Anthem for Jackson Dawes (11 page)

Megan frowned. The boy who what?

The lady in search of Ophthalmology gave another confused smile. ‘
You'll
show me where I need to be,' she pleaded. ‘I'm going to be ever so late.'

There was a moment, a flash of something in the woman's face, as if she had a lot more to say. But now wasn't the time. She turned her gaze to the old lady. ‘Of course I will, dear.'

Off they went, but not before Megan and Jackson were given another very doubtful look from the woman with the silver plait.

‘What a nose
she
is,' Megan said when they'd gone, ‘with her briefcase and everything. Probably a secretary or something.'

‘Or a floor cleaner.'

Megan looked at Jackson. He was smiling at last. Grinning even.

‘Toilet scrubber,' she said.

As they wandered along the corridor once more, they whittled down the woman's rank to less than a cockroach and left it at that.

It was tiring, this aimless walking. Megan noticed silver beads of moisture on Jackson's skin and was moving more slowly.

‘Are you OK?'

‘New treatment,' he said, as if this answered everything.

Megan was grateful to see two chairs outside the laundry department. ‘We've come too far.' It began to worry her, the journey back. The thought of being safe on the ward was so inviting that she wished they could hitch a ride on one of those whining little cars the porters drove.

‘What was that woman going on about?'

‘Who?'

‘The woman with the plait. Weren't you the boy … who did what? Have you been in more trouble?' Jackson shook his head, his face suddenly stony. ‘OK, OK. I don't want to know. None of my business.'

Later, still sitting there, Jackson had moved from one mood to another, in the way only he could. The butterfly. He was cheerful at last, telling Megan all about his great-grandfather's trumpet playing. He stopped mid-sentence and slipped the
famous
hat off his head to examine it.

‘What's wrong?' Megan asked.

‘Nothing. But isn't this a cool hat?' It was old, it was a bit of a mess, certainly not cool. ‘It's like, I wear this and he's here, see? Like his music's still here.'

‘In the hat?' Megan whipped it out of his fingers to have a look inside, checking for music.

Jackson whisked it back. ‘Like he's never really gone. Like he's here still.'

‘Sort of a ghost, you mean?'

There was a pause. ‘Yeah, sort of.'

Megan waved her fingers in front of him. ‘
Whoooooooh
. Tell us a spooky story, Jackson,' she mimicked a nine-year-old.

He gave her a look as if she were behaving just like one. ‘So, how old did you say your grandad was?'

Jackson moving again. From flower to flower. Never staying still. ‘Isn't he a hundred or something?'

‘Almost,' Megan answered. ‘He's ninety-six next birthday.'

‘Wow! That's just
so
ancient! My great-grandad might have been a hundred now if he hadn't died.'

It had never really occurred to Megan that Grandad was particularly ancient; old, yes, older than anyone else's grandfather, but so what? He was just Grandad.

‘I can't work this out,' Jackson was saying. ‘He's nearly a hundred years old and you're, what, fifteen?'

‘Fourteen. Almost fourteen,' Megan said, pleased he'd thought her older. He looked up at the ceiling, nodding as if counting or singing to himself. He did a lot of that, as if he had music permanently playing inside his head. ‘And your mum's how old?'

Megan did a sum in her head. ‘Forty-seven, nearly. She says Grandad married late.'

‘Class!'

‘What? Marrying late?'

Jackson was looking at her seriously. ‘You wouldn't lie, right?' Megan shook her head wondering what he was thinking, where this was leading. ‘So he was still at it when he was pushing
fifty
.'

Megan thought for a second or two. Then it dawned on her. ‘Jackson!'

He grinned and punched the air. ‘That's some going!'

‘Don't! Leave him alone!' Megan buried her face in her hands, hair folding down around them. ‘That's my grandad you're talking about!' Then she was laughing, despite everything. It was terrible, this talk about him doing THAT, but she couldn't stop. Her sides ached, her face burned, her eyes streamed, but it was so good to have the old Jackson back.

At last Megan was able to look at him without giggling. He was gazing at her, eyes half closed, with a smile on his face, as if he knew all about stuff like that, as if he was thinking about it right now.

She pushed a hand through her hair, taking it clumsily back off her cheek. Maybe he was going to put his arm around her again, here in the middle of the corridor with people appearing out of nowhere. She met his gaze. She wouldn't mind at all, even if the whole hospital turned up. If he wanted to. She wouldn't stop him.

He was still smiling, as if he'd always known this.

Megan frowned, her heart giving a tiny stutter. Something felt odd. She gazed at her hand for a long moment, hardly knowing what had happened. A tangle of hair was wrapped around her fingers, the sort of tangle you get when you clean a hairbrush.

For a second she wondered who it belonged to, wondered how it got there.

Then she knew.

‘Jackson?' she whispered, trembling. She held up her hand, and watched the smile die on his lips.

‘Right!' Jackson said. ‘Back to the ward.' He pulled her from the chair, his hand strong around hers.

Megan stared down at the pure black fingers wrapped around hers. Her hand looked pale and tiny in his. It felt weak. It didn't belong to her. It was his now, not hers. Nothing belonged any more.

Everything about her was sucked out and she was wobbly with it, from her knees to her stomach, to her heart. Even her breath came out in little pieces.

‘It'll be all right,' Jackson said, his voice quiet, assured. A squeeze of her hand. ‘It's what happens with chemo.'

A group of young doctors appeared, laughing like a flock of gulls. They all seemed to have heads full of hair, all colours, thick, glossy. The sort you could run your fingers through and not have it fall out. Safe. Real. Healthy.

Not a bald one among them.

Their shirts looked brand new, as if they'd just bought them, and were neatly tucked in, nothing flapping or untidy. Curved round their necks were shining stethoscopes; their pockets bulged with notebooks.

Everything about them was fresh and gleaming. Unused. Like new cars in showrooms, the sort everybody wants to buy.

Megan felt full of dents and scratches. A car nobody would want to buy. How dare they laugh when her hair was falling out? Couldn't they see she had cancer? Couldn't they see what was happening? What kind of doctors were they, not noticing things?

‘Students,' Jackson declared, his eyes following them as they swooped round the bend in the corridor, disappearing out of view. ‘They go round in packs.'

‘Let's go,' Megan said, still clinging on to Jackson's hand. She wanted to be back in the safety of the ward, the comfort of her own room. She wanted to hide under the bedclothes and never come out again. ‘Please, Jackson. Let's go now.'

Somehow she managed not to cry on the way. Somehow, she managed to put one foot in front of the other and not think about anything. Somehow she managed to take breaths in and take breaths out. Worse than exams. Worse than the dentist's.

They got back to the ward without saying anything much at all.

Megan was almost pleased to see the elephant's pink toenails, almost happy to hear a baby scream and a telephone ring.

And there was Siobhan.

‘So, you two …' the nurse paused, glancing at their joined hands.

Megan tried to slide her fingers free from Jackson's, but he just gripped more tightly. She looked up at his face and saw defiance there, in the set of his mouth, and the way he looked down at Siobhan.

‘Back at last, hey? I think Sister was expecting you a
wee
bit earlier than this …' Jackson was about to speak, but Siobhan stopped him. ‘Don't tell me where you've been. I'll only have to report it. And next time … don't be away so long.' A pause when they all seemed to look at each other and not know what to say. At last Siobhan smiled at them. ‘Never mind. We're having the changeover. See you later.'

Megan had to go, had to think about what was happening to her hair, had to cry. Desperately. She trailed her hand from Jackson's. The emptiness felt like pain in her fingers.

‘I want to go to sleep,' she said.

Jackson glanced up and down the corridor and seemed satisfied. ‘Don't, not yet. I'll fix it.'

‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘Don't worry.' Jackson put his arm around her shoulders, headed for her door and pushed her gently through it.

Gazing around her room, everything was so familiar, everything in its right place. The locker by her bed, the cupboard on the wall behind, the call button. The door to the shower and toilet, slightly ajar, the way she'd left it. The curtains still hanging from the rail, flapping ever so slightly, nudged by the breeze from outside.

Nothing had changed since she left to go with Jackson.

So why her? Not everyone's hair fell out. She'd read it somewhere. Hadn't she? So why couldn't she be one of the ones it didn't happen to?

She didn't want to lose her hair, but the proof was still there grasped between her fingers. It was coming out.

Perhaps she shouldn't have gone anywhere, perhaps if she'd not wandered down old corridors it wouldn't have happened. Yet Sister Brewster had said to go, to keep Jackson out of trouble, so how did that work?

Before long, he was back. ‘So … everyone's busy …' he said. ‘Let's shave it off!' He waved a razor in the air, the sort Dad used on his face. With all the blades.

‘My hair?'

Jackson nodded as if to an idiot and waited. He was in no rush, it seemed.

‘Mum'll go mad,' Megan said, struck by the awful inevitability of it all. ‘And, anyway,' she added,
looking at the razor suspiciously, ‘where'd you get that?'

‘Never mind! Your head's going to start looking like an old mat. So we'll sort it before that happens. Your mum'll be pleased, you'll see. What's it to be? The cool, bare look, or mouldy mat?' Then he stopped. ‘Scissors. Oh, and you need to be on one of those chairs.'

Out he went again.

Megan sat on one of the two visitor's chairs. The sun slanted in through the window. It felt warm on her skin but it couldn't shift the chill which had begun to seep into her bones.

She wanted Mum and Dad, she wanted Grandad, she wanted Gemma and Stacey and Frieda, she wanted anyone who could possibly stop this happening, take her away and hide her. But they were all in another bubble somewhere, floating in another sky, and there was no way to reach them.

‘Ready?' Jackson was back again with scissors.

‘Not really,' she said. ‘Just do it.' What did it matter? What did anything matter?

‘You'll look great,' Jackson said, pulling another chair over. He sat behind her, his long legs like armrests at either side of her. ‘Really, you will.'

She shook her head. She'd look terrible.

‘Let's have a look at you.' He ran his fingers
through her hair, like a hairdresser, assessing. ‘You could sell this lot, you know.'

‘Yeah. Right.' Who'd want the hair of someone with cancer?

She felt dirty. Contaminated. It made her hunch up her shoulders in a kind of shame.

‘Hey, come on.' Jackson's fingers moved over her scalp. They felt cool. Relaxing. He was massaging her skin with slow gentle circles, round her ears, up and over the curves and bumps of her skull, over the place where her tumour was supposed to be, up towards her temples, weaving something like sleep into her. A delicious dizziness swept through her and she felt herself almost tipping over. She clamped her hands on to his thighs, which tightened around her as if Jackson knew she was going to fall, enclosing her, breathing her in, so that there was nothing left of her, as if he was saving her from harm.

Megan closed her eyes, resting her head against his hands, allowing it to be pulled towards him. She let it lie against his chest, and felt him under her skin, all the bones of him, his breastbone, the knots of his ribs, and his heart, beating strongly beneath it all, while hers felt quite dead.

Then she let out a great sob, something which rose right from inside her, like a scream suppressed.

‘Do it, Jackson.'

‘It's OK,' he said. ‘Ssssh.'

And he began to cut.

As the first bits of hair fell into her lap Megan picked them up, allowing herself to examine them properly. How soft they were, baby soft almost, and so much colour. She thought her hair was brown, just plain ordinary brown, yet each strand looked different somehow now that it was parted from her head, now that it was lying in the palm of her hand. It was as if each one had taken up a new colour, red or gold, as well as brown.

And she was just noticing it now.

More hair fell in clumps, amputated from her head, bits of it drifting to the floor. Jackson was singing as he snip, snip, snipped away.

No more fussing with her hair. No more bobbles. Or scrunchies. No more shampoo or conditioner. No frizz, no straighteners.

She steadied herself again, clutching at his legs.

Another handful was tugged away from her head, the blades of the scissors chomping around it, as if the work was too hard for them, her hair too thick.

Megan's throat began to ache and wouldn't swallow. Her eyes blurred, so that all around her faded into a watery haze. Nothing felt real any more.

Scissor blades opened and closed, opened and closed, unstoppable as they crunched through her hair. What would they say, when they saw her? Mum, Dad, Grandad, her friends. They'd look and see … not her. She wasn't Megan any more.