His chest is on fucking fire and his wrist is a misery, but the footfalls and clatter are the sounds of a hospital, not the clink, so that's all right then.
Nosty needs to use the lavvie something fierce, but the bag o' shite nurses must've given him something to take the edge off, and everything's gone a bit fuzzy around the edges. Also, they've nicked his kilt. He's starkers under this thin hospital blanket.
The room is a sickly shade of yellow with a stained laminate floor, so maybe this is St. Mary's or King's College? All the fucking NHS hospitals in this cunting city look alike. The gauze on his chest hasn't been changed, and the cruddy, rusty blood stain has spread up to his shoulder.
The gauze on his wrist is a fresh, snowy white, with an obscene half-moon of red.
He remembers the look of horror on the copper's face when he turned and saw his prisoner had damn near bit through his arm. Nosty had been screaming, blood dripping from his chin, because he was a brilliant fucking showman, thank you very fucking much, and also because it hurt like fuck all. But the nylon cuff fastening his ankle to the bed rail means he's likely earned his Section 2. Jesus, what it takes nowadays to get himself a little holiday.
The other bed in this shite room is occupied, and Nosty looks over at the sorry bloke across the way. He's a goner, judging by his slack, sunken expression and his gray pallor. There's a lass holding his limp hand, reading from a little book with a posh London accent. It's nice, the way she glances up at the bloke from time to time, running her thumb over his wrist. Nosty closes his eyes and listens to the story.
"Then all went on their knees, and holding out their arms cried, 'O Wendy lady, be our mother!' 'Ought I?' Wendy said, all shining. 'Of course, it's frightfully fascinating, but you see I am only a little girl. I have no real experience.'
'That doesn't matter,' said Peter, as if he were the only person present who knew all about it, though he was really the one who knew the least. 'What we need is just a nice motherly person.' 'Oh dear!' Wendy said, 'you see I feel that is exactly what I am.'
'It is, it is,' they cried; 'we saw it at once.' 'Very well,' she said, 'I will do my best. Come inside at once, you naughty children; I am sure your feet are damp…'
It must be real fucking nice to have a pretty, delicate lass like that reading to you and fussing over you and adjusting your blankets, even if you are just a body on your way to the morgue. One of his foster mums was like that, when he first went into care, tucking him in all sweet with kisses and a story. Her husband was a right bastard, though, with heavy fists and a belt buckle that blackened his ribs and arse.
Nosty has shared quarters with plenty of daft, noisy fucks while in the hospital and the dorms. He's glad he's with this pair tonight. Maybe he'll finally be able to catch some rest.
But first, he needs to get up and go take a pish.
With a groan, he heaves upright and reaches for the cuff around his ankle. It's velcro, so it's difficult but not impossible to loosen one-handed. Soft fingers with a swish manicure cover his own, and he hears that posh little accent offering, "Let me help you."
The lass carefully unwinds the cuff, then wants to call the nurse to assist him.
"The less I see of those fucking meat merchants the better, bird. How would you like to see me to the toilet?" Nosty swings his legs over the side of the bed, and the blanket falls away, exposing his bait and tackle. He's having a laugh at her expense, mostly because he doesn't like anyone edging up on him like that, even if they do smell real fucking nice.
Yet when he stands, the world goes tits up, and he'd be kissing the fucking linoleum if it weren't for the lass slipping underneath his armpit and walking him slowly across the room. Her blue eyes are on his face, not his tossel, and they'd be pretty if they weren't pink from crying over the nearly-dead bloke. When they reach the lavvie, she settles him on the toilet and says, "Call if you need anything," before shutting the door with a soft click. He has his pish sitting down like a fucking bint and decides to stay on the throne for awhile to collect his thoughts.
While Nosty is thinking about birds and how nice they can be right before they cut your fucking heart out, all hell breaks loose outside the lavvie door. The posh lass is screaming something about "Don't touch him!" and another woman is hollering back, and when Nosty throws open the door, he sees the girl and a stony-faced nurse squaring off over the lifeless bloke's bed.
"It's been two days, luv," the nurse announces over poshie's loud sobbing, "This isn't fair to him; you know it's not. There hasn't been a lick of brain activity since they brought him in here. You need to prepare yourself to make some decisions about life support and organ donation."
The lass moans and leans over the stiff's bed, pressing her cheek to his forehead, then kissing his eyelids and whispering something low and frantic in his ear. The book she was reading earlier lays open on his chest. Something inside Nosty twists and snaps, and then he's right in Nurse Ratched's face yelling, "Get the fuck out of here, you fucking minger! She's fucking grieving, yeah? Have you a heart like a block of ice, you cunt?"
Nosty screams the bint out the door and slams it shut with a loud, "Fuck!"
Poshie's crying has given way to a stunned silence, but now she's back to stroking the dead bloke's chest, and that's nice. Nosty figures he has a few minutes before Nurse Ratched shows up with orderlies and another sedative. He settles back in his bed and covers himself so that they can have a proper conversation.
"If you want to leave him on that fucking ventilator until next Christmas, there's nothing they can fucking do about it. Don't let that bint intimidate you. She just wants fewer beds to look in on when she's making her rounds."
Poshie gives him a watery smile and a soft, "Thank you." It's nice, being around someone with some proper fucking manners. His mates are his family, but they aren't housebroken, and they don't offer up much by way of conversation.
"He called me the night he overdosed," the lass says, staring not at Nosty, but through him, rewinding the memory. "He said he didn't know where he was, only that it was a bad neighborhood, and he wanted me to come pick him up. He was high. I told him I'd come only if I could take him directly to rehab." She swallows hard, struggling against the tightness in her throat. "His drug counselor said I needed to stop enabling him. She said the only way he would get better was if I allowed him to…to bottom out…"
She loses her battle for stoicism at "bottom out," and weeps into the dead junkie's neck for a while, her palm pressed to his gray cheek. Nosty looks away because he's heard this fucking story hundreds of times before. Fuck, he probably sold the bloke his last fix.
"You're my sweet baby brother," she says at last, brushing back the stiff's hair and staring at him like she wants to memorize every fucking detail. "I should have come, sweet boy. I'm so, so, so sorry." Poshie draws a deep breath, then picks up the little book and goes on reading.
Nosty's eyes are shut when the nurse returns with the orderlies and the thorzine.
"He's a frequent flyer," Nurse Ratched says, like he's not even in the fucking room. "Unmedicated bipolar. Likes to stick things in his chest and get sent up to Bethlem Royal for a little mental health vacation. Homeless, obviously."
Nosty opens his mouth to tell the lot of them to go to fuck, but the words get garbled up in his mouth, and he realizes with a nasty lurch that he isn't feeling very fucking well at all. While he struggles to put together a sentence, the low rent hospital coppers get to work with their metal restraints, and then he feels a sharp jab in his thigh, and then he's feeling nothing at all.