She smiles. “It’s OK, I’ve been here before.” She quickens her pace, urging me to keep up. “Come on, he’s still here.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see.”
The sound is awful in the empty ward. A guttural dying sound. Farah moves quickly to the cot and leans over the Perspex, reaching in and placing her hand gently on the baby that lies inside.
Its thereness startles me. It’s like us, like the man in the waiting area, like the man on the street. Farah makes a gentle, soothing noise. It’s hard to connect the angry girl I used to see at school with this person.
The baby settles in her arms, its hands clenching and unclenching weakly.
“You’re good at this,” I say.
“He reminds me of my brothers,” Farah replies.
The other cots are empty. “I don’t understand why there’s a baby here on its own.”
“This is the neonatal ward,” Farah says. She looks at the baby again. It’s smiling now, its dark eyes wide and all-knowing. “I think we can see him because he’s sick,” she says. “Because he’s dying.”
Reality hits me, winds me, then hits me again. “You think we’re dead, don’t you?” The words come out like an accusation. I step back and sit heavily in a nearby chair, which is lucky because without it I’m sure I’d have just hit the floor.
“Not dead,” Farah says. “Dying.”
“No,” I say. “You’re wrong.”
Farah looks up, her eyes hard and enquiring. “Pop quiz. What do Epilepsy Boy, Cancer Girl, Scary Neck-Wound guy and a terribly sick baby have in common?” She waits a beat. “We’re not exactly a boy band, are we?”
An involuntary whimper escapes me. “This is ridiculous.”
I stand and stumble against the cot behind me. I turn and push it angrily to one side. This is a hoax, I think. I’ve stumbled into some sort of sadistic reality TV show.
“Come out! Out!” I shout. “I don’t know how you did it but it’s not funny anymore!”
“Kyle, please,” Farah says. “Use your brain, what do you think is going on here?”
“I had a seizure, I’m confused.”
“It’s not that.”
“How do you know?”
“You think I haven’t had a few seizures myself?”
“This is an aura,” I insist. “Postictal confusion. There’s always an aura.”
“You know this isn’t an aura, Kyle.”
“I don’t know… I don’t…”
But I do know. Even my sense-making brain can’t make up stories any longer. Postictal auras are rubbish but they don’t feel like this.
I lash out at the empty cot and push it over. The Perspex case falls from the frame and tumbles along the floor with a loud, hollow clatter that makes the baby start crying again.
“I’m not going to die!” I shout. My voice reverberates around the empty ward. “I’m going to London. I’ve got a plan, I’m going to get a job in finance and I’m going to make a tonne of money and I’m never, ever coming back to this place.”
“Kyle—”
“I’m not dying in this place.”
Farah comforts the baby, jogging it gently in her arms.
“Hey!” I shout, afraid, suddenly, for the baby. I head back towards the nurses’ station. “Somebody! There’s a baby here and it needs help right now!” I lean across the counter and bang the flat of my hand down. “Hey! Come out! We need help!”
“Kyle—”
I pick up the desk phone and place it briefly to my ear. It’s dead, of course, like everything else here. I put it back, miss and slam it down two or three times before swiping it angrily off the counter instead.
“Kyle!”
An idea occurs to me. I pick up the chair I’ve been sitting on and rattle it against the floor. “Hey! Can you see this?” I strain my eyes, trying to find the people who are almost but not quite there. “I’m haunting you!” I shout, making the chair dance. “Whoo-oo! I’m haunting you.”
I know they don’t see me. I can feel them though, less than a breath away, sitting, waiting their turn with the consultant. If I could make them see—
“Kyle, stop it,” Farah snaps. “They can’t hear you.”
I fall silent.
“You’re upsetting the baby,” Farah says.
