by Mark Edwards
I grabbed my crutches, limped into the bathroom and washed at the basin, having first gulped down one of the remaining tablets with water straight from the tap. In the living room I checked the weather outside – no snow but there was still ice on everything – then dug out the notes I’d been given at the hospital, including the phone number for the ward where I’d been treated.
I got straight through to a nurse and explained who I was.
‘Let me just find your notes.’ She had a soft Irish accent.
The line went quiet for a little while until she finally returned.
‘So, you were prescribed forty 100 mg codeine tablets, to be taken four times a day for ten days. That was eight days ago.’
‘I know. But I’ve almost run out.’
A silence at the other end. ‘You do know you’re not supposed to exceed the stated dose?’
‘I know.’ I was aware of how pathetic I sounded. I laughed nervously. ‘But the pain has been awful. I think I took too many in the first few days.’
‘Hmm. I’m sorry, but we can’t prescribe you any more.’
Cold goose bumps rippled across my flesh. ‘What?’
Her Irish accent didn’t sound so soft anymore. I had been a bad patient and she wanted me to know it. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Sumner, but we can’t let you have any more. Codeine is addictive.’
Tell me about it, I thought. ‘But . . . what am I supposed to do?’
‘If you’re still in pain I recommend Paracetamol or ibuprofen. I think ibuprofen would be better.’
‘But that’s not strong enough.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Sumner. When are you due in to see us?’
‘In just over two weeks.’
‘And how’s the leg?’
‘It hurts.’
She laughed and I hung up. How dare she laugh at me? If I could have stomped I would have. Instead, I limped over to my desk and sat down, prepared to write a stern email to the hospital. But by the time I’d found an email address the wind had dropped from my sails. I was OK. It didn’t hurt at the moment; the nurse was just doing her job. I had some Nurofen in the cupboard. I’d take that tonight after the codeine had all gone.
I spent the next few hours working, then sent the results to Victor. Just after lunch I noticed that the room was brighter than normal and went over to the window. The sky was blue, cloudless; the sun had returned like a hero from war. My spirits immediately lifted. If it stayed like this for a day or two, the ice would thaw and I should be able to go out again.
I switched on the TV, hoping to catch the weather forecast. I flicked to BBC News and staggered over to the kitchen to make myself lunch.
As I opened the fridge, a snatch of the news report caught my attention.
. . . young woman attacked in south-east London . . .
I walked over to the TV.
Police are appealing to anyone who might have witnessed a horrific crime in West Norwood last Friday. A young woman was seriously injured when acid was thrown into her face by an unknown assailant.
The victim, an Albanian immigrant who worked as a cleaner, is being treated at King’s Hospital. The young woman is reported to have lost the sight in one eye and to have suffered horrific burns to her face . . .
I stared at the screen.
West Norwood. That was a ten-minute walk from my flat. Albanian cleaner.
I put my hand to my mouth. It had to be her. It had to be Kristi.
Eighteen
‘What’s her name?’ I said aloud to the TV.
But the news moved on to something else – a story about Lucy Newton, the so-called Dark Angel, who had been slashed across the face by another prisoner – and I was left flicking around the news channels trying to find more about the cleaner.
Giving up, I turned to my computer, went onto Google News and typed ‘acid attack West Norwood’. The page filled with results.
The second result was from my local paper, The Norwood Examiner, with the headline ACID ATTACK VICTIM NAMED.
Heart in mouth, I clicked the link.
Police have revealed the name of the victim in a horrific attack in West Norwood last Friday, February 9th.
Kristi Tolka, 23, is originally from Albania but now lives in Streatham Hill and works as a cleaner.
She was on her way home from work last Friday evening when she was attacked by a man who threw sulphuric acid in her face. The attack has left her blinded in one eye and with severe chemical burns to her face, neck and hands.
The attack took place on Gipsy Road at approximately 6:15 p.m. and police are appealing for witnesses.
Detective Inspector Tom Jenkins, who is leading the investigation, told the Examiner:
‘The victim has described her assailant as slim-built and of medium height. He was wearing a balaclava and a black leather jacket. She says he appeared from behind a wall, as if he was waiting for her. She believes he ran off in the direction of Norwood Road. Unfortunately, because of the poor weather, there were very few people around.’
Tolka is being cared for at King’s College Hospital and is described as being in a stable condition.
Poor, poor Kristi. I could barely imagine it: the pain, the shock, and then much worse – her face ruined, her eyesight half gone. I had watched a documentary about a model who had been attacked in the same way; in that case, as I recalled, it was an ex-boyfriend or a spurned admirer . . . I couldn’t quite remember. Was the person who had done this to Kristi the same person who had left bruises on her face? Her boyfriend, assuming she had one? Surely he must be the most likely candidate. But if the police were looking for witnesses now, almost a week after the event, it seemed that the most obvious solution wasn’t necessarily the correct one. Or was Kristi protecting this guy? When I thought about Albanians in London, I couldn’t help but think about gangsters and people trafficking, all those clichés. Was Kristi mixed up in that somehow?
All these questions rattled through my brain. Overall, though, I mostly felt terrible sympathy for her. I wondered if I should send something – a card, flowers? As if that would do any good. Besides, I was just some bloke whose flat she cleaned once a week. She probably didn’t even know my full name.
I would ask Charlie when she came round if she thought I should send something. She would know. Women are better at that kind of thing.
I took another codeine tablet. I now had only one left but the little twitch of panic this thought invoked was, I realised, pathetic compared to what Kristi was going through.
I awoke the next day knowing that I had no codeine left. I hadn’t told Charlie that I’d run out because I didn’t want her to worry about me. We’d had a relaxing evening, eating a curry, watching a Johnny Depp film, going to bed early. She’d told me that it would be a bit weird to send anything to Kristi but that maybe I should ask the cleaning agency if they had a collection for her, which seemed like an excellent idea.
The sun was out again and although it was cold and icy outside I felt optimistic that I would be able to go outside soon. This hope helped get me through the morning, but by lunchtime the pain had crept back into my leg so I swallowed a couple of Nurofen. It took the edge off. But as I tried to work in the afternoon, I couldn’t concentrate. I felt sick and the computer screen hurt my eyes, no matter how I fiddled with the brightness controls. The inside of my head felt tight, like there were metal bands squeezing my brain, and the noise of the traffic in the distance penetrated my skull. I could feel the blood throbbing in my veins.
Codeine is addictive, I heard the nurse from yesterday say, and I realised: I was dependent. The moment this thought entered my head, even though the ibuprofen was keeping the pain mostly at bay, I needed codeine. Could think about nothing else. When I was seventeen, during my most nihilistic period following my parents’ deaths, I had taken up smoking. I smoked for only a few years but I wou
ld never forget the struggle to give up, how I had barely been able to think of anything else as the nicotine left my system.
I paced about the flat on my crutches, then went for a lie down. What now seemed like a harsh winter sun penetrated the windows, causing little dots to dance about in front of my eyes. Oh my God, I thought. My retina is detaching again. I stared at the white sheet – I had forgotten to put the bedding in the wash yesterday and it stank of sweat and semen – and tried to work out if there was a dark shadow in my eye.
Get a grip, I told myself. It’s the withdrawal, making you paranoid. I lay down and closed my eyes, remembering something with a start.
The bottle of pills Charlie had left in the bathroom cabinet – or, to be precise, the bottle that Kristi had put there along with the toiletries. That had been codeine!
I jumped up from the bed, momentarily forgetting all about my sprained knee. I yelled with pain and fell onto my side. Ah, fuck. That hurt. I lay there for a moment laughing at myself. For God’s sake, man, sort yourself out.
I hauled myself up and, back on my crutches, made my way into the bathroom. There it was, right at the back of the cabinet: the little brown bottle with codeine printed on the label.
I tipped a couple onto my palm. They looked different to the ones I’d got from the hospital. Yellow and white capsules as opposed to the little white tablets I’d been taking. I downed one, thought about it, then added the second.
I went back to the computer. I was sick of being cooped up. If I don’t get out of here soon, I thought, I’m going to lose my mind. I was in that state where I was so bored that I couldn’t make myself do anything to relieve the boredom. I wanted some chocolate, a cigarette, a drink, a wank – anything to take my mind off the crushing tedium of my daytime existence.
Instead, I browsed the web, clicking listlessly from page to page, bored but unable to stop.
I was scrolling through a list of ‘21 kangaroos having a bad day’ when I started to feel sleepy. My eyes were heavy. My whole body felt leaden. I checked the time. Four o’clock. Could I squeeze in a nap before Charlie got back?
No, I should try to stay awake. Napping during the day almost always made me feel groggier than if I fought through it.
Temporarily giving up on the holiday idea, I went onto Facebook. I decided to look at Sasha’s page, to see if she had posted anything interesting since the other night. I wanted to contact her but still felt angry and unsure of what to say to her.
Sasha hadn’t written any posts, but an old university friend of ours, Tabby, had posted a link to a story about students on our course. I read it, and then, curious, decided to see what Tabby had been up to recently. But I couldn’t see anything on her timeline. She had unfriended me.
Another one! I went through to my list of friends. I was pretty sure I’d had about 250 friends last time I’d looked. Now it was down to 210. OK, so the numbers fluctuated all the time, but to lose forty friends in a month? That was worse than careless. What had I done? I tried to remember if I’d posted anything that might be deemed offensive or controversial. No, I hadn’t. In fact, I’d barely been on Facebook since meeting Charlie. That must be it, I decided, feeling that heavy weariness sweep over me again. My friends were bored with my lack of updates and were culling me.
I checked the time again. Four-thirty. Had half an hour really passed? How had that happened? I rubbed my eyes. So tired. So very tired. It felt like my blood had been replaced with syrup. My brain was finding it hard to formulate thoughts. My limbs were heavy, as were my eyelids. I couldn’t feel any pain though; my legs were numb, rubbery. Charlie’s codeine was doing its job.
I pushed myself up from my chair and almost fell over. OK, I really did need to lie down. The bed was too far though. The sofa was just a few steps away. I made it and lay down.
My phone chirped. With great effort, like all my muscles had wasted away, like the air in the room was crushing me to death, I found my phone in my pocket and squinted at it. The words in the little grey speech bubble on the screen floated about but, with a Herculean force of will, I was able to make out that the text was from Karen – Karen? Who was Karen? Oh, yes, my older woman, my Mrs Robinson – and that it said Please call me urgently x
One last struggle to stay awake, to stay afloat, concentrate . . . and then I gave in.
Ninteen
‘Andrew. Andrew? Can you hear me?’ The voice was soft, kind. A hand on my cheek, then stroking my hair. I was rising, floating up through the dark water, breaking the surface in a froth of bubbles.
‘Mum?’
A gentle laugh. ‘No, handsome. It’s me, Charlie.’
I opened one eye, then the other. There was a sharp pain behind my eyebrows and my mouth felt like I’d been crunching on spoonfuls of sand. I was warm, too, and I looked down to see that I had a blanket over me, the thick woollen one that I kept rolled up in the top of my wardrobe. I was on my sofa.
And there was an angel smiling at me, an angel with glorious flaming hair and big intelligent eyes.
‘Andrew?’ the angel called Charlie said, tilting her head. ‘Stay with me. Don’t go—’
I slipped beneath the water again.
I woke up with Charlie kneeling on the carpet in front of me, holding a glass of water and gazing at me with concern. As soon as I opened my eyes she said, ‘Oh, thank God. Please try to stay awake this time.’
‘There are cobwebs in my head,’ I said. ‘Spiders crawling around my brain.’
She looked at me with alarm.
‘No, I don’t mean literally.’ Was this what delirium felt like? ‘I mean . . .’ I couldn’t find the words to complete the sentence.
She held out the water, told me to drink some.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.
‘I can’t . . . I don’t . . .’
She smiled, showing her teeth. She had a little chip on the right front tooth. Had I noticed that before? ‘OK, don’t worry. I know what it’s like.’ I must have looked confused because she said, ‘I mean, I’ve been there. When I first took Temazepam. Oh, that’s what was in that little jar.’
It took my brain a few seconds to work out what she was talking about. ‘Not codeine?’
‘No. I put them in that jar for safekeeping. They’re sleeping pills. I’ve been carrying them round in my bag for a long time . . . a couple of years at least. I got them when I was having trouble, well, sleeping when I lived in Birmingham.’
‘You lived in Birmingham?’
‘Yes. For a short while. I had a contract there. But that’s not important. The point is that the pills came in a huge box, in foil . . . and I popped them all out and put them in an empty jar I had. I guess they must have fallen out along with that other stuff – the shampoo and whatnot. How many did you take?’
I thought about it. ‘Two.’
She shook her head. ‘No wonder you were out for so long. One is enough to knock you out for a whole night.’
‘How long was I out?’ I looked towards the window. It was light.
‘Well, I don’t know when you took them exactly, but it’s two p.m. on Friday now.’
I had taken them on Thursday afternoon. ‘Oh . . . shit. I’ve been asleep for nearly twenty-four hours.’
I sat up, my body creaking like a geriatric’s. My bladder felt like it was on fire.
‘And I’ve been here,’ she said. ‘All the time. Looking after you.’
Charlie ran me a bath and sat on the edge while I let the hot water bring my limbs back to life.
‘I called in sick,’ she said, trailing her hand through the water. ‘I didn’t want you waking up with no one here, wondering what the hell had happened.’
‘Thank you. God, I think my brain evaporated while I was asleep.’ I splashed my face and rubbed it. ‘Why did you have those pills?’
She looked away. ‘I tol
d you. A couple of years ago, I was having trouble getting to sleep.’
I waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, I said, ‘What was wrong? Why couldn’t you sleep?’
She shrugged. ‘It was just a phase. No big deal.’
But this hoarding of her past was beginning to bother me. For once, I pushed her.
‘Come on Charlie, there’s more to it, isn’t there?’
She fidgeted. Looked all around the room like she was seeking an escape route.
‘Can you look at me?’
She drew a breath and looked at me, tight-lipped.
‘I broke up with someone,’ she said.
‘Oh.’
‘It was a difficult break-up. Very . . . unpleasant.’ Her hand in the water was motionless.
‘What was his name?’ I asked.
Another long hesitation. ‘Leo.’
‘Was he a lion?’
She smiled at last. ‘No, he was a rat. A love rat.’
‘He cheated on you?’
She stood up, went over to the basin. The mirror on the cabinet was steamed up and, as she spoke, with her back to me, she traced lines in the steam: jagged lines, slashes in the condensation.
‘He was a bastard. A total fucking bastard. He was one of those guys, always eyeing up attractive women, like I’d be sitting with him in a restaurant and his eyes would be roaming about the room, perving over anyone with a bit of cleavage showing or legs on display. Very early on in our relationship he slept with someone else when he was on a business trip. But his excuse was that we’d only been seeing each other a few weeks, he didn’t know we were exclusive, it was a meaningless shag. So I gave him another chance.’
The condensation was all gone now, so I could see Charlie’s face in the mirror, frowning.