by cass green
‘You sit there and have a moment, love, alright?’ said the man who worked there as a couple of mothers with prams came into the café, laughing and talking noisily. The sound of their bright conversation was offensive to Irene’s ears. She wanted to say, ‘How can you laugh, when my son is lying in a hospital?’
‘Can I do anything to help you?’ said the old man in a quiet voice and Irene looked at him. He had a nice way of speaking: well-modulated. Now she saw that he was perhaps her own age.
She was both grateful for his offer and relieved the other gawkers had melted away, drama apparently over and nothing more to get their teeth into.
‘Could you tell me the best way to get to that hospital?’ she said.
‘Do you have a car?’ said the man, frowning. ‘It’s a few miles from here.’
Irene shook her head. ‘I can get a taxi though,’ she said.
The man shook his head and drained the last dregs of whatever he had in his mug.
‘I wouldn’t hear of it,’ he said. ‘Let me drive you there.’
Irene had hesitated for only a moment. He didn’t seem like someone who might wish her harm and she wanted to get to Michael as soon as she could. Beggars couldn’t always be choosers.
Now she was sitting in the passenger seat of the immaculate car as the old man – Frank, he said his name was – drove onto a costal road. Colin would have known what kind it was; one of those classic ones that men got excited about. Irene tried to distract herself with thoughts like these as she looked out at the sea, which was sparkly silver in the afternoon sunshine. The thought of her Michael crashing into that cold, unforgiving water and being swept away was causing a panic to swell inside that threatened to choke her.
‘How long is it since you saw your son?’ asked Frank, breaking her thoughts.
‘Just a couple of weeks,’ she said and then looked sharply at his profile. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking.’ She hadn’t meant it to come out so harshly, but he remained impassive, pausing before he replied.
‘I’m not meaning anything, I promise you. I was merely making conversation.’
‘We’re actually very close,’ said Irene hurriedly and he indicated a strange kind of agreement by nodding his head and closing his eyes momentarily.
Fumbling with the little leather tag on her handbag in an attempt to absorb the tremors still running through her, Irene cleared her throat.
‘I don’t think he was trying to kill himself,’ she said and felt Frank turn to her. But even as she said the words, she wasn’t entirely convinced by them.
Maybe things really had reached that stage? Logic seemed to unfurl as a series of stepping stones in her mind now. Michael had one of his mad theories about finding Liam. It led him to this area. Then he discovered that it was all a waste of time. He looked around at his life, his redundancy, his failed relationship with Linda …
Perhaps he concluded that he had little to live for?
But what about his mother? she thought. What about me?
ELLIOTT
As I was gathering my stuff to get ready to leave, Zoe put her head round the door.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Shall we get together to talk about Charney Point?’
There was a moment of confusion and then the meaning of her words sunk in and I went cold all over. I had completely forgotten about the trip. By now I should have filled in the risk assessment forms and booked the coaches for the day.
Zoe frowned. ‘What?’ she said. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I forgot about it,’ I said in a small voice. Zoe’s eyebrows shot up towards her hairline.
‘What?’ She came in and closed the classroom door. ‘Tell me you’re joking, Elliott,’ she said quietly. ‘Tell me.’
‘I’m not joking.’
‘Shit!’ Zoe slapped her hand on the table between us. ‘You do realize it might be too late now to do the forms in time?’
‘It might not be?’ I hated my own wheedling tone.
‘Oh, don’t be a twat,’ she said, and I flinched. ‘You know what has to be done for these trips. And you also know how excited the kids are about it.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
People who don’t work in schools have no idea of the work that goes into organizing trips like this. The difficulty of lining all those ducks in a row is one of the reasons they don’t happen as much as kids would no doubt like. There was no way the trip could just be sorted for another date that easily. It could be months before it worked with both the school calendar and the schedule of the museum itself.
I sank back into my chair and put my head in my hands.
‘Shit,’ I said, my voice mangled. ‘I’ve really badly fucked up.’
When I looked up, I had hoped, expected maybe, to see a softening in Zoe’s expression. She was my friend. Surely, she would forgive me for a simple mistake like this, even if it did mean she would have to cope with a few disappointed tears?
But her eyes were cool as they met mine.
‘I’m going to let you tell Elaine then,’ she said. ‘And she’s not going to be pleased.’
Elaine dealt with the school calendar. My error was almost certainly going to be passed on to Jackie, because Elaine was her assistant and they would naturally talk.
And I was in enough trouble with Jackie as it was.
‘Zoe,’ I said, and she gave me a wary look.
‘What?’
‘It sickens me to ask this but—’
‘No, no, no,’ she interrupted, voice rising and taking a step back with her hands raised, palms towards me.
‘But I’m already in the shit!’ I hissed. ‘Because of that parent, Lee Bennett! Jackie’s really on my case about it.’
‘Bloody hell, Elliott.’ I almost winced at the heat in her voice. ‘Why should I take the blame for something that is your mistake? Tell me that?’
‘Please, Zo,’ I said. ‘I honestly wouldn’t normally ask. I really am in the doghouse right now and I don’t know what Jackie’s going to do if she finds out that I’ve fucked this up too.’
Zoe regarded me for a moment then let out a huge sigh of resignation.
‘God, you’re a pain in the arse,’ she said, then, to the sweetest relief, ‘If I do this then you owe me something pretty sodding big, alright?’
‘I’d hug you right now,’ I said, ‘but I’m not clear on whether you might punch me in the face.’
‘Hmm,’ said Zoe. ‘Neither am I.’
I tried ringing Anya on my way home as I went to collect my bike, but it went straight to voicemail.
Then I sent a text.
Had worst day. Can’t wait to see you. I’ll cook. X
The reply came quickly.
Sweetie, I’m under the weather and Mum persuaded me to stay another night. So sorry. See you tomorrow for sure. Will make it up to you X
I swore, then dialled her number. It went straight to voicemail.
‘Anya,’ I said, struggling not to sound as irritated as I felt. ‘Call me back, okay?’
This was getting ridiculous.
Anya was a grown woman. Was it normal to go running to your parents like this when you felt ill?
Sometimes I wondered if the connection between the three of them was entirely normal.
Anya once told me a story about an aunt – Julia’s sister – who they had seen a lot of when she was small. I never learned her name but, apparently, she caused a scene at a family event by getting drunk and saying that Patrick and Julia spoiled their only daughter.
Anya told this story as if it were quite funny, the fact that her aunt would leave tearful messages on the answering machine apologizing for what she had said.
But she was never allowed back into the Ryland fold.
I woke at five with a thumping head, roiling stomach, and mouth that felt like a dirty sock had been stuffed inside it all night. I’d done it again: got into a sorry state. I’d even finished the best part of a bottle of whisky we had been g
iven as a present by someone. I didn’t even like whisky that much.
Reaching for my phone, I saw that Anya had left me a message late the night before.
Sorry for silence. Feeling much better and going into work in the am. See you tomorrow night. Really miss you xxx
That was something. But as I groaned and turned my face into the pillow, I decided there was no way I was going into school today. I hadn’t had a day off sick in a long time. I wasn’t even sure I’d ever had one, now I thought about it.
I called the automated number and logged that I would be off that day.
I slept, more heavily than I had for days, and when I next woke, it was nine o’clock and sunlight was gently warming my face through the open curtains. I got up in slow, experimental increments, and was surprised to find that I felt quite human. I wasn’t feeling sick and I had an almost pleasant spacy, light feeling in my limbs.
I had a long, hot shower and, by the time I emerged, I was hungry. I made toast and peanut butter and ate it along with two cups of strong tea, coffee still feeling like a bridge too far.
I went into the living room and idly switched on the television. I flicked through options on Netflix and Amazon, but the prospect of an afternoon’s self-indulgent box set bingeing, which would ordinarily be so appealing, held no pleasure. It wasn’t the same without Anya.
As I stared at the telly without taking anything in, an idea bloomed in my mind so suddenly that I sat upright, my heart beating harder.
I couldn’t do it. Could I? What if I was seen by someone from school?
But even as all the very valid objections were scrolling across my mind’s eye, a powerful instinct was tugging me to my feet and over to my phone to look up train times.
I could go to London for the afternoon. If I was lucky with trains, I’d be in town in plenty of time to meet Anya at one, when she took her lunch hour, regular as clockwork. I could surprise her; take her out for lunch. Hadn’t she just been saying she was sick of me being predictable? Well, not exactly, but that’s what it had sounded like to me. It couldn’t hurt to show her that I could play hooky from school and do something spontaneous. I’d just be careful, that’s all. I’d get a cab over to Ashington and catch the fast train.
Staying in the house on my own all day wasn’t an option. I needed to clear my head, get some perspective on everything that had been happening. Reconnect with Anya and stop all this paranoid stuff once and for all.
IRENE
Irene’s hand was sweaty and beginning to cramp but she didn’t feel she could move it. What if he was aware that she was here, just as the nurse had said might be possible? What if he thought she was abandoning him if she let go?
A sob spasmed through her from nowhere, like a cough she couldn’t suppress, and she pressed her free wrist hard against her mouth in an attempt to keep the emotion inside. Crying was not going to help Michael. It took her a few moments of deep, ragged breaths before she was able to lower her hand again.
He looked smaller than she remembered, lying in that bed and hooked up to all those machines. The big blue one snaking into his mouth was helping him to breathe, she knew that. But it looked so obtrusive and she had a strange urge to yank it out.
He seemed old. Her son old. How could that be true? His skin was waxy and pale where it wasn’t patchworked with livid blue and yellow bruising.
What had made him do this?
When she had arrived at the hospital, that kind man, Frank, had insisted he come in with her to help her locate the right department. She had been grateful in an abstract way but was too distracted to thank him properly when she had finally been directed to the Intensive Care Unit. As she’d rubbed the alcohol gel into her shaking hands, he had written his phone number on a scrap of paper and gently popped it into the top of her handbag, ‘Just in case,’ he’d said. In case of what, she couldn’t really think, but it had been nice not to feel so alone for a moment. In fact, an impulsive urge meant she almost blurted out a request to come into the ICU with her. Two visitors were allowed, she had been told that by the doctor, a softly spoken West Indian lady who had explained Michael’s injuries. There were too many for Irene to take in – broken this and ruptured that … but the head injury part was the only one that really mattered. Irene understood that Michael had been put into an induced coma in an effort to stop swelling on his brain but knowing it was deliberate didn’t make it any easier to see.
She had asked about the circumstances of where he was found, and the doctor had hesitated for only a moment before asking Irene if she knew whether her son had been depressed? All she could do was shake her head and mumble that she didn’t really know.
Then the doctor asked if she would like to see the hospital chaplain. That hadn’t seemed like a very comforting question and it had taken quite an effort of will not to tell this woman with her serious, kind manner that she and God had parted ways some years ago, thank you very much.
Her eyes were scratchy with fatigue now and she was desperate for a cup of tea and something to eat. But she wasn’t allowed to take a drink into the ICU and she hadn’t wanted to waste any more time that could be spent with Michael.
Oh Michael, she thought. What have you done?
She hadn’t spoken out loud but, in that moment, Michael moved, as though reacting to her thoughts. Irene almost shot out of her chair and for about a second more a starburst of bright hope filled her with light. But then she saw that he was convulsing, and an alarm was sounding. Then blue-uniformed bodies were rushing into the room and everything was happening at once.
ELLIOTT
As the landscape changed and buildings began to clot into larger and larger configurations, I felt a certain energy creeping into me, making me sit up straighter.
Dirty old town. How I’d missed you.
It had been ages since I had last been here. It was funny, but I’d been sure I was ready to leave when we got married. Anya suggested we move back to where she grew up and it made sense, especially as we wouldn’t have had a hope in hell of buying anywhere in London.
But now, as the train made its way towards Victoria, I had the oddest feeling that I would be able to breathe properly here. As though I was literally returning to my element.
I got onto the Victoria Line at Victoria, feeling a bit of a country mouse. The sheer number of bodies felt oddly surprising. When I moved away everyone had been full of plans to come and stay with us, and for the first few months we had a good number of weekends with friends, mainly mine.
But when people discovered that it wasn’t exactly Brighton, or even Lathebridge, the visits began to peter out. It was also, partly, just life. A couple of friends moved abroad, and my oldest crowd were in such a different place, and already deep in family life.
I changed onto the Northern Line at Euston and travelled a few stops to Angel, where Anya’s office was based. Looking around the carriage I was struck by the sheer diversity here; something I had never even thought about before. There were at least four different ethnic groups around me. What a contrast to Casterbourne. The mixed-race part of me wasn’t really that obvious. I just looked like a bloke with dark hair and a reasonable propensity to catch the sun. But it was something I thought about, living where I did now.
I emerged from the station. The sky was a deep, cloudless blue and the air had a crisp nip of autumn. I was a bit early to meet Anya, so I had a cup of coffee in Pret a Manger and read a copy of the Standard that someone had left behind, enjoying the buzz of energy around me. This was a good idea, I decided. It would help me get some perspective on things.
At 12.30 I decided to head over to her office.
I quickened my pace as I walked down St John’s Street towards her building.
McHenry Inc., her company, was based on the top floor of an old factory on the edge of Clerkenwell. They shared the building with an interior design company and a commercial solicitor’s office. It was bookended by an artisan coffee shop that had a cycling theme, and a sh
op that sold ceramics and art at eye-watering prices.
I went into the bright airy reception that served the whole building and a woman with very short, dark hair and bright red lips in a wide smile greeted me cheerily.
‘I’m here to see Anya at McHenry,’ I said, and she asked me to sign in, while she called via the switchboard.
I signed my name and hovered over the ‘From’ part of the visitors’ book. I had a childish urge to write something stupid like ‘NASA’ or ‘Hogwarts’ and concluded I had been hanging out with small children too much, so I just left it blank.
‘Okay, thanks, I’ll tell him,’ said the receptionist. She turned to me and her smile slipped by the tiniest degree.
‘Really sorry,’ she said. ‘But it seems she isn’t in today.’
‘What?’ I said. ‘Are you sure?’ It had to be a mistake. I mean, she’d told me she was going to work. If she wasn’t here, where was she?
She shrugged. ‘That’s what they said.’ Her expression became cooler. I struggled to remember the names of Anya’s colleagues.
‘Look, can you ask for Todd Bernstein, please?’ Todd was her immediate boss, an intense American man who always shook my hand for a bit too long, as though hoping to sell me something.
The receptionist murmured into the phone, her eyes down. I found myself opening and closing my fists, a nervous habit. I should have been at school, doing the job that was looking a bit shaky right now. Instead I had come all this way on a whim, for nothing. Plus, I had no idea where my own wife was. For a moment, as Todd emerged from the lift, a hesitant smile playing around his lips, humiliation was my uppermost thought and I contemplated feigning that I had just remembered where she was. But no, I needed information, however embarrassing this was.
‘Elliott,’ said Todd as I held out my hand for the customary over-shake. He didn’t disappoint, and I felt conscious of his crisp suit and ice-white shirt, some subtle aftershave wafting off him. ‘What can I do for you?’
I laughed, as though all this was a silly mistake. ‘Well, I think I got crossed wires with Anya this morning. Thought I would surprise her for lunch. Is she not here?’