What Doesn't Kill You

by Laura E. James

  Imogen’s softness has solidified. Her face could literally be set in stone. ‘I offer homeopathy as a therapy, yes, but there are others available. I trained in a number of treatments. Do you know what the most powerful healer is?’

  ‘Parsley?’ I’m out of my depth. Humour is my life-ring.

  I got a snort from Logan.

  ‘The most powerful healer is unconditional love,’ Imogen says. My reply has not deterred her.

  I can’t help feeling the conversation’s gone a bit weird. A bit hippy.

  ‘But you weren’t far off with parsley.’ Imogen’s developed a twinkle in her eyes. ‘It’s great for suppressing garlic breath.’

  ‘Imy tells me we are born with the ability to heal ourselves.’ Logan flexes his feet. First the left, then the right. Quite balletic.

  ‘We are. And we are responsible for our own well-being. It’s time you took charge of your body, Logan.’ Imogen’s crunched her hand into a fist. She’s gone from hippy to Rocky in less time than it took Stallone to climb the famous stairs in the film.

  I can see how her ideas appeal to Logan. It’s nasty being a slave to pain. ‘Does your stuff work on just the body?’ I finish my drink and clunk the mug down on the table.

  ‘No. We treat the person. I must point out though, I work as part of a team. We have different areas of expertise. Mine’s therapeutic massage.’

  ‘You sly, old devil.’ I wink at Logan. ‘Now I get it.’

  He says nothing.

  Imogen’s sitting forward on the chair, ready to speak. Her knees are together, and she’s resting her arms along her thighs. It’s business-like. I can imagine her interviewing her clients like that. Does she have clients, or are they patients? Clients sounds a bit card in a phone box.

  ‘I have colleagues who practice psychotherapy and spiritual counselling, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  Her intense gaze is unnerving. I wouldn’t be surprised if she practised hypnotherapy as well. I’m reminded of the snake in The Jungle Book, and his spiral eyes enticing Mowgli into his constricting coils. Actually, that’s not a good comparison to make, not when Imogen’s being so kind in offering her help.

  ‘I don’t need any of that head nonsense.’ Logan’s gruff voice blasts me from the Disney wonderland back to his living room. ‘Someone I trust and who believes in my ideals will do me nicely, thank you.’

  Ideals? The last Mum told me, Logan’s ideals involved a date with death, not that I’ve seen or heard any evidence over the past two days to suggest he’s had enough. He’s certainly seemed more settled since Imogen’s arrival.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ I ask. ‘A meeting with Mum to thrash out the details?’ I can see Mum taking it personally. She’ll feel pushed out and she’ll assume she’s done something to upset Logan. I guess her refusal to help him die could upset him, but if that was the case he’d have stopped her coming ages ago. She needs to be given all the positives – time at home with Dylan, occasional days out with me, a chance to repair her properly-screwed-up marriage. If we approach it that way, it could work. ‘Is this a business arrangement between you two?’ I spread my hands to encompass Logan and Imogen. I’m thinking that could also work. It would be no different to employing a specialist care firm, which Mum was encouraging Logan to do.

  ‘I’m helping because I want to. I thought I explained that.’ Imogen’s vacated the armchair and she’s peering through the window. I join her to see what’s so fascinating, but there’s only the road and the houses opposite. ‘It gives me a valid reason for visiting Logan,’ she says, quietly. ‘And a chance I might bump in to you.’

  Crap. I don’t know what to do with that. ‘How’s your dog?’ I ask.

  ‘Honey?’ Imogen’s grimacing. I can see her reflection in the glass. ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘Her paw’s okay?’

  ‘Her paw? Oh! Her paw.’ She flicks the hair off her neck and gathers it in one hand. ‘Like I said, she’s fine. Thorns don’t do that much damage.’

  ‘Thorns? I thought she’d ripped out a claw.’

  Imogen lets her hair fall as she turns and walks away. ‘Oh, yes. That’s right.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Griff

  As soon as his day shift was over, Griff procured his phone from his locker. He rubbed the back of his neck as he stared at the screen. There were four voicemails. Someone was eager to get hold of him. The vet said she’d keep him informed as to Ozzy’s condition. If all four messages were from her, that surely meant one thing. ‘Not Ozzy,’ he whispered. ‘I can’t lose him, too.’

  Griff had broken a host of road traffic laws the night before, attempting to reach the vet’s before they closed. He’d made it with minutes to spare. Invited in, he was taken through to the back, where Ozzy was lying on an operating table, his wounds dressed. A drip bag hung from a metal stand, with plastic tubing leading to a front paw. A veterinary nurse stood beside Ozzy, stroking his long body. She issued a nod of respect as Griff approached.

  He rubbed his hands together for warmth. Nerves and the low temperature of the room had brought on the cold. ‘Chilly,’ he said to the nurse.

  The nurse remained silent. It was the vet who’d taken Griff to Ozzy who replied. ‘We keep it cool. It reduces the risk of infection.’ She paused, as if assessing the situation, then stepped nearer to the table. ‘It’s all right to stroke him, Griff.’

  She’d called Griff by his first name. He’d heard and understood its implication. She was preparing him for bad news.

  ‘You stay with him, while I fetch the X-rays.’ She exited through a rear door.

  ‘Hey, Ozzy.’ Griff forced the words out, using all the steel in his reserves to stabilise his voice. ‘I wish I could take you home.’ He fell silent. The day before his mum died, he’d promised her he’d take her home so she could water her flowers, see the new plant pot he’d fitted to the front of the house, and watch the latest episodes of Coronation Street he’d recorded for her. She hadn’t left her beloved home intending to never return. She had clothes laid out for the next day, her mug in the sink ready for washing up, dirty laundry in the wash basket.

  A book half-read.

  But he wasn’t able to keep his promise.

  The next time his mum made it home, she was in the back of the hearse.

  A distant bark from the on-site kennels broke through the dark memory, stirring Griff. Ozzy didn’t flinch. No ear flickered, no tail wagged. If it wasn’t for the brightly-coloured dressing highlighting the entry of the IV, it appeared as if he was enjoying a well-earned rest after a trek across Portland Bill.

  The vet returned, pinned the X-ray sheets onto a lightboard, and flipped the switch. The panel buzzed into life.

  The damage was obvious even to Griff’s untrained eye.

  ‘It’s not good, I’m afraid. Ozzy’s sustained multiple injuries.’ The vet pointed to the right hand image detailing Ozzy’s pelvis. ‘Can you see the fractures?’

  Griff nodded.

  ‘There’s a chance we could plate and screw, but the damage is extensive, and I’m concerned about the associated risks of surgery. He’s not a young dog.’ Griff’s attention was drawn to the left-hand picture. ‘He’s suffered head trauma, too, which comes with its own set of problems.’ The vet looked across to Ozzy. ‘He’s no bladder control, either.’

  ‘What’s the prognosis?’ It was a question Griff didn’t want answered. For once, he’d prefer to live with the peace that ignorance supplied.

  ‘As I said, he’s not a young dog.’

  ‘But he’s healthy.’ Griff scraped his fingers through his hair. ‘Other than … You know what I mean. Why shouldn’t he recover?’

  The vet stationed herself next to Griff. ‘We’ll know more in the next twenty-four hours. There’s nothing you can do for him right now. Perhaps you should go home and get some rest. The nurse will stay with him and we’ll keep you updated. We’ll call if his condition changes.’

  Griff sat with Ozzy
for another hour before taking the vet’s advice.

  After a restless night, and an early morning update from the vet advising no change, Griff considered giving work a miss in favour of spending time with Ozzy. It was short-lived as Breakfast TV reminded him it was the start of the Easter holidays. Dorset was waking from its wintry slumber and the promise of brighter, if not consistently warmer weather attracted jet-skiers, kayakers, pleasure yachts, and fun-seekers. It was all hands on deck.

  Slamming shut the door to his locker, Griff made his way out of the building and into the narrow street, where the damp night air deepened his grey mood. The sun had gone down nearly an hour ago, but it wasn’t pitch-black. The lights from the harbourside bars, busy fish restaurants and orange streetlamps threw shafts of optimism onto the pavement, and golden halos onto the water opposite. Lost in thoughts of Ozzy, they went unappreciated as Griff crossed the road and got into his car.

  If he didn’t listen to the voicemails, he could believe Ozzy was fine. He could take a calm, steady, law-abiding drive to the vet’s and deal with the situation once there. He had fifteen minutes until they closed. Plenty of time.

  At the point he decided to hide the phone away, it vibrated.

  ‘Don’t want to know,’ he said, reaching across to the passenger side of the vehicle. He flicked the latch to the glove box and the lid fell like a drawbridge.

  The phone continued to rumble. This was a call, not a text.

  Griff manoeuvred back into his seat, sucked in a lungful of air, and readied himself for bad news. He answered the phone. ‘Hendry.’

  ‘It’s Imogen. Is everything okay? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day.’

  The relief of hearing a friendly voice loosened the tension responsible for keeping Griff upright. He leaned forward and let the steering wheel take the weight of his head. ‘I thought you were the vet calling.’

  ‘That’s why I’m ringing. How are things? How are you?’

  Griff wrapped his fingers around the wheel and pushed himself up. A young man standing on a yacht moored opposite gave Griff a querying thumbs-up. Griff nodded and waved his thanks, ending the mime show with his own thumb-up. The man returned to his business. ‘Not good,’ Griff said, responding to Imogen’s question. ‘I’m on my way to the vet’s now.’ His reply was greeted with silence. ‘Imogen?’

  ‘I’m still here,’ she said. ‘Is Ozzy going to be okay?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s in a bad way.’

  ‘Hasn’t your vet been in touch?’

  ‘I’ve been at work. Not allowed to have my phone on.’ He hesitated as a young family walking their Dalmatian passed by his car. ‘I’ve not picked up my messages yet.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should?’

  He thumped the steering wheel. He had enough on his plate without Imogen nagging him. ‘Of course I should,’ he said, instantly reining in his frustration. ‘I just thought—’ He laid his head on the cushioned rest behind. ‘Hell. I don’t know what I thought. I guess I was putting off the inevitable. I’ll phone them and then I’ll go down there.’ Forewarned was forearmed. ‘Please don’t let me have missed him.’ Griff’s throat was tightening with every thought of Ozzy. He swallowed away the rising grief and took in another gulp of air. ‘He’s got to live, Imogen. If he’s still with us, I won’t let him die. I’ll do whatever it takes – time, money – anything. I’ll get him better.’ He rubbed his eyes, sore from holding back the tide. ‘He’ll be running along Chesil Beach in no time.’

  ‘Griff?’

  He didn’t like the tone of that. If Imogen was going to preach about doing the right thing, the kind thing, or say something stupid like it was time to face facts, he wasn’t interested. He’d made his pledge and he wasn’t about to give up on Ozzy or give him up.

  He clamped his mouth shut. To avoid an argument, it was best not to answer.

  An exchange of breaths followed.

  Eventually, Imogen spoke. ‘Would you like me to come with you?’

  Grateful Imogen was neither confrontational nor moralistic, Griff stood down. ‘That’s kind of you, thanks, but there’s no need.’ He forced a smile, hoping it would shape his words into sounding positive. ‘We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Okay. By the way, I spent the morning with your dad and Tess.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘He’s asked me to become his carer.’

  Too much had happened in the last twenty-four hours for Griff to process new information. For now it was simpler to accept what he’d heard, file it at the back of his mind and refer to it later. ‘That’s nice,’ he said. ‘Is Tess okay?’

  ‘She’s fine. She’s intending on spending her holidays at your father’s. You should come over. She’d like to see you.’

  ‘She would?’ A flash of headlamps from a patrolling coastguard vehicle drew Griff’s attention to the present, and sharpened his focus on the conversation in hand. Imogen was inviting him to visit his own daughter and father. That wasn’t right.

  He was about to challenge Imogen, when his phone beeped. ‘I’ve a call coming through,’ he said. ‘I have to go.’ With that, he cut Imogen’s call dead and received the incoming one.

  ‘Griff. It’s Susan, from the vets. Did you get my messages?’

  Panic was an unwelcome and alien sensation to Griff. His neck bristled with heat, his stomach turned in on itself, and his airways narrowed. His head … His head was full of unlit tunnels, buried questions and surfacing words – words that didn’t sit still long enough for him to sort into a logical order. ‘I’ve not had a chance to listen to them,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Ozzy’s okay, isn’t he?’

  His question was answered with a lengthy pause.

  ‘I think it’s best we discuss things here,’ said the vet. ‘How soon can you get to the practice?’

  It was another blind, wild drive, with every roll of the trip meter taking Griff closer to his greatest fear.

  Although it was a different course to the previous evening’s journey, the urgency and desperation were excruciatingly similar.

  Today it had been work keeping Griff from Ozzy. Last night it was his selfish need for comfort and forgiveness, and an unexpected, but welcome act of life-affirmation. It hadn’t been his intention to sleep with Evie – he was calling in on his son – but when she opened the door, her eyes invited him into her world, and it was familiar, reassuring and accepting.

  He flattened the brake pedal to the floor as he registered the view through the windscreen. Traffic was backing up from a signal-controlled junction and the rear end of a people carrier was looming large. Griff swore as his Land Rover came to a whiplash stop inches away. His car illuminated the interior of the one in front, and a pair of saucer eyes stared at him from its rear-view mirror. Griff waved an apologetic hand. ‘Take it easy,’ he said to himself, rumbling his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Breathe.’

  As he reached the head of the queue, a Mini, heading in the opposite direction, drove him back to thoughts of Evie.

  He’d left in a hurry last night, but he’d told her he needed to get to the vet’s, hadn’t he? He hadn’t just dumped her? That would be unforgivable.

  Problem was, it was all a blur. Except the sex. He could remember every last detail of that; the depth of Evie’s kisses, the heat of her touch, her hot breath on his chest; her whispered words of love, spoken so quietly, they were somewhere between reality and imagination. She held nothing back. Months of confusion, restraint and separation disappeared as their souls, their beings connected again, once more together and whole.

  And there was love and meaning in Griff’s every move, too. It went without saying. Actions speak louder than words, right? ‘You fool, Hendry.’

  Broken into its basic components – he’d arrived at the cottage, had sex, given no declarations of love, and left in haste with no further contact – last night could be misconstrued as a wham, bam, thank you ma’am moment. And Evie would have every right to think that, but it wasn’t what
Griff had intended and he certainly hadn’t set out to hurt Evie.

  He rubbed his forehead, pre-empting the arrival of the pain hammering its way through from the back of his neck. ‘Please don’t think I used you,’ he said, ramming the car into gear and pulling away.

  With no further delays, the final part of the drive was straightforward. The open road gave Griff’s mind the space to consider how to apologise to Evie, and the freedom to wonder why Imogen was working for his father. At all other times, he was occupied with the sickening swirls in his gut caused by anticipating Ozzy’s condition.

  It was bewildering to think that four months ago Griff was a happy, family man in a stable marriage, receiving the love of an incredible woman, and enjoying walks along Chesil Beach with his old pal, Ozzy. The speed with which solid foundations were washed away astounded him.

  It wasn’t only the coast that had suffered the storms.

  As Griff reversed into a parking space at the vet’s, Susan greeted him from the doorway. ‘A reception committee,’ he muttered, not liking the sense of doom slithering through him.

  Now was the time to fight. Griff would do whatever it took to get Ozzy back on his feet. Giving up was not an option.

  It was never an option.

  Determined and resolute, he locked the car and headed for the building.

  The sheer sadness in Susan’s eyes knocked him breathless.

  Neither party spoke until they were inside and the door was shut.

  ‘You should come through, Griff. We need to talk.’ Susan led the way to the back room where Ozzy lay.

  There was a different nurse with him than yesterday. ‘He’s a gorgeous boy,’ she said.

  Susan advised the nurse it was okay for her to leave, then directed Griff to a chair next to the table. ‘Have you had a chance to listen to my phone messages?’

  Unable to speak, Griff shook his head.

  ‘Okay.’ Susan moved to the other side of the table. ‘Well, here it is. Ozzy’s not responded to treatment and as sometimes happens in these cases, his condition has worsened. Considerably.’ She ran her hands through Ozzy’s shaggy grey and white coat. ‘The injury to his head is more than he can cope with.’