The Breezes (11 page)

His favourite business Bible is Fincham's
What They Don't Teach You at Rockport Business School
, because Paddy Browne went to Rockport Business School and Pa figures that reading this book will give him some kind of edge over the man. Following Fincham's recommendation, he carries around in his wallet the special takeaway cards that come with the books, cards which boil the techniques of business down to their mysterious essence.
DIAGNOSIS
, one card reads.
NON-POSTPONEMENT
, reads another one.
INPUT? THROUGHPUT? OUTPUT?
asks another. And my favourite:
INEVITABLE PROBLEMS – QUICK RESPONSE
. It's the dash I love – that immediate, right-on-top-of-the-problem dash.

Answer me this: Merv's accident – what is the quick response to that?

Merv is being treated in a hospital just outside Rockport city. It is an isolated, dark-bricked, turreted old building and for panoramic reasons, one supposes, its founders located it right on the precipice that overshadows the Rockport yacht haven, giving the place the bleak, looming air of a Central European schloss. We approached it by a narrow road that ran alongside the edge of the cliff. Below, to our right, was the city in its basin and, to our left, on the exposed flatland in front of the hospital, stood a wind farm, the propellers planted in the arid earth in parallel rows, blades spinning sweetly in the plentiful sea wind.

We arrived just after three o'clock. There was a moment of quiet after the car stopped. An ambulance drew up to the hospital entrance, its roof light turning orange again and again. Neither of us felt like moving.

Pa tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Look,' he said, pointing. I looked: way below, a train, slithering carefully through gardens and allotments into North Rockport Station. Pa checked his watch. ‘Bang on time,' he said.

We got out of the car and walked into the reception area and Pa asked about seeing Mr Mervyn Rasmussen in intensive care. First floor, take a right, take a left, go down to the bottom of the corridor, the receptionist said, then wait in the waiting-room.

‘Hold on a moment,' Pa said, just as we were about to set off. He dashed outside and came back moments later with a bouquet of daffodils and a get-well card with a joke.
It could be worse
, the front of the card said. I looked inside it for the punchline:
I could be ill and you could be listening to me complaining!

BEST WISHES FOR A SPEEDY RECOVERY, MERV
, Pa wrote.
WITH BEST WISHES FROM THE BREEZES
. He signed his name
and Rosie's, and then I signed. ‘OK,' he said worriedly. ‘I suppose we'd better get going.'

We walked without speaking. We turned one corner, then another. Finally, after what seemed like half an hour going down a long corridor, we reached the intensive care waiting-room. It felt like an airport lounge full of delayed passengers. The atmosphere was one of exhaustion and camaraderie and domestic informality, the visitors unkempt, walking around in socks, eating snacks, dipping into bags for belongings. A television was on in the corner. There was a low hum of conversation.

Pa said, ‘There she is. That's Mrs Rasmussen – Amy. And that's Merv's boy,' he whispered. ‘He's called Billy.' We approached them. ‘Amy,' Pa said. He gave her a big hug while Billy and I stood awkwardly by.

‘Billy,' Mrs Rasmussen said, ‘you remember Mr Breeze?' Pa and Billy shook hands. ‘And you must be John,' Mrs Rasmussen said. We shook hands. Then, after a moment of hesitation, Billy Rasmussen and I shook hands, too. Billy was a big-shouldered, brown-skinned man of about my age. His hands were enormous. He kept half grinning, as if there were something comical about the situation.

Mrs Rasmussen was a tiny Oriental woman of around fifty, a Filipino by origin, I guessed. She was wearing a pyjama suit and slippers and obviously had been camping out in the waiting-room since the accident. I could see a sleeping-bag and a small suitcase under her chair.

‘How is he, Amy?' Pa said.

Mrs Rasmussen shrugged. ‘Not good, Gene.'

Pa went quiet for a moment. He made to hold up the daffodils, but then he lowered them again.

Mrs Rasmussen said kindly, ‘You don't have to see him, you know. You can leave the flowers with me, if you like.'

Pa moved a little.

‘Would you like to see him?' Mrs Rasmussen said. She looked at me.

Pa said. ‘Only if it's OK, Amy. We don't want to disturb him.'

Mrs Rasmussen smiled. Her tiredness showed. ‘Of course
it's all right. You're his best friend.' Then she smiled at me, as if I, too, were a best friend of Merv.

A nurse nodded his approval to Mrs Rasmussen and we followed her through one door and then through another, her slippers slapping against her heels. She pointed through a third transparent door. ‘He's in there,' she said. ‘I'll wait here,' she said.

Looking uncertainly through the door-glass, Pa went in. Not wanting to wait outside with Mrs Rasmussen, I followed him.

Almost immediately I broke out into a sweat. The ward was fervid as a jungle. On the bed in front of us a fat, bright red naked body, the skin lacquered with cream, lay wrapped in transparent plastic sheeting. That was not Merv. Merv was a pale, skinny man. We had no business with this fat man. We quickly walked past to the second bed, the one behind the screen.

Pa and I looked at each other. The bed was empty.

Pa undid his collar and took off his coat. He said with a weak smile, ‘Boy, I tell you, I could grow some plants in here, that's for sure.'

I said, pointing back towards the first bed, ‘That … That isn't him, is it?'

Pa fanned his face with the greeting-card and looked at me anxiously.

We went back. Pa slowly approached the unconscious patient and leaned over him.

‘Well?' I said, after a moment.

‘I … I'm not sure.'

I was. That was not Merv. Merv was spindly. This poor guy was shaped like the blow-up Michelin man, all puffy and creased. His face was round as a football and his eyes were slits, whereas Merv had a thin face and big eyes; and although it was hard to be sure, because he was lying on his bed, I saw no sign of a hump. Besides, I had an idea about what we were looking for: a man with the appearance of a physics experiment, encased in bandages and plaster, with his arms and legs suspended by weights and pulleys from the ceiling.

Then Pa said, ‘It's Merv. He's been burned.'

I moved forward.

Jesus. It was him, ballooned and roasted. A tube had been inserted into his mouth and pushed down his throat: a ventilator. Shit. Merv could not even breathe.

I kept sweating. My God, it was boiling.

I turned my eyes to the machine and monitors stacked like a hi-fi next to his bed. Merv was plugged into everything. One machine was fixed to a drip under his collarbone, another to a drip on the top of his foot – the only part of him not burned, it seemed – and another to three stickers attached to his chest and legs. Nothing was stuck to Merv's arms. They were too badly injured. One of the machines bore a screen with a pattern of dense, spiky peaks: his heart, I guessed. In spite of everything, that pump still kept pushing up those electrical mountains.

Pa gestured at the instruments with his bouquet. ‘Just look at all these things,' he said. ‘Science …You'd think it would be impossible for a man to die these days.' He wiped his brow with his handkerchief. ‘Why is it so hot in here?' he said in bewilderment.

We turned around. Billy had come in.

He had heard Pa's question. ‘It's because he's losing a lot of heat. They have to keep him warm and humid.' Billy touched one of the machines. ‘The CVP,' he said expertly. ‘To keep the bodily fluids balanced. It's very difficult with burn victims. You see, the fluid's in the tissues, not the bloodstream,' he said.

Pa and I stood there nodding gravely, trying to absorb this information. Billy grinned again. He pointed a thumb at his father. ‘He'd make a nice meal, wouldn't he? Nicely basted,' Billy said, with reference to the ointment smeared over the slick, bloated stomach. He laughed. ‘Actually, on second thoughts, he's a bit too microwaved for my liking.' He laughed again.

Was he out of his mind?

Pa's bouquet crackled. He glanced uneasily at his friend, lying there in his wrapping. I looked too and noticed, with a shock, that clear yellow droplets were oozing from his skin like sap from a tree. What the hell were those droplets doing there?

Pa said, ‘How's the swimming coming along, Billy?' Pa
looked at me. ‘Billy's a swimming champion, John. The butterfly, that's right, isn't it, Billy?'

Billy said, ‘I'm too old now, Mr Breeze.' Demonstrating, he suddenly swung his arms over his shoulders in a violent stroke, his hands taking fruitless scoops of the hot air. ‘Too slow,' he said cheerfully.

I gave him a smile. I felt it was my turn to say something.

Billy casually approached the bed. There was recklessness in his movements which I did not like. He regarded his father with an expression of curiosity.

Pa said, ‘I think we'll be going now.'

Billy did not move for a couple of seconds. Then, in the same briskly informative tone, he said, ‘The problem is the lungs. The danger with fire is that you inhale the smoke and the flames.'

Pa, distressed, said, ‘Are your father's … Are his lungs …'

‘Burned,' Billy said.

Burned lungs? That did not sound too good.

Pa said, ‘What … What happened, Billy? How did it happen?'

Billy said, ‘The other car just swerved into Dad's lane. The driver doesn't know why. He can't explain it. Dad's car just went whoosh. It was a fluke. Dad couldn't move. He was trapped by his seatbelt. It buckled or melted or something. Funny, that, isn't it?'

My father took out his handkerchief again and slowly dragged it across his mouth and then his eyes. Then he began wiping the condensation from his glasses.

‘This place is like a sauna, isn't it?' Billy said with a laugh. ‘Lose weight while you watch.'

I smiled weakly. I straightened my stance, preparing to leave.

Pa showed the flowers to Billy. ‘I'll just put them here, shall I?'

‘Yeah,' Billy said. ‘Just chuck them over there.'

Pa put the flowers and the card on a table. We left the room and entered the cool of the corridor.

Mrs Rasmussen was still there, waiting for us. But there was someone else with her, too.

Pa said, ‘Paddy.'

Mrs Rasmussen said, ‘Billy, this is Mr Browne.'

This man, Paddy Browne? The bloodthirsty, furtive Network Secretary? Influenced by Pa's demonology, I had imagined him as a small carnivore of a man, a weasel, a devourer of frogs and mice and birds. I had him down as sharply dressed and long-faced, with twitching, watery eyes and a small, neatly trimmed moustache. But this fellow, tall and in his early thirties, had an open and intelligent face. He wore jeans and a thick white Aran sweater. His hair was black and uncombed and his brown brogues were comfortably battered. There was nothing slippery about him at all.

He shook hands with Billy. ‘I work with your father,' he said to Billy. ‘I'm terribly sorry about what has happened.'

‘It's good of you to come, Mr Browne,' Mrs Rasmussen said.

‘Not at all,' Paddy Browne said, ‘not at all.'

Pa, meanwhile, had put his jacket back on, the jacket with the Network insignia on its breast pocket, and I could not help comparing and contrasting him with Paddy Browne. Paddy Browne was relaxed, youthful and winning. Pa, sweating, evasive, plastic pocket protectors protruding from his bulging jacket as he stood there in his cheap grey slacks and polished shoes, looked uncomfortable, old and acquainted with defeat. He said stiffly, ‘Paddy, this is my boy, John.' He did not meet Browne's eye.

We acknowledged each other with a nod.

‘Amy, we'll be heading off now,' Pa said. He hugged her lightly. ‘We'll be praying,' he said. ‘If you need anything, you know where to come.' Then he said gently, ‘He'll be all right. These places work wonders. We'll have him back on that tennis court in no time.' He turned to Billy. ‘So long, Billy.'

‘Goodbye,' I said to the Rasmussens.

Pa walked down the long corridor with unusual agitation. ‘What's he doing here?' he wanted to know as soon as we were out of earshot. ‘He hardly knows Merv. Who does he think he is, coming down here? The Pope?'

This uncharitable reaction was not like him. I said, ‘He's here to see how Merv is, just like you.'

Pa grunted. He still could not find it in him to give Paddy
Browne that credit. It has not always been like this. When Paddy Browne first arrived on the scene two years ago, Pa was all in favour of him. ‘That's what we need around here,' he said at the time. ‘New blood. We need dynamic young guys like Paddy to shake things up a bit, guys with new ideas. There are too many timeservers in the Network, too many people stuck in their old ways. It's time we cleared out the dead wood. We need imagination and vision,' Pa said boldly. ‘We need to take the Network into the year 2000. Paddy Browne is just the fellow I could use at my side. Pa did not figure at the time that he might be counted as dead wood – wood that could be cut without injury.

Then Pa said with a sudden gasp, ‘My gosh, John, those burns! Those burns!' He put his hands to his cheeks. ‘What's going to happen to him? What's he going to look like?'

I dreaded to think. The scarring would be monstrous. Merv would be unrecognizable beneath the fibrous, melted, contracted tissue. They would have to get him a new face. I remembered reading somewhere how they did it: by cutting away undamaged skin from one part of the body and transplanting it to the burned part. But apart from his right foot, Merv was burned all over. How far could the skin from one foot stretch?

‘My God,' Pa said, as we walked slowly out to the car. ‘My God. Merv.' He fell into his seat and gripped the wheel tightly. He was horrified. His mouth hung loose and he stared through the windscreen.

I had nothing comforting to say. Either way, things looked bad for his best friend. If he pulled through, he would be hideously disfigured. If he did not, well, then that would be that; then he would be dead.

Pa turned the ignition key. The engine started, then quit. But instead of simply giving it more choke, Pa for some reason decided that this was the moment to take a precautionary look under the bonnet. ‘I won't be long,' he said. ‘There's something I want to double-check.'

For a minute I waited in the car, but then I got out and walked over to the boundary of the car-park and rested my elbows against the safety rail put there to stop people from tumbling down over the cliff edge. Apart from the usual
couple of bushes grittily sprouting from some schism in the rock, the drop was sheer. A faller would land two hundred feet directly below, on the tiled roofs of the old fishermen's cottages now painted in pastel colours. I raised my eyes. Beyond the haven and the pretty jetties crammed with sailing-boats, the roll-on, roll-off docks of the modern port began: trucks, containers, container ships, warehouses, cranes, tugs, forklifts, more cranes. Slightly to the right of that you could see, in an inland quay, the fishing smacks and trawlers. To the south and west of the port was the city proper, eighteenth-century in the centre, then tower blocks, then the floodlights of the soccer stadium, then a dense mishmash of buildings which finished up by sprinkling suburbs evenly over the lower flanks of Rockport Mountains, which curved down from my right to the coastal plateau where I stood. Supervising all of this, its beacons sparking in the slow, regular beat of a steady heart, was the Wilson Tower, its translucent lightning conductor glowing with extra clarity in the darkness of the afternoon.