Human Remains

bloke who lived next door to my mother’s house, the one who took her in the day her pipes burst. He lived with his wife – what was her name? Carol?
    ‘Mum? What’s the matter? I only saw her a few hours ago…’
    ‘She’s had a bit of a fall. The ambulance is here now; they’re taking her to St Mary’s. It’s taken me all this time to find your number. She really should have it written down somewhere handy, honestly.’
    ‘Is she alright?”
    ‘I think so, love. You’d best get down to the hospital.’
    ‘OK. Thank you.’
    ‘I’ll lock up here – she gave me a key. You don’t need to worry about a thing.’
    When I rang off a few moments later I sat in a stunned silence for a moment and then hot tears started to fall. I wasn’t even sure why I was crying. ‘Stop it,’ I said out loud, ‘stop it right now.’ I rubbed my dressing gown sleeve across my cheeks and went back upstairs to get dressed.
     
     
    Outside the main entrance of the hospital, a collection of people in wheelchairs and dressing gowns were openly defying the smoking ban with their abler-bodied companions. Inside, the shops were all closed up, the reception desk unstaffed.
    I stood there for a moment, baffled. Where did you go to find someone, when the main reception was closed? Then I realised that the majority of pedestrian traffic was back and forth down the corridor to my left. A sign on the wall listed the various departments that I would find in this direction, including Accident and Emergency. Of course – that was where the ambulance would have taken her.
    Despite the adrenaline, my brain didn’t seem to be functioning properly. I wasn’t used to being awake at this time of night, and after several nights of disturbed sleep I was beginning to feel light-headed and strange.
    There were several people gathered around the reception desk that served A&E. I stood at what I thought was the back of the queue. The woman currently being served was having an argument with the receptionist, which grew louder and more unpleasant to listen to. The argument itself made no sense, going round and round in circles and I realised she was drunk, holding on to the counter with one hand while her feet struggled to maintain balance. In the end two security guards appeared and took the woman off to one side to speak to her, and the next person in the line moved forward.
    I looked around desperately, half-expecting to see my mum sitting on one of the chairs in the waiting area. There was no sign of her. The place was busy, too, with plenty of people waiting. What was it like here on a Friday or a Saturday night? I wondered. Must be hell on earth.
    ‘Can I help you?’ A second receptionist had come to the desk and called me forward.
    ‘My mum’s been brought here. Iris Hayer. She had a fall.’
    The receptionist tapped on her keyboard. ‘Hayer? How are you spelling it?’
    I spelled it out for her. I could see the reflection of the screen in her glasses as she moved the mouse and clicked the screen. ‘And your name is?’
    ‘Annabel Hayer.’
    ‘And you’re her daughter?’
    I said that already, I thought crossly. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Right, here we go. If you take a seat, someone will be with you shortly. Alright?’
    As I found a seat I thought of all the questions I should have asked.
How is she? Can I see her? How long will I have to wait?
But I’d been dismissed, and as I looked back to the desk I realised that there was now a queue twice as long as the one I’d joined.
    I sat down next to a vending machine displaying bars of chocolate. My stomach grumbled at the sight of it, even though I would normally be fast asleep by now. I thought about getting a coffee and something to eat, but of course the minute I did that someone would emerge from one of the doors and call my name.
    I checked my mobile phone, as though someone else might call me in the middle of the night. I looked at the girl sitting opposite me in a hospital-issue wheelchair, one naked foot swollen and pale, the skin stretched so tight it was shiny. Further down the row of chairs were two young men, their shirts covered in blood. One of them was holding a small towel, of the type used for mopping up slopped beer in pubs, to the top of his head. They were talking and laughing animatedly, some discussion about football that I had no desire to listen to but could not avoid.
    I wondered how the girl had hurt her foot, and was on the verge of asking when a porter turned