Bob knew that this would be a difficult visit. His big brother was at death’s door apparently bracing to push through it decisively to the other side. That was his style. Five years the elder, Ron had always been determined to move forwards at school, in work, with his trying marriage and taciturn kids. He’s not buckled once under the weight of diagnosis, treatment, prognosis, whereas Bob’s composure had been crumbling since he’d found out that they were running out of time to put things right between them.
Bob lingered in the cafeteria, staring into the tepid coffee he’d bought himself as a treat, its remaining sudsy bubbles still buoyant on the beige liquid. Soon he must toss the cardboard cup into recycling and join the tide of visitors flowing through the hospital’s corridors. For now, he just sat, occasionally patting the damp exercise book he’d jammed into his raincoat pocket. He thought about how he had given the writing class a go last year. Asked to scribble down a childhood memory, the day that he had killed a man had come back to him in flashes. He’d remembered the homeless man standing on the towpath as if waiting to taunt him and his brother. Tasting mingled fear and anger in his gullet, he had shoved past the greybeard, catching him off guard. How quietly the man had fallen from the bank, sinking without protest into the canal’s murky waters as they closed over his unmarked grave. Bob had been left standing there, whilst Ron had speechlessly grasped his hand, looking around to check that no-one else had witnessed Bob’s push as he’d pulled him away.
The bad things that had happened to Bob afterwards had begun to make sense to him as he’d continued to write his life story from that memory onwards. How proud he had felt when he’d handed his autobiography to Ron. He had wanted to show Ron that he could finish something and that for once he had faced up to his past. But when they next met, Ron had made no mention of the canal incident. He’d handed the notebook back, muttering something about there being too much damn crazy nightmare stuff in it for him before shambling off to the fridge for their beers. Discussion dismissed. What was there left for Bob to say?
Buoyed up by adrenalin and caffeine, Bob got to his feet now. He navigated himself towards the room where his brother lay dying. Would Ron finally level with him about what had happened all those years ago? Perhaps Ron thought he should still protect his pathetic little brother, or maybe he genuinely believed it had all been some weird dream.
When he reached the ward entrance, Bob hesitated. He hated himself for that reluctance far more than he’d ever hated Ron or loved him. Finally, Bob wrestled the notebook out of his coat pocket and pushed the door open decisively.
About the author
Jane Spirit lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk UK and has been inspired to write fiction by going along to her local creative writing class.
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