Free The Messengers by Edward Hogan Page B

be done. For your sake and for the sake of your family.”
    “Isn’t there some other way?” I said.
    “No,” Peter said.
    “There must be. Don’t you understand? This isn’t like giving someone a parking ticket. We’re talking about death. Doesn’t it make you feel . . . desperate?”
    Peter sighed. “Yes,” he said. He hoisted the strap of his guitar case over his shoulder and carried on walking up the long gravel path.
    “They’re not going to let us in here anyway,” I said. “You have to get permission to visit someone in an old folks’ home.”
    “I can come and go as I please,” Peter said.
    “How come?”
    “I do performances and workshops here in my spare time. I teach painting and sometimes play some songs. It’s a good arrangement, because — as you can imagine — I have to come here quite a lot, as a messenger.”
    I shook my head. “It’s sick.”
    “I’ve got to deliver the messages. At least this way, I’m giving something back,” he said, tapping the guitar case.
    “Yeah, you’re a real hero. A real guardian of the community. Don’t the staff wonder about the fact that every time you turn up, someone dies?”
    “It’s a nursing home. People die all the time.” Peter cleared his throat as we approached the entrance. “Do you have the drawing?” he said.
    I shuddered, thinking of the old man lying dead in the bath. “Yes,” I said.
    Peter rang the doorbell.
    “But it’s been such a nice day,” I said stupidly.
    “That’s what we do,” said Peter. “We ruin people’s days.”
    “You do a lot more than that,” I said.
    A young woman opened the door. One of the staff. “Peter!” she said. She turned round and shouted back into the next room, where the old folks sat about on brown armchairs. “Everyone, Peter’s here!” She said it as if they should be over the moon.
    He played a sort of lame country-and-western music, which the oldies loved. They clapped their hands as he sang. I watched him and listened to his fake American accent. The drawing I’d folded into my pocket seemed to be burning a hole through my jeans. I scanned the faces of the old people, and I saw the man from the drawing sitting at the back, grinning with his big white teeth. I thought, strangely, of the windup dentures in Max’s room. My stomach did the Big Dipper.
    The old folk joined in with the chorus:
    “I’m the messenger of love, girl
,
    And these words I bring to you
.
    The messenger of love, girl
,
    But I’m feeling kind of blue
.
    I’m the messenger of love, girl
,
    And I need to let you know:
    I’ve searched so hard to find you
,
    Now I got to let you go.”
    After the song, the audience broke up. Some of them went to watch TV, while some stayed behind to talk to Peter. The women seemed particularly pleased to see him, especially a woman with big earrings called Jane. I stayed back, not wanting to get involved.
    “And who’s that with you?” asked Jane, pointing to me.
    “That’s Frances. She’s my apprentice. Soon enough, she’ll be visiting care homes on her own.”
    I nodded and tried to smile, but I was struggling to keep control of my breathing. I tried to think of Maxi’s kendo meditation. The man from my drawing was staring out the window.
    “Do you do music?” Jane asked me. I shook my head.
    “No,” said Peter, smiling. “Frances has a talent for drawing. She’ll be doing workshops.”
    Jane laughed and nudged one of her friends. “Ooooh, is it with those nude models?” she said. “What’s it called now? Life drawing! Does she do life drawing?”
    “The opposite, really,” Peter said.
    I frowned at him, disgusted.
    “What do you mean?” Jane said.
    “Landscapes. She does mainly landscapes. Excuse me, ladies,” he said, and beckoned me to follow him to where the old man was looking out onto the lawn. I stood shakily and made my way over.
    “I’m so sorry, chap, I’ve forgotten your name,” Peter said, sitting down.
    “Don’t worry, pal,”