We’re leaving the house-warming behind — no one’s going to care, are they? Not this far gone.
We can sort you out, he’s saying.
He’s going to make it all right.
We can explain it to her. I’m going to take you there.
He’s going to bring me to you. He says you’ll be thrilled. And we’ll be together again.
Listen, let’s take my car. It’s pissing it down.
Yeah, yeah, a car. We don’t have to walk even.
And we’re driving. I love driving. I love being driven. Since I was a kid, with my dad. The streetlights, flung past, caught up in the animated rain on the windscreen. How much time must it take your brain to render all that movement? It’s amazing, amazing. Every corner is drawn in real time as we drive round it. All the angles perfect.
Where are we going? We’re not going, we’re coming.
I’m coming to you.
Parked up, chunk-chunk car doors shut, and out on my feet now, yep, yep, I’m coming to you. I’m inhaling the pavement — long, straight terrace street, and I’m surfing it, every slab of it. Tiny ups, tiny downs.
We can straighten it out!
I’m thumping on your door, because I’ve got to tell you now, this is it. I should say, right, this is it for ever, yeah? I’m done! I see you! I feel you! You and me for ever.
Your door opens, and it’s you! It’s exciting!
What? Go home. Go home, it’s four o’clock.
‘We can work it out!’ I say. ‘We can do it, Mia!’
Jesus, Mal, what state’s he in?
He wanted to come and see you. I’ve brought him to see you.
‘This is it for ever,’ I say. ‘I’m excited! It’s beautiful!’
Go home, go on. We can talk about it when you’re more together.
‘I’m—’
Are you looking out for him? You’re not stoned as well, are you?
Nah, nah. I’m fine.
Are you all right?
Are—
‘I’m not—’
What is it?
Have you taken your insulin?
‘I don’t know—’
All right, stay there. I’m going to — I’d better call an ambulance.
Nah, nah. I’ll take him in the car. You don’t call an ambulance out for something like that.
Yes, you do.
Fine, well you call an ambulance, and in an hour and a half when they get here, tell them I’ve taken him to A&E.
Oh bloody hell, all right, let’s get him in your car.
I’m in the back of Mal’s car, and you’re in the passenger seat, and Mal’s driving. I’m trying to speak but the first words won’t come.
Your voice. Come on, think of something, Keep thinking, now. You and me up in the valley. You remember? Up on the top, with the grass washing all around us, the sky above, and the sky below. Are you with me?
I can’t think. I don’t want to think. Leave me alone.
I don’t know what sounds are coming out of my mouth.
I can hear you. I can still hear you. You’re not talking to me. You’re talking to Mal. Your voice in the whirl.
There, there: there’s the Hospital sign. Do you know where Accident and Emergency is?
Mumbles from Mal.
Your voice changes.
Are you all right? Mal?
I hear no response.
There’s a big sustained heave, and my head and shoulders feel funny. Funny heavy.
I’m awake, I’m aware, I’m aware of the orange lights sweeping past. I’m lying on the back seat, and I can see Mal’s towering silhouette, lurching and twitching around in his seat, and you’re on at him to stop.
Stop!
And then there’s a thump, and your voice and Mal’s are silent suddenly, like a sudden sweeping intake of oxygen, and the weight on my head and shoulders is immediately immense, and then gone, and in one snap I’m dumped down into the footwell and shoved, forced, hammered into the metal and the carpet and the cogs of the seat mechanism, I’m being crushed, and an immense and horrendous sound smashes all around us, of everything smashed and shattered.
Your hand. I’m holding your hand with my hand.
The ventilator breathes out, you breathe in; clicks; in, you breathe out.
I’m here for you. Can you feel me holding your hand?
I want you to feel me holding it. My palm to your palm. Fingertips on the back, by your wrist, our thumbs turned around each other. Can you feel the life coming into you through my palm? Good energy, good energy coming into your palm from my palm.
I want you to know what’s happening to you. You were in a car crash. You were hurt. You’re in the General Hospital. They’re keeping you asleep on purpose, because they want to see if your body can heal itself. Do you understand?
In; clicks; out.
But listen, it’s really important you listen to me.
They’re talking about turning off the machine. You need to get strong enough do this on your own.
So if you can just get a little bit better, just try to get on top of this — now’s the time. Now’s a really good time.
Your mum’s here, and your — your dad’s here too.
We all just want–
Baby, you can’t go, you can’t go.
Who’s going to buy me silly stocking fillers at Christmas?
I need you to look at my garden designs. For the course. I need you to approve them.
How could you leave me to do that?
Are you receiving me?
Can you feel my thumb stroking your knuckles? Can you feel my hand?
‘There we go,’ says Sheila as the burly young student nurse fastens the final buttons on my pyjama jacket, ‘a bit of cleanliness makes the world go round.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
‘No worries,’ says the nurse. ‘Thank you.’ He turns to Sheila. ‘What should I …?’
‘Take the water though to the washroom down the corridor on the right, and you can pour it away there.’
The nurse flicks me a look and a shy smile before leaving.
‘There we go,’ says Sheila. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘It’s fine. Hard work being a student.’
‘Lovely, now, I’d better go and check on the lunch orders and make sure—’
‘Sheila—’
‘Yes, lovey?’
‘Do you have the number for Kelv? The man I spoke to on the phone.’
‘Phone number? Yes, of course.’
‘Will you phone him? Tell him I want to speak to him.’
Her face lets slip no glimmer of opinion.
I’m grateful.
I— What’s that?
For a moment I could honestly feel the shape of your hand in mine. The softness of your skin. Are you back now, for me? Now that I am the one in the hospital bed? Are you holding my hand, like I once held yours?
I’m here.
I’m going to imagine you here.
I’m here.
My hand cradled in yours.
Your hand.
Your hand.
Your thumb tenderly strokes my knuckles.
I need you to tell me this is the right thing to do.
You know it’s the right thing.
The quietest of knocks, just enough to make the wood of my door resonate.
My dull brain sharpens once more to see what’s what.