by Maria Goodin
Instead, where had I been? On a date in a bar, getting cosy with some girl I was only half interested in, all because Michael had persuaded me I needed to get out there, start a relationship, or if not a relationship then just start having a little fun. Do things normal twenty-one-year-old blokes do, he’d said. But look what had happened. I hadn’t heard my phone over the music. I’d become distracted by the hand on my knee, the promise of the situation, and had forgotten to even check for messages. And now here we were. And for the second time, I might have been too late to save a life.
On one level it felt unavoidable, like a story I could suddenly see the end of. So, this is how it would happen. This is how my world would fall apart, here in this brightly lit corridor with its nauseating scent of disinfectant. It was almost easier in that moment to give in than to hope, less painful to surrender myself to the horror that was surely to come than grapple with the torment of uncertainly.
I looked at Michael, slumped forward on the otherwise empty row of chairs, his head down, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
What if he died? What if he actually died? What would happen then? I couldn’t live with it, I just couldn’t. A sense of panic overwhelmed me, making my head spin, my knees weak. I closed my eyes and tipped my head up towards a heaven I wasn’t sure I believed in.
I will do anything, I promise, just let him be okay. Please. Please. I’m begging. Let me die. Just let him live.
There was silence, stillness. I felt abandoned to my fate, cast out. Why should He care what I wanted? I was tainted, had been for a long time. I wasn’t worthy of His help, and the only voice that answered me was my own.
But you wanted him to die, didn’t you?
I shook my head. I didn’t. I had never wanted that.
Yes, you did. Don’t you remember?
I rubbed at my temples. Shut up. Shut up! It wasn’t true. That was never—
Here, in this very hospital, isn’t that what you were hoping for? That his first breath would never come? Isn’t that the same as wishing him dead?
“No,” I groaned quietly, my heart aching. I pressed my fingers into my eyes, tried to stop the hot tears from escaping.
No? Well, then it must be what came before that brought you to this point. The night of the fairground. How long did you think you could get away with that? Cause and effect. Karma. You knew it was coming. You have blood on your hands and now this is justice—
“Jay!”
I spun round to see Laura, her face pale and unfamiliar without make-up, her blonde hair scrunched up in an elastic band, dark roots showing through. I looked her up and down, wondered briefly why she was wearing a Puffa jacket with pyjama bottoms, then realised it must be the early hours of the morning.
“God, I said your name, like, ten times,” she said, sounding irritated. Only my sister would vent her annoyance at me at a time like this, and for a second I found comfort in it – a moment of normality in a world that was falling down around me. If my sister could still be angry with me, then surely nothing much had changed. But the comfort was short-lived.
“So,” she said, abruptly, “what’s happening?”
It might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but I heard it – the slight quiver in her voice, the tiny crack. Laura didn’t do fear. She shouted and swore and raged at the world, but in that moment, I knew she was scared, and it terrified me all the more.
I shrugged and shook my head, opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My vision blurred through the tears I was holding onto. Laura stepped forward and for a moment I thought she was going to hug me. But if Laura had ever hugged me, then I couldn’t remember it, and she wasn’t about to start tonight.
“What the hell does that mean?” she said, imitating my shrug but not waiting for an answer. “Well, where the fuck is the doctor?” she said, scanning the corridor. She spied a nurse crossing between rooms. “’Scuse me! Hello?”
I was about to stop her, tell her she wasn’t even yelling in the right direction, that all the activity had been down the other end of the corridor, when I heard Michael calling my name.
“The doctor’s here,” he said, gesturing to a man approaching us.
He had dark hair, glasses. Had I even met this one? There were so many. It was all such a blur. I had shouted at one, told him to get out of my way, to let me into the room with my son for God’s sake! Was he the one I’d shouted at?
I tried to move towards him, but my feet wouldn’t budge. His face… What was that expression?
It wasn’t good. Oh God, it wasn’t good.
I clutched at my hair, my breath escaping with a rasping sound through constricted airways. I couldn’t hear whatever he was about to say, I couldn’t, I couldn’t…
“Mr Lewis,” said the doctor, his face neither confirming nor alleviating my fears, “come with me please.”
I remember rehearsing what I wanted to say.
I like you. A lot. I mean, when I say I like you…
I’ve been thinking about you non-stop this week. And the week before that. And the week before…
Can I kiss you? Would that be okay? What I mean is, do you want to…
I’ve been thinking about touching you. Not like that! Well, okay, a bit like that…
Do you like me? I mean, not like a friend, but…
My heart was racing, heat pooling inside my school shirt. I discreetly pressed my palms against my thighs, blotting the sweat against my trousers. The close confines of the narrowboat went from feeling cosy to claustrophobic, and the warmth emanating from the little coal stove suddenly seemed madly disproportionate to its size.
Just say it!
But I didn’t know what to say. Words that had sounded right when spoken to my bedroom mirror every evening that week now sounded ridiculous inside my head.
I could just reach out and pull her towards me, cup her chin in my hand and turn her face to mine. That’s how it happened in the films. But the idea of just making a pass at her filled me with panic. What if she pushed me off? What if I missed? What if she didn’t even like me like that?
I watched her face as she flicked through the textbook on the little table in front of us. I wasn’t even sure what she was trying to teach me, had barely taken in a word she’d said that afternoon.
Just say it, you idiot!
I opened my mouth, resolved that I was just going to go for it. But what came out was a tiny squeak at the back of my throat as nerves overwhelmed me. I quickly disguised the squeak with a single cough, which sounded so fake that I then thought I’d better cough again.
“Are you okay?” asked Libby, glancing up at me.
The last shards of afternoon sunshine sliced through the little window behind us, and the long strands of hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail shone golden-brown in the light. My fingers itched to reach out and tuck the strands behind her ear, just like she always did. I ran my eyes over her perfectly smooth skin, the little freckles on her nose, the curve of her lips…
“Uh, yeah, I’m fine,” I muttered, tearing my eyes away and pulling at my school tie, which was hanging in a loose knot against my thumping heart, “just a dry throat.”
“I’ll get you some more water,” she said, spying my empty glass.
She shuffled along the seat and squeezed herself out from behind the table, taking the three steps into her kitchen area.
I loved being on this boat, always had done. As a young child, I’d eagerly explored every nook and cranny, like an excitable puppy. Just look where this girl got to live! A floating hobbit house! Even now I was fascinated by the compactness of everything. It was like living inside a tunnel, one tiny room leading into another. Nothing much had changed in the five years since I’d last been on-board – the same spangled curtains hung at the little windows, their tiny mirrors and sequins reflecting the light. The same Indian rug lay on the floor, tattered books still filled every shelf. Stepping onto the boat had immediately brought back memories of that summer we�
��d been thrown together by our mothers’ intense new friendship; the time we’d spent exploring the woodlands, building dens, playing snap, bickering and teasing each other… The time she kissed me in the long grass. Did she even remember that?
“Do you want anything to eat?” asked Libby, ducking down behind the counter that formed a divide between the kitchen and lounge area. “We have, uhh, well not much actually. Some hummus, celery, couscous… Oh, we have rye bread—”
“No, it’s fine, I’d better not,” I said distractedly, “my dad’s cooking tonight so…well, I say cooking, he’ll probably get in KFC, that’s kind of his idea of cooking.”
Don’t mention KFC, you idiot, she’s a vegan!
“Or pizza. He sometimes just orders pizza.”
“Mmm, KFC always smells really yummy when I pass the shop. I’d love to try that one day.”
While she was out of sight, I quickly lifted my arms and sniffed, hoping my deodorant was holding up under the stress. For six weeks now I’d been coming down to Libby’s boat straight from school on a Thursday afternoon, and even though I’d showered following athletics at lunchtime, and sprayed about half a can Lynx under my arms, I was starting to feel paranoid.
“Apple cake?” she asked, popping up with a plate in her hand.
I quickly pushed out my arms and flexed my fingers to make it look like I’d been stretching.
“No, I’m good,” I said, adding a yawn for good measure.
“Please excuse my munching,” she mumbled with her mouth full, waving a piece of cake in the air as she placed my water in front of me. “I’m starving. In fact, this is probably dinner for me tonight. I meant to get some shopping, but the cash jar was empty so… actually, I’m not sure I can be bothered to cook just for myself anyway.”
“Your mum won’t cook when she gets back?” I asked, immediately regretting my incredulous tone. I sounded like a child, like I couldn’t make a meal without my mother’s help. Which, to be honest, I couldn’t.
Libby broke off a piece of cake and popped it in her mouth. She shook her head, making her ponytail swing. “No, I cook normally,” she said as she chewed, “Harmonie doesn’t really cook. A bit like your dad, so…” She shrugged, leaving this last sentence hanging in the air.
So what exactly? So she was stuck cooking every night? I couldn’t even boil an egg. Honestly didn’t know how. My mum was out tonight too, at Libby’s mum’s – sorry, Harmonie’s – yoga class, the same place she’d been going every Thursday night for the last five years, but the moment she came in, she’d be checking what Laura and I had eaten, tutting about what my dad had fed us, and asking if we wanted her to whip up anything else.
I wasn’t sure if I felt sorry for Libby or in awe of her. Involuntarily, my hand crept across the seat towards her, wanting to touch her more than ever, but I suddenly didn’t feel worthy. Instead I picked at an invisible piece of lint on the seat cushion.
Libby stuffed the last of her cake into her mouth, as if she didn’t want to keep me waiting, as if there was anywhere I would rather be right now than sitting next to her. She took a swig from her mug of cold camomile tea (I wasn’t even sure what a camomile was), spilling a little onto her cardigan. She rubbed at the deep purple wool, then pulled the sleeves down over her hands, just leaving the tips of her fingers protruding. All the sleeves of her jumpers were stretched at the ends, a fact we’d laughed about a couple of weeks ago when she wore a stripy jumper with sleeves that stretched down to her knees. It was okay, she’d said, she’d knit another one, as if that’s what all fourteen-year-old girls did with their spare time.
“So, where were we?” she said in her teacherly fashion, examining the textbook in front of her. “Okay, so I’ve done a lot of rambling on about conjugating verbs and stuff, which, unless you’re a bit of a nerd like me, you’ve probably found quite boring. So, shall I ask you the questions about hobbies and pastimes and you answer them now?”
I must have looked pained because she laughed. I hated having to speak to her in French. It was humiliating and humbling that thousands of pounds a year was now being spent on my education, but my inability to grasp a foreign language meant I was being tutored by someone who was home-schooled – or, more accurately, self-taught, seeing as her flaky mother seemed to just dump a pile of second-hand books in front of her and leave her to it. To make things worse, we both knew that Harmonie was scathing of the private-school system, so much so that she had shunned my mother for two months after I transferred to Saint John’s. And what Harmonie didn’t approve of, Libby didn’t approve of either.
I wasn’t entirely sure how the tutoring arrangement had come about, but it seemed that Libby, principles aside, had suggested the idea after hearing I was struggling in my new school, and Harmonie, who by then had re-established her inner peace and allowed my mother back into her yoga class, had grudgingly agreed.
I found Libby’s kindness inspiring and also slightly shaming. On the rare occasions we’d been thrown into each other’s presence during the last five years, I’d barely given her the time of day. She didn’t have a telly, didn’t follow football, didn’t go to school, didn’t play computer games. What was there to talk about? She, on the other hand, had always tried to be chatty and sociable, unhindered by the teenage awkwardness that had slowly taken hold of me. It was only out of sheer desperation that I’d sat down with her six weeks ago, wondering how I was meant to make small talk with this girl I no longer knew, and who wasn’t like any other teenager. Now, here I was, trying to find a way to tell her how much I liked her, desperate to know if there was any chance she liked me too. But how was I meant to do that? How did anybody ever find the courage?
“Do you want to stop?” asked Libby, staring inquisitively at me. I suddenly realised she must have been talking to me.
“Uh, no, it’s fine,” I laughed, embarrassed. Could she tell what I was thinking? Was it obvious? “Sorry, town and countryside, yeah, let’s do it.”
“No, we’re looking at sports and hobbies,” she smiled.
“Oh, right, yeah. Cool. Okay.”
She laughed. “Have you got something else on your mind?”
For the first time that afternoon we really faced each other, holding each other’s gaze.
Go, go, go! Say it! Now!
“Actually, I… uhh…”
Just spit it out!
My heart was suddenly racing, thumping so loudly I thought she must be able to hear it. My back felt like it was on fire, and I could feel perspiration gathering under my arms.
“I wanted to ask you… err…”
Will you go out with me? Do you want to go to the cinema? Do you like me? Anything! Just say something!
“I’ve been wondering if… err… I really like you.”
I really like you! That’s it! I’ve done it! Oh my God…
“You’ve been wondering if you really like me?” she frowned, looking wounded.
“No!” I practically shouted, realising what I’d just said. “I mean, I do. I do really like you.”
You idiot!
“Oh. Ok-ay,” she said warily, “but what?”
“But nothing,” I said, shaking my head. This wasn’t going well.
“Oh, okay. So, you just—”
“I just like you.”
“You just like me. Oh, good,” she laughed, looking relieved. “I like you too. It’s been nice getting together again after all these years. It’s been such a long time and, actually, I was always convinced you didn’t really like me because you never seemed to say much when we met, so I wasn’t sure if you—” She stopped talking and stared at me, realisation slowly dawning on her face. “Oh! Do you mean you… like… me?”
I felt heat spreading across my cheeks, so hot my eyes started to sting. I wanted to take a sip of water, but I didn’t dare reach for my glass in case my hands were shaking.
“Oh, okay,” she smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. For the first time ever she looked embarrassed
and shifted awkwardly on the seat. The silence seemed to stretch forever.
You moron, what have you done?
“Sorry,” I mumbled, “I didn’t—”
“I like you, too,” she said, staring me straight in the eye, smiling.
“You do? I mean… so what, you like me, or you like…”
“I like you,” she said with a giggle.
Shyly, she slid her hand towards me on the table. I stared at the tips of her fingers protruding from the wool of her sleeve. Then I tentatively reached out and placed my hand over hers.
Relief flooded through my body, and suddenly, for the second time in our lives, she leaned in and kissed me.
I remember the order.
“Run and get help!”
I had one job.
Just one job.
I knew that canal like the back of my hand. How many times had I cycled the towpath with Tom and Max? We’d been doing it since we were what, eight, nine? And then there was that summer I’d spent playing with Libby when we were children. We’d explored the woodlands, the meadows, the bridges… How many times had I passed the lock?
And I’d run that towpath. I’d run it so many times that past year. Sure, I might have been failing French, but so what? At Saint John’s, what made me stand out – what made me accepted – was my place on the athletics team and that was something I was working damn hard to keep.
So when we realised we needed help – and fast – who else would have gone?
I remember the thud of my trainers along the path, the pain in my chest as I pushed myself, dragging in the warm summer night’s air, the sound of my own rasping breath. I remember the fear that help would arrive too late, that something terrible would have happened by the time I got back to my friends. But that fear drove me on, surely made me run faster than I ever had in my life. Fuelled by adrenaline and desperation, I felt like I was flying, air rushing past me, my thighs and calves burning. My pockets were light; they’d taken everything we had on us.