After You
Page 67
Mr Garside’s mouth hooked upwards in a sneer. The kind of man who had never once felt threatened by a woman. ‘Oh, do be quiet, you ridiculous little –’
Something hard glittered in Sam’s eyes and he sprang forward. My arm shot out to restrain him. I don’t remember my other fist pulling back. I do remember the pain that shot through my knuckles as it made contact with the side of Garside’s face. He reeled backwards, his upper body hitting the door, and I stumbled, not expecting the force of the impact. When he righted himself, I was shocked to see blood trickling from his nose.
‘Let me out,’ he hissed, through his fingers. ‘This minute.’
Sam blinked at me, then unlocked the door. Donna stepped away, just about allowing him through. She leaned towards him. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a dressing for that before you go?’
Garside kept his pace measured as he left, but as the door clicked shut behind him, we heard the sound of his expensive shoes picking up into a run down the corridor. We stood in silence until we couldn’t hear them any more. And then, the sound of several people exhaling at once.
‘Nice punch, Cassius,’ said Sam, after a minute. ‘Want me to take a look at that hand?’
I couldn’t speak. I was bent double, swearing silently into my chest.
‘Always hurts more than you think it will, doesn’t it?’ said Donna, patting my back. ‘Don’t stress, sweetheart,’ she told Lily. ‘Whatever he said to you, that old man is nothing. Gone.’
‘He won’t be back,’ said Sam.
Donna laughed. ‘He pretty much crapped himself. I think he’ll be running a mile from you from now on. Forget it, darling.’ She hugged Lily briskly, as you might someone who had toppled off a bike, then handed me the pieces of the broken phone to throw away. ‘Right. I promised to pop round my dad’s before our shift. See you later.’ And then, with a wave, she was gone, her boots clumping cheerfully down the corridor.
Sam began to rummage through his medical pack to find a dressing for my hand. Lily and I walked into the living room where she sank down on the sofa. ‘You did brilliantly,’ I told her.
‘You were pretty badass yourself.’
I examined my bloodied knuckles. When I looked up, the smallest grin was playing around her lips. ‘He totally wasn’t expecting that.’
‘Neither was I. I’d never hit anyone before.’ I straightened my face. ‘Not that, you know, you should consider me any kind of moral example.’
‘I’ve never considered you any kind of example, Lou.’ She grinned, almost reluctantly, as Sam came in, bearing some sterile bandage and a pair of scissors.
‘You okay, Lily?’ He raised his eyebrows.
She nodded.
‘Good. Let’s move on to something more interesting. Who fancies spaghetti carbonara?’
When she left the room, he let out a long breath, then stared at the ceiling for a moment, as if composing himself.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Thank God you hit him first. I was afraid I was going to kill him.’
Some time later, after Lily had gone to bed, I joined Sam in the kitchen. For the first time in weeks some sort of peace had descended over my home. ‘She’s happier already. I mean, she bitched about the new toothpaste and left her towels on the floor, but in Lily terms she’s definitely better.’
He nodded at this, and emptied the sink. It felt good having him in my kitchen. I watched him for a minute, wondering how it would feel to walk up and place my arms around his waist. ‘Thank you,’ I said instead. ‘For everything.’
He turned, wiping his hands on the tea towel. ‘You were pretty smart yourself, Punchy.’ He reached out a hand and pulled me to him. We kissed. There was something so delicious about his kisses; the softness of them compared to the brute strength of the rest of him. I lost myself in him for a moment. But –
‘What?’ he said, pulling back. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You’re going to think it’s weird.’
‘Uh, more weird than this evening?’
‘I keep thinking about that dihypranol stuff. How much would it take to actually kill a person? Is this something you all carry routinely? It just … sounds … really dodgy.’
‘You don’t need to worry,’ he said.
‘You say that. But what if someone really hated you? Could they put it in your food? Could terrorists get hold of it? I mean, how much would they actually need?’
‘Lou. There’s no such drug.’
‘What?’
‘I made it up. There’s no such thing as dihypranol. Totally invented.’ He grinned at my shocked face. ‘Funnily enough, I don’t think I’ve ever had a drug that worked better.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I was the last one to arrive at the Moving On meeting. My car wouldn’t start again and I’d had to wait for the bus. When I got there the biscuit tin was just closing, a signal that the real business of the evening was about to begin.
‘Today we’re going to talk about faith in the future,’ Marc said. I muttered my apology and sat down. ‘Oh, and we only have an hour today because of an emergency Scouts meeting. Sorry about that, guys.’
Marc fixed each of us with his Special Empathetic Gaze. He was very keen on his Special Empathetic Gaze. Sometimes he would stare at me for so long I wondered if something was poking out of my nostril. He looked down, as if gathering his thoughts – or perhaps he liked to read his opening lines from a pre-prepared script.
‘When someone we love is snatched from us, it often feels very hard to make plans. Sometimes people feel like they have lost faith in the future, or they become superstitious.’
‘I thought I was going to die,’ said Natasha.
‘You are,’ said William.
‘Not helpful, William,’ said Marc.
‘No – honestly, for the first eighteen months after Olaf died, I thought I had cancer. I think I went to the doctor about a dozen times convinced I was getting cancer. Brain tumours, pancreatic cancer, womb cancer, even little-finger cancer.’
‘There’s no such thing as little-finger cancer,’ said William.
‘Oh, how would you know?’ snapped Natasha. ‘You have a smart answer for everything, William, but sometimes you should just keep your mouth shut, okay? It gets very tedious having you make a snarky comment about everything that someone says in this group. I thought I had little-finger cancer. My GP sent me for tests and it turned out I didn’t. It might have been an irrational fear, yes, but you don’t have to put down everything I say because, whatever you think, you don’t know everything, okay?’
There was a brief silence.
‘Actually,’ said William, ‘I work on an oncology ward.’
‘It still stands,’ she said, after a microsecond. ‘You are insufferable. A deliberate agitator. A pain in the backside.’
‘That’s true,’ said William.
Natasha stared at the floor. Or perhaps we all did. It was hard to tell, given I was studying the floor. She put her face into her hands for a moment, then looked up at him. ‘You’re not really, William. I’m sorry. I think I’m just having one of those days. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.’
Something hard glittered in Sam’s eyes and he sprang forward. My arm shot out to restrain him. I don’t remember my other fist pulling back. I do remember the pain that shot through my knuckles as it made contact with the side of Garside’s face. He reeled backwards, his upper body hitting the door, and I stumbled, not expecting the force of the impact. When he righted himself, I was shocked to see blood trickling from his nose.
‘Let me out,’ he hissed, through his fingers. ‘This minute.’
Sam blinked at me, then unlocked the door. Donna stepped away, just about allowing him through. She leaned towards him. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a dressing for that before you go?’
Garside kept his pace measured as he left, but as the door clicked shut behind him, we heard the sound of his expensive shoes picking up into a run down the corridor. We stood in silence until we couldn’t hear them any more. And then, the sound of several people exhaling at once.
‘Nice punch, Cassius,’ said Sam, after a minute. ‘Want me to take a look at that hand?’
I couldn’t speak. I was bent double, swearing silently into my chest.
‘Always hurts more than you think it will, doesn’t it?’ said Donna, patting my back. ‘Don’t stress, sweetheart,’ she told Lily. ‘Whatever he said to you, that old man is nothing. Gone.’
‘He won’t be back,’ said Sam.
Donna laughed. ‘He pretty much crapped himself. I think he’ll be running a mile from you from now on. Forget it, darling.’ She hugged Lily briskly, as you might someone who had toppled off a bike, then handed me the pieces of the broken phone to throw away. ‘Right. I promised to pop round my dad’s before our shift. See you later.’ And then, with a wave, she was gone, her boots clumping cheerfully down the corridor.
Sam began to rummage through his medical pack to find a dressing for my hand. Lily and I walked into the living room where she sank down on the sofa. ‘You did brilliantly,’ I told her.
‘You were pretty badass yourself.’
I examined my bloodied knuckles. When I looked up, the smallest grin was playing around her lips. ‘He totally wasn’t expecting that.’
‘Neither was I. I’d never hit anyone before.’ I straightened my face. ‘Not that, you know, you should consider me any kind of moral example.’
‘I’ve never considered you any kind of example, Lou.’ She grinned, almost reluctantly, as Sam came in, bearing some sterile bandage and a pair of scissors.
‘You okay, Lily?’ He raised his eyebrows.
She nodded.
‘Good. Let’s move on to something more interesting. Who fancies spaghetti carbonara?’
When she left the room, he let out a long breath, then stared at the ceiling for a moment, as if composing himself.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Thank God you hit him first. I was afraid I was going to kill him.’
Some time later, after Lily had gone to bed, I joined Sam in the kitchen. For the first time in weeks some sort of peace had descended over my home. ‘She’s happier already. I mean, she bitched about the new toothpaste and left her towels on the floor, but in Lily terms she’s definitely better.’
He nodded at this, and emptied the sink. It felt good having him in my kitchen. I watched him for a minute, wondering how it would feel to walk up and place my arms around his waist. ‘Thank you,’ I said instead. ‘For everything.’
He turned, wiping his hands on the tea towel. ‘You were pretty smart yourself, Punchy.’ He reached out a hand and pulled me to him. We kissed. There was something so delicious about his kisses; the softness of them compared to the brute strength of the rest of him. I lost myself in him for a moment. But –
‘What?’ he said, pulling back. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You’re going to think it’s weird.’
‘Uh, more weird than this evening?’
‘I keep thinking about that dihypranol stuff. How much would it take to actually kill a person? Is this something you all carry routinely? It just … sounds … really dodgy.’
‘You don’t need to worry,’ he said.
‘You say that. But what if someone really hated you? Could they put it in your food? Could terrorists get hold of it? I mean, how much would they actually need?’
‘Lou. There’s no such drug.’
‘What?’
‘I made it up. There’s no such thing as dihypranol. Totally invented.’ He grinned at my shocked face. ‘Funnily enough, I don’t think I’ve ever had a drug that worked better.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I was the last one to arrive at the Moving On meeting. My car wouldn’t start again and I’d had to wait for the bus. When I got there the biscuit tin was just closing, a signal that the real business of the evening was about to begin.
‘Today we’re going to talk about faith in the future,’ Marc said. I muttered my apology and sat down. ‘Oh, and we only have an hour today because of an emergency Scouts meeting. Sorry about that, guys.’
Marc fixed each of us with his Special Empathetic Gaze. He was very keen on his Special Empathetic Gaze. Sometimes he would stare at me for so long I wondered if something was poking out of my nostril. He looked down, as if gathering his thoughts – or perhaps he liked to read his opening lines from a pre-prepared script.
‘When someone we love is snatched from us, it often feels very hard to make plans. Sometimes people feel like they have lost faith in the future, or they become superstitious.’
‘I thought I was going to die,’ said Natasha.
‘You are,’ said William.
‘Not helpful, William,’ said Marc.
‘No – honestly, for the first eighteen months after Olaf died, I thought I had cancer. I think I went to the doctor about a dozen times convinced I was getting cancer. Brain tumours, pancreatic cancer, womb cancer, even little-finger cancer.’
‘There’s no such thing as little-finger cancer,’ said William.
‘Oh, how would you know?’ snapped Natasha. ‘You have a smart answer for everything, William, but sometimes you should just keep your mouth shut, okay? It gets very tedious having you make a snarky comment about everything that someone says in this group. I thought I had little-finger cancer. My GP sent me for tests and it turned out I didn’t. It might have been an irrational fear, yes, but you don’t have to put down everything I say because, whatever you think, you don’t know everything, okay?’
There was a brief silence.
‘Actually,’ said William, ‘I work on an oncology ward.’
‘It still stands,’ she said, after a microsecond. ‘You are insufferable. A deliberate agitator. A pain in the backside.’
‘That’s true,’ said William.
Natasha stared at the floor. Or perhaps we all did. It was hard to tell, given I was studying the floor. She put her face into her hands for a moment, then looked up at him. ‘You’re not really, William. I’m sorry. I think I’m just having one of those days. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.’
