Dream: A Skins Novel

by Leigh, Garrett

  “But you do it so well,” Dylan retorted with a ghost of a grin he didn’t really mean. “Vauxhall won’t be the same without you.”

  “It’ll be all right. That bakery opened by the river last summer and turned the whole borough on its head. Can’t move for hipsters sitting on the pavement with their fucking sourdough scones now.”

  Dylan laughed. “I know the owners of that place. At least, I used to.”

  “Meet ’em down the sex club did you?”

  “Not quite.”

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t want to know.”

  “I do,” Eddie said. “Dylan always has the best sex stories.”

  “Yeah, but we didn’t come here to talk about sex, babe. That ship has sailed, remember?”

  Eddie’s expression was so comically downcast that a real belly chuckle escaped Dylan. He got up and rounded the counter and took her in his arms, squeezing her tight in a hug that felt far too much like a goodbye to keep him laughing for long. “We can’t fuck anymore, Eddie, but you’ve still got first scoop on all my escapades, okay?”

  “I’d better have.” Eddie sniffed and squeezed him back. “We’re going to miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too. I already miss you, actually.” Dylan sensed Sam behind him and let Eddie go, turning to embrace his best friend. “When are you going?”

  “Erm . . . tomorrow,” Sam mumbled into Dylan’s shoulder.

  “What?” Dylan squirmed and tried to back off, but Sam held firm.

  “Don’t,” he said. “This is hard enough. I can’t handle a long farewell, mate.”

  Neither could Dylan. He held Sam until it didn’t make sense to hold him anymore.

  And then he said goodbye.

  Chapter Twelve

  The A & E doctor pressed his gloved fingers under Angelo’s arms and frowned. “Take a breath for me?”

  Angelo inhaled a shaky breath, willing his body to stay upright as the devastatingly hot doctor examined him. Seriously. When did British hospitals start getting doctors who looked like him? He thought about snapping a sneaky picture with his phone but then remembered that it was still locked in the gutted deli, and not vomiting became his priority.

  “Lean forward, buddy.”

  Angelo leaned forward. The doctor’s hands glanced over his bruised ribs, and Angelo winced.

  “Almost done,” the doctor said. “You look like you’re about to pass out on me. Is the pain that bad?”

  “Not in my ribs.” Angelo fought his heavy eyes. “My head. And my chest.”

  The doctor said something, but Angelo missed it and fell forwards. His head hit the doctor’s shoulder and he stayed there for a little while. The bloke smelled nice, though not as nice as Dylan. No one smelled like Dylan.

  “All right,” the doctor said. “I’m going to lay you down and take some blood. Breathe the oxygen, okay? It’ll help.”

  Help with what? But Angelo was too far gone to form the words. Someone else in the room⁠—Theresa, maybe⁠—spoke and then came closer, gripping Angelo’s hand. But he pulled away, even though he was dimly aware that something had changed between them. A needle pierced his skin and the nice smelling doctor touched cold metal to Angelo’s bare chest again.

  “Angelo, buddy . . . look at me.”

  No.

  “Angelo.” Theresa shook him. “Listen to the doctor.”

  Listening and looking weren’t the same thing, but Angelo forced his eyes open, squinting against the harsh overhead light.

  “Good,” the doctor said. “How is your breathing?”

  Angelo shook his head. “I⁠—I don’t know.”

  The doctor seemed to accept the non-answer, like perhaps he was expecting it. He removed his stethoscope from Angelo’s sternum. “I’m sending you for a chest X-ray, but I think you may have pneumonia. It’s quite common in patients with chronic fatigue syndrome, and you might’ve been carrying it for a while.”

  Angelo’s head swam as he glanced at Theresa. Her face held no surprise⁠—clearly the ME wasn’t new information to her⁠—but Angelo had no idea when that had happened. He coughed and fire spread through his chest. His eyes watered and his skull throbbed, and it was all he could do not to vomit on the hot doctor’s vintage Nikes.

  Almost.

  After, he settled for passing out. And he came round sometime later to Theresa holding a plastic cup of stale water to his lips.

  Angelo pushed it away. “I’m fine, Mum.”

  “You are not fine, Angelo.”

  Like you care. But he bit back the retort and thought hard, sifting through his pain-clouded mind. Why is she here? And the only explanation came from his scattered memories of how he’d wound up in A & E in the first place. The mother of all headaches had ended with an afternoon on the kitchen floor before Theresa had discovered him. He remembered staring up at her, his head spinning and his vision fogged, half expecting her to step over him, but then the air had shifted, and in a blur of gentle hands and flashing lights, she’d suddenly become his mother again.

  The doctor came back to Angelo’s bed. “Your X-rays show pneumatic infection in both lungs.”

  “Does that mean I have pneumonia?”

  “Yes. Like I said, it can be quite common in ME patients.”

  “Why? Is my immune system fucked?”

  “It’s not that simple,” the doctor said. “There’s a lot of research that says the immune system is actually hyperactive when challenged in ME patients and becomes unable to shut down once the danger is passed.”

  Angelo heard the words but failed to compute the meaning. “I don’t understand. I can’t⁠—I can’t think straight.”

  “I know.” The doctor laid a kind hand on Angelo’s arm. “ME does horrible things to cognitive function when you’re not well, eh?”

  “I thought it was my ribs making me breathe funny.”

  “I don’t think so.” The doctor sat Angelo up and listened to his chest again. “The bruises are a few days old, and your X-ray shows no injuries to the bones. That also wouldn’t explain why you’re so ill. I’m still waiting for your bloods to come back, but I can tell by looking at you that you’re anaemic, and your white blood cells are probably all over the place.”

  “Can I go home?”

  “No. Your oxygen levels are too low. I’m admitting you to a ward upstairs and you’ll likely be in for a few days.”

  Angelo lay back down, what little fight he had left all but gone. The doctor disappeared and Theresa took his place. She claimed Angelo’s hand and stroked his face. Her touch felt cold and alien and ten years too late, but Angelo let it happen anyway. With Dylan, the deli, and now his damn fucking lungs giving up on him, their fractured relationship was all he had left.

  * * *

  “So this is where they stashed you, eh?”

  Angelo glanced up blearily. After three long days on the crowded hospital ward, the doctors and nurses were all starting to look the same, but this bloke was vaguely familiar.

  And gorgeous.

  Ah. It was the hot doctor from the emergency department, and by the look on his face, he’d been waiting too long for Angelo to answer him. “Um, I s’pose so. What are you doing up here?”

  “Checking on a few patients. I’m heading back up north in the morning.”

  “You’re not from around here?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Nah. I got drafted in for a specific incident and ended up getting stuck for a few days. London ain’t my bag, man.”

  Angelo nodded slowly. The haze in his brain had lifted as his oxygen saturation had improved, but the ME fog remained, and laced with morphine, it was thick enough for him to take a moment to figure out how to verbalise what he wanted to say. “Thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “For helping me. A specialist physiotherapist came to see me this morning. Harry something or other. He’s coming again tomorrow.”

  The doctor glanced at the notes hanging from the end of Angelo’s bed. �
�Harry Foster. He’s a mate of mine, actually, so I called in a favour. He’s the best physio in the business for conditions like yours, but you’ll need to register with a GP if you want to continue seeing him.”

  “I know. My mum’s on it.”

  “Good. Listen, ME is brutal, but there’s plenty you can do to manage it⁠—to give yourself a better quality of life. Find things that make you happy and hold onto them.”

  Angelo coughed, which didn’t hurt as much as it had a few days ago. “Is that a treatment plan?”

  “It’s the only one you’re going to get from me.” The doctor returned Angelo’s notes to their place and held out his fist. “Take care, mate.”

  And then he was gone. Angelo stared after him and shifted on the bed. Inactivity had done wonders for the infection rampaging through his immune system, but his muscles were fucked⁠—seized up, jittery, and crampy. Brief periods of standing helped. Angelo hauled himself upright and eased his legs over the edge of the bed. It took a moment for his ankles to take his weight and the IV in his arm got tangled, but eventually, he was stable enough to shuffle to the window.

  He gazed out over the city, the one positive of his corner bed. Without the view, he’d have lost his mind entirely, and the twinkling lights of a city that never slept grounded him now, soothing the scrape of anxiety that plagued him every time he pondered what the hell he was going to do. He had no job, no money, and soon he’d have no home either, at least not one that didn’t involve sharing a retirement flat with his mother.

  Fuck that. Angelo had felt pretty close to death over the last few days, but continuing to live with Theresa in any capacity would be a damn sight worse.

  An obnoxious buzz pierced the quiet of the near silent ward. Angelo jumped and turned around faster than his healing equilibrium was totally comfortable with. He put a hand to his chest, absorbing the rattle that came with each breath and the thud of his startled heart. It was the middle of the night, and he was surrounded by snoring old men, so why could he hear a buzzing iPhone?

  As the thought meandered through Angelo’s mind, his gaze fell on a grubby white cable. He blinked and tracked it to the broken chest of drawers by his bed. Beside the ever-present jug of lukewarm water lay his own battered phone, plugged in and charging. What the . . . ? Angelo stared at it, scrabbling to recall Theresa’s afternoon visit, which was the only logical explanation for the phone’s reappearance in his life. She hadn’t stayed long, but Angelo didn’t blame her for that. He’d spent most of his time in hospital, sleeping, coughing, and throwing up, and in his brief moments of lucidity, he’d had no idea what to say to her. So he’d said nothing. And she’d left but not, apparently, before plugging in his long-abandoned phone.

  He shuffled back to his bed and sat down before tentatively reaching for his phone. The cracked screen was alive with the messages Dylan had sent him the day the bailiffs had cleaned out the deli, but there was nothing since. Angelo deleted the messages without reading them and wiped his voicemail. The hurt in Dylan’s eyes that night was all the reminder Angelo needed for just how badly he’d screwed up.

  He set the phone down and, worn out by his jaunt to the window, curled up on his bed, wishing he had another pillow to wedge between his knees and some food that didn’t smell like reheated linoleum. That he was hungry was progress, but he still felt like carving his lungs out and flinging them at the wall.

  Angelo closed his eyes, but despite the quiet of the ward and the ever-present weight of exhaustion, couldn’t sleep. He stared into the darkness for a while, and then shifted his attention to his dormant phone. Don’t. But he reached for it anyway and searched for a Wi-Fi connection. A café downstairs had an open account. Angelo logged on and opened WhatsApp. A single message buzzed through the shaky Internet connection. It had been sent an hour ago and simply read I’m sorry.

  It was from Dylan.

  Angelo’s heart skipped a thudding beat. He sat up, rubbing his face, willing his mind not to be playing a cruel trick on him. And when he looked again, the message was still there . . . and Dylan was online.

  With shaking hands, Angelo attempted to tap out a reply. Nonsense filled the screen, and panic that Dylan would go offline before he typed anything coherent sent him into a coughing fit. Dying inside, he did the only thing he could think of and snapped a picture of the IV in his arm.

  The photo hurtled into the abyss before he could check himself, and a reply from Dylan buzzed back almost instantly.

  D: WTF? Are you ok?

  Damn it. Angelo wrestled with his treacherous focus and painstakingly composed a reply.

  A: Pneumonia. Probs ME related.

  D: Shit. Has that happened before?

  A: No. Might have had it a while without realising tho

  Dylan didn’t reply straight away. Angelo lay back and squinted at the screen. Perhaps talking would be easier than typing, but then again, even breathing was a ball ache right now. Besides, it was the middle of the night, and despite the cacophony of snoring going on around him, he didn’t want to disturb anyone.

  His phone buzzed again.

  D: Are you in Queens?

  A: Yup. Shit hole.

  D: All hospitals are.

  A: Yeah.

  D: Are you on the respiratory ward?

  A: No. It was full, so they put me on some spillover ward

  D: Bluebell?

  A: Yeah.

  Angelo closed his eyes, willing away the dizziness and accompanying stabbing pain behind his eyes, then forced them open and texted again.

  A: Bluebell A, I think. There’s two.

  D: Bluebell B is for children. Um . . . are you game for visitors?

  Angelo sat up again. The flutter that had danced through his burning chest when he’d first seen Dylan’s message suddenly had bigger feet.

  A: Would you come?

  D: Of course. I miss you.

  A: I miss you too.

  And God, it was true. Life had imploded in so many ways over the past few weeks, but the wreckage of his relationship with Dylan had taunted Angelo more than anything. Everything hurt, but the cracks in his heart hurt the most.

  Dylan didn’t reply to Angelo’s last text, and Angelo took that to mean that their conversation would perhaps continue in the morning. He plugged his phone in again and lay back down, pondering the possibility of Dylan coming to see him. Visiting hours started at ten, but Dylan would probably be at work then. The evening session was at six. Would Angelo be able to stay upright in the shower before then?

  He’d bloody well try.

  * * *

  Dylan pulled a chair up to Angelo’s bed. In the dim light of the quiet ward, he looked asleep, but the ward sister seemed to think he’d been awake a few minutes ago. Dylan found his hand, bruised and swollen from the IV jammed in the back. Jesus. How the hell did this happen?

  Angelo’s elegant fingers seemed to wrap instinctively around Dylan’s before his eyes fluttered open. The surprise in his tired gaze was obvious. Dylan caught his shoulders as he struggled to sit up, easing him back down and stroking his face.

  “Shh. It’s just me.”

  Angelo took a breath that turned into an obviously painful cough. Dylan rubbed his chest and reclaimed his hand, squeezing gently until he was able to speak.

  “You came,” Angelo whispered.

  Dylan smiled. “I did.”

  “What time is it?”

  “A little after three.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yup.”

  “But⁠—how? I mean, how did you get in here?”

  Dylan slid his chair impossibly closer and shrugged. “I went to school with the ward sister, and she’s let me in a few times to see Sam when he’s been admitted here.”

  “Orgy BFF?”

  “That’s the one, though there won’t be any orgies for a while. He moved to Poland yesterday.”

  Angelo cocked an eyebrow. “He did? Wow. You’re going to miss him.”

  It wasn�
��t a question, and Dylan didn’t deny it. How could he when it was so true? “Anyway. I kind of figured that as you were awake an hour ago, you were probably having trouble sleeping in this place, so I might as well visit you straight away. I can come back in daylight if you like⁠—⁠”

  “Don’t go.” Angelo tightened his grip on Dylan’s hand. “I’m having a hard enough time believing that you’re really here as it is.”

  “I’m here, mate.”

  Angelo closed his eyes, and for a while it seemed that he’d fallen asleep. Dylan took the opportunity to look him over, taking in the dark smudges under his eyes, the marks and bruises on his arms from needle sticks, and the oxygen mask hanging within easy reach. Coupled with the IV and the unmissable rasp in Angelo’s chest, it was clear to see that he’d been⁠—and likely still was⁠—horribly ill.

  “Are you okay?”

  Dylan blinked to find Angelo very much awake and staring at him. “What?”

  “Are you okay?” Angelo repeated. “You look traumatised.”

  Dylan forced a low laugh. “Maybe I am. And maybe I deserve to be. I should’ve been here when you were admitted, not rocking up however many days later in the middle of the night.”

  “Three days,” Angelo said with a weary sigh. “And as much as I appreciate the sentiment, I’m glad you weren’t here when they brought me in. I was a mess, and I’m pretty sure I puked on some hot doctor in A & E.”

  Dylan winced. “Really? Yeesh. Why is it always the hot ones?”

  “I dunno. He was nice, though. He came to see me up here and referred me to an ME physio.”

  “That’s good. It’s about time you had some help with it⁠—⁠” Dylan stopped. “Sorry, I’m not here to lecture you.”

  Angelo smiled tiredly. “You’re not lecturing me if you’re telling the truth. I might have got pneumonia anyway, but it probably wouldn’t have been this bad if I’d been in a better state beforehand. The doctors here reckon I’m anaemic as fuck and totally run down.”

  Dylan could believe it. The hand Angelo had been dealt was brutal, even without chronic illness thrown in on top. “What happened to get you here? I feel like I’ve missed a lot.”