by Drew Davies
‘I wouldn’t if I was you. Not until we extract the objects.’
Terry wipes Adam’s arm with a cotton bud, and jabs him with a syringe.
‘Extract the what?’ Adam asks fuzzily.
‘You have half a pencil sticking out of your right buttock. A few pieces of desk. Some pretty deep staples embedded in your back. But apart from some slight concussion and a few other abrasions, you’ll be fine. Better than the chap I had this morning who drove into that lorry! Bet he wishes he could swap with you!’
‘I have a p-pencil in my buttock?’ Adam repeats slowly.
‘One of the best places for it, if you ask me,’ says Terry. ‘No vital organs. No important nerves. Nothing serious to skewer. If I was going to have a pencil inserted somewhere, it would definitely be in the buttock area.’
‘And why am I wet?’
‘You seem to have urinated yourself. Quite a normal response. I’ve had to cut away your trousers and shirt to get to the wounds, so you might feel a slight draft in your nether regions when we move you.’
Adam tries to process all this information.
‘Am I going home?’ he asks.
‘Maybe eventually, but we’re taking you for a ride in the ambulance first.’
A warm sensation starts to fill Adam’s body. He wonders if he’s weeing again, but he’s not sure. Another paramedic approaches, and together he and Terry lift up the stretcher and Adam feels like he’s a reverse Superman, flying backwards. Goodbye, corner office, he thinks as he soars away, goodbye, kitchenette, goodbye, angry security guards, goodbye, shifty cleaners. The stretcher won’t go in the elevator – it doesn’t fit! – so they’ll have to use the stairs, but it’s okay, they’ve already strapped him in, even handcuffing his wrist to the stretcher so he won’t fall off. Adam flies down the stairs in reverse, saying goodbye to all the floors, and now he’s in the foyer. Where it all started, he thinks proudly. He says goodbye to all the ferns in their pots, and then he wonders how they’ll get through the turnstiles, but they must have opened a gate because they don’t stop, they keep going right on through. Adam props himself up onto his elbow to get a better view, and who should he see standing in front of the reception desk, but Cara? Beautiful Cara! But she doesn’t work on Saturdays? It’s definitely her though – she’s in clothes he’s never seen before: jeans, a pink sweater, Converse shoes. Her hair is down, and she’s wearing much less makeup too. Cara is standing beside a man who looks like a builder because he’s wearing a high-visibility jacket and holding a hard hat. Both of them are staring at him, so Adam gives them a wave.
Goodbye, Cara, he thinks, or maybe says.
Hesitantly, she waves back. Beautiful Cara.
The doors of M&D open. The paramedic was right, Adam does feel a slight draft on the lower part of his body.
Goodbye, Mercer and Daggen! he thinks, as the small crowd of onlookers part way to allow the stretcher through.
A few miles away, JoJo is learning the joys of a languorous morning. Celebrities, like vampires, don’t venture out until dusk, so Keith is free during the days, unless he’s staking out the occasional plastic surgery clinic.
‘I won’t do children,’ he’d explained to JoJo. ‘It’s not a moral thing, I just can’t be assed to get out of bed to snap some sticky-faced toddler arriving at playschool.’
‘Aren’t there laws about that sort of thing?’ JoJo had replied.
‘There should be. Half eight some of them start.’
She kicks off the duvet with her foot – it’s almost come out of its cover again. Around the bed lie an array of empty fast-food cartoons. JoJo is also being educated on the delights of modern home delivery. You can order almost anything, at any time of the day – sushi, barbeque grill, a Chinese banquet (last week they’d ordered an entire whole crispy duck that stunk the place out for days).
At first, JoJo had assumed she’d be time-sharing the flat with other women – an arrangement, although never discussed, she was perfectly fine with. But over the last few days, Keith has made it abundantly clear he wants them to be ‘exclusive’. JoJo finds this alarming. She’s not ready to start another relationship – she’s still very much in her previous one. And without being unkind to Keith, there are other things she wants to do, other people. Sleeping with a woman for the first time had occurred to her, and she quite fancies the idea. She’d considered suggesting this to Keith, but his recent neediness has made her reassess: he might not be ready for something so radical.
JoJo reaches for the dressing gown slung over the back of the chair, and puts it on. Keith is snoring beside her; it still feels strange to be on this side of the bed – at home, Frank always commandeered the left.
Plodding her way to the bathroom, JoJo shuts the door behind her. A frayed bath towel is draped haphazardly over the radiator, there’s mould around some of the shower tiles, and the toilet roll holder is broken, but the least charming aspect of the bathroom is the full-length mirror directly opposite the toilet seat. She sits down heavily and does everything she can to avoid eye contact with herself. Letting out a long breath, as if she’s being deflated, she begins to wee. Forgetting the mirror for a second, she glances up, but it’s too late – the image of herself meets her unfortunate eyes: robe open, her exposed breasts hanging off her body in a particularly unflattering way. There is one good point about the bathroom though – the lighting fixture’s so dirty it creates a pleasantly diffused light. Still peeing, JoJo sits taller and sucks in her stomach. Not too bad, especially considering all the takeout she’s eaten (and the booze – good God, they can put it away!). She cups one breast, and lets it go, then the next, then both together. If she were to make some tweaks to her body, where would she start? The upper arms definitely, two bulldog clips should sort those out. Polyfilla on the varicose veins. Her hands could do with some hydrochloric acid. And the lines around her mouth? She experiments with her reflection – they disappear whenever she opens her mouth, so maybe a large ball gag? Laughing to herself, JoJo wipes, flushes, and washes her hands in the sink.
Keith is lying on his side when she returns to bed, exposing a leg and muscular buttock. He seems considerably younger from behind. Tearing her gaze from his delicious glutes, JoJo realises she hasn’t seen her phone for a long time, and pokes around the food packages on the floor, until she finds it under the bed. There are four messages: one from the dry-cleaning place, a missed call from the travel agent about the potential trip to South America (Keith doesn’t know about this either), a message from Frank and one from Belinda.
Frank’s text is typically brief and to the point:
We need to talk.
Hadn’t they talked enough? They’d talked and talked and talked and talked.
She opens Belinda’s message, which is equally abrupt:
JoJo. There’s a problem with the babies.
And just like that, her languorous morning is over.
Sixteen
Samira appears at the foot of the ladder.
‘This is impossible,’ huffs Daisy on the top step. ‘Tell them the chandelier’s not going to hold.’ She bangs the craft knife down on the ladder, the sound echoing around the ballroom. ‘I knew these stupid crystals were a fucking terrible idea!’
‘Daisy…’
‘They weren’t designed to “float in space” or whatever the fuck! If they fall off and skewer one of the models, it’s not my fault. Although they’ll probably love that – very fashion forward, a model with a massive great Perspex crystal sticking out of her skull! Give them all fashion boners, those cigarillo smoking, pasty-faced…’
‘It’s not about the shoot.’
Daisy looks down at Samira. Something seems very different about her, she realises now. Samira seems older somehow. All the flyaway energy has gone, as if the electrostatic generator behind her has been turned off.
‘Maybe you should come down from the ladder?’ Samira says, not in her usual tone at all.
‘What’s going on?’ Dai
sy asks apprehensively.
‘I really think you should come down here.’
‘Samira, I don’t have time…’
‘It’s Chris.’
Later, Daisy will remember Samira’s eyes – her unnaturally large dilated pupils staring up at her, almost ghoul-like.
‘What’s happened?’
‘He’s been in an accident.’
Daisy feels light-headed, and begins to wish she wasn’t ten feet off the ground. She starts down the ladder, but her knees are wobbly. Fortunately, Samira is there, guiding her feet down each step, and once she’s on the ground, she takes Daisy’s hand.
‘Is he alright?’
Samira grips her fingers.
‘He’s been involved in a fall,’ she says, carefully.
‘Involved? Why are you talking like someone on Downton Abbey?’
‘He was on a roof.’
‘What was he doing on a blinking roof?’ Daisy asks. And now she remembers her phone call with Chris, an hour and a half ago, and her blood runs cold.
‘Samira, he’s okay though?’
She grips Daisy’s hand tighter.
‘He has a fractured wrist…’
‘But he’s alright? Generally?’
‘They’re not sure,’ Samira says. ‘He might have broken his back.’
All the air gets sucked out of the room.
‘Broken his back,’ repeats Daisy.
‘He’s in surgery now, so they’ll find out more soon. Someone named Dylan called – your phone was on silent but it kept ringing and ringing, so I answered.’
‘Broken his back or broken his spine?’ Daisy asks in a small voice.
‘I’m not sure,’ Samira replies. ‘Casper’s already booked an Uber, and I’ll come with you to the hospital.’
‘No, it’s okay. They’ll need you here – I’ll get my things.’
She starts up the ladder, but Samira catches her on the second step.
‘Don’t worry about all that now, I’ll take care of it.’
‘Of course,’ Daisy says, in a daze, stepping down. ‘What am I doing again?’
‘Waiting for the taxi.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Samira threads her arms around her neck and gives her a squeeze.
‘Will everything be okay?’ Daisy asks into Samira’s bony shoulder.
There’s another squeeze, harder this time.
‘I don’t know,’ Samira replies.
Keith drives JoJo to the hospital in the Nissan Micra, zipping around traffic and running two red lights in the process. Once parked, they race into the main entrance – a brightly lit atrium with a reception desk island at the far end.
A sour-faced woman in her fifties greets them – or more precisely, doesn’t. Avoiding all eye contact, she taps at her computer, ruffles through a stack of papers, makes a call – and when JoJo finally gets her attention, practically waving a hand in front of her face, there’s no record of Belinda in the hospital’s computer system.
‘I’m sorry,’ says the receptionist, not sorry in the slightest.
JoJo tries Belinda’s phone again, but it goes straight to voicemail.
‘She definitely said here?’ asks Keith.
‘St Thomas’s Hospital,’ JoJo says, brandishing the text message at him.
Keith turns to the receptionist.
‘Can you try searching for, first name: Belinda?’
‘That’s not how the system works,’ replies the woman unhelpfully.
‘It’s an emergency,’ JoJo hisses, but before she can launch herself at the woman and throttle her, Keith pulls her to one side.
‘I think I know what’s going on,’ he says. ‘Belinda is using a different name.’
‘Why the heck would she do that?’
‘Because of people like me.’
JoJo realises what he means – this silly Duke thing was still in the papers. It would make sense for Belinda to use an alias.
‘How are we supposed to find her then?’ she asks.
‘Leave it to me.’
Keith thanks the receptionist politely (far too politely in JoJo’s opinion), and they head back through the entrance. Outside, they hurry right, around the perimeter of the building, until they reach the Accident and Emergency bay area.
‘Wait here,’ says Keith. He wanders past the ambulance bay, and stops at a young curly-haired man in a blue hospital tunic who is texting on his phone (JoJo is momentarily distracted as a man on a stretcher – singing ‘Rock-a-hula Baby’ – is unloaded from an ambulance, with what looks like half a pencil sticking out from his buttock). Keith makes the ‘cigarette’ gesture, but the man shakes his head. This doesn’t deter Keith however, and the two men have a brief but intense conversation, which concludes in a brisk handshake.
‘All sorted,’ Keith says, on his return. ‘This bloke’s a junior porter, he’ll help us find Belinda.’
‘How did you make that happen so quickly?’ asks JoJo.
‘Impressed?’ he replies, with a wink.
Once the junior porter has finished with his phone, he gives them a nod, and Keith and JoJo follow him back around the building, standing at an appropriate distance while he opens a side door with a security card.
‘Take my hand,’ says Keith, as they follow him inside. ‘Look as if we know where we’re going.’
They trail the porter – a few steps behind – down a series of corridors, outside again and into the Northern Wing, up an elevator, and towards the Maternity ward. As they enter, the nurse on duty looks up from her desk and is about to say something, when the junior porter ducks into the alcove to speak to her, and a few moments later, he beckons Keith and JoJo through, unchallenged. Moving through the ward, they check each bed and examine the chart of anyone absent, the porter poking his head into all the private rooms too – he gets a few quizzical stares from their occupants – but they can’t find any trace of Belinda. JoJo is starting to lose hope, when she spots a familiar-looking face sitting by an empty bed.
‘Frank?’ she says, as they approach.
The man turns, and for a moment JoJo thinks maybe she’s been mistaken – he’s too small and deflated to be her Frank, surely?
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.
‘Can you give us a few minutes?’ JoJo says to Keith, and he nods and wanders further along the ward with the porter.
JoJo sits down in the empty seat beside Frank.
‘How is she?’ JoJo asks.
‘Not great,’ replies Frank. ‘The specialist’s seen her, but she needs more tests.’
‘What happened?’
Frank massages the top of his nose with his finger and thumb.
‘There was some bleeding,’ he says. ‘She’s in quite a lot of pain.’
‘Do they know what caused it?’
‘Something called placental abruption.’
‘If my memory serves, that’s not too bad. The placenta detaches from the uterus.’
‘They’re saying they might have to induce labour.’
‘Premature labour is almost run-of-the-mill with twins.’
Frank brushes his left knee with his hand.
‘She looks so ill,’ he says, his voice breaking.
JoJo takes Frank’s big craggy hand in hers. She finds his right pinkie, the fingernail lost years ago moving a piano, and rubs the groove with her thumb.
Frank clears his throat.
‘So, that’s him, is it?’ he says, nodding in the direction of the departed Keith.
JoJo nods.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Keith.’
Frank repeats the name to himself.
‘I’m sorry,’ says JoJo – she didn’t want him finding out like this.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ Frank says, squeezing her hand.
They sit silently again. A nurse walks by, pushing a trolley, and smiles at them, the touching picture they make.
‘I thought you were bored of me,’ says Frank, when th
e nurse is gone.
‘What? When?’
‘Before all this started. Before Belinda.’
‘Why would I be bored of you?’ asks JoJo, dumbfounded.
A baby starts to cry, the indignant raspy wail of a newborn filling the ward.
Frank shakes his head.
‘How could you not be?’ he replies, quietly.
He’s lying upright in the bed, supported by pillows – a metal splint attached to his left wrist, a brace on his neck and a thick bandage around his head, but it’s his hair she finds most alarming. It’s so fluffy, sticking up through the top of the bandage like a troll doll. He’ll hate it, she thinks. She wishes she’d brought her bag of tricks now – there was definitely a comb in there, maybe even some hair putty. She could run and buy some eighties-style gel from a local shop, but then what would she do? Mould the fluffiness into a walnut whip? She wants so badly to do something though – if only to stop herself from crying – but she steadies herself, watching the rise and fall of his chest instead, remembering the story his mother had told, about finding him as a child, asleep on a pile of washing.
His eyes begin to flicker open.
‘Hey, you,’ Chris says, in a hoarse whisper, when he sees her.
‘Did I wake you?’
He shakes his head, or tries to – the neck brace makes it impossible.
‘Are you thirsty?’ asks Daisy. ‘I can go and get you some juice?’
‘No, stay,’ he says, taking her hand in his good one.
‘I didn’t know you’d be able to lie on your back so soon after the surgery. I thought you’d be in some fancy brace, suspended from the rafters.’
‘Like a sex swing?’
She rolls her eyes extravagantly, grateful for the joke.
‘I’m not sure they provide those on the NHS,’ she replies.
‘We could ask. They might throw in a nurse’s uniform.’
‘You’d never get it on over your neck brace.’
‘If I’ve learnt anything today,’ he intones sombrely, ‘it’s that dreams can come true.’