He went in through the A &E entrance. They’d brought Jason here. He wasn’t here now; he was in the funeral parlour. Andrew’s eyes ached at the thought. Couldn’t bear it. He checked the hospital map and found the location he sought, then navigated his way among the visitors and staff, the walking wounded and the patients pushed in wheelchairs and on trolleys.
There was a buzzer entry system at the Intensive Care Unit. Andrew hesitated, then pressed the button. He could see through the glass to the reception desk. One of the nurses stretched out an arm, pressed the release for the door.
The phone was ringing inside the unit. Andrew’s eyes roamed over the chart behind the desk. The list of names and bed numbers, initials for consultants and care. He found the right name and felt an eddy of apprehension.
‘I wanted to check on visiting hours,’ he said.
The nurse smiled up at him. ‘We don’t have any restrictions, though we only allow two people per patient at any one time.’ She leant towards the phone. ‘Who is it you want?’
Andrew swallowed. ‘Luke Murray.’ Barely a whisper.
‘Sorry?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Luke Murray.’
‘Second on the left.’ She picked up the phone.
Andrew walked down the corridor, pulling off his gloves and loosening his scarf, his bowels turned to water. He used the gel dispenser at the door to Luke’s room.
He held his breath as he went in, released it with a shudder when he saw there was no one else there, just Luke. He stood staring at the figure on the bed, the boy utterly still, his face half covered with an oxygen mask. Machines and pumps and equipment ringed the bed, arrayed around him like so many mechanical vultures.
It was quiet in the room, just the click and shush of some of the equipment and distant sounds from the corridor muffled by the door. He looked, taking in the bandage on the head, the boy’s brown arms on the blanket, hands flat at his sides. Steeled himself to focus on the face, the places not hidden by the mask.
A rush of air. ‘You can sit down, you know.’
Andrew jumped, nerves flickering like lightning. The nurse smiled. ‘It’s quite safe.’
‘I have to go, I can’t stay.’ He almost bolted, his pulse racing, but he fought the urge and walked, legs unsteady, back up the ward.
A woman stood aside to let him pass, small and dark-haired, pallid, weary-looking. He nodded his thanks.
Seconds later he heard footsteps swift behind him, turned and saw the same woman, anxious, alert. ‘Oi!’
Andrew stopped, puzzled.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘Sorry?’
Her eyes flashed. ‘You will be,’ she snapped, ‘if you don’t tell me who you are.’
‘Andrew Barnes,’ he said.
She gave a little snort, shook her head, the name not registering. ‘What were you doing with Luke?’
‘Sorry, I-’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’m Andrew Barnes.’ He blinked. ‘Jason Barnes’ father.’
She closed her eyes, put her hand to her head. ‘Oh God. I’m sorry. I’d no idea who you were, and after what they’ve done to him already…’ She shuddered, faltered.
She thought he might have come to cause harm.
‘Could you…’ Her eyes were naked now, bright with pain. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
Louise
She tried to gather her scattered wits by the time they reached the hospital café. Frame yourself, as her grandma would say whenever Louise was slow or reluctant to do something. She framed herself now. Began by apologizing to Andrew Barnes. ‘I’m sorry I bit your head off. You must think I’m cracked, but my mind’s in bits. And your boy, Jason – I’m so sorry.’
He nodded, then stared down at his coffee.
‘He saved Luke’s life, doing what he did.’
Andrew nodded again. Not giving much away. Trying to hold it all in, perhaps fearing that if he started talking it might all come rolling out, like a bag of marbles tipped over, clattering every which way.
‘I’m so very sorry,’ she said again. She was painfully aware that she still had Luke. Upstairs, resting, getting stronger every hour. She still had such hope that he’d get well and come home, and although things would never be like they were before, there would still be everything to look forward to. The man opposite had none of that.
