Anthem for Jackson Dawes (13 page)

She wondered what it was like to be so rare that they couldn't work you out, and to have all sorts of treatments, and things written about you. Wouldn't you just get sick of it? Wouldn't you just want to go away somewhere and never come back?

Shaking these thoughts out of her head she smiled at him. ‘You're allowed to come in and distract me. I'm not going to enjoy this next bit of my life.'

‘Like the rest's been just one long party. Wig's good.'

Megan gave her head a shake, fanning the silver wig across her face in a movement she'd tried out on Gemma and the Twins. She'd even got herself a pink one, as Kipper had suggested.

‘I've got loads. I can be different every day if I want to.' She climbed on to the bed to give Jackson
her chair. He didn't sit down, but propped himself against the door frame. ‘Want to see the red one? Mum says I look like a lollipop in it.'

‘Megan Bright, Megan Silver,' he said in a singsong way. ‘No, that's the one for me. Does she forgive me for trying to scalp you?'

‘
She
has. Don't know about Sister Brewster.'

‘I'm out of jail for that. Took a while, though. I'll have to do something else very bad and see what happens.'

Megan narrowed her eyes. ‘What? You've done everything there is. If I believe what you tell me. Not that I do, half the time.'

Jackson put on a wounded face. ‘Nope, there's got to be something …'

‘You're in hospital, remember?'

‘And you think that's going to stop me …?'

She had to concede that it probably wouldn't. Jackson was gazing at her, smiling.

‘What?'

‘Well …' he sat down on the bed. ‘Shove over, Wig Girl. Sometimes I jus' have to lay me down …'

‘Not here you can't.' Megan shot a glance at the door.

Jackson was stretching out on her bed, as if it were his own, though it seemed even more like a baby bed, he was so tall. He kicked off his sandals, laid his head back on her pillow, and tugged his hat over his face.

‘Why not?' he said.

‘Because …' Megan pulled up his hat so that she could see him. ‘Because …' He was grinning at her. The hat dropped back down. ‘Oh, never mind.'

She shoved over.

The bed was an island. All about them were sharks and things that chomp on bones. There were storms, and heat which dried you out till plates of skin dropped off and there was nothing to drink. Or so Jackson said.

‘I like it here,' he added. ‘Much better than a ward. I might just stay for ever. This is a place for stories.'

Footsteps approached, then passed her door. Megan tried to work out who they belonged to but couldn't. It didn't matter.

‘Want to hear one?' Jackson said.

‘Do I look like a nine-year-old?'

‘It'll be good, promise. And I need to practise on you.' Jackson rolled over and lobbed his hat on to the chair. His face was close to hers. He was looking straight at her, as if he remembered another time, in the darkness of the visitors' waiting room, and might want to kiss her again.

She swallowed. ‘Go on, then.'

He lay on his back again. There were a few seconds of silence, as if he was preparing himself, gazing into the distance as if another world lay there. ‘There was a famine in the land,' he began slowly, lowering his voice, making it sound much, much older, deeper, yet lilting like the tune from a
song Megan had never heard before. ‘And for months, no rain.' He raised his eyes as if searching for clouds, praying for rain.

Where did he get that voice? Making him sound so different – someone from another place, another time. This wasn't the boy she knew. This was an old man from somewhere back in history. How did he do that?

‘Day after day, the sun burn in the cloudless skies.' Jackson raised his hand to the ceiling, made a sun of it. ‘The grass parch, like a coffee berry.'

Coffee berry? What was one of those? Like the beans they grind in cafés?

‘The trees also parch, and brown, same way, the plants in the trees start to wither away.' His hand became a tree, dying, shrivelling up, with no water to drink. ‘There was a famine in the land.' He sat up straight and stopped.

Megan beamed at him. ‘How d'you do that?'

Jackson gave her a sheepish smile. ‘Just listen, just copy,' he answered, in that slow, old way. He went back to his usual voice. ‘I'm trying to sound the way it would in Jamaica, around the fire, at night. No TV, no radio, just stories, under the stars.' He looked once more at the ceiling as if it were sky, then he grinned and the spell was broken. ‘Mum says that's how it would've been. Probably, anyway. If Jackson T. Dawes was still alive, he would've known.' Jackson let out a small laugh. Wistful almost. ‘Bet he was full of stories.'

‘Do you know them off by heart, the ones you tell?'

‘Yeah, or I make bits up. As long as it gets to the end. I tell them in a pub near us. Sunday afternoons. They light candles and get it all atmospheric and everything. And there's these kids who just love listening.'

‘Are you not going to finish?' Wanting to hear him again, wanting the magic of the sound. Feeling like a kid.

‘I'm just learning it. It's hard to keep the accent all the way through a long story.'

‘In that case, you have to go,' Megan said, leaning up on her arm.

A frown. ‘Why?'

‘We're going to be in trouble if anyone walks in.'

Jackson's face lit up. ‘Good. I like trouble.'

‘But you're not going to finish the story,' she insisted, ‘so there's no good reason for you to be here, getting into trouble.'

Jackson sighed. ‘You're right. None whatsoever, Wig Girl.' He took a handful of silver hair, pulled it towards him and smiled right into her eyes, so that all she could see were the lights in them, lazy and bright and just for her. Then he dropped his gaze, leaned over so that his head almost touched hers, and brought the hair to his lips, before letting the gleaming strands slowly drift from his fingers.

‘I like this,' he said, picking up some more. ‘Megan Silver, Megan Bright.'

He was so close she could breathe in the smell of him, the soap, the shower-gel fragrance.

Just outside, the ward was doing what the ward did. The machines clicking on and off, phones ringing and being answered, babies crying and being shushed, mothers lying tired on their children's beds, draped gently around them, because they didn't want to leave them alone. Everything the same as always outside her room, with nurses walking past her open door, too busy to think about what was happening inside.

‘We're going to be in trouble,' she said at last.

‘Again?' Jackson sighed in a dramatic sort of way, propped himself up on his arm and looked down at her once more. ‘But nobody's paying any attention,' he went on. ‘What's the point of breaking all the rules if no one catches you at it?'

Megan turned to look at him, at his face, his lips, taking in the smoothness of his head, the gleaming skin, wanting to trail her fingers over him, yet not wanting to in case it would make the dream go away.

‘I think something spectacular is called for. So …' Jackson began to tug at the fastener on his jeans. ‘Now, this is going to bring them running in!'

‘What're you doing?' Megan shrieked, jumping off the bed. This was no dream. ‘Stop it! Stop it!'

Jackson burst out laughing. ‘It's all right, Wig Girl. I'm not that daft. Neither are you.'

Megan flopped down into her chair and began to
laugh till she was almost weak with it. She stopped when she noticed Jackson gazing at her and was caught like a rabbit in the headlights of a car, suspended in the moment, with nothing before, nothing beyond, just waiting, wanting to be trapped for ever in it.

‘Another time,' Jackson said. ‘Another place. And it would be perfect.'

Megan looked away. Feeling her cheeks burn. Yes. Perfect.

‘Got anything to eat? I'm starved.'

‘What?' Megan blinked, confused. Did he never settle, was he never still? Was this all just a joke with him? ‘In there.'

Jackson made his way around to her locker, but it seemed to take a lot of effort. He stumbled, catching his drip stand on the leg of her bed.

‘Watch out!' Megan cried, as if he was about to fall.

He gave her a look she'd not seen before, a look which said,
Don't fuss, I'm fine
. He began to rummage through her things. ‘No. Nothing here. Never mind; I'm not supposed to have anything to eat, anyway.'

Megan caught her breath. ‘What?'

‘You're not the only one going for an operation. I'm having one this afternoon.'

‘Jackson, stop messing about.' She tried to sound as if this was just another of his jokes, but when she saw his face, she knew. ‘Are you? Really?'

‘Two o'clock.'

‘I'd have just let you eat anything you wanted. Why didn't you say something before?' He was grinning at her. ‘It's not funny.'

‘Guess what I did this morning before Rooster arrived?' Megan refused to acknowledge him. He dropped his voice. ‘Found the mortuary. Full of stiffs. All in fridges.'

‘You watch too much telly.'

‘Have it your own way.' Jackson glanced at the window and frowned.

‘What now?'

Jackson lowered his voice once more. ‘The sun done gone away, the storm's coming to the land.' He grabbed his hat, gestured to the window with it and left.

Megan glanced at the sky. It was a solid grey slab, full of rain.

It seemed like hours since Jackson went down for his operation. For a time Megan sat on her bed, trying to draw, but nothing would come. Her mobile chimed. Gemma sent her a whole line of
s ready for the next day, and the Twins told her to check out the surgeon. He might be nice.

They still didn't know about Jackson. Megan hadn't told them. She couldn't decide why, but every time she thought about saying anything, the words just seemed to dry up. Right now, she was glad they didn't know. The Twins would be sending never-ending texts and she'd have to send never-ending answers.

Megan checked the time. She listened to some tunes on her iPod. She tried on all her wigs, settling
for the silver one again. It didn't bring Jackson back to the ward any quicker.

Mum popped in with some cards from various relatives and friends. They went through them together, but Megan couldn't concentrate, hardly seeing the names, hardly reading the messages. She sent Mum away, ignoring the fact that she hadn't been there an hour, ignoring the fact that she looked hurt, and wandered down to Jackson's room, standing there for what seemed like for ever, willing him to come back.

‘He'll be away for quite a bit, Megan.' Sister Brewster had appeared at her side suddenly, gentle but firm. ‘Come on, now.'

Her own room was no comfort. Right then she hated it, hated the confinement of it. She listened to the rain as it thundered against the window pane, watched it sheeting down the glass, watched great grey puddles, like lakes, grow on the flat roofs.

Why was everything taking so long? He should have been back before now, shouldn't he?

Wandering up and down the corridor later, Megan was aimless as litter. It was a busy day on the ward, with new children coming in, fretful and disoriented, their parents wandering about in a lost, shocked sort of way. Someone new was in Kipper's bed.

She needed to escape. ‘Can I go down to the shop? I want to get a magazine,' she said, marching straight to the Nurses' Station, which was milling with staff.

Sister Brewster looked up from the computer in the corner. ‘Of course you can, Megan. Just don't go wandering off to places you shouldn't. The operating theatre is strictly out of bounds, as you know, and so is the Recovery Room, which is where Jackson is now.' She gave her a secretive sort of smile.

Megan's eyes filled, but her heart gave a leap of joy. ‘He's finished?'

‘Yes,' Sister Brewster said, ‘but there's a while to go yet. Off you go.'

The shop was on the bottom floor, not far from the main entrance to St Peregrine's. It was a small place with two or three circular tables. Huddled around one sat a mother and her two children. The woman stared into her cup, hair resting limply on her shoulders, fingernails bitten right down. The children, twin boys, sucked away at bottles of juice, having some kind of battle, nudging at each other with their feet, under the table exchanging sly looks.

‘Stop that, now,' their mother hissed. ‘Or you'll not get those sweets.'

A third child lay grizzling in a buggy pushed in beside them. She was sucking at a huge dummy, like Maggie Simpson, her eyes closed, nose wet. Now and then her fist came up to rub at her face, causing it to screw up into an ugly mask.

As Megan walked past, both boys stopped and gazed at her, wide-eyed. Their mother turned to see
why. Megan gave her a grin, shook her head so that the silver wig fanned out around her.