Ray went over and turned the volume up. It wasn’t loud enough. It wouldn’t’ve been loud enough for Hilly.
To look at it, it was like one of those awkward scenes folk always laugh at when they see it on telly. Hilly wouldn’t’ve laughed, of course. Hilly liked a laugh but Hilly hated comedy. He had never seen the point of jokes and if he’d ever laughed at a film or sit-com then there was nobody present when he’d done so. Knowing, he called it. Knowing meaning smart-arse, knowing meaning ironic. But, in practice, it always turned out to be the exact opposite. Folk that knew nothing about nothing pretending they did.
Soon, Martin and Ray were beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. Not for themselves but for Hilly’s family. They felt they didn’t belong. They didn’t know these people. The only person they knew was the one on the bed, and, at this precise moment in time, they felt as though they’d never really known him at all. They felt as though they’d only ever met him.
Martin took the initiative. He suggested that maybe they should come back later. Ray agreed. He took out a business card and handed it to Sarah, telling her that if ever she was needing any help with anything, anything at all, then just to get in touch. He said it again just to make sure she understood that he meant it.
Martin and Ray left the hospital. Without so much as a word, they drove out to the docks. They didn’t want to be indoors, in any kind of home.
It was no wonder that at times like this folk had a habit of turning religious. There were no rules telling them how to behave. No precedent that told them how they should feel. Everything they felt was wrong. Guilt. Regret. Shame. Fear.
And, most of all, anger.
They started flinging stones and rocks out into the water, burning off their energy. This was the worst night of their lives, and it was compounded by the near ridiculous image of Hilly’s family sitting round his bed watching him listening to a Walkman.
These people didn’t understand.
Or, then again, maybe it was Martin and Ray who didn’t understand.
See that was the problem. Their Tuesday nights were tantamount to a secret. And folk liked secrets. Its very success had to do not only with the way they avoided bringing up their problems, but the way it all had nothing to do with anybody else.
That was how no one had got in touch with them. Nobody knew about them. Nobody knew what went on. Hilly would never’ve mentioned these nights to anybody. Sure, okay, he probably said he was going round to see friends and play records, but he’d never’ve told anybody about what went on. Martin and Ray didn’t, and if they didn’t then there was no way Hilly would’ve. You could only talk to folk about such things, your passions, when they would understand, and nobody they knew, nobody Hilly would know, would understand all this.
For no real reason they could think of other than they wanted to, Martin and Ray decided to head back up to the hospital.
They’d leave it a while, though. They wanted privacy. They wanted their secrecy.
They went back to Ray’s and made up more tapes. They taped records from Hilly’s list, records from their own lists that Hilly had regretted not including in his own, and the records they’d intended playing that night. This time, they taped with the sound up. They were positive about what they were doing. They were doing what it made sense for them to do. The only thing they could do. It was what they’d done for the first Tuesday of every month for the past three years and it was what they were going to do now.
When they were ready, they returned to the hospital.
Sarah was still there, still sitting by Hilly’s bedside.
She explained as how one of them always stayed over and slept on a Parker Knoll in an adjoining room. She didn’t seem as wary as she’d done earlier. Truth be told, she looked too tired to be bothered. The Walkman lay on the bedside table, the earphones by its side.
Martin put the new tape in the machine. He fitted the earphones on Hilly, then switched it on.
It was Ray who broke the silence. There were things that needed to be explained.
‘You don’t know anything about us, do you?’ he said.
Sarah shook her head.
‘It’s a long story,’ said Martin.
And, since there was nothing else to do, they told her the story: about how they first met; how they always fell out; their nights playing records.
When they finished Ray laughed. ‘Do you realise,’ he said, ‘this is the first time we’ve ever talked about him and not slagged him off?’
The three looked over at Hilly. The music stopped. Ray switched the tape over. He turned the volume up a bit then closed the curtain round the bed.
Sarah told the story of how she met up with Hilly. It was a familiar story. The courtship was so typically Hilly, so single-minded, so matter-of-fact.
Just as Sarah was going on to explain what plans she and Hilly had been making for the future, the curtain round the bed was pulled back.
It was the doctor. ‘Do you think you could maybe turn that down, please?’ she said. ‘It carries, you know.’
Martin apologised. He explained what they were doing.
‘Still,’ said the doctor, ‘it’s past one o’clock in the morning.’
Martin went over. He turned down the music.
The doctor tickled Hilly’s toes then made a note on her clipboard. ‘Are you alright?’ she said to Sarah. ‘Do you not think that maybe you should get some rest?’
Sarah looked at the other two.
‘On you go,’ said Martin. ‘We’ll stay here.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Sarah.
Martin and Ray nodded. They weren’t going anywhere. The doctor smiled a thank you as she led Sarah away into a tiny side-room.
Alone at last, Martin and Ray looked at each other. Then at Hilly. They’d done all they could. They’d played his favourite records, they’d played the ones he’d regretted not having on his list, and they’d played the ones they’d intended playing that night. It was pathetic. Here they were, grown men, successful men, yet this was all they could think to do. Because of Hilly they’d changed so much, so much for the better, but now, when it was most needed, there was nothing they could do in return.
Martin took a piece of paper from his pocket. It was the list of Hilly’s favourite records.
Martin studied it. He wasn’t staring at it, he was studying it.
If there was an answer, if there was something that could be done, then this was where they’d find it.
After about five minutes Martin reached over and switched off the Walkman. He removed the earphones and placed them and the machine on the bedside cabinet.
Martin continued to study the piece of paper. A further five minutes passed before he finally spoke.
‘I think you’re wrong,’ he said. ‘I think you’re wrong. And I’ll tell you why I think you’re wrong. No, listen, listen, you’ve had your say. See …’
Martin went through the list, talking about what they always talked about, the records. Ray pushed up his sleeves and joined in.
They talked about nothing other than records, slagging off the things they always slagged off, going on about the things they always went on about, how important it all was to them. This was what it was normally like. Tuesday nights, the three of them together, talking, talking only about records.
Before anybody knew it, it was four o’clock in the morning. They’d been going on like this for the best part of three hours when the doctor returned with another doctor. It was the change of shift, the