My eyes open suddenly into the gloom of my room. My phone is vibrating across the desk, the light flashing on and off. Through the confusion of sleep, I see the number being displayed on the front and press the screen to answer.
It’s a woman’s voice: ‘Hello? Is that Lucy Denman?’
‘Who is this?’ I croak.
‘My name’s Alison and I’m a nurse at the casualty unit,’ the voice says. ‘We’ve had a patient admitted and he’s given us your name and number.’
Chapter Twenty-One
It’s hard not to wince as I peer closer at the gash across the back of the patient’s head. The medical staff have done a great job to clean and stitch it, but underneath the bandages, it is still a horror story. They’ve had to cut away some of the hair and the slash stretches from one ear across the back of the cranium almost to the other.
‘The police think it was a pole or bat,’ Harry says, with an unerring cheerfulness.
He leans forward again and pulls the hair apart to give me an even better look. The darkened reddy-black of the blood has blended with the purply-yellow of the welt to create something that looks like it should have an eighteen certificate attached.
‘What does it look like?’ he asks.
‘What do you think it looks like?’
He presses the dressing back onto his head and leans onto the pillows that are propping him up.
‘I think it’s going to give me a rugged handsomeness.’
‘It’s on the back of your head.’
He manages a laugh and then pouts a lip as he draws a circle in the air, indicating his face. ‘I’ve already got it going on here, now I’ve got it going on back there, too.’
I laugh as well, though it’s hard to see the humour. I’m chilled simply by looking at it. There are more grazes on the side of his face from where he presumably hit the pavement.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘I was walking home and there were these six burly blokes,’ Harry says. ‘They said, “Give me your volcano cake recipe,” and I said, “No, I’m taking it to the grave.” Then they said—’
‘Can you not joke about this…?’
The smile slips from his face and I wonder if I should have let him continue. Humour might be his way of dealing with it.
‘Sorry,’ I add.
He shakes his head a fraction but then winces. ‘I shouldn’t have asked the nurse to call you,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t think of who else to call. My family live nowhere near and, if I’m honest, I don’t have a lot of friends in town. I didn’t realise how late it was. Everything was a blur.’
I take his hand and squeeze. ‘I’m glad you called,’ I say.
He bites his bottom lip and glances past me before taking a breath. ‘I don’t know what happened,’ he says more quietly. ‘I was most of the way home and the next thing I know, I’m in an ambulance. I’ve got a massive headache and the paramedic says it looks like someone attacked me.’
I shiver at the thought and he definitely sees it: ‘What?’ he asks, eyes widening.
There’s a moment in which I almost tell him the truth about the similarity of it all. How many coincidences can stack together until it’s clear there’s no chance involved?
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘It’s just hard to imagine someone doing this…’
I wonder if he’ll see through the explanation, but he moves on. ‘The police think it’s random,’ he says. ‘They asked if I’d made any enemies and all that, but there wasn’t a lot I could tell them. They said something about it being a CCTV blind spot where I was, though they’re going to go door to door to see if anyone heard or saw something.’
‘Were you robbed?’ I ask.
He shakes his head and flinches once more. ‘No. My phone and wallet were still in my pocket.’
We sit quietly for a moment and I’m not sure what to say.
A glimmer of a smile flickers across Harry’s face, but it’s not matched by his eyes. ‘You’ve not got any crazy ex-boyfriends, have you?’
I blink. ‘No.’
Because we haven’t had enough, there’s another awkward moment. It feels like there’s a valley between us.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I think the painkillers must be wearing off. It was probably kids having a laugh, something like that.’
Everything’s always blamed on kids, as if the young people are inexplicably more feral than they were when we were that age. One generation always blames the next because it’s easier to punch down.
I sit at Harry’s side for a while as the nurse comes around and checks his bandage and the stitching. She takes his temperature, pulse and blood pressure and then, unexpectedly, says he can be discharged if he wants. Harry seems a little surprised, but I get the sense the hospital needs the bed. He agrees, probably because he doesn’t want to spend any more time here than absolutely necessary.
She tells him he has to take it easy. No alcohol, nothing strenuous or stressful. If he’s feeling dizzy, he has to stop whatever he’s doing and, if it doesn’t clear, he has to call either NHS Direct, or 999. It strikes me that if a person is disorientated, using a phone might be a problem – but I guess other people know best.
Harry asks if he’s allowed to sleep and she takes the question with a smile, saying it’s a myth that patients with concussion or head injuries have to be kept awake.
There are forms to fill at the front counter, a prescription to take – and then we’re on the kerb outside, shivering in the early morning darkness. I wave across to one of the taxi drivers and then help Harry into the back.
‘Blimey, mate – what happened to you?’ the driver asks.
Harry gives a brief rundown – stranger with a bat or pole from behind – and then tells the driver his address. We sit silently in the back together, listening to the sound of early morning talk radio. It’s worse than I could have imagined, with every mad opinion amplified by the lunacy of the callers who are awake at this hour.
The driver stops on the corner of Livingstone Street after Harry tells him it’s close enough. It’s a strangely unique thing to taxi journeys in that passengers say anywhere in the vague region of the destination is ‘close enough’. Boats don’t just dock anywhere in the general vicinity of a port and pilots don’t set down planes at any old airport because it’s sort of there.
Either way, I take Harry’s arm and help him onto the kerb. He leans into me and I almost overbalance until I press back onto the adjacent wall to support both our weights.
‘Which one’s yours?’ I ask.
He points to an apartment block at the end of the street and we set off hobbling towards it, as if we’re in a three-legged race. Harry groans under his breath every few steps, but, when I ask if he’s in pain, he insists he’s fine. He is a man, after all. I can imagine someone like him in a war zone having their leg shot off, only to turn around to his comrade and say that there’s no need to get a doctor involved.
When we reach his building, we stop next to the doors at the front and he nods towards the dimly lit lobby within. ‘This is me,’ he says. ‘I’d invite you in for a brew but I’m probably going to get some sleep.’
‘Will you text me when you wake up?’ I ask. ‘Let me know you’re okay…?’
‘Of course.’
We stand for a moment and then, stupidly, and for a reason I can’t quite fathom, I kiss him. Before I know it, he has a hand on my lower back and the other cradling my neck. He pushes back into me and presses his lips to mine.