Part 20 (1/2)

But Peter was already there.

The rest of the team looked on in shocked silence as Peter crouched next to his violently shuddering friend. Peter covered him with his jacket, wiped the vomit from his mouth, glanced up at the faces leaning in all around him, and spoke softly, with uncharacteristic force.

'Somebody phone an ambulance.' He spoke very clearly so there could be no mistaking his words or their meaning. 'And tell them to hurry.'

52.

It is thought that up to 25 per cent of young adults carry the bacteria responsible for meningococcal meningitis without showing any symptoms of the disease. Of this 25 per cent, less than three in 100,000 will actually go on to develop a fully fledged inflammation of the meninges, the soft membrane surrounding the brain. Direct exchange of bodily fluids with a full-blown infectious case is the surest way to guarantee infection.

You have to be fairly unlucky to contract it.

The earliest signs are common enough to make diagnosis difficult. The symptoms (fever, headache and nausea, occasionally accompanied by a stiff neck) can easily be mistaken for cold or flu. Within anything from a few hours to a few days, however, infection of the spinal cord and the fluid surrounding the brain begins to present a new set of symptoms.

By this time, there is sometimes a rash on the palms of the hands, soles of the feet or chest that does not fade when pressed. Extreme sensitivity to light may occur. Mental disorientation, vomiting and high fever indicate that the process of septicaemia, or systemic blood poisoning, has begun.

Unfortunately, by the time any moderately observant fool can recognize these symptoms, time for the patient has begun to run out.

Justin presented unmistakably cla.s.sic symptoms of bacterial meningitis to the paramedics who arrived within ten minutes of his collapse, which meant he was in imminent danger of brain damage and death. Without moving him, they inserted a needle into the cephalic vein of his right arm, attached a drip of ampicillin and chloramphenicol, and prepared to transport him to hospital.

The medics took one look at the vomit on Peter's hands and clothes, and took him along for treatment. They left Coach with strict instructions to compile a list of boys at practice and present it to the health investigator who would contact him within the hour.

Phoning ahead to A & E with a report on Justin's condition, the medics lifted the unconscious boy and his drip on to a collapsible stretcher, transferred the stretcher to the back of the ambulance, shut the doors, activated the siren and set off. The entire incident, from the moment of Justin's collapse to the instant the ambulance disappeared from sight, took less than twenty minutes.

His teammates stood staring at the corner around which the ambulance had disappeared. If a flying saucer had landed on the track, taken one of them prisoner, and flown off into outer s.p.a.ce, they could not have felt more shocked. n.o.body knew how to react. Even Coach was speechless.

At the hospital, Peter telephoned his mother, who phoned Justin's parents. Within half an hour, they had all gathered at A & E.

Back at the held the subdued boys drifted off in ones and twos. For a longer time than was strictly necessary, Coach remained where he was, staring transfixed at the place on the ground where Justin had fallen.

Christ, he thought. My one big chance for next year's county champions.h.i.+p and the kid drops dead.

That b.a.s.t.a.r.d fate has one h.e.l.l of a sense of humour.

53.

In a darkened room, lying perfectly still on starched white sheets, his feverish body covered with a woven cotton hospital blanket, a drip attached to each arm, Justin lay in quarantine without the strength or the desire to move.

His parents were the only visitors allowed. Gowned and masked, they took turns sitting by his bedside in silence, reading books or newspapers, occasionally looking up when he stirred, greeting the silent nurses and aides who came every quarter-hour to check his blood pressure and temperature, conversing in whispers with the doctors, receiving explanations and cautious rea.s.surances with grateful, hopeful expressions.

Justin floated in a genial amniotic bath of drugs, low light, and mental disorientation. A catheter drained waste from his bladder. He felt no pain, no interest in getting up, no hunger, no thirst, no physical desire of any kind.

He had no way of knowing what day it was, what was wrong with him, what the weather might be, the names of his nurses, where he was, whether he would get better or not. Nor did he care. It was dark, it was quiet, and he was willing to float comfortably in limbo forever and ever amen.

He hated it when they asked him to do things. Squeeze my finger, a voice commanded. Wiggle your toes. Do you know your name? David, it's your mother. Can you hear me, darling? That's it, good boy, we're just going to roll you over so we can... Has he opened his eyes? David, can you open your eyes? It says here his name is Justin. Does he prefer one name to the other? Justin? Can you hear me, Justin? Can you lift your right hand, Justin? Just a finger? Can you blink your eyes for me, David, when you hear my voice? Can you try again?

Please stop making me try to do things. If you'd just stop making me do things I could be happy. I don't want to get better. I don't want to get worse either, I just want to stay like this, floating gently in suspended animation, in the dark, in the pleasant, safe, silent dark.

Never mind. He's in there.

I'm in here all right, Justin thought. I'm in here and I want to stay in here. So b.u.g.g.e.r off and let me stay in here. Let me stay for months. Let me stay forever. Let me rest in this place forever.

And sometimes, as he drifted in and out of himself, he thought, I wonder if I'll survive. I wonder if it's necessary for me to survive. I wonder if I could simply die and have this feeling of bliss go on into infinity.

And it was with that thought, just there, that he heard the voice.

Ignore them, Justin Case. Feel how nice it is to drift? Let your body drop away. Let go, Justin Case, let it go.

Justin swooned with relief to hear the soft voice. It was authoritative yet kind, deep and soothing. The sound of it made him sleepy, made him feel like a child again, safe in his mother's arms. It lifted him gently and set him down in a warm buoyant sea, turquoise and calm, where he had no responsibility other than to float.

Sleep, Justin Case, I'll think for you.

The other voices, the ones he hated, interrupted with requests. Do this, squeeze that, can you sit up/open your eyes/wiggle your toes?

Never mind them, you're mine now. Sink into my arms. Let yourself be happy. See how gently I rock you to sleep? There, there, Justin Case. Let go.

There seemed to be more commotion than usual around him now. He heard the soft padding of nurses' feet, an announcement calling his parents. A man crouched over him, asking him to respond, hectoring him, shouting his name. With all the strength he had left, he shook his head, shook them off him.

Go away, he wanted to shout. Leave me alone! He couldn't speak, but the effort produced a gurgling noise. He wanted to s.h.i.+eld his face with one hand but found he'd forgotten how to command his limbs. For a moment there was silence. Then the smooth hands of nurses again, a p.r.i.c.k in one arm, and then for a long while nothing at all except the soft, soft dark, and the blissful silence he craved.

The next time he noticed anything, there was no voice and the wonderful soothing glow was gone. He hurt all over and his heart seemed to be beating too fast. He started to cry, silently, salt tears dripping in a steady stream from the corners of his eyes.

Don't cry, sweet boy, I'm here.

54.

During the time Justin was non-responsive (no one at the hospital actually used the word 'coma'), he was rarely alone. His parents took turns sitting with him, and when they left, one of the nurses attended him in his quarantine. Peter had been treated and released; Dorothea and Anna came with him to the hospital but were not allowed in Justin's room for fear of contagion. The girls hung pictures of Alice in the nurses' station and glued get-well cards to the smoky-gla.s.s window of his room. Anna's cards, scribbled in furious frustration, read GET WELL NOW, in big black slashed letters.

Dorothea knew how she felt. Today she had brought a painting: Justin with Boy and Alice. Her picture showed him sprawled in s.p.a.ce with silver stars pasted over a black halo of sky. In the gra.s.s to his right was Boy, in profile, beautifully rendered in light and dark greys, the soft dark wisdom of his eye expressed perfectly. To the left was Alice, drawn nearly as big as the dog. Dorothea had managed to capture a feeling for the sleepy body and the large impa.s.sive eye peering out of his white fur. It was an extraordinary portrait of three friends.

Anna and Dorothea covered as much of the gla.s.s window as they could reach with their cards. Neither of them liked looking in at Justin lying inert, stuck full of a terrifying array of needles and tubes.

'That's not Justin,' Anna insisted.

Dorothea agreed. The motionless body was far too quiet, devoid of nervous energy. She wondered if an unconscious person could feel anxious.