by Tara Lyons
I rub my hands up and down over my face, hard and fast, unsure if I’m wiping away the dampness from the rain or trying to rattle some sense into myself. Either way, I need to get moving. Standing here in a downpour talking to myself about a baby’s journey through the birth canal is exactly the reason strangers call the paramedics.
The ironic laugh escapes my lips before I have a chance to stop it, adding to the crazed-woman look, of course, and I wish I had my uniform on. Its green starchiness known to everyone – a beacon of hope, if you will – would bring me the strength to face any situation, especially in this moment of weakness.
It’s when I look up and take a deep lungful of drizzly air that I see him.
I almost choke, wondering if the rain has blurred my vision as well as my brain. It’s him, as clear as day, as my mum used to say – despite this day being anything but clear.
There, casually walking on the other side of the street, wearing a long black funnel coat, dark denim jeans and tanned brogues, and holding a large fisherman-type umbrella – far too big for just one person – is the man I hoped I would never see again.
Chapter 11
Despite never wanting to come face to face with him again, my legs start moving of their own accord. I’m slinking along my side of the street, eyes never shifting from his every move, and I have no control over my body. It’s as if my hearing has been cut off, locked in a soundproof bizarre bubble that’s transported me back in time to when I had done this before: followed him, under the cover of the darkest nights. A sound pierces my protective seal – the heavy rain pounding against the pavement. It splashes up the backs of my legs as they quicken their pace.
I’m back there, in Scotland in my early twenties, watching the man I obsessed over for far longer than I care to admit. He hasn’t seen me since that awful night, and a scratching sensation begins to claw inside my chest, working its way to my throat. I remember his temper: the burning fury in his eyes when he caught me in his home. I remember his violence: the way he grabbed a handful of my hair and flung me out the front door. I remember his words: the promise he made to kill me if he ever saw me again.
I stop walking and struggle for air. It no longer feels like lunchtime at the seaside, disturbed only by a little drizzle, but rather that the downpour of rain has brought with it an early night-time. The entire city has somehow been cloaked in a nocturnal shadow, a black beast covering any hopes of sun, eclipsing us completely.
I lean forward slightly, resting my palms on each knee and slowly drinking in the air; deep breaths in through my nose and steadily out through my mouth. The dizzy light-headedness makes me feel sick, and the fear clawing inside me soon turns to a heaving sensation.
‘You alright, dear?’ a woman’s voice says close to my ear. ‘Should I call 999 for you?’
I tilt my head skywards, squint against the raindrops, and find an elderly woman wearing an old-fashioned plastic rain cap over her head, gawping at me. She repeats her question, a little murmur like a mouse, and I dismiss her with a shake of my head. The woman means well, I’m sure, but I just want to be on my own.
‘Don’t have one of those mobile thingies, of course. There’s a phone box on the corner, just down there,’ she continues, and I realise my head shake meant nothing to her.
I stand up; not in a straight or assertive manner, but it’s all the energy I can muster. ‘No, it’s fine, thank you. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Just need to catch my breath is all.’
The old woman shrugs, as if she doesn’t believe me, as if she wants some drama to witness during her walk to the shops in the rain. If only she knew…
I walk away, because I can tell she didn’t have any plans to leave me alone, and soon realise that I’ve made it to the crossing. Looking over the road, I can still see him. Actually, I see him full on – his chiselled jaw and perfect nose, his big pink lips. He’s aged in that way that beautiful men do age: they just seem more beautiful. It hits me then. I can see him full on because he’s standing on the other side of the street, waiting for the traffic lights to turn red so he can cross the road. So he can walk straight towards me.
Has he noticed it’s me?
No, of course he hasn’t. He wouldn’t recognise me now. It’s been over twenty years since he last saw me. I’ve changed.
But have I really changed?
The beeping sound that signals it’s safe to cross begins and the people on the other side of the road start their advance towards me. I take a step back. I focus only on him, and his eyes are trained on me. I think. I mean the umbrella is fucking huge, it’s covering the two people either side of him. I’m one hundred per cent – okay ninety per cent – sure his gaze is locked on me.
I take another step back, away from the lip of the kerb, and wait. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, but I hear the tuts of strangers as I stand in their way. He walks straight up to me, stands in front of me and smiles. The stupid umbrella is covering me too now – the pair of us are encased in this protection from everything else – and he opens his mouth and says hello. My legs can’t take it any more. I half stumble, half collapse, and his free arm instinctively reaches out and holds me up. I feel his warmth, his strength, and the fear inside me evaporates. I’m twenty again, in the arms of the man I love.
‘I thought that was you,’ he whispers in my ear, and his words are smooth; smooth as silk caressing my skin. ‘I can’t believe you’re standing in front of me, Abi. What are you doing here?’
How does he do that? How does his voice have so much power and control and authority that I’m literally stood here – a full-grown woman of forty – feeling like a teenager paralysed by love? My hands are trembling, my lips are quavering, and I can’t string a fucking sentence together.
‘So, you’re obviously as surprised to see me as I am to see you,’ he says with a thick Glaswegian accent, and gently lifts me off his arm slightly.
The movement corrects my posture, forcing me to regain some control over my own body, and I look directly in his eyes. I see Rose. Her face fills my mind, and it gives me the strength to pull myself together. I take a deep breath, wipe the moisture from my face and clear my throat.
‘Patrick… surprised is an understatement,’ I finally reply, but it doesn’t sound like me. It’s as if I’ve been on a long flight and my ears haven’t popped. I have to continue now – I can’t let him know he’s leaving me tongue-tied and dry-mouthed. ‘I thought you said you would never leave Glasgow, that it was your home and where your family are.’
I stop myself at the image of his family, the pain of that night returning. He notices it too. I see it in his face. Something has changed about him. He doesn’t seem pained by the memory.
‘That was a long time ago,’ he says, ‘and after… well, after that night, it was difficult to stay in Scotland. Sadie wanted to be closer to her family, you know, for support, and–’
‘You’re here with Sadie?’ The tempo of my voice has risen. ‘What do you mean, after that night? Are you saying you’ve been in Brighton for twenty years?’
His long eyelashes flutter and his mouth opens and closes a few times before he manages, ‘Well, no, not twenty years. Almost, though. It’s just–’
‘I didn’t know your wife’s family lived in Brighton.’ I can’t tell if the trickle down my neck is sweat or rain; realistically, I know it can’t be rain because of this damn umbrella canopying us – which is actually starting to suffocate me. My hands tremble again, but this time it isn’t out of fear. ‘You’ve been down here all this time, Patrick? I… I…’
He sighs and uses the thumb and forefinger on his free hand to furiously rub his eyelids. Why am I still standing here? Why am I watching him?
Duck out from under this bloody brolly and walk away. Just walk away, Abi.
The heartache and lies and fear that come with this man are too painful to even contemplate reliving.
He shrugs his large shoulders and I can’t help but think I see a small smile danc
ing on his lips. ‘Have a drink with me, Abi.’
It’s more of a statement than a question. It’s how Patrick always spoke to me. Except I never used to mind when I was nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. I did as he said. Now, words won’t surface to my lips, so a single shake of my head is all I give him.
‘Abi, please.’ Oh God, the way he says my name. ‘Let me explain. We have so much to talk about. And I know this quaint little pub not far from here. No students ever go near it; you’ll just love it, I know you will. It’ll be quiet. It’ll be nice. We can talk about everything. Please.’
I gulp; the simple act of swallowing saliva feels like the biggest task I’ve ever taken on. Where’s the Abigail Quinn who dashes into the unknown on a daily basis? Where’s the paramedic who rescues strangers without so much as a trembling finger? Where’s the woman who restarted her life single-handedly?
‘This is fate, us meeting like this after all this time, Abi. Please.’
Oh, Patrick, you have to stop begging me. I’m not strong enough to say no to you. I never was. Plus, I don’t know if I want to talk about everything.
Yes, I want to know why he and his flaming wife are living in Brighton, but if he tells me, if I hear too much from him, will I confess my secrets too? Secrets that I just can’t afford to confess? As I look at the most handsome face I’ve ever known, I suddenly don’t trust myself at all.
Chapter 12
We’re in the pub, of course we are, because we all knew I would say yes to Patrick. I can’t remember a time when I wouldn’t say yes to this man, and here we are, over twenty years since the last time we laid eyes on each other, and we’ve fallen back into our roles perfectly. I hate myself for it. But I love how it’s making me feel, like I’m eighteen again; with the carefree attitude of a new student who’s just moved to Glasgow Caledonian University, ready to embrace a degree in Paramedic Science and save the new city I had come to love.
It was in the early days of my studies when I first met Patrick. I don’t think he noticed me straight away, if I’m honest. He caught me like a punch to the abdomen that knocks the air right out of you. Like the time I fell from that tree and couldn’t breathe but I knew I was alive; that’s how he made me feel just before my nineteenth birthday. Part of my degree was practice-based education within the Scottish Ambulance Service – or SAS for short – and there he was playing the hero I had always wanted to be. He was only part-time, however, due to a long-suffering injury to his back. He used to blame the job – but never in a way that made him sound like he hated it. He seemed to love helping people. He loved people. Patrick was making the transition from paramedic to mentor, and it began with my academic year.
He was older. Fifteen years my senior, and that full head of salt-and-pepper hair gave him an authority, and a sexiness, that I couldn’t ignore. Those sapphire eyes could drink in every part of you, like they really saw you when you spoke, and invited you to step into his ocean – into his bubble – and see only him in return. Full lips that spoke with such enthusiasm and passion they could cause a knot in your stomach. A knot of desire, of fear, of excitement. Who knows which feeling? Perhaps all of them, and that explains the hold he had over me. When I was with him, he could make me feel every single emotion – and utter numbness just as fast.
What I do know for sure is, all those years ago, he had me at ‘Welcome to the SAS’. I knew in that very moment I had to have him. The thrill of learning my craft through my degree and snaring the man who’d caught my heart was everything I yearned for. It didn’t matter what I had to do to succeed in both goals. And I did succeed, for a short while, but at a cost.
‘So, what do you think? This is a great little pub, isn’t it? Quaint,’ Patrick says, breaking through my memories and placing our drinks on the table: a pint of Guinness for him and a large red for me.
I can’t stop the internal glow that comes with his simple action, an action we must have shared a hundred times before. The two of us, in a quaint pub – as he keeps referring to it anyway, when we both know what that really translates to is small and dark and where no one will notice or question us – huddled over our drinks, whispering. I never cared much for Guinness, though Patrick often tried to make me like it. During my pregnancy with Rose, I did have one half of the black stuff – good for the iron levels, Mum told me – but I hated it. Probably because I hated the memory it conjured.
He’s watching me. Waiting. So, I play the game and gaze around the small public house with its low, beamed ceiling. There’s a fire roaring to the right of us, and I’m actually thankful for it as it’s drying my soaked body. The lighting is low and dim, as if the light bulbs aren’t light bulbs at all, but small candles encased in glass and on the verge of dying. I couldn’t describe the man sat just two tables away from me if I tried. That might be the appeal of this place to Patrick, and I briefly wonder how often he comes here. Books stand in rows on the shelves behind him – the old kind, with navy and burgundy hardback covers, spiralling gold letters down the spine, and dusty cream pages.
‘Yes, it’s a lovely little place,’ I finally reply, and he wipes the white froth from his top lip as he smiles. My stomach spins. ‘Do you come here often?’
Okay, I officially hate myself for that line.
‘Yes,’ he says, the smile still in place. ‘It’s nice to drink where the students don’t.’
I sip my own beverage, realising I haven’t eaten much, and quickly hope the wine only brings on a headache and not a full lowering of my inhibitions. After another gulp, I return the glass to the table and nod in agreement.
‘Yes, I can imagine. I was actually just in the student union with a friend… She’s looking for someone. But it got so crowded and stuffy in there, I had to get out.’
‘That’s when I found you like a drowned rat on the street?’
Oh God. His voice. His accent. It’s bringing everything back and something inside me stirs. I smile and take another drink. My fingers shake around the glass. I hope he hasn’t noticed.
‘So, come on, what are you doing here?’ he asks.
The fruity red liquid runs down the wrong hole and I splutter for a moment. I don’t want to talk. I want to listen to him. Not even just for his voice, but because I need to know what the hell he’s doing here.
When I steady my breathing, I bat the question back and say, ‘Really, Patrick? We’re in Brighton, half an hour from London, where we know I was born and bred. Where you knew I moved back to. If anyone has the right to ask “what are you doing here”, it’s me.’
I’m surprised by the gumption in my voice. It’s bloody good to know the new ballsy Abi – as Adele described me – has actually come along for the journey. It makes me sit a little taller, and I cross one leg over the other and lean back in my chair slightly, watching him.
Patrick mirrors my body language, adding a half-smile to his full lips, as if he’s submitting to me. The stir I felt just moments before travels a little south of my stomach now, and a tingling sensation takes over. I feel the new Abi is looking at me with pure disgust.
Yes, I hate myself too.
‘Well, as I said, Sadie felt she wanted to be closer to her family. I mean after…’
‘After she found out about me.’ I finish Patrick’s sentence, because he obviously can’t possibly bring himself to say it. I can’t help rolling my eyes as I do.
‘Yes, of course, Abi. You know she took the news about us really badly.’
‘The news,’ I echo, slightly louder than needed. ‘I don’t think walking in on us in her martial bed is classed as a newsworthy revelation. More of a life-changing moment, and an unfortunate time for her to have to come home early – sick from work if I recall?’
If I recall… Who the hell am I trying to sound like? I remember that day as clear as anything.
‘Yes, well, that day–’
‘How is Ms Banks?’ I cut him off, not because I want to be rude, but because the pain in my chest is crushing me, and I’m not
sure if I can control the tears or push them down any further if Patrick insists on going over that day in more detail.
‘Sadie is fine, thank you for asking. She doesn’t go by her maiden name any longer,’ he says with a slight grin, but I see the twitch in his jaw.
He used to hate the fact that his wife refused to use her marital surname, back when I knew them anyway. Sadie had made a name for herself as a successful romance author before they were married and believed changing her surname would undo all her hard work. I would pander to Patrick’s ego back then, telling him I would do anything to have his name and would shout from the rooftops if we were married. He thought I was joking, but the sex after that conversation would always be amazing. The truth is, I meant it.
‘She hasn’t published anything of late, I’ve noticed.’ No point in pretending I hadn’t always looked for her books in the supermarkets or on Amazon.
Patrick takes a large gulp from his pint and shakes his head. ‘She never wrote a single word again after that night.’
My lips twist into a scolding pout. ‘No, I guess it’s hard to write about the joys of love when you find your husband’s been shagging a local student.’
I’m shocked by my tone. If Patrick is, he doesn’t say anything. A slow huff is all he releases before saying, ‘No, she was busy with other things.’
I frown and idly fumble with the stem of my wine glass. It’s not so much what he said, but the way in which he said it that prompts my next question – though it feels a struggle to get any words out at all, thanks to the tightness in my chest. ‘Wh-what do you… what do you mean?’
‘Sadie was pregnant when she found the two of us together, and we moved here to start our family,’ Patrick blurts out.
And there they are, the words I expected… yet the very ones I didn’t want to hear. The heaviness inside me becomes a mound of glue trying to move through my body, suffocating my throat and crushing my heart.