Silas Nash book 1: Hush Hush Honeysuckle: Chapter 24 (B)

Max had to turn away then, and he brought up blood into the cardboard receptacle next to him. He was weak and lay back on the sheets. Nash was glad because he’d had to turn away, too, because of what happened to Dexter. Hayley and Steve didn’t hesitate when he asked them if they’d consider taking Dexter on. And the cat had settled—to a degree. But every time he got out of the house, he crossed the road to sit on Max’s windowsill, and he'd wail pitifully for his master.

Max had drifted away again. He did that all the time now, and the lucid moments were fewer than the clouded ones. They kept him medicated, so he was rarely in much pain. When he was, it was unbearable to see. He slept mostly, and Nash sat beside his bed, holding his hand. Just being there.

He’d been in the hospice for three weeks now. Living at home since the case had proved too much for him as his health had deteriorated. And Dexter still went looking for Max every time he got out. Last night he’d crossed the road. They were all in the living room, and the kids were the first to scream when they heard the awful screech of car brakes. Dexter had been killed by a car. Hayley and Steve were devastated, the kids heartbroken, but they’d agreed that Max shouldn’t be told. Through her tears, Hayley said it happened for a reason. It was so that Dexter would be there first to wait for his master.

Max loved that cat. The tragedy of it made Nash feel sick.

He went to work. He came to the hospital. He went home to an empty house. That was his life. Visiting Max wasn’t for his benefit, though he was glad it filled a mutual need.

This time he’d been sitting for four hours, and the times between his waking up were getting longer. That was a good thing. It showed that the pain medication was working. He was steady, as they said.

Max wanted to send everybody away. But first, his friends and family gathered around his bed. That was after his muscles gave way and his legs stopped working. He’d never stand up again. After that last visit, he wouldn’t see anybody. The only person he allowed into his room was Nash.

Steve and Hayley still visited, and every time they came with gifts, but they never got past reception.

Jon was filled with guilt. The sins of the son and all that. Nash thought he was probably glad not to have to watch his best friend die a little bit more every day and then leave to visit his son. Nash was the one given that penance. And he took it gladly, with both hands, every precious moment of it.

Max opened his eyes, and they were sticky. His eyelids were stuck to each other with rheum. Nash was no nurse but could take a warm flannel and wash his face. ‘Where’s Mum, Dad?’ Max asked.

‘She’ll be along later, son. Don’t worry.’ His mother had been to visit, but only once, when he was lucid, and they’d argued. Now that he was quiet, she said it was too painful for her and retreated back to Majorca.

‘Look. Nanny Clare’s bought me a cowboy outfit.’

‘So she has.’ The nurses said never to argue with him and to go along with anything he said. It lessened his agitation and anxiety. He still had the hallucinations but none of the attitude. Well, mostly.

‘Where’s my money? You’ve taken my money.’

Nash showed him the wallet. With the same twenty pounds in it that he always showed him. It had been Nash’s best wallet. And on one occasion, when Max accused him of stealing his money, he gave it to him and put a twenty-pound note in it. Max accused the nurses a lot when he wasn’t trying to kiss them.

That was his mental state. Horrible to see, but so was the physical. The man he’d met less than five months before was gone, and somebody had put a skeleton in his place. He hadn’t eaten for three weeks and was only given saline from a drip with his medication. His eyes had sunken so far into his head that you could rest a marble on the socket if you had such a desire. The worst thing for Nash was looking at the corners of his mouth and the constant build-up of brown, yellow sludge that congealed there.

He wiped it away again now and thought back to one week ago. His decline had been coming for weeks, but the end game was sudden. Last week he was in and out of confusion, anxiety, agitation and hallucination. And then, like sunlight through the trees, there would be that spark of pure, lucid brilliance that had been Maxwell Edward Bartholomew Tyler Jones.

A box ticker had come in to tick some more boxes. Nash was appalled at her condescending manner, but Max was spared her. He was somewhere far away at the time, shagging a woman or drinking a Jack Daniels.

‘Now then, Maxwell. How are we today?’

‘How are we today?’ Max parroted her words back to her.

‘Do you know where you are at all?’

‘No. Do you know where you are at all?’ Max said.

‘Yes. I know where I am, but do you?’

‘Coming into my house asking all these questions at me all the time. Are you a bailiff? He dribbled, and a line of saliva ran down his chin. He had the open expressionless smile of nobody at home. Tick-boxer's lip curled in distaste.

‘I have to ask you some questions, Maxwell. We want to see how we are, don’t we?’

‘Do we? How are we?’

‘It’s not important how I am, Max. Do you know where you are?’

‘I’m here. Are you lost? Should I call a policeman?’ He wasn’t as sick a week ago, and he’d picked up his shoe. Nash felt physical pain in his chest as he watched him put the shoe to his ear. ‘Hello? Hello?’

Box-ticker, whose role wasn’t apparent, took the shoe away from him. She didn’t ask. She just did it. Her exasperation was showing as she threw it on the floor.

‘Hey, that was my baby. She stole my baby. A dingo stole my baby.’

The woman wrote faster than her hands could keep up, and Nash intervened. ‘He often gets confused like this. Perhaps if you give him more time and are a bit softer in your approach.’

‘And you are?’

‘Nash. I’m a detective, and I’m Max’s friend. Max, not Maxwell, if you don’t mind.’ The woman scribbled some more, and Nash’s heart broke as he remembered a crazy conversation with Max after his interrogation. ‘Do I get a badge and a gun?’ He had to cough a lump away.

The woman tried a different approach. ‘Max?’

‘Dr Jones. Jones, calling Dr Jones.’ Max sang the song loud.

‘Mr Jones, do you prefer that? Should I call you Mr Jones?’

‘Hello, Mr Jones,’ Max said. He held out his hand for her to shake. She ignored it because ticking boxes was more important than the person in the bed.

‘Do you know your date of birth, Mr Jones?’

‘Happy Birthday. Happy Birthday. Happy Birthday to me.’ He made blowing motions as though he was blowing out candles on a cake. And knowing he’d never see another one tore Nash’s heart as well. The woman was like a stone.

‘Do you know your date of birth?’

‘No. Do you?’

The woman sighed.

‘Perhaps if you don’t sigh at him, he might be able to answer your questions better,’ Nash said.

‘I know what I am doing, Mr Nash.’

‘Do you? Well done,’ said Max, and he gave her a round of applause. If it had been a conscious thought process, the sarcasm would have been beautiful, but even as it was, it was funny, and Nash snorted.

It was clear Tick-Boxer just wanted to get to the end of her form and get out of there. ‘Can you remember your last address from when you lived at home?’

‘I can remember my address now.’

‘You can? Perfect. What is it?’

‘What is what?’

‘Your address What’s your address?’

‘Well, I don’t have one do I?’

‘You don’t have an address?’

‘No.’

‘Why don’t you have an address?’

‘Because it's cheese pie, beans and chips at school today. I like it here’

‘Where, Max?’

‘Here?’

‘Where’s here, Mr Jones?’

‘Well, it’s the same place as you. Where are you? Have we got ice cream?’ Max farted.

‘Okay. I think that’ll do for now. I might come back another day—when you’re feeling a bit better.’

‘Bye-bye, baby. Baby, bye-bye.’

She left in a haze of inexpensive perfume. Nash had to look out of the window for a minute. It was the most upsetting display of Max’s condition he’d seen to date. When he’d got his wits about him, he sat back down.

‘It’s okay, mate. I’ve got you.’

‘I’ve got you.’

‘I know you have, mate,’ Nash said.

‘You’re not going to start bawling again, are you?’

‘No. It’s okay, Max.’

Max was laughing. ‘Come on. You weren’t taken in by that shit as well, were you?’ He reeled off his name, date of birth, and address with postcode and finished with, ‘And Silas Nash is a great big gullible prat.’

Nash did cry. He couldn’t help it because that was the thing. Max was such a dickhead that you couldn’t tell when it was the disease and when he was amusing himself for the hell of it. He laughed, cried, and he might even have snotted a little bit. ‘You were putting all that on?’

‘Every word of it.’

‘You little sod. Don’t ever do that to me again.’

‘But it’s so easy. Pack it in, Nasher. Come on. I like cheese pie, so it's not that sad.’ And Nash didn’t want to tell him that it was so sad it hurt. Today was great. A memory that would live with Nash for the rest of his life. He felt honoured to have been the one that witnessed it, and his heart was filled with feelings of a strange friendship for the dying man. And it was so sad.

That was only last week.

He was awake less often now. There were fewer times when he was lucid, and Nash was never sure when it was just Max being a dick. He didn’t want him to die.

‘You’re awake.’

‘Yes. At least, I think I am. Are you awake?’

‘Sod off.’ They laughed. ‘Hayley and Steve have been.’

‘Have they?’

‘Yes, they’ve brought you fruit, Ribena and some chocolates. But as you can’t eat anything, I’ll have them.’ He got a weak grin, and then Max fell asleep.

‘You’re awake?’

‘I need to get something down on paper.’

‘Okay, calm down. Don’t try to get up. Your legs don’t work anymore. What is it? What do you want?’

‘Write.’

‘Okay, I’ve got a pen.’

‘I want to give Hayley and Steve their house.’

‘That’s a lovely thing to do.’

‘Money and stuff to Melissa and family.’

‘Got it.’

‘Barrow house, and Nanny Clare’s house to Jon and Emily. There’s some money for them as well to help with Carter’s legal costs. I want the business signing over to Jon. He can sell it if he wants to. I don’t care.’

‘I’ve got it all, relax, it’s all written down. Lie back and take it easy.’ He grinned. ‘But hey, what do I get?’

'You get my respect, Nasher. And, in return, I get to call you my friend. But yeah, there’s something for you, too.’

‘No. Hey. Honestly, Max. I was joking. I’m honoured to have your friendship, and I don’t want anything else.’

‘Tough. You get the Ulverston house. And, are you ready for this?’

‘Max, no. I was joking.’

‘I said, are you ready for this? Don’t spoil my big moment.’

Nash sighed. ‘Go on.’

‘I’m leaving Lady Diana to you. I think you’re a good fit, and I want you to have some fun. Promise me you’ll get out and camp in her at least four times a year.’

Nash was horrified. ‘I don’t know, Max.’

‘Promise me?’

‘It’s not really my thing.’

Max’s voice had risen, and he started wheezing and coughing.

‘Okay, I promise. Now relax before you hurt yourself.’ Max winked, and Nash knew he’d initiated a promise under false pretences. He seemed more peaceful, and he slept after that. The next time he woke up, his voice was thick, and his words slurred.

‘Nash?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do not ask me if I’m awake.’

Nash laughed.

‘I want you to get back out there.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t think I don’t know how many hours you’re sitting here every damned night. Cockblocking a fella from all those nurses. You need to find somebody.’

‘I don’t need anybody.’

‘But you do. It’s me you’re talking to. And you’re not that ugly. I’d be your boyfriend if I was gay and you weren’t like a million years old.’

What was it with Nash and tearing up? He couldn’t stop it from happening. He guessed that was the definition of real friendship. ‘I wouldn’t have you.’

‘Get you, sweetheart. Have me? I’m not an object to be adored and pawed over, you know.’ He was weakening, and Nash wanted to hear everything he could before he was gone. It didn’t matter what they said and if it was complete rubbish. He didn’t want Max to die. But he was going to, and they couldn’t make friendship memories. Going fishing—as if. Hanging out at the pub, having dinner. So Nash had to get as many individual sentences in, so that he could put them all together later. A week later, Max would be gone.

Tomorrow he’d be gone.

‘So why wouldn’t you have me as your boyfriend?’ Nash said.

‘Far too self-centred and opinionated.’ Max’s eyes were closing.

‘And you dare to say that to me after the last princess you had.’ He was struggling but fought the medication and the sleep. ‘Find somebody who loves you, Silas. You deserve it.’

‘I will,’ he said as he leaned over and kissed Max’s cheek.

His breathing deteriorated an hour later.

The next time he woke was the last time. Nash struggled to hear what he was saying. ‘Where’s my horse? Why is he over there in the corner?’

‘It’s okay, Max. He’s just having something to eat, and then I’ll bring him over.’

‘Joking, you mug. You fall for it every time. I think this is our last date, Silas.’

It was too big a statement to lie to him. ‘Shush, Max. Just relax.’

‘We had fun, didn’t we?’

‘You? Fun? You were a bloody nightmare. Yes, we had fun, my friend.’

‘I’ll miss you. I think, maybe. Don’t know, that bit might be bollocks.’

‘And I’ll miss you, but that might be bollocks, too.’

His eyes were closing.

‘Enjoy, Lady Diana.’

‘I will.’

And then Max’s eyes opened again. He clutched Nash’s hand with more force than he’d had for days. ‘It’s coming, Silas. It’s happening. Don’t leave me. I’m so frightened.’

Nash cried out in pain for him. He got onto the bed beside him and pulled Max’s broken body into his arms. ‘I’m here. You aren’t alone.’

‘I can feel you, Silas. Will it hurt?’

‘No. I don’t think so, but that might be bollocks.’ He didn’t get the joke from earlier. So Nash had to talk fast. ‘No, Max. I don’t think it will hurt. And if it does, it won’t be for long. I’m right here.’

‘Thank you, mate.’

‘Shush. Let it happen, now.’

‘Guess what, Silas.’

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t hurt.’