‘OI, CASE! ARE YOU DEAF AS WELL AS THICK?’ Coach had apparently been attempting to summon him for some time.
Justin dredged up the impulse to walk over to the track. He generally didn’t mind pain; it tended to disappear if you kept running, or at least you forgot about it amid the thousand other, more familiar pains. Perhaps this would go away too. Perhaps he could fly off the blocks, swoop through the air like a kestrel, and leave it behind. From the corner of his eye (the use of peripheral vision caused a slim stiletto of icy steel to twist behind his eyeball) he thought he saw Peter looking at him oddly.
He heard Boy howl, a horrible, long, high-pitched noise that made his teeth chatter with fear.
Then he crouched down, ducked his head, and from the explosion at the base of his skull, assumed he’d been struck by lightning. He sank to his knees under the force of it, toppled over on one side, teeth locked, limbs twitching with the effort of remaining alive. He looked down to see that his stomach had been ripped out of his abdomen by a gigantic vicious claw, which even now was squeezing the bleeding, displaced organ till the bile gushed out of his mouth.
You bastard, he thought. You bloody bastard.
Even Coach hesitated.
‘That’s one hell of a hangover you’ve got, Case. What happened, too many Babychams last night?’ He sounded uncharacteristically nervous. ‘Prince, get over there and help him up. Then fill me in on the tragic details, bring a few tears to my eyes.’
But Peter was already there.
The rest of the team looked on in shocked silence as Peter crouched next to his violently shuddering friend. Peter covered him with his jacket, wiped the vomit from his mouth, glanced up at the faces leaning in all around him, and spoke softly, with uncharacteristic force.
‘Somebody phone an ambulance.’ He spoke very clearly so there could be no mistaking his words or their meaning. ‘And tell them to hurry.’
52
It is thought that up to 25 per cent of young adults carry the bacteria responsible for meningococcal meningitis without showing any symptoms of the disease. Of this 25 per cent, less than three in 100,000 will actually go on to develop a fully fledged inflammation of the meninges, the soft membrane surrounding the brain. Direct exchange of bodily fluids with a full-blown infectious case is the surest way to guarantee infection.
You have to be fairly unlucky to contract it.
The earliest signs are common enough to make diagnosis difficult. The symptoms (fever, headache and nausea, occasionally accompanied by a stiff neck) can easily be mistaken for cold or flu. Within anything from a few hours to a few days, however, infection of the spinal cord and the fluid surrounding the brain begins to present a new set of symptoms.
By this time, there is sometimes a rash on the palms of the hands, soles of the feet or chest that does not fade when pressed. Extreme sensitivity to light may occur. Mental disorientation, vomiting and high fever indicate that the process of septicaemia, or systemic blood poisoning, has begun.
Unfortunately, by the time any moderately observant fool can recognize these symptoms, time for the patient has begun to run out.
Justin presented unmistakably classic symptoms of bacterial meningitis to the paramedics who arrived within ten minutes of his collapse, which meant he was in imminent danger of brain damage and death. Without moving him, they inserted a needle into the cephalic vein of his right arm, attached a drip of ampicillin and chloramphenicol, and prepared to transport him to hospital.
The medics took one look at the vomit on Peter’s hands and clothes, and took him along for treatment. They left Coach with strict instructions to compile a list of boys at practice and present it to the health investigator who would contact him within the hour.
Phoning ahead to A & E with a report on Justin’s condition, the medics lifted the unconscious boy and his drip on to a collapsible stretcher, transferred the stretcher to the back of the ambulance, shut the doors, activated the siren and set off. The entire incident, from the moment of Justin’s collapse to the instant the ambulance disappeared from sight, took less than twenty minutes.
His teammates stood staring at the corner around which the ambulance had disappeared. If a flying saucer had landed on the track, taken one of them prisoner, and flown off into outer space, they could not have felt more shocked. Nobody knew how to react. Even Coach was speechless.
At the hospital, Peter telephoned his mother, who phoned Justin’s parents. Within half an hour, they had all gathered at A & E.
Back at the held the subdued boys drifted off in ones and twos. For a longer time than was strictly necessary, Coach remained where he was, staring transfixed at the place on the ground where Justin had fallen.
Christ, he thought. My one big chance for next year’s county championship and the kid drops dead.
That bastard fate has one hell of a sense of humour.
53
In a darkened room, lying perfectly still on starched white sheets, his feverish body covered with a woven cotton hospital blanket, a drip attached to each arm, Justin lay in quarantine without the strength or the desire to move.
His parents were the only visitors allowed. Gowned and masked, they took turns sitting by his bedside in silence, reading books or newspapers, occasionally looking up when he stirred, greeting the silent nurses and aides who came every quarter-hour to check his blood pressure and temperature, conversing in whispers with the doctors, receiving explanations and cautious reassurances with grateful, hopeful expressions.
Justin floated in a genial amniotic bath of drugs, low light, and mental disorientation. A catheter drained waste from his bladder. He felt no pain, no interest in getting up, no hunger, no thirst, no physical desire of any kind.
He had no way of knowing what day it was, what was wrong with him, what the weather might be, the names of his nurses, where he was, whether he would get better or not. Nor did he care. It was dark, it was quiet, and he was willing to float comfortably in limbo forever and ever amen.
He hated it when they asked him to do things. Squeeze my finger, a voice commanded. Wiggle your toes. Do you know your name? David, it’s your mother. Can you hear me, darling? That’s it, good boy, we’re just going to roll you over so we can… Has he opened his eyes? David, can you open your eyes? It says here his name is Justin. Does he prefer one name to the other? Justin? Can you hear me, Justin? Can you lift your right hand, Justin? Just a finger? Can you blink your eyes for me, David, when you hear my voice? Can you try again?
Please stop making me try to do things. If you’d just stop making me do things I could be happy. I don’t want to get better. I don’t want to get worse either, I just want to stay like this, floating gently in suspended animation, in the dark, in the pleasant, safe, silent dark.
Never mind. He’s in there.
I’m in here all right, Justin thought. I’m in here and I want to stay in here. So bugger off and let me stay in here. Let me stay for months. Let me stay forever. Let me rest in this place forever.
And sometimes, as he drifted in and out of himself, he thought, I wonder if I’ll survive. I wonder if it’s necessary for me to survive. I wonder if I could simply die and have this feeling of bliss go on into infinity.
And it was with that thought, just there, that he heard the voice.
Ignore them, Justin Case. Feel how nice it is to drift? Let your body drop away. Let go, Justin Case, let it go.
Justin swooned with relief to hear the soft voice. It was authoritative yet kind, deep and soothing. The sound of it made him sleepy, made him feel like a child again, safe in his mother’s arms. It lifted him gently and set him down in a warm buoyant sea, turquoise and calm, where he had no responsibility other than to float.
Sleep, Justin Case, I’ll think for you.
The other voices, the ones he hated, interrupted with requests. Do this, squeeze that, can you sit up/open your eyes/wiggle your toes?
Never mind them, you’re mine now. Sink into my arms. Let yourself b
e happy. See how gently I rock you to sleep? There, there, Justin Case. Let go.
There seemed to be more commotion than usual around him now. He heard the soft padding of nurses’ feet, an announcement calling his parents. A man crouched over him, asking him to respond, hectoring him, shouting his name. With all the strength he had left, he shook his head, shook them off him.
Go away, he wanted to shout. Leave me alone! He couldn’t speak, but the effort produced a gurgling noise. He wanted to shield his face with one hand but found he’d forgotten how to command his limbs. For a moment there was silence. Then the smooth hands of nurses again, a prick in one arm, and then for a long while nothing at all except the soft, soft dark, and the blissful silence he craved.
The next time he noticed anything, there was no voice and the wonderful soothing glow was gone. He hurt all over and his heart seemed to be beating too fast. He started to cry, silently, salt tears dripping in a steady stream from the corners of his eyes.
Don’t cry, sweet boy, I’m here.
54
During the time Justin was non-responsive (no one at the hospital actually used the word ‘coma’), he was rarely alone. His parents took turns sitting with him, and when they left, one of the nurses attended him in his quarantine. Peter had been treated and released; Dorothea and Anna came with him to the hospital but were not allowed in Justin’s room for fear of contagion. The girls hung pictures of Alice in the nurses’ station and glued get-well cards to the smoky-glass window of his room. Anna’s cards, scribbled in furious frustration, read GET WELL NOW, in big black slashed letters.
Dorothea knew how she felt. Today she had brought a painting: Justin with Boy and Alice. Her picture showed him sprawled in space with silver stars pasted over a black halo of sky. In the grass to his right was Boy, in profile, beautifully rendered in light and dark greys, the soft dark wisdom of his eye expressed perfectly. To the left was Alice, drawn nearly as big as the dog. Dorothea had managed to capture a feeling for the sleepy body and the large impassive eye peering out of his white fur. It was an extraordinary portrait of three friends.
Anna and Dorothea covered as much of the glass window as they could reach with their cards. Neither of them liked looking in at Justin lying inert, stuck full of a terrifying array of needles and tubes.
‘That’s not Justin,’ Anna insisted.
Dorothea agreed. The motionless body was far too quiet, devoid of nervous energy. She wondered if an unconscious person could feel anxious.
Justin’s parents alternated attendance on their son. His mother stayed as long as her younger child would let her. She looked terrible. ‘I’ve neglected him,’ she said over and over to Peter, her face a picture of anguish. ‘I didn’t know what to do for him.’
Throughout this admission, Charlie tugged insistently at her sleeve.
I’d like to see my brother, he said. I’d like to tell him my side of the story, the side he used to know but has forgotten. I’d like to tell him to forget the big scary issues and concentrate on the ones he can control, like how much milk he gets when, and whether to look at a book. Life is easier if you break it down into little segments, little desires and needs you can satisfy right now.
‘Want milk,’ he said aloud.
His mother dug through her bag for his milk, and the child took it, smiling at Peter.
Do you understand?
Peter nodded.
After some hesitation, Peter had phoned Agnes, and later that evening she came to the hospital.
‘How is he?’ she asked one of the night nurses, and the woman shook her head.
‘Your friend do not want to wake up, honey. I never seen such a stubborn boy for staying asleep. He sleep and he sleep, and just when everybody start to think he might be getting well, he go right back to sleeping. I’m thinking he don’t want to wake up.’
Well, that would be about right, Agnes thought, then stopped herself guiltily.
Maybe it had nothing to do with will. Maybe he couldn’t wake up even if he wanted to. She tapped softly on the window of Justin’s room. His mother was just leaving and it was his father who sat reading the evening paper by the light of a miniature torch, squinting at a story about a London fashion designer, run over by a car and killed in a Luton rainstorm as he tried to rescue a goat. Justin’s father looked up at Agnes with a tired half-smile and waved. Agnes waved back, thinking how funny the man looked peering at the small pool of illuminated type, able to make out just a few words at a time. Was he actually reading the paper, or just passing the time?
He didn’t touch his son, she noticed that. Justin’s mother sat gripping his hand, whispering apologies and promises, exhorting him to acknowledge her presence, his own presence. Please, David. Agnes had seen her lips move. Please wake up.
The more Agnes observed him, the more she felt certain that the nurse was right. It was easier where he was. Poor Justin. Unable to grasp the basic notion that these people were his fate. All of them: Peter and Dorothea and Anna, his parents and brother, the doctors and nurses. Even Coach and the team and his teachers and classmates. He couldn’t escape them any more than he could escape himself. Unless he decided not to wake up. Then fate would have the last laugh after all.
‘Justin?’ She leant in close to the window and whispered. ‘Don’t screw up.’
It’s not like she’s in love with you or anything, she told you that.
Shut up.
I’m right, though, am I not? She made it perfectly clear.
Shut Up.
Let’s face it, Justin, how long do you think it will take for them to get over you when you’re gone?
What do you mean when?
I’m sorry?
You said ‘when you’re gone’.
But surely you realize it’s only a matter of time? You’re nearly finished, Justin Case.
Something like revulsion rose in him to hear the voice talk with such calm certainty about his death. His eyes flicked open, but his father had fallen asleep, and Agnes had turned away from the window.
He closed them again.
55
They decided to transfer him to London.
Luton Hospital made the decision, not wishing to be the holder of the hot potato when the music stopped. No hospital wanted headlines announcing that a teenager had died of meningitis in their hospital.
In addition, they didn’t know what to do with him while he lived.
Justin’s particular strain of infection had been identified and treated; he was now allowed visitors. All the medical indications pointed to the fact that he should have woken up hours, if not days, ago. His brain activity seemed fine. The doctors argued over his case at staff meetings. Perhaps they had missed something, but a battery of tests revealed nothing. It seemed prudent to send him on to London and let them puzzle it out. Let him die on their watch.
As if from the bottom of a deep, dark well, Justin felt himself being picked up and transferred to the ambulance. He enjoyed the slight rocking of the vehicle, the slow progress along the motorway. As they approached London he could feel the city embrace him in its humming intensity. The joyous clamour of it pelted the ambulance like hail.
At the hospital there were other noises: muffled voices, the clanking of trolleys, the ringing of bells – all refined into something neutral and reassuring, a gentle bubbling as pleasant as the sound of water over stones.
Only occasionally did the voices disturb him. His mother was the worst, always pushing him to respond. It seemed to mean so much to her. Why couldn’t she just leave him alone? Couldn’t she see how happy he was? He didn’t want to come out and play.
Justin.
The voice again. It hurt his head to listen, and he lapsed back into the warm drift of the turquoise sea.
Justin?
Go away.
You seem perkier today. Perhaps you’d like to consider a special offer? One day only: clouds, pearly gates, vestal virgins, soft music, eternal happiness.
LA-LA-LA-LA-
LA. I’m not listening.
You don’t fool me. I can hear you think.
Who are you?
That’s better.
I asked a question.
You know who I am. I’m the source of all your misery and all your delight, your choreographer, your master of ceremonies. I’ve waltzed you in and out of danger, but now I’m afraid we’ve run out of entertainments. It’s time to finish the job.
I don’t want to be finished and I’m not a job.
What’s wrong with a little closure? You might enjoy getting to the end.
By ‘the end’, I presume you mean dead?
Aren’t you curious?
No.
Perhaps you’re enjoying yourself too much as you are?
I’ve been in worse places.
You certainly have.
Whose fault is that?
Now there’s an interesting question, whose fault indeed?
Let me guess.
I do broad strokes, Justin. The detail is your department.
Broad strokes, how? Like crashing a DC-IO on to a sixpence where I’m supposed to be standing?
Yes. You extricated yourself admirably, I thought.
Oh did I? An admirable gibbering wreck, am I?
Shit happens, as they say in America. What about all the nice things I’ve done for you?
Like?
Like Peter and Dorothea. Where would you be without them?
You did that for me, did you?
In a manner of speaking. Let’s just say certain relationships would not have occurred had you not found yourself in this predicament.