety. Tom persisted in talking to him while holding his head and trying to look into his glazed and vacant eyes. Amy continued to dab and cleanse his face and neck, oblivious to the stains collecting on her dress.

In what felt like hours, rather than a few minutes, there was a resilient knock at the door. Amy raced to the window and threw back Tom’s heavy curtains. Immediately, the reassuring pulse of blue lights expunged much of the nervous anxiety in the room. Amy charged back, past the sofa, to open the door. Before the ambulance men could utter a word, she said, “This way,” and ushered them into the lounge.

Tom stood up and stepped back, resting Ash’s face on a pillow.

“So, what happened?” said one of the medics as the other began checking vital signs and trying to make contact with the lame man.

“We just got in and then there was a thud at the door,” said Tom. “When we opened it, he was there.”

“You know him?” came the reply.

“Yes, yes, yes…” Tom rambled as his hands started shaking. His focus fuzzed as the merciless reality began to hit home. “He’s our friend, Ash. We just opened the door and he was there. He squeezed my hand when I asked him to, so he’s responding.”

“Very good, sir,” said the medic. Tom and Amy stood back, allowing the men in high-visibility jackets to hover around and over Ash. They set about talking to him, reaching out and gesticulating.

Tom turned to Amy. Immediately aware of the concern and panic in his eyes, she went over and hugged him. Tom hugged her back and looked down at the top of her head. A firm but definitive voice was speaking in the background, as if in a dream. “Can you stand up? Can you stand up? Can you move your arm?”

A million thoughts raced through Tom’s head. Would Ash be OK? Who did this to him? Did he do it to himself? Was he on drugs? What had happened to him? By the time he’d processed a seemingly infinite number of possible outcomes to the evening, Ash was on his way to the ambulance parked outside.

“Will he be alright?” Amy said as Ash was carried out of the house.

“We’ll see down the hospital, but I’ve seen worse,” came the reply. “I think he’ll be OK. He’s just in shock. There doesn’t seem to be any immediate causes for concern.” The words washed over them, the reassuring message still too brittle and uncertain to soothe and calm.

“Which hospital?” asked Tom. “We’ll drive down with you.”

In a blur of activity, where doors seem to shut themselves and lights turn themselves off, Tom and Amy were in a car headed towards the hospital. Having had a fair amount to drink – many hours before – they were both panicked about Ash’s state and the chances that they’d be pulled over. In their blind determination to be at the hospital, however, they’d just raced into the car as the ambulance had departed, with Ash safely ensconced in the back.

Tom’s singular determination to get to the hospital to make sure that Ash was safe now consumed every ounce of his being. Hadn’t Ash suffered enough? Didn’t he have enough on his plate without this? A brooding sense of injustice was feeding a burgeoning desire for revenge, and Tom felt a genuine and searing anger towards the culprits.

“Calm down,” Amy said as they sped down relatively quiet roads. She knew that Tom was getting agitated. “Let’s wait and find out what happened.”

Her words spilled out of the driver’s open window and were left in the car’s wake as they headed with determination to the hospital, their evening as much ahead of them as behind.

The hospital was busy, but nowhere near as busy as it could’ve been. A weekday lull minimised the number of drunks and druggies taking up valuable medical time. Tom and Amy sat, dressed amazingly inappropriately for the silent and sombre surroundings of the A&E waiting room.

Looking around at the walking and the wounded, with bandages, limbs in casts and slings, blood everywhere, eye patches and the like, it seemed that Ash was a relative picture of health.

An accident and emergency department is a sobering snapshot of any society. At any given time, there will be a fully representative cross section of society weeping, limping or bleeding its way from one point to another. In very few other areas of modern society does such a cross section gather together in the same space. Lords and luddites, the wealthy and the wanting – all levelled by the irrepressible force of human health. Some sat side by side; others, seeking refuge, hid behind oversized vending machines.

Tom and Amy sat uncomfortably. Every one of the early-morning zombies that stumbled in front of them leered at the guy in the tux and the bedraggled woman in a gown. What did they think this was, a ballroom? Parents looked reproachfully at them, trying to work out why they were in. Out for the night leaving their child with an irresponsible teenage sitter? That’ll teach them! Two rich kids at a rich kids’ party that ended in tears? That’ll teach them!

Hordes of people sat in the muted noise of the A&E, punctured with occasional tears and whispered announcements. All seemingly judging Tom and Amy. No matter what alternate reality was invented by the silent jury, it wasn’t flattering. After all, who comes to the accident room dressed to the nines?

Amy started to fidget in her seat. She grew uncomfortable in the formed plastic structure that was designed for optimal longevity over luxury.

“Ignore them,” Tom said, still looking at the floor.

Amy jolted upwards, lost in her own world. “What?” she replied, having heard every word.

“I said ignore them,” Tom repeated, sure that she’d heard.

Amy looked around at the faces and raised eyebrows. “What d’ya mean?” she said, acting casual and trying not to show how much they were getting to her.

Tom was working a plastic cup, full of cold dispenser coffee, back and forth between the palms of his hands. The little brown cup, with its white lining and ridged top, looked more palatable than its contents.

“I said,” Tom managed, this time with evident irritation, “ignore them. And yes, you do know what I mean, so stop playing about.”

Amy looked chastened. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just that they keep looking at us like we’re the reason they’re all in here. Has no one ever come in here dressed up?”

“Probably not on a Tuesday,” Tom replied as if filling in a form.

Amy sighed. “How long’s he been in there?” she asked, for want of something to say.

Tom looked up, glaring at anyone who caught his eye. When it came to giving someone an up-and-down judgement, he knew he could hold his own. His look around the room was almost a call to arms, a provocative act, inviting someone to take him on. Everyone turned away, just as he knew they would.

“Dunno,” he replied mournfully.

Amy reached out and squeezed his leg gently. “He’ll be OK,” she said. “Honest.”

Tom didn’t turn his head, but smiled at the effort to make him feel better. It didn’t, but the
intention wasn’t lost on him.

“He’d better be,” came the earnest reply.

“Mr Dewhurst?” A voice from behind a screen punctured the tension. Tom shot his head upright and searched the room for the originator of said noise. As the name was called again, he spotted a man in clinical get-up with a clipboard. Standing up and marching forwards with purpose, he fixed the doctor with a penetrating stare. “I’m Tom Dewhurst,” he said. “Ash… how’s Ash?”

A professional
and compassionate Asian doctor who’d spent years perfecting his capacity to reassure, smiled warmly back at them. “He’s going to be fine,” he offered to exhalations and gasps. “He’s had a rough night, as you know, but we’ve checked him over and he’s going to be fine. We’re going to keep him in overnight just to be sure, but he should be fine to go home tomorrow.”

“Can we see him?” asked Tom excitedly.

“Not tonight,” the doctor replied. “We’ve given him some painkillers to make him more comfortable and he’s resting now. I think it may be better to leave seeing him until tomorrow. Give him a good night’s sleep. Yes?”

The question was leading but they didn’t care.

“Is he going to be OK, though? I mean, what happened to him?”

The doctor was well versed in saying a lot yet very little in these circumstances. Not wanting to hypothesise about the events of the evening, he kept it simple: “He has a number of superficial injuries to his upper body. We’ve managed to speak to him, albeit fleetingly, and he’s said that he was attacked
earlier this evening.”

Despite the very obvious prognosis of the symptoms exhibited by Ash, official confirmation of his condition shocked both Tom and Amy.

“Attacked?” said Amy, as if she’d never considered the possibility.

“Well, as I say, we only had the opportunity of a brief conversation, but we’ll enquire further tomorrow. If your friend feels the need, we’ll help him make contact with the relevant authorities, of course.”

Although the news was good, in general, the mood of jubilation had been stymied. Tom nodded furiously as if on drugs. Manic eye movements accompanied his nodding, as a myriad of thoughts flashed through his mind. “What time can we pick him up tomorrow?” he asked, his mind already planning.

“Well,” said the doctor, leafing through his charts and papers, “I imagine after rounds tomorrow, so about 11am, all being well.”

Tom and Amy both thanked the doctor, who smiled his “all part of the job” smile that he’d spent less time perfecting, before disappearing behind a screen again to tend to another wounded soul.

“He’s like the Wizard of Oz,” said Amy nonchalantly.

The unexpected absurdity of the description, coupled with exhaustion and relief, sent Tom into fits of giggles. He started to stagger, as a drunk might, laughing uncontrollably.

Long and winding, yellow plastic paths criss-crossed the hospital floor, indicating where people must walk. This hitherto-unobserved yellow-brick road added a great credence to the joke and accentuated its observational genius.

Tom took Amy’s arm theatrically. “Come on, then,” he said, his eyes streaming and a look of deranged delirium on his face. “Let’s go, Dorothy!” he added, before skipping down the yellow path towards the door.