‘OK, well, I’d better go and see the patient then. Where is he, exactly?’
She tips her head to a spot behind me. ‘Through the swing doors, right down the bottom. Oh, and I forgot, I got him these. There was a stall outside.’
From another bag compartment, she produces an apple and a bruised pear. I know he won’t eat them, but with Jacqui, that’s not the point. Jacqui doesn’t care about outcomes as long as she’s doing ‘the done thing’.
‘Right, can we finally go now?’ She’s trying to sound put-upon, but we both know there’s more to it. ‘It’s just these places, you know . . .’
‘I know. Go on, bugger off. See ya, Finn-bo.’
Finn isn’t listening. He’s got Jacqui’s headphones in, doing a little dance to some freeform jazz, judging by his complete lack of rhythm.
I blow Jacqui a kiss, feeling bad that she bore the brunt of today. Feeling sad that she’s spent too much time in hospitals already. Too many nights spent carrying Finn over their aggressively lit thresholds. Timing seizures. Learning medication schedules. Basically, worrying herself old.
Hospitals don’t bother me.
When you work for the dead, even the sick seem kind of fortunate.
*
I find Dad looking far worse than I expected on a trolley bed, sandwiched between two cubicles. To his left, there’s an old lady with a beehive and a split chin. To his right, a full-scale amputation, if the noise is anything to go by. He rallies when he sees me, pushing himself up a little higher using his good arm, wincing sharply at the effort.
‘Jesus, I think my ribs are in a bad way.’
There’s no ‘think’ about it. His shirt is open all the way down, revealing not only his daily commitment to one hundred plus crunches, but also a tramline bruise on the cusp of turning blue.
‘Have you looked in the mirror? Your face isn’t looking too hot either.’
He presses his jaw. ‘Thanks very much, sweetheart. Good to see you too.’
I stand at the foot of the trolley, centre stage, so he can’t avoid my eyes. ‘So when did this happen?’
‘This morning.’ He looks away as he says it. Not quite the breezy liar he once was.
‘I see. Morning, as in 11 a.m.? Or morning, as in 2 a.m.?’
His gaze lands back, unimpressed. ‘Does it matter?’
He can play the innocent but we both know it does. We both know that in Dad’s world, the subterranean world he’s gone back to, the worst things happen once the sun’s gone down. Betrayals in the dark. Lessons taught when you least expect them.
And I know that bruise is more than half a day old.
‘Must have been a big barrel,’ I say, drawing first blood. ‘This barrel have a name?’
‘Yeah.’ He smiles, then flinches, the tiny movement costing him dear. ‘God’s Twisted Sister. It’s an oatmeal stout we’re trialling.’
‘Fine, have it your way. But the doctors aren’t stupid, you know. Forget your arm, that bruise is a dead giveaway.’ I lean forward, peering closer at his chest. ‘So, what was it, Dad? An iron bar? A baseball bat?’
I see it cross his face, that split second where he thinks about lying. Where he forgets that we know the very worst things about each other – that he’s a criminal and I’m worse; I’m his protector.
‘Ah, they won’t bother with me. Knives and guns is all they care about.’ Translation: a good old-fashioned beating isn’t worth the paperwork. ‘One of the nurses, Keeley, was telling me . . .’
‘First name terms already. Good work, Dad. Glad to see “Ange” isn’t cramping your style.’
I can no sooner stop myself baiting this man than I can stop myself loving him. I’ve been doing both for so long, I don’t know who I’d be if I stopped.
‘Christ, not now, Cat.’ He sounds tired and defeated. Tired from the day’s drama and tired of mine, my incessant needling. ‘Ange was a bloody angel today. She doesn’t deserve your . . . your . . .’
‘My what?’
‘Your pettiness. Either be happy for me or say nothing, OK?’
‘Nothing sounds fine.’
He shrugs, wincing again. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, the nurse said they had three stabbings and one gunshot wound on Saturday night alone.’ He points at himself. ‘Seriously, they’ll be happy to turn a blind eye to this.’
‘And does that mean I have to?’
That gets a laugh. ‘And what are you going to do? Arrest them? Go all Charles Bronson? I wouldn’t waste your time, sweetheart. It’s not a bad break and the rib pain will pass. A bit of sympathy and a couple of paracetamol and I’ll be grand.’
I sit at the side of the bed; Dad’s good arm side. ‘It must have been bad for you to come here. I was there that night you were stabbed, remember?’ Paddy’s Day, 1999. Dad bleeding onto the carpet, Mum screaming that she cursed the day she ever met him. ‘You called Dennis Foley – a frigging vet – rather than come to hospital.’
‘You remember that?’ He looks at a point past my head, eyes reddening. ‘Christ, what sort of a father am I? I wish you only had happy memories.’
And I do, a whole warehouse of them. Parties, presents, pancakes on a Saturday morning. Singalongs in the pub, long after any normal child’s bedtime. Sweets after Mass – sometimes even popping candy if Mum’s eye was off the ball.
And then Dad met Maryanne and it wrecked everything.
‘Ah, don’t worry about it,’ I say flippantly. ‘Jacqui’s got enough false happy memories to last us all a lifetime.’ I take the apple out of my bag – the bruised pear’s past saving. ‘She got you this, by the way. Hungry?’
‘An apple?’ He points at his jaw. ‘With this?’
‘Can I have it then?’ I take a bite, not waiting for the answer.
‘She misses you, you know, Cat. I get why you can’t be around me so much, not now, but there’s no need to lose Jacqui too.’ The implication he’s lost to me burns my eyes, blurring my vision. ‘She’s got this floristry competition next month – she was just telling me about it, she’s really excited – and she’s desperate to invite you, but she knows you’ll say no.’
Dad and Jacqui, splashing about in the shallow end of conversation; floristry, X-ray results, oatmeal stouts, Finn.
Me and Dad, it’s always straight into the deep end. One reckless plunge and we’re off. No topic too toxic. No pain left unexplored.
‘It’s because of the lad, isn’t it? Aiden.’ Talking of painful topics. ‘You can’t hide him from her forever. Not if it’s the real thing.’
‘So what do you suggest? I bring him round to Jacqui’s for her famous beef and Guinness stew, and then she says, “Aiden Doyle? Wasn’t that the name of the lad who lived near Gran’s place, you know the one? His sister went missing while we were on holiday. Come to think of it, you look a bit like him . . .” Yeah, that’s really going to work, Dad.’
‘Then you’re going to have to pick a team at some point.’
I swipe the thought away. ‘At some point, yeah. But for now, Jacqui’s too busy with her own life to worry about mine. And that suits me just fine.’