This might only be my second morning on the ward, but I already feel like part of the furniture, experienced, institutionalised. I recognise a few of the faces now. Today I’ll even get the food I ordered yesterday rather than what the bloke who occupied this bed before me fancied before he got discharged or moved on. Not that I feel particularly hungry. Near-death experiences tend to take your appetite away for a while. I should know; I’m an old hand.
I’ve been here a little longer than three of the other ward occupants, all of whom arrived over the last twenty-four hours. Not that I’ve spoken much to anyone else here, other than the staff. I’m not in the mood for socialising. That said, the elderly chap in the bed next to me – Neville, who was here when I arrived and has two broken legs after falling down the stairs – has collared me a couple of times and spoken at me for a bit. He keeps telling me how he’s worried about his dog, who’s currently being looked after by his sister, because his sister isn’t very reliable, apparently. He hasn’t given me enough of a chance to speak to tell him about Alfred, who Meg is looking after for me again.
I’ve taken to wearing headphones, which Meg kindly brought in for me, in an attempt to avoid such interactions. I get that Neville’s lonely and frustrated by his injuries, but I don’t feel charitable at the moment and I don’t have the energy to deal with him. I’m utterly drained, mentally and physically.
Around mid-morning, a smiley woman in her early twenties approaches me to ask if I need any help washing or shaving. I want to say no, out of pride more than anything else, but it is tricky with all these bandages on. We reach a compromise, whereby she comes into the washroom with me, rather than giving me a bed bath, and I do as much as I can while she assists, retaining my dignity and modesty. I skip the shaving part, figuring that a bit of facial hair is the least of my worries.
I don’t know why I’m bothered about getting help from this woman; she must have seen it all before. I guess I need to feel independent, particularly as I’m hoping I’ll get discharged in the next day or so.
I do feel better as a result of the wash, although once I’m done, alone again with my thoughts as I wait for the doctors to make their rounds, a black cloud descends. I could listen to the radio or watch something – TV or a movie – on the bedside screen provided, which Meg insisted on paying to activate for me yesterday. I don’t want to, though. I have zero interest in engaging in anything. I feel rubbish in every way I can think of. I want to feel sorry for myself and wallow.
It’s at times like this that I really miss Mum and Dad. I know I’m a fully grown man and all, but I wish more than anything that they were here now to offer their help and advice. They were always amazingly supportive when life threw obstacles into my path, knowing exactly what to say and do to help get me back on my feet. Were they still around today, I’m certain one or both of them would be camped out at my bedside. They’d be asking the doctors a million questions; doing whatever they could to make me as comfortable and happy as possible, from bringing me grapes and magazines to insisting that I shave and, if necessary, helping me to do so.
I can picture Mum now, walking in and frowning at my stubble. ‘You look so scruffy,’ she’d say. ‘No one will take you seriously in life if you don’t take care of yourself.’
What advice would she offer to help me recover from nearly being killed by Moxie? Always upbeat and bubbly, she’d definitely encourage me to look on the bright side; to focus on the fact I escaped without major injury and my attacker was no longer on the loose. ‘Come on, love,’ I imagine her telling me. ‘You need to pick yourself up and dust yourself down. Life’s too short to dwell on the negatives.’
Dad would find a way to make me smile with a joke, no doubt, while being crystal clear that he had my back, come what may.
It’s making me teary, thinking about my parents like this. I even find myself missing my ex-wife, Helen, who was once a great source of comfort when I was feeling low – until she betrayed me.
At least I have Meg … and Alfred. I should focus on that, rather than the negatives, and take my mum’s imagined advice. I could be in the situation of having no one, like plenty of other people. I could even have no flat or job, like the homeless people I’ve been trying to help. Thinking about them inevitably leads me back to Moxie, refuelling my anger and upsetting me all over again.
This is going to be hard to move on from.
I seriously doubt I’ll be able to run another free haircutting session for them now. Why would I want to put myself at risk like that again? And it’s not just me, is it? I also have to think about the safety of the people who’ve helped me, like Meg, Rita and even Nora. I wouldn’t forgive myself if any harm came to them.
After lunch, some of the other men on my ward have visitors. Neville’s is clearly his ‘unreliable’ sister, based on what I hear of their noisy conversation, which seems to be almost entirely about how often she feeds, waters and walks his dog. I’m already wearing my headphones, mainly for show, but I decide to actually listen to something for a bit in the hope of tuning them out, opting for my regular workplace choice of Radio 2.
Meg warned me yesterday that she wouldn’t be able to visit again until this evening, so I’m not expecting any company of my own. There is a chance of me getting another visit from the police at some point today, but I’m hoping they’ve got all they need for now. It’s not like they have a criminal to track down, is it? Moxie’s death will have lightened their workload considerably, I imagine, once all the necessary paperwork is out of the way. How considerate of him.
The Lightning Seeds’ ‘Pure’ starts playing and I turn it up. I remember my dad loved this song and used to listen to it all the time when I was a boy. I close my eyes and think back to happier days, losing myself and my troubles for a precious few minutes in the hazy euphoria of the track. I picture him and Mum in the front seats of our old white Ford Escort on a red-hot summer’s day, windows down and elbows jutting out. He’s turned it up full blast, singing along; belting out the lines about love, first to Mum and then to me. Meanwhile, she and I are both grinning like crescent moons and nodding in time to the music.
As the tune ends and a radio jingle starts, I slide off my headphones and let out a wistful sigh, knowing whatever record they play next will never match up to this one for me. I keep my eyes shut for a moment longer, holding on to that precious image of the fabulous family I once had. Then I open them and nearly jump out of my skin.
‘Bloody hell!’ I yelp reflexively as I find myself staring straight into the face of Rita, who’s standing at the end of my bed looking puzzled.
She jerks back in surprise at my exclamation and then we both burst into laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I saw you were listening to something when I arrived and, well, I wasn’t sure what to do. I thought about tapping you on the leg or something, but I didn’t want to alarm you. So much for that.’
Next she apologises for laughing, after the nightmare I’ve been through, but I tell her not to be silly.
‘It’s nice to have a bit of comic relief,’ I say. ‘I was feeling blooming miserable until a few minutes ago, when a song I like came on the radio and briefly cheered me up. Laughing was even better, as it turns out. It’s so kind of you to come and see me. I didn’t expect that at all. How did you—’
‘It was all over the news. I don’t know if you saw or heard it, but—’
‘Meg said something to that effect yesterday, but I’ve decided to steer clear. It was the same after the scaffolding accident. You know that better than anyone. I’m not sure what to make of it all. I guess I’m still in shock.’
Rita slowly shakes her head. ‘I’m sure you are. I spoke to Meg last night to get the details of where to find you here, and she told me everything that had happened. It sounded horrendous. I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for you. And to think I only left a few minutes earlier. I feel ter
rible about that.’
‘You shouldn’t,’ I reply. ‘I’m glad you didn’t get dragged into it.’
She stares into the distance. ‘I keep thinking that if I’d still been there with you, we might have been able to do something between us to nip it in the bud at the barbershop. To stop it from escalating like it did.’
‘I survived, Rita. You might not have been so lucky, had you been there. He was seriously deranged. On drugs too, I think. There was absolutely no reasoning with him. It was always going to end badly, one way or another.’
‘But look what he did to you, Luke: your hands and arms, especially. Meg said the doctors are optimistic, but – please don’t take this the wrong way – you look awful right now. How are you going to run your business in the state he’s left you in?’
I shrug. ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I don’t know if you realise, but he – the guy who did this – was one of the homeless guys we cut the hair of the first time you got involved: a bloke with a nasty scar across one cheek. He kicked up a fuss before you and Sharon arrived. I think it might have been you who cut his hair. I know I didn’t do it.’
‘No, it wasn’t me.’ She drums her fingers on the side of the bed. ‘It was Sharon. She, um, saw his photo on the TV when they were reporting on it. She called me straight afterwards to see if you were okay, which was a bit of a shock, because it was the first I’d heard about it. Anyway, turns out he was a nasty piece of work back then too. He was whispering all kinds of horrible stuff to her, apparently, when no one else was in earshot. Things he wanted to do to her and so on. I’m sure you can use your imagination.’
I’m stunned by this. ‘What? Seriously? Why didn’t she say anything? I can’t believe neither of us noticed. I feel awful.’
‘That’s what I said, Luke. She told me she didn’t want to make a fuss, particularly as it was only words. She felt sorry for him. Now I understand why she didn’t want to help out again.’
‘Yeah, totally. Oh, I wish she’d told me at the time. No one should ever have to put up with that kind of thing. God, that’s so awful. She was there to help me. I should have been watching out for her.’
‘You can’t feel any worse than I do, Luke, for the same reason. I was probably too busy laughing and joking with the others to notice.’
‘How’s she doing now?’ I ask.
‘She says she’s fine. If anything, she feels bad for not speaking up, as she thinks that might have stopped what happened to you.’
‘I doubt that very much. If he came at me like this after I threatened to kick him out for arguing, imagine what he might have done if I’d barred him for talking to Sharon that way. She has nothing to feel bad about. Nothing at all.’
I’m still wrapping my mind around this latest shock revelation, even though we’ve moved on to discussing other things, when, to my complete surprise, another visitor I wasn’t expecting walks into the ward and up to my bed.
‘Hello, Luke. I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through. I want to ask how you are, but it seems like a stupid question. I hope you don’t mind me visiting. I was so upset when I heard, I had to see you.’
CHAPTER 27
I can’t believe Nora is here in the hospital. All of a sudden, I feel self-conscious about how I look, in a way I didn’t when Rita showed up. Thank goodness I had a wash earlier and changed out of the hospital gown into my own clothes, even if they are just a T-shirt and jogging bottoms.
She leans over the bed to greet me with a kiss, which is nice of her. Then, as she turns to say hello to Rita, who of course she’s met before, part of me starts to worry that maybe she’s only here because she wants to report on my story: my account of what happened with Moxie.
As if she can read my mind, she says: ‘To be clear, I’m not here on a professional basis. I’m here as a friend. Anything you say about what happened is strictly between us and off the record.’
Looking at Rita, she adds: ‘Hard news isn’t my kind of thing. I’ve always hated the pushy, door-knocking stuff. I had to do my share when I started out on local newspapers, but I was glad to leave it behind. I’ve always been much more comfortable as a feature writer, like I am now.’
Rita, who no doubt met her share of news hounds after Iris’s death, nods her acceptance. Despite her initial fury at me over the haircuts for the homeless press coverage, she never seems to have had an issue with Nora’s involvement, presumably because what she wrote was so accurate and only showed Iris in a good light.
‘Pull up a chair,’ I say, gesturing towards a small stack near the door, wishing I was in a position to be more gentlemanly.
‘Actually,’ Rita says, ‘take mine and I’ll get another in a minute. I could murder a brew. I saw a vending machine down the hall earlier; I think I’ll pay a visit. Can I get anything for anyone else?’
‘No, thanks,’ Nora and I say in unison.
‘I had one before you got here,’ I add, smiling.
‘And I have some water in my bag,’ Nora says.
Rita is already on her feet. ‘Back soon.’
She flashes me a discreet wink as she says this, which confirms what I already thought: she’s deliberately giving me some time alone with Nora. I want to tell her it’s really not necessary, since things aren’t like that between us, but there’s no easy way to do that, so I simply smile back at her.
Once we’re alone and Nora is sitting at my bedside, she asks me the kind of questions I’m getting used to answering now, about the severity of my injuries and how it all unfolded. She too feels bad about not being there at the barbershop that evening, particularly since I’d asked her if she wanted to come along. However, I reassure her that the attack was something none of us could have predicted or should beat ourselves up about.
‘There was only one person to blame for what happened,’ I say, ‘and he’s dead now.’
‘You’re so brave, talking about it like you do. I’d be in pieces if I was the one in your shoes.’ After saying this, Nora unexpectedly places a hand on my leg; to my considerable embarrassment, especially after being called brave, this makes me jump.
‘Sorry,’ she says, holding her hands up and grimacing. ‘I didn’t mean to. You must be—’
‘It’s fine,’ I reply. ‘I’m still a bit on edge, I think. It’ll probably take me a while to, um, you know.’
Changing the subject, I ask her if she’s been up to anything much recently.
‘Not really,’ she replies. ‘Apart from going on the date from hell the other evening.’ She pauses, her face turning pink, as she appears to struggle to find the right words. Once she does, it’s obvious why. ‘I, um, feel awful saying this, but that was what I was doing when, er, you went through what you did. It was a blind date a friend of mine had set up a few weeks ago, so I felt like I had to go along. Anyway, I wish I hadn’t. It was a total disaster from start to finish. Sorry, Luke, I’m sure this is the last thing you want to hear about right now.’
‘On the contrary. I’m only too happy to be distracted with other more normal things. This sounds perfect – do tell.’
I accept that encouraging Nora to share this story with me is effectively friend-zoning myself once and for all, but I’m pretty sure that’s already how she sees me. Plus I could do with a good laugh.
‘Fine,’ she says, smiling and shaking her head. ‘If you’re sure you can stomach it.’
‘Come on,’ I reply. ‘It can’t be worse than the water sports bloke you told me about last time. Can it?’
Keeping a straight face while looking up into the air, she jiggles her head from side to side, like she’s seriously weighing up my question.
‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘That does sound ominous. So, come on, take me through what happened.’
‘Well, he looked okay – tall, dark and relatively handsome – so my initial impression wasn’t bad. But then he opened his mouth and had this absurd Mr Bean voice. Honestly, I thought he was putting it on as a joke to start with, but I
soon realised that was actually how he talked.’
‘Nice.’
‘Not really. Anyway, the next thing he did, about five minutes into the date, was ask me how many sexual partners I’d had, before announcing that he’d lost count once he’d passed the one hundred mark.’
‘Wow, what a gentleman. I hope you didn’t give him an answer.’
‘Too right I didn’t. I’d have been out of there already if it was a date I’d arranged myself, but I felt obliged to stick it out because of my friend’s involvement. I figured there must have been some reason she’d thought we would be a good match. There wasn’t, though. He was disgusting. He talked with his mouth full, his fingernails were dirty and he kept making lewd comments about how we should sneak off to the toilets together to get properly acquainted. He even suggested using the disabled loos because there would be more room.’
‘Oops,’ I say, chortling. ‘He sounds like the date from hell. How long did you put up with him?’
‘I had a starter and main. But after watching him chew his way through a large steak with his gob almost permanently open, boasting about how loaded and successful he was, that was all I could manage. I feigned having a bad headache, which he delightfully offered to “shag away”. When he eventually grasped that I really was about to leave, he said he was going to stay on for pudding and coffee, regardless; he called me “mardy” before asking the waitress what time she knocked off and if she wanted to go clubbing with him.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Lucky her.’
‘Oh, she wasn’t having any of it. She laughed it off and flashed her wedding ring. I didn’t hang around to see what happened next, but he probably continued to proposition her, thinking she was playing hard to get. He loved himself so much, I don’t think he could understand why anyone else wouldn’t feel the same.’
‘What was your friend’s explanation for putting you through that? Was she angry at you or something?’
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