for lost faces. A half moon hung from the corner of the turret as Humph swung the Capri through the open iron gates and braked theatrically on the gravel drive.
The cabbie killed the engine and fished in the glove compartment for one of his airport miniatures. Selecting a Grand Marnier, he passed Dryden a Bell’s whisky. This tiny ceremony, the pre-visit drink, was one of the rituals which held their lives together. Humph, unable to stop himself, readjusted the picture of his two daughters which hung from the rear-view mirror, an eloquent reminder that they had both, in their own ways, lost a family. Dryden flipped down the vanity mirror and ran a hand through his hair. His face, medieval in its austere symmetry, was usually enlivened by his vivid green eyes, but now they were dimmed by the approaching ordeal of the daily visit.
‘When will you see them next?’ he asked, nodding at the snapshot as he swigged the whisky.
Humph tapped the picture: ‘Sunday. The zoo.’
It was always the zoo. Humph was a man of set routine and little adventure. His wife had deserted him five years earlier, running off with a village postman. The cabbie had, unsuccessfully, contested her attempt to gain custody of the girls. The last time the family had held hands had been on the steps of the Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand: a brief show of solidarity for the sake of the children. Now Humph saw them once a month, at his wife’s convenience, for four hours. The girls, Humph indicated, found him an increasingly eccentric and peripheral character. One day, and perhaps one day soon, he would leave them to the rest of their lives without him. In the meantime he comforted himself by attempting to knock postmen off their bikes on a largely random basis.
‘So which zoo animal do you feel most affinity with?’ asked Dryden, reaching for a second bottle.
Humph gazed at his friend and sighed. ‘Guess.’
‘Gazelle?’ suggested Dryden.
‘Correct,’ said Humph, punching the play button to start his language tape and closing his eyes.
Dryden considered the brightly lit foyer doors of The Tower. Inside, the defining characteristic was plush silence, aided by the thick-pile carpets. Laura’s medical bills, which were considerable, were still met by the life insurance company following the accident at Harrimere Drain. They had had little choice but to pay for the best for their client since Laura’s accident had been front-page news across Fleet Street. As an actress who had enjoyed a brief spell of fame in the prime-time soap opera
Meanwhile the insurers paid the bills. But Dryden was under no illusions they would pay for ever. One day they would suggest a less expensive scheme of care which meant he would have to raid their savings, and then his in- laws’, to pay the bills. His guilt over using the private sector was mitigated by the knowledge that the NHS was hardly designed for long-term care, and every bed was needed, while every penny he and Laura spent reduced the undoubted wealth of the shareholders of the insurance company. The NHS would have long ago suggested Laura spent time ‘at home’ – whatever that meant. If he were feeling domestically minded he might spend twenty minutes a day on board his floating home outside his bunk bed. If home was any four walls around the person you loved, then home was Laura’s room in The Tower.
Dryden finished the second bottle and got out of the cab without a word. Humph settled back into what he fondly imagined was his ‘thinking’ posture – head back, hands held across his stomach, shoes off.
‘Good evening,’ said a voice in perfectly modulated Polish.
Humph repeated the phrase and fell instantly to sleep.
Dryden skipped through the automatic sliding doors of The Tower, enlivened by the alcohol, and smiled at the nurse on reception who looked up briefly, tried a professional smile which only got half done, and went back to her magazine.
Laura’s room was on the ground floor, overlooking The Tower’s extensive grounds. He always knocked, respecting her privacy, as did the nursing staff and doctors. She was propped up in bed, her auburn hair splayed across the pillow so perfectly that Dryden knew one of the nurses had done it, a tiny act of kindness which always made him want to weep. Medical equipment in the room was discreet but hi-tech. A batch of gaily coloured feeding tubes and waste pipes were attached to her left arm, ferrying in and out the nutrition she needed and the poisons which would kill her if they stayed in her bloodstream. Her face was obscured by the TV monitor of the COMPASS, a device which allowed her to communicate when she drifted, periodically, out of unconsciousness. A transparent air tube was snagged into her mouth allowing her to suck and blow commands to the computer, and to the screen which displayed a letter grid.
ABCD
EFGH
IJKLMN
OPQRST
UVWXYZ
Laura had become adept at moving the cursor over the letters using the air pipe to spell out sentences which the COMPASS was able to print out. Her emergence from the deep coma which had engulfed her after the crash had been glacial: five years of minor victories, heartbreaking setbacks and the occasional flash of pin-sharp consciousness.
The COMPASS provided a portal to the wider world. Using simple commands she could connect, via a broadband link, to the internet and send e-mails. Her messages were often disjointed and patchy but Dryden had written several introductory paragraphs for her which she could copy and use – explaining her circumstances and asking indulgence for any errors, misspellings or lapses in logic. A wireless network mobile phone attached to the computer allowed her to text messages as well – a medium she loved. She could also activate CDs and DVDs. Laura’s eye movement was erratic so the computer screen had to remain about three feet in front of her face during daytime hours – at night it was withdrawn on a flexible arm and the nurses laid her down, an arrangement she said she found restful, even if she didn’t remember sleeping.
Dryden entered the room and listened: silence, except for the tiny whistle of her breath and the faint gurgle of
