A Ghost Story 9
"Dad, you gave Rob my address, you know how I feel, it's not..." Letty banged about her parents kitchen making coffee, messily.
"It's not what dear? Fair? Is it fair that our beautiful grandchild is dragged up in a tower block, is it fair that she..."
"Oh, hello mum, I didn't realise you were back. I suppose it was you then?" Letty interrupted her mother sharply.
"Don't be so dramatic; it's not as if you were hiding." The older woman sniffed as she moved behind her daughter, tidying away the instant coffee, wiping at the surfaces, getting out the 'better' bone china mugs. "Goodness, all this fuss over nothing."
"It isn't nothing! He wants access to the child he denied fathering. That-is-not-nothing!"
"He's willing to support you, he said so. The nonsense with that silly Bella person is over. He can accept his responsibilities now." Her mother was smugly complacent as she began the coffee making again, in a more satisfactory manner than her daughter.
"He has an agenda, I don't know what it is, but he has one. He doesn't give a shit about Soso."
"I do wish you wouldn't use that sort of language, or call Sofia that. It's so... common."
Letty rolled her eyes at her silent father, he smiled conspiratorially. While he shared his wife's opinion, he also knew when to go softly with his daughter.
"You're wrong if you think the courts will reject his claim you know. They'll love a repentant deadbeat dad. All he has to do is look apologetic and offer to pay; they'll fall at his feet." He sighed. "And God knows you could do with the help."
"No, absolutely not! He's not doing this for the love of his child, Dad," she sighed hopelessly. "I know him better, there's something else going on."
"You are such a mistrustful girl these days Arlette; it's all those odd people you mix with I suppose." Her mother poured the fresh coffee from the Cafetière in to the delicate china mugs with a self-righteous smile.
The enticement of that tormenting shell, the lure of the life it impossibly offered, bedevilled the watcher. He loitered in hospital corridors, teased himself with glimpses of the dead, but still somehow still living soldier. He stood by, as hesitant as any lovesick boy, when Arlette visited.
He had no knowledge of any method or mastery of technique that might unite him with the complete, but untenanted body. He was at a loss, yet the answer to his prayers lay frustratingly before him. The inert form seemed there only to persecute him further.
"Sarge's brain stem test this morning...it was negative Letty, thought you should know. He's a registered donor, and as a heart beater he's perfect transplant material. So, if you want to say goodbye or anything..."
"Oh...I sort of thought..." Letty drooped; she had been covering Sergeant Adam Bourne since his admission to the Neurocritical Care Unit a year previously. She'd followed his progress, or rather lack of it, for her patient case study. Once a week for the last year she had filed his stats, collected data on his responses and any deterioration of his condition.
There had been none; he had stayed stable, for one year.
When the paperwork was done she would sit with him, sometimes chatting about the little nothings of her life, taking Soso to nursery school, the outrageous condition of her flat's plumbing. She would read postcards the men of his unit sent him, laughing at the colourful jokes and puzzling over cryptic messages. Other times she just sat and watched him breathe.
His history seemed so sad, in the care system as a teenager, both parents dead, no family. At eighteen the Army saved him, and at thirty-five sacrificed him. No wife, no girlfriend, no one other than far off mates to care whether he lived or died.
And now...it was over, he was gone.
"Ok, I'm on my way."
The flurry of activity about the soldier's lifeless body alerted the watcher.
Voices hushed now, no light hearted banter, respectful, professional tones only.
One of the young nurses rubbed tears from her cheeks.
At the nurse's station he listened as they quietly discussed the removal of the very heart he coveted.
NO, this could not happen. That his chance at life be snatch away so abruptly!
In desperation he clasped at the lifeless hand of Adam Bourne, but swiped only empty air. In anger he tried again, gritting his teeth when the outcome was repeated.
"You fool; you think this pitiful exhibition will aid you? You are more feeble minded than even I thought you!"
But the scorn that dripped from that hated mouth served only to spur the watcher on. Now he strove to grip both unresponsive hands, to feel the other man's flesh, to share that still beating heart, gasp air into those still inflating lungs.
Nothing.
Was existence all to be this emptiness?
With everything that had ever made him a man, he wanted life!
Flesh touched flesh; fingers curled and gripped lifeless sinew. Howling through his gut, a roar of pain ripped free his soul. A pain so acute it froze him.
All sound came muffled.
He saw those about him, slow to still, like a statues, ceasing their practised actions.
The glinting, mocking grin of his tormentor was gradually replaced by spitting outrage...
The monitor continued to sound its monotonous beeping chorus, then acquired an unquestionable echo...
"Shit, that can't be right; this bloody thing's acting up...Oh, holy fuck! Get the crash team NOW! We've got an independent heart beat here!"
