The door sucks shut in the corridor, and I look up at my doorway with a start.
It’s Sheila, finally.
‘OK,’ she says, ‘I’ve got a sedative here, just to get us back on an even keel.’
I sit up and look at her, and she must read my mind.
‘Do you trust me?’ she says.
I nod.
She hands me a pill and a beaker of water, and I take it.
‘Now,’ she says, sitting down on the visitors’ chair, ‘are you able to tell me a little bit about this?’
‘About what?’
‘About the visitor you don’t want to see? It helps if I know what I’m looking for.’
‘It’s a man. His name’s Malachy.’
‘And why does he want to see you?’
‘We used to be friends. He’s been seeing my sister.’
‘OK.’
‘But he’s dangerous. He’s properly bad news. He’s not long out of prison. So, what you were saying about the store full of drugs and needles …?’
She starts to show the right amount of unease. I’m getting through to her, and it’s beginning to encroach on her responsibilities. ‘OK, well, that’s helpful for me to know, at least.’
‘He could do this. I’m sure that’s what he’s after, and I think he’s going to try and come and get me.’
I know how this sounds.
Her face softens in exactly the way I hoped it wouldn’t.
‘He’s going to think I put him in prison. He’s going to wonder why I didn’t fight to keep him out—’
‘Listen,’ she says, sitting lightly on the arm of the visitors’ chair, ‘I’ll look into this, and I’ll make sure we do everything we need to do to keep you feeling safe and secure.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, looking up at her.
‘But I know what you’re like, Ivo. You’re the type of person who’s got this worry-shaped hole in the middle of your head. And it doesn’t matter what’s going on, it doesn’t matter what I do to make things better, you’re going to fill it with whatever’s in front of you at the time. You’re not the first to do this, and I dare say you won’t be the last. So do yourself a favour and keep yourself occupied, all right? It’ll help, I promise.’
I
Intestine
YEAH, NOW IT comes up.
Intestine.
I could do a whole A to Z of my life’s worth of intestinal misery. What have I ever done to be cursed with a body that deals with any level of stress with a punch straight to the gut?
Three nights I threw up when I moved to secondary school. I didn’t know where any of the classrooms were, I had all new lessons, and I’d been warned these were all going to be much more difficult, I had to wear a new uniform — all that stuff, like a putrefying knot in my belly.
My first day at the garden centre, aged eighteen, I threw up in the lunch break at the sheer amount of new information they were giving me about how to operate the tills. Within a fortnight I was even doing returns and refunds without having to think about it. It’s easy, it’s easy. But my intestines had to have their moment.
It’s like, something has not been worth doing if I haven’t thrown up in contemplating it.
‘Poor love,’ you say, stroking my back as my stomach muscles spasm again and I am subjected to another involuntary heave of fetid breath and spittle. ‘Come here—’ you hand me a pat of tissue and a tall glass of fresh water. I swill out my mouth and spit it down the toilet. Flush it away.
I slip on your dressing gown and look down.
‘It makes my arms look really long.’
‘It’s pretty. Come on, back to bed.’
I shuffle across the landing, trying hard, trying very hard not to shuffle. It’s all in the mind; I need to stride purposefully, pretend I am coping absolutely fine with your announcement of going away.
I’ll shuffle.
Honestly, who throws up at the merest tiniest little upheaval like their girlfriend going away. I’m an absolute lily.
‘Here you go,’ you say, placing the washing-up bowl on the floor beside the bed and climbing in beside me. ‘What does this mean for the insulin you’ve injected? You’d just eaten — does it mean you’ve got to eat something else to soak up the excess?’
I frown and cough to clear my throat. ‘Ohh, I don’t know. I’ve got a leaflet somewhere about sick days. I think it’s fine. I’ll test in a while and see from that.’
‘OK. As long as you’ve got that covered.’
‘Covered,’ I say, snapping my fingers and winking at you in a funky gesture of all-rightness.
‘Listen,’ you say, ‘Ivo. I’ve decided. I’m not going to go on this secondment.’
‘No, Mia, no, you can’t—’
‘It’s three months away, it’s too much. Especially, you know, if I’m not sure I— Well, I don’t even know if I want to do nursing any more.’
‘What? Why not?’
Your face grows unexpectedly sullen, and you hug your knees through the duvet.
‘I don’t know, it’s just — I’ve not met anyone who I can relate to. Everyone seems happy to do the robotic thing, treat all the patients like units.’ You rake your hand down your face, pummel your eye sockets with the heels of your hands. ‘I mean, I feel terrible saying it, because here I am, I’ve spent all this money, and you’re being amazingly patient about the whole thing, and I feel like I’m wasting your time.’
I gaze at you, trying to digest everything this means.
‘I keep thinking this is not what I went into nursing for. I wanted to make a difference for people, to treat people like humans. But if I ever say anything like that to any of the other students, they look at me like I’m insane. It’s so tiring. More tiring than the actual work.’
Now it’s my turn to stroke your back.
‘I just feel like I’ve been so naïve about it.’
‘Listen, I don’t think you’ve been naïve.’
‘I’ve been really naïve.’
‘OK, you’ve been really naïve. But all this stuff — at least it’s going to show you what you don’t want to do.’
‘But I don’t want to spend three months away from you, feeling like a leper.’
‘You’re not a leper, just because everyone else treats you like one. That’s their problem.’
‘But three months of it.’
‘It’s not for ever,’ I say. ‘Look, sleep on it. But I don’t want you to ditch your career just because I’ve got the constitution of an Oxo cube. It’s not fair on either of us.’
You pull in and arrange your limbs around me, delicately avoiding my stomach.
‘I’ll sleep on it.’
‘Good.’
‘If I go, are you going to be sick for the whole three months?’
‘I’ll be fine. I’ll work. I’ll watch the telly.’
‘You’ll use the time to do something amazing and creative, I know it.’
‘Yeah … I don’t know about that.’
Ffff — fuck it: press the buzzer.
Push the button to the click.
Ffffff — Jesus, the pain of it.
Ahhhh. Sssssurges.
Is this it? What if this is it? This could be it. This is definitely it.
No, no, ridiculoussss.
Oh, all I can think of is you. I love you, I love you, I love you, if this is the last thing I think I’m so, so sorry, and I love you.
Calmness. Positive thinking. Put it in context. Concentrate yourself away from pain. Walk away from it.
It’s not pain, it’s sensation. It’s–
Owowowow. It’s making me almost laugh with pain.