Page 83 of Indie
He coughed suddenly, a loud hacking cough that seemed to go on for minutes. I stood up, not sure what to do. In the end, I think I might have shouted for Emmie. But I didn’t remember doing it. Maybe she’d heard him coughing, because suddenly she was there with us.
“What’s happening? What’s happening?” I could hear the panic in my voice, but I couldn’t stop it.
She nudged me to the side gently, propping my father upright, pulling an extra pillow under his back. And still he coughed, fighting for every breath like he was choking, his hands scrabbling over the covers.
“Shush. It’s ok Ste. Just try and breathe for me,” her voice was barely audible over the sounds he was making.
His hands moved to his chest, clutching and clawing at it, panic rising in me as fast as in him.
“Emmie. Please!”
“You’re ok Ste. I want you to concentrate on my voice. Breathe in. That’s it. Breathe out.”
He coughed again, racking and gurgling, but it wasn’t as loud as before. Quieter. And then another cough. Softer, his hands relaxing against the bare skin of his chest. He closed his eyes, the fingers of his hands balling and straightening, his chest wheezing and whistling. The breath sounds slowing until it was only the rattle of his chest I could hear.
He settled back, falling into the pillows behind him, staring ahead once more.
“They’re proud of you, you know,” he said again, his voice fainter.
“Who, Dad?”
“Ade and Si.”
“Really?”
“Aye. They say you’re a good lad. You’re what this club will need. A true warrior is one that has survived many wars.”
We sat silently for a while, his hand resting in both of mine. The rattle in his chest neither improving nor getting worse, but his eyes closed more and more. There was a creak at the door. Tori. I wanted to tell her to leave, that she wasn’t welcome. She’d only known him a couple of years. I wasn’t offering her any of my time with my father. But I’d let her sit quietly on the other side of him.
His eyes fluttered open once again, his voice a whisper, barely audible. “Tell Demon I always thought of him as mine. Even though I knew he really wasn’t. I’d always seen Si in his face, from the very day he was born.”
He drew in a breath, the rattle in his chest stilling, the hand that had grasped mine relaxing. Then he exhaled. And then nothing. Not another breath. Not another movement. Jolting to my feet, I looked down at him, then across to Emmie. She shook her head gently, her eyes filled with sadness. I stared for a moment, watching. Waiting for him to breathe again, or his eyes to open, or something, anything. Anything to show that it wasn’t yet his time, that he hadn’t just come to the clubhouse to die. That this wasn’t it, that it had been a dream, or an intrusive thought in my head. And around me no one moved, or said anything, as if waiting for me to let loose the first tear.
Carefully I scooped both arms across him, resting one hand on top of the other, my hand lingering on top of them for just a little while, in case the movement should wake him up. And then, when it didn’t, I bent down and kissed him on his forehead, his skin still warm on my lips.
“May the heart of the Harley beat eternal. May the roar of the Kings never die. Goodnight dad.”
I didn’t look up, not at Emmie, not at Tori. I walked away. As I turned down the corridor towards the stairs, I heard the high-pitched wail. Shrill. Desperate.
Chapter Thirty Seven
I watched the man I’d nursed for weeks close his eyes for the final time. The room went quiet, the noisy gurgle of his chest and the persistent wheeze gone in an instant. The rest of his body relaxed, a strange stillness descending on him, his face no longer tense, no longer braced against the pain, his lips lightly pressed together.
Time passed slowly, Indie staring at Ste, as if waiting patiently for him to wake up, his face as stoic as ever, givingnothing away. Beside me Tori stood quietly, unsure what to do next.
Then slowly Indie moved, carefully reaching over Ste’s body and picking up an arm, moving it across his chest. Then he repeated the same with the other arm, lying them so Ste’s hands crossed. Indie left his hand there for a moment, before leaning down and kissing the man on the top of the head.
“May the heart of the Harley beat eternal,” he said quietly. “May the roar of the Kings never die.” Words that meant something to him, and Tori too, as she hiccupped suddenly beside me.
Indie stood a few seconds longer, then turned and walked away. I followed him. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, tell him I knew how hard that was to watch. I hadn’t made it out the doorway when behind a cry rang out. Loud and painful, and the woman I’d left behind in the room broke into loud sobs.
But I didn’t turn like I should, to offer comfort and kind words. Instead, I went after the man who’d shown such strength and at the same time such vulnerability.
He was downstairs when I found him, clutching a glass of bronze liquid, staring at the double doors of the pub from the middle of the room.
“Indie,” I called tentatively, but he didn’t look round, or flinch, or turn his head towards my voice.
And he didn’t move as I approached him, or when I slid my hand into his. His fingers squeezed round mine, letting me know the gesture was appreciated. And we stood there in the silence, the only movement between us was the glass he lifted occasionally to his lips.