Face (10 page)

‘The way the face looks immediately after grafting is not the way it stays. Newly grafted skin needs time to take – as we call it. She just needed to cry and that's very normal.'

Martin needed these words of comfort.

Five days after the operation, and twenty-three days after being admitted to hospital, Martin was ready to be discharged from Newham Parkside. His thigh had begun to grow new skin and his face had improved. There were no infection problems after the operation and the two newly grafted pieces of skin had begun to settle in. The burns on his hands had now healed as much as they could, the minor cuts and scratches that he had received in the crash had all gone. There wasn't any more that the hospital could do for him for a while. Once again it was time to let nature do its thing. Martin's legs felt weak. He hadn't run or gone for a long walk for over three weeks. Martin had a daydream about doing gymnastics, going for long walks and playing football whilst in hospital. After listening to so much music, he longed for the day to come when he could dance. But he also knew that gymnastics, football, dancing and even walking were never going to be the same again with his new face.
Martin's parents arrived early to help him pack. The daily presents they had been bringing in, added to his friends' gifts, meant that there was quite a lot of packing to do. His mother had brought him a brand new designer outfit with a pocket specially made for a Walkman and other pockets specially made for spare tapes. Martin put the outfit on straight away and immediately made use of the pockets. It was an extra baggy, brown, two-piece outfit that his mother described as cut curtains. But Martin had seen a similar outfit being worn by the rapper MC Kitty Kat on the front of a music cassette and had said he wanted something like it. Fortunately for Martin, his mother would buy almost anything to make him happy.

As they packed, Alan Green popped in to say goodbye. He gave Martin a card with his home and hospital phone numbers on it and told them all that they were free to contact him at any time. Then he bid them farewell and continued on his rounds.

‘Come on,' said Martin's father. ‘We'll get a taxi at the hospital reception.'

Martin had never walked off the Burns Unit before. As he left the ward, other patients said goodbye or waved. Many of them had never spoken to Martin but they had got used to seeing him on the ward. As he walked to reception, Martin saw a whole world of people. Some were patients, some were staff and some were visitors, and for the first time Martin
thought he was being stared at publicly.

Getting into the taxi was a relief. It was like escaping but the summer sun was shining brightly and hurting his eyes. He had seen very little natural sunlight and the summer heat was something that oppressed him after three weeks in an air conditioned state. He was aware of every turn the taxi made. His ears were acutely aware of all the sounds of the street but all he did was to stare at the seat in front of him. Not once did Martin look out of the taxi window into the street until they arrived home and even then he only gave his home a quick glance before rushing in, leaving his parents to carry all his bags.

Martin spent the rest of the day unpacking and rearranging his room. He was pleased to be home and back in his room. Although he knew he was privileged to have had his own room at the hospital, he had missed his own space.

Before going to sleep that night, Martin had a long hard look at himself in the mirror. It was different now. Looking like he did at home was somehow different from looking like he did in the Burns Unit. He was now in familiar surroundings with an unfamiliar face.

The next morning after breakfast, Martin, dressed in his West Ham football kit, was riding his mother's exercise bike when the doorbell rang. He stopped for a moment as he let the unfamiliar sound of the doorbell die out and then he continued to pedal.
Downstairs he could hear the mumblings of a conversation but he paid it no attention until he heard his name being called.

‘Martin, Martin, can you come down, love,' his mother called. ‘There's someone here to see you.'

It was DI Byrd with a colleague. ‘I'm sorry for coming to see you so soon after you've been discharged from the hospital but I do need to speak to you,' said DI Byrd.

He looked very formal but spoke very casually. ‘My superiors think I should be working harder.'

‘Sit down, mate,' his father interrupted, pointing to a chair.

When they were all seated, DI Byrd continued.

‘Now, Martin, yesterday I had a talk with your friend Mark Thorpe. I have a signed statement from him telling the story of the accident from his point of view. What I need now is your story. If you tell me what happened from when you left the club until the accident happened, my colleague Detective Hudson will do the writing. You and your parents can check it and, if you're happy, all you have to do is sign it and we can move on to the next stage.'

‘OK,' Martin replied. He wasn't looking forward to this. On various occasions he had had small flashbacks but up until now he had not had to go through the whole thing in one sitting. He hadn't been expecting this.

He did his best to relay what had happened that night. His parents, who were hearing the whole story for the first time, just sat and listened. Detective Hudson wrote away and DI Byrd had very little prompting to do as Martin let the story pour out, trying hard not to omit a single thing. When all was done, DI Byrd had to pick up on one point.

‘I have to ask you this straight out, Martin. I've asked you before and now you're making your statement, I have to ask you again. It's important, so don't let your parents, don't let your friends, don't even let your enemies, put you off telling the truth. Did Apache or Peter Mosley offer you any drugs?'

‘No,' Martin replied agitated. ‘I told you already, no. What's the matter? Don't you believe me?'

‘I believe you, mate, but I've been asked to make sure. You see we know they were stealing and dealing in drugs, and we know they had been dealing on the night of the crash but we can't find no evidence.'

‘Well, we had no drugs from them. Like I said in the hospital, I did see Pete throw something out of the car but I don't know what it was.'

Detective Hudson read the statement out to the family and Martin signed it with his father as witness. Two hours had passed and DI Byrd had not finished yet.

‘At this point, Martin, I have to officially caution you.'

‘For what?'

‘For accepting a lift in a stolen car.'

‘I didn't know it was stolen. I didn't steal it.'

‘Calm down, Martin,' his mother said firmly. ‘Listen to what the officer has to say.'

DI Byrd continued. ‘You must understand, I have to do things by the book. As you said in your own words, they were joy-riding in the car before you got in it. A formal caution is just a warning to you that if it ever happens again you must ask who the car belongs to, if you're not sure, don't get in. Anyone who reads my report will see that basically you're a victim of circumstance but you must realise how close you and Mark came to death. Peter Mosley was bad news, Graham Fisher still is bad news. This caution is just a warning – stay away from scum like that.'

Martin had got the message. He nodded a yes. DI Byrd dropped his tone. ‘Peter Mosley was buried last week in a council grave. No one knows where his mother is and after he was buried, we traced his father to a prison up north where he's doing a life sentence. Graham Fisher or Apache is going to jail.' His voice softened even more. ‘His parents love him, he just doesn't love himself. He's been in and out since he was thirteen.'

Then DI Byrd handed Martin another sheet of paper. ‘Sign there, please, it just confirms the fact that you've been cautioned.'

Martin signed the caution and again his father
signed as witness. As the police officers left, DI Byrd told them that he hoped never to see them again in the line of duty. When the door was closed, Martin, his mother and his father hugged, all three together in the hallway.

After a week at home, Martin made a return visit to the hospital with his parents to see Dr Owens and Alan Green. Between them they had made some important decisions. There were to be no more operations. Martin had made up his mind: he'd had all the surgery he required and he wasn't going to have repeated stays in hospital trying to achieve a perfect face. He was thankful that there wasn't any rebuilding to be done and that the newly grafted skin had began to settle in. The very rough areas were now covered with new skin and the scars where the old met the new were less prominent. But Martin was still looking into mirrors at every opportunity, which worried Alan Green.

‘Listen, Martin,' Alan said, ‘looking in the mirror with confidence is great, but don't spend too much time doing it. Simply treat mirrors as you did before the operation.'

His mother turned to Alan with a knowing smile.
‘Even before the accident he spent a lot of time looking in mirrors.'

Most importantly, Martin had decided that he was going to return to school on the first day of the new term. This was a giant step. Since the accident, Martin had only been in two buildings, the hospital and his home. The only people that he had interacted with had been hospital staff, his parents and his closest friends. Alan Green thought it was very worthy of Martin to want to go back to school but he was worried about him going back so soon. But Martin was adamant, he wanted to return to school at the start of term like everyone else.

That meeting was on Wednesday. The new term was to start on Monday and on Friday, when his father was at work and his mother was out visiting friends, the front doorbell rang. Martin was lying on his bed thinking of going back to school. He tiptoed carefully into the front room to see who it was through the front window. To Martin's astonishment it was Mr Lincoln, his form teacher. He was standing facing the door as stiffly as a soldier on parade. Martin wasn't sure what to do. He considered not opening the door, thinking that Mr Lincoln would come back another time when one of his parents was in, but then Mr Lincoln rang the bell again. Martin went out and opened the door.

‘Hello, Martin, I hope you don't mind me calling. I would like a quick word if I may.'

Mr Lincoln looked Martin straight in the eyes. His minimalist smile was as good as Martin had ever seen it. He could also see that Mr Lincoln had come prepared.

‘My mom and dad are not in but if you only need to speak to me that's OK.'

‘I promise you, I'll be gone before you know it.'

As they entered the front room, Mr Lincoln began to talk about the weather. Martin noticed that he didn't ask how he was or how the holidays had gone. Eventually Mr Lincoln came to the point.

‘Yesterday I had a talk with a Mr Alan Green, the clinical psychologist from Newham Parkside Hospital. He informed me that you wish to attend school on Monday. Is this correct?'

‘Yes.'

‘Are you sure that you want to do that? Do you realise I will have had no chance to prepare the class or the school? Most of the pupils and staff have seen the story in the local papers but let's face it … ' Mr Lincoln stopped suddenly, coughed and continued. ‘I'm sorry. Let's be realistic. I am concerned about how your fellow pupils will react to you.'

‘Well, Mr Lincoln, you shouldn't be afraid of using words like face – and look, I don't want any special treatment, I just want to continue my education. I
don't see anything wrong with that.'

‘There is nothing wrong with that at all but – ahem,' he coughed, ‘but we cannot control the reaction of others.'

Martin was almost enjoying seeing Mr Lincoln struggling for words. ‘What would you do if you had your way?' he enquired.

‘Well, we would talk about your injuries in morning assembly before you arrived. We would let everyone know how impolite it is to stare and we would of course inform everyone that you are still the same person.'

‘No way – my injuries, good manners and me are subjects that I happen to know a lot about. I can look after myself.'

‘Very well.' Mr Lincoln spoke quietly. ‘I'll see you on Monday then. Please don't hesitate to speak to me if you have any problems.'

As they headed towards the door, Martin said, ‘I'm going to have to face the world soon. If I can't even face my school, then I have got problems.'

As soon as the door was shut, Martin ran up to his room, grabbed his little black book and ran back down to the phone to ring Natalie.

Natalie answered the phone. ‘Hello.'

‘Hi, Natalie, it's me, Martin. Guess what? I'm going to school on Monday.'

‘Who said?' she asked, not hiding her surprise.

‘I said. Tell Matthew and Mark. Come and call for me on your way. We can go together if that's cool.'

‘Are you sure you want to go back so soon?'

‘What do you mean, so soon? Everyone else is going back, so I'm going back.'

Natalie tried to express her concern carefully but it didn't work. ‘You're not everyone else. You can't just rush into things now.'

Martin raised his voice. ‘You're supposed to be supporting me, you should be helping me. What are friends for? I thought friends were supposed to stick together and help each other out.'

‘OK, OK,' Natalie interrupted. ‘I just think you should be taking it easy.'

‘Will you knock for me on Monday morning or not?'

‘Yes, I'll be there. I'll be speaking to Mark and Matthew later. See you on Monday.'

After the call Martin spent ten minutes standing by the phone. He considered ringing Natalie back and telling her not to bother coming on Monday. He wondered what it would be like walking to school. He couldn't understand why Natalie wasn't being the tower of strength that he expected her to be.