Page 6

Six

Monday 2am

Tom

Part of Tom’s mind knew that this was a dream. The same part that told him things weren’t good, that they might in fact be very bad. The part that knew he was in a hospital, though he had no idea why. So, he let the dream suppress the anxieties. It wasn’t a sexy dream, but he did have his arms round Charlie as they sat on a picnic blanket in an unseasonably warm Central Park. Charlie fitted snugly against his own body. Tom remembered wanting to gather Charlie up in his arms from the first moment he caught sight of him getting drunk in the Rainbow the night before moving to Llanfair. Charlie had been drunk, and spiky, not wanting to be helped. Some of the spikiness was wearing off Tom thought in his dream, kissing the top of Charlie’s head, feeling the smooth hair against his lips.

The picture changed to Charlie in the little Queer piano bar they’d been to in Greenwich Village. They’d hidden in a dark corner wanting to watch, listen to the music and drink cheap gin. A man at the next table wore make-up and a terrible wig, but he had a lovely smile and told them the history of the bar and its regulars. Tom felt the peace of the evening wash over him. Then the mood changed again. A shadow fell across their battered wooden table and Charlie was gone.

Show tunes. Songs from West Side Story, Oklahoma, and something about a policeman’s lot not being happy. Tom smiled. He knew all about a policeman’s lot. The table in front of him held drinks: gin and tonics with ice and slices of lemon, condensation running down the outside of the glasses. At the far end of the room, the bartender was singing, and to their right a man played the piano, surrounded by people belting the numbers out with big grins on their faces. A glass bowl sat on top of the piano, filled with bills of all denominations to pay the pianist. Charlie had put money in, Tom thought, but maybe he should add some more when he went to the bar.

The drinks were strong. Tom’s head felt strange and a bit fuzzy. Not fuzzy enough to say no to another drink, but fuzzy enough that nothing felt completely real, as if he was looking at the scene though glass in need of a clean. A man at the next table turned to him.

“First time here?”

“No,” Tom said, though his voice sounded like it was bubbling through water. “I come here when I’m in New York. I wanted to bring my boyfriend.” The man nodded so hard that his head fell off. Tom leaned over, picked up the head and gave it back to its owner.

“Thanks,” the man said. “Where is your boyfriend? Has he left already?”

Tom looked round and there was no sign of Charlie. But he had been there, Tom was sure.

Charlie

It was a hospital. It smelled like every hospital he’d ever been in: a mixture of disinfectant, floor polish and burned coffee. The same, but different . The same figures in scrubs and rubber clogs, the same people half asleep in the Emergency Department waiting room, the same noises of crying children and ringing telephones. Only the voices were different. American accents making the familiar strange. He went to the reception desk and smiled.

“I’m looking for Tomos Pennant. He was brought here after the shooting at Blue Wave Books.”

Behind the desk a woman with a helmet of blonde waves smiled back, and then her expression changed to one of concern.

“Oh my, that was a terrible thing.”

“I was there,” Charlie said, trying to keep the smile going. “I was told Tom was brought here and I’m hoping to see him.”

The woman rattled a few keys on her computer, then frowned. “He’s here,” she said, “but I’m afraid there’s no visiting at this time, and only relatives allowed. Are you a relative, dear? From England?”

“Wales. We’re both from Wales,” Charlie said automatically. “I’ll come back later if you tell me which ward.”

“I thought Wales was England, and such a lovely accent. I wonder if you have access to Mr Pennant’s health insurance details.”

Rage rose in his throat and he wanted to grab the woman and shake her until she told him where Tom was. He forced it down and smiled again. He shouldn’t have been surprised that an American hospital wanted to know who would be paying the bill.

“I have this card,” he said, and handed it over. He’d extracted it from Tom’s wallet, and it had the name of the insurance company and a few reference numbers. “You can see that I’m named as his emergency contact. Mr C Rees. That’s me.”

The woman propped the card up on her desk and started rattling her keyboard, inputting the insurance details.

“They still won’t let you in unless you’re a relative, but he’s in Intensive Care.”

Charlie managed one last smile. “I’ll find it.”

Shaking legs and a buzzing in his head made sitting down an imperative. Charlie sank onto a low wall beside the main entrance and put his head between his knees, gripping the map in his hand. Rational Charlie knew that trying to operate without either sleep or food didn’t work, but he couldn’t face either. He would have to wait until the dizziness passed. Which it did, mostly, after a few minutes.

The map showed Intensive Care was in a different building. He looked around and saw walkways and bridges connecting the huge blocks to each other. He was attracting attention from one of the security guards, so he stood up, took a deep breath, and plunged back inside. The reception desk stood empty amid the network of corridors heading in every direction. Charlie managed to orient himself and started walking. It took fifteen minutes, two different sets of lifts, and a glass-walled bridge. Then the same glass-walled bridge in the other direction when he realised he’d taken the wrong one. He walked purposefully, as if he knew exactly where he was going and had every right to go there. No one looked at him for more than a second. The double doors to Intensive Care were locked but Charlie arrived at the exact moment a harried-looking man with a cleaner’s trolley was trying to manoeuvre his way out. Charlie courteously held the door, and then slipped inside.

For the moment, the place appeared dim and deserted. There was enough light to see the bays filled with equipment, and presumably, patients. He heard voices from the far end and ducked into the first bay. Curtains were half drawn between the bays — enough that he wouldn’t be spotted if he kept still and quiet. The smell of disinfectant was strong. Quiet beeps complemented the hiss of mechanically assisted breathing. The voices faded again and Charlie relaxed enough to step toward the patient just visible in the centre of all the machines, seeing a splash of dark hair against the plastic oxygen mask and the pale blue blankets. It was Tom.

Air swished in and out of the mechanical ventilator — at least that’s what Charlie guessed the noise was. The beeps came from other machines with screens showing wavy lines which meant nothing to Charlie. A drip led into the back of Tom’s right hand and there were so many clips and wires that Charlie hesitated to move. But he couldn’t keep away. He pulled a chair close to the bed. Tom’s left hand lay on top of the blanket and Charlie picked it up, whispering Tom’s name. Tom’s skin was warm, and the hand felt as it always did but Tom didn’t stir.

“I came as soon as I could, love,” Charlie whispered. “I’m so sorry.” Charlie couldn’t articulate why he felt responsible for Tom’s injuries, but he did. He stroked the bit of Tom’s cheek not covered with the breathing mask. Tears fell unseen onto the blanket and were absorbed in the waffle. “Get better, Tomos Dylan, just get better. I need you. I love you.”

There was no way Charlie wasn’t going to get caught but he couldn’t make himself leave. The machines carried on swishing and beeping until he felt his eyelids begin to droop. But he had run away from Tom in the bookshop to chase the gunman and Tom had almost died. Falling asleep now would be another desertion. His eyes closed, just for a minute.

Which is how the nurse found him.