Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

Ruby had loaded an MP3 player with all Luke’s favourite tunes and rigged it up to a little speaker so they could play it to him. They had it on for a while. Ruby brought some homework to do – a history project. It was one of the few subjects Louise could help her with if needs be, unlike maths or French. Grandad had been big on history and some of it had stuck.

When it got to mid-afternoon, the nurse looking after Luke came in and checked his vital signs again. There was a whole scoring system used to rank a coma. Based on how easily they opened their eyes, verbal ability, and whether they moved when given pain. Below eight was a coma. Luke had ranked five before the operation.

‘Have you tried waking him?’ the nurse asked.

Louise shook her head. They had been told they could, but part of her was fearful of trying, thinking what harm in waiting another few minutes, after she’d tacked the next patch, or the next. The nurse seemed to get this. She gave a little nod and said, ‘When you’re ready, just call his name, touch his shoulder or squeeze his hand. Try it two or three times, and if there’s no response, leave it. We don’t want to overload him. It’s very common not to get a reaction immediately; it doesn’t mean it won’t happen eventually. Otherwise just chat to him like you have been.’

‘We’ve been playing him music as well,’ said Ruby.

‘That’s great.’ The nurse smiled. She changed his IV fluid and checked his catheter bag and left. Her kindness disarmed Louise, made her feel weepy. She closed her eyes and waited for the feeling to recede.

Eventually she put her sewing down. She moved her chair up even closer to Luke and put her hand on his shoulder, his skin smooth and warm. She could feel the bones solid beneath, the muscles. Perfect. She leant her head close to his ear. The bandage concealed all the top of his head. The swelling on his cheek had gone down a bit; a small Steri-Strip crossed his torn eyelid and she could see the scab where it was knitting together. The bruises were yellower now, not as obvious.

He was so peaceful. If she woke him, would he start to feel pain? Would they be able to tell?

‘Luke.’ She shook his shoulder. Ruby watched intently, her hand over her mouth.

‘Luke, it’s Mum. You can wake up now, Luke. Come on, Luke, wake up.’

Louise watched for the faintest flicker on his eyelids, any tremor on his face. There was nothing. She picked up his hand and held it in her own. His beautiful hands, long, slim fingers. There were still traces of blood under his fingernails and cuts on his knuckles.

‘Luke. It’s Mum. You’re in hospital. I’m here and Ruby’s here and it’s time to wake up now.’

Time to wake up now. All the mornings she’d roused him, reminded him, yelled at him, dragged him out of bed and fed him and made sure he got where he was supposed to be going.

He lay unmoving.

Ruby sighed, ‘She said it might not happen straight away.’

‘Yeah.’ Louise’s throat hurt. ‘I’m going to see about giving him a wash. Do you want to go and get a drink? A burger or something?’

Ruby nodded.

The nurse gave her a bowl and a bottle of special cleanser to use in the water and some cloths. They wouldn’t turn him over, but anything she could reach, she could clean.

Louise drew the blanket down. It was some years since she’d seen her son naked, but she felt no embarrassment, though she imagined he would. ‘I’m giving you a bath, Luke. You don’t like it, you can wake up.’

She swept the cloth over his stomach and down his thighs. Over his shins and round his calves. Counting the old scars: the pale oval on his knee where he’d fallen down the promenade steps at Prestatyn beach, the puckered skin on his arm where he’d burnt himself mucking about with a bonfire. She wiped his feet, amazed that he wasn’t writhing around, unable to bear the tickling. She wiped his groin, being careful with the catheter, and then brought fresh water and used a new cloth over his chest and along his arms. She wiped his neck and then his armpits. She could smell his body odour, sharp and musky; she soaped at the tufts of black hair there.

She replenished the bowl again and bathed his hands, lifting each one into the water and letting them soak a few minutes, then running her own fingernail under his to dig out the curls of dried blood. His nails were growing long.

A libation; the word came to her. Something to do with oils and death and purification. The story of Mary Magdalene weeping on Jesus’ feet and washing them with her tears, wiping them dry with her hair. ‘Opiate of the masses,’ Louise muttered, echoing her grandad. She wasn’t washing the dead.

She had a hazy memory of her own mum sharing a bath with her. Four or five she must have been, and the bubbles filled the tub. Her mum scooping up handfuls and sculpting a crown on her own head, then Louise’s. And singing. The memory never got any clearer. There was no one to ask about it; they were all gone.

She changed the water once again, got a fresh cloth. Finally, very gently, she cleaned his face, stroking between the bruises, around his mouth, his chin, up along the edges of the bandage. ‘You’ll do,’ she whispered. And kissed him. Oh Luke, she thought, if love could bring you back, you’d be running round the ward, spinning breaks, turning cartwheels. Crowing with joy. And so would I.

Emma

Emma’s skin felt sticky, clammy, and her heart kept missing a beat, like it was tripping and losing its rhythm. She’d felt like that when she had the interview for the job, and each time she had her six-monthly review. It wasn’t as bad as talking in front of lots of people, but it was still gruelling. And the worst thing was when her brain just seized up so she couldn’t even find the right words.

Her throat was sore too, tickly, and she thought she was coming down with something.

The man interviewing her was very nice. He said it must have been traumatic for her to see the incident on the bus and then to learn what had happened. He thanked her for getting in touch and then he asked her to talk him through her journey home that day, starting with leaving work. What time had that been? Did she always get the same bus?

Emma explained, and described where the bus had got to when the three chavs got on. Except she said ‘the three of them’, not wanting to sound rude. He asked her lots of questions about who said what, were those the actual words? Then it dawned on Emma that they must have the CCTV of it all but without any sound. They could see who did what but not who said what.

The man got even more interested when she told him about the names they’d called Luke, the racist stuff, and again when they’d made threats about the knife. Who did they say had a knife? Was she sure? Did she see any knife?

It was clear in her head, like a film trailer, but as she remembered it all, she also caught the cold, sick feeling inside. Frozen, not wanting to do anything and look stupid, just wanting it to stop.

‘It was really, really scary,’ she said, needing to explain. ‘No one knew what to do. They were so horrible,’ she said, ‘really aggressive.’

The man nodded as he wrote.

‘Then Jason came downstairs.’ Saying his name like she knew him, had some connection. But he was just a stranger on a bus. She described the scuffle, felt herself blush, flames in her cheeks as she repeated the swear words. And she described the chase along the pavement. She had to say it in little short bits because she felt like crying. She felt small then, and wrong, and she wanted him to go.

He read back what she’d said and asked her to sign that it was a true record. He told her she might need to give evidence in court. God, no! It was bad enough telling him just sitting in her own place; it would be ten times worse in front of a load of strangers.