NINETEEN

That Sunday, Reverend Harold Shepherd noticed one of his regulars missing.

‘I didn’t notice Saul in the service, this morning,’ he whispered to Mrs O’Brien, pulling her aside as the church emptied.

‘I heard he was sick, Reverend,’ she said in a faint, nervous voice.

‘Really? Did you hear if it was something serious?’

‘Well, he’s in hospital.’ Harold could see the emotion building in her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she added, ‘but it’s all very upsetting.’

‘Which hospital?’ Harold said, gently pressing her arm. There were a number in Lark and more across Maalside. ‘I’d like to visit him, make sure he’s got everything he needs.’

‘Lark City Hospital,’ she said. ‘I must be on my way, Reverend.’

Harold nodded, releasing her.

He knew of her affair with Saul. How they had shacked up together, leaving their poorly old partners in the care home. But that was the way of things now: marriage was no longer the institution it used to be, ‘in sickness and in health’ well out-of-date.

As Harold watched, Mrs O’Brien ducked out into the mid-morning rain, the tails of her coat flailing behind in the wind. She lifted one hand to cover her head from the rain, using the old, paperback bible she carried.

 

A large billboard hung above the entrance to Lark City Hospital, playing some advert as Harold approached. But the preacher’s mind was filled with other things; the memories of patients he had visited over the years, many of them now dead.

This was not a nice place. It didn’t even look nice: a super-sized white cube, all plastic, aluminium and glass. From a distance, you could place your thumb and forefinger around the cube, pretend it was a dice; maybe try shaking it.

And then there was the smell. Harold had always hated the smell of hospitals; that slightly soiled sweetness that spoke of medication and white coats and long faces. Lark City’s smell was particularly nauseating.

Inside was even more depressing. Soulless artwork blended into off-white walls. Forgotten patients, propped up on beds or abandoned wheelchairs, stared into space. The ancient Irish playwright, Samuel Beckett, once wrote a play about waiting, and Harold shuddered to think how horrific a setting this hospital would have made; two old men sitting in wheelchairs waiting for something or someone to take away their ills.

Visiting an old coot like Saul was unlikely to cheer Harold up any. Saul’s whole life had been about misery, a misery more clinical and disinfected than any of the floors here could boast. In fact, Harold reckoned Saul was one of those folks who enjoyed being miserable.

The doctors always talked about chemical imbalance when they didn’t know what made someone such a bastard. Saul was very chemically imbalanced. As a lawyer he had taken nothing but sheer pleasure in doling out heartache to others. Home repossessions, accident lawsuits, money judgements: Saul handled them all. He was just the man to go to if someone owed you what they couldn’t afford to pay back. And his rates depended on him making sure they did pay you back.

Harold paused at the self-serve, retrieving his cell and syncing the required cash for some fizzy drink and sweets. He didn’t know whether Saul would like the flavours and brands he’d chosen, but that was hardly the point. It was poor form to turn up to a hospital bed empty-handed; that was one of the rules he’d learned.

Armed with his gifts, Harold moved towards reception.

‘Welcome to Lark City Hospital,’ the automated voice said, warmly. ‘Which service, please?’

‘Patient visit,’ Harold said. ‘Mr Saul J. Collins’

A slight pause, as the tech checked its records.

‘Third floor. Ward 7. Will you require assistance?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Enjoy your visit.’

He heard his cell beep once, confirming his security clearance. But Harold checked just in case, reading: VISITOR, SAUL J. COLLINS. STABLE. Some time ago, when they’d just changed the security system and he’d forgotten to download the required APP to his cell, Harold was rushing to see a patient described as FADING by the hospital tech. He’d hurried through reception without clearance, setting the alarm off. Embarrassing to say the least.

Today, Harold moved past reception with ease. Cleaner drones quietly polished the floor on either side of him, the low hum of their tech the only sound to resemble noise. He found the elevator, called it, waited.

A young nurse appeared beside him, glancing at his clerical collar.

‘Hallo,’ Harold said, politely. ‘How’s your day going?’

‘Pretty shit,’ she quipped dryly. ‘And you?’

The lift arrived before he could answer. It was fairly crowded, two hospital porters in blue tunics and strides standing at either end of a long wheeled stretcher. Harold and the nurse stepped in, finding space. The doors closed, and the auto voice announced which floor they would be travelling to next.

An awkward silence fell. It was Harold’s worst nightmare to be trapped in an elevator, forced to share this cramped space with so many others.

‘Who are you visiting?’ the nurse asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He said the name.

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘He’s the main reason my day has been shit. Going to give him his last rites, perchance?’

Harold smiled.

‘No, that would be the Catholics who do that. I’m just here to deliver some fizzy pop.’

The nurse laughed.

The lift stopped and she left, turning to him as she went.

‘Tell him he can bath himself next time,’ she said.

Harold nodded, smiling once more, but she didn’t seem as amused this time. She seemed angry, affronted. And then she was gone, lost to some new emergency, cell beeping angrily at her as she stole away.

The lift doors closed again.

 

Harold arrived at Saul’s ward, finding the crabby old bastard propped up on his pillows.

‘I thought you were meant to be sick,’ he said, setting the fizzy pop on the lawyer’s bedside table.

Saul ignored the gift, ‘And I thought you were one of the nurses. But you’re uglier and a lot less useful, let’s face it.’

‘Just met one of your nurses, as it happens,’ Harold laughed. ‘She said to say hallo.’

Saul gave a dirty look.

‘I’ll bet she did,’ he sneered.

‘So, what’s the matter with you, anyway?’ Harold sat down on the chair by the bed. ‘You seem healthy enough to me.’

He was lying of course. The old man looked and sounded awful. Folds of skin slopped around his cheeks. Tiredness softened his voice.

‘I am healthy,’ Saul protested. ‘Just had a few chest pains. Temporary paralysis. Good as new now.’ He chuckled, coughing a little. ‘They want to keep me in for some tests.’

He waved his hand, dismissively, like Harold would understand how stupid they were in these hospitals, with their silly tests. But there was another vibe about him, a distinct feeling that this place, with its nurses and pajamas and tests, had spooked an old battleship like Saul J. Collins. Reminded him of mortality, the all too few years left on his clock.

‘Better safe than sorry,’ Harold said.

He reached for the bottle of fizzy pop. He unscrewed the lid, lifted a glass from the bedside table and filled it. Offered it to Saul.

The old man tutted.

‘Can’t touch it,’ he said. ‘Too much sugar. Fucking Nazis in here won’t let me have anything.’

Harold considered emptying the glass of pop into the nearby sink and refilling it with water.

But Saul was on a roll.

‘They’re trying to bleed me dry in here,’ he spat. ‘These fucking places are all about money! And God knows how much their fucking tests cost!’

He leaned back, looked away. He was shaking, his head curled against his shoulder like a wounded bird.

Harold looked at the glass of pop still in his hand, set it down on the side of the bedside table.

He reached for the old man’s hand, held it.

‘Mrs O’Brien seems very worried about you, Saul,’ he said, softly. ‘She really cares for you. You know you’re very lucky to have her.’

Saul started to cry. It was a quiet sob, aimed towards the pillows, built like bags of sand behind his head. It was the first time Harold had seen any sort of vulnerability from him. He had thought Saul devoid of emotion, save anger.

He continued to hold the old man’s hand. Saul didn’t look at him, his face still buried in the pillows. And there they sat for a while, the quiet, disinfected air filling the space between them.

Finally, Saul pulled his hand free. He wiped his tears away with a swift, frantic movement. He sniffed a few times, reaching for a nearby tissue and blowing his nose hard.

His face returned to its usual angry sneer.

‘I’m sure you’ve better things to be doing than hanging around here,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve told Mrs O’Brien to sync my tithe every Sunday until I’m back, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

Harold smiled. ‘Saul, if you need anything –’

‘You’ll be the last fucker to know.’

Harold smiled.

He pulled himself to his feet, bid the old man farewell.

As he left the ward, Harold heard a sudden shrill cry coming from a nearby corridor. There was a flurry of activity, several nurses rushing past.

Harold continued walking.