It was definitely Dermot's trainer; I recognised the popular brand's

colour and shape still evident on the side of the mangled sole. Putting

my pistol on the floor, I held the pen in my left hand and Dermot's sole

in my right.

Looking from left to right, I noted the chewed top of the pen and

compared it to the bottom of Dermot's shoe, also chewed. The thought

of a possible correlation between the two put me right back on that

coaster.

I felt myself ascending, filling with fear. And not having Dad to

lean into, panic rose, making my body shake.

There was a small recess in the wall, and I shuffled into it. Leaning

back, the small space contained my tremble. I squatted on my hunkers,

put my head between my knees and waited, hoping the shake would

soon leave me.

A 'crunching' sound interrupted my shake – I knew what it was.

Looking up, I saw a black shoed foot on my pistol, its holy ammo

pooling outwards towards me from the broken barrel.

"Gerard is this yours?" asked my Uncle Jim, Aunt Margaret's

husband. He held my crushed pistol out to me.

I took it, "Yes, it's mine."

"I've stood on it, don't worry, I'll buy you another," he said, a look

of remorse on his face.

Jim was a kind man, always cheerful with a sunny disposition.

Seeing his guilt, I at once shot to his defence, "Don't worry, Jim, it's

my fault for leaving it there." His appearance soothed me, and my

shakes abated.

As I stepped out of the recess, Jim was bathed in light from the

window, which illuminated his deathly colour, "Jim, aren't you well?

Is that why you're here?" I asked. He shook his head, "I'm a bit shook,"

he replied. The resonance I had in his response spoke to me, "I was too,

I was shaking in that corner cos I stood on this, and you stood on my

pistol," I said, handing him Dermot's sole.

He took it from me, I noted a slight tremor in his hand, "Dermot's

had an accident alright."

I couldn't contain myself, "Is he dead?"

Jim's slight smile eased me, "No, he's not."

"Is he damaged?"

"He is that. How badly we won't know until the Doctor tells us."

"What happened?" I asked, eager to know everything.

Jim pointed over to a wooden bench by the window, "Let's sit

down."

"What's happened?" I repeated, anxious.

Jim sighed a mix of frustration and guilt, "I was off to work on the

Honda. Dermot heard the revving, and didn't he jump on the back of

the bike when I took off – his foot caught the spokes." He lowered his191

voice, "They ripped off his heel."

I jumped up, "Why'd they do that?" I asked, taking off into the ward

to find my footless brother. Jim grabbed me, "Not the doctors; the

spokes of the wheel ripped off his heel."

I sat back down, "Will they chop off his foot?"

Jim let out a noise, like a hiccup, "Sweet Jesus, I hope not," he

whispered, worried.

Instinctively I made to comfort him, "It's not your fault, Jim, you

know what our Dermot's like. He's always jumping on the back of

anything with an engine."

He nodded, "No matter, he's in some pain, I feel for the fella."

The sound of approaching footfall interrupted our conversation and

we stood to meet it.

In a sparkling white uniform, it was a nurse with a matching box-

like hat pinned to the ball of her head. She scurried hurriedly towards

us; her pace and pained face caused Jim and I to exchange worried

looks.

"It's Jim, is it?" she asked, not noticing me. Jim's face tightened

with apprehension. There was a little watch pinned to her chest. She

lifted it, looked at it, then turned her head to look back into the ward.

"Well?" said Jim.

She shot back with a nervous smile, "Yes, sorry," she looked at me,

"is this Dermot's wee sister?"

Jim put his arm on my shoulder, "It's his brother; he needs a

haircut," he said, his words and gesture designed to spare my feelings.

The familiar flame sparked my face, causing it to heat and redden,

shimmering in shame; I looked at the floor to hide it. She gave no

apology for misgendering me. Instead, she asked, "What's your name?"

"Gerard," I said, gazing at my shoes.

"Alright, Gerard, you sit down there while I take your uncle Jim in

to see Dermot," she said, her manner abrupt.

When I looked up, they were gone, leaving me paddling in a pool

of dread and shame.

I dreaded the idea that Dermot's damage was connected to or caused

by Maria's possession, while my shame for being mistaken for a girl

was laced with anger. And although the mistake was hers, the anger was

once again, for myself. Dermot's boyhood was never questioned, let

alone mistaken; it was a source of great shame that mine was. It felt like

I was faulty, and I wondered if I could be fixed, like the way I hoped

Dermot was being fixed somewhere within the Surgical.

I didn't sit down as she told me to. Instead, I stooped and picked up

my broken pistol. Examining it closely, I saw with care and skill I'd be

able to repair it with glue and Sellotape. I wrapped it in a dirty tissue

and placed it in my pocket. Looking at Penman's pen, I knew I could

do the same with it, so I nestled it next to the pistol in my pocket.

Repairing the pen and pistol gave me a purpose that supplied some

respite from my personal turmoil and Maria's possession. I had an

affinity for broken things, even ones beyond repair. It gave me comfort

to keep the lost and broken with me.193

......

Every minute stretched like an hour while I sat waiting for Jim to

return with news about my brother. Becoming fidgety, I began to jump

up and peer into the ward every few seconds. But all I saw were

bemused men looking at me oddly from their sick beds.

An oddity, that's what I was to them. But right then, I didn't care,

for I wanted to know how Dermot was. With every passing minute, I

imagined the worse for Dermot's heel.

So, when Jim eventually appeared from the ward, my relief was

acute, "Is he alright?"

"Well, he could be better."

"What does that mean?"

"They've stitched his heel up, but the healing will come from him

having to sit still for a good while; you know Dermot, that'll only

happen if we tie him to the bed," he said, with a smirk.

Happy he was fixed, positivity lifted me, "That's alright, Jim, he'll

keep still for a few hours."

"We're talking days, maybe weeks, Gerard." He changed tack,

"Now listen, I have to go and ask Michael to come in and collect him,

then get off to work; I'm already late." He dropped to my level, "I've

had a bit of a scare there and wouldn't like to be carrying you back on

the bike. Will you mind waiting for Michael for a lift back to your

granny's?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, not wanting to burden him anymore.194

Jim let out a relieved sigh, "Good lad, and we'll get Kathleen to

give that mop a good shearing," he said, rustling my hair before

disappearing into the darkened stairwell.

......

Outside I breathed in great lungsful of air, wanting to purge myself

of the antiseptic odour, the Surgical smell.

Needing to immerse myself in somewhere atmospherically opposite

to the hospital, I walked the few yards to Hickey's sweet shop. I felt the

few pence in my pocket and opened the door.

The magnificent Betty greeted me with gusto, "Gerard, lovely to

see you." Her manner at once lifted me. "What can I get for you?" she

asked, moving slightly aside to give a full view of the glass jars filled

with every kind of sweet delights that lined her shelves. At that moment,

all my woes fell away, and I literally became the kid in a candy store,

eyeing an array of treats as colourful as Betty Hickey herself.

Eventually, my eyes rested on the jar that contained pale, powdery

pink spheres, "Can I have this much worth of strawberry bonbons,

please."

Betty twisted the top of a white paper bag, brimming with bonbons,

"Now," she said, handing them to me. And the kindly tone in which she

said that one word said a multitude to me, "Thank You," I said, in

response.

Turning to leave, Betty called after me, "Gerard, come here to me."

She put her arms on the counter and leaned towards me, her head level

with mine as she said, "Will you do me a favour?"

"Yes," I said, happy to help Betty.

"A wee birdy tells me you don't like your hair; well, I'm telling you

it's beautiful – don't ever cut it too short." She gave me a lollipop, "Do

you know the story of Samson?" she asked.

"Yes, I read it in our Bible in Manchester."

She smiled, "Well, you know so, that head of hair's your strength."

I didn't answer. All I gave was a confused smile – I considered my

hair my greatest weakness.

......

Outside I took heed of Betty's favour. I was prepared to endure

being mistaken for a girl – if it would give me strength.