hear the loudness of his breathing. He felt unsteady on his feet and leant against the hedge for support. He looked at his son again but this time he saw him in his memory â standing with him at the bedside as they looked down on the shrunken face, the cheekbones pushing through the drawn skin, dull braids of grey coiled coldly like serpents on the pillow. He closed his eyes, held onto the hedge for support, as the slamming of the car door brought him back to the present moment. He turned his face away as the car sped past him. He waited for a few moments before slipping into the house. It was as silentas he had left it. He climbed the stairs slowly, knowing without looking that the square of yellow light filtering into the garden came from the garage.
Chapter 7
Before, they had spoken to him in many different ways: the flight of a solitary bird, the pattern on a decaying leaf, the settling of dust on a window ledge. Above all, they had woven their threaded whispers through the silence which settled like snow on the farm house, and at night, when dreams beat wildly about his head like dark-winged bats, they screamed their fervent fury. Now they sought new ways to speak to him. An invisible finger scrawled messages of hate on gable walls, black spider lettering scuttling across pitted brick and flaking cement. As he sat beside his mother in the taxi on the way to the hospital, he read their message on each wall they passed, flicking through the street corners like the pages of a book. Black silhouettes were emblazoned on painted blue skies and the invisible finger moved slowly and deliberately, scoring the words deep into his mind. Sometimes they fingered his face until he felt as if he was walking down a long tunnel where webbed filament clung to his skin.
His mother sat tense and alert, her eyes flitting fretfullyover territory she knew was hostile, but her ears did not hear the voices. She sat as if she had a bad taste in her mouth and when the taxi stopped outside the hospital she seemed to have a momentary hesitation, almost as if she was considering telling the driver to take them home again. But she paid the fare, carefully handing over the correct amount, and then placed her purse deep in her handbag.
He didnât want to get out of the back of the taxi, but she encouraged him with a nod of her head and a tight smile which barely hid her fear. They huddled together on the pavement, exposed and vulnerable, before they followed other visitors into the hospital. Plastic doors flapped open and a reassuringly recognizable smell flowed over them. Feet echoed in the tiled corridors as porters pushed wagons of laundry. His mother looked again at the appointment card and consulted a uniformed security man for directions. His radio crackled with static as he re-directed them to a different building. They retraced their steps and walked tentatively through the sprawling grounds where parked cars filled every possible space and ambulances moved in and out. He furtively studied each passing face and walked close to his mother, their synchronized steps giving the appearance of a purpose they did not feel.
A man wearing a blue dressing gown over his pyjamas strolled by, indifferent to their stares. Pigeons stuttered across their path, their green heads washed by the sunlight. A police landrover sat with its engine running and the back door open no more than a few inches. Then a nurse directed them to their destination and in a few minutes areceptionist pointed them to a waiting area. His mother sniffed dismissively as she inspected the green plastic chairs with their stains and cracks, the mess of magazines spilled across a wooden table, and the plastic coffee cups which sat uncollected underneath it. He stared at the posters on the wall and listened to the receptionist typing in her glassfronted office. Two doctors in white coats appeared then walked off down a corridor. The typing continued while his motherâs eyes
Chapter 7
Before, they had spoken to him in many different ways: the flight of a solitary bird, the pattern on a decaying leaf, the settling of dust on a window ledge. Above all, they had woven their threaded whispers through the silence which settled like snow on the farm house, and at night, when dreams beat wildly about his head like dark-winged bats, they screamed their fervent fury. Now they sought new ways to speak to him. An invisible finger scrawled messages of hate on gable walls, black spider lettering scuttling across pitted brick and flaking cement. As he sat beside his mother in the taxi on the way to the hospital, he read their message on each wall they passed, flicking through the street corners like the pages of a book. Black silhouettes were emblazoned on painted blue skies and the invisible finger moved slowly and deliberately, scoring the words deep into his mind. Sometimes they fingered his face until he felt as if he was walking down a long tunnel where webbed filament clung to his skin.
His mother sat tense and alert, her eyes flitting fretfullyover territory she knew was hostile, but her ears did not hear the voices. She sat as if she had a bad taste in her mouth and when the taxi stopped outside the hospital she seemed to have a momentary hesitation, almost as if she was considering telling the driver to take them home again. But she paid the fare, carefully handing over the correct amount, and then placed her purse deep in her handbag.
He didnât want to get out of the back of the taxi, but she encouraged him with a nod of her head and a tight smile which barely hid her fear. They huddled together on the pavement, exposed and vulnerable, before they followed other visitors into the hospital. Plastic doors flapped open and a reassuringly recognizable smell flowed over them. Feet echoed in the tiled corridors as porters pushed wagons of laundry. His mother looked again at the appointment card and consulted a uniformed security man for directions. His radio crackled with static as he re-directed them to a different building. They retraced their steps and walked tentatively through the sprawling grounds where parked cars filled every possible space and ambulances moved in and out. He furtively studied each passing face and walked close to his mother, their synchronized steps giving the appearance of a purpose they did not feel.
A man wearing a blue dressing gown over his pyjamas strolled by, indifferent to their stares. Pigeons stuttered across their path, their green heads washed by the sunlight. A police landrover sat with its engine running and the back door open no more than a few inches. Then a nurse directed them to their destination and in a few minutes areceptionist pointed them to a waiting area. His mother sniffed dismissively as she inspected the green plastic chairs with their stains and cracks, the mess of magazines spilled across a wooden table, and the plastic coffee cups which sat uncollected underneath it. He stared at the posters on the wall and listened to the receptionist typing in her glassfronted office. Two doctors in white coats appeared then walked off down a corridor. The typing continued while his motherâs eyes
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