Dusk was falling as Bandit ran along the side of the River Ouse. Mud squelched underfoot and once or twice he felt his foot slide beneath him. He’d been running for miles. It had been the only way to burn off his energy. The only way he would sleep that night. He had to find a way to stop himself from thinking of Madeleine. But he’d run further than he’d thought and only now did he begin to recognise the area. He passed the Lombardy trees which lined the path on which he ran and could now see both the York Minster and the National Railway Museum in the distance. A women’s quad scull crew sailed past him at speed and he knew that he’d soon be approaching Clifton, where he’d left his truck. An intended visit to The Elder Lodge Nursing Home had turned into what must have been a twenty-mile run. He just hoped that his father hadn’t noticed the truck, watched him run off or waited for the past four hours for him to walk through the door.
Bandit slowed down, caught his breath and walked the final mile. Visiting his father took energy and he needed to ensure that by the time he got there, his mind and body would be rejuvenated. He reached Water Lane and the path ended. Here he stopped for a moment, pulled his soaked T-shirt over his head and dried his body with it. Opening the truck, he reached for a can of deodorant, grabbed a clean jumper and pulled it over his head. He then reached for the box of fudge that he’d brought for his father to eat and ventured inside to the sitting room where he knew his father would be.
‘Now then, Dad. How are you doing? You okay?’
His words were lost. His father’s eyes were closed. Deep in sleep, his hands were clutching a teddy bear to his chest, while his legs were curled beneath him. He resembled a small child in a chair that looked far too big for his needs. His chair stood in its normal spot by the bay window; a table stood by its side littered with magazines, picture books and chocolate. An elderly woman, much older than his father, sat close by. Bandit had noticed her many times before. She was often sitting beside his father and her chair almost always touched his. Once or twice he’d noticed her tenderly holding his father’s hand. But each time Bandit entered the room she’d tenderly pat his father on the arm and then stand up to leave. She took hold of the Zimmer frame that stood by her side and slowly disappeared out of sight and into another room.
Bandit smiled at the peaceful sight. It was good that his father had a friend, someone to talk to during the long repetitive days. He moved closer and then wrinkled up his nose at the smell of disinfectant, bleach and plug in air fresheners that was overpowering his senses.
Taking a seat beside his father, Bandit sat quietly and closed his eyes, contemplating his father’s life. He’d been in the home for years. He went out occasionally, but most days he was too tired and ill to move, yet too well to die and Bandit wondered if it would have been kinder all those years before to have let him go. He had his own world in which he lived; it was primitive, but it was his own. He didn’t have a care in the world and Bandit sat for over an hour wondering whether he or his father actually had the better life.
Was it better not to know what was happening in the world around you? To be oblivious of it all and not to know the worry, or be affected by the stress and the heartache that surrounded life. Or was it actually better being capable and independent? Both had an argument in their favour and this had been his overwhelming thought when he’d set off for his run. He’d only stopped running once he’d come to the conclusion that he needed both the happiness and the heartache, whatever that might mean. It was both the happiness and the heartache that made his heart beat as though it would burst out of his chest, that made him feel alive and without the occasional heartache, you didn’t get the happiness.
‘Would you like a drink, Mr Lawless?’ a young nurse asked as she walked past the door. ‘We have some fresh tea brewed, if you would like?’
Bandit shook his head preferring to sit peacefully while his father slept. A gold clock with ornamental spikes hung on the wall and ticked loudly and just as it struck five o’clock his dad opened his eyes, looked up, yawned and then smiled broadly as he saw his son.
‘Hey.’ The word was simple, but to Bandit it meant a lot. It meant that today was a good day and the child within his father had recognised him. He held out his hand and took his father’s hand in his.
‘You okay, Dad?’
He smiled. ‘I’ve been to sleep.’
‘Yes, you have. Did you have a good dream?’ Bandit asked, watching as his father struggled with his thoughts.
He nodded. ‘Went to see the lady. She’d made cheese sandwiches and cream cakes for our tea.’
‘Which lady did you go to see, Dad?’
‘The lady. I went to see the lovely lady. Love the lady, she’s so nice.’
Bandit smiled. His father often talked of the lady and a life he thought he’d had. But the truth was that he’d been adopted soon after birth and his Nana Lawless had died when Bandit had been only three years old. She’d only ever been called Nana, never referred to as ‘the lady’. But other than her, Bandit had no idea who his father was talking about.
Bandit lovingly stroked his father’s hand. Did it really matter if he imagined her? He wasn’t hurting anyone else if he lived in a place that no one else recognised, was he?
Bandit shook his head. ‘Is the lady nice to you, Dad?’ he asked as his father broke into a broad smile and in a very child-like manner, nodded his head.
Bandit leaned forward and kissed his father on the forehead. ‘That’s good, then, isn’t it? We like nice, kind people, don’t we?’
His father slipped back into his sleep, the teddy bear still clutched in one hand as his other held on tightly to Bandit’s.
‘That’s right, Daddy. You have a lovely new dream.’