The Dead I Know (10 page)

‘I don’t know. It just started hurting.’

‘Can I have a look?’

‘No! Get off. Get off. Get off. Leave me . . . get out!’

I sat there and she cried. I rubbed her back gently until the sobbing eased. It lasted an hour. Maybe more. Together, one centimetre at a time, we drew her sleeve away from the wound and revealed the source of the blood. Something sharp and pale – a splinter of porcelain or hard plastic –
-
had punctured her forearm halfway between her wrist and her elbow. It was still wedged in the skin.

‘Nasty. We should get that out,’ I said.

Mam nodded and sniffed. She turned her head away.

I pinched the protruding stub and pulled.

Mam wailed and shoved me clear off the bed.

‘I’m sorry, Mam. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.’

She breathed hard, then moaned like a dairy cow – a sound that made me cover my ears. Cover my face.

I couldn’t believe I’d been so wrong. It wasn’t porcelain or plastic – it was bone. It wasn’t sticking
in
her arm; it was sticking
out
.

I listened to her stuttery breathing and tugged at my hair. I couldn’t think.

It was over. The fragile bracing of lies and denial that had held our world in balance had broken with Mam’s arm. There was no way I could fix it on my own. She needed help. She needed a doctor, a surgeon perhaps. And in patching her arm they were bound to notice her mind flapping about, unhinged. My head rang the way it did in the nightmare, but this was real. The ringing drowned out every sane thought. I breathed and swallowed and heard Mam speaking quietly.

‘Well, here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into,’ she said, and chuckled.

I remembered the line. I remembered the face – in black and white – from a scratchy old film. Laurel and Hardy. Somewhere inside Mam’s jumbled brain there were still connections that worked. As if she looked at the world through a combination lock and only when the tumblers were arranged just so could she understand and be understood.

I understood. We had to get to the hospital. I left Mam on her bed and ran to the payphone near the kiosk. I considered phoning an ambulance but I knew that would cost money – lots of money. In my panic, I almost phoned John Barton, but Mam was a long way from dead and the thought of explaining myself seemed more daunting than the ride to the hospital.

I called a taxi. They said they’d have someone at the caravan park in ten minutes. That gave me nine and a half minutes to convince Mam our expedition was worthwhile, dress her warmly enough and help her to the front gate. Carry her to the front gate. Drag her kicking and screaming to the front gate.

‘How about we go out for dinner?’ I suggested.

‘Oooh, that sounds like a good idea,’ Mam replied.

Her agreement caught me off guard. I’d prepared a whole spiel in the time it took me to run home from the phone.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘We’ll just get your coat on. Very gently. We’ll leave that arm tucked in there, shall we?’

‘Yes, I think that’s best. Don’t want it getting dirty. Don’t want dirt all over it. Not my best. Not my best. Not my best arm.’

I helped her down the step and into the annex. Every footfall made her stop, wince and hold her breath. In the first minute, we made it to the door. In the second, to the rubbish bin. At that rate we’d have got to the front gate by dawn.

‘Perhaps I could carry you?’

‘What on earth for?’

‘I don’t know. It’s a special evening. I haven’t carried you for a while.’

‘No.’

‘Probably not a good idea,’ I said, but bent to lift her anyway.

She obligingly hooked her good elbow behind my neck and stepped into my arms. I had to look twice to see she was off the ground, she was so light. She shut her eyes and breathed through her teeth against the pain. I shuffled fast
for the gate. The driver tooted as I pushed through the pedestrian turnstile, bumping Mam’s hip and setting her off like a car alarm. She thrashed about wildly. I couldn’t cover my ears but I very nearly dropped her trying to do so.

‘I’m sorry. It was your hip! You’re okay. Here, stand up.’

She wouldn’t stand, just screamed, paused for breath and screamed again.

The taxi driver engaged reverse gear. The wheels crunched on the gravel as he headed for the road.

‘Stop! Wait! Please, we have to get to the hospital. She’s hurt her arm, that’s all. It’s her arm!’

The driver paid no heed, just drove back into the night. I sat Mam on the bench in front of the kiosk and stroked her head until the air raid was over and her breath made evanescent puffs of fog.

‘Stay here. One minute.’

She nodded.

I used the payphone again. I could see Mam’s foot tapping but her body was behind the wall of the shop. The phone rang twice.

‘JKB Funerals. This is John.’

Words snagged in my throat; my lungs misfired.

‘Hello? Anybody there?’

My lips made word shapes but the logjam in my throat held fast.

‘Hello? This is John. How can I help you?’

Help. I was asking for help, that was all. People did it all the time. I’d just forgotten how.

‘Aaron? Is that you?’

The deadlock cleared in a rush of words. ‘Yes, yes . . .
.

hello, John. Hello, Mr Barton. I . . .’

‘Is everything okay?’

‘No. I . . .’

‘Take a breath, Aaron. Relax. What happened? Are you hurt?’

I did as I was told and the world seemed three-dimensional again. ‘No, I’m fine. It’s Mam. She’s broken her arm. I was trying to get her to the hospital. The taxi wouldn’t stop. I . . .’

‘Have you rung an ambulance?’

‘No. I can’t afford . . .’

‘Where are you? I’ll come and get you.’

‘I’m . . .’

‘Are you at home? Are you at the caravan park?’

Had Skye told him? Did he work it out for himself? Someone must have been driving the girls to basketball when Skye saw me. Strangely, I was comforted by the fact that he knew.

‘Yes. We’re out the front near the kiosk.’

‘I know the place. Give me five minutes.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No trouble at all. See you shortly.’

Mam rocked, her injured arm tucked against her chest.

‘Won’t be long now.’

‘Damned bus. Never on time.’

‘No, always late. I ordered us a limousine instead.’

‘Limousine’s never on time, either. They’re worse.’

Headlights swung into the driveway.

‘Not this limousine. I know the driver. Ready?’

Mam made some unintelligible noises and stood slowly when I took her elbow. John had parked but left the engine running. He hurried around to open the door.

‘Thank you,’Mam said.

‘Mam, this is John Barton, my boss. John, this is Mam.’

‘Lovely to meet you, Mam. Thank you for lending me your boy.’

‘He’s not my boy. He’s a man. Like a footballer without the football.’

‘Indeed. A good man.’

When Mam was settled in the back seat, John darted to his door. ‘Hospital?’ he whispered.

‘Yes please. Casualty.’

John sat with us while we waited in the emergency room. I answered the nurse’s questions and filled in the forms. Mam became still and regarded the other people waiting with wide-eyed incredulity. When I’d finished the paperwork, I held her good hand.

John glanced at his watch.

‘We’ll be okay,’ I said.

He stretched in his chair and grinned. ‘I’m in no hurry.’

His kindness stirred something in me. I sat there squirming inside for a good hour before I could identify it.

Shame.

His generosity merely pointed out my inadequacy. His kindness neatly framed how unprepared I was for life. I
wanted
him to leave.

Mam dozed. I leaned forward in my chair to stretch and John patted my shoulderblades, once, twice. I looked up and the concern on his face was another blow.

‘She’ll be okay,’ he said.

I nodded. ‘You don’t have to stay.’

He looked at his watch again.

‘Might be hours before we see someone.’

His shoulders dropped.

Finally, I thought.

‘Do you have my mobile number?’

I showed him the business card I’d been carrying.

‘Give me a call when you’re ready to head home and I’ll come and get you.’

‘Yes,’ I said. I think he heard my insincerity.

‘I’m serious. It’s no trouble at all.’

‘I might stay here.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But if you need me, don’t think twice. Just call.’

He squeezed my shoulder and left.

A nurse came for Mam a few minutes later. I woke her gently and she did her dairy-cow moan again, at the top of her lungs. The nurse, unfazed, led her by the good arm through double doors to a bed on wheels. I helped her up onto the bed, her moaning now less bovine and more ape-like, with brief breaks for theatrical panting and uncontrolled snorting. She took a swing at the nurse. The woman dodged the blow but it grazed her cheek. The response was immediate – an anaesthetist to sedate Mam and a doctor to pronounce the obvious.

‘Seems like your mother has sustained a compound fracture in her left arm. Do you have any idea how this happened?’

‘No. She’s been distraught since I got home. Perhaps a fall?’

‘Perhaps,’ the doctor said, suspicious. ‘We’ll send her down to radiology and make a decision about our next step from the X-ray. Take a seat.’

Hours passed. I turned the pages of a dog-eared
Reader’s Digest
until my eyes latched onto an article about sleepwalking. Three per cent of children sleepwalk, and only 0.5 per cent of adults, I read. It happens when an individual is disturbed during slow-wave or deepest sleep – a state that’s common in children and young adults but diminishes as a person gets older. Sleepwalkers are usually under some sort of stress. They might sit up or walk around. Their eyes are open and they sometimes talk but they rarely have any memory of their actions. They normally go back to sleep afterwards. A German teenager sleepwalked out of a fourth storey window, broke an arm and a leg and kept sleeping. A sleepwalking woman had sex with strangers. One man drove his car. Another stabbed his mother-in-law to death.

I slapped the magazine shut and tossed it on the pile.

Mam snored peacefully and the knot in my guts pulled tighter and tighter until I had to move.

A nurse in the hall looked up from her work and smiled. ‘You right? Ah, you’re with Ms Rowe. There’s been a delay down at radiology. Might be another couple of hours until they can see your mum. If you’d like to go home, we can call you as soon as we have the results. Okay?’

I nodded, though I’d left no phone number.

Nobody looked twice as I left the hospital. The night air made my eyes and nose run. At least, that’s what I’d have said if anyone stopped me.

19

My ears are still ringing. An angle of shoulder leads to a hand hanging clear of the sheet in the shadow beside the bed. The fingernails are painted. It’s the same orange but the dull light has muted it, made it murky brown. I know that hand.

I erupted awake in the annex attached to van
57
.

I’d slept on a velour couch, covered in a rank blanket and food crumbs. I kicked an empty can across the floor as I slunk for the door but it didn’t slow me down. I didn’t slow down until I was in a shower stall with the door locked and the water running, and even then, it was only my body that slowed. I shed my shirt and boxer shorts and stomped them on the tiles.

What was wrong with me? Of all the places my faulty brain could take me for a witching-hour stroll, I had chosen that den of turpitude. From all the possible destinations,
why would I choose the exact opposite of sanctuary? I let the water blast onto my face but the perversity of my subconscious mind ate away at me from within.

‘Rowe?’ someone bawled. ‘Are you in here?’

I didn’t answer. My throat closed over in terror. I couldn’t have answered if I’d tried.

Doors banged. He was searching through the toilets. Shower doors clubbed open. Finally, fingers and then a face appeared over the wall.

Westy’s malevolent eyes.

He was gone in a flash; then the door to my shower exploded open.

He grabbed at my arm.

I batted him away.

He grabbed my wet hair and dragged me out of the shower, casting me against the wall of basins and mirrors. My bare hip banged against a sink, shunting it from its moorings. A pipe split and hissed icy water into the air.

Westy punched me in the face. It looked like such a casual swing, but instant pain flooded my head from the point of contact. I slumped to my knees on the cold tiles and he kicked my thigh as if making a desperate shot at goal.

My voice suddenly worked – a guttural bark that echoed off the hard walls.

Men began to trickle in through the door but each of them froze to assess the situation.

Blood dripped from my face and diluted on my naked thigh.

‘Where the hell is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ I cried.

‘WHERE IS IT?’

‘I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT.’

There was a commotion at the door. The red face of Tony Long – the park manager – emerged from the bodies.

‘What’s going on here?’ he roared.

Westy made for the exit. A path magically cleared.

One of the residents – a pensioner with faded tattoos and a silver handlebar moustache – moved past the stunned figure of Tony Long and took my arm, helped me to my feet.

‘You right, son? Can you stand?’

I felt my lip and my hand came away bloody.

‘We’ll get you in the shower, hey? Wash a bit of the mess off.’

He helped me back into the stall with the broken door. It rested closed. I listened to Tony Long cursing as I rinsed the blood off, then dried myself roughly and struggled into my wet clothes.

‘Bloody hell,’ Tony Long groaned. ‘Broke a door too! You boys will pay for this. For all of it. You’ll be getting a bloody bill and if you don’t pay it on the day I give it to you, youse will be out on your asses. Get my drift?’

I nodded and left, confident that Westy would have put some distance between himself and the toilets and any sort of responsibility for the mess. I didn’t for a minute think he would head to Mam’s van, but there he was. I waited outside the door of the annex as furniture crashed. Cutlery jangled and a spray of breaking glass made me hold my breath.