33. The Visitor

W hat is death and what is belief?

33. The Visitor

“I’ve been talking to a boy who went to hell,” muttered Barney to Emma when he was back in his room and the boy Gozza was fast asleep in the small hospital ward. He had passed into an easy sleep and when normal tests like pulse and blood pressure were measured Doctor Blanding expressed herself happy that the lad seemed to be on the mend.

“Was he really dead?” asked Emma when Barney explained what had happened in the ward, “I mean, if a person’s dead then he’s dead, isn’t he? If I’d known there was a way back I’d have made sure that I was in the arms of my Ralf even now.”

“I don’t understand it,” confessed Barney, “look, I’ve spouted my commiserations over enough funerals to be pretty sure that death is death. Never once did I hear a hammering from within and a voice demanding to be let out!”

The sound of rain pattering outside acted as a soporific balm, reminding both of them that it was a wet evening but they were thankfully indoors in the dry.

“Maybe a cup of something hot and wet?” suggested Emma, “and whilst we sip it we can marvel at the wonders of life and death. But while I’m putting the little kettle on you can tell me what you actually believe. Was he ever actually dead, the boy?”

Barney shook his head and grimaced. “The doctor said he was, and he looked to be tnat way,” he replied thoughtfully. “I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve got everything wrong. Is it possible that my entire belief system is based on fantasy? My father was pretty harsh on the matter, but then he wanted to have an excuse for bullying people weaker than himself. He needed to be right and he shoe-horned his probably half-baked convictions into my immature head.”

“So you’re beginning to put things into perspective, Barney,” she said, “here, have this cup of tea and then we’ll go to bed. The two of us. In the same bed. Without the involvement of any sin whatsoever even though I might see more of you than is normal and you might get an eyeful of more of me!”

He looked at her, feeling, if anything, pathetic. “Give me time, Emma. I know what you believe, that there’s nothing intrinsically sinful about our bodies, but I had an awful childhood dominated by harsh physical punishment if I so much as scratched myself you-know-where.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” she whispered, “and maybe if we went to bed when we’ve drained our cups and played a few games that Ralf and I used to enjoy, it might put everything straight for you.”

He shook his head. “I’m not so sure,” he said, “I can’t see it, somehow.”

“Look, Barney, we’re both what you might call middle-aged or on the cusp of it, and me being a woman all that means is I’m past the age when I might conceive a child if you were to accidentally fertilise me with a drop of your semen, which I might allow f I thought it was all for the good!. Anything we do, if we actually do anything, is purely a reflection of our emotions, you know, our feelings for each other, if we have any.”

“I do like you,” he almost whispered, and added so as not to sound weak and indecisive, “quite a lot, actually.”

“Then let’s finish this tea and climb into bed together,” she said quietly, “and see what happens then.”

“What might happen?” he asked, lost in a fog of enforced ignorance.

She smiled at him. “Who can tell?” she asked teasingly, and she winked a beautiful eyelash wink.

Meanwhile, back in her surgery, Doctor Blanding felt more than a little confused.

She had checked the boy Gozza’s pulse, she had listened to the silence of his heart, and he had been as dead as the mythical dormouse. There had been no doubt in her mind, and Inspector Glumpy had nodded his head when she had told her audience of two plus a corpse. Then the poor boy’s body had been slowly and carefully carried from the car park to the Retreat’s hospital ward, carefully laid in a bed, there had even been time for the Reverend Pickle to be sent for, and all that time the boy had lain motionless, not breathing, no signs of life anywhere about him until out of the impossible blue he had opened his eyes and spoken.

They had all heard it. It had shocked the lot of them, even the Bishop who had already reconciled himself to spending an inordinate amount if time in prison as a consequence of causing death whilst driving under the influence.

Then he hadn’t caused death because the boy was far from being dead. He wasn’t even in a coma. He was speaking coherently and clearly and was obviously very much alive.

Not dead, then.

So she had returned home and turned to her many medical books in the hope that at least one of them might include a chapter on natural resurrection.

And there was none. She found items when apparently dead people had, after a few seconds of death, been revived. But the wretched boy had been lifeless for several minutes. Not that they had watched him for a sign of life when they had trolleyed him from the car park, not closely in the hope of catching the least eyelid flicker. The weather had decided that.

Her doorbell rang and she swore to herself because she didn’t want any company, not while she was delving into the darkest realms of medical science.

It rang again and she had to answer it.

DI Glumpy was standing there, rain dripping off him, scowling, and she ushered him in.

“What happened back there, then?” he asked as she took his raincoat from him and hung it on a hook by the door. “Did that horrible boy actually rise from the dead?”

She shook her head. “That’s what it looked like to me,” she sighed, “and I checked him for life before I told you he’d passed on. Even that Mother Nurse person agreed that he was dead, devoid of any life signs, way beyond even being even comatose. Then we all saw him wake up.”

“Why do you think he seemed dead?” he asked, producing a half bottle of red wine from his jacket pocket and adding “I’ll bet you’ve got a coupe of clean glasses, Gloria.”

“What a good idea,” she smiled quickly, resigning herself to a conversation that might well be improved by the presence of good wine.

Two glasses found and filled, she looked him in the eye and shook her head. “I’ll tell you this much,” she said, “no body can survive without a functioning brain for as long as he did and even regain a spark of life, so he can’t have been actually clinically dead. I must have been wrong when I told you, but that was how I saw it.”

“And me,” he nodded. “I’ve seen a few corpses in my time and he looked exactly like one of them.”

“You’re still a bit wet,” she said, indicating the legs of his trousers, “why don;t you slip out of them and I’ll drape them over a radiator?”

“If it’s not too much trouble…” he mumbled, almost shocked by the suggestion.

“Seeing you in your boxers would be a treat for any woman, and I’m in that category of humanity,” she grinned as he slipped his wet trousers off. “And who might that be?” she added, indicating an illustration on his afore mentioned undies that were multicolured and quite unlike the white ones she had been expecting.”

“Oh. I’d forgotten I was wearing these. It’s Donald Duck’s missus,” he told her with what might have been construed as an ashamed grin.

“Then, to make the occasion worth the living, I think I’ve got a full bottle of the same wine somewhere. We might need a refill,” she said and wandered into the next room to look in her fridge.

© Peter Rogerson, 08.05.24