Harry was tired. His head lolled to one side and he stared out of the nearby window. Shards of light powered down from grey, leaden skies and spots of rain tapped rhythmically on the pane. Harry wished that he could leave the microclimate of the hospice and wander aimlessly in the natural elements. He used to hate the outside. Many years ago, his father had got him a job on a local farm, during the seemingly endless school summer holidays. As other children and migrant workers had picked strawberries in the hot August sun, he had sought out abandoned farm buildings and shaded copses. The owner’s daughter, at a loose end and curious about the young Harry, soon began to follow him. She was two years’ younger than him but had an uncontrollable sense of adventure. She introduced Harry to alcohol and sex. They would spend the afternoons drinking purloined bottles of beer and cider before inexpertly exploring each other’s bodies. Harry liked the effect that the alcohol had had on him. He became a different person - braver, funnier and wiser. It bestowed on him the magical quality of popularity.
The nurse gently shook Harry. For a moment, he was confused and the smell of summer meadows mingled with that of urine and disinfectant.
‘Mary,’ he said. ‘Is that you?’
‘Mary? What on earth are you talking about Mr Harris? You’re away with the fairies, again.’ The nurse was now standing by his bed and talked as she checked the flow of morphine that pulsed intravenously into his body.
‘I miss my son, nurse,’ Harry said, ‘I made mistakes, you know. I made terrible mistakes. I never wanted them to take Alan, you know. Once Mary had died…’
‘It was probably best that they did, Mr Harris. From what you tell me, the poor little mite was in a bit of a state.’
‘Yes, he was. I didn’t know what I was doing by then. I…I couldn’t even look after myself, let alone a four year old.’
‘Don’t worry about that now, Mr Harris. Alan is in good hands now.’ She stroked his wispy haired head and smiled before turning around and walking off to the next bed.
‘Good hands now,’ repeated Harry, quietly to himself. By definition that must mean that he was once in bad hands: his hands. Hands that could no longer look after Alan after he discovered that he needed to drink constantly just to be able to function at the most basic level. Life started to become something that happened to other people and his world became that of the kitchen table and the uncertain walk to the local off license. When the social workers arrived and took Alan, he was sitting in a maggot-infested rubbish bag, gnawing away, rat-like, at scraps of mouldy food. Harry had looked up from the kitchen table and, through a foggy haze, witnessed his son disappearing as if picked up by the good witch and transported to a happier kingdom.
Mary had been a good wife, thought Harry. She cooked for him, kept house and wrote the Christmas cards. She also cleaned him up when, incapable and unable to control his own bladder, he lay wet and comatosed on the living room sofa. She drank too but for different reasons. Harry drank because he knew no other way. Mary drank because she did.
One day, the police had come knocking on Harry’s door. Apparently, Mary had thrown herself in front of the 9.25 a.m. train to London. They told Harry in calm, well-trained voices. As Harry closed the door on the departing officers, he chuckled to himself as his reasons to drink were increased ten fold.
The cancer had come quick. The alcohol had assaulted his body over many years and, as if saying it could take no more, it had decided to eat itself as a last resort. Harry had shrugged when the doctor had told him. ‘It took Mary, then it took Alan. Why should I be any different?’ he had said, before wandering over the road to the nearby pub.
Over the other side of the ward, Mr Cooper groaned and the circle of relatives and friends grew tighter. Then the friends began to withdraw from the scene. At a time like this, when death hovered over the beds and prepared to descend, hawk-like, there were still laws: a hierarchy had to be observed. There were stifled cries and medical staff came running. A curtain was drawn rapidly around the bed and now the relatives were persuaded, with firm hands on heaving shoulders, to leave. Only the top level of the hierarchy was allowed to remain.
Harry noticed the beige Mac hanging over the chair that had been cast to one side when the commotion had first started. Nobody noticed when he stood up, disconnected the drip from his arm and, unsure but determined, made his way over to it. It looked his size. He slipped it on over his charity issue pyjamas and walked out of the hospice.
The air felt as good as he had hoped. It almost seemed to pass straight through him as he walked down the hill towards the river. His legs, unused to walking, seemed disconnected from his body and he had to rest continually. But, eventually, he made it down to the bank and sat on a graffiti daubed bench. People passed him by and stared at the pyjama clad legs that peeked out from the bottom of the Mac. He didn’t care. For many years he had sat in the same clothes day in and day out. In the stains and smells that accumulated within the fibres, his life could be mapped out. And when they were placed (at arms length) in the hospital incinerator, an end had been drawn to that particular phase.
The rain increased and the few people that had been around began to clear. His life was now over, thought Harry. No more phases. No more chances. He could wait until the natural end, that might be two or three months’ away or, for the first time ever, he could take charge. Harry stood and took off the coat, folding it neatly before placing it on the bench. He looked skywards and let the rain pummel his face for a few moments before walking to the river’s edge. It all seemed very simple now. With difficulty, he sat down and stared at the surface of the water.
‘I’m so sorry, Alan,’ he said. ‘Sometimes you don’t see things until it’s too late. We all make choices but sometimes they’re not the right ones. Sometimes, we’re afraid to make the choices we know are right. Well today, Alan, that stops. Today, I am going to make the right choice.’
Sometimes, you can be your own worst enemy. Sometimes, death can’t come soon enough.
Sometimes, you can be your own worst enemy. Sometimes, death can’t come soon enough. Sometimes, we have more control than we think…