By Cliff McNish

6

I discharged myself from the hospital that day. A reckless act, I know, but I’d had my fill of the team of nurses on Ward 6. They were supposed to be taking care of me, but in fact kept me waiting for every tiny little thing I needed. Nurse Hayley’s surly jobsworth attitude seemed to infect her entire staff. 

‘You’re making a big mistake leaving so soon,’ she explained tartly when she saw me struggling to get out of my thin blue hospital gown. 

‘This bloody thing doesn’t even fit me properly!’ I grunted at her, rummaging around in the cabinet adjacent to the bed for my trousers. ‘When you can get something as basic as a gown that fits me, I’ll trust your judgement on other matters!’ 

I was aware that I was being touchy and cranky, but I’d had enough, and I was in pain. 

‘Well?’ I growled, sick of Hayley’s impersonal, frosty looks, one of which she was skewering me with right now. ‘Are you going to stop me leaving?’ 

Hayley folded her arms. ‘Technically, I can’t. Not if you insist. It’s a judgment call, ultimately. How good do you think your judgment is right now, Mr Morgan?’ 

All she needed to do was say something nice to me. To acknowledge, for once, that I’d been through a crap experience. To ask me how I felt, for Christ’s sake! If she’d done that, I would have stayed. Part of me knew I was being unreasonable here. All the drugs were still running around my system, I suppose. I felt strung out. 

‘You are not capable of making your way home unaided,’ Hayley told me, somehow managing to make my physical weakness sound like a character flaw. ‘If you absolutely insist on leaving, then I must insist someone picks you up. I must also insist that you have at least one person with you at home for the next three full days.’ 

‘Fine,’ I muttered. ‘My son can do both.’ 

While Hayley reluctantly went off to do whatever admin paperwork was needed to enable me to leave, I rang Jack. 

‘Are you sure about this, Dad?’ He sounded deeply concerned. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to leave before the medical staff think you should.’ 

‘I’m going crazy in here,’ I told him. ‘I just want my own bed. Peace and quiet. They’ve already told me that’s the most important thing and I’m not getting that here, that’s for sure!’ 

 ‘But what if your symptoms worsen again?’ 

‘Then I’ll come straight back in,’ I promised, exhausted from the tension in my body arising from just this small disagreement. ‘Please, Jack. Don’t leave me in here.’ 

Silence at the other end of the line. Then, finally, he murmured: ‘Alright, Dad. Your call.’

I paused for a moment, surprised to find tears in my eyes. 

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘And thank you … thanks so much for making all those trips into the ICU to be with me as well. I forgot to say that before. I can’t tell you how much they meant to me, Jack. Those visits … they saved my life.’ 

‘I’m your son,’ he replied. ‘Of course I was there. I’d have come more often if I could. Look, I’m at work right now. When do you need picking up?’ 

‘You couldn’t come in the next hour, could you?’

‘I’m getting in the car now.’ 

7

Nurse Hayley watched me leave with a much more concerned expression on her face than I expected. Slow, shuffling steps were all I could manage, and by the time I reached the ward’s heavy double doors, I was completely out of breath. Not that I was about to give her the satisfaction of seeing me reverse direction and ask for help. 

By the time I arrived in the main reception area on the ground floor, I felt ready to collapse. I sank with a groan into the closest plastic seat with a view of the front car parking bays. 

‘You forgot these.’ 

Nurse Hayley’s voice made me jump. She stood over me, a bagful of hospital stuff bunched in her fist. 

‘Some advisory documentation, since you insist on running away,’ she said, when I stared at her in confusion. ‘Make sure you read the instructions carefully. And if you have any further symptoms, such as memory loss, or you just feel sick or confused, don’t hesitate to ring the number provided.’ 

For some reason, I still felt like arguing with her. 

‘It’s the general hospital number, I suppose. I’ll be put on hold for an hour, then cut off.’

‘This number is mine,’ she answered, showing me a slip of paper. ‘My personal mobile number. You may not be taking responsibility for your own health, Mr Morgan, but I am. Give me a call if you have any problems.’

I lifted my chin, suddenly realising that I may have misjudged this nurse. 

Hayley returned to the lift. Just before she got into it, she twisted around and blew me a kiss. 

I was astonished, then realised the kiss was not intended for me. It was aimed at a man sitting behind me at the reception desk. A good-looking man whose name badge read ‘Ezekiel.’ As the lift doors closed on Hayley, he winked at me.

‘Isn’t she lovely?’ he said. ‘Isn’t she a peach?’ 

*

Jack was delayed. By the time his Volkswagen Passat swung into the narrow parking bay, I was struggling to sit up straight. The parking bay was meant exclusively for taxis dropping patients off. Hurriedly picking up my jacket, I’d nearly reached the exit when a blasted shout of ‘Sir!’ stopped me in my tracks. 

I twisted around to see Ezekiel. He was holding the medical bag containing the instructions Hayley had given me up high in the air, like an Olympic torch. 

‘Are you trying to kill yourself?’ he said.

‘W-what? I spluttered. 

‘Just an old medical joke,’ he replied, handing me the bag. ‘It’s all up here, yeah?’ He rapped his forehead with his knuckles. ‘You take care, Mr Morgan.’ 

8

Given how congested the parking space outside the hospital was, I expected Jack to stay in the driver’s seat while I jumped in the back. Instead, probably because I was moving so slowly, he hopped out of the car and met me halfway. The first thing he did was to throw his arms around me. A huge bear-hug that went, from my perspective, deliciously on and on. A taxi beeped behind him – London drivers have zero patience – but the two of us ignored it. 

We finally disengaged, and Jack helped me into the rear of the Passat. It proved tricky – I needed him to lift my feet into the footwell. But then I was able to relax and just sit back while he drove away into the busy traffic stream.

‘Thanks for picking me up,’ I said, a huge sigh of relief floating out of me. ‘It was horrible in that place.’ 

‘I’ll bet it was.’ He reached behind to squeeze my hand. ‘All good, Dad. Get you home, yeah?’ 

‘You bet.’

I was feeling quite emotional on the journey back for reasons I couldn’t quite identify. Partly it was just the relief of escaping the hospital, I’m sure. Another part, though, was that I wanted to talk to Jack. To express certain things. What things exactly, I was not sure. But each time I opened my mouth to say something, I couldn’t quite manage it. I was simply too tired to talk, and Jack, who had always been sensitive to my moods, must have understood that, because he concentrated on driving. I let the grey London streets wash across my eyes. Blackfriars. Tower Bridge. Old Kent Road. Right turn towards Peckham and Camberwell. 

‘Where are all the Christmas shoppers?’ I piped up eventually, surprised there weren’t more people around. 

‘It’s March, Dad.’

I let that sink in. By the look on Jack’s raised eyebrow, so did he. He kept glancing at me worriedly through the rear-view mirror after that, and I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to worry him, especially after all the time he’d spent in the hospital visiting me. 

‘I guess I still look pretty beat up, huh?’ I said, to lighten the mood.

‘You look fine, Dad.’ But his expression said otherwise. 

I fell asleep after that, and next I knew the back door of the car was open, with Jack gently shaking my shoulder. ‘Dad. We’re here.’ 

‘Oh, right!’ I attempted to sound more with it than I was, but I slurred the words, and Jack noticed.

‘I just need some sleep,’ I reassured him. 

 He helped me hobble up the drive, and I made a concerted effort not to grip onto his arm. It cost me, however. By the time I’d walked from the gate to the front door, I was sweating profusely.

‘I’ll come in with you,’ he said. 

‘Don’t be silly.’ He always had a ton of work on. The last thing I wanted to do was take up any more of his time. ‘I’m fine,’ I told him when he looked dubious. ‘I just need to sleep. You get back to work.’ 

When he hesitated, I rolled my eyes, pretending I was frustrated with him. 

‘It’s not like I’ll be alone in the house,’ I said, when he continued staring at me worriedly. ‘Malc’s in, right?’

Jack nodded. ‘Yes. And he’s promised me – absolutely promised – that he’ll keep an eye on you this afternoon and tonight as well. Plus, I’ll have my mobile on.’ He patted his pocket. ‘If you need me, just call, OK?’ 

‘I will,’ I said, patting my own trouser pocket the same way he had. But I mustn’t have done it very convincingly because Jack said, ‘Where’s your phone?’ 

‘It’s right here,’ I told him, searching confusedly. When I couldn’t locate the damn thing, Jack plucked it from my front shirt pocket.

He handed it to me. ‘Dad, are you sure you’re alright to be left?’ he asked.

‘I’m good,’ I told him, soft-punching his arm. ‘Get back to work.’

9

With the last of my strength, I stood there waving vigorously at Jack until he’d driven away. Only when he was completely out of sight did I let my head sink against the wooden panel of the front door and press the bell. I had to ring it three times before I heard footsteps. The door finally opened a crack. 

Malc stood there, staring blearily. He was dressed in his boxers and a none-too-clean T-shirt. Standard attire for Malc. I’d clearly woken him from sleep. 

‘Jesus!’ he said, making no effort at all to hide his surprise at my state. 

Typical Malc. Self-editing was not one of his strong traits. I knew I looked different, of course – the injuries, and I’d lost considerable weight – but he might have tried harder. Malc worked in IT, software something-or-other, but not from an office; from his room upstairs. I’d always answered the door for his deliveries, mostly pizza and Indian takeaways, because he’d have his headphones on or would be playing some computer game too loudly to hear the bell. I should have chucked him out years ago, but he pays the rent punctually and most of the time keeps to himself in his room at the top of the house. 

It was obvious from his fake smile that he was disappointed to see me back. 

‘Good to see you, man.’ 

‘Didn’t Jack say I was coming?’ 

‘Yeah. Sorry! Ffff! What time is it?’ 

 He was in one of his post-drug hazes. Malc always looked like that on weekends, and now he was worse than usual. He’d had the luxury of the house to himself for the last few months. Even his own minimal standards have dropped. 

‘I’ll make you some tea,’ he said, making it sound like he was pulling out all the stops. 

‘Don’t bother,’ I told him. ‘I’m going to bed.’ 

‘Oh … righto.’ His face lit up, then he dampened his expression into what I suppose was meant to be a concerned look. ‘Probably best, yeah? Tuck yourself in. Get your head down.’ 

I was trudging to the staircase – I really was feeling incredibly weary – when I remembered that Nurse Hayley had made something clear before I left. 

‘The hospital says I can’t be alone today in the house. In case I get problems. Only for today, not tomorrow,’ I added. No point expecting Malc to cope with the multiple days. 

‘Ah.’ Malc popped his lips. ‘I was going out, actually.’ The expression on his face was only mildly guilty. ‘I can get you something at the shop if you need it.’ 

I sighed heavily, suddenly remembering it was Saturday. On Saturday nights, Malc always goes clubbing in Soho. Clearly, nothing, not even the threat of me dropping dead, was going to scupper that. ‘Didn’t Jack tell you …’ I began, then gave up. I was too tired for this. 

Clinging heavily to the banister, I lumbered up the stairs. 

10

I know this is going to sound odd, but I hadn’t looked at myself in a mirror since the attack. Not properly, anyway. Yes, I’d used the squeaky-clean toilet and shower room at the hospital, both of which were full of mirrors, but I’d deliberately avoided more than glimpses. Frankly, I’d been afraid of what I’d see. 

Time to do that now, I told myself firmly. Get it over and done with. Full body check. 

I took a lukewarm shower first (the skin abrasions covering my face were mostly healed, but hot water was still hard to take). Only then – and fully naked – did I turn towards the bathroom’s full-length mirror. 

My first thought was that I was an entirely different man. It was the weight loss, I think. I’d lost a remarkable amount. Maybe three stone. To be fair, Nurse Hayley had warned me about this. The intravenous drips hospitals use to keep patients alive during a coma don’t stop you from losing muscle mass. My biceps were droopy, and my thighs, normally strong from cycling, were as thin as an old man’s. My stomach was almost concave – a shape it hadn’t had since I was a skinny teenager – and still discoloured by deep-tissue bruises from far too many kicks. 

It was my head, however, that was the star of the show. A stripe of exposed scalp the width of a tube of toothpaste ran from my left ear all the way across the cranium. The skin of the scar was livid white, with a red, cinched crease in the middle that looked like it had been carved by an over-enthusiastic axe-murderer. 

The trauma team had explained to me that this was not an injury from the accident. It was an emergency procedure they’d been forced into immediately after the attack to stop my swelling brain from being damaged. 

A few tufts of hair had grown back around the edges of the scar, but they didn’t amount to much.    

I’d lost several teeth as well. Only back ones, though, and the hospital had stabilized my broken jaw while I was still in a coma. 

You’re lucky, I reminded myself. You could have died. Thinking about which, I suddenly and completely unexpectedly burst into tears. Why tears this time rather than all the other times I’d had the same thought in the hospital? I don’t know. Maybe because it was my first moment of true privacy. I was finally able to let my guard down. I was home, thank God. I was safe. 

 Still crying, but not loudly so Malc wouldn’t come butting in pretending he cared, I turned my body slowly around in the mirror. The clumsy totter reminded me of the way actor John Hurt had looked the first time he saw himself in a mirror when he played the real-life John Merrick in the movie The Elephant Man. ‘You are so kind … so kind,’ I heard myself saying, mimicking his slurpy voice, and for some reason I burst out laughing. The laughter emerged slightly hysterically. I could walk right now straight onto a film set and play an emaciated zombie, I realised. Or the victim of a terrible road accident. I wouldn’t need any make-up. 

I decided to take this little surreal flight of imagination as evidence that I was recovering. Or at least that my sense of humour was. It was only when I persisted in the fantasy, slurping non-stop, twisting and turning, that I realised this kind of messing about was exactly the sort of thing that my son would be more likely to do in the same position, and I suddenly wished he was here with me. Giving my reflection in the mirror several more mad smiles, I recognised something else as well: my trauma might still be worse than I’d thought, and it probably hadn’t been such a great idea to check myself out of the hospital. 

I pulled the duvet limply across my bed. It took all my strength just to do that, and I felt light-headed as well. These symptoms, of course, were exactly the tell-tale combination of signs a person who is the recent victim of head trauma should question. What I urgently needed to do was ring the hospital. The fact that I was delaying doing so was a mystery to me. It was a decision, after all, that could potentially result in my death. But for some reason – in my current state of mind – I didn’t seem to find that such a terrible idea. 

Some tiny hint of self-preservation finally kicked in, and I fetched out my phone. I rang Jack first, but the message went straight to a voice recording. You said you’d have your phone on, I thought. Don’t leave me in Malc’s hands. 

I felt woozy after that and might have fallen asleep. When I woke up (had I fallen asleep?), I called Jack several more times. Still no answer. 

Struggling to focus, I finally found the slip of paper Nurse Hayley had given me with her personal number. It took me several minutes of fumbling to add this as a new contact on my phone. I was just getting some opening vampire remarks ready for her from a Bela Lugosi film – ‘Do you find us beautiful and magical? ‘Drink,’ you ask me. Do you have any idea of the things you will become?’ when I passed out. 

11

I woke at some point later in the day. Or rather, the night. It was dark in my room and I was lying not on my bed but on the floor. Spread-eagled, actually. I struggled up onto my knees, pawing at the wall, attempting to find the main light switch.

When I finally did so, the sudden brightness made me cry out. I also had a splitting headache. Had I taken any pills before I lay down? Was I meant to? I’d not even checked the instructions Nurse Hayley had left me. Paracetamol! Yes, that’s the sort of thing I needed. I had a pack in the bathroom. 

I was making my way down the hallway, bumping into the walls (why was I doing that?), when I realised I could hear voices downstairs. 

Malc was one of them. He must be back early from Soho, I realised. When I heard a second voice, I wondered if he’d brought a boyfriend back with him. Malc sometimes did this after clubbing. I listened in from the banister at the top of the staircase. 

‘… a call from this address. An emergency call.’

‘Right, yeah.’ 

I looked down between the banister rails to see blue and white lights strobing across Malc’s face from the open front door. Disco lights? Was this some kind of party home kit he’d ordered? No. That didn’t make sense. Then I spotted two men outlined in the doorway. Both were in uniform. I tried to make sense of this in relation to Malc. Some kink thing? 

‘We were called to this address,’ one of them said. ‘We were told it’s an emergency.’

Malc ran a hand through his messed hair. He looked wasted. 

‘Yeah, man. I called you.’

‘Carl. Are you Carl Morgan?’

‘No. I’m his lodger.’ 

The two men scrutinised Malc. I think they could tell he’d taken something. 

‘We’re not very close. Me and Carl, I mean,’ Malc said, clearly struggling to concentrate. ‘I just live here, you know. I got back from the club and thought I should, like, check on him. But I got no answer when I knocked on his bedroom door. I’m supposed to be looking after him … sort of. He’s not …. do you know about the coma? Christ! I shouldn’t have gone out, should I?’ He wiped his sweaty brow. Seemed to lose his train of thought again.

One of the uniformed men took command. ‘If Mr Morgan is in his bedroom, we should check on him.’ 

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Malc waved them through. ‘That’s right! Go up, man! What are you waiting for? He needs your help!’ 

The two men had taken their first booted steps up the stairs when I stood up shakily, using the banister for support. 

 ‘I’m fine,’ I called down, even though I was not. ‘Look!’ I said as proof, and for some reason I did that hunched slow pirouette I’d done in the bathroom earlier, the one like the Elephant Man. 

I had to clutch the banister to regain my balance. It’s a tricky manoeuvre, doing it slowly, I thought. You’d have to practise to get it just right. 

‘I’m glad you two are back,’ I said. ‘Because I’m not sure if I told you, but I saw a third man on the platform. He wasn’t with the two men who assaulted me. He’d be a good corroborating witness if you needed one.’

When they just stood there gazing at me blankly, I realised that what I’d just done was speak to them as if they were officers Higgins and Fleetwood, when in fact they were medical staff.

‘I think … I think I need you to take me back to the hospital,’ I said. ‘Not to ward 6, though!’ I added. ‘To ICU. Where Emma is. Could you take me directly there? Have you met Emma?’ 

When I said that, I realised I wanted to see Emma more than I cared about being treated. That was surely a problem. 

I wondered why the two medics weren’t rushing up the stairs to help me. The reason soon became obvious. They were police officers. It was Fleetwood and Higgins. The flashing blues and whites belonged to their squad vehicle. I’m not sure why I thought they were ambulance staff. I suppose I hadn’t expected police officers to arrive in the middle of the night. 

‘Is something wrong?’ I asked, and for one heart-piercing moment, I thought something terrible had happened to Jack.

‘Nothing is wrong at this end,’ Higgins said. ‘But you called us. You said it was urgent.’ 

I nodded, trying to remember why I might have called them. Malc was tracking these exchanges in his drugged-out way. He looked scared out of his wits. Probably worried the police would arrest him for being high. 

‘I can take care of all this now,’ I told him, letting go of the banister so he could see I was perfectly in control. 

‘Why did you call us, Mr Morgan?’  Fleetwood said from the staircase. 

Thinking about how I might answer that, I realised it might be easier to concentrate if I slumped back to the floor. I did so, and found that I’d been right: it was easier to think from down there. I felt something new bubbling inside me as well. I wasn’t sure what it was. Then I suddenly found the name for it: nausea! That was it! I was feeling nauseous! 

I stared down at my right hand. Found that it was still clinging to the banister. I thought I’d stopped doing that. I was on the floor now, obviously. I no longer needed the banister’s support. 

Higgins took a step closer to me. ‘Did you mean to call the trauma ward, Mr Morgan?’ he asked me gently. ‘Is that what happened?’ 

‘I thought I did call the trauma ward,’ I told him.

12

I came back downstairs and Higgins expedited an emergency 999 call for me on his walkie-talkie radio. That’s the exact word he used: expedited. I liked it. It made it sound like something might actually happen. 

Once Fleetwood and Higgins had driven away, I tried phoning Jack again. Still no answer. I remembered how busy he was at work. 

Then, not quite knowing what to do next – Malc didn’t have any particular suggestions when I asked him – I just sat down at the kitchen dining table to wait for the ambulance to turn up. Malc was totally wrecked but hungry, like he always was after clubbing. From his big eyes, he’d taken crack. Or maybe Ecstasy. 

‘I’ve been trying to ring Jack, man,’ he said in a panicky jitter. ‘Over and over. He can’t put all this on me. He can’t leave me with all this to deal with on my own. It’s not fair!’ 

He ate a banana, peeling it slowly. I couldn’t tell if he was peeling it that way for aesthetic reasons or just because it was the only pace he could handle. When he handed a piece of the banana to me (not much, he kept most of it for himself), I ate it. I ate it as slowly as he’d peeled it. I don’t think I’d ever eaten a banana that slowly before. It was an interesting experience.

Then I felt sick again, and this time I had to run to the toilet. Well, crawl. Malc tried to help me, pulling me along, but fell over himself.

 ‘You need the ambulance more than me!’ I said.

‘Oh God!’ he groaned. ‘I’m sorry, why did I give you that to eat? You’ll probably need surgery or something. Sorry, man. Sorry … where the hell is Jack?’ 

‘Calm down.’ I told him, wishing he’d stay sensible just for five seconds. ‘You don’t have to do anything. The ambulance won’t be long. Just open the door to them. You’re not too off your face to do that, are you?’ 

‘Right, right.’ Reassured, he shakily made himself a cup of milky tea. 

‘There’s something desperately important I’m missing here,’ I said to him when he sat down with it. ‘But I don’t know what it is. Do you?’

‘You can’t think straight, is that what you mean?’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. That’s why I can’t figure things out, I suppose. I’ve had a major head trauma.’ 

 I scratched my arm. It had been itching for some time. ‘Have I shown you this?’ I asked, yanking up my sleeve. I pointed out the rather pretty rash evolving on my elbow. Over the past several minutes, small pinpricks had been spreading up my arm, some of them turning intriguingly purple. ‘I rub it and it won’t go away,’ I told him. 

Malc peered at the area. ‘That is weird.’

‘What I don’t understand,’ I told him, waving my elbow in his face, ‘… what I don’t understand at all, is about the subway. Those two bastards who did me in. Imagine if you were angry with me. Because of what I’d said or done. Whatever. Would you hurt me, a total stranger, the way those men did? Would you beat the living crap out of me?’

‘I suppose you had to be there to answer that,’ Malc said evasively.

‘What kind of an answer is that?’ I demanded. ‘I just want an opinion.’

Malc shook his head miserably. ‘Jeez, where is that ambulance? It should have been here ages ago.’ 

‘You’re just strung out,’ I told him. ‘Did you see the John Merrick impression I did for the police? I know it was dumb, but do you think they recognised it from the movie? If you’ve seen the movie, obviously.’

Malc gave me a haunted look. ‘Jack should never have left someone else to look after you,’ he whinged. ‘He should have stayed here, not gone back to work. That was wrong, man. That was criminal, if you think about it.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ I told him. ‘If you don’t want to help me, just piss off to bed or something.’ 

Malc stood up angrily. 

‘Screw you, man! What are you getting angry with me for?’ He pushed his chair back. ‘I’m here, aren’t I? I’m trying to help you. Why am I responsible? Anyway,’ he whinged, ‘I came back early from the club especially to make sure you were OK. No bloody thanks for that, of course!’ 

‘What happened?’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you find anyone to go home with?’ 

‘Sod off, you bastard!’ 

I shook my head. God, what a waste of space Malc was. Always special pleading whenever he’d screwed up, or just felt in his selfish little soul that he’d been hard done by. 

Then – hey! – I instantly forgave him for that. I completely forgave him for being a total loser, because I’d suddenly come up with an absolutely brilliant idea. 

‘I think I can solve all our problems,’ I informed him. 

‘Oh yeah?’ Malc looked dubious.

‘Yeah. We just need an ambulance to turn up, right?’ 

He nodded.

‘OK, then! So maybe if I just do this …’ 

I clicked my fingers … and we immediately heard an engine note, a vehicle pulling up outside. 

‘Bingo!’ Malc said, and we both laughed.

*

It wasn’t an ambulance, of course. Just a lorry or something turning in the drive. I didn’t have magic in my fingers. I wasn’t bloody Dynamo. 

So, we just carried on waiting. Later, Malc fell asleep, and I decided that my best option was to make my way on foot to the hospital rather than wait any longer. It’s only a few miles, I thought. I needed to clear my head anyway. Maybe I’d meet Jack on the way. 

---

Cliff McNish’s middle-grade fantasy novel The Doomspell is translated into 26 languages, and his ghost novel Breathe was voted in May 2013 by The Schools Network of British Librarians as one of the top adult and children’s novels of all time.

Amongst other places, his adult stories and poetry have appeared in Nightjar Press, Stand, Confingo, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Literary Hatchet and The Interpreter’s House.
Facebook: cliff mcnish; Instagram: @cliffmcnish