Ray lies on a hospital bed in a corridor next to the entrance of A&E; each time the door opens he endures a blast of freezing air. It’s four o’clock in the morning and he’s yet to see a doctor. He feels sorry for himself; it’s no place to be with Christmas and Covid in the air. As he climbs out of bed, to go to the toilet, the bed issues a melodic sequence of multiple squeaks. Ray laughs as he inspects the bed, sees how old and battered it is and sings, Any old iron? Any, any old iron? 

A passing nurse calls, You should be asleep after that sedative we gave you.
Instead, Ray explores.
Another corridor is empty except for a boy sitting bolt upright in bed, wide awake, sobbing and pleading, Daddy! I want to go home.
Ray asks, Shall I call you a nurse?
Daddy, you came at last, the boy whimpers. 
Sorry, son, I’m not your daddy.
The boy screams, Daddy! Daddy!
The same nurse comes running. I told you, get back to bed before you pass out!

Reluctantly, Ray does as he’s been told. As soon as his head hits the pillow he falls into a deep sleep and dreams.

In an enormous sports hall, innumerable blue hospital privacy screens on wheels, are in constant movement like the sails of myriad sailing boats caught in a raging storm. Ray finds the sound of screens and beds ricocheting one against another, the screeching of wheels, the constant noise of ventilators, shouted conversations, sobbing, cries of distress and even shouts of man overboard, frightening. He goes on. Boris Johnson and Matt Hancock play badminton with a shuttlecock dripping blood. Ray wonders why there are no stains on Johnson’s and Hancock’s clothes while spectating female and male patients lying on hospital beds are drenched in blood. Alarms ring.
An elderly male voice interrupts his nightmare, asking, Were you taking the piss singing, Any old iron?
Who said that? Ray asks.
I did. 
Who?
Your bed. Can I sing along? You look dapper from your napper to your feet, the bed sings.
Bloody hell, beds don’t talk, let alone, sing.
You’d be surprised. When there’s too many sick folks, they dig me out of the store and here I am, an emergency bed. In 1948, when the NHS was founded, it took over ownership of 480,000 beds: I’m one of those beds. We used to sing lullabies to get the bairns to sleep. It was another of Aneurin Bevan’s miracles. Do you know how many NHS beds there are now?
No.
In March 2024, 141,903.
Jesus, I need cheering up.
Let’s sing a carol.

Hello, Raymond, I’m your doctor, Sandra, time to wake up. You’ve been dreaming and singing Good King Wenceslas; it was odd, it sounded like a duet. Anyway, we’ll find you a nice new bed to make you comfortable.
Sorry, but this is the best bed I’ve ever had.
Thanks Ray, the bed whispers. 

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More
© Phil Cosker 2024
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