Where’s John?

‘Squeeze my hand. Just try. Feel my fingers on the back of your hand. Can you feel them? I’m holding your hand. I’m pressing it gently. You try to do the same back. Good. That’s it. I felt it. I’m going to roll you over on your side now. I’ll do it really, really gently. Take a few deep breaths, then we’ll I’ll count to three, and I’ll roll you. Try not to move your head. I’ll support your head. I’ve got you. One, two, three, roll. Here we go. And you’re over. Oh no. I’m so sorry. You poor thing. It might not be a bad thing, being sick. I’ll clean it up. There. That’s better. I know, it’s getting cold. Try to say something to me before you sleep. Just one word. Your name. No? What about my name? What’s my name? John, that’s it. I’ve got you. I’m going to cover you with leaves now. They’re dry, they’ll keep you warm. How does that feel? It’s as good as a rug, isn’t it? Just you drift off now. You’re going to be ok. I have to go. The rangers will be around just after dawn.’

She woke in hospital, flat on her back, a pounding headache, her right leg in a cast up to her thigh. At the side of her bed sat her father, his face twisted with emotion. He lifted her hand and smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

‘You did a good thing pulling all those leaves around you. Doctor says you wouldn’t have lasted the night otherwise.’

‘We slipped, Dad, we slipped. John wrapped me in leaves me. He looked after me.’

Her father stared at the bleeping monitor, then down along the cable to the pincer attached to the end of her index finger. He did not look at her face.

‘Is he resting?’ she asked. Then she paused. ‘Where’s John?’ She looked around, it seemed to only dawn on her that she was in a single room, and in hospital. ‘Dad. Why is John not here?’ The monitor to which she was wired started to bleep faster. ‘John, where’s John?’ The bleeping had doubled in speed.

They stared at each other, the only noise was the slowing of the bleeps. She noticed how much older her father looked, so pale but for the tiny red capillaries of broken veins under his eyes. She noticed his hair wasn’t combed, and he of the generation that wouldn’t leave the bins out without combing his hair. He placed his hand on the side of her bed and shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it. Eventually, he mustered sufficient wherewithal to speak, but softly, almost in a whisper. ‘John fell further, my love, so much further. No one could have survived that drop.’