Johnny Mackintosh and the Spirit of London (4 page)

“The Manager says it's ‘not natural' traveling through all those tunnels,” said Miss Harutunian, grinning broadly. “We'll walk part way with the others—then it's a … number 8 bus,” she added, checking the printout she was holding.

Mrs. Irvine gathered everyone together for a roll-call at the top of the escalators, and then stepped into the street, holding out her arm to stop the oncoming traffic. The long line of inhabitants of 33 Barnard Way set off in pursuit.

Johnny, though, stopped in the middle of the road and stared open-mouthed at an incredible sight. “What's that?” he asked, pointing up at the sky.

“What?” Miss Harutunian asked, trying to follow his arm.

“That,” said Johnny. “That building. It's amazing.”

Johnny was staring at an enormous curved, cylindrical tower of gleaming glass and metal rising above the shops in front of the station. It was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen.

“Oh. You mean the Gherkin,” Miss Harutunian said.

“Actually it's called 30 St. Mary Axe,” said Mr. Wilkins, who'd come back to hurry them up.

“Wow,” said Johnny.

“Don't care for it myself,” said Mr. Wilkins. “Huge waste of money. Why they had to go and build this monstrosity when there's plenty of perfectly good office space around London. Or in Castle Dudbury for that matter.”

“But it's beautiful,” said Johnny. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“The boy's got no taste,” the cook said to Miss Harutunian. “Same with his food. Won't eat his liver and onions—oh no. Only likes fancy stuff—like pizza. You've got to watch him—we don't want him lagging behind and running off.” Mr. Wilkins's little black eyes narrowed on Johnny before he turned and walked away to rejoin the others.

“If you like this, you should come to New York,” said Miss Harutunian. “We've got hundreds. The Chrysler Building's much prettier.”

A car honked its horn and Johnny, Miss Harutunian and even Bentley jumped. Quickly, they scurried across the road and joined the back of the straggling group that Mrs. Irvine, umbrella still aloft, was guiding south toward the Tower of London. Johnny kept almost bumping into things as he stared upward at the Gherkin. One of these turned out to be the shelter for the number 8 bus, which was going to take them all the way to Victoria station. A display told them a bus was due and, sure enough, a bright red double-decker soon pulled up at the stop. Miss Harutunian, Johnny and Bentley stepped on board.

“Can we go upstairs?” Johnny asked.

“Oh go on then,” Miss Harutunian replied, looking slightly anxious. “You promise it won't topple over?”

“It doesn't happen too often,” said Johnny, smiling innocently. Miss Harutunian returned the smile weakly. “Come on, boy.” Johnny half ran up the stairs with Bentley following enthusiastically behind. All the front seats were free so they sat down there with Miss Harutunian making her way over rather gingerly to join them.

The number 8 bus jerked away from the stop, with the social worker holding on tightly to the railings in front of her while Johnny craned his neck to watch the smooth crisscrossing curves and reflections of the Gherkin for as long as possible.

St. Catharine's Hospital for the Criminally Insane was as unwelcoming as the name suggested. The walk from nearby Wittonbury station was exposed, and it was drizzling and horribly windy. Johnny had bought some brightly colored flowers—gerberas Miss Harutunian had called them—from a florist at Victoria station, but already they were beginning to look very sorry for themselves. Bentley, however, did seem in good spirits and pulled Johnny along on the lead. The red-haired American struggled to keep up, but it meant they soon reached the stone bridge over the choppy little brook that marked the edge of the hospital grounds. Miss Harutunian's eyes narrowed when she found no one in the booth beside the long white barrier. “This country,” she said to Johnny. “Anyone could simply walk in or out of here and they'd never know.”

Johnny thought “anyone” clearly didn't include his mum. As soon as they passed the empty booth he felt really sick, wondering what he'd find inside the hospital. There was no one at all to be seen outdoors. He wasn't surprised—the grounds at St. Catharine's looked bleaker than his school's playing fields. They were only broken up by a redbrick, cylindrical incinerator tower, close to the gate, that was emitting a low hum. Bentley
led the way to the main reception where Miss Harutunian pulled open a pair of huge oak doors. Johnny and the sheepdog entered behind her.

A large, miserable woman, wearing a blue security uniform, was sitting behind a desk on the right. She looked up and said, “No dogs.”

Johnny had been expecting this. “But he's always been allowed in before,” he lied, trying not to turn red.

“No dogs or no visits,” said the woman. “Them's the rules.”

“Please—it'll really cheer my mum up.”

“No dogs,” the guard said again. “Patients might catch summin.”'

“It's OK, Johnny,” said Miss Harutunian, crouching down to stroke Bentley who tried to lick her in return. “I can stay here and look after him.”

“No, don't worry,” said Johnny. “I can tie him to something out there.” Johnny tugged at Bentley's lead and pulled him through the oak doors and back outside. Between Johnny and the sheepdog this used to be a well-worked routine and he hoped Bentley would remember. Try as he might, Johnny had always failed to persuade whoever was behind that desk to let Bentley through, but he did have a plan B. Once they were outside, Johnny held his friend's fringe out of his eyes—how the sheepdog actually saw normally he never knew. “Bents,” he said. “Remember Mum's room. Wait outside … very quiet … OK?” He let go of the lead and Bentley scampered off around the corner of the building. Johnny went back inside.

Miss Harutunian had signed them in and said they had to go to a Dr. Carrington's office. Johnny remembered it well enough. The guard pressed a button behind the desk and a glass door in front of Johnny and Miss Harutunian buzzed. Johnny pushed it open and led the way through into the long corridor that ran along the length of the hospital and smelled of disinfectant. He had made this journey many times when he was younger and
dimly registered the same tired artwork on the walls. He crossed over one corridor and at the next one he turned left—the route was still second nature. Then he took a staircase on the right and went up one floor.

“It's room 118. That's this floor isn't it?” Miss Harutunian was whispering as it seemed wrong to speak normally. The only other sound was of their feet echoing along the empty corridors. Johnny grunted assent as he walked along counting down the room numbers: 124, 122, 120. He stopped outside the next door. The number had fallen off but he knew it was the right one.

“Is this it?” Miss Harutunian asked.

Johnny nodded, took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

“Come in, come in,” came a voice from inside. Johnny opened the door and they both stepped through.

“Ah yes. Jonathan Mackintosh and er … Katherine Harutunian,” said a white-coated figure from behind a desk in front of a sash window. Despite an attempt to comb what little hair remained across his scalp, Dr. Carrington was very nearly bald. There was a bulky computer on his desk, but he was reading from a manila file in front of him, through round steel-framed glasses. He looked up to reveal enormous purple bags underneath his eyes. “Sit down, sit down.” He gestured to two chairs in front of the desk.

“Good to meet you, Dr. Carrington,” said Miss Harutunian, walking straight over to the desk and stretching out her hand.

Dr. Carrington stood up—he towered above the social worker but looked as though the slightest push would knock him over. He shook hands and smiled. “So you're American? American … of course … yes.” Everyone sat down. Johnny gripped the bedraggled flowers tightly. Dr. Carrington turned to him. “I'm sorry to report there's been no change in your mother's condition, Jonathan. No, no change.” Johnny wasn't expecting to hear anything else. He looked down at the floor and nodded, bracing
himself for the worst. Dr. Carrington continued. “She is breathing unaided, and basic bodily functions are working normally. Our tests on higher brainwave functions are still inconclusive. I might as well take you straight down there.” Dr. Carrington stood up, so Johnny and his social worker followed suit. Miss Harutunian gave Johnny's free hand a squeeze. Dr. Carrington led them out of the office, turning right down the corridor and left down a staircase back onto the ground floor.

“Is there any chance she can get better?” asked the social worker.

“There's always a chance … always,” said Dr. Carrington. “Jonathan's mother's illness isn't physical. It's a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. But it's been a few years now, a few years, and the longer without a response to her treatment the less likely a recovery becomes.”

Miss Harutunian squeezed Johnny's hand again but he quickly let go. They were close to the room where Johnny's mother was normally kept, but something wasn't normal. A very tall, thick-set man in a black suit was standing outside the door, watching Johnny approach.

“Who's that man?” Johnny asked.

“What? Oh yes,” said Dr. Carrington. “That's Stevens. Might not have been here last time you came. No, probably not. Extra security … Home Office regulations … more protection. Yes that's right—more protection.”

“Protection from who?” Johnny asked, but they'd already reached the door.

“Two people to see the er … to see the patient,” said Dr. Carrington.

Stevens looked quickly at Miss Harutunian before turning his attention to Johnny, who stared back. Stevens studied him through cruel gray eyes, slowly looking up and down before nodding and stepping to the side of the door. He keyed a four
digit number into a panel on the wall. There was a click, allowing Dr. Carrington to enter the room followed by Miss Harutunian and then Johnny, with Stevens behind.

Considering it contained only one patient, the room was large. It had to be to accommodate the various machines ranged around the single bed protruding from the middle of the left-hand wall. Either side of the bed was a wooden chair—next to the nearest of these, pushed against the wall, was a stand holding a drip taking fluid down and into the arm of a middle-aged woman. She was lying motionless on the bed, with her limp blond hair falling over a flat pillow. Her pale blue eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling.

“I'll have those, shall I?” Miss Harutunian said to Johnny, taking the flowers from his grip and walking over to a sink in the far corner. She started opening the surrounding cupboards, looking for something to put them in. Dr. Carrington picked up a clipboard hanging from the end of the bed and gave it a quick look over.

“As I was saying … yes … no change really … probable PVS.”

“What's PVS?” Miss Harutuian asked from the corner of the room.

“PVS? Oh yes. Persistent vegetative state. This machine here's an EEG,” said Dr. Carrington, pointing to one of the older-looking pieces of equipment. “It's measuring brainwave activity. Sadly we don't believe she's … she's not really thinking anymore. The coma's deep … very deep.” On a large display screen, four colored lines were being traced out, slowly rising and falling but never rising very far. A wire from the front of the machine split into four when it reached Johnny's mum, with each end connected to an electrode fixed onto her scalp.

“There you are—best I could do,” said Miss Harutunian. The gerberas were in a clear plastic jug half full of water that she
brought over and placed on a trolley near the bed.

“Thanks,” muttered Johnny. “Can I talk to my mum on my own, please?”

He could feel Stevens's eyes boring into him, but looked between his social worker and Dr. Carrington. The doctor seemed reluctant, but Miss Harutunian took charge. “Of course you can. I'm sure we can leave you alone for a few minutes can't we?” she said, putting a hand on Dr. Carrington's and Stevens's elbows and steering them toward the door.

Once all three of them had left the room, Johnny walked over to the bed, but instead of sitting down he picked up one of the chairs and carried it to the door, wedging it under the handle. He really didn't want to be disturbed. Then he walked over to the window and, after some delicate prodding and pushing, was able to open it. He poked his head outside and whistled. A few seconds later a large white head appeared beneath him and, with Johnny's help, Bentley scrambled up into the room, wagging his tail.

“Good boy … good boy,” said Johnny, as the dog bounded over toward Johnny's mum. He turned back to Johnny and whimpered.

“It's OK, Bents,” Johnny said, rubbing Bentley underneath his collar. He leaned over his mum and looked down into her eyes. They were so empty, not registering anything at all and simply stared straight through Johnny up to the ceiling. He kissed her on the forehead and sat down in the one remaining chair, taking her hand. Johnny had read about people in hospital suddenly waking up after many years in a coma. They said they were able to remember things people had said to them when supposedly unconscious, so he started to talk.