Sharif Gemie is is a happily retired history lecturer who lives in south Wales, United Kingdom. Fourteen of his short stories and two of his flash fictions have been published, and this is his 3rd story published in The Quiet Reader. His first novel, The Displaced, was published in 2024. It’s about a middle-class British couple who volunteer to work with refugees in Germany at the end of the Second World War. You can follow Sharif on www.sharifgemie.com.
Frank Hanley had a heart attack while driving to his office. He had no previous heart problems, but the usual lifestyle issues: smoking, drinking, lack of exercise. In the hospital, the consultants diagnosed him. A coronary artery spasm, they thought, but his heart was so weak they suspected an underlying condition. While in hospital Frank had two further heart attacks and only survived the second with resuscitation. The prognosis was clear: his heartbeat was weak, irregular and slowing; he wasn’t strong enough for surgery.
‘Nothing we can do,’ said a consultant. ‘Find him a hospice.’
Tuesday
Mary Cove finished reading Mr Hanley’s notes and looked across the corridor at the man sitting up in bed, reading the Financial Times. He didn’t look like a man about to die. The hospice consultant, Dr Patterson, was surprised by his progress but, after a couple of days, gave an optimistic diagnosis. Mr Hanley was getting stronger. They’d discharge him soon, someone else could use the bed. For the moment, they kept Mr Hanley in, just in case.
Mary walked over to him.
‘Good morning, Mr Hanley.’
He glanced at her, then went back to his paper.
‘How are you feeling today?’
He put his paper down. ‘Do you know, I’ve got two cracked ribs from that bloody resuscitation? Hurts every time I breathe.’
Mary nodded. ‘That’s normal, I’m afraid. It’s a very rough procedure.’
‘And bloody useless.’
‘What do you mean? It saved your life. You were lucky: only three in ten survive what you’ve been through.’
‘Saved my life!’ The scorn in Mr Hanley’s voice surprised Mary. ‘Saved my life! I wasn’t going to die.’
Mary had seen this before. Denial. A lot of people didn’t want to accept how serious their condition was.
‘You’ve a serious heart condition—and you’re too weak for surgery.’
He stared at her. ‘I know that. But I wasn’t going to die last week.’
‘No? The doctors thought you were.’
‘Well, they were wrong. I’m going to die in two days. On Thursday, 28th of May.’
Mary was flabbergasted. She’d heard patients say some strange things—but this! Oddest of all was his certainty. Despite herself, she felt a need to confront him.
‘Morning or afternoon?’
‘Morning.’
She wanted to ask him the exact time of his death, but decided to draw back from the topic.
‘You’ve had a nasty shock, Mr Hanley. A very nasty shock. It’s left you a bit—a bit confused. But the good news is—’
He glared at her. Mary could see that he was used to giving orders and didn’t like to be contradicted.
‘—the good news is that your condition is stabilizing. You’re out of the danger zone. If you’re lucky, you’ll leave here at the end of week.’
‘I’ll leave here before then. On a stretcher to the morgue. Thursday, I’m telling you.’
Mary decided to change the subject. ‘Would you like me to close the door?’
‘No. Too stuffy.’
‘Do you need anything?’
‘A gin and tonic?’
At last, a touch of humour.
‘I don’t think we’ve got any gin, but I could get you a sherry.’
Mr Hanley frowned and stared at Mary. ‘A sherry? I thought this was a hospital.’
‘It’s a hospice, not a hospital. We try to make you comfortable. And if a little tipple helps…’
Wednesday
At the morning handover, the nurses talked about Mr Hanley: none of them liked him. They exchanged scraps of information. He’d been a property developer, a ruthless one, immensely rich for a while, but had lost a lot in the last crash. Divorced, of course. Two children from different marriages: he’d banned them from seeing him. No one else visited.
Mary started her walk round the ward. Mr Hanley was making a long phone call. Once again, he’d insisted on keeping his door open and his voice echoed down the corridor. As she visited her patients, Mary caught odd phrases.
‘Brian, I want this done now… I’m paying you triple rates, aren’t I?… No, there isn’t time… Immediately, Brian, immediately… Then fix it…’
Mary pieced together what he was doing. It was his will. He was disinheriting his son and daughter.
‘They’ve had enough from me, haven’t they? She’s on her third millionaire, and he’ll only stuff it up his nose…’
He wanted to donate it all to—but she couldn’t catch that. And there was something else. A legacy. For a smaller amount of money.
‘…at least two thousand a month. It’s got to be secure, Brian. Really secure. Inflation-proof. Nothing risky… Come on Brian, it’s not that complicated… No, it has to be done now… Good. Email it to me straightaway…’
Mary reached the room next to Mr Hanley. Sarah McGregor, leukaemia. Three days, they reckoned.
‘Is that phone call disturbing you, Sarah?’
‘What phone call?’
Mary brought her the green tea she liked and talked about her son, who visited every day.
As Mary left, Judy, the senior nurse, walked up.
‘Phone call for your Mr Hanley. Someone’s trying to contact him: Rod. Can you ask him to call back?’
Mary nodded. Maybe this might be a way of getting to know Mr Hanley? But first she needed to mention his long phone call and to remind him of the need to respect the other patients. As Mary approached his room, all was silent.
‘Phone call over?’
‘Yes.’
He didn’t sound so aggressive.
‘And you got what you wanted?’
He nodded. ‘Should’ve done it years ago. Better late than never, I suppose. Time to do something useful. But—’ He rolled his eyes. ‘What a time for a re-think!’
‘It was—your will?’
He snorted. ‘Not much left now. But I’ll be damned if that bloody boy leaches any more money out of me. I’m only staying in this place because the daft little bugger won’t think of looking for me here.’
Mary paused, not sure whether to ask more. She shouldn’t have listened to his phone call, but it had been impossible not to hear it. It was sad when it ended this way: no visitors, not even your son and daughter. She guessed he wanted to talk a bit more.
‘So you donated it to…’
He stared out of the window and didn’t answer. Maybe she was wrong: he wanted to be left alone.
‘I’ve given it all to a charity. SHELTER. You know them?’
‘The housing charity?’
‘That’s the one. Damage limitation. I’ve had countless people thrown out of their houses. Might as well do something to make up for it.’
‘How much did you give?’
‘About two million.’
‘Two million!’
‘That’s not much in the property business, believe me. It won’t go far.’
He sighed and Mary noticed how sad he seemed.
‘Someone called Rod is trying to phone you,’ she told him.
She caught it: for a second, the mask slipped. He turned away, fiddled with the duvet for a moment. He looked—surprised? Yes, but something else as well—unsure? Guilty?
‘Rod—I’ll call him in a moment. If only I had more time!’
‘Mr Hanley, you mustn’t assume the worst. Dr Patterson thinks you’re getting better.’
He snorted and stared at Mary. The scornful tone returned to his voice.
‘I told you, didn’t I? I found out a fortnight ago. I’ll die tomorrow morning.’
Mary couldn’t stop herself. ‘What time?’
‘11 o’clock.’
Thursday morning
Mary walked from one room to another, checking on each patient. Mrs Clark had some flowers that needed a vase. Steve Blishen was playing chess with his son via an internet link, cackling each time he took a new piece. She knew she’d have to say something when she reached Mr Hanley—this was the day he expected to die—but she wasn’t sure what. Thankfully, the problem resolved itself. His door was open, as always, and he looked up as Mary arrived.
‘This tea is bloody awful. Tastes like dishwater.’
‘Can I get you anything else?’
He grimaced, then stared out the window. The Financial Times lay on his bed.
‘The toast wasn’t bad and I liked the marmalade. Nice to have a fried egg: they wouldn’t do that in hospital.’
‘It’s different here.’ Mary smiled. ‘Anything interesting in the paper?’
‘You know, the usual. The rich get richer, the poor get poorer. Do I need to tell you that?’
‘Your daughter tried to visit. She was stopped at reception.’
‘Silly bitch,’ he muttered, glancing back at the FT.
For a second, Mary thought he meant her. But, no, he was talking about his daughter. It’d been a nasty incident: they’d had to call one of the porters to escort her out the building. Was that all he was going to say? His eyes were on the paper, refusing to look at her.
She had to talk about his prediction. It was just after 9:45, he thought was going to die at 11. She couldn’t tease him. Nothing came to her. Instead:
‘Would you like anything else to drink? As you didn’t like the tea.’
He looked up. ‘My last drink, eh?’
That certainty, it was unnerving.
‘Have you got any proper coffee? The real stuff, not bloody instant.’
She could do that. She found Jo in the café, told her a patient wanted a cafetière. While Jo was getting it ready, Mary found a tray and spotted a cup with a matching saucer.
‘Fussy bugger, is he?’
‘How do you know it’s a man, Jo?’
‘Feminine intuition.’
They both laughed.
Mary reached for the little sachets of sugar, but Jo stopped her.
‘No, no… I’ve got the proper stuff here.’
There was a jar of dark muscovado sugar. Jo carefully spooned some into a little bowl, then placed the spoon by it.
‘And don’t give ‘im any of those little cartons of milk.’
Jo found a jug, poured some fresh milk into it. Then she placed the cafetière on the tray.
‘He thinks he’s going to die this morning, so I…’ Mary waved at the tray and its content.
Jo rolled her eyes. ‘If it makes ‘im ‘appy…’
Mary delivered the tray to Mr Hanley and was glad to see his eyes light up.
‘That’s better,’ he said. He reached for the plunger of the cafetière. The smell of the coffee filled his room.
Mary wanted to stay a little longer, but she needed to see Mrs Khan. Searching for something to say, all she could think of was:
‘See you at lunchtime.’
As she left, she heard him mutter: ‘No you won’t.’
Mrs Khan wanted Mary to phone her many relatives and update them on her condition. Mary briefed each one in turn and answered their questions. She didn’t keep an eye on the time. All at once, it was 11:20. She cut short her conversation with the second aunty, smiled at Mrs Khan, wished her well and walked back down the corridor. She had to see Mr Hanley, had to prove him wrong. She imagined laughing at him, just a little, then—better still—laughing with him, telling him that the worst was over, he was getting better. She knew where Mr Hanley was heading. He wasn’t dying, she’d seen plenty die. She turned a corner and—
Oh. In Mr Hanley’s room. Dr Patterson, Judy and another nurse. She recognised the look on their faces.
‘He hasn’t…’ Mary said.
Judy looked up and nodded.
‘Quite unexpected,’ said Dr Patterson. ‘I’d never have thought…’
‘At 11?’ asked Mary.
‘No,’ said Judy.
‘No?’
Judy checked her IPad. ‘Time of death: 10.55.’
Mary had lunch with her colleague Alysha in the canteen. She was upset and needed company. She told Alysha the story of Mr Hanley.
‘Isn’t that the weirdest thing you ever heard?’ she asked.
Alysha nodded. ‘Uncanny.’
‘His heart was getting stronger, Dr Patterson was sure.’
‘Self-induced,’ said Alysha. ‘Auto-suggestion. He believed it so much that he made it happen.’
‘But why?’
‘Who knows? He was carrying some baggage, wasn’t he? Divorced, didn’t get on with his children. No one came to see him.’
‘There was someone who tried—Rog. No, Rod.’
Alysha sipped her coffee.
Mary continued: ‘And his business. He wasn’t happy about that, either. I suppose we’ll never know the truth.’
Friday
Mary walked along the ward, checking on the patients. Mrs Luce was in the room that Mr Hanley had occupied: a big, friendly woman with an Italian accent. Liver cancer. Five days, maybe ten. Her son was there and her two grandchildren were coming soon. Judy came along with a message: there was someone to see her at reception.
Mary found a tall man was waiting for her. Long strands of grey hair in a ponytail, bright blue eyes that looked straight at her, tanned skin. Big hands, strong shoulders, muscular arms. In his late 60s, maybe early 70s, guessed Mary. Still in good shape. Must do some sort of manual work.
‘Mary Cove?’ he asked as she approached. ‘I came to see Frank Hanley, but…’
He introduced himself: Rod. Mary took him to a meeting room. She had a feeling that a strange story was going to get stranger.
‘I suppose I was his only friend—or the nearest thing he had to a friend. He could be a right bastard, you know.’
‘I could see that.’
‘We go way back. School friends, believe it or not. Lost contact now and again, over the years, but he’d always be back, like a bad penny.’
‘It’s a shame you didn’t come a couple of days ago. You only just missed him.’
‘But I offered! I told him I’d come on Wednesday. He said to come today, he even said to ask for you.’
‘He knew my name?’
Rod pointed to the identity card which hung from her neck.
‘It’s not difficult to guess,’ he said, smiling.
He had a nice smile, thought Mary. Warm, open, happy—all qualities she hadn’t seen in Mr Hanley. How could these two be connected? Did he work for Hanley?
They chatted and Mary tried to ask some questions discreetly.
They’d been friends at school, close friends. Both bright, both ambitious. Even then, Frank—Mr Hanley—had been drawn to Economics and Business Studies, while Rod had liked Maths, particularly what Mary thought of as the more mystical side of maths.
‘Do you realise that a single mathematical code operates throughout the whole universe?’ Rod told her, his eyes gleaming.
Mary didn’t and pulled him back to the main story. Rod’s schooldays had ended badly: his A-levels went wrong and just when he was considering re-taking them, his girlfriend, Rachel, was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease.
‘A nasty one,’ said Mary.
Rod nodded. ‘It doesn’t go away—but there are good days and bad days. You learn to be grateful.’
As if that wasn’t enough, Rod’s mother died at the end of that summer, from an aggressive throat cancer. She was his only parent—Rod’s father had died when he was young. She didn’t leave much, just a little holiday cottage near Brecon. In a couple of months, Rod’s life was transformed. He and Rach moved to Wales, he gave up all thoughts of university, converted the cottage into an all-year house and picked up some DIY skills along the way. When his mum’s money ran out, he found work as a painter and decorator.
He’d argued with Frank during their A-levels and when he moved to Brecon, he never expected to see him again. But then Frank relocated to Bristol.
‘That man!’ said Rod, shaking his head. ‘He had houses and flats in every town in the land.’
One day, out of the blue, Frank turned up at Rod and Rach’s cottage, bearing two bottles of wine and a bottle of scotch. Rod couldn’t turn him away. That set the pattern. Frank built up his property empire, Rod bumped along, working on other people’s houses. Frank would disappear for months, even years and never sent letters or cards. But he’d always reappear.
‘I got to understand it, after a while. You see, the people he was mixing with, they were a nasty lot. All of them out for something. Frank’d always have to watch his back. I must’ve been the only person he could trust, the only person who wasn’t trying to get one over him.’
Mary was trying to understand. ‘And—did you ever ask him for anything? Money?’
Rod looked up, suddenly mistrustful. ‘No. Well, once. Rach got really ill and we wanted to try a treatment that wasn’t on the NHS. I asked him…’
‘He paid for it?’
‘He paid for it, and—to be fair—never mentioned it, never asked for anything in return. But—it didn’t feel right, I didn’t like myself for doing that and I decided never to ask him for anything again.’
‘And—did the treatment work?’
Rod shrugged his shoulders. ‘Hard to say. It didn’t do her any harm. Rach still suffers. But she’s learnt to get on with life, when she can.’
‘What does she do?’
‘When we first moved into the cottage, she made some baby clothes for a friend. Everybody said how beautifully she’d knitted them. It became a sort of habit and then—after a while—people began to pay her to knit for them, clothes for adults, I mean. When she’s well, that’s what she does. Designer jumpers, you might say. People will pay £250, even more, for one of Rach’s jumpers.’
He smiled proudly at Mary.
‘So we manage, mostly—’ Rod was interrupted by his mobile. ‘Sorry, might be Rach.’
He looked at the screen, then frowned.
‘What the—’
He read and re-read the message, then scrolled down, looking puzzled.
Mary guessed what it might be. ‘Is it about Mr Hanley—Frank?’
‘Yes.’ Rod looked baffled. ‘From his solicitor. Brian something-or-other. Frank’s—Frank’s left me some money. A legacy. Two thousand a month. Can this be right?’
‘I heard him phoning, from his bed. He changed his will, at the last moment. Completely disinherited his children.’
‘Did he now? He hated those kids, they gave him no end of grief. But—I don’t understand.’
‘What?’
‘Why did he leave this money to me?’
‘You said it yourself—you were probably his only friend.’
Rod nodded, slowly and thoughtfully.
‘It was his way of saying thank you,’ continued Mary.
‘He’d never have said it to my face.’
‘No—he wasn’t that sort. Mind you, he had more than two million to dispose of.’
Rod stared at her. ‘Two million! I knew he’d been raking it in, but—two million!’
Mary could see emotions crossing Rod’s face in rapid succession. He’d make a poor poker player, she thought. Now, he was angry.
‘Two million! And all he’s left me is two grand a month? Why, the—’ He looked away. ‘What a bastard, what a lying, cheating bastard. But—’
Conflicting emotions crossed his face.
‘But—two million. What would I have done with that?’ He snorted, smiled a little, then looked right at Mary. ‘I’d have tied myself in knots, wouldn’t I? Tried to be clever, tried to be sensible, wouldn’t know what to do. Like those lottery winners, they don’t get happy, do they? Two grand, two grand a month—maybe that’s about right.’
‘It could pay for someone to care for Rachel.’
Rod looked up. ‘Yeah, it could, couldn’t it?’
He stared out of the window, thinking over what he’d learnt.
‘Yeah, he wanted to say thank you. And sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ asked Mary. ‘For what?’
‘Those A-levels—there’s something I didn’t tell you.’
Rod had been hoping for a top grade in his Maths A-level, good enough to take him to university. Frank wasn’t so good at Maths: he didn’t have the patience to pick his way through a maths problem and always looked for short cuts. The two friends had sat next to each other during the exam, at the back of the hall. Rod remembered it as two hours that flew by. He’d prepared well for the paper. He picked three questions and he devoted thirty-five minutes to each, growing more confident, sensing that he’d got to the root of the problem each time. And then—he looked round and realised he’d finished early. Still twenty minutes left. He looked back over what he’d written, but didn’t want to change anything. For no good reason, he felt uneasy, constrained in the room. He got up, said he wanted the toilet, but walked out of the building, had a smoke. Then he realised he could miss the end of the exam: he needed to fill in the cover sheet. In those days, he explained, you attached a cover sheet which went round your exam script and you filled in the numbers of the questions you answered.
He got back into the exam room just in time: the invigilators glared at him. Frank was looking nervous and Rod guessed that he hadn’t found the exam so easy. Almost as he sat down, the invigilators announced the end of the exam and then called the boys to leave, row by row. Frank left like a shot—Rod thought that was a bit odd, Frank liked to play it cool, watch the other kids queuing in a big huddle, then stroll up to the top desk and hand in his paper like he was doing the invigilators a favour. Rod filled in the details on the cover sheet, then flicked through his answers, just one last time, just for luck. He got the shock of his life: Frank’s exam paper was there.
‘The bastard had switched our papers while I was out. I felt furious, absolutely furious. He’d betrayed me. It meant I couldn’t go to university.’
Once he was out of the exam hall, Rod had stormed round the school, searching for Frank. When he found him, he’d hit him, really thumped him, but Frank didn’t fight back, he crumpled to the ground.
‘You bastard! You bloody bastard!’ Rod had cried. ‘I’ll get even with you, I will, if it takes me fifty years.’
Mary looked up. That was it: fifty years.
‘Can you remember the exact date of that exam?’ she asked.
‘The date? No, of course not. May, I suppose. Why?’
But as he spoke, Rod made the connection.
‘What about the time?’ asked Mary.
Rod thought for a moment. ‘It was a morning one—an early morning one. It would’ve begun at nine—’
‘—and ended at eleven.’
‘Fifty years ago,’ said Rod.
‘Exactly.’