Whistle Blower (16 page)

JIM WOKE UP gradually but kept his eyes firmly shut, not wanting to know where he was. His head was the first thing he felt. It hurt. He had fallen backwards, first hit it on his chair and then on the concrete floor. Then he felt his chest. It was as if someone was sitting on his rib cage, and his arm ached. At last he opened his eyes and saw four faces looking down at him. Three were brown, the other was very pale. Beyond the faces, the ceiling fan still turned as if nothing had happened.

Then he felt the pale faced stranger, the red nosed man with the freckles, doing something to his tee shirt, twisting it, trying to loosen it. He felt the man touch his neck with hot, fat fingers and then the same hand went to his wrist. Jim was sweating and uncomfortable, but it was the pain in his chest that worried him. He could feel his heart beating, or trying to. He could hear it pounding and his ears were throbbing, like earlier that morning. Everything hurt, and he felt so hot and sweaty.

He tried to move, to speak, but the same pink hand with the short ginger hairs and blotches came on to his forehead and pressed him back down. So he lay there waiting, wincing, sweating and frowning. Then the red-tipped nose came closer and the fat lips, inches from his face, said something. "Are you OK, now? To be sure, you just gave me a fright. Just lie there, don't even try to move just now. Take it easy. Sure you'll be OK."

Through all the dizziness and disorientation, Jim recognized an Irish accent.

The three brown faces still looked down from a much longer way up. One of them was Lek, holding his hand to his mouth. He moved away, then came back. Lek seemed worried about his best customer and business adviser and Jim, through all the discomfort, wondered whether he might have taught Lek too much about quality assurance, profits and investment.

"Just take it easy. Let's put this under your head, OK? Sure it made a loud thud when it hit the ground. You'll have a mighty bruise there by tomorrow I expect." 

Jim did as instructed. Something soft was pushed behind his head like the luxury pillow at the hotel in Amsterdam and slowly the rest of the pain started to ease and the world stopped turning round, although the fan above wasn't helping. Meanwhile the Irish one seemed to be giving instructions to Lek because Lek disappeared. He ran and there was a loud clatter as if he too had collided with something. Someone was using a mobile phone though whether to summon medical help or to gather more spectators was not clear. And Jim could do nothing. For the second time that day he felt old, helpless and very vulnerable.

The Irish one fussed a bit more, adjusted whatever softness was now under his head and neck and Jim wanted to speak to say sorry for the inconvenience, that he would be OK in a moment and would be on his way, thank you very much. But he had a feeling that there was a bit more in store for him just yet before he could go back to the peace and comfort of his studio, the house, the veranda and the garden.

So he closed his eyes, tried to forget where he was and listened to the sounds of the world he thought he might be leaving. He heard incoherent muttering, a motorcycle outside, a tractor chugging past on the road, a dog barking, the ceiling fan's rhythmic squeaking above and then he remembered he had once decided he would like to die lying in a summer meadow in England, surrounded by fresh green grass and buttercups whilst looking up at a blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds and filled with swifts and swallows. That his passing might happen on a rough concrete floor in Thailand had never occurred to him.

It took twenty minutes for the cream and green ambulance to arrive. By that time a small crowd of fascinated onlookers had formed outside Lek's cafe, some sitting astride motorcycles as if a quick getaway might be necessary They watched as a brown-skinned, rough-looking, bearded old 'farang' was first attended to on the ground by a young man in a loose green shirt and white trousers and then put on a stretcher and loaded into the vehicle which then sped off, a red light flashing on its roof. They then dispersed, their morbid and short-term interest in witnessing what, for all they knew, may have been the final minutes of suffering of a fellow human being well-satisfied.

It was a day later that Jim opened his eyes and started to come to terms with his situation again. His room looked clean, organized, efficient and quiet except for the hum of air conditioning, bleeps from machines and the soft, squeaking shoes of staff on a polished floor.

He was wired up to a machine with flashing lights and a plastic tube that ran from a fluid bag above to disappear beneath a dressing on his wrist. An oxygen mask covered his face, but the air was good and cool and he felt relaxed. He also appeared to have been undressed by someone and re-dressed in a sort of blue nightshirt. But the real shock came when a nurse came in, removed the mask and said something to him in Thai. As he raised his only free hand to scratch his face, he discovered that much of his beard had gone. From six inches or more it now felt little more than two. Perhaps it had been necessary but he had lived with it for a long time and the discovery was like waking to an amputation.

It was on the second day, sometime in the afternoon, that Jim's visitor arrived.              

He had been lying imagining the sunset from the hillside behind his house and, at first, he thought it was the nurse, but it was a much heavier squeaking sound and so he kept his eyes firmly shut.

His visitor saw the closed eyes but also saw them moving behind the lids. He came closer, stopped and waited as Jim opened them, one at a time, and recognized the pink face, large white hands and ginger hair. It was the Irishman, but Jim was still nervous of strangers and had got out of the habit of receiving people he did not know.

"Do you recognize me?" the big, ginger one said coming closer, his accent obvious but the sound quite pleasant on the ear. Jim looked at him, nodded but said nothing. "Jesus, what have they done to the beard? Are you sure it’s the same fella?" He smiled but there was no visible response from Jim.

"I hope you don't mind me coming, but for sure you gave me a real fright the other morning. There I was just about to swallow the first of the day and, by Jesus, what did I see out of the corner of my eye but a man collapsing in front of me."

The Irishness of the words were almost enough to make Jim smile, but he was not ready for smiling or interaction with a stranger and so he mumbled a "Thank you."

"Not at all.” There was a pause. “So, how are you? I called the hospital to check and they told me you were not dead but under observation, whatever that meant. Had a mite of a problem trying to make myself understood on the phone you know, but I managed. You know how it is." He looked down at Jim and frowned. "They said you were on your own, no visitors if you know what I mean. So I thought, well, the man might need a bit of a hand. They said they thought you were English. Is that right?"

Jim felt mildly touched. He nodded.

"Can I sit down? Do you mind?" The big man pulled up the only chair but then sat at some distance from the bed with his back to the second window. But the brightness from outside meant that Jim only saw a black silhouette. "So, how do you feel? How long did you own the beard?"

Jim turned his head to face the silhouette. "I miss it," he mumbled.

The Irishman then put his head on one side. "Jesus," he said. "To be sure you can't see me sitting here. The sun outside is very bright today." 

He got up, moved his chair closer to the side of the bed and sat down again. Jim could now see he was about fifty years old, well built but with a widening middle and probably the same tee shirt and shorts as yesterday. The Irishman folded big arms across his stomach and as their eyes met for the first time, Jim stirred beneath the white sheet and tried easing himself into a more dignified and respectable position to meet a stranger.

"I would like to thank you for whatever it was you did for me. It was an unusual predicament. I don't normally collapse in public."

The Irishman looked at him, noted the accent and shook his head. "Not at all. Lucky I was around. I'm sure you would have done the same for me. But I'm not sure if the ambulance would have come so quick if I hadn't kicked the bloody barman. It seemed to me, he was more interested in watching you gasping for air than doing anything to help."

It was Jim's turn to note something. He'd have a word with Lek sometime about his treatment of sick customers. It was never good for business.

"The name's Tom, Tom Hanrahan. I'm from Dublin."

Jim moved his hand from his face towards the hand that was outstretched and his artist's eye then noticed the color contrast—dark brown hand against white. And the shape—a sinewy hand against a podgy one, as his mother used to say. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance," he said and briefly took the hand. Then there was another silence.

"So, what's your name? To be sure you must have one."

"My name is, uh, Jim. I'm not used to welcoming visitors to my bedside."

The words were odd, the voice baritone and clear, the accent straight from popular English films of the fifties and, for some reason, the Duke of Edinburgh sprang to Tom Hanrahan’s Irish mind. It was pleasant on the ear for all that and he waited for more. Nothing seemed forthcoming so, to encourage him, he said, "Jim. Well that's good enough for me. Tom and Jim. Doesn't sound as though either of our parents had much imagination but I reckon you can get by without too fancy a name. Did they give you a middle name by any chance? They dubbed me Patrick after my father, so it’s Tom Pat Hanrahan. Can you do anything better than Pat, Jim?"

"It may interest you to know that I, also, was named after my father."              

"And what might that have been, Jim"

"William, so I suppose it's Jim Bill. Nothing imaginative as you've noted."

"So what are you up to in these parts, Jim?"

Jim was thinking, worried about giving too much away to a stranger. "I live here."

"Yes, I thought as much. The tan is a bit of a giveaway, Jim. I know a few folk who'd pay a fortune for a tan like that—women mostly. They'd even spray it on. And how long have you lived here?"             

The small talk was getting too much. "A few years."

"Obviously you like it."

"It has its attractions."

"And what might they be, Jim? What do you do with your time?"

"I paint a little."

"You're an artist?"

"I try to be."

"So what do you paint, Jim?"

"I find natural subjects of most interest."

"Well that's a fine thing. I like to go fishing, myself. Have a friend in Donegal. We often go fishing together. I like the peace and quiet. Nature's a wonderful treatment for the frustrations of modern living, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose it is but I must admit to not having had much to do with civilization for a while."

"Ah, you're a wise man for sure you are. So you're well known in the town so to speak?"

"Well I would hardly say I am well known. Easily recognized is probably a more appropriate expression."

"Ah, yes, the beard must have had a bit to do with that." Tom gave a wide grin to encourage Jim to keep going. He was finding him slightly hard work but he had decided to pay the visit so he thought he'd persevere a while longer. To his surprise, Jim spoke, unprompted.

"The locals seem to regard them as far too hot and perhaps a little unhygienic but of course I make a point of washing every day. I admit to feeling somewhat undressed in its shortened form." That was better, Jim decided. Far more polite and sociable.

"So when are they letting you out?"

"I am a little uncertain at present. The doctor has advised me to take things easy and I will need to take some medication for a while."

"So do you live alone, Jim?"

"Yes," Jim said and crept lower beneath the bed sheet.

Tom watched, suddenly unsure about the wisdom in visiting the old man. He, himself, hated intrusion without invitation. Jim had looked like a weather worn tramp in the café and now looked like a sick tramp in blue pajamas. There was a kind of secrecy about him but the way he spoke suggested a far deeper side. As he watched, Jim nestled down still further and Tom wondered if he was to be left watching a man fall to sleep. He coughed deliberately. "So," he said, "I'll be getting along then. Pleased to see you are OK now. Take care now." He started to get up but Jim stirred and turned his head.             

"You need not go just yet," he said quietly and then moved more abruptly as though trying to sit up. "That is unless you have other matters to attend to." Tom saw a look of concern on Jim's face as he was trying to ease himself up. He appeared weak. So Tom took his arm, the one that was not connected to the tube and helped him into a sitting position. "There you go now," and he pushed two pillows behind his head and sat back down to watch.

For the first time, Jim seemed to say something without being asked. His mouth twitched and his dry, cracked lips opened and shut slightly.             

"I am most grateful, you know, for your help and for coming to visit me—a complete stranger. I didn’t expect it." He paused. "I live alone and it can be a little quiet. I don't meet too many folk, particularly ones like yourself."

To Tom, it sounded as if he had been categorized, but that the category was not a bad one and Jim's sentences were getting noticeably longer.