Fireside Romance Book 1: First Flames (5 page)

Pull yourself together, Simon. You’ll be no use to him if you get yourself all worked up.

I managed to perform a few deep-breathing exercises, which helped me to calm down somewhat.

After what seemed like an age, the bus finally pulled up at the hospital gates. I almost wrestled an old lady to the ground in my haste to get off the bus.

I knew where ward 4 was. I didn’t need to consult the hospital’s useless signs. The moron who designed them had the worst sense of direction I’d ever come across.

I’d volunteered a couple of years ago to take the library trolley around the wards. It was a bit of a busman’s holiday to swap one library trolley for another, but that was me.

I got to the entrance to Mark’s ward completely out of breath. I stood outside for a couple of moments to compose myself. Having regained my equilibrium, and with some trepidation, I pushed open the door and entered.

It didn’t take me long to find Mark. My angel was asleep.

I knew from personal experience you had to grab your shut-eye when you could in a hospital. I’d had to spend a week in one just after leaving school. The nursing staff would wake me up in the evening to give me a sleeping tablet. Then at six o’clock in the morning they’d wake me up, because ‘patients had to get all spick and span for breakfast’. God, the food was awful. I’d have preferred to sleep through it.

I quietly pulled a chair next to Mark’s bed, although not before taking a peek at his chart. I was able to learn Mark’s hands—which I could see were bandaged—had received moderate chemical burns. The doctors predicted a full recovery apart from the possibility of slight scarring. Mark had a few minor cuts and bruises, but nothing too severe. The chart said he was twenty years of age. I’d never actually got around to asking him how old he was.

The relief I felt that he’d live, that he’d be okay, overwhelmed me. For the past half hour or so I’d been gripped by a fear I might lose him, or he’d be badly scarred, or
…
I didn’t care even if he was scarred. I loved him. I finally admitted the fact to myself I loved the beautiful, kind, gentle man lying in that hospital bed. I began to cry.

“Hey, it’s me who ought to be crying.”

Mark’s soft, croaky voice brought me back from my thoughts. “Hey, Mark,” I said. Wow, what a bloody inane thing to say. “How are you? Are you in much pain?”

“These hurt sometimes,” he said, holding up his hands. “But they give me pills which take away the pain for a while.”

“How long have you been in here? I wished you’d called me, or asked one of the nurses to.”

“Just over a week. I thought about you, but…I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“Mark, you’re never a burden. I found out from a guy on Gamble Street—I think he’s a friend of yours: dark hair, kind of bushy eyebrows, pierced left ear with a gold hoop in it—”

“Sounds like Sammo.”

“Okay, well, until I spoke to Sammo I had no idea you’d been hurt. Sammo didn’t know how bad you were. So I got here as fast as my legs and the number 14 could carry me.”

He gave a weak smile.

“Sammo told me there was an explosion. Something to do with Jake trying to make drugs or something.”

“Yeah, he’d got some stupid idea about making more money, but I guess he didn’t know what he was doing. I was in the room next door when I heard a really loud bang. I went in to see what I could do. It was horrible. They were screaming and carrying on. I got some of the stuff on my hands, and it bloody hurt.”

“You know Jake died, don’t you?”

“Yeah, one of the policemen who interviewed me told me. Can’t say I’m sorry. Jake was an evil bastard.”

I’d never heard Mark swear before, but I couldn’t help agreeing with him.

“When are they letting you out?”

“I don’t know. They’ll have to find somewhere for me to go. Can’t go back to Jake’s. The Council has boarded it up, and with these hands
…
” He looked down at his bandages.

I had a decision to make. I could help Mark. I could look after him, nurse him, and—God help me—love him. I thought it unlikely Mark could love me back, but as I sat there I became absolutely certain I had a duty to help him. Given what Mark had told Sammo, I thought Mark at least liked me as a friend. Certainly his behaviour towards me was that of a friend. So with a determination—the likes of which I hadn’t felt in years—I stood up.

“Have to go to the lav, back in a minute.”

I didn’t need to use the toilet, but I was on a mission, a mission to help Mark. I left the bay where Mark’s bed was, turned the corner and went towards the ward sister’s office. Finding the door partially open, I knocked.

“Come in,” a female voice answered.

I pushed the door open to reveal a forty-something, plump woman wearing a dark blue uniform dress sitting behind a desk.

“Sister, sorry to bother you. Have you got a minute?”

She smiled tiredly. I could tell she was over-worked. “Of course. How can I help?”

“It’s about Mark Smith in bed eleven.” I took the seat she pointed to.

“Yes?”

“I’m assuming the only reason he’s still with you is that he has nowhere else to go, and given the fact that he can’t use his hands, you can’t discharge him until you’ve found somewhere for him.”

“Are you a relative?”

I shook my head. “I’m a friend. Mark’s mother is dead, he’s estranged from his father, and he has no brothers or sisters.”

I actually didn’t know if Mark had any siblings, but I didn’t think telling such a lie—if lie it was—would hurt. Besides, any brother or sister who could stand back and not help Mark when his father did what he did, wasn’t worth much.

“You are correct, Mister…” She hesitated, not knowing my name.

“Peters, Simon Peters.”

“Mr Peters. It’s true Mr Smith doesn’t need medical care as such.”

I nodded. “I only just found out he’d been hurt. I lo…I mean I’m sure I’ll be able to cope. So long as he gets a professional to change his dressings.”

She smiled; she knew what I’d almost said. “Mr Smith can’t do very much for himself.”

“Yes, Sister, I know I’ll have to feed him, bathe him, even attend him while he uses the toilet.” This was a polite way of saying I’d have to wipe his bum. I’d do that in a heartbeat. “I guess it’s a bit like looking after a baby; you have to do everything for them.”

“It’s similar,” she smiled again, “although you’ll have to cope with his mood swings if he develops them. Patients who can’t do things for themselves tend to get very frustrated.”

I nodded. “I’m sure I can cope. Besides, it’s almost Christmas, and I’d hate to think of him stuck in here when he could be at home with me.”

Her smile widened. “Have you discussed this with Mr Smith?”

I shook my head. “I wanted to see how the land lay first. I guess I didn’t want to promise something I couldn’t deliver.”

“Thank you for being so understanding. It’s true, we do try to discharge as many patients as possible at Christmas time. It’s better for them, and of course we are short staffed over the holidays. Go back and talk to him, and if he’s agreeable, I’ll ring the doctor on-call and arrange for Mr Smith’s discharge.”

I shot out of that office as though there was a herd of wild animals in hot pursuit.

“Don’t run!” she called after me.

But I was still on my mission to spring Mark. All I had to do now was convince him he had to come with me.

“Whoa, what’s the hurry? Mark said.

“Mark,” I paused to catch my breath, “I absolutely will not take no for an answer. I’ve thought it over carefully, spoken with the medical staff, and I am totally serious about this.”

He looked confused.

“I want you to come home and live with me.” I held up my hand to stop his protest. “You’re not going to spend Christmas in this place. You’re going to stop with me for as long as you want.” I hoped he would want to stay for a long time, but kept that to myself.

“Urm.”

“I can take some time off work, and there’s The Holidays as well. And if you still need to be cared for, you can come to the library with me sometimes.” I got very close to his ear and said quietly “I don’t want you to go back onto the streets, it isn’t safe. I’d not be able to rest knowing you were in danger. You’ve been given another chance now Jake is dead. Please, please, Mark.”

He didn’t say anything for the longest time. I grew more and more convinced he would refuse.

“You’ve thought all this out, haven’t you?”

Was Mark going to do it?
I nodded, but said nothing, holding my breath, hoping…praying.

“You know I can’t do much for myself.”

I nodded. “Yes, I’ve thought it through, and I know you’ll need a lot of help.”

He went quiet again. Maybe a minute passed before he sighed. “Okay, you win.”

“YES!” I exclaimed a bit too loudly. A few of the other patients and their visitors looked at me, but I didn’t care.

Eventually, after a load of form filling, and a letter to be given to Mark’s family doctor explaining his injuries and treatment, and to make arrangements for his dressings to be changed by the nurse at the doctor’s surgery, we were on our way.

At The General, as with many other hospitals I suspect, patients have to be escorted from the hospital in a wheelchair. It doesn’t matter what’s wrong with you, in Mark’s case he had injured his hands. He could walk, but no, he had to sit in a wheelchair. The nurse pushed Mark in the chair as far as the hospital’s main foyer, where we could ring for a taxi.

One good feature in the foyer was a direct and free phone to one of the local taxi companies. All you had to do was pick up the receiver and press the button. The only trouble was rival taxi companies didn’t like this arrangement and frequently vandalised the phone. Of course sods law was in evidence here, the phone didn’t work. The kind nurse who escorted us down went to the reception desk and got the receptionist to call a cab for us. This done, she departed with the wheelchair back to the ward.

“Shouldn’t be too long,” I said to Mark.

“Good, I’m getting hungry.”

“Yeah, the food is pretty crap in here isn’t it?”

“Bloody well is,” he said with feeling. “The most edible thing we had for lunch today was the skin off the rice pudding.”

I pulled a face. “Never mind, I’ve got plenty of food in at home. Stocked up for Christmas as usual.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

What is it about the British? We go around like headless chickens for a few weeks before Christmas, buying in tonnes of food. Much of the non-perishable items are still in the larder come April.

The taxi ride home was uneventful, the rush hour having long since passed, so it only took a few minutes to get us home. I paid the fare and got us inside.

As soon as the door closed behind us, Mark wrapped his arms around me and gave me a tight squeeze. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come along. I was beginning to think I’d have to go back home to Dad.” He gave a shudder.

“You’re stopping here.” Tears began to threaten. “I get lonely stuck in here on my own. I want you to stay. Now you’ve got a permanent address.” I hope he understood what I meant by permanent. “You can apply for state benefits, and hopefully when your hands heal, you’ll be able to get a job. That should also be easier now you’ve got a proper home.”

He kissed me.

“Come on, you said you were hungry. Let’s raid the kitchen.” I put my arm around his shoulders and led him into the other room. I opened the main cupboard door and said, “So, what do you want?”

“Erm.” He stared into the cupboard, then, looking back at me, asked, “You remember the first time I came here and we had chicken and pasta?”

I nodded.

“Can we have that again?” He lowered both his voice and his head. “It’s kind of symbolic, I suppose.”

“Of course we can.” I swallowed. I was beginning to get emotional again. “You sit down there on that stool and remind me what we did last time.”

I had to turn away from him to hide my eyes, which were starting to leak.

He directed operations while I prepared the meal. Thinking back to a psychology book I had once read, I realised it was a good idea to get him involved as much as his disability would allow. It would lessen the chances of him feeling helpless.

I put the two plates of food on the kitchen table and asked him if he wanted anything to drink.

“Water, please.”

I filled two glasses from the tap. Then I rummaged around in the cupboard and found a packet of drinking straws. Putting a couple in Mark’s glass, I took the drinks to the table.

“At least you’ll be able to take a drink on your own,” I said. More psychology.

“Thanks.”

I sat at 90 degrees from him. Picking up my fork, I stabbed a bit of the food with it and raised it up to Mark’s lips.

“Open wide for the choo-choo train,” I said with a smile.

He laughed.

While he was chewing, I put a forkful in my own mouth. We continued to eat. Mark bent down occasionally to take a sip of water. All in all I think we managed pretty well.