The modern hospital was set on a small, sharp hill, back from the busy road. It was a recent build, all straight lines and pragmatic compromises, erected and then almost instantly meshed over to stop incontinent pigeons turning it into a biohazard.
The entrance was round the back. Thirty feet behind the new hospital was the abandoned old gothic building it had replaced, a turreted baronial flurry, now empty, the windows and doors on the ground floor boarded up. They entered the new building through a small door at the back and took the lift up to the fifth floor, sweating at the unexpected high temperature. Sean held out his hand.
“You need to put this on.” It was the engagement ring box. “They’ll only let you in if they think you’re my fiancée.”
Paddy apologized with her eyes and took the familiar ring out of the box. It was uncomfortably tight; she could feel the top of her finger swell under the pressure. The doors opened at five to a cluck of student nurses smiling polite audience grins as two middle-aged doctors chatted.
Sean and Paddy followed the signs around three corridors to a nurses’ station in a corridor. The table was layered in pink and green forms. They were met by a pretty little blond nurse with a crimped wedge haircut and blue eyeliner. Her figure was so slight she looked prepubescent. When Sean and the nurse smiled at each other Paddy wanted to slap her.
“I’ve been told to ask for Sergeant Hamilton,” said Sean quietly.
The nurse’s smile deflated. “I’ll get Matron.”
She disappeared into an office behind the desk. Matron, a snippy woman in her forties, fiddled with the watch pinned to her chest and asked them again if they were looking for a sergeant. What was his name? Was he expecting them? The questions were a pointless rehash of Sean’s basic statement, but Paddy could tell that the woman was thrilled they were there, that she was thinking about the story she would have to tell one day, when she could talk about it. She looked Sean up and down, noting his dusty work boots and cheap slacks. He had changed out of his work clothes and looked clean but was still noticeably poor. Mimi bought his shoes in the Barras market and picked up secondhand shirts for him in Murphy’s at the Bridgate. Paddy was used to being the poorest-looking person in the newsroom. She kept her engagement finger on view to show that they were decent.
The matron picked up the phone on the desk, running her tongue along the front of her teeth as she dialed a four-digit number. She turned away and whispered into the receiver, nodding and repeating “uh huh” when the other person spoke. She hung up, raised her eyebrows at the phone and pinched her lips.
“He’ll be here in a moment,” she said, as if it were against her express advice.
The sergeant was in the corridor before the matron had time to make them feel any worse. He was solid and broad-shouldered, with graying hair and a kind face. He came towards them, shaking his head as he dabbed the sweat from his brow.
“Oof,” he said to the matron, “too hot in here.” He turned his attention to Sean, giving him a look-over. “Right, now, can I have some sort of identification from the both of yees.”
It was an order, not a question. Sean had brought his post office savings book and a union ticket, Paddy had her library card.
“Okay, pal, coat off.”
Paddy gladly took off her duffel coat and handed it to the policeman, who checked the pockets and lining. Sean handed over his Harrier jacket.
“Can’t be too careful,” said the sergeant, smiling as he searched the coats, trying to keep it light. “Care is the watchword here.”
He patted Sean down but balked at doing the same to Paddy, who was wearing a pencil skirt and a plain sweater. He checked the contents of Sean’s roll bag, flicking through things with a cautious finger, frowning when he saw a Celtic poster.
“All the stuff in there’s for him. Is that okay?” Sean sounded timid and young.
“Aye.” His eyes flickered over all the different bits in it. “Aye, this is all okay.”
Handing the bag back, he gestured for them to follow him.
It was disconcertingly hot in the hospital. They each began to sweat as they made their way around corners and down gray corridors, taking a small spur off the main passage. Beyond another corner they could see two policemen outside a door, one sitting, the other standing, both drinking out of cups and saucers, a well-thumbed tabloid sitting on the floor underneath the chair. They stiffened when the sergeant approached, hiding the cups of tea and pulling their uniforms straight. Paddy guessed that their boss wasn’t so sweet all the time.
“These young people are here to visit…” He hesitated, unsure what to call him. “The wee fella.” And he gestured to them to open the door.
They all turned to the door, looked at it expectantly, and the sergeant took a step forwards.
“I’ll sit in with ye for a bit, just to make sure it’s okay.”
He stepped back, they all took a breath, and the policeman nearest the door turned the handle.
The private room had a narrow entrance and a bathroom off to the left on the way in. It was dark and thick with the sharp scent of bleach and pine. The first thing Paddy noticed was the old gothic hospital looming in at the window, the skyline jagged with castellations and blank black windows. Tucked in around the corner was a metal-framed bed with a clipboard attached to the foot. Sitting in the bed, backlit by a harsh reading light, was Callum Ogilvy.
He looked tiny. He didn’t seem to have gained any weight since they saw him a year ago, but it might have been the position he was sitting in. The covers were over his knees and he was reading a battered and torn comic, frozen in the position he had been in when they opened the door, his finger pointing at a part of the page, his mouth open to form a word. At first she thought it might have been handcuffs, but then she realized that it was a thick bandage around his wrist where he had cut it. He looked frightening and skinny, like a shriveled, ancient, evil genius.
“All right, wee man?”
Callum raised his eyes and gawped silently. Sean sat down on the side of his bed.
“D’ye ’member me?”
He nodded slowly, his eyes flickering across Sean’s face. “You’re my big cousin.”
“What’s this?” Sean pointed to his wrist. “You been having a bit of trouble?”
Paddy didn’t see the tears immediately because of the sharp light behind him, but she heard Callum gasp a breath, his face still immobile. A fat tear dropped off his face onto the bed. Sean moved up the bed, put his arms around the boy, and held him firmly. The boy sat stiff as a doll, his face bare to the room, his mouth a black oval, and cried.
It took twenty minutes for him to stop. The policeman left after five. Paddy moved over to the window and turned her back; otherwise her eye naturally fell on the boy’s face, and that was too hard to look at. She could see into the darkened wards across the way. One floor down she could see old bedsteads stacked against a wall. As the darkness gathered behind the window the reflection of the pool of light on Callum’s bed became sharper and sharper. She could see that his eyes were swollen shut.
“Son?” It was Sean’s voice, but he was whispering. “Is that better?”
Callum nodded. Sean patted the boy’s back to signal an end to the embrace and shifted around so he was sitting next to him.
“D’ye remember Paddy, my fiancée?”
Callum looked over at her. Even in the fuzzy reflection she could see he didn’t like her.
“Celtic,” he said, exhausted, and turning his attention back to Sean. “You support Celtic.”
“Don’t you support Celtic?”
Callum looked at Paddy’s back again.
“It’s a shame if you don’t,” said Sean, “because I’ve brought ye a poster for your wall.” He picked up the roll bag and zipped it open, taking out a small poster and unrolling it on the bed. It was battered around the edges, but Callum liked it. He put his hand on it and looked at Sean, claiming ownership. His eyes moved to the bag on the bed and Sean laughed. “You’re an Ogilvy all right. Will we see what else is in there?”