Straight Man Gay Three

Straight Man Gay Three

Daniel Marion Culpepper

Published by Sherrie Yvonne Johnson at Smashwords

copyright 2016 Sherrie Yvonne Johnson

ISBN 978-0-9848596-8-9

Too Late is by the author

You And Me Against The World is by Kenneth Ascher and Paul Williams

Professional proofreading and editing services provided by WordSharp.net

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s colorful and vivid imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

This ebook is intended to be purchased, and once you’ve purchased it, it is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It (in whole or in part) may not be re-sold, copied, transferred, or downloaded for someone else’s use. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you received this book and you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for you, please purchase a legal copy at an online retailer. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author and the author’s work product.

No part of this publication, however small, may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, emailing, or otherwise without written permission from the author. Daniel Marion Culpepper, Danny Culpepper, and D. M. Culpepper are pseudonyms used by the author.

Please visit http://www.straightmangay.com for more information about this book, other publications, and to contact the author.

Dedication

To the memories of Patrick (I still think about you every day and miss you very much), and kind and gentle Monie and Edna. To all the readers who sent emails with positive words encouraging me to keep going so I could finish this novel, and to everyone who has taken the time to write an honest review about any of my books.

Thanks

I extend warm thanks to everyone who helped me with specific events described in this book, especially the weaponry knowledge of Bob Gorini and Dale Morgan, the information about Chicago fireflies provided by my editor, and help from Charlie at Wordsharp.net with perfecting my cover art.

Disclosure

This is not a stand-alone novel. It continues on from my second book, Straight Man Gay Two. If you have not read the second book, you will not understand the significance of people, places, and dialogue in this book because they evolve from events that occurred in Straight Man Gay Two.

Too Late

Pressure to make a decision

Can determine your ultimate fate.

But beware.

If you put off too long

Righting your wrong,

It may be too little too late.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Just Remedy

Chapter 2: Look To The Future

Chapter 3: Seven Days

Chapter 4: Auld Acquaintance

Chapter 5: Sweet Biscuits

Chapter 6: Thank You For Verryfawwgaa…

Chapter 7: Little Animal Things

Chapter 8: New Beginnings

Chapter 9: We Are Dooganites

Chapter 10: Fitting In

Chapter 11: You Should Try It

Chapter 12: Tiny

Chapter 13: de Poer Bazaar

Chapter 14: Let It Be

Chapter 15: Ronan

Chapter 16: Black Bear

Chapter 17: Doogan’s Gold

Chapter 18: Freedom!

Chapter 19: The Christian and The Half-Wit

Chapter 20: The Stillness Of It All

Chapter 21: Funeral For A Friend

Chapter 22: Tow

Chapter 23: Thems Is Ours

Chapter 24: Miss Abelene

Chapter 25: The Chocolate Bar Oasis

Chapter 26: The Greediness Of Rory Doogan

Chapter 27: Surprises For Everyone

Chapter 28: The Biggest Part

Chapter 29: Another Funeral For A Friend

Chapter 30: Instruct The Wise And They Will Be Wiser Still

Chapter 31: Summer’s End

Chapter 32: The Gift

Chapter 33: I Do Want

Chapter 1: Just Remedy

Brian – December 23

It’s two days before Christmas, and I’m in the north wing, fourth-floor toilet of Regency Central All Saints Hospital. Above my head is a flickering tube light. Before me is a filmy mirror reflecting the face of a haggard man, old beyond his years. Cheeks gray and gaunt. Chin unshaven. Eyes sunken and bloodshot. Lips chapped.

The last several hours have been hell. I haven’t slept or eaten and I’m so dehydrated my joints ache.

The sink is slow to drain. Just like everything else in this decrepit hospital, the plumbing is barely functional. A wisp of steam finally rises from the tap, so I bend and splash water onto my face, which does nothing to refresh me. I straighten up, and Nikos hands me a towel.

We need you in a presentable state. He’s rounded up the council for this. God only knows what he’ll say. Kenneth’s career could be over. He snatches back the towel and rummages through the overnight bag. Here. He extends a cordless shaver.

I just stare at it. Does he really think that will improve my condition?

You can bet I won't trust you with a razor. Look at you. You’re like the walking dead. I’ll not have you cutting your throat. He glances at the dingy bathroom walls. You’d probably bleed to death in this place. He again offers the grooming tool. Go on, then. It’ll do for now.

The next fifteen seconds are spent mindlessly running the cordless over my chin and jaw. Nikos hastily replaces it with a toothbrush laden with paste. He pulls back his shirt cuff, revealing a thick wrist cloaked in long, black hair and strangled by a gaudy gold watch. He lowers his head so his eyeballs can bring the dial into focus over the top of his bifocals. Hurry. We have about ten minutes.

I emerge from the restroom in a clean shirt and tie. My pants, still the same pair from last night, are filthy—caked with dried blood, dirt and sporting a tear in the knee, but my overall appearance has improved enough for what lays ahead.

My wish is to head down the left corridor.

No time for that. Nikos grabs my arm and forces me toward the lifts. He’s fine; most likely sedated. Jack will stay with him until the others come. We can’t be late for this. Simon should already be up there.

We wait for the next lift, and he scrutinizes my clothes, straightening my tie and smoothing my collar. I’m your solicitor. You listen to me, and you do exactly what I say. Not a word, Brian. Not one word. This will cost you; we know that. But the goal is to keep Kenneth’s arse licensed. He was terribly foolish last night—the blasted idiot—but he doesn’t deserve to be struck off.

The short ride to the seventh floor, not even enough time to think about what will happen over the next few hours, still feels like we’re traveling from the basement of a high rise to its penthouse. I can keep my mouth shut, but I worry about Simon. When the lift doors open, I confirm those worries are well-founded.

Brian! What the hell is going on? What’s all this about John dying—and then John not dying? Reporters are all over the car park and in the lobby. It’s crazy out there. I could barely get past security.

Nikos confronts him. Shut up.

Simon stares down at him, bewildered by his presence. "But is John all right? What’s going on? Why are you here? Why am I here? Why did I have to wear a suit and—"

John will be fine. There’s been an incident, and they’ve called in the council. Nikos eyes the few hospital employees wandering about, seemingly minding their own business and tending to their duties. Even so, he lowers his voice and tries to deliver the synopsis as succinctly as possible. John came in with a head injury, and the attending doctor accidentally sent him into cardiac arrest. He was dead for a short time. Kenneth revived him, but there was an altercation after. I’m here to represent Brian and Kenneth. You’re here to give me financial data and release funds, if needed. Other than that, I want you to keep quiet.

Release funds?

A piece of equipment was damaged. They’ll need it replaced immediately.

But—

Nikos, the swarthy Greek powerhouse who takes shit from no one except his wife, rises up on his toes in a futile attempt to get up into Simon’s face. No! Listen to me. You speak only in answer to my questions. Otherwise, you keep your big mouth shut. Understood?

Chastised Simon bows his head and nods, but as Nikos turns his attention to the ping of the lift doors, I catch Simon’s eye. He has no intention of doing as he’s told—and that will cost me.

I also turn toward the whoosh of the opening doors and experience a mixed sense of relief and dark foreboding. The all-too-familiar wheeled chair trundles over the threshold, effortlessly glides past us and continues down the hallway. No one stirs until the sound of that hissing oxygen tank fades.

Nikos prods me forward. Here we go.

***

To the unassuming idiot, Connell Paterson is nothing more than the frailest of individuals; a misshapen pile of gossamer skin stretched over brittle bones and a twisted torso that bears a slight resemblance to what most would identify as a living human being. But for those who have dealt with him on a professional level, he’s admired for his extensive knowledge of drugs and medical procedures and feared for his ability to destroy careers of the most prestigious physicians at whim. If Connell Paterson says you’re to be struck off, you are. No medical board has ever questioned his recommendations, no medical board has ever moved against his recommendations and no doctor has ever been able to reverse the decision on appeal.

Over the next two minutes, we all shuffle into the cramped, chilly conference room and position ourselves around the large table: Nikos, Simon and me, Kenneth (looking disordered and nursing a busted lip and swollen cheek), the asshole doctor (looking much worse than Kenneth, I’m happy to see), two jittery blokes who are probably his hospital-appointed solicitors, and the members of the General Medical Council.

An assistant fusses over Connell, tucking in blankets, gently pulling a wisp of hair from his cloudy eyes, adjusting his tie. Connell bats her away; the attention viewed as more of an embarrassing nuisance than of helpfulness.

A thick file is slid across the table and placed in front of him. After three feeble tries of his arthritic fingers, he finally opens the folder and bows his head. We sit idly for the next fifteen minutes as he peruses the sheets of paper—charts, graphs and reports—turning each one slowly. He’s not reading anything. He already knows what the documents reveal. He’s just killing time. He’s purposely forcing us to wait until he’s ready to begin.

At the ten-minute mark, Asshole Doctor strums his fingers on the table, sighs heavily and shifts in his chair. Connell doesn’t lift his head, but he does raise his eyes to shoot a look across the table that says, "Don’t you dare insinuate impatience with me." Asshole Doctor stops strumming and lowers his hands to his lap. Connell resumes flipping the pages.

Finally, he nods to the man on his left. That council member (Doctor Harold Porter) clears his throat. Ladies and gentlemen, none of us wants to be here, but here we are. Extraordinary circumstances brought us to this point, and I’m sure you will agree the actions that led to those circumstances were unacceptable and unbecoming of hospital personnel. He glares at me. "And unbecoming of those who are not hospital personnel. This is an informal meeting. Nothing will be on record; however, you can assume the recommendations made in this room will stand when we convene for a formal inquiry, which is to take place after the New Year has passed and we will put forth those recommendations to the Tribunal, if necessary. Aware of several council members preparing to voice a concern, he states the next sentence as if it were a tedious task he deals with constantly: As always, I will make every effort to select a date that accommodates the busy schedule of each member so as to create the least amount of inconvenience and upheaval in your daily lives."

Those who were ready to bitch bite their tongues and settle back into their chairs.

He continues with introductions of everyone else on the council, gives Asshole Doctor a name (Truman Goyter), gives his solicitors names (Alan Whittingale and Francis Moore) and then nods to Nikos, who stands.

Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Nikos Dimitriou. My financial analyst is Simon Remander and my clients are Brian Mallory and Doctor Kenneth Utley.

A council member (Doctor Clara Broughtman) looks at Kenneth and then back at Nikos. You’re representing one of the doctors? As a member of staff, shouldn’t he be provided counsel by this hospital?

Nikos, who knows the hospital’s lawyers are dolts, phrases his response carefully. Miss Broughtman, Doctor Goyter has alleged damaging charges against Doctor Utley. For this reason, we believe there would be a conflict of interest in the representation of both doctors by the hospital solicitors. Therefore, at Mister Mallory’s request and with Doctor Utley’s consent, I have agreed to represent him. I believe outside counsel is a legitimate option afforded him.

Whittingale springs to his feet. This hospital will not pay your outrageous fees, Dimitriou!

Everyone stares at the high-strung imbecile who’s just revealed how inexperienced he is, and who’s also revealed why Kenneth would never want to be represented by such an inept fool.

Nikos is patronizingly kind as he beams an ingratiating smile, bows slightly and coos, That goes without saying, Mister Whittingale. Brian Mallory will be paying every pence of my… outrageous fees.

That eloquent response nets the tiniest of smirks and a giggle from Connell, who has decided to ignore everyone and amuse himself with a paperclip. His brittle fingers bend it this way and that. He then sets it on the table and gives one end of it a press. It jumps a few inches, just like a grasshopper. He repeats the action three more times. Everyone has a light laugh at his childish antics; everyone, except Nikos, Simon, Kenneth and me, because we know better.

Still with his head lowered over his mundane yet animated paperclip, Connell’s voice growls up from his throat and rumbles across the table, low and ominous: Mister Whittingale, another outburst like that and I will crush you.

Whittingale swallows hard and sits down. He’s had his first introduction to the career-ending power of Connell Paterson, and it’s an introduction he will never forget.

With the stage set, Connell raises his head and scrutinizes his audience with an air of intense disdain. This is an ill-timed event. I don’t want to be here. Four generations of family are at my house; the first time it’s ever happened. My great-granddaughter is talking. I don’t understand a word she says, but it’s all significant to her, so it’s all important to me—and I’m missing some deep conversations right now. He sweeps the paperclip aside and clasps his hands on the table. He stares at the grotesque, gnarled appendages as if they were foreign to him. How he must wish they belonged to someone else. A healthy young man came into this hospital last night with a head injury. I will admit it was a traumatic head injury, but that’s all it was. He pauses before raising his gaze to meet Goyter’s eyes. Hospital staff then proceeded to kill him.

There’s nothing to be said against those words, and everyone knows it. Whittingale and Moore are dumbfounded. With Connell clearly placing the blame on the idiot right from the start—and no one would dare challenge Connell’s accusations—they haven’t much leverage in any other aspect of the situation. It gives me hope for Kenneth’s career.

The hospital solicitors, passing a quick glance between them, attempt to strategize. Yes, Doctor Paterson. We see your point, uh, but it was the head nurse who administered the improper dose, not Doctor Goyter. If anyone should b—

Mister Moore, who was the attending physician last night in the emergency room? Connell’s voice verges on a whisper, but even that’s enough to stop the fool’s words.

Moore doesn’t answer the question. He understands Connell’s point.

Whittingale pipes up: But there’s still the issue of Mister Mallory destroying hospital equipment and of Doctor Utley attacking Doctor Goyter. Surely, we must address those incidents here?

Connell ponders his hands again and says nothing. He’s waiting to see who might make a fool of himself—and his patience is rewarded almost immediately.

Goyter, with a black eye, bandaged broken nose and a gauze patch on his left ear, does the unthinkable; the worst thing he could possibly do: He stands and opens his mouth. Doctor Paterson and members of the council, this man, thrusting a splinted finger at Kenneth (and reminding me of an overacted drama Jeff might try to pull off), "this…this brute of a man attacked me! He viciously beat me for no reason, and…and that’s just not right!"

Connell glances at me as he weighs the inappropriately timed accusation leveled by Goyter. Some people in this room might say he had a good reason for his actions.

Insulted by the lack of pity, Goyter puffs up his chest. "I’m not the one who caused Mister Kaiser to fall through the floor!"

Now, I see thousands of pounds trickle out of my accounts as Simon, all gangly six-foot, eight inches of him, slams his hands on the table, explodes from his chair and matches Goyter’s stupidity, word-for-word. No, you bloody fool. You’re just the incompetent ignoramus who fucking KILLED him!

Of course, that just leads to a shouting match. Goyter yelling at Simon, Simon yelling at Goyter and all three solicitors yelling at both of them and at each other. Chairs are pushed back. Half a dozen arms are waving in the air, and fists are pounding the table. Simon has the advantage in overall length of limbs, spewing of profanity and vocal projection, so he’s the most animated of the lot. The council members, slack-jawed and stunned, have no idea what to do. I just stay seated and keep my eyes on Connell, knowing he’ll put an end to the shouting when it suits him.

Simon, sit down. The words are said quietly at first, with no effect. The tiny man leans back in his chair and draws in a deep breath. SIMON BATHSHEBA REMANDER! SIT… DOWN!

Everyone freezes and shock registers on their petrified faces. Nobody expected that efficacious voice to burst from such a decrepit figure. Connell is seething; his breath labored and wheezy, his skin ashened to a bluish-white beyond its normal pale as he tries to draw more oxygen into his weak lungs. His assistant busies herself with adjusting the tank’s gauge and checking his pulse. She repositions his cannula. Simon and the other stooges deflate their machismo, pull their chairs back to the table and sit down. Nikos, crimson-faced, is pissed he allowed himself to get caught up in the fracas.

Once his breathing is under control, Connell delivers the opening dialogue in a wheezier, frailer voice: Now, we are all adults and as adults we are going to retrace every step of what happened last night without another outburst of any kind. We’ll develop remedies and reparations. And then we’ll all leave this dismal room and spend the holidays with our families. Let’s begin.

The morning hours tick by as they discuss the fiasco of last night: Goyter’s insistence that ambulance personnel called ahead for an ECG when they had actually called ahead for an EEG, the pharmacy’s decision to change the dispensed medication from five to ten units because it netted the hospital’s stingy accountants a cost savings of fourteen pence per dose, the oversight that led to the overdose, my total destruction of an ECG monitor, Kenneth’s heroic actions followed by his not-so-heroic actions and, ultimately, the lack of protocol amongst blundering hospital security. Through it all, I say nothing because I have nothing to say. I just want to be with John.

In the end, when everything has been laid bare and reviewed, we wait for Connell to speak. The council is here informally, to instill a sense of urgency to the situation, but they’ll defer to Connell—now, and when they convene in their official capacity for the formal inquiry. He’ll dispense the punishment, and they’ll approve whatever he says. After hushed words, a few scribbles on paper passed between them and financial tallies verified by Simon; he’s ready to give his ruling.

He pulls a sheet of paper before him. Mister Mallory, we begin with you. As angry and frustrated as we imagine you were, your actions were reprehensible. Forcing entry into an emergency room was highly inappropriate. Physicians must be allowed to carry out their tasks at hand without interference. Destroying a valuable piece of medical equipment throws this hospital’s services into a precarious situation. We expect you to replace the ECG monitor as soon as possible. Later, you will also be assessed a heavy financial penalty; one I expect will be enough to bring this establishment up to current medical standards in many areas. We take it this news has not come as a shock to you since your solicitor had the foresight, he winks at Nikos, to bring your accountant to this meeting.

He passes the paper to Doctor Broughtman and grabs another one. He then looks at Kenneth. Doctor Utley, there is no doubt in our minds that your quick thinking and brilliant powers of deduction as an emergency room physician saved the life of Mister Kaiser. You are to be commended for such outstanding performance under pressure. Now there’s a long pause. The uneasiness has quieted the room to the point where only the oxygen tank’s hissing is detectable. Connell adjusts the paper and clears his throat. However, we cannot ignore the fact that your extreme temper, for which you are well known, instigated an outrageous act of violence toward a fellow physician. He gestures toward Goyter. Look at your handiwork. This is unacceptable. His attention returns to Kenneth. You are in this establishment to alleviate pain and suffering, not to inflict it. You are not on the pitch, young man. You cannot beat the bloody shit out of those whose actions you despise—even if you have every right to despise them. He takes a moment to rub his temples. The council members and I have concluded that you must endure a suspension of your medical license for no less than six months during which time you will be required to attend anger management courses. You may then return in a probationary capacity for a period of time yet to be determined. Obviously, it will be a subordinate position. A written report will be placed in your file.

Kenneth, who’s also been silent for the entire proceeding, is visibly shaken. He bites his lower lip and nods. The punishment is devastating, and it’s set him back in his career, but at least he still has a career.

Connell collects his papers and hands them to Doctor Porter. Our business is concluded here. The council and I will meet in January regarding the actions of the head nurse and hospital security. As those situations involve internal protocol and training practices; there’s nothing we can accomplish without the administrators. You may all leave, except Mister Mallory and Doctor Utley.

Francis Moore now takes the opportunity to shove his bruised and battered client down the wood chipper chute and flip the switch by bringing to our attention the most obvious oversight on Connell’s part—which, if you knew Connell, wasn’t an oversight at all. I beg your pardon, sir. What about Doctor Goyter? He’s been wronged by Doctor Utley. Surely there must be some redress for the harrowing and brutal ordeal he suffered at the hands of a mad man. I ask that you give him a just remedy.

Connell lazily looks up at Moore, swings his gaze over to Goyter and then back to Moore. Yes, there will be a just remedy, Counselor Moore. He will be struck off.

Whittingale attempts a passionate response and Goyter just about keels over in a faint, but Connell has no time for his argument. Mr. Whittingale, I’ve read his file. This is not the first time he’s made a mistake that cost a patient his life.

But…but those instances were all explained away, Goyter retorts.

Yes, unfortunately, they were. Connell’s quiet words are sheathed in an exhausted sadness and the regret of someone who missed the opportunity or who hadn’t the ability to stave off previous tragedy. That mustn’t happen again.

Whittingale is ready for another volley of words, but Doctor Porter raises his hand. The decision is made. A report will be written and submitted to the General Medical Council at the formal inquiry. You may present mitigating factors or contest the recommendation at that time. This meeting has concluded.

***

After the door closes and Connell is sure those outside have all traveled a safe distance down the hallway, he leans over the table, ready to receive information. Now, tell me the situation and the prognosis. We must have an idea what we’re facing.

Kenneth, just as eager to provide the information, leans in, too. Right now, he’s sedated. There’s a hairline fracture on the left side of the parietal; less than two centimeters, but it concerns me. There’s some swelling but no signs of hemorrhage. John’s head is like a block of granite. He took the fall relatively well. Not many would have survived that.

Yes, a concussion is inevitable, and he mustn’t leave hospital until the swelling is gone. How long do you think the brain was without oxygen?

Kenneth shakes his head and looks to me for help, which I can’t provide. It’s hard to say, so I have to rely on the nurse’s call—two minutes, forty seconds.

Defibrillation was started immediately—right at two minutes, forty seconds?

No. That’s when we grabbed the Heartstart.

Connell ruminates. Proper procedure called for that defibrillator to be at hand when Verapamil was administered. The signs of ventricular tachycardia must have been obvious. He shakes his head slowly. Good God, that Goyter is incompetent! There’s definitely going to be damage. It will probably affect his motor skills or memory. We’ll see some issues with balance. He gives Kenneth a reassuring smile. All right son, check on your patient but remember: You’re suspended. Aside from John, you attend no one. You’re inactive and must remain so. Inform your superiors.

Connell waits until Kenneth leaves. Then he turns his attention to me.

Connell

Brian Raibert Mallory: real estate tycoon, businessman aficionado, philanthropist and with those long fingers, a fairly decent pianist. I remember when he first came to see me as if it were yesterday. I hated him. I despised his youth and his confounded height. I loathed his beautiful face and his wealth, which was not nearly what it is today. He sat across from me, radiating physical vitality while I, sickly and weak, was already confined to a blasted chair. God, how I envied his money and the luxuries he possessed.

That morning, my x-rays revealed another three percent of my bronchiole had been lost to this blasted disease, so I was in no mood to cosset a new patient, and I had no desire to listen to the pathetic trivialities of a grossly prosperous man.

I maneuver my chair around the conference table to be nearer to him.

Yet, the gun in his hand and the pain in his eyes made me weep. To have a child suffer so, and die in your arms, is the worst nightmare imaginable. My hatred faded as compassion and deep sorrow filled me. I ached for him. Here was a once-strong man, now broken and despondent, who would have renounced all of his riches if doing so could have saved his beloved Ayden. We worked so hard; all those long hours trying to get him to a place of—I don’t even know what to call it—acceptance, I guess. It was too much to ask for peace. All we could hope for was that crucial moment when he could finally lower the gun and value some fragment of life again.

Holding his hand and rubbing it as gently as I can with my useless, numb fingers helps me focus on the present. Did you think about the gun?

He nods.

It’s hard to mask my disappointment. You still have it, then?

Silence provides the answer.

We agreed you would get rid of it. It was no longer necessary.

Still, silence and those faded green eyes staring back.

I sigh. It’s a sense of failure knowing he’s not truly let him go. Even with John, the pain of the boy’s death still lingers. All right, I’ll not push it. The past is behind us. It’s the present we now face. If the damage is as I suspect, John is no longer a dancer, a singer or an actor. That part of his life is gone.

It’s a blunt summation, but the sooner he acknowledges the dire situation, the sooner he can help his boyfriend recover.

For good?

I don’t know. The tests will show us the damage. It could be mild. It could be extensive. I suspect he’ll display attributes of stroke. I try to adjust myself in my chair without much success. Brian stands to help me, gently repositioning my torso and legs with his big hands. Thank you, son. I wait until he sits again, and then continue. John may experience a variety of subtler issues: sensitivity to light, sounds and touch. His emotions could go haywire. If that happens, anything may set him off. You’ll have to adjust, and it will be a difficult time—for both of you. But no matter what, you must force him to work on recovery. I take his hand again. Can you be hard on him, Brian?

Yes, if that’s what’s needed.

I know this man too well, and if he doesn’t understand the importance of immediate long-term therapy, John will be lost to the effects of his injury forever. I’m serious, Brian. He is damaged. If you coddle him, he’ll never recover.

Brian

In my eagerness to be with John, I forget that I’m not the only one who cares. All heads turn when I enter his room. Everyone is huddled around his bed like carrion enclosing a rank carcass, except for Prissy. He’s not huddled around the bed, he’s actually in the bed, determined to comfort. Martin plucks him off and sets him aside.

Kenneth is fiddling with the IV as a replacement ECG monitor registers John’s pulse with a slow, rhythmic beep-beep. A zig-zagging green line cavorts across its screen as it should. I’ve already cut the sedative. He’ll be coming round soon. Your face should be the first he sees, so he doesn’t panic. He won’t remember the accident. Kenneth looks down at John’s relaxed face, half-hidden behind an oxygen mask. He may not remember anything—or anyone, but I don’t want him off the sedative too long. He’s been through a lot. He needs to rest.

I’m sorry about the suspension. I keep my voice quiet and low.

It was inevitable. I can live with it. I still have my license. He scribbles a few words onto John’s chart and hangs it at the foot of the bed. He steps away from everyone and gestures for me to follow. If I had to live it over, I’d do exactly the same.

I’m glad to hear that. I’m indebted to you.

He gives me a nudge and a wink. I know, mate.

There’s a stirring back at the bed, and Jeff says the all-important words. He’s awake.

Everyone backs away, so I can get closer. Matthew pulls up a chair, and I hover over John’s face, waiting for his eyes to open. A wave of fear rushes through me. How severe is the damage? Will he recognize me? Will he be able to speak?

His eyelids flutter. It’s wonderful to see the deep blue of his irises. At first, they don’t focus on anything; they just randomly move from left to right. Then the ECG monitor indicates an increasing pulse. His eyes begin to identify objects in the room, and he starts to panic.

John? It’s me, love. I’m here.

He tries to focus on my face, not recognizing me at first. He blinks a few times and then his pulse slows. His pupils dilate. I smile down at him and tell him I love him. He smiles too, but doing so brings the oxygen mask to his attention. His eyes leave my face and take in his surroundings again—the hospital room, the monitors, the tubes and wires, the lads, Simon and Kenneth. His pulse ramps up, and his chest heaves as the panic takes hold. His instincts tell him to rip the mask off his face and sit up.

Kenneth is at my side, pressing his patient’s shoulders down into the bed. His arms and legs start thrashing about. Talk to him. Tell him it’s okay.

John, relax. It’s all right. You’re safe. Look at me. Concentrate on my voice.

It takes a minute to calm him, with Kenneth still holding onto his shoulders and Martin and Simon clamping down on his legs while I continue talking. You’re in hospital. You’re just fine, love. See? Everyone is here. Everything is fine. Not knowing what else to say, I add, It’s two days before Christmas.

When Kenneth is satisfied with the steadiness of John’s pulse, he nods to Simon and Martin—a signal to ease up on the legs. He hovers over the bed to speak directly to him. I’m going to take off the mask now, John. There’s no need to panic. We don’t want you to disconnect any of the electrodes or dislodge the IV, okay? Just breathe normally, and you’ll be fine.

Of course, when the mask comes off, he becomes agitated again, but more reassuring words from me, and a fair amount of gentle restraint from Kenneth, Simon and Martin, finally calm him down. We let him concentrate on breathing; a pronounced grimace crossing his face with each inhale, and his eyes never wandering far from my face.

Kenneth pulls the chart to jot down something else. I know it hurts, John. Your chest will be sore for a few days, and your head must be pounding. Take slow, shallow breaths, and try not to cough. Can you speak?

John takes a long, hard look at everyone in the room, focusing on their facial features so intensely; it’s as if he can’t remember who they are. He acknowledges the IV needle in his arm and follows the tubing as it trails up to the saline bag hanging from the stand. Then he looks back at me and up at Kenneth before swallowing hard. What happened?

His hoarse question is music to my ears.

Kenneth is just as relieved as I am to hear his voice. I’ll let Brian answer that. A nurse will bring you some ice shavings. He hangs the chart back at the foot of the bed. I’ll leave you alone for a while.

With Kenneth gone, everyone advances on the bed.

I adjust his blankets and pillow. Last night, you met Philip at The Altinda and fell through the stage floor.

Martin asks, Do you remember going there?

The shake of John’s head is almost imperceptible. Martin’s dreadlocks seem to fascinate him in a peculiar way.

I rub his hand to gain his attention. What’s the last thing you do remember?

His eyes, not wanting to lose sight of those amazing locks, finally turn back to me. Ayden.

His one-word response, so simple and precise, confounds me at first. You remember seeing Ayden?

He nods and closes his eyes. And the staircase.

Ben leaps at the opportunity to be a dimwit. Oh, my God! The stairway to Heaven. Johnny, you must have seen the stairway! He turns to the lads hovering around the bed. Can you believe it? He actually saw the stairway?

Now Simon dons his own dunce cap and joins in. And Ayden must have been there to welcome him! He leans into John, mere inches from his face. Was he at the gates, John? Did you see the pearly gates?

John is baffled by Simon’s bizarre question—and in fact, seems earnestly baffled by Simon, altogether. He tries to press his head back into the pillow. Uhhhhh, no.

Simon leans in further. Was it ornate? Was the stairway made of gold?

Martin, arms folded and head tilted, is slitting his eyes at Simon. Yu nuh easy, man. I think you’ve got it wrong. I don’t think he’s sayi—

Just because you’re not a believer, it doesn’t mean Heaven doesn’t exist, Simon snaps at him. Then he straightens up and dives into pure doltish drama by jabbing a finger down at John. "He knows because he died!"

John’s eyes nearly burst from his dozy head. I died? The ECG monitor picks up speed, and I fumble for the oxygen mask to place it back on his face.

My words are directed squarely at Simon. You ass.

Ben moves to defend him. Well, if it wasn’t Heaven that Johnny saw, what was it?

Sometimes their stupidity amazes me. My wallet, you fool. I carry a picture of Ayden. John cleaned it out before he went to the old theater.

Simon and Ben, dicks that they are, turn flaccid with slumped shoulders. Oh.

John’s pulse eventually slows, and I remove the mask. Better?

He nods, but he’s exhausted and in pain—not just from the shocks to his chest, but from the impact of the fall and the reincarnated gash in his forehead, too.

Martin claps his hands. Okay, let’s shut this down. Now that we know you’re not dead, we’d better go. He nudges Jeff on the back to get him moving toward the door. It’s been a long day. We’ll all come back tomorrow and harass you some more.

Everyone gathers his coat and umbrella, with John taking in the activity as if he’d never witnessed such a profound event. Prissy is allowed