Gabriel's Angel Page 16

  ‘So that is what you think Gabe is, inadequate?’ Ellie glanced over at Gabriel’s unmoving body. She saw pale listless flesh and closed her eyes to let her Gabe in. The one that could move and talk. The one that made her laugh. The one who made her feel at home in herself when he kissed her.

  ‘It’s not what I think he is, it’s how in the past he has made me feel about him.’

  ‘Oh Izzy, you sound like a bloody therapist. Actually you sound like a revisionist. You’re telling me why he is so dislikeable now, but you were mean about him from the start.’

  Izzy sighed. What is it with people that they want you to like everyone they ever introduce you to? Why is it so hard to just accept that just because he likes you, and I like you, doesn’t mean we are going to like each other? And what’s the big deal? If he wasn’t in a coma who would have said anything? And she found herself feeling—and this almost embarrassed her—angry with Gabriel for being comatose. Bastard, she thought.

  ‘Look, you asked me what I thought, and I’m telling you: it doesn’t matter. I don’t feel that stuff now; all I see is you and what you need. Honestly.’

  Izzy put her arms around Ellie who sat quietly for a moment before saying, ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, I don’t want this, I don’t want you doing this, I don’t want you to touch him if you feel like that, and I’m glad you told me, Izzy, but I don’t want you to do this. It’s not fair, and it’s no way to conceive a child.’

  ‘Well, I agree with that.’

  ‘Change of plan, change of plan, change of plan,’ Ellie mantra’d, trying not to breathe too fast.

  ‘Thank goodness for that, what is it?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but it will involve your little sister.’

  ‘Oh she’ll love that.’

  ‘No, no she won’t, but she won’t hate it either, and that will bring better vibes to the whole thing.’

  ‘Vibes? What vibes? We are talking about wanking a man in a coma.’

  ‘No, we are talking about making a baby, Izzy, you’re the only one talking about the wanking—everyone else has got past that.’

  ‘Well, everyone else doesn’t actually have to do it, do they?’

  ‘And now neither do you.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Izzy. Realising she sounded selfish and irritated, she quickly added, ‘If that is what you want Ellie. You know I’ll do whatever I can, or whatever you want, to help.’

  Ellie just nodded. She wanted to say, ‘I don’t need your help’ or ‘No you won’t’ or just ‘Fuck off,’ but she didn’t. In part because she was scared to be angry, in part because she was so confused and tired and artificially swollen that she couldn’t be sure if she was as right as she felt. But mostly she didn’t because she felt lonely enough as it was, and if you had friends that you sometimes felt you tolerated or disliked or even hated, you had them for times like this. Just in case.

  27

  Christopher had found that over the years, the more information about the world he had, the less relevant the information became to what he understood. Over the course of time his view of humanity had decanted into three simple beliefs: Life isn’t fair. Helping people when possible is better then not helping people. And, everyone needs a little kindness sometimes.

  Sometimes when he was sitting in a group feeling a little out of time, he reminded himself of his small but perfectly formed truths, just to make sure that he could still see the wood for the trees, so to speak.

  Christopher maintained that he existed to do good, but he did not do this unreflectively. He wondered about the things he had done as a guardian and he wondered what it was that made them an insufficient expression of God’s will now. What was it about sitting in this room that was better than watching from the shoulders of martyrs and heroes as they went about their business? What was it that made this progress?

  Did it feel as though he was doing good now, in this group? Did it bugger. He was listening. He found himself sitting there silently imploring them to tell all, waiting for them to psychically disrobe and dance about a bit, and he kept telling himself not to think, but he did think. He watched what they were doing, and he saw what they had done, and he wondered again, ‘Am I doing good?’ Because if an angel isn’t, who is?

  Kevin was talking about killing people. He wanted to rewrite his life, Christopher thought, and so he should. Therapy is probably a great opportunity to do that—how often does someone get the chance to describe themselves, their feelings, and their motives to a captive audience? What is that if not a chance to turn yourself into a hero in your story, rather than a villain, or worse, an extra in everybody else’s?

  ‘I was always a fatalist,’ said Kevin. ‘The people I was killing were going to die anyway. I was just part of nature’s plan.’

  Clemitius liked Kevin. He liked the fact that he was trying to ‘do’ therapy. Of course, even Clemitius knew that Kevin was working his arse off because, having killed so many people and discovered a God, he knew—no matter how modern the experiment—that hell was beckoning. But Clemitius was not convinced that Kevin was good at this process, or even interesting. Clemitius was drawn to Gabriel. Not because he saw a soul to save, but because he saw resistance to break.

  Gabriel looked at Kevin as if he were speaking another language. He had learned to bite his lip, but he wriggled slightly in his chair. He looked and listened, and while Clemitius thought the currency of the group was the shared thoughts they brought, Gabriel would have told him he was wrong. He knew the currency of the group was despair.

  Julie sometimes looked at Christopher. At first she would just glance at him, and if Christopher caught her eye, she looked away. Today she was holding his gaze, just for a few moments. She said, ‘I don’t know if it fits in or not, but I want to say something about a man I know … or knew.’

  She was looking at Christopher. This time he turned away. He had a sense that Julie had expectations of him that made him feel uncomfortable. So Julie looked at Clemitius instead. ‘It’s hard to get a grip on the last few days,’ she said. ‘It’s not that I’m not trying; it’s just that I feel disconnected. I want to make an effort but …’

  ‘But?’ said Gabriel gently.

  Julie smiled, knowingly and warmly. As if she were keeping part of what she knew away from everyone else—not in a teasing way, but as an act of kindness. Julie believed that sharing pain was an act of aggression. Not that she would ever say such a thing. ‘It feels a bit like a dream.’

  ‘You might be thinking of dissociation,’ said Clemitius.

  ‘Maybe it would be easier to get into this therapy business if we could see the people we left behind or something,’ said Julie.

  ‘I agree,’ Gabriel followed quickly. ‘I feel it would be easier to engage with this process if I could just see what it is I don’t have anymore …’

  Christopher said nothing for a moment. Julie was looking at him again. She knew that he was kind, but she didn’t know if he was brave. Christopher didn’t even know that himself. Until now. He spoke. ‘We have a viewing room; I believe I may have mentioned it before, over dinner, and I have a sense that some of you at least would benefit from using it.’

  He didn’t look at Clemitius, but as he spoke he felt a slight exhilaration run through him. He shuffled slightly in his seat. ‘I think that you are working hard, but that there is something missing.’ He looked at Julie; she was staring at him. The look on her face made him feel something about himself. Pleased? Happy? He didn’t immediately know why. ‘I may be wrong, but I wonder if seeing the space left behind might … .’

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ said Gabriel.

  ‘You’re far from wrong,’ said Julie, standing up.

  ‘Er, where are you going?’ said Clemitius, with genuine shock.

  ‘There is no time like the present, is there? After all, you want us to move on, don’t you?’ said Julie. ‘Well, your clearly very thoughtful colleague here is giving us a chance to do ju
st that.’

  ‘You’re very lucky to work alongside a man, er … angel like him,’ said Gabriel. ‘I’m sure he’ll have you up to speed in no time.’ Which was pretty much as close to a kick in the balls as you could give an angel, and Clemitius winced accordingly. Julie opened the door and Gabriel stood up to follow. Christopher looked at Clemitius, who just glared back. Christopher tried to nod reassuringly, but his head didn’t move. Kevin watched, but didn’t move. Neither did Yvonne, or at least not until she noticed that in the division that had taken place, she appeared to have been left sided with Kevin and Clemitius. She stood up. ‘I think I’ll just … .’ And she followed Gabriel out of the room. Christopher stood at the door, waiting for Clemitius to speak. Christopher wanted to say something, something conciliatory, something that would at least acknowledge what Clemitius must be feeling, but he couldn’t find the words. Then he felt a hand on his arm. He turned to the door. It was Julie. She was smiling, more open this time, more joyful. ‘Come on.’

  And so he did.

  28

  Michael had gone for coffee; he had been at the hospital for five hours today— not as long as yesterday or the day before. He had a vague sense that he was supposed to be writing something pointless for a glossy magazine. Something about how your favourite album is your favourite album because it reminds you of whoever you were sleeping with when you bought it. Rubbish of course, but an excuse to write about pop music for blokes and talk about sex at the same time. Not that it was getting written today.

  Lynne was sitting with Julie. She had cropped hair and a large crucifix round her neck, which she would clasp every now and then while whispering some prayers under her breath. On a couple of occasions when Michael had left the room, he had returned to find her praying beside Julie. Both times he had stood silently at the door until she had either finished or become aware of him. They never spoke of God. They didn’t actually speak very much at all.

  Lynne had decided to like Michael from the beginning, or at least treat him as a fellow carer, whereas she had treated James like a blushing virus. She and Michael had slipped into an assumed shared mission to ensure that for the time being, at least, Julie would not be left on her own for too long, certainly not during the day or evening. Michael considered it polite not to leave as soon as Lynne arrived, as that would make the vigil seem too premeditated; anyway he didn’t really want to go. He found leaving the hardest part of the day.

  He felt there were things he needed to say to Julie. Important things. Unfortunately he hadn’t realised that before, and now she was in no position to hear them. So he stayed nearby, because that seemed like the next best thing. Anyway he never left the hospital straight away. He found that when he left the hospital, a small cloud of self-loathing seemed to be waiting for him in the car park. He began to see his life—because he had enough task-free time to look at it perhaps—in a way that made him dislike himself. He thought of the women he had known, and when he did, he thought of the unhappiness he might have caused them. He thought of the sex he had had and how mediocre or plain messy it often was. In short, and he wasn’t sure how this was happening, he found himself easier to tolerate near the comatose Julie, which was a strange reliance to cultivate but it felt a bit like, well … love.

  And so he left the hospital slowly, staging his exit, looking at the silly shops at the front entrance. He had taken to stopping in the coffee area on the ground floor for a cappuccino and a shortbread biscuit, both bought from machines. The coffee area was little more than a swelling in the hallway with a handful of chairs and an assortment of vending machines. The highlight was a snack machine that spun round depending on what code you punched in, offering a selection of Kit Kats, bananas, muesli bars—no doubt as part of the government’s healthy eating campaign—and some jelly beans.

  It was coming up to 8:30 in the evening. He was sitting staring at his drink, trying to guess why they called it cappuccino when it was clearly very hot water with bubble bath on top, and remembering the coffee shop in Norwich where he wished he still was, caught in time with Julie. He knew he needed to muster up the energy to go back to his flat in Islington, to eat, to wash, to rest, to be able to come back tomorrow.

  He looked up from his bubbly hot water to see a young woman at the coffee machine. She looked as though she had dressed in the dark, or as if a fruit stall had melted over her: banana yellow tights, a red skirt, some kind of orange paisley top. She was muttering to the machine whilst repeatedly hitting the coin return button. Finally, with neither crap drink nor money appearing, she took a step back, put her hands on her hips, and said, ‘I’m not the sort of person who gets angry with machines that don’t work. You are an inanimate object.’ And then kicked it really hard.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, the drinks are foul,’ said Michael.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say, you’ve got one,’ said Moira. ‘Have you got twenty pence?’

  Michael stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out two 20p’s. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘I’ll have to owe it you,’ she said, walking over, taking the money and putting it along with other assorted change into the machine that she had just kicked. This time a cup of hot chocolate poured forth. ‘You see? And they say violence never works.’

  Moira took her drink and sat down at the only other table available. She cupped the hot chocolate in both hands and took a sip.

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s like hot sugar.’

  ‘Told you,’ smiled Michael. ‘Can’t be worse than this.’

  ‘You’d think they’d have a proper café or something,’ said Moira.

  ‘Yeah,’ Michael paused. He wasn’t really in the mood for conversation, but then he wasn’t really in the mood for going home. ‘So, you visiting someone?’ he asked, and smiled as he realised it was perhaps the most inane thing he’d said. Ever.

  ‘No, I’m here for the hot chocolate.’ Moira smiled.

  It occurred to Michael that he didn’t know the etiquette for polite conversation between hospital visitors. What can you say? ‘Hope whatever brings you here isn’t too serious?’ Maybe a friend having a baby? Or a minor operation that has been a great success and life is going to be wonderful now? And what do you say about yourself? ‘My friend is in a coma; have a nice evening.’ So he muttered, ‘I’m sorry, what a stupid thing to say, I’m just putting off going home.’

  ‘Why?’ said Moira.

  ‘Because my friend is … very ill … and I don’t like leaving her.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Moira paused. ‘What ward? Sorry, another stupid question?’

  ‘Cecil ward. ITU.’

  ‘That’s a coincidence, me too: well not me, obviously, but my friend. Who is also very ill.’

  They sat in silence for a while, Moira trying to sip quietly, Michael trying to find the energy to stand up and leave.

  ‘My name is Michael,’ he said.

  ‘I’m Moira, pleased to meet you … . Well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’ Michael smiled a sad smile, and they drank their drinks in silence and in time with each other. When he had finished, he got up and nodded, and he left. So he could come back first thing tomorrow.

  Moira didn’t watch as he left, but quietly finished her hot chocolate, looked at her watch and decided it was time to go back upstairs.

  29

  Christopher, Gabriel, Julie, and Yvonne walked down the corridor much more quickly than they had walked to the therapy room. Right at the end, beside the exit from which they had left to watch Estelle the angel being banished, was a small black door.

  Christopher unlocked it and ushered them in. Inside was a small cinema, with two rows of eight seats forming a semicircle around a large screen. The screen was dark; the only light in the room came from a glowing orange light that sat in the middle of the low ceiling like a broken egg. Christopher had surprised himself and was only now beginning to think about what he had done. For a co-therapist to leave a group halfway
through, taking half of that group with him, was right up there with telling Jesus to stop being so pious. He felt sure there would be sanctions. But he decided not to think about that, not now.

  He thought that in some ways it has already been worth it. Seeing Clemitius’s face as they got up and left was priceless. The tips of his ears had turned purple. Christopher imagined him saying to Kevin, ‘Well Kevin, how does everyone leaving us … leaving you, in that way, make you feel?’ To which Christopher hoped Kevin had replied, ‘Actually I think it was you they were leaving, Clem.’

  ‘How does this viewing room thing work?’ asked Julie.

  ‘Well it’s like a television,’ Christopher answered.

  ‘What? Loads of channels but nothing interesting to watch?’ said Gabriel.

  ‘It can feel like that sometimes certainly, but given that we are going to look at the people you love or care about, it should hold your interest a little longer then ITV3, I think. You choose what you want to look at. On a television you see what the camera shows you. Here, you are the camera. So if for example, Michael should move beyond the area you are viewing, you can, if you so choose, follow him to see what he is doing.’

  ‘Michael?’

  ‘I am a blabbermouth today,’ said Christopher. ‘Yes, Michael, he is sitting at Julie’s bedside.’

  ‘Is he really? That’s so sweet,’ said Julie, flushing a little.

  ‘Who’s Michael?’ asked Gabriel. ‘The boyfriend you were leaving?’

  ‘No no, that’s James. Michael is a friend; he used to be in a band with James.’

  ‘So where is James?’

  ‘No idea,’ shrugged Julie.

  ‘He’s rushing about like a mad thing trying to get that group of his back together again,’ said Christopher.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Gabriel.

  ‘Yes,’ said Yvonne, who was staring at the orange light above them ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s what I do,’ murmured the angel. ‘Still.’