I dream of Jesus hanging on a cross in his pyjamas, his hands twisting in agony while Mary in a blue uniform tugs on his drubbing feet. Other times it’s a birdman in a black cape and a gas mask, come to plunge its long beak into the jelly of my eyes and drag me off by the sockets – and I scream until my throat hurts, but nobody comes.
Because it’s a dream – as if that makes it any better.
Sometimes I’m asleep but I’m aware that I am not awake. Then I swim for the surface in a bottomless well. The water is thick and dirty and I can’t always see the disc of light. Only the fear of what lurks beneath me in the sinuous darkness keeps me fighting, keeps me swimming.
And yet, whenever I get close to the top, I turn away from the greater horror overhead.
Up there, beyond the water, somebody screams in pain or in anger – a tortured soul howls obscenities and roars its agony. A hell above me. A holocaust in a foreign tongue. Tears are shed; women and children heartbroken and scared. ‘He’ll be all right. He’ll be all right.’ But the sobbing doesn’t stop – just moves further away.
Some unseen fish bites the back of my hand and my arm goes cold, and there’s a tugging at my insides like a leech sucking my belly inside out. My shoulders ache, my legs cramp, my neck hurts. Hands run over me like I’m a cow at market and – like a cow – hot shit slides out of me, unhindered by decency.
There are voices far above me, as if people are passing by the well with buckets and other things mechanical. I hear them coming and I hear them going: a slow Doppler effect. I don’t recognize them but they seem to know what they’re doing; they’re very busy, very efficient, even though I can’t make out the words.
The voices drift in and out, and I drift in and out, too – in and out of life and dreams for days, for weeks, for years? But when I’m in I listen all the time for somebody I know. When I hear them, that’s when I’m going to break the surface and shout out, that’s when I’m going to make them know I’m here.
I’m going to call out: Hey! Hello! I’m down here! And they will look down the well and see me at the bottom, and wave in surprise and go and get help and pull me up in a big wooden bucket, like a kitten that’s been lost for ever.
Hey! Hello! I’m awake! I can hear you! I’m awake!
The words are always on the tip of my stagnant tongue. All it will take from me is the air to form them with, the effort of pushing them out, and I’ll be away.
But for some reason, I’m frightened to try it.
If I can’t force myself to wake from my own dreams, what if I also can’t shout out when I need to? Or if I can shout out, but nobody hears me? What if they pass right by the lip of the deep, dark well, and never look down, however hard I’m screaming?
That would no longer be a dream.
That would be a nightmare.
Tracy Evans noticed that coma patients were not visited with Get Well cards and grapes; coma patients were attended by those who loved them, or by those who felt a sense of duty. It was easy to tell the difference. Those who loved stayed for hours, touching, washing, talking, playing favourite music through iPod earphones, bringing in childhood toys and adult knickknacks, holding scented flowers under breathless noses, singing ‘Happy Birthday’ with tears in their eyes and croaks in their throats.
Those who loved hoped for recovery.
Those who came out of duty hoped only for an end, one way or the other. They sat and read or brought their laptops to catch up on their emails – and asked endlessly for the password for the free Wifi. They bit their nails and tapped their feet and read any old magazine they could find, even the gardening ones. They stared out of the window, down across the roof of the car park and the city beyond it – as if even that were preferable to looking at the person in the bed who wouldn’t make up their mind whether to live or whether to die.
Tracy Evans liked those visitors better. They never asked for vases or for the blinds to be opened, or thought they’d seen a twitch or a blink, or a finger tapping out SOS in Morse on the lemon-coloured blankets.
The ones who were there for love were a bit of a pain. She’d only been here a few weeks but already she’d had a girlfriend leave a boyfriend a life-sized stuffed leopard, a woman bring in an electric frying pan to cook bacon by her husband’s bedside, and four karate club members performing some kind of routine, complete with loud yells, in the hope that the sound would kickstart a brain that no longer worked. She couldn’t even tell them off for waking the other patients, because waking the patients on the coma ward was sort of the whole point.
It was all mildly diverting, but in no way did it replace or facilitate Tracy’s obsession with the progress of Rose Mackenzie’s life.
The one bright spot was Mr Deal.
Mr Deal came every night after work to see his wife, whose notes told Tracy that she had been here for nearly a year, after suffering a brain haemorrhage following a fall downstairs. Mrs Deal was forty, which meant Mr Deal was old enough to seem far more exotic to Tracy than the young men she routinely met in Evolution on a Friday night. Those young men hunted in packs and vomited in gutters; she couldn’t imagine Mr Deal doing either of those things.
There was something authoritarian and brooding about him – something of the Raft Ankers, if Tracy were honest – and every time his visits coincided with her shifts, she got a little thrill.
He never came at weekends, and seemed just uninterested enough in his wife during week-night visits to make Tracy think that a bit of mild flirtation might not be such a sinful thing – or a wasted one. She hadn’t done it yet – not properly – but she knew she would quite soon, unless Mrs Deal died or got better. Actually, only if she got better. If Mrs Deal died, Tracy thought she would still be in with a chance. Men hated living alone and were no good at it; Tracy knew this because her father had tried leaving her mother once, and had been so thoroughly hopeless that he’d returned home just two weeks later with his tail tucked between his legs, right where his balls should have been.
Mr Deal wasn’t a pilot or a doctor, but he was obviously rich and important. Tracy guessed the former because he had a set of keys on a Mercedes fob, which he often twirled on his finger while he looked at the car park with his back to his wife. She guessed he was important because when he spoke on his BlackBerry about work, he sounded as if he were giving orders, not taking them, and frowned and sighed as if he were running the United Nations.
Rich and important, and just a little bit dangerous.
Tracy Evans pulled a fresh sheet tight over Mrs Deal’s slowly curling body, tucked it in hard, and hoped she wouldn’t get better too soon.
5
IT WAS ONLY the first week of August, but Patrick had already packed his bags for college.
Bag, singular.
Sarah Fort stared down into the battered old suitcase, open on his bed in the room under the eaves that looked out across the smooth green hills of the Brecon Beacons.
She had told him to take everything he’d need for the twelve-week term, so he’d packed his laptop, his textbooks and his hoodie with the word HOODIE on it.
Nothing else.
With a sigh, she opened Patrick’s drawers and started to fill the suitcase with sensible things. Sweaters, shorts, socks. His washbag held only toothbrush and paste, cheap shampoo, and a razor with innumerable blades, each one supposedly more efficient than the last. Sarah smiled at the razor. Patrick got so angry about the lies advertisers told: the best ever, the longest lasting and eight out of ten cats outraged his logic. But he’d bought the razor anyway – prey to the power of advertising, just like any normal person.