"He does so need a mother," Jane said. "Yes, I know," Wendy admitted rather forlornly; "no one knows it so well as I."
It's the same hospital room and the same posh voice.
Everything burns and itches: his face, his chest, his arms, his thighs. Nosty's been in piss-poor shape before. He's eaten spoiled food and gotten so ill he shit his own fucking pants. He's been so plastered he passed out on a park bench and nearly died from exposure. Several times, actually. He knows what it is to be weak and sick and underfed, but this feels different. His heart is racing and his breathing is thready and shallow. This feels like an unraveling. It feels like death.
He twists his head and sees that the posh lass isn't alone with her dead brother. A priest is beside her, swaying silently on his feet while she reads from her little book. For a moment Nosty thinks that the fucking Papist has come for him, to read him his last rites, but, no, Father's staring at the junkie, and Nosty understands that he's witnessing a fairytale fare-thee-well.
"As you look at Wendy, you may see her hair becoming white, and her figure little again, for all this happened long ago. Jane is now a common grown-up, with a daughter called Margaret; and every spring cleaning time, except when he forgets, Peter comes for Margaret and takes her to the Neverland, where she tells him stories about himself, to which he listens eagerly. When Margaret grows up she will have a daughter, who is to be Peter's mother in turn; and thus it will go on, so long as children are gay and innocent and heartless."
It's the last page of her book, and the lass shuts it with a soft, shuddering sigh. The ventilator has already been removed from the dead bloke's mouth, and she bends forward to brush a kiss across his waxy lips. The priest, whose eyes are watery and bloodshot, crosses himself with shaking fingertips and murmurs, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen."
"Amen," she echoes, and Nosty would laugh if his throat weren't dry as the fucking Sahara. Doesn't she realize Father is drunk off his arse? Christ, it's a strange, sad world.
After the kiss and the amen, the lass summons Nurse Ratched with the little button attached to the dead bloke's bed, and then she sinks into a chair while the body is covered and wheeled out the door.
The pished priest offers to stay, but he looks relieved when she sends him on his way. Off to the pub for another tumbler of whiskey, no doubt.
It isn't fair that a dead man gets tears and prayers and attentive care, and meanwhile he's fucking dying over here and no one seems to be the wiser.
Nosty opens his mouth, but the best he can manage is a low, scratchy "Ach…" and a twitch of his fingers.
It's enough. The lass glances over and then comes to his bedside straightaway.
"You look worse," she says quietly, touching the inside of her wrist to his cheek and then his forehead. "You're…burning."
She disappears into the hallway and returns shortly with a harassed looking bird in teddy bear scrubs.
"He's in a bad way," she tells the young attendant, "He was speaking earlier. Now he's not. His skin feels clammy and feverish. Please check him?"
This particular attendant is well acquainted with Nosty and not at all kindly disposed, but poshie seems to be his good luck charm because after a quick glance at his vitals, Ms. Teddy Bear is off and running for the doctor.
The lass is staring at him with warm concern, her eyes still pink from crying over her brother and her eyelashes wet and spiky. She takes hold of his good hand and promises, "You'll be okay. Don't be afraid. I'll stay. My name is Belle."
It's a pretty name, and it's a generous thought, but, no, he won't be fucking 'okay.' He's never been fucking 'okay.'
Still, he holds onto Belle's hand like a life raft and doesn't let go when Nurse Ratched reappears with blood vials and syringes and begins to snip and roughly peel away the gauze from his chest.