As he didn’t sing and didn’t pray, Patrick remembered fleeting snatches of his own father’s funeral. The day had been bitterly cold, and the church had seemed even colder, and throughout he could smell the black polish his mother had made him apply and reapply to his school shoes in an attempt to cover the scuffs.
His father had been in a box just a few feet away, and while the vicar talked about tragedy and God, Patrick had been overwhelmed by a desire to open the box and see if he was really in there. He had fidgeted and fretted until finally his mother had held his hand so tight that he’d cried.
This was very different. He had seen Number 19 with his own eyes – opened his heart, cradled his brain, sawn off his head. He knew now exactly why Number 19 was dead, and there was no doubt that he was inside the coffin that floated on a sea of flowers – some of which spelled the words THANK YOU in white and blue. Meg had organized that, and it had cost a fortune, but they had all chipped in.
Lexi sat in the front pew with Jackie and when she cried Jackie put an arm around her shoulders – and Lexi let her.
Mick was there from the dissecting room, and Professor Madoc too. As they left the church, Patrick saw DS Williams standing at the back.
‘Did you want to talk to me about Dr Spicer?’ he asked, but DS Williams said no, it wasn’t the time or the place. Patrick didn’t understand that; they were both in the same place at the same time, weren’t they? Surely that was ideal?
Then DS Williams said goodbye and tried to shake his hand, but Patrick saw it coming.
Later, at the graveside, Jackson and Kim stood on either side of Lexi and held her hands. Not to make her squirm, but just because.
Afterwards they all went to a pub and Lexi cried some more and drank too much, but Patrick didn’t say a thing. Meg sat close to him, but not too close, and there were sandwiches and cakes and large bowls of potato salad with chives in it, and Patrick wondered if this was the exception, or whether this was the way a funeral was supposed to be.
Much later, back at the house, Jackson – who had become a lot more free and easy with the remote control – let Patrick watch the repeat of the Grand National on BBC2.
Nobody died, and Patrick felt oddly pleased.
54
THE TUESDAY AFTER the funeral, Meg went back to the coma ward to finish reading The Da Vinci Code to Mrs Deal.
The day was unseasonably cold and wet, and it took some willpower to go, but kindness and responsibility were her crosses to bear.
Jean waved brightly at her from down the corridor, and Meg draped her jacket over Mrs Deal’s motionless legs and pulled up what she’d learned was the least obnoxious of the vinyl easy chairs.
The book sucked her into its vortex and two hours passed, when she’d only planned one. It seemed to have the same effect on Mrs Deal, who lay motionless the entire time, which Meg interpreted as rapt attention.
‘The End,’ said Meg at last. She closed the book and put it in her lap, and blew out her cheeks as if she’d just run a mile. ‘How bloody brilliant was that?’
Mrs Deal was speechless in her appreciation for Dan Brown.
And then she started tapping.
Jeeeesus Christmas, thought Meg. She needed to go home, have a hot bath and then eat a lot of chocolate ice cream in front of the telly.
‘Hi,’ said Patrick.
‘Shit, you made me jump.’
He didn’t say sorry or anything else, so Meg went on, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to say goodbye,’ he said. ‘I’m going home.’
‘Home home?’
He frowned in confusion and repeated, ‘Home.’
‘I mean, to Brecon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ Meg wasn’t sure how she felt. She would miss him, but she wasn’t quite sure how much there was to miss.
‘What will you do there?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Patrick.
‘Are you going to apply to another university?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Will you come back to visit us?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Meg tried not to feel hurt. There was only so much you could expect from someone like Patrick. Still, he had come to say goodbye, which was surprisingly socially interactive of him.
‘How’s Lexi?’ she asked.
‘She likes my bedroom,’ he shrugged, and Meg was confused into silence.
Patrick looked past her. ‘Is that her?’
‘This is Mrs Deal,’ said Meg. ‘Come and say hello.’
Patrick stepped forward a few tentative paces until he was at the foot of the bed. ‘Hello,’ he said to the wall over her head.
‘She can’t speak. Come closer, so she can see you.’
‘Can she see me?’
‘Of course,’ said Meg, even though she realized now that that was an assumption she had made just because Mrs Deal’s eyes were open.
Patrick edged closer.
‘Mrs Deal, this is Patrick. Remember I told you he was going to read to you? Well, he can’t now, but he’s come to say hi anyway.’
‘Hi,’ he said. He waited, then added, ‘Does she know I’m here?’
‘Don’t be rude,’ snapped Meg. ‘She can hear you!’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Why is her finger twitching like that?’
Meg was annoyed at his insensitivity. She was about to snap again, then she remembered that she’d asked the same question herself. She reddened at the memory. ‘It just does. She can’t help it. You don’t notice it after a while.’
‘Oh,’ said Patrick, and seemed to lose interest. He looked around the ward. ‘Is the girlfriend here?’
‘You mean Angie?’
‘Spicer’s girlfriend.’
‘Yes, that’s Angie. She left, apparently.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe she had to. Or maybe she just felt she had to. I feel very sorry for her. I mean, it wasn’t her fault, was it? She only ever did her best for the patients.’
‘Eight and five,’ said Patrick.
‘What?’
He pointed at Mrs Deal’s fingers. ‘Eight and five, eight and five, see? Then she starts again. Eight and five.’
Meg counted. Eight taps and then five. Eight and five. She had never noticed.
‘You’re right! What does that mean?’
Patrick shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s helpful.’
‘Not really,’ said Patrick. Then, after a short pause while they both stared at Mrs Deal’s hand, he went on, ‘It could mean lots of things. Or nothing. Thirteen. Or eighty-five. Or it could be simple code, like for the alphabet. The eighth letter is H and the fifth is E.’
They both looked down at Mrs Deal’s still finger and waited. Meg giggled nervously. ‘Watch, I bet she won’t do it now!’
But she did.
Eight and then five.
And then sixteen.
‘There goes your theory!’ laughed Meg.
‘P,’ said Patrick.
‘HEP,’ said Meg. ‘Help?’
Patrick ignored her. Mrs Deal was tapping again. For a long time without a break.
‘U,’ said Patrick.
‘HEPU?’ Meg screwed up her face. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Get a pen,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s starting again.’
Meg took a pen from her bag and wrote on the rear inside cover of The Da Vinci Code.
Mrs Deal tapped and Patrick called out the letters and Meg wrote them down in one neat stream of randomness.
Finally Mrs Deal’s finger rested. They waited but there was no more.