‘Ah, shit man, sorry,’ he says clapping his hand to his face and wiping with his cuff.
I smile. It actually makes me smile. I can feel it spread across my face.
‘Sorry,’ he laughs.
I breathe.
It is good. This feels — it feels good.
It was the right thing to do. All things fall into place.
A broad, happy smile fills his face, right to the eyes.
And the relief, the relief in him. I didn’t expect that.
And they were right, of course, they were right. Sheila. Kelvin. Laura, even. About — about what?
To see him so broken — he looks — forgiven. And that’s not right.
‘Sorry, man,’ I say.
He looks back up at me. ‘Don’t be soft.’
And oh, the relief of it: in him and now in me … I can physically feel it here in my body. I’m lifted with it, the weight of it gone. That’s what they told me would happen. A weightlessness, it’s true. This is definitely a thing. Definitely a real feeling.
It’s you I want now. It’s you I want to forgive me.
I cough. My body coughs without me. I have to wait to let it pass.
I look beyond him, gaze over at the window. Painful light.
One fluttering relief: the heart, there. Your heart in the tree.
Close my eyes.
So, so glad this is all over.
Seems so easy, it’s embarrassing. I can feel from my heart up through my back, through the pain, through my limbs to the fingertips an overwhelming surge of love and goodwill.
Drifting, I can feel the time slide around me.
The coffee machine works up again and ceases, and Mal, close by, remains. The sense of a hand in my hand remains.
And I don’t know if it’s there, and I don’t know if it’s you, crossing our hands to make a bird. A fluttering bird. Up against the sky, fluttering in the blue. Mingling in the wind. No more blur.
The relaxation, I can feel it, creeping up my spine and into the base of my cranium, up through and around the thick bone of my skull, around to the deepest recesses of my brow. But in the depths of my deep frown, I can feel the resistance. I’m trapped in the room. We’re still in the beige, dry, air-conditioned room.
Overwhelmed by the surge. I can feel my face crumpling, but no tears come. Tight throat.
‘Oh, man, are you all right?’ says Mal’s voice, close.
I open my eyes, and he’s there. Still there.
And I’m still here. I look at him, and — are there tears?
No, still.
‘I know man,’ he says. ‘I know.’
‘Just—’
‘I know.’
‘River Severn.’
Silence — save the endlessly exhaling air conditioning.
‘You what, fella?’ His voice, dry in the silence.
I open my eyes wide. Look at him. Look at him hard. Does he remember? Does he remember everything I remember?
His grey face holds still, rough and unshaven, shapeless hair encroaching on every side.
‘Hephzibah?’ I say.
His addled eyes grow clear, sharp. I’m reading him, reading. Willing him to remember what he said to me.
‘Hep-hep-hoo-ray?’ I say, urging, urging him to recall.
The clearness freezes in his eyes. A memory registers— He must remember. Wheelbarrow me up to Hephzibah’s Rock … a couple of spins around, hammer style … fling me down into the Severn …
‘You got me?’ I say …
‘Ah, no, man.’ He’s looking at me. Scanning.
‘You said.’
Still scanning. He’s afraid.
‘Don’t ask me, man.’
‘Please. Mal.’
‘It’s not fair to ask anyone that.’
It isn’t. It isn’t fair.
I sigh deeply — deeper than I can — and cough. Crumble into what coughing I can manage.
My clamouring thoughts sink, defeated, to the back of my head. All I want now, all I need, is to be with you. I close my eyes and dump my head back into my pillow.
Listen to the silence.
‘Come on, fella,’ says Mal’s voice, renewed with brightness. ‘I can make you comfortable anyway. Is — is this the same blanket — is this Mia’s blanket?’ Slight waver in his voice. ‘It’s no good folded up by your feet, is it?’
I sense him lean across me to gather it up.
‘Here you go, man. Let’s get you settled, yeah?’
Subtle shift of cool air.
‘Shall we take this off?’ I open my eyes, and lift my head and allow him to prise the oxygen mask from my face. He hangs it carefully on the top of the canister beside me. Cool, dry air on my nose and mouth, the clammy shape of the mask subsiding.
‘Close your eyes man, yeah?’ he whispers. ‘Close your eyes.’
I look at him: fix my gaze on to his eyes. Another tear drops from his eye as he leans over me. I feel it land on my cheek.
He looks at me, and I look at him, I can see it in his eye. I can see what he’s asking me.
‘Close your eyes.’
I close my eyes now; close them.
The sight of his face, the twisting branches of the tree in the daylight, cropped by the window beyond, all remain, fading on my vision.
Luminous eyelids darken now.
His hand now cupped on the back of my cranium, holding my head in his palm.
Palm of calm.
Faint familiar scent — vetiver. Still detectable, after all these years.
You.
Soft wool on my face. Alpaca and Merino. So thick and heavy, pushed, pushed by Mal, tight, tight. Tight enough. Just right.
Consistent stitches.
Strong sense of you.
Dry that tear.
My hand now reanimated. He’s holding it. Gently, gently. Warm hand cradling mine, mine I’d forgotten. Mine so cool.
‘That’s better, yeah?’
Stronger now, the scent.
Pushed, tighter.
Strong sense of you.
That’s it, that’s what I can do: deep inhalation.
Draw deep.
Sleep down deep with you.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
‘Team …’
Thank you first of all to my two brothers, who have put me up and put up with me; to my mum and my dad, who afforded me time and space; to my bandmates, inspirations all; and to the Jolly family of Preston, who had me over for Christmas once.
Thank you too, Catherine O’Flynn, for support, friendship, generosity and positive discouragement, and for inadvertently giving me the title.
I am grateful for the advice given to me by Dr Alice Myers, David Abdy, Sally Quigg, Ian Abdy, Shonagh Musgrave, Carolyn Willitts, Simon Wheatley, Sara Grainger, Su Portwood, Anna Davis, Chris Wakling and the Autumn 2011 cohort of the Curtis Brown Creative writing school.
I am indebted to Susan Armstrong and Jane Lawson, Anne O’Brien and the talented teams at Conville & Walsh and Transworld, without whom this book would be worse (also not published).
I have never met John Murray, author and benevolent editor of Panurge New Writing. But I am grateful to him for a few typewritten notes from him back in ’94, and a phone conversation in ’03. It only takes a few words to change your world.
This novel has been tested on, discussed with, and occasionally bundled past the incomparably marvellous Christine Jolly. Jols, I cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve brought to this book. But I can try: Thank you times like fifty.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James Hannah has an MA in Samuel Beckett studies and The A to Z of You and Me, his debut novel, is influenced by the Beckettian lyrical, often comical approach to troubling subjects. He also sings and plays guitar and drums in various bands with friends. He lives in Shropshire with his family.