Serious People (2 page)

So Mickey was a self-taught coach. Ask open questions. Enable his students to learn and understand the how.

Seamus looked back at him confused.

Some were harder to coach than others, and some others were just cunts.

“Look by the till,” Mickey replied, pushing his hands back through his hair in exasperation.

Seamus returned with a pen and put it in Zebbie’s hand; then passed him a beer mat to write on.

“Write down where the money is!” Mickey ordered.

Zebbie scribbled something down and Mickey examined the beer mat.

“Jesus Christ!” he said. “The prick must be dyslexic or somethin’!”

“Shit, I can’t read a word,” Seamus said, squinting at the beer mat. “What’s that thing called when you can’t write proper or learn shit?”

“Dear God, have I just landed on planet moron or something?!”

Seamus shrugged confused.

“Draw us a fucking map!” Mickey shouted. And then Seamus shouted too, slamming the beer mat back down on Zebbie’s lap.

“Should I get him a pencil, maybe some different colours?” Seamus said, looking back at Mickey.

Mickey stared back at Seamus.

“You know, add a bit of perspective?”

“Evo-fucking-lution,” Mickey said staring back at his associate.

All he could see was her, all he could think of was, her. Every muscle in his body seemed to have gone taught; he had to know that she was ok. Nothing else mattered. His body had turned into a machine with the sole purpose of ensuring she was ok.

Please God don’t take her now, he could hear himself say. He had lost his religion years ago; but in the end it’s remnants were all that was left to him, the hope that someone was in ultimate control. This must be what religion is, what is at its heart, built from human being’s need for hope, in the most hopeless of situations. That something greater than us is in control, and—if we say or do the right thing—that ultimate being will offer some kind of salvation.

How many times had he been that ultimate being, the one being begged for mercy? People had looked into his eyes, desperate to find his soul and asked for leniency. He had never relented of course; he would not have got to where he had in life without the steely determination to achieve what he wanted. He knew the power of being cold, the power of having no emotion. He had started to despise people who tried to use their desperate emotionally charged pleas to affect him. Go out with some self respect, he’d think, have some bloody dignity.

Please God help us, he thought, his knuckles white with desperate determination.

He could hear a voice from somewhere saying, it’s going to be all right Charlie. The voice seemed to form part of his soul. It’s going to be ok; it has to be ok.

“It’s going to be ok Charlie.”

Charlie could see Robert in front of him, holding both his hands, as if he was trying to shake him back into life.

“You’ve got to be positive mate,” Robert said.

Charlie O’Neil was stood outside his wife’s hospital room. He was still wearing the suit he had first put on the morning before, his favourite overcoat, the one he’d always worn when he suspected there’d be trouble. It had been almost an hour since the nurse said to him the doctor would be down in a moment.

“It’s going to be alright Charlie,” Robert Payne said. He was Charlie’s business partner and his best friend. He was the only person Charlie would allow to be with him in times like this.

Charlie put his hands in the pockets of his jacket, to try to hide that they had now become white knuckled fists of rage. He was not used to having to wait for anything; everything he wanted he was used to getting. Who was this doctor who thought he could keep Charlie O’Neil waiting? His fingers clawed the fabric of his pockets, wishing it was the doctor’s face instead.

The jacket though had large enough pockets to discreetly hide this, this being one of the many reasons he had begun to favour the garment more and more over the last few months. One of its other benefits were the host of hidden compartments sewn into the lining, perfect for blades of varied length and even a small pistol. The sleeves though were Charlie’s favourite design feature. They were subtly long, which meant he could cloak a weapon, when needed, or more importantly hide the quiver of his hands, which was the only physical evidence the great man Charlie O’Neil felt fear. This was evidence that Charlie would do his utmost to hide.

Charlie O’Neil was uncomfortable right know.

He had always felt uncomfortable in hospitals. This was true even in the modern private establishment he was currently standing in. He glanced down at his sleeves again, thankful for their length. It was something about the smell of a hospital. There was something about how all their corridors looked the same. It was the feel in the air of hopelessness.   

The interior of the building was expensively laid out with gleaming black flooring and pearl white walls. There were general works of art and paintings placed at deliberate points along the wall to incite thoughtful contemplation. Charlie knew a poor attempt to distract a simple mind, when he saw one, so it was wasted on him.

O’Neil despised hospitals. He had felt his strength seep from his body the moment he walked into the place. Now, after the hours he had spent there, his strong body felt like it was beginning to buckle and bend under after all the stress and exposure to the place. Charlie knew his body had already started to lose its natural athleticism in the last few years. He was blessed with a youthful face for a man in his early fifties, and this was something he took great pride in. Though his once dark hair was now littered with grey streaks, he thought it still looked good and there was no sign of receding. More of a worry to him was that no matter how many hours he spent in the gym, a growing stomach rested over his belt.

All these vain worries paled into insignificance now. He’d swap his hairline, his peter pan like looks, the money, the power, everything he had, to save her. He’d kiss the feet of the doctor, if he promised to save her.

“Sit down Charlie. You’ve been here all night,” Robert said.

“I can’t,” Charlie replied, looking down the corridor for the doctor.

“Do you want me to get you a coffee or something?”

“No, I’d prefer you stayed here,” Charlie said without thinking.

Robert looked back his friend. Charlie instantly regretted his words. He could see how uncomfortable Robert was with him displaying such a need for support.

“I mean, go if you want, I’m fine here on my own,” Charlie said, trying to regain his pride.

“It’s cool. We’ll wait together.” Robert said. He picked up a magazine from the coffee table next to him. It was
Country Life
; Charlie knew this was merely a prop to try and defer any more uncomfortable conversation.

Charlie looked enviously at Robert. Three years younger, his body and demeanour displayed every bit of it. Robert had never been stupid enough to settle down, let alone fall in love with someone. He was every bit the man he had been when they had started out together; unlike Charlie, who was broken. 

The rumours had started soon after he married Jackie. “O’Neil’s gone soft; he doesn’t even make the decisions in his own home, he wasn’t half the man he used to be.” He’d killed people at times, in a deliberate attempt to stop these rumours.

Robert lifted his gaze from the magazine. “Jackie will be fine. Six months from now, Charlie, we’ll all be in the villa in Spain laughing about this. You’ll see.” 

Charlie sunk into a seat opposite his friend, “How’s business been?” he asked.

“Up and down, you know.” Robert replied.

“I was looking at the accounts yesterday. They were looking light.” Charlie said, folding his arms.

Robert looked up from his magazine and failed to stop a smile from intruding onto his lips. “You’re right. Some of our collections haven’t been made. I’ve got Mickey on it. He'll straighten it out.”

Charlie nodded in agreement.

“I’ve paired him with Seamus O’Driscoll,” Robert said waiting for a response.

“Where do I know that name from?” Charlie asked.

“He’s the ex-boxer; you know had the British title fight a couple of years back.”

“That kid could punch,” Charlie said, with an approving nod.

“He lost his license after a bit of silliness, so I thought I’d throw him a branch,” Robert explained. “He’s also an ex-squaddie; well rounded you know.”

“Brains?”

“The cunt’s as thick as shit!” Robert said, with a smile.

“I bet Mickey’s tearing his bloody hair out if he’s trying his coaching shit!”

“He’s a grumpy shit at the best of times!” Robert agreed.

“A good guy though, I trust him more than anyone else apart from you and…” Charlie’s voice starts to break before he can finish the sentence.

“Yeah a good guy,” Robert said.

Charlie looked down at his hands, which had become exposed from him sitting down. Robert opened the magazine. Charlie glanced at Robert to see if he had noticed his shaking hand and was pleased to see him feigning interest in the magazine in front of him.

Charlie looked down at his hands and willed them to stop shaking. However, this seemed to only make the tremble worse. The silence was broken by the sound of expensively heeled shoes on hard floor; Charlie looked up at a young man approaching them.

“Must be the doctor,” Robert said looking up from his magazine.

“Dressed more like a merchant banker,” Charlie commented, scrutinising the expensive suit the young man was wearing.

The man stopped in front of Charlie and offered his hand. The only evidence of his employment was the hospital ID tag hanging from his neck.

“Mr. O’Neil I presume? My name is Dr. Haig; I am your wife’s new consultant.”

“Looks like it pays you well,” Charlie replied, looking the man up and down.

The young doctor forced a smile.

“Come down to my office. I would like to talk through with you in more detail your wife’s case.” Dr. Brown gestured to a door further up the corridor.

Charlie stood up, hoping his large frame might intimidate the young doctor. He stepped closer so as to emphasise the point.  Part of his mind believed that he could force the young man to work every hour to save his wife, out of the sheer fear of returning and having to face the large frame of Charlie O’Neil with any other news.

“Please Mr O’Neil, come with me,” Haig said, seemingly unmoved by O’Neil’s show of strength.

“Anything you want to say you can say here.”

“Are you sure? Your wife...” Haig said glancing towards Robert.

“Talk doctor!” Charlie said, not hiding the anger inside him.

O’Neil suddenly caught himself. What if the powerful being that ran the world—God or whatever they were called—had seen his show of aggression? What if this lead to divine retribution and worsened Jackie’s condition? What have I done?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to…”

“Mrs. O’Neil’s prognosis is not good...” The doctor began, taking a clipboard from the door to the room next to where Charlie was sitting.

Charlie’s head started to whirl.
She must be OK, she has to be OK, I can’t go on if, if…

“We have tried a variety of tests...” Dr. Haig continued.

Charlie could barely hear the doctor explaining his wife’s varying symptoms, the different tests, the courses of action they had both already tried and were now preparing. It was as if the doctor was not speaking but merely mouthing the words.

She must be OK, she must be OK. Take me God, take me instead!

“..I’m sorry Mr. O’Neil; but we are beginning to wonder what the next best course of action is?” The doctor looked at Charlie for a response. “Mr. O’Neil?”

Jackie, my poor Jackie.
  Charlie’s hands started to tighten into fists.

“Mr. O’Neil?” the doctor said, looking at Charlie concerned. “Did you hear what I said?”

Charlie O’Neil could feel his body start to sway. His feet suddenly felt so light that he barely knew he was standing; his mind was whirling. Everything suddenly started to go black. All he could think of was her, all that mattered was her being well.

He suddenly came to; a moment seemed to have passed. Robert now had hold of him.

“Are you ok mate?” he heard his friend ask.

“Mr O’Neil are you alright? Did you hear what I said?” the doctor repeated.

“You are wondering what to do next?” Charlie said, looking back at the doctor, who quickly focused back on his clipboard, away from Charlie’s glare. “You are wondering what to fucking do next! Well I get it! You’re fucking useless, you’re powerless, weak, pointless!”

“Sir, there is no need for this kind of language," the doctor said stepping back. “We…”

“Charlie! They’re doing all they can—aren’t you Doc?” Robert said, turning back to face the young man.

“Yes... Yes of course we are!” the doctor said, looking shaken.

“And that’s what you’ll continue to do, until you make Mrs. O’Neil better!” Robert continued. He was now facing Charlie again, trying to calm him.

“Of course that goes without saying...” The doctor said, controlling his own outrage.

“Then thank you.” Robert turned his gaze back to the Doctor, with a hint of venom in his look.

The doctor seemed to take the hint and stopped speaking.

“Now Charlie, why don’t you go, and spend some time with Jackie? I’ll stay out here with the doctor, and he can fill me in on what exactly your money’s being spent on.”

Charlie nodded and walked towards his wife’s door. He stopped momentarily, as if summoning the strength required for the task of entering the room. He took a deep breath;
Jackie needs me
. He focused and turned the handle.
She must see me as the strong man I am. If I’m not strong—now—then what can I offer her?

I’m Charlie O’Neil.

Charlie O’Neil walked into the room and took in the shocking image that lay in front of him. It was the same image he had left behind an hour before; but that did not soften the blow.

His beautiful wife, Jackie O’Neil, lay on the bed. There were tubes going in and out of her body seemingly everywhere; tubes that were connected to a row of complex looking machines positioned next to her. Above her head, a machine beeped constantly, displaying her heart rhythms on a monitor. Charlie became momentarily fixated on the screen. It was as if the machine somehow knew it was being watched, as if it would now take the opportunity to stop, or display some uneven rhythm.